[Curiosity leads Crane to spend fewer evenings at the university. Now he has a new set of data to analyse, a new mind to explore, he devotes himself to personal projects. Those that hardly lead upstairs in a respectable part of Gotham and through the same doors as before. But when it comes to funding those projects one must take on extra work
He closes the door to ward off the rain and welcomes his guest inside without a wave or gesture. Comfortable in his skin but unwilling to entertain remaining still inside it.
His voice coolly repeats the introductions made last time.]
[ Alfred found him in an alley that night, shivering and dazed. It took a few nights for the toxin to clear. Several nights more to round up everyone who hadn't died in the warehouse fires and deposit them on gcpd's doorstep. Branded as caught by the Batman with his stamp seared into their chests. If anything happened to them after that, Bruce didn't care. Alfred didn't approve. But Bruce didn't expect him to. Alfred wanted to him to continue his therapy.
This is the first appointment he's kept in weeks.
He steps inside and barely acknowledges Crane's greeting. His coat he folds over the back of the chair and he sits, folds his hands in his lap. His knuckles are bruised. So is his face. ]
[One might assume him to be speaking of himself. One more observant would know where his line is leading, drawn not between the two of them, but between his patient and others who have been in his situation.]
Most people dislike attending therapy once the work gets tough.
[Crane sits behind his desk and folds his hands upon the grain. His own knuckles are clean. His face a perfect picture of calm except for blue eyes that stare curiously.]
[ Bruce doesn't have to look at his hands to know what Crane is talking about. He hadn't wanted to come, not until the bruises had faded. But Alfred insisted. He'd already missed too many appointments. ]
Something like that.
[ The papers caught him with the shiner just a few nights before. Speculated on how he'd earned it. Maybe he got caught up in a love triangle. Maybe he got mugged. Maybe he crashed another car. Who knows? ]
[His words deliberately match the wounds Bruce is presenting. He senses those bruises are displayed to draw attention, to offer a certain impression. But he is skilled at observing the signs of lying and confirming the truth.]
Something escapes you. You cannot control it and reverse your situation. One of many problems money cannot solve, riht?
[ Maybe under better circumstances, Crane's subtle dig would have earned him a half smile. That signature smirk that hides the truth of his feelings in the slight curve of his mouth. Tonight it falls flat. Bruce just shifts where he sits. ]
I've made a new friend.
[ He says it like it's normal. Like it wasn't some new weirdo in a mask with a detonator. Bruce hasn't forgotten he still doesn't know what it links to. ]
But he's keeping a secret from me. It's kind of irritating.
[Crane emits a low and harmonious murmur, an observation made without words. The subject lacks the motivation to feign emotion but still insists on offering a dull response]
And you are keeping secrets from me.
[He lifts the pen in his right hand, his thumb poised to depress the clicker.]
Just like your friend [click] So what is the difference?
[ was there a difference? You're not my friend Bruce thinks and almost says but ultimately doesn't. ]
I'm on the cover of 3 different tabloids this week. My life's an open book, Doctor Crane.
[ An open book, but the pages are blank. He never offers anything of substance, even in this place where he's meant to feel safe enough to share how he feels. He doesn't, but that doesn't make it any less true. ]
Ah, the tabloids. Those renowned bastions of veracity and truth.
[His clipped tone suggests bemusement but lacks warmth. He cares little for the media and less for the lie.]
I make it a rule never to believe what someone else has written without clarification. There is a difference between opinion pieces and evidenced research.
You don't think there's a little bit of truth in those stories?
[ Sure there's a lot of exaggeration and blatant lies from people he may have partied with briefly or exchanged glances with at some charity gala. But it's part of the narrative being woven. If Bruce didn't want those compromising images out there? They wouldn't be. ]
So you want me to clarify then. What have you read about me, Dr. Crane? Maybe I will.
[Crane lowers his eyes to the point they seem closed. He is deliberating something, frustrated by some unsolved problem. The urge to throw caution to the wind. The need to be seen.]
Well, I believe that you are powerful enough to be capable of having the press print precisely what you want them to.
[So will anything he shares be the truth? Bruce's words will become another facade he has to unravel or fracture.]
I'm not the one who takes these stories to the press. It's all speculation from someone who might have met me once at a party and we're suddenly lifelong friends.
[ Bruce sits with that for a moment. He wouldn't call his encounter with Scarecrow a good time. But it had raised his adrenaline in a way he hasn't felt in quite some time. He could get addicted to that if he wasn't careful. ]
[ And if he dies? That won't kill them either. Or maybe it will. The deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne was certainly the end of the 8 year old boy they left behind. Dick's death took whatever sense of justice Bruce had left with him.
[ It's a roundabout way to call him a hypocrite. Bruce could see it. Probably because Crane wanted him to. Why he wouldn't come out and say that is a curious thing.
He sits, quiet for a moment. Then he looks up at Jonathan, expression somewhere between unreadable and scrutiny. ]
[That inscrutable stare meets an unemotional gaze. Crane has endured life enough to accept that whatever he should be feeling he cannot. He stares for an equally uncomfortable time until he inhales. His shoulders relax as he controls himself, collects himself.]
Hardly. Otherwise Bruce Wayne would not be grumbling in that chair. Somebody else would be filling the void.
[His voice is quiet and observant with the perfect pitch of professionalism. But something inside him thinks a man who enjoys a quiet and stable life deserves to have it snatched away. Somebody else is filling the void, one might say.]
[ Bruce sits there in silence, watching Crane. He relaxes, it's almost like Bruce can see it in the way his shoulders shift. Meaning he'd been tense, no matter how brief. There was no one else to fill the void. Not for him or for Crane.
They'd keep this dance up for as long as they could, wouldn't they? ]
You're right. It has to be me.
[ He punched a man, fractured his jaw. Smashed another's teeth in. Headbutted one who tried to pin him down. It has to be him. No one else could carry that burden. His hands ache. ]
[Crane holds a tense silence as he considers that misleading question. One designed to receive his guidance - but also to extract information. But he hardly considers whatever information he might reveal as threatening to his position.
He writes inside his notebook before resting his hands upon his lap, speaking during the transition from one action to another.]
I would advise him to direct his energy towards those who deserve it.
[His targeting of society has not been without reason, after all.]
[ Someone who deserved it. Bruce could think of someone who deserved all of his energy. Of course, they were in Gotham. There wasn't a shortage of people who deserved Batman's attention. Scarecrow is just the one on his radar currently. ]
Maybe I'll tell him that. It's a professional opinion, after all.
[Eyebrows could raise. Hands could come together. His pen could be writing in his notepad. Crane remains upright in his armchair, his face unmoved and his voice devoid of emotion.]
Of course. [His tone is factual and polite.] Just remember his response will be the result of your input.
[Is decision a better word? He cannot quite agree. Progression in life is a series of events; all of which inform those later down the line.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Second Session
He closes the door to ward off the rain and welcomes his guest inside without a wave or gesture. Comfortable in his skin but unwilling to entertain remaining still inside it.
His voice coolly repeats the introductions made last time.]
Mr. Wayne.
[Polite. Thoughtful. Dishonest. Disinterested.]
no subject
This is the first appointment he's kept in weeks.
He steps inside and barely acknowledges Crane's greeting. His coat he folds over the back of the chair and he sits, folds his hands in his lap. His knuckles are bruised. So is his face. ]
I don't want to be here.
[ Honest. Disinterested. ]
no subject
[One might assume him to be speaking of himself. One more observant would know where his line is leading, drawn not between the two of them, but between his patient and others who have been in his situation.]
Most people dislike attending therapy once the work gets tough.
[Crane sits behind his desk and folds his hands upon the grain. His own knuckles are clean. His face a perfect picture of calm except for blue eyes that stare curiously.]
Rough night?
no subject
Something like that.
[ The papers caught him with the shiner just a few nights before. Speculated on how he'd earned it. Maybe he got caught up in a love triangle. Maybe he got mugged. Maybe he crashed another car. Who knows? ]
I'm not opposed to doing the work.
no subject
[His words deliberately match the wounds Bruce is presenting. He senses those bruises are displayed to draw attention, to offer a certain impression. But he is skilled at observing the signs of lying and confirming the truth.]
Something escapes you. You cannot control it and reverse your situation. One of many problems money cannot solve, riht?
no subject
I've made a new friend.
[ He says it like it's normal. Like it wasn't some new weirdo in a mask with a detonator. Bruce hasn't forgotten he still doesn't know what it links to. ]
But he's keeping a secret from me. It's kind of irritating.
no subject
And you are keeping secrets from me.
[He lifts the pen in his right hand, his thumb poised to depress the clicker.]
Just like your friend [click] So what is the difference?
no subject
I'm on the cover of 3 different tabloids this week. My life's an open book, Doctor Crane.
[ An open book, but the pages are blank. He never offers anything of substance, even in this place where he's meant to feel safe enough to share how he feels. He doesn't, but that doesn't make it any less true. ]
no subject
[His clipped tone suggests bemusement but lacks warmth. He cares little for the media and less for the lie.]
I make it a rule never to believe what someone else has written without clarification. There is a difference between opinion pieces and evidenced research.
no subject
[ Sure there's a lot of exaggeration and blatant lies from people he may have partied with briefly or exchanged glances with at some charity gala. But it's part of the narrative being woven. If Bruce didn't want those compromising images out there? They wouldn't be. ]
So you want me to clarify then. What have you read about me, Dr. Crane? Maybe I will.
no subject
Well, I believe that you are powerful enough to be capable of having the press print precisely what you want them to.
[So will anything he shares be the truth? Bruce's words will become another facade he has to unravel or fracture.]
Might you confirm or deny that?
no subject
[ Not a direct answer. Bruce doesn't do those. ]
no subject
[He gently raises a brow in curiosity. The urge to throw caution to the wind. The need to start questioning and probing.]
I must observe he is hardly the only one keeping secrets. But if he entertains you by showing you a good time where is the harm?
no subject
He's a bit reckless.
[ So are you, Bruce. ]
no subject
But why do the work when he can make his client do it instead?]
Says the pot to the kettle.
[So are you, Bruce. ]
no subject
[ Case in point: the bruises. And sure he crashed a car, but no one was around or in it with him. ]
no subject
[Sir, you can lie to other psychiatrists, but you cannot lie to me.]
Or are you going to say they enjoy seeing you come home battered and bruised every night?
no subject
[ And if he dies? That won't kill them either. Or maybe it will. The deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne was certainly the end of the 8 year old boy they left behind. Dick's death took whatever sense of justice Bruce had left with him.
He shrugs. ]
no subject
[Case in point: stop making excuses. There is only one person driving your car, sir. Now, ask yourself why does anyone drive a fast car?]
Perhaps your problem is that you cannot share that you enjoy the thrill of throwing caution to the wind. Reckless. Like your friend.
[So are you, Bruce.]
no subject
He sits, quiet for a moment. Then he looks up at Jonathan, expression somewhere between unreadable and scrutiny. ]
Do you think I'm dead, Dr. Crane?
no subject
Hardly. Otherwise Bruce Wayne would not be grumbling in that chair. Somebody else would be filling the void.
[His voice is quiet and observant with the perfect pitch of professionalism. But something inside him thinks a man who enjoys a quiet and stable life deserves to have it snatched away. Somebody else is filling the void, one might say.]
no subject
They'd keep this dance up for as long as they could, wouldn't they? ]
You're right. It has to be me.
[ He punched a man, fractured his jaw. Smashed another's teeth in. Headbutted one who tried to pin him down. It has to be him. No one else could carry that burden. His hands ache. ]
What would you say to my friend?
no subject
He writes inside his notebook before resting his hands upon his lap, speaking during the transition from one action to another.]
I would advise him to direct his energy towards those who deserve it.
[His targeting of society has not been without reason, after all.]
no subject
Maybe I'll tell him that. It's a professional opinion, after all.
no subject
Of course. [His tone is factual and polite.] Just remember his response will be the result of your input.
[Is decision a better word? He cannot quite agree. Progression in life is a series of events; all of which inform those later down the line.]
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