Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne was a practiced hand at the social game, if not a master.
Not only was his profile as one of the (publicly) richest men on earth stellar, but he was absolutely gorgeous if the tabloids were anything to go by. He had turned 27 three months ago and looked like almost a trillion dollars. His face was absolutely sculpted by the gods and a little softer than most men his age, youthful but not boyish.
He had been called a 'Twunk' in a popular rag recently, and he didn't know how to feel about it.
He wore his hair a little longer than one would expect of a businessman, with obsidian bangs almost reaching his eye level and a lustrous feathered locks almost reaching his collar.
Tonight, the collar was that of a close fit double breasted Dormeuil Vanquish II suit which perfectly boasted the tight waist of a figure skater in coal black.
The light grey shirt beneath it was made of a highly advanced and unique fabric which was as good as bulletproof. He had spent more than a few early mornings after patrol perfecting the formula, and the results were truly satisfactory.
The event was one of his own creation, designed a for a very specific purpose. It was a book auction, where several old dusty tomes from the extensive Wayne manor library would be donated and the proceeds would be donated to charity. It was typical in every regard, meaning that it was full of people, regardless of whether or not they actually care about the event itself. It was 8:08 pm. The final auction had just completed, with the final book being bought by Bruce himself for 20 million dollars.
The room went wild, everyone was enjoying the moment, a sea of manicured faces and wildly expensive clothes rolling in smiles and laughs.
Everyone except for the man in his mid 20s wearing a well fitting but otherwise unimpressive brown suit with a green sweater vest and an ivory shirt. The silk tie was multicolor paisley, but the pattern was so fine that it meshed into a queasy violet from more than a few feet away.
Bruce couldn't see his shoes, but he assumed his dress socks would be ivory or dark brown and that his brown oxfords would be less than one hundred dollars in cost.
He wasn't exactly menacing, he was very tall but so narrow that any chance of being imposing was destroyed. He had boyish features and long hay-blond hair with bangs parted in the middle and long enough to touch his shoulders in the back. It seemed so light and thin that it was forming a yellow cloud around the sides and back of his head.
His skin was deathly pale, and covered in yellow freckles. His eyes were large with milk chocolate brown irises and the soft octagonal glasses he wore made them look even larger. Their outer corners were slightly lower than the inner corners, an effect which was exaggerated when he was viewed from a low angle. This gave him slight Eeyore sad eyes which the thin lipped frown didn't help.
In general, he looked a little sad and a little hungry. During the whole span of the auction he'd bid on a book only to be immediately pushed out of his, rather low, price range. He bid and got outbid, he stewed and frowned, but ultimately did nothing.
He didn't just look like he was going to do nothing by choice, it looked like it was all he could manage. He was so impotently upset, so timid, so helpless. He was so thin it looked like you could just tuck him up under your arm, walk away and he'd barely put up a fight.
But this was the right man.
This was the man who'd been attacking high profile parties across Gotham for months.
The brilliant scientist with a unique mastery of neurochemistry.
The Terrorist forcing people into psychotic states of delirium so severe they nearly kill each other and themselves.
A symbol of Fear, the man who could hide from the Batman.
The man who looked like he was about to cry into his red wine.
The Scarecrow.
Or rather, Jonathan Crane, at least for tonight.
Three weeks ago, Bruce Wayne was at a private party hosted by the daughter of one of his father's friends, another old-money member of the Gotham gentry.
This party was unremarkable until the audio system took a life of its own and played the noise of a woman screaming at an almost-painful volume before gas grenades began smashing through the windows. Orange gas shot from the grenades from dozens of tiny holes littering their surface, and in the span of 5 seconds, all hell had broken loose.
Even Bruce, almost immediately putting on the filter mask he kept in his jacket, suffered extreme effects. The people around him were panicking from the scream and the gas, but running solely on their endogenous adrenaline for now.
The scream cut off and a horrible voice replaced it. It sounded like the voice of a mummy crawling out of its tomb, so horrible and dry and rough and rotted that it was sickening.
"What is it, exactly, that the elite fear? What do YOU fear? I'm sure you all have different fears, you're all different people. I wonder if it's being trampled? Perhaps that bolt-from-the-blue heart attack? Sweetheart's knife in your back? Oh, do tell, good, kind people..."
The doors weren't locked, and indeed a few people had already scrambled out of the room, but it had already been 10 seconds since the Scarecrow began speaking, sounding so pleased he was practically purring out the words if Bruce could read the tone beneath the heavy voice modulation correctly.
The screams around him changed in character, becoming wild and primal as people began to react. These people who've known each other for years, some all their lives, began to attack one another. Some rolled into balls, some grabbed their heads and doubled over screeching, Bruce was always the pinnacle of focus, but he had to very strongly suppress the panic rising in his mind.
It was devolving in seconds, he couldn't move. People were mutating before his very eyes, turning into horrible blood soaked burned things which tore each other apart.
He stepped back and centered his mind, righting himself by sheer force of will.
The good news was that everyone was still human and not torn apart. The bad news was that he was most definitely hallucinating.
He groped through the crowd, dodging blows mindlessly through muscle memory as he headed for the door. As he passed them, he could see the skin flaying off their bodies. He could see his parents in every tiny gap in the crowd, his mother staggering out of view with two holes in her gut and his father falling backwards with three in his chest.
He didn't know what was happening, he didn't know where he was. He didn't know why one second, a man's brains were being bashed out and the next, he was simply laying on the floor crying. He watched the flesh of his hands dissolve as he grabbed the door handle with both.
He stepped through and breathed deeply through the respirator. Some deeply trained instinct banged a gong in the back of his mind and he realized he could force a thought together with great effort.
I AM BATMAN
He turned back towards the door with infinite aplomb, pushing on the handle. it fell into a hole and the doorway seemed to lead to a giant tunnel of bleeding flesh, gargoyles flying down its length to kill him.
An unknown amount of time later, he realized that he was somehow no longer near or around the door, and that he was actually leaving the luxury condo building. He watched his body sprint towards the car at speeds Bruce Wayne should definitely not be seen moving. He nearly ripped the back door off as he threw himself in and slammed it behind him. "Sir?" Came from the front seat, laced with concern.
Bruce slapped his hands to his eyes, determined not to let Alfred be twisted by the poison he inhaled. "GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" The voice was Batman's, but not as forceful as it was supposed to be. This tripled the concern in the driver, who sped away.
During the drive, Bruce was able to focus long enough to take the pen out of his jacket. He pulled it apart, a seam revealing a small needle in the upper half of the pen. He pressed it to his jugular and clicked the end, blood filling the tiny internal vial. He pulled at an invisible panel in the door and removed it, putting the tiny vial into the round glowing receptacle that was revealed. The analysis had already begun, all he had to do was survive the drive home.
As it turns out, fear toxin has a lifespan in the body of about 30 minutes, and breaks down almost immediately after. However, temperature greatly affects this process, which means that in the winter air of January, trace amounts of the stuff could survive in the air for a few hours.
THIS, of course meant it could travel a significant enough distance to be detected by a drone flying high enough not to be noticed. Microdrones flitted around Gotham silently, mechanically sniffing for the Toxin. They'd get a single hit in an area, then nowhere to follow it to. Or they'd find a trace leading all the way down a street only to vanish seemingly for no reason.
It took a lot of time, but eventually Batman had created a map of toxin traces across Gotham. One of the favorite areas was a run-down but otherwise livable apartment building in old town. In fact, the building was less than three blocks from the so called 'Crime alley'.
The residents of the building were quickly filtered through until one 'Jonathan Crane' was found to be living on the top floor, actually in the roof which had only been renovated to be livable a decade ago. He was 25, having completed a dual major in psychology and biochemistry and was currently a PhD candidate at Gotham university. A dead ringer for Scarecrow, especially since the next highest education in the building was the owner, who got a law degree in 1961.
When not engaged in illegal activities, He worked and studied at the university, went to used bookstores and went through about one bottle of wine per week.
While 'The Scarecrow' sipped green tea out of a thermos in the back of a Behavioural Genetics lecture, Batman slipped in through the window and searched the apartment from top to bottom. The Loft was already not very large, but was almost entirely dominated by bookshelves which formed narrow corridors throughout the space.
Unfortunately there was utterly nothing inside which could be contrived as relating to the Scarecrow. There wasn't even any microphones, and the audio played at the party was certainly of a higher quality than a phone mic.
Judging by the facts that the toxin traces were all over the city and that there was nothing even remotely relevant here, Batman deduced he had multiple locations. Probably at least 8 in order for the pattern to make sense. He sighed as he left the apartment.
While he didn't get the smoking gun, he had discovered some angles he might be able to work. In addition to bugging every piece of technology he owned and putting trackers into all of his coats and most of his pants, He installed sewing needle sized cameras into several surfaces across the loft. He now had a live feed of anywhere Crane could be inside the apartment, total omniscience of 540 square feet.
At least 30 of those square feet belonged to a large beanbag chair made of durable, thick fabric sporting a nest-like assortment of blankets covering most of its surface. It had a very lived in look to it, and there was a mini-fridge right next to it with water, wine and celery of all things. There was a bed too, which hid beneath it several sex toys and some drug paraphernalia but no illicit substances.
The event was a charity for low-income area schools, and many university faculty were invited to the auction and the dinner that happened beforehand. Fortunately, the professor who worked most closely with Crane was invited.
Unfortunately, the event was set to happen the day after he'd go to Washington to visit family for a week.
The organizer who had answered the phone assured him the seat would not go to waste. "Is there anyone else you'd want to send in your stead?"
Luckily there was! And he was an avid (or rabid) bibliophile to boot.
So here was a broke student among dozens of the rich and popular. He had 600 dollars to blow on books he didn't need and they had far, far more to blow on books they didn't care about. It was over, and rather than hang around for desserts and wine, he stood, dropped the last few sips of his wine in one and turned to leave.
Bruce had to move fast. He walked through the small tables, giving as-fast-as-possible nods and hellos to the people he passed as he closed the gap. He was 30 feet away when he watched the long skinny legs step out of the door with an eagerness seemingly borne of disgust. He caught him just in the hallway, which was empty this particular moment, quiet too.
"I haven't seen you at one of these before, are you new in Gotham?"
He spun, looking shocked and confused, and only a degree less upset once his eyes focused on Bruce's. He was about 6'8" versus his own 6'2" but now that he was actually up close Bruce could see how oddly narrow his shoulders were. That really was the word for it too, Bruce thought it likely most people who met him were thrown off not only by his extreme height, but the oddness of his proportions.
"Been, I- uh, I've been in Gotham for a few years now, I'm at G.U."
Bruce Was a charming man, and he gave Jonathan a welcoming smile. "A student, huh? That explains the price range. I saw you get snubbed for that book of anatomical studies, you looked so miffed."
Crane's eyes lit with hatred, but his mouth forgot to move.
"Don't get me wrong, just because you got outbid doesn't mean you don't deserve it. I don't think Trubridge has finished a book since 5th grade." he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, apparently to the man who bought the book.
"I'm sure you'd enjoy it more than him, tenfold. He's probably just going to put it on a shelf."
"Between '50 shades of grey' and 'chicken soup for the soul'" Crane finally said as Bruce finished speaking. His tone was flat but there was enough energy behind the delivery that it was obvious he had some remaining patience for the conversation.
Bruce didn't have to force the laugh. "Yes, that's exactly right! That's how I feel sometimes at these things, casting pearls before swine."
"That swine has enough zeroes in his bank account to buy the town I grew up in. If he's swine I don't want to know what I am."
"It's not about class, it's about taste. You're capable of appreciating a good book, is what I'm saying."
"How would you know? You haven't even met me before."
"I can tell."
"O-hoh? Please, what else can you tell, enlighten me."
Bruce gave him a performative scan up and down, looking thoughtful.
"You've got a thing for clothes, but not the money to support it. You spend a lot on books, more affordable ones, at least. You get so engrossed in them you forget to eat or maybe... You get so engrossed in writing you forget to eat. You look like a writer."
"Okay, let's see, in order that was: you're poor, you're poor, you're skinny, you're skinny. My! what a keen eye you have Mr. Wayne!"
Bruce pinched his brow apologetically, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry. I guess I just have my guard up after being blown out of the water in there. You are right, I am a writer." For the first time, Crane softened his voice, if only slightly. Bruce lit up in a way that he hoped would give Jonathan a good hit of dopamine.
"What genre?"
The taller man shifted on his feet, looking around mindlessly. "It's um, I- Well..."
"Romance, then?"
Crane shrugged slowly as if he wasn't quite sure that was correct. His cheeks were turning pink.
"Oh, Smut?" The milk chocolate eyes shot wide open and a squeak escaped their owner.
"W-No! I mean, It would, I guess romance is-"
"Hey, Hey don't worry about it, that's okay, other than writing, what are you reading right now?"
He looked like he was on the back foot, he must have gotten the urge to turn it around. "What are YOU reading right now?" Bruce smiled, answer folded neatly in the front of his mind for days now.
"Redburn."
"Melville, his best behind Dick." Bruce would have normally assumed the other man was trying to sound casual and knowledgeable if he had even the slightest dusting of pretense in his voice, but he didn't. He said 'Dick' as short for 'Moby Dick' genuinely, as if It was a normal thing to do.
"Yes, I assume you've read it? I'm at the part where he lands in Liverpool, just got there."
"My favorite part. Did you know he wrote it in less than 10 weeks?"
From there, the conversation was easy. Crane was almost a social butterfly when he was talking about books with someone (Bruce Wayne that is, as he doesn't have the same ability to blink-read a book in minutes as Batman did, and thus had to have some convincing gaps in his knowledge of literature.) almost as well read as he was. A few minutes into their dialogue, an actual smile began to form on his target's lips, which let Bruce know he was succeeding.
It was 8:34, they had walked a few dozen feet down a hallway which was labeled 'staff only' while they spoke, seeking relief from passersby leaving the event.
the next phase of the plan was ready to roll out.
"Do you want to get something to eat?" Bruce remarked, checking his watch.
"What do you mean, like go back in? I think all they have is little pastries left." discomfort, or something related to it took over Jon's face as the idea of returning was floated.
"Well, it's also pretty crowded with people who want to be seen with me, and my GOD you have no idea how tiring that is. Why don't we go to this place I know? We could continue our conversation in peace. My treat."
"Well, I don't really feel the need to eat right now, um. Maybe..." He turned away for a moment, scratching the back of his head. His face was brighter pink now than it was before. "I Really enjoyed talking to- about books with you." Bruce could tell he was trying to weasel his way towards a goodbye.
"Sometimes one does not know that they need something until they get it. Besides, I enjoy talking to you too. Please? If I don't have a good enough excuse, I'll have to go back in there..."
The ire hanging off 'in there' was thick. It seemed to be working on Him, His thin lips slightly pursed as he thought.
"Silver spoon on a silver tongue, a match made in heaven I'm sure."
A beat passed, and a sigh dropped the shoulders of the brown suit.
"Where are we going?"
"It's called Ascoli, I know the owner, I'll call him." Bruce took out his cell phone and began dialing, walking away from his target. Thankfully he could hear the sound of those $70 oxfords on the carpet behind him. Bruce paused, almost causing his pursuer to collide with his back. He turned, looking up at the man.
"I suppose this as good a time as any to remember to ask you what your name is." Bruce said with a shy grin, as if he felt silly for forgetting.
"Oh! Right, I'm Jon. I- uh. Jonathan Crane."
"Nice to meet you, Jonny." Being called 'Jonny' brought a look to his eye that was unidentifiable, but he did not protest.
Bruce hit the call button and started walking again as it rang. A heavy gray wool p-coat was retrieved from the coat rack and worn buttoned up over the brown suit, covering the queasy tie. Two rings and they were nearly at the exit, and the call was answered.
"Hello, Vito? Yes, I was wondering if I could snag a back room for dinner. Hm? Oh, excellent." Bruce turned and opened the push door with his back, making eye contact with Jon. He was following dutifully, hands held slightly in front of himself and shoulders tense, as if he was trying to make himself smaller.
"Nothing like that, just dinner with a friend. Well, Not to rush you but, how soon- Perfect! Thank you Vito, I'll see you there."
The word 'friend' seemed to alarm the tall man, but a ghost of his smile returned too.