Ichabods and Weebles

Title: Ichabods and Weebles
Author: Dhvana
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Jonathan Crane
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damnit. No profit made, no harm intended.
Summary: Long after Crane has been exposed, Bruce finds himself in the doctor’s clutches.
A/N: A follow-up to my story In Their Element and takes place after ‘Batman Begins’ ends. Enjoy!


Ichabods and Weebles


Bruce sighed as he walked into the suite, rolling his neck and aching shoulders in an attempt to relieve some of the tension in his body. Piece by piece, he left a trail of clothes behind him as he made his way to the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to fall onto the bed and get some sleep. Actually, what he really wanted was to fall into his own bed, but that was impossible seeing as how his bed was little more than a scorched frame and a few melted springs. Instead, he had to rely on the dubious comfort of the bed offered by the Crystal Sky Hotel, and while it was a decent bed, he reluctantly conceded, it wasn’t ‘his’ bed.

For the thousandth time since moving into the hotel while Wayne Manor was being rebuilt, Bruce looked around and thought to himself, “I want to go home.”

He’d spent most of his life avoiding the place he’d nicknamed ‘the mausoleum’, but now that it had been taken from him, now that he’d spent time in it that he did not automatically associate with his parents’ deaths, he’d grown to think of it as home. He was comfortable there, a comfort that had bordered on happy during those times when he sat on the floor of the living room thinking up a solution for Batman’s latest complication, or when he and Alfred had sat talking to each other over dinner at the table in the kitchen, or when he was strolling the grounds looking at the flowers his mother had planted or the gardens that had fallen into disarray. Wayne Manor had become a place of solace, of security, and for the first time since he was a child, he considered the Manor to be a part of him, and him a part of it. He knew this feeling was mostly due to the transformations he’d made beneath the Manor, but if the part of him that was the Batman made him better understand the part of him was a Wayne, he didn’t see any problem with that.

If only the Wayne part of him didn’t have to include the billionaire playboy. Having to go from the office space he’d outfitted for keeping the Batsuit to the nightclub he’d bought to help keep up his cover and then to the hotel after dropping off whoever managed to find their way into the Ferrari on his way out of the club was a bigger pain in the ass than trying to round up all of Arkham’s remaining loose inmates combined. The whole process of pretending to be out partying all night stole hours of time he could be spending hunting--or better yet, asleep. It was another reason he couldn’t wait for the Manor to be finished. As long as he was in the city, he was expected to be seen out and about. If he was at the Manor, he could stay in and no one would comment.

Pressing the remote button to close the glittering crystal curtains, he walked into the bathroom and took a quick shower to wash the stink of the Narrows off of his skin. He lingered long enough under the hot water to forget the bruises on his back and nearly erase the pain in his left arm from when the cord on his grappling hook had snapped and he’d landed on a metal fire escape. He was definitely going to have to remember take a look at each cord tomorrow and make a note that constant use did a lot to shorten their lifespan.

Or maybe Alfred could do that, he thought with a yawn as he turned off the water. They had so many unexpected little things to take care of that they discovered every day, he sometimes wondered if they’d ever get the quirks of Batman’s gear worked out, but he knew it would never happen without Alfred. The man had the patience of a saint--and the quick tongue of a devil--and Bruce knew he would be lost without him.

But that could wait. Right now, bed.

Bruce quickly dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist as he walked back into the bedroom. Catching sight of the open windows, he paused. He thought he’d shut the curtains.

No, he knew he’d shut the curtains.

Before he could react, he felt a puff of air in front of his face, the scent of something sweet filling his nose. The floor began sliding out from under him and though he tried to fight it, the darkness quickly overtook him.


A constant muttering almost beyond his hearing, but not quite, disrupted Bruce’s sleep. It was like a bee that was buzzing a few inches from his ear and all he wanted to do was brush it away so he could go back to sleep, but when he tried to move his hand, his hand resisted. He tried moving his other hand, but it also resisted. His legs wouldn’t cooperate either. He tried opening his eyes, but his eyelids felt as if they had ten pound weights connected to them.

Too much effort, he thought, and though he knew he should be more concerned, he couldn’t find the energy for it and drifted back into unconsciousness.


The muttering was back.

This time, however, he could open his eyes and did so. He stared up at a ceiling of warped gray boards, the same graying wood appearing on the walls around him and presumably on the floor as well, though he couldn’t tell from his vantage point. Feeble light leaked through two windows that had been carelessly covered in boards and a single bulb swung overhead casting uneven shadows that lengthened and shortened with each swing. Cobwebs gathered dust in the corners and the air smelled musty and unused. Wherever he was, it was clearly a place not often inhabited by people and, as far as he could tell, he was alone with only the source of the muttering for company.

As quietly as he could, Bruce pushed himself up, the material sinking beneath his hands. He looked down to see he was lying on a bed. Naked, on a bed, except for the hotel towel still around his waist and the manacles around his wrists and ankles connected to chains connected to the bedposts, leaving only enough leeway for him to move around on the bed but no further.

Oh fuck.

The muttering rose in pitch and his eyes shot to the man sitting on a wooden crate in the corner. He was talking to himself, rocking back and forth with his arms wrapped tight around his body. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Despite the excited pitch and the maniacal edge, he recognized that voice.

“Crane?”

The muttering broke long enough for him to say, “Jonathan, Bruce. I thought we agreed it was Jonathan,” and then the muttering returned.

Wonderful. He was being held captive by a homicidal madman, the same madman he’d been trying to hunt down for days now. He hadn’t even been able to find a clue as to whether or not Crane was alive, though that question was now answered. Crane had been found, and he was without any sort of protection--the Batsuit, a stun gun, underwear.

He never should have slept with the man. It had been a terrible mistake--it was unprofessional, it made him vulnerable, and it didn’t help when he’d discovered that Crane was a criminal trying to poison the entire city. But maybe he could use that mistake now.

“Jonathan,” he said, and the muttering stopped.

“Yes, Bruce?”

“Jonathan, what am I doing here?”

The doctor peered over his shoulder at him, brown hair grown long and tangled, face streaked with cuts, and his eyes--those magnificent blue eyes that had been partially responsible for Bruce’s downfall the first time around--he now shuddered at the expression in those eyes. Crane had been broken by the Batman, and it was never more evident than by the desperate malevolent gleam in his eyes.

If Crane hadn’t had a hand in trying to kill everyone he loved and destroying his city, he might have felt sorry for him.

“Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan.” The madman slowly rose to his feet. “But maybe I’m not Jonathan. Maybe you should call me Ichabod, Ichabod Crane. I’ve lost my head, you see, just like Ichabod.” Crane chuckled, the sound growing into a laugh that echoed through the room.

“Jonathan--”

“But it wasn’t a horseman, oh no. Not a man on a horse. It was a Batman, a man who is a bat. He’s the one who stole my head. If I ask nice, do you think he’ll give it back? I don’t know what I’ll do without my head. Do you know why he wanted my head? He has a head of his own--dark, menacing, grotesque. I can see it watching me, those eyes searching for me.” The unbalanced humor faded from his face and he ran to the windows and peering between the cracks. “The Batman’s coming for me. I can feel his wings brushing my cheeks, I can smell his rancid breath in my nose. His hands--” Crane stopped in the middle of the room and stared at his arms. “--his hands crush my wrists. The bruises are still here. They hurt, they throb like his fingers are still digging into my skin. The Batman has my head but he left his fingers behind.”

“Jonathan!” Bruce said sharply. Crane’s head jolted upwards and his eyes shot to his captive.

“Ichabod, Bruce. I thought we agreed it was Ichabod.”

“It’s Jonathan. You’re Jonathan Crane.”

“Am I? I don’t think so, not anymore.”

Bruce found it extremely difficult to argue with Crane about that, but he had to keep the man focused.

“Yes, you are. You’re Jonathan Crane. And you know who I am?”

“Of course I know who you are,” he scoffed, looking at him with contempt. “You’re a fake, Bruce, as false as the rest of us, hiding behind a mask of your choosing, except I didn’t get to choose this mask. This mask chose me and now I can’t escape.”

“Why am I here, Jonathan? Did you bring me here to help you?”

“Do you think you can help me?” Crane asked, his voice dark as he approached the bed. Trying to appear calm, Bruce watched the man with growing anxiety. He couldn’t recognize the look in Crane’s eyes--it was something totally unfamiliar to him, and that made him nervous.

“What do you think you can do for me?”

“I’ll do anything I can to help. There must be something,” he said, thinking that if Crane got any closer, he might be able to subdue him.

“Like what, Bruce?” the doctor asked, his tone deepening, softening as he reached the edge of the mattress. “What can you do?”

“I’m a wealthy man, Jonathan. Wayne Industries has the research capabilities to help find you a cure.”

“A cure?” Crane interrupted with a laugh and moved away from the bed. “You can’t cure me, and do you know why? I’m not like you anymore. You’re a Weeble, Bruce, and you know what they say about Weebles, don’t you? Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. I’m not a Weeble, Bruce. I’ve fallen and I’ve fallen and I’ve fallen--”

“Jonathan, that’s not true. I can see you; you’re still standing. You haven’t fallen, not yet.”

“Don’t try and placate me!” Crane shouted, the sudden anger causing Bruce to jump and scoot a little closer to the headboard and a little further from the doctor. “I’m smarter than you,” he hissed as he ran over to the bed, blue eyes whirling madly in his head and he shouted, “I will not be manipulated!”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you,” he said quickly. “I just want you to get better. You must know that. It’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”

But Crane had already moved on. “They’re always trying to manipulate me. HE manipulated me. He said it would be more money than I could dream of. He said I’d be able to fund my research, have all the test subjects I wanted. He didn’t say I’d be one of them. He didn’t say it was for real.”

“You had to have known you couldn’t trust him,” Bruce said, unable to keep the harshness from his voice. He had no sympathy for Crane where Ra’s was concerned, despite the fact that he, too, had once been a willing victim of the man’s manipulations.

“He offered me greatness. That was all that mattered.”

“But at what expense?” Bruce demanded. “Even if you didn’t kill everyone in the city, what about the people you tortured in the name of your research?”

“I WAS GOING TO SAVE THE WORLD!” Crane bellowed, his face raised to the sky, his fists clenched at his sides. “Why can’t you understand that?” He turned flashing eyes on Bruce. “Because you’re a Weeble, that’s why. You’re just like the rest of them, you don’t understand the thrill of falling, and I’m an Ichabod. I’m better without a head.”

Bruce sighed. This was getting them nowhere, and it certainly wasn’t getting him any closer to escape. “Jonathan, please, let me help you,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice, but Crane just laughed, shaking his head.

“There’s no help, Bruce. Not for you, not for me, no help no help no help.”

“That’s not true!” he said, cutting off the repetitions. “They’ve developed a cure for those who were affected by the gas. Maybe it isn’t too late.”

Crane threw his hands up in the air. “Why do you keep talking about a cure? I had a cure--I’m not an idiot, Bruce. What sort of genius develops a mind-altering drug and doesn’t develop a cure? I can tell you now--not a genius. I, however, am a genius. I had a cure--all I lacked was time. There is no time. There’s never any time!” he shouted.

“Jonathan,” he said softly, “Jonathan, please, you have to let them try. Let me try.”

Something in his tone must have gotten through because for the first time since Bruce had woken up, Crane looked at him with clear eyes.

“Do you remember that night together, Bruce?”

Swallowing hard, he nodded, wondering where this was going.

“And I’ll bet you’re thinking right now it was the biggest mistake of your life,” Crane said with a wry smile.

Not knowing if there was a correct answer, he answered truthfully. “Yes.”

The smile softened. “I don’t,” he said gently, wistfully as he once more approached the bed. “I don’t think it was a mistake at all. For days after, I could feel you on my skin, smell you in the air, taste you on my lips. I carried you with me for as long as I could, and then you faded away.”

Crane reached out to stroke two fingertips across his cheek and Bruce didn’t try to pull away, held hypnotized by Crane’s voice, by the blue of his eyes.

“Did I fade with you, Bruce, or was I gone the instant I walked out of the door?”

“No,” Bruce croaked, then swallowed, moistening his throat. “No,” he repeated, his voice a little more solid. “It was more than an instant.”

It was days.

“We were good together, weren’t we? It was only a night, nothing more, but we were good. Do you ever wish we could have been more?”

Bruce shook his head. “No,” he answered sadly. “More would have ruined it.”

“You’re right, of course.” Crane withdrew his hand. “But I had to ask, you understand, just in case.” He tossed a key on the towel stretched out between Bruce’s legs. “I have to go now. He doesn’t like you. He’ll kill you if he finds you here.”

“He?”

“Ichabod,” Crane said, the madness seeping back into his eyes. “The headless one. The Scarecrow.” He took a step away from the bed and looked at Bruce, his eyes clearing once more.

“I should have kept you,” he said softly. “I should have kept you, sucked you, straddled you, buried you so deep in me you didn’t know where you ended and I began, riding you until we both came so hard we forgot our own names--” Bruce drew in a sharp breath, unable any longer to suppress the sudden warmth in his veins. “--fucking until we redefined the meaning of the word, fucking until fucking became the only thing we knew how to do and we existed only for each other, for our kisses, for our touch, for the slide of your body against mine, mine against yours, our skin covered in nothing but our sweat and our seed and the heat of our lust until we became so lost in each other we existed only in a world of sex and passion and desire.” Crane tilted his head and shrugged, smiling at the tent in Bruce’s towel. “Too bad. Maybe next time.”

“Jonathan!” Bruce called out as Crane turned away and before he knew what he was doing, he picked up the key and tossed it on the floor beyond his reach.

Crane stared at the key on the floor then turned to look at Bruce. He knew his face was flushed, his skin filled with heat and need from Crane’s words, he knew this was a mistake, but that knowledge couldn’t defeat the fact that he wanted to feel Crane’s body wrapped around him and to be the focus of those blue eyes when he came.

Crane saw what Bruce wanted and didn’t need a second invitation. He pounced on his captive, their lips clashing together as they both tore at the doctor’s clothes, needing to feel skin on skin as quickly as possible. Lips were smashed against each other, teeth crashed as Bruce’s tongue demanded entrance and molested Crane’s mouth.

The doctor gasped, sitting back when Bruce’s vicious kiss managed to draw blood. He lifted a finger to the cut on his lip and drew it back, staring at the red staining his fingertip. Bruce leaned forward and took the finger in his mouth, sucking the blood from the skin, and Crane slowly pulled his finger from between Bruce’s lips.

“You like my pain, don’t you?” he asked with a slightly wicked smile.

“It feeds my own,” Bruce said, and the attack began again.

The final piece of clothing was ripped from Crane’s body and the towel had been long since removed. Bruce barely had time to register that the smooth ivory skin he so fondly remembered from before was now covered in hues of red and black and blue from various bruises and cuts before Crane was sitting ready with Bruce’s cock at his entrance.

“Jonathan!” he tried to protest but the good doctor just smiled and thrust himself down onto Bruce’s erection. They both cried out, him from the exquisite pleasure, Crane from the overwhelming pain, but the man didn’t wait to adjust to Bruce’s invasion. Instead, he did exactly as he promised, burying Bruce so deep neither could tell where one began and the other ended, and he began to move.

“No time,” he whispered, his body sliding up and down on Bruce’s cock. “No time no time no time.”

Bruce grabbed the doctor and pulled him forward into a kiss, putting a stop to the insane mutterings. “There’s time enough,” he said into Crane’s mouth, lowering his hands to the pale waist and slowing his frantic movements. Their eyes met and held as he guided Crane’s body in a steady rhythm on top of him, Bruce using the emotion in those eyes to adjust as needed until he finally hit the spot that made those eyes light up. Crane’s cry of pleasure filled the room and Bruce released his hips, freeing his body to move as much as or as little as he wanted.

Crane moved slowly at first, their eyes never parting until Bruce wrapped a hand around Crane’s aching cock. Only then did the blue eyes close, the swollen pink lips parting with pleasure, and the pale body increased its pace. He rode Bruce with a frenetic energy born from madness and lust, the thrust of their bodies building the excited tension that burned in their veins. The pressure growing inside them escalated until they both came so hard the force of it nearly tore them apart.

Panting heavily, Bruce held Crane’s body against his own, his hands running soothingly up and down the trembling back.

“Don’t go,” he whispered. “Don’t go. Stay with me, Jonathan.”

“You can’t hold me forever, Bruce,” he said, his head resting on a broad shoulder. “I’m not the only one here anymore.”

“Let me save you from him.”

But Crane didn’t answer. He raised his head and gave Bruce a tender kiss, then slid off the bed. He dressed in his tattered clothes without saying a word, Bruce watching his every movement. When he was finished, Crane picked up the key and held it in his hand, then looked at Bruce with melancholy in his blue eyes.

“You would have been safe, you know. Your water comes from a well.”

He threw the key at Bruce, who caught it in one hand, but by the time he was able to free himself, Crane was gone.

Bruce jumped off the bed and ripped the rotting planks of wood from one of the windows. He peered out into the street searching for any sign of the man, but the doctor had vanished. The Bat cursed vigorously, furious that that he’d been so close and Crane had still gotten away, but Bruce found his feelings were not so clear. He wanted Crane, that much was obvious, but he also wanted to save him, to protect him, to know just how fragile the divide was between the doctor and the Scarecrow.

And Crane. . . Crane knew where his water came from.


[October 30, 2005]