title: But Fear Itself
fandom: DC Comics
characters/pairings: Crane/omc, Ra's al Ghul, Gordon
rating: Teen
warnings: Jonathon Crane introspection
summary: Inside of Jonathon Crane's dreams.
notes: for kneazles, for nightmare request on fic on demand.

He hadn't meant to fall. He thought he knew what he was doing. Of course he knew what he was doing. He wasn't really sure what happened. He didn't have time to be afraid, though. It all happened so fast. His aunts kept going on and on about how he could have died, really died. His mother was clinging to him, wailing about her baby, her sweet baby.

He was annoyed. He hardly got to enjoy the zoo at all.

On the way home, his mother stopped at the mall. He got the new television he'd been begging for, and a gaming system, and five new games. And she kept hugging him and telling him how scared she was.

He was a clever boy. He learned the lesson of the day well.

Fear was power. It got him things.





For his birthday, he wanted three things: a terrarium and a pet spider to put in it, books on Jungian psychology, and a new video game. His requests were so simple, and so straightforward. He got no terrarium, and no spider. He got no books at all. He got a game, but the wrong one.

He did the completely reasonable and rational thing under the circumstances. He locked himself in the bathroom, and pulled out his razor blade. It didn't hurt. Not much, at any rate. The blood was pretty. He wanted it to hurt. But more than that, he wanted it to bleed.

His mother was wailing and banging on the door. He grinned.

He cut it in a bit deeper.

He was going to insist on a portable dvd player, too.





He expected it to hurt more. Maybe pain was so amusing because it only ever happened to other people. He liked being naked, though, and having the old man slobbering all over him. He felt dirty and slutty. He felt powerful. He had something the old man wanted.

It wasn't enough, though.

He grabbed onto the greasy strands of the old man's thinning hair. "Mm. What would happen if I called your wife?"

The old man stumbled. He laughed. "Wh-what?!"

"No, I wouldn't..." He grinned, and ran his fingers over his chest. Being pretty got him perks. Being smart got him perks. Being sneaky got him perks. But the best lessons were learned first. "But what would happen? Would you lose your job? Would she divorce you?"

The funny thing was, he didn't really want anything. He just got off on that look.





He inhaled deeply. He liked the mellow feeling, the rancid smell. He like running the burning edge over his tied-up lover's skin. His eyes... his beautiful eyes... everything bled through them. Fear so gorgeous it made him want to fuck the bastard again.

He traced his fingers over the bruises and scars on the idiot's body. This was about trust, he had simpered, licking under the twit's ear. It was so easy. Too easy.

But he had beautiful eyes. He stroked himself off while watching the fear in those gorgeous eyes.





It was an experiment. The small bowl of herbs burned next to him. He breathed in the fumes, but it just made everything feel fuzzy, light. He stretched out inside the tight straight jacket, squirming on the floor of the padded cell.

"You are an unusual man, Dr. Crane."

The voice came from nowhere, but he felt nothing but a pleasant tingle along his spine. He wanted to be abused, wanted to be raped. He wanted to be used like disgusting whore and then left behind.

He giggled.

"You really have no fear. You have no sense of pain. You exist in your own world, constructed entirely of the peculiar pleasures of your demented imagination. You are outside of humanity."

"Mankind are insects," he sneered. "Hold a magnifying glass to then sun and watch them squirm."

"Poetic." A deep chuckle. "You aren't well-respected, are you? Your... proclivities are a bit... unusual. You've seen how this gas affects a normal person. I need to use you. Make this more potent. Make it a weapon. I'll give you all the victims you need. I'll make you respected. I'll give you what you want. If you can deliver for me."

He chuckled madly. "I love to watch the mind crumble at the power of fear. Rationality breaks, everything is lost, and the vermin dressed as people return to their natural state. But oops! You already read my paper. So you know."

Another chuckle. "Enjoy yourself, Crane, and serve me well. And you will be rewarded."

He smiled, feeling goofy, high. "I always get what I want."





The door opened, and that Gordon came in. Damn. A real cop.

He was carrying his mask, too. That was annoying. He closed his eyes tightly, and pretended to be asleep.

Sighing, Gordon sat down opposite him. "Tell me, Dr. Crane," he muttered, mostly to himself. "What nightmares plague the one who brings the nightmares?"

He chuckled himself to wake. "Oh, but, I only sleep to dream, my dear Lieutenant Gordon. I only sleep to dream."





if it seems like this doesn't really address nightmares... c'mon, it's all about scarecrow. ^_~






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