(no subject)

[notmydiagnosis]

CHARACTERS: Crane and EVERYONE.
LOCATION: Crane's room
WARNINGS: Crazy
SUMMARY: Crane's door is open for all of his patients.
NOTES: I finally decided I'd throw up a log. TELL HIM YOUR PROBLEMS. PLEASE. EVERYONE.


[ Throughout the day, Crane's door is open. If you decide to walk in you'll see him with a pen and paper, waiting expectantly. He's hear to help your problems, Tranquility. He's here as a shoulder to cry on. ]

Comments

[notmydiagnosis]

[ Crane doesn't laugh, but the smile is still there as he finally pulls his gaze away from his prize and onto Tate's too-dark eyes, glancing at the other, taking him in. The scruff of blonde hair that reminds him of the 90's for some reason, but it's those lips his eyes focus on, narrowing somewhat in errant thought.

What would they look like, begging for the nightmares to stop? ]

It's airborne. It's a toxin--I had an entire section of the city at my fingertips with it. [ There's something dark in the way he says it, licking his lips, eager, on edge from just the memory. He still hasn't moved away from Tate, taking a deep breath. ]

All I need to do is built a mask into that suit you brought me, and we're going to use the oxygen garden to get to the air vents.

[heltersskelter]

Cool.

[he says, and his smile is slow, a knife slash across his pale face, spreading to crease his eyes like pooling blood.

Tate licks his lips and turns his face away from Crane without moving aside. instead, he sets the vial down, fingers reaching across the table, bypassing the poison to drag his nails over the heavy stitching.]

That suit isn't really made for this. [or for proper breathing. it was a fetish suit. it was never meant for what Tate used it for.] The mask might have to be separate, I can wear it underneath.

[notmydiagnosis]

That... [ Crane trails off only straighten his shoulders, realizing how close Tate is and that's something he can't handle, not right now, even though this is Tate. He tells himself Tate is like him, if not directly than similar, but it's still space and he still can't quite get close to anyone without hearing the cawing of crows in the distance. He clears his throat, quirking an eyebrow, taking a few more steps away. ]

Simply makes our job easier. [ He swallows, pointedly avoiding eye contact, staring at the mask. Touching it with his free hand. ]

I just need to know I can trust you, Tate. Fully.

[heltersskelter]

[Tate pulls his hand away to make room for Crane to reach for this extension of himself, and while it should have drawn Tate's gaze, instead, his attention remains fixated on the doctor's profile.

he doesn't blink.]

Of course you can trust me, doctor.

[notmydiagnosis]

No, Tate. [ Crane sounds almost sorry, wheeling around to face Tate once again. The movement is surprisingly sharp but just like that he's back to the perfectly poised, almost mechanical posture he's adapted over the years. An I don't think I can shifts in the air. ]

But I see it--in your eyes. A hunger, a thirst for something more. To make them shake to make them scream to make them pay for what they did--you feel it, too, that urge inside of you. Simmering softly like a pot of water, waiting to be filled, waiting to gain the knowledge of what it's like and what it's always been like, Tate.

[ His words are together, rushed, but his posture hasn't changed save for the furrowing of his brows, the slightly worried look he's giving the other. ]

You know this. You know this but look at you...

[heltersskelter]

[it feels like an attack.

Tate has never done well when attacked. he bristles, without moving. it's a darkening his gaze, a stilling in his face, and his eyes follow Crane like he's suddenly become prey. like Tate, at any moment, might snap and lash out.

he cracks it, on purpose. a fracture in his expression, like Tate had just had something ripped from him.]

But you just said... [he starts, not intending to finish the sentence, knowing Crane will cut him off before he gets anywhere, anyway.]

[notmydiagnosis]

[ Crane cracks.

It's the first time he has since he arrived on Tranquility and adopted his old persona again. The mild-mannered psychologist instead of the Scarecrow, prowling the streets of Gotham, peddling his wares, plotting. He opens his mouth, closing his eyes, taking a deep, long breath, brows still furrowed, and feels a tension headache coming on. Slowly, he removes his glasses, looking downwards and occupies himself with folding them. ]

I know what I just said.

[heltersskelter]

Then what are you really asking me?

[he asks, asks like he's seeking validation. like he's angry that his loyalty to this has been called into question, and his voice raises fractionally with it.]

I'm not going to tattle like a little bitch.

and then kat tl;dr'd

[notmydiagnosis]

[ Crane's barriers are down. It's not a good thing and as he pinches the bridge of his nose with his index finger and his thumb, he begins to reign it back in.

He'd gotten worried. Paranoid. Tate sees the same ugliness that Crane does. Tate is not a friend, he reminds himself--but it's difficult. It's very, very difficult. Even if Crane's never had something he could call a friend, Tate transcends that. Tate is twisted and ugly and curious and just like Crane when he was that age, only with bravado. Courage.

..That's what Crane hates the most, he realizes. He hates that Tate is in his late teens and he's confident, he's assured. Even if it's only outwardly it's still a chunk that Crane would very much like to rip out of Tate and stomp on, spit on, piss on.

Crane had never had the opportunity. Never grew up with that chance, no. Tate is ferocious, lithe, predatory. Crane pulls the strings. They both lurk in the shadows but they're different on the outside. Different.

But they're both disgusting human beings.

Crane allows himself to revel in that for a few more moments before he lifts his head back up, peering at the blonde without his glasses. ]

I know you're not. This project is a year's worth of careful research and months of planning, a lifetime's worth of imagining. I'm making sure it won't go to waste. And with you it won't.

laps it up

[heltersskelter]

[Tate doesn't look away from Crane's bowed head, his gaze only flickering once to narrow when the doctor doesn't look up. he was struggling with something, something inward that the boy couldn't touch, even though he wanted to grab a knife and split Crane down the chest so he could stick his hands into his ribs and pull out everything hidden in there so he could know what made him so conflicted. so twisted.

so familiar.

but finally, he looks up and Tate's jaw moves, a slight shake of his head like a snake refocusing. whatever rage had climbed into his expression has bled into something more manageable.]

It won't. [he coaxes, soothes.] It'll be perfect. They'll spill everything when you do this, and they won't know until it's too late.

[notmydiagnosis]

[ Crane's shaking again--but it's not from excitement. It's a light tremor, and when he looks up at Tate he's smiling. ]

I've seen this work. And this time, we don't have the Bat-Man to worry about. His family, but not him running about.

[ A lick of the lips, and there's something off--something slightly off-kilter as his gaze shifts from the canisters and Tate and he gently takes a vial and presses it against the other's palm, forcing the other's fingers closed around it. ]

That... is... pure, untamed fear. And when I'm caught--because I will, it's inevitable--I want you to keep one hidden. If you have nothing to do with this-- [ a lick of the lips ] --and you're a very good liar--we can continue.

[heltersskelter]

[Crane's hands are cool against his own, despite the flush of excitement in his face. the only thing cooler is the vial in his palm. he knows he's been trusted with something huge, in this moment, and when his fingers close around it and his gaze flicks back up to Crane's own eyes it solidifies this silent contract between them.]

Don't worry. [Tate says softly, and his smile is small. the slightest upturn at the corner of his mouth that doesn't make it to his eyes: approval, victory.] Everything will be fine.