Fear Makes The Wolf Bigger Than He Is [Gordon]

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

The shackles rattled through the white halls as he was led by three burly men dressed in their authoritative garb. His hands were barred, two cuffs with a long bar in the middle to keep them straight and in place. They couldn’t trust him with the shifting cuffs anymore, far too easy to get out of. It took them long enough to figure that out, but at this point it seemed that Dr. Arkham had spoken to someone about security. He could barely walk through the now, much heavier shackles on his feet. Those didn’t have a bar but they had a certain weight to them that hadn’t been used before. Dr. Crane was being led through the halls by these men but they hadn’t told him here they were going, nor did Dr. Crane ask. It wasn’t unusual for them to take him out for whatever reason.

It was only when they got to the hall that led toward the private holding cells that he became a bit confused. He had no reason to be in holding. Dr. Crane already had or was going to have very shortly a new cell arrangement. Under what exact specifications that was going to be he still didn’t know. For now they had still held him in solitary. It was another exception that had come at an odd time. It wasn’t often that they drug him out to take him back to holding, perhaps to another cell but not back to holding, and private holding at that.

They led Dr. Crane into the long barred cell that reached the floor. It was different than the other cells in the building and felt more like a prison cell. He could hang his hands out the bars if he wished, a privilege he wasn’t often given. Once he was inside he backed away from the bars as he was instructed and waited for them to close the door. They still hadn’t said anything about why he was there and he had no intention of asking them. The men’s anxiety had already begun to show as they backed away from the cell and left his glacial sight right away.

Dr. Crane sat in his cell for about fifteen minutes, alone with his thoughts. This could be another plow from Dr. Arkham to further attempt to torment him. He welcomed him to try. There was nothing Dr. Crane wanted more than to get him inside the same cell with him, without all of these cuffs. A shadow came into the dim light of his cell and the doctor looked up to see a man standing there in a trench coat. His eyes peered for a moment, not being able to see the figure. Dr. Crane got up slowly and moved toward the blurred image. Being near sighted, he had to get closer to bring things ten feet or more into focus, the Asylum wouldn’t allow him the privilege of his glasses anymore. How could they be blamed? They wanted to make him blind, because he was the only one who could truly see the fear in their eyes.

The blurr came into focus and Dr. Crane couldn’t help but develop a slow and sinister smile. Before him was a weak man….a very weak man. It was a man that let all of his weakness consume him and fear was constantly behind his eyes. He may be able to fool the men below him and possibly some above, but he could never fool the face that stared at him now, the very face of fear itself. “Commissioner Gordon…” He spoke in a simply greeting as his fingers laced over the bars and he leaned slightly into them.

[Deleted]

He ran his fingers over the shape of his smoking pipe in his pocket. It was illegal to smoke in any medical facility and Arkham Asylum was no different—one thing they did right—but James Gordon was using it to occupy his time, trying to forget the last time he’d had his nicotine fix. If the fidgeting of his idle hands was taken into account, he’d estimate probably four hours. He pursed his lips, knowing and feeling the craving down to his bones, but he couldn’t smoke. There were more important priorities and once his business for the evening was led down into the halls of the Arkham Penitentiary, Gordon knew tobacco would be the last thing on his mind. He craved the nicotine to get his nerves stimulated, but the excitement that came from being Police Commissioner was better than his strongest cup of coffee and more effective than a cold shower. He’d be alert and observant just like it had been all those years when he’d served overseas with his unit. It was true the force tired him both mentally and physically, but he was never tired when there was tasks to do that brought out of his stale office and into the very streets of Gotham. The streets were like a warzone, and Gordon knew war. It made him a staunch detective, a stubborn officer, and it had taught him the value of observance. It also made him live for the adrenaline-fueled, high action antics that Gotham it’s plethora of unique criminals brought to the table.

It was true he was old, gray was slowly making its way into his hairline, but he wasn’t any less wise or sharp. Time hadn’t taken a toll on his mind and he’d fight until his final breath if he had to. Someone had to have faith in the city even if it was hard to stay that optimistic, but he viewed the city with glasses not tinted with rose. He worked practically to solve problems. It took time, but as the FBI had demonstrated all those months ago, a full out attack would not work. You had to be meticulous. Which is what brought him here, seeking an interview with Jonathan Crane.

He extracted his hand from his pocket and debated on removing his coat, but then the head of Security, Aaron Cash, was coming towards him. The man stopped politely in front of him.

“You must be real serious about meetin’ with Crane, you didn’t even sit down. You been standin' this whole time?” He asked, holding out a padded envelop.

Gordon broke the seal and reached inside without hesitation, “Helps me think.” He pulled out a pair of worn, but otherwise cared for glasses. He nodded to Cash. “Thank you for these. He already brought down?” Gordon moved to follow Cash as he lead him to the sealed door and entered the access code to allow the commissioner entrance.

“Should be by the time you get down to his cell. 45-B.”

Gordon nodded, the door opened, and he walked into the hallways. He took little note of the other inmates around him, carefully stowing away the glasses in his pocket as he picked his way down. What did he keep note of was the cell numbers. He noticed Jonathan the same moment he was noticed by the ex-Arkham Employee. He didn’t slow his steps when Jonathan stood and moved. He knew the doctor couldn’t see him from where he’d been. He also made no move to hesitate when Jonathan’s lips curled into that dastardly grin. He stopped within the polite distance and nodded to the other. “Dr. Crane,” his own greeting was short and proper. He took the glasses from his pocket and held them out to the man. “Even cuffed, I’m certain you can put these on yourself. I don’t want you straining your eyes any more than necessary. Did they tell you what I’m here for?”

And just as he'd known, his nicotine craving was the furtherest thing on his mind.

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

Dr. Crane saw the gift he had for him and slipped his fingers out of the bars as far as they would go. The metal from his bars clanged against it and echoed down the hall, he couldn’t get them more than an inch out but he got the glasses all the same. They were the very same that he had always worn since he got his newer ones two years ago. The wire rectangular frames paper when it was clasped opened and he put them on his face. The middle of the glasses was adjusted on the bridge of his nose and finally the Commissioner was in complete focus.

It was a good way to start a conversation with him, giving a man back his sight. He obviously had come to him wanting answers to something or he wouldn’t have given him the gesture of false kindness. Dr. Crane could see right through him, and now that he had his frames, he could see through him perfectly clear. He had lost the privilege of his glasses some time ago when he had used them as a weapon against one of the guards, so it was good to have them back, even if it was going to be at a price and probably promptly taken away afterward.

Commissioner Gordon had changed since the last time he had stood face to face with him. The man looked tired and worn in the face. His features were like stone and showed an amount of wrinkles and creases that gave wind that he stayed up far too late and drank way too much caffeine. It seemed that someone had been keeping the Commissioner busy lately and since he was standing at his cell he could only assume who it was. But why would he be coming to visit him at this moment, after he was caught and behind bars? Perhaps they had taken the Penguin in, but he doubted it. There was a certain code of ethics that even the Professional Criminals kept, though Dr. Crane rarely followed it himself. They were lucky that almost none of them benefitted him in any way.

He couldn’t deny that there was an amount of curiosity as to what he was there for and the doctor mildly showed it by leaning to the bars after his question. His glacial eyes locked with his through the glare in his frames. “No I wasn’t informed of anything…I’ve been kept in the dark for some time.” He spoke truthfully and cryptically. He had just come from the darkest depths of the Asylum, where men were forgotten. He had spent most of his time since he had been brought in in the cold depths of solitary, thanks to Dr. Arkham. It was quite an exception to be brought out like this. Whatever it was must have been important or Dr. Arkham got paid under the table. He didn’t put it passed the man to work like that. He didn’t have exactly the most ethical tendencies… Despite what his record showed. Dr. Crane knew the truth.

Despite his curiosity he didn't feel the need to ask why the man was standing before him. he knew very well what brought him to this spot. It was what he planned to say was the real issue that brought him to his minor curiosity. But he was going to tell him, whether he asked or not, or he would be in for a very very quiet session.

[Deleted]

Dr. Arkham. Now there was a name that Gordon held in equal measures of respect and contempt—no equal wasn’t right; it was mostly the latter. It wasn’t that he wasn’t cooperative when he or his detectives needed to speak to an inmate, Jonathan Crane included. Dr. Arkham was exceptionally cooperative. For the tenured officer, detective, and now Commissioner, it was a feeling that coiled in his gut. He knew the smell of rancid meat when his nose picked up and there was something rotten in the catacombs of Arkham. Whether Gordon was speaking of the actual facility, the mind of its owner and administrator, or both in some figurative metaphor, he wasn’t sure. Certainly the place crawled with the kind of dark spaces that just lead to easy concealment, its staff was often corrupt or ended up in the population they once guarded or treated, and James Gordon didn’t want to think upon the place’s history. That was enough to make him shudder inwardly.

What important was that Jeremiah Arkham didn’t know he was here. He was conveniently away on a several days’ conference appointment. Gordon had seized on a way to escape the man’s scrutiny like a sailor seizes on the opportunity for early departure if the seas seem exceptionally friendly. Arkham was cooperative, but he was also pompous, intrusive, and smelled of corruption like Gotham stank of pollution. Had Gordon asked to question Jonathan earlier, the request would have been granted with the tiny stipulation that Arkham record and watch from behind a two-way mirror as his once esteemed underling was spoken to. He wouldn’t even get into the look Jeremiah would always give him as if he knew his inner workings. Much like Jonathan was doing now. Yet Jeremiah’s was a much more demure look, like it could only be caught in certain light or if you looked really closely. It was the tone of his voice, the way he smiled, and the way his brown eyes darkened just the tiniest fraction.

Arrogance as if he knew how to dissect him.

Gordon’s hand fell casually back to his side as Jonathan took his glasses and managed to get them on. And if he hadn’t been aware of the examining gaze before, he was now as those eyes were magnified by the spectacles. Yet Gordon didn’t bow. Not even when Jonathan’s eyes became flintier.

Jonathan Crane could think what he wanted about him, how he worked, why he worked. And he would probably be right, but unlike most, he certainly didn’t hide his reasoning, didn’t deny he did things against healthy advising: his smoking, his long hours, and his caffeine consumption. Yet he craved nothing now. He only nodded and brushed a hand over his graying mustache. “Didn’t tell you? That doesn’t surprise me. I didn’t tell them why I wanted to talk to you,” his response was truthful. “It’s not often I get questioned as Commissioner. Of course, Dr. Arkham would have, but that’s a different conversation and not for you.”

That was right. He knew just how much Jonathan professed to despising the man who had once been his employer and was now his doctor. Ten years and Gordon assumed that loathing had only grown. “I could ask you about Heather Glass. So I think I will. We’re still awaiting her evaluation, but we should discuss her kidnapping.” He adjusted his own glasses. “You’re not usually one to kidnap and keep the victim the alive.”

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

The doctor kept his eyes locked on the commissioner before him. His body remained still against the bars and nearly lifeless as his eyes pierced into him. Now here was a man before him that truly lived his life in fear. It showed in everything he did, more perfectly than it did others. His profession was just another example of why it worked so perfectly within him. But he would never know that as he stared at him, keeping his features lifeless and unreadable. He would never know that he could see to the core of his soul and if he wanted to…devour him alive. There would be no bars that could prevent this, because he was already inside every aspect of his life.

As for what he wanted to talk to him about here there was really no telling. He had been involved in so much in just a few short years. He couldn’t imagine it would be anything he wasn’t willing to blow them off for. The police were always greedily hungry for information that they could find out themselves if they dug a bit deeper. Their lack of intelligence insulted him in some ways with what they did not know, but it was the way he expected it to be.

His eyes darkened as he mentioned Dr. Arkham. That small twinge of resentment, a spark of emotion in his eyes that was so rare to see under that circumstance. An actual feeling for someone, whether it be good or bad. But he gave away a key piece of information, he hadn’t told Dr. Arkham, so he didn’t know this interview was taking place. This gave him even more reason to question why the commissioner was here and if he didn’t ask Dr. Arkham, it also meant that this could be off of camera. He had expected to get a question quite different than what he posed.

Dr. Crane leaned against the bars, letting his forehead fall to them as the glacial blue in his eyes took in the commissioner’s soul. The smallest smile began to creep over his features when he paused for the doctor to answer. He took a deep breath and tilted his head, his shoulder pulled slightly and his smile carried over to an open mouth. His eyes never left him but his head turned down slightly so he could look at him from the side. “I’ve disappointed you commissioner…” His monotone voice mused in with a bit of a knowing kick this time. “…Is this your way of asking me to kill her?” He almost laughed off the last question.

Of course he had known what he was really asking. But he wasn’t about to tell him anything about it. Giving him his sight was making him more willing to talk, but not willing to give answers. It was true that she was the longest patient he had ever held, but it wasn’t without regular happenings. But they couldn’t see all of that, it was only because the commissioner could only scratch the surface of what he could understand. It was so limited, and he was so blind.

[Deleted]

Gordon’s visage is grim, unmoving. He doesn’t care about Crane’s lifeless posture nor his stare. Sure, he’ll agree it’s unnerving, but he’d worked on the force for decades and you got used to being examined like an insect. So did he give anymore power than Crane already believed he had? No. He just watched him from behind his own spectacles, watching for any reaction and so when Crane reacts to his mention of Arkham, he takes that into note. He knew he’d get a rise from that. Gordon knows that Jonathan has a special distain for the man, but he doesn’t and hasn’t found reason to pick at it. Maybe he’ll have reason today, maybe not. Still there is no reaction from Jim. He remains standing, as casual as he had before.

The only that makes him shift is that he wants a cigarette, something to fill the silence in his head. Something to do as Jonathan does as he always does and answers the question with a wit and arrogance absolutely unproductive and unnecessary and he’s aware the man knows it. He combs his fingers through his mustache. “You can’t disappoint a person who spends his life objectively thinking of and viewing crimes and their perpetrators. I don’t hold a connection to you: personal or otherwise,” he states watching him. “You’ll do what you will with her and she’ll follow you unless her connection to you can be broken. We can hope. I pity her…she had such a career in front of her.” He doesn’t even move closer to the bars. He has no need for threats and he knows Jonathan will expect that. He’s not here to play bad cop or good cop. He is here to play Commissioner. And though, he is certainly concerned about Heather Glass, he can’t help but be unsurprised that some girl decided to attach to Jonathan. There is always someone, he muses. His fingers find the pipe Barbara gave him and he pulls it out. He doesn’t light it, just removes his gaze from Jonathan and stares at the wood, smooth and still glossy from the stroke of his fingers.

“Ms. Glass was an icebreaker. Myself and the rest already knew how little you’d probably say about her. At least they should have,” he says and then his eyes rise again. “No, you see I was going through cold cases. I have a duty to investigate some in my career and I came across an interesting one. The death was ruled an accident by most, but…you know, the coroner and the officers then really didn’t agree. You knew Ms. Squires and Mr. Griggs…tragic isn’t it what happened to them?”

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

Dr. Crane didn’t go without noticing the man’s habits. It was clear he was suffering some kind of withdrawal. A predictable condition, probably from smoking. It was such a meaningless habit to get into. There were so many in his profession that took it up but he knew better. That is why he was always physically superior over the ones that smoked. They couldn’t run as fast and they couldn’t move as quick. To hinder or limit yourself in such a manner was a ridiculous thought. But he couldn’t fault the commissioner for doing all he was capable of. Running probably wasn’t something he did too much of at his age…

Dr. Crane smiled from behind a bar; it was one of sinister nature a secret behind it as if only he knew what was going to happen to the girl. Right now, it was the truth and the commissioner was right. He was going to do whatever he wanted with her and there was never anything they could do about it. Even if they did decide to do something about it by the time they did it would be far too late. They could never catch up to him because they couldn’t understand him and no matter how many times they sent him back here they never got any closer.

The trinket he pulled out of his pocket made his smile drop and his head tilt. Something as simple as that was enough to draw his attention, but never quite pull his eyes away from his. It was difficult to not be aware of something one pulls out of their pocket in the ward. It may be a sign you are about to be sedated or even struck with something, which had happened on numerous occasion. But no, it was a small thin framed pipe, his smoking habits confirmed. Dr. Crane’s fingers curled outside of the bars, not being able to move further because of the brace in-between. The man would be smart not to come any closer and heed the warnings posted near and around his cell. He wanted the pipe in his hands, but he couldn’t reach it and was doubtful that the commissioner would just hand it over.

While his focus was partially placed on the pipe in his hands a nerve suddenly twitched in his jaw. His full attention was finally caught in that instant but he remained lifeless aside from the sudden twitch at her name. He could almost feel them near him at that moment. Griggs leaned against his cell and called him a slurr, Sherri just laughed and kicked back her golden hair. His eyes lit with fury behind the veil that he showed for the commissioner. This was something he had to be very cautious about what he said. In giving the wrong information he could very well end up in court or prison easily. As much as has happened, they may even consider the needle or the chair, despite whatever psychological evaluation they can make up.

Dr. Crane rattled his cuffs some and slid them up and down the bar, making a high pitched squeal that didn’t bother him because he was making the noise. “It depends on what you consider a tragedy…” He spoke flatly with no upset in his voice. “I suppose by societies standards…a loss of another two children.” He continued on as if there wasn’t really much else to say about it. He was aware that there was a mix up in the broadcasting. Some believed it was an accident others knew it was a gunshot to the head and chest but the media always spun the news. It was always difficult to get correct information….But Dr. Crane knew. “The question is, what does an accident have to do with me?” He almost smiled, in his cryptics. Every accident had everything to do with fear...

[Deleted]

When he’d transferred to Gotham following his problems in the Chicago police force, Gordon had cast the rumors aside. Nowhere was worse than Chicago, thirty years later, he is singing a different tune. Gotham had been worse and he imagines it still is, but has gotten better. Still he knows his roots and he didn’t come out of the egg a full-grown rooster. He was a beat cop, a rookie, he knew what it was like to go on your first homicide, drug bust, and he knew the metallic fear that was going undercover and having a gun shoved into your spine while were searched. He knew what it was like to control yourself, to cry, and he knew what it was like to lose a partner. As he stows his pipe away and favors his right leg a moment he also knows that after thirty years a cop learns to read the subtle little twinges that pass a suspect’s face.

He catches the twitch of Jonathan’s jaw.

Unlike Dr. Arkham, however, nothing crosses his face. No triumph, not a single sign that he’s steps ahead of this man and he’s just about to find out. He’s over fifty now, those games are for the insecure, the arrogant. He’s not wound that way anymore. The red blood of his youth has cooled and been replaced by the wisdom years have given him. They’ve been long years. He doesn’t take a step closer to Jonathan or his cell, though even if Jonathan doesn’t say it his body had told him how much he wanted him closer earlier and probably to snatch the pipe. He’d given his sight back, but the pipe was his from his daughter. That’s not a gift he’ll part with.

His brows raise as Jonathan purposefully grates his cuffs down the bars and cells down there is a commotion. Someone yells another one screams. Jim simply crosses his arms a moment before releasing them as if depressurizing. He momentarily wonders why the need to keep him cuffed, but he dismisses as obvious and continues on. “There are people who say that over time a guilty conscience really wears on a person. Serial criminals don’t reveal their crimes because they want to keep killing, other offenders keep quiet because it was heat of the moment, an accident and crime of passion.” He takes a single step closer and stares into the cool, shielded gaze of the once professor and then doctor. “And then there are others who don’t say anything because they’re afraid that if they do they’ll die.” Jim slips his hands back into his pockets. “Sometimes that fear of another person gets overridden by their conscience.”

He chooses to hold back from elaborating for a moment to respond to Jonathan’s own words, “Which brings me to you. Sherri Squires and Bo Griggs were your classmates. I saw the papers from the days following their deaths. The entire school held a memorial, their friend’s a candle vigil. Their parents cried for them like parents do, but you don’t think it was really all that tragic. Was that because those two bullied you constantly?”

When he removes his hands from his pockets this time it, he’s holding one of those small, ringed legal pads police favor when their questioning witnesses. He opens it and glances down at it. He only needs to see the first few words before his memory is jogged. “They put you in the hospital months before they died at the prom. Sherri lured you on ‘a date’ tricked you and they had Bo and his friends beat you so bad you were in a coma.” He closes the notepad, but keeps it in his hands.

“They never charged them, they were never punished. That’s enough to make anyone angry,” he says and adjusts his glasses. “I managed to track down a few of Sherri and Bo’s old friends, a couple of which assisted in your assault. You want to know what they told me? It was just a bit of fun. It was kids being kids and they didn’t know you were going to be hurt that bad. They were just doing what everyone else was.” He seems to consider that a moment. “The savagery of that attack. I don’t believe them, but no one ever did anything about it. Why didn’t you have them prosecuted, Dr. Crane?”

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

Commissioner Gordon may have thought he known what fear was. But he was just barely beginning to understand. The face he was looking at was only the scratched surface of what it truly meant inside. He was the embodiment of fear and everything that came forth from him was a projection of what it meant. It wasn’t the first time he had tangled with the Commissioner, they had met on several occurrences. But it was usually never face to face as they are right now. He would usually show up at a scene of his just moments too late, just in time to see him leave in fact. Not to say that he had never caught him himself….But he would rather not think about that.

The noise didn’t seem to phaze either of them but Dr. Crane was looking for any amount of weakness in him at all. His eyes were planted on his, refusing to go anywhere, despite the subject he chose to talk about with him. He listened to him continue on with his little story that he already knew far better than he would ever understand. As he spoke he couldn’t help himself but let a deathly, sinister smile lay on his features. It was one that was knowing, cunning and confident. The commissioner continued to talk and stepped forward but then put his hands into his pockets. He was hiding something, blocking himself from a nervous feeling? Suffering under some anxiety towards where he was? His mind could only go deeper into his thoughts, but he heard every word said.

Dr. Crane let him finish speaking completely before he decided to mull over his questions. His eyes never left his once as he thought, dipping into the dark void of his own mind. “Sherri…” He spoke softly in a voice that was barely above a whisper. His eyes left him in that moment and his mind sunk into a dark place. He leaned there against the bars, staring through the commissioner for several moments before his head finally twitched and his body came back to life. ”You haven’t studied my work I see, I don’t believe that tragedy is at all possible to what society gives it meaning. The word itself for when something bad happens might suffice, but the impending anguish and sadness are simply projections of their fear. “ He spoke as clearly as he could without having to go over the day in his mind.

That dark day that it all happened. He could still hear her screaming, begging for him not to shoot as her boyfriend lay dead in the seat next to her. He had put a bullet between his eyes before he even had a chance to beg for mercy. But for her?....He let her create a symphony for him.

The doctor brought up a single finger and wiped it in a back and forth motion in front of him as if to scold him no. It tipped over the bars as it went in a steady, slow wipe to and fro. “There was no need to prosecute, I was a child of the state, your taxes raised me…But it was just a bit of fun wasn’t it?” He asked darkly. His voice and his posture became a bit more unstable as he continued. “You may not believe them, But it doesn’t matter does it? So I’ll ask again….Commissioner, What do I have to do with them?” His finger lowered and curled back into a fist. What they had done to him was more than enough to make someone “Angry”. The Commissioner would never understand the gravity of what went on and what was allowed to continue to go on.

Why didn’t he ever prosecute?.....Why didn’t society ever prosecute….Why didn’t the city? His town? His foster parents? His mind put up it’s barriers and closed the doors to these thoughts, as they would only get him in trouble here.

He was in pain….And you did nothing.

[Deleted]

To Jim Gordon understanding what fear was wasn’t his paramount concern and even if he was asked if he knew, he’d shrug and probably recite a bit of Shakespeare—he may have grown up with a blue collar father, gone to the army and of course that affected how much emotion he revealed at any moment, but that had all been almost thirty years ago, not that he didn’t keep up with his physical needs. He also wasn’t uneducated. How much did Commissioner Gordon believe he understood about fear?

There were more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy…

But no matter his personal beliefs, Jonathan would always believe he understood little compared to him, and for Jim that was fine. He wasn’t here to argue the philosophy or psychology of Fear. He wasn’t here to reminisce and keep count on how many times Jonathan Crane evaded him or to boast about the few times he’d managed to catch him. He wasn’t here to serve as any sort of entertainment for Scarecrow, though the man could enjoy it all he liked or not. He ignored his sinister little smile just as much as he did the noise he’d caused moments earlier. It took more than such tactics to get under his skin. Jonathan should have known that. He’d spent more than a decade in Gotham and he’d gone native. He wasn’t to be intimidated by the likes of a rogue doctor. He’d seen that story one too many times already, and Jonathan was so far from the mark. There was no unconscious thought behind the placement of his hands into his pockets. Not an unconscious sign of defense at least. For Gordon the action was one that spoke of how comfortable he was and how much Jonathan’s unnerving tactics weren’t working.

“You would say that, I’m not surprised,” Jim responded to Jonathan’s first statements. In short his declaration was meant to convey that yes, he’d indeed studied Jonathan’s work. Fear was a part of the grieving process. A parent feared what their life would be like without their child, it was wrong for them to pass before their parents. So many human’s recognized it as unnatural. That was why it was tragedy and yes, it was fear because if that one bright hope could go wrong then what else could? Being reminded that no one was safe from mortality was the best way to entice fear is so many, but Jim wasn’t there to argue any sort of semantics. But he could see, in how Jonathan spoke just how much he was avoiding even thinking about what those kids put him through.

Jim pulled his hands from his pockets and without a change of expression, watched Jonathan’s mock scolding of him. He wasn’t Dr. Arkham. Such behavior had little effect on him. Instead he shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. Beating a kid to the point they did you…no, that’s cruelty. It’s wrong and ward of the state or not, if I had been in any position to do something, I would have.” He’d noticed then that a cord had indeed been struck, but he drew no attention to it. “I think it matters, I imagine then had someone done something it would have mattered a great deal to you. But now? With them dead? Maybe it doesn’t anymore, I don’t know you. But I think it does still to you.” He took another step to the bars.

“You killed them. You shot Mr. Griggs in the head once. He died instantly, but Ms. Squires…you made her suffer. I tested the informant who gave me the information, after all he was involved in your bullying, but after you did that to Sherri and Bo, he was frightened of you, but like I said. Your conscience has a way of overriding that. He died a week ago; it was a confession he wanted to make before he died. He also said sorry, but I don’t expect that to mean much to you. I expect you to believe it was what it really was: a man facing the impending truth of his death and laying his sins clean out of that fear.” There was not a note of facetiousness in his voice. It was gruff and full of fact.

And all the while Jonathan was closing the doors to save himself from causing trouble, Jim was ruminating on the same things. No, he could understand why a child hadn’t prosecuted, but society, the city, the school, the boy’s foster parents? Why hadn’t anyone done a thing?

He had been in pain…and no one had done a thing.

Nothing indeed. Yet even so, that was no excuse.

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

There was a certain barren chill that emitted from Dr. Crane's stare into the commissioner's in front of him. He would never understand what it was like, he would never understand what it was to be him and the burden that was put upon his shoulders. He would never understand that he embraced it and instead of fought the change in him he brought it to a brilliant light and it enveloped every part of him. It made him who he was always meant to be. But No, This man wouldn't understand. Dr. Arkham was closer than him and he couldn't compare them in any way except for they were both clearly out to get him somewhere. Dr. Arkham was out to keep him in a cage all his own and the Commissioner was clearly out to get him on a certain row.....

It wasn't as if the thought never crossed his mind. When it was presented to him by his several appointed state lawyers ten years ago, he couldn't stop hearing about it. They begged him, pleaded with him not to represent his own case. "You'd be a dead man walking" They'd say or "You're only going to hurt yourself, let someone advocate for you, you won't win" What they didn't understand was that this corpse that walked among them already had a stilled pulse. There was nothing that they could do to him, no amount of electric current or injection that would take away who he was. Eventually however, he was convinced to let them speak for him and he almost ruined that - But in the end he knew it was the asylums interference that saved him from Death Row. Dr. Arkham must have been dying to hear those words....that he "saved" him. Dr. Crane would never admit anything of the sort. After all, they couldn't have done anything in the first place.

Dr. Crane watched him closely as he took another step to the bars but he didn't move a muscle. The commissioner could have easily reached out and grabbed him if he wanted like a late night abusive guard. But he wasn't going to give him an inch, he wasn't going to take one breath of excitement to any action he might make. Instead he let his forehead grace and press to the bars as he drabbled on and on about what had happened and his "Beliefs" on whether it was right or wrong. It didn't matter. What was done was done. The aggressive tension that he emitted before melted into the bars and went away with the Commissioner's rambling on. He really had no interest in what those people had to say about him now. They didn't matter now anymore than they did then.

Only the mentioning of Sherri made his fingers tightened and loosen slowly. It was a feeling he'd have to drop immediately. Had he made her suffer? Had he made her endure a fraction of the pain that she caused him? No, Sherri didn't suffer, she was set free and given the warmth of oblivion. If anything it was what society would call...."Mercy". With a heavy sigh Dr. Crane finally tilted his head and licked his lips, he gave him a tired stare looking up from the bars as his posture was slouched and heavy. "You tell your stories on and on, But I don't know what you're talking about and even if I did It still doesn't make sense why you're digging up a case that's older than your career." He took a breath and calmly folded his hand together, barely, against the weight of the cuff. "Now I'll ask you again Commissioner and do try to be more clear this time as this is a particularly interesting incident but I cannot assist you with it if everyone is dead. What are you really here for?" He asked him with conviction, wanting him to get to the point. He was haggling the dead on like they had some purpose in what was going on now. If the commissioner was looking for a reason to take him to the gallows then he was going to need to look in a different spot. Or perhaps?....That was the spot he was heading? ....He'd remain careful with his words but there was nothing to fear. Right now he was just scrambling around in the dark.

[Deleted]

Jim had a habit of maintaining eye contact with anyone he spoke to. Sometimes it intimidated them, sometimes they found it a game to play, but Jim stared all the same and having dealt with every nearly every soul that found their way into Arkham Asylum or Blackgate in the years since he’d been Director of the MCU and then Police Commissioner, he wasn’t easily intimidated by anyone’s stare. The same was true for Crane’s. He could block out the chill the man’s eyes evoked. He knew his modus operandi well and there was no way he was going to frighten the Commissioner. Jim didn’t care what burden Jonathan thought himself under nor did he care if he understood or would ever understand. He wasn’t here to dissect Crane like that. Jonathan could operate with him and cooperate or he could make this difficult. Jim already was sure he knew which the once doctor would choose. As for wanting to place Jonathan on a certain row? That couldn’t be further from the Commissioner’s mind. He wasn’t here to judge Jonathan, he was here on business and Crane happened to be immersed in it. Jim just wanted to know how deeply.

Yet to get the information, Jim didn’t think he’d have to play bad cop. There would be no reason for him need to abuse Jonathan in anyway and violence such as that wasn’t usually the way James Gordon handled things. He wasn’t the rash type that would snatch Jonathan through the bars. He was the one who planned attacks and executed them with the accurate expertise he’d been awarded for in the military. When he’d stepped closer to the bars, he did as a sign not of boasting how unintimidating he found Jonathan, but in order to speak to him more closely and not at a distance that would give the man any sign that he was afraid. Fear was a common feeling in his job, so much so he didn’t know what exact calm really felt like, but he was content and of Jonathan Crane he wasn’t concerned. So just as the Scarecrow refused to give him an inch, so the Commissioner in suite agreed. He’d not give Jonathan any point to question him. His hands were steady, his breath even, and his heartbeat not a beat quicker than it normally was at resting.

Yet there was one thing Jonathan would find himself wrong about, how much those people did in fact still matter and they always would. They could still have an effect on him, but Jim hadn’t gotten there yet. He could feel the moment coming, however.

Jim noted the tightening of Jonathan’s fingers at the mention of the girl. Yes, they did still have an effect on him. All these years later. Jim pulled out his pipe and though he did not light it, he stuck it between his lips and chewed on the end. He really did think about lighting it, but wasn’t in the mood to find out if the smoke detectors worked. He again met Jonathan’s stare straight on and found himself unconcerned with the exasperation in his expression.

“I already explained why the case has taken a renewed interest. It wasn’t dug up, a person came forward with new information, in the usual protocol we take those sorts of tips seriously and the case was reopened. After gathering of evidence and interviewing your former classmates you appeared as a prime suspect,” he said. “I could try you for murder, there’s no limitation on the conviction of murder cases. Though even if I didn’t I will have to notify Dr. Arkham of the incident and what happened and that you are suspected to be the murderer. That information is concluded to be vital in your evaluation and treatment.” He told him plainly. Again it was plain fact, no false pleasantries.

Jim could be smug and maybe he felt it, but he would not let it enter his voice, because Jonathan was right. He wasn’t just here to investigate that murder, but he wasn’t just throwing them around like they were bargaining chips. Jim wasn’t here to make any bargains. He also wasn’t interested in taking Jonathan to the gallows. Not while he could vital in the case he was now focused on.

Again Jim stepped closer to the bars, replacing his pipe in his pocket and instead pulling out an evidence bag. His hands hid the contents at first. “There was an altercation at the Gotham Dockyards. A boat came in carrying more crates than were listed. It was a known mob freighter, but they’d been getting away their smuggling operations because there wouldn’t be anything wrong with their numbers or someone would look the other way. Yet there was an honest cop on shift that night. He asked the wrong questions and was thanked for his troubles by paying with his life.” As Jim explained, he never once looked away from Jonathan. “I don’t expect that to interest you, there were some interesting things about his murder. Of course the extra box was missing once other police arrived on scene, but he wasn’t killed in any of the M.O.’s of the known mafia or gangs. He was decapitated, his head on the display and the crime scene unit found this.”

At those words he unclenched his hands and held up the bag. It didn’t matter that the light was poor, the flower in the transparent bag was unmistakable. It was vibrant blue. “I knew this flower the moment I saw it because we’ve found them before…in seizing your hideouts.” Gordon looked at the flower. “This, Crane, is why I’m here.”

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

Luckily for the commissioner, Dr. Crane was a man of incredible patience. He could listen to him prattle on about the subject he cared little to nothing about anymore. They meant nothing to him….nothing. He’d ignore the thoughts pulling over his mind that made his hand tighten on the bar. But now his fingers were neatly folded and rested upon one another. He gave the commissioner a blank stare, one void of any emotion and sterile of any thought aside from listening and then responding as he had to. The conversation wasn’t going much of anywhere and as far as he could tell, the longer he prattled on the less and less he actually knew.

A person coming forward with information they thought they had didn’t bother him, especially if it was about that case specifically. The commissioner turning the conversation in that direction made him drop all thought of where he could have possible turned it. Obviously, by now, there was not chance that he was even close to what he had done since then or what had really happened. Dr. Crane could have almost smiled. It was like getting away with murder….almost.

Even as the pipe left the commissioners pocket and went to his teeth, the doctors gaze never left his. He had already reeked of cigarette smoke long before he reached the bars he was held behind, but if he had to estimate how long he had been smoking the man would have never noticed it on himself, long beyond to point of sufficient sense of smell. Many of the inmates in here would have died for such tobacco use while in their cells. At one point in his history it was actually allowed, but shortly before he was admitted himself some kind of falsely guided movement to bar it had began. The people weren’t sure of which they feared more the kinds of people that smoked? Or the actual science between the smoke and their lungs? Although the doctor didn’t partake himself, he knew the real science behind it and didn’t care to indulge. But it wasn’t unlike society to attack something it feared like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The doctor let out a heavy sigh. These conversations always started with an altercation, some sort of fight that had broken out due to his toxin or someone he knew and he was always pulled in regardless of involvement. Most of the time a fight broke out involving his serum he wasn’t even the one to administer. He wasn’t so reckless, common place Gotham was not a good environment to test in as there was little to no control. But the mention of a crate was enough to give him a slight pause in his breathing. His skin suddenly bumped and then released its tension as quickly as it came. Without names he had already known what had happened, only to be confirmed by the sight of it.

Its gorgeous blue hue illuminated the world around it in his eyes. There wasn’t a single flaw to be found and in that moment his gaze had left the commissioner’s. Instead it turned its focus to the beauty of what he was holding, struck in complete awe. His eyes had fallen distant, so deeply enamored in what he held just inches away from him. He could grab it if he wanted, he could reach out even with the cuffs and hold it. It belonged to him, it called to him and the commissioner was holding it. Suddenly, his distant eyes and soaked back into the darkness in his reality and a fire had lit behind his iris. This man had no right to hold something this precious, something that he would never understand. But Dr. Crane was a smart man and although the truth was calling to him from just beyond the bars his only current crime had been to lose his stare with the commissioner.

This time his eyes had returned and his demeanor had turned far darker and far more unstable than before. His mind was racing with what he should and shouldn’t do, with what he could and couldn’t say and the outcome of each. He had already reacted to the flower with a look, but it was only a look, there was no crime in that. If he were to confess his knowledge of it we would not only give away the prime ingredient to his toxin but he would give Commissioner Gordon the power to try and find a way to stop him from getting it. But who was he after in this? Was he after him? Or was he after the supplier? The thought alone caused him to swallow. Coming after him for it would be far better than the other option as he was well aware of what would happen then, but right now he couldn’t deny his connection with the flower. There was only one viable option if things didn’t go his way.

“Are you changing my M.O to some signature of leaving a flower behind?” He asked with carefully placed words, as if he didn’t know exactly why he was holding the flower up to his cell. His fingers wanted it so bad they twitched and sometimes came off the bars by millimeters just to be closer to its warm blue glow. “Or are you going to charge me with the murders of wanted men?” He mused throwing the conversation in any direction rather than him actually knowing something about the flower itself. ”I can only speculate considering you’ve done nothing but reflect on this history you’ve assumed me to have, But if you fear me to have stolen evidence I think you’re at the wrong facility and cell for that manner.” He lifted out his fingers from the bar, coming closer to the flower but then turned it to point down the hall. “If the feline is in her crate it will be out that door across the bridge and about 6 miles East.” The doctor retracted his finger, shaken from being so close to it…..The commissioner didn’t deserve to breathe near something so precious.

[Deleted]

The commissioner wasn’t concerned with patience, with Jonathan’s avoidance of his thoughts pertaining to what he was speaking of. The case, important as it was, had been the ice-breaker and he wasn’t ashamed that Jonathan could see through it. He’d been captured, interrogated, and questioned enough to know the tactics. Jonathan could look at him with that empty stare of his as he believed him to be wasting his time all he wanted because Jim knew he had something substantial and he knew it would indeed get a rise out of Jonathan.

And indeed he did. Which, if he was honest filled him with satisfaction as he recalled Crane’s heavy sigh preceding his story. Of course Jonathan would assume it was the same song and dance it’d always been, but his tip off should have been that unlike all those other times it was the Commissioner who was questioning him. Gordon knew that Jonathan was often sought out when something involving the dispersal of his toxin occurred, every cop believed he would the expert to consult or blame and time and time again they were disappointed. Jim knew how few friends Jonathan could be thought to have; he also knew that if his toxin was involved unless someone witness the Scarecrow on the scene, going to him would be a dead end. There was no telling how anyone save the once doctor got their hands on it. Yet he supposed everyone needed money sometimes and it had forced Jonathan to sell it to someone who sold it to someone else and down and down the chain of hands it went. Jim remembered Jonathan’s profile, his way of acting and with his toxin, Jonathan himself was not rash enough to hand it out to every Larry or Loraine. But this had nothing to do with any sort of incident like that and as Gordon mentioned the container, if he noticed Jonathan react, he didn’t show he’d seen.

Commissioner Gordon didn’t even give a huge reaction to his thoughts being confirmed when Jonathan’s eyes left his and settled on the blue flower. He saw the way Jonathan’s eyes beheld it like it was something to be cherished. The way the doctor’s eyes lost focus, Jim knew Jonathan wanted it. He wasn’t surprised to see how much the flower meant to him. It obviously was involved in his research and toxin. He watched Jonathan react until he seemed to come to the realization that he’d lapsed and then he met Jonathan’s gaze again. He said nothing about noticing the man’s crime of losing his gaze. Instead he watched his demeanor change. He could feel the prickle as the man became more manic and his nature less light yet there was no reaction.

He pocketed the flower after Jonathan was finished speaking. He replaced it with his pipe. It was habit. This time he lit it and took a few puffs. His sense of smell was much intact and he was aware of how much he smelled of his tobacco. It was a scent that his wife associated with him, that his children did. He could smell it on his clothes and in this instant it gave him the clarity to think. It put him in character for what he was about to say.

“Your speculation to any and all of the above is wrong,” he said to him. “You’re obviously in Arkham Asylum. You couldn’t have been on the scene to have committed the act. You don’t decapitate people and I wouldn’t think you’d leave flowers behind. Leaving gifts behind for the police are more Riddler’s M.O. and the flower wasn’t left on purpose. It was tucked into the pocket of the murder victim. I suppose it was his way of helping us.” He gestured with his pipe as he spoke. Gordon didn’t pace as he spoke, he stood exactly where he’d been standing since revealing the flower. “If you weren’t there, you’re obviously not guilty of killing the man nor of stealing a crate of flowers.”

The Commissioner didn’t even follow his finger, He remained looking at Jonathan and stifled any thought of accusation there and then. “I’m not here to charge you. I’m here to inform you.”

He patted his pocket as he took another breath of the smoking pipe, “I have a friend who has a plethora of resources and connections. They’ve found out where this flower is from. I know it’s important to you. It litters every hideout you’ve had that we’ve entered. Sometimes we find it fresher than others. This specimen is the freshest we’ve found.”

He lowered the pipe. “I’m after your supplier. He will be found. I told my friend I was going to see if you would cooperate, both of us are doubtful of it, but I have to give a man a chance. We’ll find out what part of your toxin is derived from this flower sooner or later now that we have this specimen, now that we’ve discovered where it’s from. We’ll also find out who’s giving it to you.”

But Gordon knew he wasn’t going to be the one trusted to take down the supplier. He never would be, and it was too dangerous to send his men after them if he could help it too. That was the job of someone else, someone who had told him how ritualistic the killing was.

“I’m not here for the interrogation you assumed,” he ended and returned the pipe to his lips.

[Jonathan Crane - Scarecrow]

One may think that after all this time that they would have moved on to other professionals to interrogate about these matters. Dr. Crane was certainly the one that deserved the fame in facing the Batman, though he was often overshadowed by the Joker. He’d never admit that this thought had bothered him somewhat although clear agitation when it was brought up was present. But when it came to digging up old dirt he thought that a more likely candidate would be the Joker, until he saw the flower. There was no other suspect but him.

When the flower went out of his sight the doctors eyes darkened. He didn’t deserve to have it in his pocket. He didn’t deserve to have it in his sight. There was so much that he didn’t understand, the power that was in his pocket. He wouldn’t understand if he took the time to explain it fully to him. Even if every property was given and every single formula was explained it wouldn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what was really happening within the mind under the effects. Ra’s had his own concoction made from the flower but Dr. Crane would never talk about this out loud. Even if he had it wasn’t impressive, if Ra’s could have made his formula on his own he wouldn’t have kept him around. What he had done with it was so much more, and every ingredient was important.

Of course he expected Gordon to be smart enough to figure out that he wasn’t there. It was impossible, but it wasn’t impossible that it was his product. It wasn’t his habit to leave ingredients behind, in fact he cleaned to make sure of it, but it wasn’t as if it never happened. Sometimes he had to leave quickly and a single flower could be missed, or several. But then he mentioned something odd. His head tilted slightly as if he almost didn’t understand at first and his eyes shifted, but didn’t remove from his gaze. Why would someone be putting his ingredients on someone else? Was someone trying to frame him? If so they were doing a poor job of it. Perhaps they were trying to get his attention.

He had found his supplier.

This got his attention but he wasn’t sure what to do. A certain excitement actually jumped into his eyes before a deep sinister laughter left his lips. It was actually amusing. Yes, he was on the trail of his supplier, but the fact that he thought that he’d mind him, that he’d reel him in….Was too much. He had no idea the lions den that he was walking into, and he wouldn’t make it far before he turned tail and ran. “So you’ve come to be looking for my supplier?” He brought his hand back and rubbed it over his chin. He wouldn’t find his supplied here. Did he really think he could just come here and get him to spill. Dr. Crane would never give out his supplier….He would never want anyone to know who had a hold on hi,. He would deny it. “Even if I did have a supplier, I have no reason to tell you….Unless you truly are planning on blackmailing me with your little story earlier…” He spoke seriously, not admitting to anything.