Medicine
folder
1 through F › Constantine
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,142
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › Constantine
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,142
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the movie that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Medicine
Disclaimer: No one belongs to me.
--
He was like a dark smudge on his perfect canvas, a well-bronzed tarnish in this nauseating sea of static.
It should’ve made him nervous.
“Still hiding behind masks, Dr. Crane?” Its voice is soft. “Humans do so love their little metaphors...”
If he’d had the mind left, it probably would have.
“Crane isn’t here anymore,” he says, and the thing smiles, sweetly. Its teeth are so white it hurts.
He doesn’t even realise it’s backed him into the wall until it’s already happened.
Brown eyes seem to glitter in the flicker of fluorescent light, hand on his chest, weight stilling the flutter beneath his sternum; Scarecrow feels the bare concrete at his back with twitching fingers. Pull of straps and his body stills, almost on command, quick fingers feeling for the clasps hidden at the collar of his straightjacket, other hand holding him in place.
He couldn’t flee, even if he wanted to.
A slender specter of tanned skin and dark hair, honey-hued eyes set deep in their sockets above a line of well-crafted mouth. It called itself Balthazar. Locked up in a concrete room, he was in no position to doubt its sincerity.
He’d seen him once before, his fractured mind recalls, in the halls Arkham nearly a lifetime ago. Leaning in the doorway, dark suit a harsh contradiction to the white of hospital walls, battered silver coin rolling idly along the back of his knuckles. Eyes like hellfire.
It brought a shiver to his skin. Something Jonathan Crane had forgotten.
Scarecrow didn’t forget.
Mask falls, discarded, the recycled air cold on his face. “Table’s turned,” it says to no one in particular, fond fingers brushing through sweat-dampened hair. “From tormentor to the tormented.” His skin thrills at the touch, “Fate is certainly not without a sense of irony, wouldn’t you say dear doctor?” Fingers lift to trace along the sweep of mouth, smoothing harsh lines of scar tissue, lips parting to graze teeth across the pad of thumb.
Without thinking teeth sink into flesh, his mouth filling with the tang of blood and salt.
It smiles.
He shudders.
Lips meet brusquely and all he can taste is rust.
--
He was like a dark smudge on his perfect canvas, a well-bronzed tarnish in this nauseating sea of static.
It should’ve made him nervous.
“Still hiding behind masks, Dr. Crane?” Its voice is soft. “Humans do so love their little metaphors...”
If he’d had the mind left, it probably would have.
“Crane isn’t here anymore,” he says, and the thing smiles, sweetly. Its teeth are so white it hurts.
He doesn’t even realise it’s backed him into the wall until it’s already happened.
Brown eyes seem to glitter in the flicker of fluorescent light, hand on his chest, weight stilling the flutter beneath his sternum; Scarecrow feels the bare concrete at his back with twitching fingers. Pull of straps and his body stills, almost on command, quick fingers feeling for the clasps hidden at the collar of his straightjacket, other hand holding him in place.
He couldn’t flee, even if he wanted to.
A slender specter of tanned skin and dark hair, honey-hued eyes set deep in their sockets above a line of well-crafted mouth. It called itself Balthazar. Locked up in a concrete room, he was in no position to doubt its sincerity.
He’d seen him once before, his fractured mind recalls, in the halls Arkham nearly a lifetime ago. Leaning in the doorway, dark suit a harsh contradiction to the white of hospital walls, battered silver coin rolling idly along the back of his knuckles. Eyes like hellfire.
It brought a shiver to his skin. Something Jonathan Crane had forgotten.
Scarecrow didn’t forget.
Mask falls, discarded, the recycled air cold on his face. “Table’s turned,” it says to no one in particular, fond fingers brushing through sweat-dampened hair. “From tormentor to the tormented.” His skin thrills at the touch, “Fate is certainly not without a sense of irony, wouldn’t you say dear doctor?” Fingers lift to trace along the sweep of mouth, smoothing harsh lines of scar tissue, lips parting to graze teeth across the pad of thumb.
Without thinking teeth sink into flesh, his mouth filling with the tang of blood and salt.
It smiles.
He shudders.
Lips meet brusquely and all he can taste is rust.