(Hello! I saw you had Ask Games running, and I wanted to participate as my DC OC Helena :) No rush to respond, of course!)
Say on anon (or don't I ain't ur mom ) what your muse thinks of mine appearance-wise!
Helena has never really looked at others through the lens of attraction that seems to plague the typical mindset of the general public. Really, the notion is a bit uncomfortable to her, because she looks at other people the way one might a painting or a sculpture in a museum until she knows them. That is to say, she might be wont to acknowledge the aesthetic intricacies of the art piece and ponder its history- but one does not lust nor long for a painting.
Well. Perhaps in Gotham. There are many unique minds in Gotham.
On the rare occasions that Helena has seen Doctor Jonathan Crane enter the Emergency Room of Gotham General or Gotham Eastern hospital, likely attending to criminals brought in on a 96 Hour Hold by Gotham CPD who make claims of depression or insanity and specifically request the shrewd-eyed psychiatrist, she would have thought to herself that the best way to describe the man would be 'twitchy'.
He tried to hide it, of course. In today's day and age, one can never be too careful with how they present themselves, because one might never know who is watching. In the nurse's eyes, Jonathan Crane wore superiority and arrogance the way one wars a one-size-fits-all suit. It might do its job well enough, but it sags in some places and cinches in others in ways that betray how ill-fitted it really is. In the Doctor's case, it showed in the way he flicked his tongue over his lips when trying to mentally author his response to a grating demand, or the way his head would tick to one side when inconvenienced, dark curls lilting from the shift as if experiencing the burden like a smack upside the head. His pale eyes would flicker and glint with that restless agitation, thinning and widening with emphasis despite his practiced attempts at restraint.
Helena did not like arrogant men. They were plentiful despite their frequent lack of any meaningful skills or pursuits. But, Doctor Jonathan Crane had wit and knowledge to offer, and although it might not be applicable in a traditional sense- he certainly looked like the kind of man who would make interesting conversation. She'd always had an interest in psychology, after all- and his specialty was one of Gotham's three primary languages.
From this ask game. [ Answered in Batman Begins era ❴ACT I❵, where Doctor Crane is Chief Administrator of Arkham Aslyum. ]
Crane had concerns more pressing than the routine commission of perjury. There remained the matter of his participation in Ra’s al Ghul’s proposed ransom of Gotham; a conspiracy which, if exposed, would add significantly to the catalogue of charges already waiting for him. Not that the prospect troubled him overmuch. Opportunism was a dangerous practice, but one that rarely failed to yield worthwhile results.
Perhaps he was curious. Should Ra’s prove true to his word, Crane would acquire the funding necessary to continue his research without interference. Should he instead discover that he occupied the role of expendable pawn in some larger design orchestrated by the remarkably organised zealot, the potential outcomes still seemed worth the extension of trust. Or doubt. The differentiation mattered little. Besides, the results have already begun to surface. Small incidents. Unremarkable in isolation. Easy to dismiss. The compound’s introduction in Gotham’s water supply would have no effect on those who merely drank it. But shower steam proved an efficient delivery system. As did the well-meaning efforts of Narrows residents convinced that boiling their water rendered it safe. He suspected elevated rates of paranoia in certain districts. Night terrors. Irritability. Heightened anxiety. Minor deviations from baseline behaviour, scattered thinly enough to evade scrutiny.
For most, such developments would have been cause for concern of being caught. For Crane, they were incentive. Every symptom was data: how they would respond, and how long the effects might persist before anyone noticed what was underway.
Unfortunately, he found himself diverted from such pursuits by Mr. Falcone’s ongoing insistence that his associates be spared Blackgate Penitentiary and delivered instead to the comparatively comfortable care of Arkham Asylum. Apparently, Falcone’s criminals preferred psychiatric diagnoses to prison sentences. A preference Crane was routinely expected to facilitate. He had little interest in abandoning his time for research simply to satisfy Falcone’s demands. The arrangement had become tedious. Still, utility would eventually expire. Should Falcone’s usefulness eventually run its course, the arrangement seemed poised to provide Crane with an abundance of new patients.
So, here he was, amid negotiations, attending to yet another addition to Gotham’s seemingly endless population of incompetent thugs. This particular specimen had managed to get himself caught and subsequently hospitalised, which now made him Crane’s responsibility. At least temporarily.
Officially, he had been retained to evaluate the defendant. Assess him. Determine whether a sufficiently compelling case could be made for insanity. The necessary authorisations were already secured within the folder tucked beneath his arm, complete with signatures and all the ceremonial bureaucracy required to transform inconvenience into legitimacy. But documentation seldom prevents people from being difficult. Especially hospital staff.
Standing near the nurses’ station, the muscles along Crane’s jaw contracted until his teeth pressed together hard enough for the pulse beneath them to become noticeable. A familiar warning. Eventually, he relented, allowing the tension to loosen before it developed into a headache.
His attention drifted across the ward and snagged briefly upon a nurse further down the corridor. Recognition arrived in fragments. He had seen her before. One of those people who seemed perpetually present at the edge of his affairs. The type who watched, and formed opinions, and eventually mistook themselves for righteous obstacles. Like the girl at the DA’s office.
His gaze, shedding interest, slipped from her and back to the other nurse behind the counter.
"I am here to conduct a psychological examination."
The folder slid from beneath his arm and into his hand with practiced ease, extending it across the counter. The paperwork within had already survived the scrutiny of the judge, clerks, attorneys, and administrators. In Crane’s experience, that usually rendered further discussion unnecessary.
The nurse accepted the folder and began leafing through its contents. Her eyes moved line by line across the pages while the fluorescent lights overhead reflected dully against the plastic sleeves.
"You can't see him right now, Doctor.”
Crane’s brows furrowed. "My examination is court ordered."
The nurse lowered the paperwork slightly. "And the patient just came out of surgery."
A muscle shifted faintly beneath Crane's jaw again. His gaze locked onto her as he measured the extent to which she intended to become a complication.
"I was appointed by the court to assess whether the defendant suffers from a severe mental disease or defect relevant to the offence in question." His voice remained level, precise, with each word carefully articulated. "The court is expecting my report."
The nurse's eyes met his without hesitation.
"Then the court," she said, extending the folder back toward him, "and you, can wait until he's conscious."
The folder hung suspended between them until Crane reached forward and took it. His fingers closed around the edge a touch tighter than necessary, the cardstock bending imperceptibly beneath the pressure. The surrounding noises seemed suddenly more noticeable. The squeak of rubber soles against polished linoleum. The distant rattle of a supply cart being wheeled around a corner.
The reply emerged smooth enough to pass for agreement. Only the brief pause beforehand hinted at the effort required to produce it. A smile followed. Not a genuine one. Not even particularly convincing. Merely the professional arrangement of facial muscles expected from a man whose career depended upon appearing reasonable.
"Far be it from me to interfere with the cutting-edge medical practice of allowing a patient to survive surgery before interviewing him."
The nurse remained entirely unimpressed. Crane suspected she had heard worse from surgeons before breakfast. Then he inclined his head in a shallow acknowledgment, the gesture carrying all the warmth of a signed memorandum, and stepped away from the counter before irritation could tempt him into prolonging the exchange.
For now, waiting would suffice. Eventually, he would wake. And eventually, Jonathan Crane would get what he came for.
