Good Help

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: I don't own Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Crane, Harvey Dent, or any other DC-related characters. I don't even own this story idea as it was all Sbbo's fault. She thought that secretary kink would be fun. She probably didn't know it would hijack my life. Or did she?

"Good Help"

The wind caressed his face, lifting strands of hair up before depositing them back into the expensive hairstyle he’d splurged on that week. Bruce Wayne barely noticed the breeze coming through the window to his spacious office as he shifted in his leather executive’s chair.

He wasn’t sleeping, not yet, but he would be soon if Harvey Dent didn’t stop babbling. He liked the District Attorney, hell, they’d roomed together in college, but the man had an entirely too soothing voice for a warm Monday afternoon. Especially since Batman had been out all night hunting down a pencil-thin former reporter calling himself the Riddler.

Bruce scowled. The little bastard had irritated the hell out of him, with his damn rhymes and puzzles. Most irritating of all was the fact that he’d managed to escape from Batman’s clutches.

“The press has been eating this idea up, Bruce, and I think that Wayne Enterprise would really set the example for the rest of the companies in Gotham City,” Harvey continued, his voice sounding small over the phone that Bruce held half-heartedly to his ear.

Bruce dozed off for a bit, fantasizing about locking the Riddler up in one of his own puzzle boxes and laughing it up as he tried to get out.

“…Crane’s the most obvious choice, of course, his behavior in the asylum has been exemplary and he’s a public face…”

That got Bruce’s attention. He leaned forward suddenly, groaning as his elbow hit the desk. “Wait, what? What did you say about the Scarecrow?”

“Jonathan Crane, Bruce, honestly, how can we saw that we want to help these people if we can’t even call them by their real names?”

“Fine, what did you say about Jonathan Crane?” Bruce rubbed his throbbing elbow hard, wishing that he’d thought to call in sick to work today.

“Bruce, have you even been listening to me?” Harvey scolded, the complaint familiar. Harvey had always needed way too much attention. Bruce wondered if that was why their brief relationship hadn’t worked out.

“I’m sorry, Harv, I just had a late night.” Bruce slipped into the casual flirty voice that befitted a rich playboy. Harvey had never been able to resist it. “What are you talking about again?”

Harvey sighed. “The Gotham City Council is starting a rehabilitation working program for the patients at Arkham. Get them some outside experience again, something beyond those padded walls, you know?”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“The Council thinks, and I agree, that Wayne Enterprise should be the first to take part in the program. Your company is the standard by which all the others judge themselves. If you help, then everybody will, period.”

Bruce winced and asked the question he dreaded the most. “And what’s that got to do with Crane again?”

“Well, I hear that you need a secretary.”

A long pause.

“You must be joking.”

“The doctors at the asylum say that as long as he takes his medication, he’s perfectly capable of functioning normally in a controlled environment. You’ll have armed guards crawling all over the building to make sure that he doesn’t try anything. It’ll be completely safe.”

“No.”

“He says that he’s an excellent typist.”

“No.”

“I think he has a great phone voice.”

“No!”

“Okay, I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me no choice. Remember that time in Madrid that I swore I’d never bring up again?”

An even longer pause than before.

“One day.”

“One month.”

“Forget it!”

“And that time in the Bahamas?”

“One week and that’s all, Harvey, I swear.”

“Deal.”

“I’m going to make you regret this, you two-faced son of a bitch.”

“Love you too, Bruce. Don’t be a stranger now, call me!”

A click and then the harsh buzz of the phone filled his ears. Bruce placed it back on the cradle and slowly slid his head onto his desk.

One whole week of having to deal with the Scarecrow, skinny, devious, and gorgeous as fuck.

Suddenly Bruce wished he’d just let the Riddler crush him with that giant pen.

* * *

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Bruce stared in shock at the former head doctor in front of him.

Jonathan Crane shrugged lightly in his straightjacket, his smile wide and disarming. He seemed like he was in a much better mood than the last time that Batman had seen him. Plus he didn’t have a scythe handy.

“They tell me that I can’t wear a tie or a belt, so I thought that this might be an acceptable substitute.” The doctor’s voice was liquid and smooth, his eyes wide and innocent behind his patched-up glasses.

“You thought wrong. This is an office, not a mental institution. You can’t wear a straightjacket while you’re answering the phone!”

“You’d be surprised what I can do in this. I’ve had lots of time to explore.” Jonathan blinked slowly, suggestively. “But I can see where it would be cumbersome.”

He turned around, displaying the straps on his back and his hands bound underneath. He looked over his shoulder at Bruce, expectantly.

“Come on then, Mr. Wayne,” Jonathan urged, the expression on his face an open invitation. “I can’t get out of this thing on my own.”

Bruce stared at the lean body in front of him, trapped so helplessly under all those straps and cloth, and wondered how he was ever going to survive this week.

* * *

“I don’t think that it’s entirely usual for a secretary to do his work in his boss’s office.” Jonathan’s voice caressed the word “boss,” turning it into something lurid and perverse.

“Well, it’s not entirely usual for me to hire a psycho to make my coffee.” Bruce paused in the midst of pulling the secretary’s desk into his office.

“You’re not going to make my coffee, by the way.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Jonathan grinned beatifically at him.

He stared at the doctor, who was sitting calmly on the couch. Bruce had been forced to let him keep the straightjacket on with the hands untied when he’d discovered that Crane wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath it. It was sick how good the man looked in something that so closely resembled a potato sack.

“I don’t care if you do anything today as long as you don’t do anything.” Bruce finally put the secretary’s desk where he wanted it with a loud grunt. He walked around his massive desk and settled into his favorite leather chair.

Jonathan stood up, his movements graceful as he took a seat behind the smaller desk. “But I want to do something. I want to contribute to the greater good of society.”

Bruce snorted.

“Can’t I at least suck your dick?”

“What?” Bruce was out of his seat and practically buried in the wall behind him.

Jonathan stared at him quizzically, those luminous blue eyes drawing him in. “I said, can’t I at least see your schedule? I want to know what you’re doing today.”

“That’s not what you said!” Bruce accused, sliding slowly back down into his chair.

“Really, what did I say?” The doctor appeared confused, his forehead wrinkling up in a way that was undeniably adorable. “The drugs make me feel a bit odd, I admit, so I may say some strange things. I hope that you’ll forgive me.”

“Think nothing of it,” Bruce said through gritted teeth. He tossed a stack of papers to Jonathan.

“Sort those and see if there are any duplicates.”

“You got it, boss.”

* * *

Asking Crane to file was the worst idea that Bruce had had all day. He watched, mesmerized as that wiry body stretched and bent and otherwise aroused the hell out of him as Jonathan went through the massive file cabinets lining the wall opposite Bruce’s desk. At the moment Jonathan was leaning over, shifting through some folders, his firm ass clearly telling Bruce to come over and grab it.

Bruce closed his eyes and reminded himself that sexual harassment was against the law, even if the victim had been literally begging for it. Medication his ass. No medication caused a man to make such descriptive and colorful suggestions.

His personal mantra of the day had slowly changed from ‘You don’t want to fuck Dr. Crane’ to a less soothing ‘Oh God, you do want to fuck Dr. Crane, but you can’t because he’s insane and a criminal and you’re the damned Batman but did you see what he’s doing with his tongue?’.

A frustrated sigh opened his eyes. Jonathan was now leaning with his back against a huge file cabinet, one long finger propping his broken glasses up on his nose as he peered at some papers. He was biting his full bottom lip slightly as he shifted through the documents. Bruce was forced to do some shifting of his own.

“Something wrong?”

Those radiant eyes flicked over to Bruce in surprise. Jonathan sighed again, a heavy and beguiling sound.

“I think that these papers should be stapled together as they are all from the same business merger.”

“So staple them.”

“I can’t.” Jonathan blushed prettily in embarrassment. “I’m not allowed to use the stapler.”

“What, they think you’re going to staple me to death?”

Jonathan tilted his head and shrugged those slender shoulders in a smooth helpless gesture. Bruce let out a sigh of his own.

“Come here.” Bruce waved his enormous stapler at the doctor. It was a Japanese import.

Asking Jonathan to move closer to him was definitely a mistake, but Bruce did his best not to drool over the man’s graceful gait, those long limbs swaying loosely as he went. It was an attempt that fell apart completely when Jonathan came around Bruce’s desk instead of approaching the front. He handed Bruce the papers and settled himself against the hard mahogany wood that had cost Wayne Enterprise a small fortune. This put his lower half entirely too close to Bruce’s face for comfort, especially since it was obvious that the doctor was experiencing another unusual side-effect from his medication.

“There.” Bruce used his fancy imported stapler with some proud flourish and held out the newly joined documents, his best casual smirk firmly in place.

A smirk that was demolished when Jonathan reached out, letting his long fingers trail across Bruce’s knuckles before he gripped the paper. His eyes were bright and heated as he murmured a quiet, “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, you little shit,” Bruce growled, giving up. He grabbed the lean hips that were practically touching his right arm and yanked the doctor in front of him, trapping Jonathan between the desk and Bruce. He pulled at the collar that topped Crane’s straightjacket until they were face to face, one glowering while the other beamed.

“I know what you’re trying to do, you sick bastard. I’m not an idiot.” Bruce ignored how Jonathan shivered under his hands and schooled his voice into being Batman firm.

“I’m just trying to be a good citizen,” Jonathan protested, shifting his legs until he was practically straddling Bruce’s knees. Bruce snarled, jerking him down so that Jonathan was fully seated on his lap. A slight shift and then Jonathan could feel the full benefit of his teasing under his ass, hard and pulsing even under all that material.

“You just want me to fuck you into the ground, admit it.” Bruce thrust up once, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. Jonathan moaned, letting his dark hair fall in front of his face. That was unacceptable so Bruce reached up, winding his fingers in that silken mess and pulled back, exposing a long pale neck and wide eyes.

“I’m only here to serve,” Jonathan said, moving down onto the cock trapped beneath him. He paused, a sly expression on his face that was totally at odds with his current position.

“Sir.”

With a heavy breath Bruce finally captured those lips with his own, biting and licking until Crane was squirming in a most delightful way on top of his throbbing cock. Bruce wondered why he’d never tried this on the criminal before. It left the man completely incapacitated and was much more satisfying than just punching him. He wondered momentarily if it would work on the Riddler before Jonathan did something so clever with his tongue that Bruce was left completely unable to think at all.

A loud clearing of the throat brought Bruce harshly back to himself. He jerked away from Jonathan with a gasp, ignoring the doctor’s soft noises of protest and looked around him to the door of his office.

Of course Lucius Fox was standing there. That was the kind of life that Bruce had.

“I hate to interrupt your meeting, Bruce, but it’s time for Dr. Crane to get back to Arkham.” The vague amusement in Fox’s voice was completely unwelcome. Bruce wished briefly that he could fire the man and not feel guilty over it. And still be able to run his company.

“Oh, quitting time already? Time flies when you’re keeping busy,” Jonathan said happily, still straddling Bruce’s lap as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

A million excuses ran through Bruce’s head at that moment, most of them spectacularly bad and some downright impossible, but finally he just pushed his chair back to allow the doctor to climb off of him. Bruce thought it would be a bad idea for him to stand up at that particular moment so he merely nodded to Fox from his seat.

“Of course.” Bruce coughed and glanced up at Jonathan, who was looking very disheveled and entirely too satisfied. “Thank you for your help.”

“It was my pleasure,” Jonathan said, straightening his crooked glasses. He walked calmly over to where Lucius was still standing and turned around at the last minute.

“I hope we’ll get more accomplished tomorrow, boss.” With that Jonathan nodded winningly at Fox and allowed himself to be escorted out by the smirking CEO.

As soon as the two left, Bruce let his head slide once more facedown onto his desk. After a moment he began to lift it up before dropping it again on the hard wood, repeating the motion slowly. It was little comfort.

This was going to be a very, very long week.

* * *

Dr. Jonathan Crane walked sedately into the maximum security hall of Arkham Asylum, flanked on both sides by enormous guards. He wore a coolly smug expression on his face as he approached his cell, ignoring the excited catcalls of his fellow inmates. Finally he was deposited back into his padded room, sans straightjacket for the first time in weeks. Apparently the board was pleased with his behavior in the real world today.

He slid slowly onto the ground of his cell, a haughty grin still spread across his lips.

“So, Scary, what’s the verdict?” The voice came from the cell on his right and belonged to the psychopathic alter ego of Arnold Wesker. The Ventriloquist, as Arnold was called in the newspapers, had been forced to turn a toilet paper roll into his puppet criminal mastermind as Scarface had been placed into permanent storage. Crane thought that it was a fitting substitute.

“Yes, please do share. Kept secrets make poor friends.” This came from his left and was the overly cheery voice of the Mad Hatter, his last partner-in-crime. The Scarecrow secretly felt that it was the Hatter’s fault that they’d been captured, due to the man’s obsession with stealing movies about Alice in Wonderland, but he was too polite to say so.

“I believe that everyone owes me $20.” Crane leaned his head against a soft wall, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

“That’s bullshit, Crane! I don’t believe you for a moment!” The voice was from the cell directly across from his, sounding shrill when the usual was seductive.

“I’m sorry, Ivy, but I said that you simply weren’t his type. Mr. Wayne definitely prefers brunets.” The Scarecrow paused, considering. “And penises.”

“I want to see some proof before I give you a dime!” Poison Ivy shouted and several of the other patients agreed.

The Scarecrow frowned, his hand midway down towards his neglected cock. Uncivilized barbarians.

“If you insist. I’ll bring you proof of Mr. Wayne’s affections for me,” he said after a moment.

There was some more grumbling, especially from the cell in front of him, but finally his fellow criminals fell silent in acquiescence.

The Scarecrow breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his delicious fantasies of Bruce Wayne holding him roughly against that hard body, whispering dirty promises that no empty-headed playboy should think of. The billionaire was more of a puzzle than the Scarecrow’s cohorts, interested in the man for his enormous wealth, gave him credit for. He was a puzzle that the Scarecrow knew he’d be able to solve if given enough time.

It was going to be a wonderful week. He was so glad that Two-Face had thought up this little scheme. He would really have to think of some way to thank the crooked District Attorney.

Well, he was a smart man. He’d figure something out.