//This is an earlyverse or early timeline Jonathan Crane Para RP blog. For the IC Blog: @reviviscencegruiform. The canon of the verse/timeline is a homebrew tangentially connected to both the Arkham game series and Fear State.//
//Please keep this in mind when approaching and make sure not to make assumptions about the contents of this blog/verse without taking that into account.//
//Rules are as follows: Needles and drug/drug use will not be tagged. Do not follow if those subjects in particular upset/offend you. If you need something tagged, send me an anon or reach me in the message feature. Flashing lights, withdrawals, and unreality will be tagged off the cuff.//
You stayed still in the hallway for a moment, letting the weight of everything settle. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was fatigue. The kind that settled in your bones like fog and made the air feel heavy in your lungs. You leaned a shoulder against the wall, closed your eyes for a beat longer than a blink, and exhaled through your nose.
You could feel Crane watching you—he hadn’t moved, not even to offer some cold comfort or clinical quip. Just waited. Studied you like another element in the scene.
Once your pulse stopped clawing at your neck, you gave him a tight nod.
Then you both turned to the last door.
It was closed, unlike the others. Ordinary. White paint, wood frame. But something about it felt... expectant. Like a stage behind the curtain.
You reached for the knob and paused. Not out of fear—though that was still there—but out of something subtler. A tension in your gut that said: pay attention.
The door creaked open slowly.
This room was different.
It might’ve once been a bedroom. Still had the bones of one. But now it looked like someone had turned it into a makeshift craft room. Tables lined the walls, cluttered with half-finished projects. Sewing kits. A woodburning tool. Yarn in tangled spools. Paper dolls. Beads. An old embroidery hoop still hanging from the edge of a chair like someone had just stepped out to grab a cup of tea and never came back.
Dust hung in the air like it had been shaken loose recently. The floor creaked under your steps, but more muffled here—soft carpet beneath a faded rug. One wall was covered in corkboard and pinned scraps of paper. Not notes, not patterns. Just... fragments. Old receipts. Postcards. One child's drawing with stick figures and a sun that smiled too wide.
A single lamp sat on the desk in the corner, unplugged. Its cord hung loose like a noose. The chair tucked under it had a pillow on the seat—needlepoint, stitched with a phrase you couldn’t quite read in the dim light. You crouched to get a better look.
Home is where the heart stops.
You blinked. That wasn’t right.
You looked again.
Home is where the heart is.
You rubbed your eyes with your sleeve and stood back up.
Crane didn’t say anything. Just kept moving. Not aimless—measured. Intentional. Like he was cataloging something only he could see. He paused at the corkboard, tilting his head slightly, then took a step closer to a paper scrap and plucked it free.
You lingered at the doorway. Just… watched.
He crouched near a box of tangled embroidery thread, picked up a small handmade doll with button eyes and a sewn-on grin. Turned it over in his hands like it was delicate, sacred. No comment. No analysis.
Something in the room seemed to respond to him, or maybe it was the other way around. The air didn’t feel heavier, but your skin still crawled.
He found a bead bracelet under a pile of fabric and slipped it onto two fingers. Tilted his hand to watch it catch the light.
You couldn’t bring yourself to step inside.
“Jon,” you said eventually, voice steady, though it felt like you were breaking some rule just by saying his name.
He didn’t answer. Just tucked the bracelet into his pocket with the kind of care you usually reserve for something stolen—or sacred.
When he finally spoke, it was to the room. Not to you. “It’s not haunted.”
You frowned. “Okay. So why are you still in there?”
Crane turned, slow and careful, as if dragging himself out of someone else’s dream. His smile flickered at the edge of his mouth—not warmth. Not mockery. Just acknowledgment. “Because it wants to be,” he said, like it should’ve been obvious. Like that was the part you were supposed to be afraid of.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Crane's eyes lingered on something just past you in the hallway, like he'd only now remembered where he was. Then he turned back toward the desk without another word, his fingers trailing over a roll of lace trim as he passed. The contact was too slow, too deliberate.
You stayed where you were. Something in your gut warned against crossing the threshold. You didn’t think the room was dangerous—not in any immediate, physical sense—but it felt like stepping inside would be a kind of agreement. Like you'd be part of whatever he was trying to do.
He stayed in the room, drawn deeper by something only he could hear. You watched from the doorway as he moved slowly, deliberately, between the cluttered tables and scraps. Not aimless. Focused. Observing with that same cold, clinical interest he turned on everything that frightened other people away.
He picked up a small paper doll and turned it over in his hand. Set it down. Lifted a spool of thread, thumb brushing across it, then moved on. Every object was a piece of something he was building in his head. A map. A mind.
He crouched again near the baseboards, fingers slipping into the shadows, and pulled out a photo frame with cracked glass. He didn’t react to the image—just studied it, flipping it over, examining the back like it might offer more than the front ever could.
Crane’s eyes flicked toward the corkboard, then the sewing kits, the doll, the needlepoint. No commentary. No diagnosis. Just a small tilt of the head, a narrowing of the eyes. You could almost see the profile forming behind his quiet stare—like he couldn’t help himself. Like he had to know who lived here. Who left this behind.
He crossed to the corkboard again. Plucked a strip of paper loose from one corner with the precision of a surgeon. Held it up to the light. An old grocery list, barely legible. Bread. Soap. String. Something crossed out in red ink, like it had been a mistake. Or a memory too sharp to keep.
He stared at it a moment longer than necessary. Then tucked it into his pocket, same as the bracelet before.
The room didn’t protest, but it felt like it was watching.
Crane didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. He moved to the embroidery hoop still dangling from the edge of the chair, let it spin once on its axis. Watched it settle. Another tick in his invisible inventory.
It was quiet in that way that made you listen harder. The kind that made your own breath sound too loud, your heartbeat like a metronome in your ears.
He stopped in front of a low bookshelf—its surface scattered with tangled jewelry wire and the remains of a candle melted down to its wick. He crouched again, brushing dust from the cover of a battered journal tucked behind a jar of buttons. Opened it carefully, just enough to glance inside. Whatever he saw made him pause.
His fingers traced something on the page.
And for the first time since you’d opened the door, his shoulders moved—not stiffly, not startled. Just a slow, deliberate inhale. As if he’d finally reached the center of the web.
You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure if you were intruding on something. Not haunted, he’d said. But it was something else. An echo, maybe. Or a memory that hadn’t quite decayed.
He stood again, closing the journal and leaving it behind. No pocket this time.
His head turned slightly, like he was listening. Not to you. To the room.
Then finally he stepped back toward the door.
Not looking at you. Still half in the trance of whatever he’d pieced together. Still somewhere else.
You shifted, the floorboard under your heel creaking. “You find what you were looking for?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked—slowly, like surfacing from deep water. Then, without meeting your eye, he murmured, “No.” And stepped past you, still half in that silence, carrying something with him you couldn’t see. Something he hadn’t taken, but that had taken root anyway.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, quieter than you meant it: “You gonna put that bracelet back?”
Crane didn’t look at you. His fingers slipped into his pocket, slow, thoughtful—more like he was remembering something than retrieving it. “No,” he said, quiet. Not defiant. Just final.
He stepped forward. You instinctively leaned back, just a little, worried you’d finally bothered him, but he didn’t stop. Close now, too close. His hand reached for yours—not rough, not abrupt, just… inevitable.
You let him.
The bracelet slipped over your knuckles with a soft click of beads.
Then he stepped away without a word, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing.
You looked down at it, the colors dulled by time and dust, now sitting snug against your wrist.
He was already halfway down the hall. You stared after him for a beat, caught between too many questions and not enough air. The bracelet felt heavier than it should’ve—like it had absorbed something from that room, or maybe from him.
You didn’t follow right away.
The door was still open behind you. The craft room sat quiet again, dim and waiting, like it had exhaled now that Crane was gone. You glanced back once. The photo frame. The dolls. The corkboard with its smiling sun. None of it moved. None of it had to.
You turned and walked.
By the time you caught up with him, he was already at the top of the stairs, camcorder back in hand, red sweater dull in the low light. His back to you. Still.
When he finally glanced over his shoulder, his eyes dropped briefly to your wrist, then met your gaze.
Whatever he saw there made the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not quite.
Then, without a word, he started down the stairs. You were grateful he went first. It was scarier to backtrack to somewhere you’d been because what if something had changed?
The door was tucked away in the kitchen’s right corner, half-hidden under the stairs. You wouldn’t have noticed it if Crane hadn’t stopped mid-step and turned toward it.
He reached for the knob, paused, then opened it slowly. The air that drifted out was cooler, mustier. Unused. Beyond the threshold, narrow stairs led straight down into darkness.
He flipped the switch on the wall. Nothing happened. He flicked it again. Still nothing.
You stepped up behind him, peering past his shoulder. “What, no brave descent into the abyss?” you said lightly, voice pitched somewhere between a joke and a dare. “Didn’t peg you for someone afraid of the dark.”
There was a pause. Just long enough that you thought maybe he wasn’t going to answer.
Then, without looking back, he said, quiet but certain, “I’m not.”
You caught something in his voice. Not irritation. Not pride. Just… a quiet line he didn’t want crossed.
Your teasing faded as fast as it had come. Still, you smiled a little, trying to soften it. “Then what’s stopping you?”
Crane’s hand stayed on the doorframe. He exhaled slowly, like he’d been weighing the question even before you asked it.
“I don’t like the idea of you going down there without light,” he said. Like it was that simple.
You blinked. Not at the words, but at how gently he’d said them.
He didn’t turn around. Just closed the door again with deliberate care, like he didn’t want it making too much noise.
You let the moment sit between you a second longer, then gave a small nod. “Fair enough.”
You let the moment sit between you a second longer, then gave a small nod. “Fair enough.”
Crane didn’t say anything more. He stepped back, letting the door click softly into the frame, then turned and walked past you with the same steady, measured pace he always had—like nothing had happened. Like that quiet concern hadn’t just shifted something between you.
You followed.
The kitchen had the bones of something warm, once. Pale tile under dust. A table shoved crooked against the far wall. Old magnets still clinging to the rusted fridge door—some shaped like fruit, others chipped letters that no longer spelled anything. A calendar hung beside it, pages yellowed and curled. The last date marked was from three years ago. A birthday, maybe. Someone had drawn a balloon.
Crane didn’t linger. His gaze swept the room and moved on. His footsteps were quieter here, like the house was holding its breath again.
He crossed to the opposite wall, where another door waited, this one slightly ajar. You hadn’t noticed it until now, half-obscured by peeling wallpaper and shadow.
He glanced at you before pushing it open.
It led to what might’ve once been a laundry room, but time had peeled back its function. The washer and dryer sat crooked against the far wall, covered in a fine layer of grit. The light overhead flickered once when Crane tried the switch, then went dark. He didn’t bother again.
You stepped inside after him, tucking your sleeves over your hands like armor. The air felt wrong. Not heavy—just… stale. Trapped. Like nothing had moved here in years.
A child’s raincoat hung on the back of the door, faded yellow, two buttons missing. Beneath it, a pair of cracked rubber boots sat side by side, perfectly aligned.
Crane crouched beside the dryer. Lifted a laundry basket. Empty.
But his eyes narrowed at something beneath it.
You leaned closer. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just reached down and pulled something free—a small, dirt-smudged plush rabbit, one ear nearly torn off. The fabric was mottled with time, but someone had stitched a name into its foot.
You couldn’t quite read it.
Crane turned it over in his hands once, then set it gently on top of the machine. Like it still belonged there. Like leaving it behind was worse than taking it.
Then he stood.
“Nothing,” he murmured. Not dismissive. Just… not for now.
You didn’t push.
Instead, you both stepped back into the kitchen. The house creaked faintly above you, the kind of noise you could almost convince yourself was the wind.
You knew it wasn’t.
Crane’s eyes lingered on the basement door once more before he turned away.
There was still one room left. The pantry door. Narrow, tucked beside the fridge like an afterthought. You reached for the knob this time, fingers brushing worn wood. It stuck at first, then opened with a low groan.
Behind it: shelves lined with rusted cans, toppled boxes, a jar of something unidentifiable that had long ago dried out. But in the far corner, just past a collapsed stack of mason jars, was a narrow hatch in the floor. Square. Latched.
You both stared at it.
Crane didn’t move.
Neither did you.
The air in the pantry felt colder than it should.
The air in the pantry felt colder than it should. Crane crouched slowly, not touching the hatch—just looking. His camcorder tilted down with him, lens fixed on the outline in the floor. Dust rimmed the edges, undisturbed. You shifted your weight behind him. “Root cellar?” He didn’t answer. Just studied it for another long moment, like he was waiting to hear something.
Then he stood, smooth and quiet, brushing his hands on his sweater. “I don’t like the look of it.” You blinked. “That’s it? No dramatic descent into the unknown?” “No.” he said simply. You huffed a quiet breath, more amusement than challenge. “You’ve avoided two ominous holes tonight. I’m starting to get worried.” You teased. He didn’t look at you, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. You’d nearly made that mask chip. “I’m selective.” You gasped softly as he stalked back into the hall “A joke? Now I am worried.”
You pressed your thumb against the last bead like a full stop.
The next door was just a few steps ahead. It looked like all the others—plain wood, tarnished brass knob, closed—but something about it felt different. Like it had heard you coming.
Crane reached it first. He didn’t open it right away. Just stood there, hand near the knob, head tilted slightly like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear.
You didn’t speak. The bracelet was still under your fingers, steady. Solid. You stayed in the hush beside him.
Then, without a word, he turned the handle.
The door creaked open on hinges that protested too loudly for how slow he moved. Inside was a sitting room—or had been, once. Dust lay thick on old floral upholstery, sun-faded curtains hanging limp at the windows. A tea set rested on a side table like someone had just stepped away from it. But the air in here was heavier. Stiller.
I have given up on editing my posts to be pretty. Here's chapter 4 of Foul by Forum.
The second door was to the right of the stairs, across from the one that had opened earlier. It looked the same as the others. Old. Heavy. Thick paint that had yellowed and cracked like varnish abandoned under a hot sun. You aimed your flashlight at the tarnished knob before glancing over your shoulder at Crane, still planted a few steps down from the landing like some kind of spindly gargoyle on sentry duty. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything, but his gaze pinned you like you were a particularly odd museum exhibit.
“This one,” you announced, mostly to yourself. Saying it out loud gave it weight, made it feel less like your pulse was trying to sprint out of your skin. You turned the knob. It was cold, and for a heartbeat you were sure it would slam shut or rip itself open like some funhouse trick. But it didn’t. It only creaked open like any door this old might.
Inside: silence. No whispers. No footsteps. No slamming, no weeping, no blood trickling up the walls. Just a cramped storage closet. Maybe five feet across, likely less. Shelves sagging under rusted paint cans, dry-rotted drop cloths, a broom with a melted handle that drooped like it was ashamed to be here. A coat hook or two, bent and forgotten.
You stepped in anyway—brave, stupid, or some custom cocktail of both. Probably the latter. This was the kind of room that hadn’t seen a visitor in a decade. You told yourself that. So you stepped closer. Your flashlight passed over a collapsed box stuffed with yellowed newspaper. You didn’t want to know what had once been inside.
Shadows shifted on the walls—your own, obviously. The space was tight. One window across the hall threw moonlight in at a bad angle, and your flashlight danced with every movement. Optical illusions, that’s all it was.
Except one of the shadows didn’t match your pace. Or maybe it did, only a second too slow. Like it was trying not to be caught. It slipped between the shelves, hunched low near the back. You heard something—a scrape? A breath?
Nope.
You turned too fast, smacked your shoulder into a shelf. Something metal hit the floor behind you. You didn’t look.
You bolted from the closet like hell itself was behind you—and then immediately walked face-first into a spiderweb. Of course. Because the universe is nothing if not theatrical.
It draped over your face, clung to your eyelashes, got in your mouth, and you didn’t even realize you were crying until you were already stumbling back against the hallway wall, sleeves dragging across your face in a frantic attempt to get it off. Not sobbing. Those short, gasping breaths, lungs folding in on themselves, tears sliding hot down your cheeks without asking.
And, of course, Crane was there.
He didn’t laugh. Somehow that made it worse.
He didn’t ask what happened. Just stood there with that pale, too-still expression like he was about to follow it up with “When I was locked in the basement as a child—” even though that wasn’t how he talked. His head tilted, the sharp angle of his chin making him look like a lanky bird. Then he blinked. Slowly.
You could feel his judgment like a space heater that wasn’t fully plugged in. Still warm, but not as hot as it could be
“I saw—” Your voice came out all watery. “Something. I think. Maybe. And then the web was in my face and—” You shut your mouth before it could spiral further. Your nose was running.
He stepped closer—not comfortingly, not quite. He didn’t offer a hand or a shoulder. Didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of black medical gloves. Slid them on with the detached air of someone about to perform a dissection. Then, with surprising gentleness, he began pulling the spiderweb off your face.
His fingers—latex-wrapped, precise—lifted the sticky threads like they might detonate. He didn’t flinch when your breath hitched. Didn’t react when you squeezed your eyes shut.
You didn’t move. Not out of fear, but from shock. No one had helped you like this before. So calm. So clinical, but not cold. Not judgmental. Observant. Processing. Like he was thinking: Noted. Prone to panic under visual anomaly and tactile disturbance. You, the new favorite lab rat.
When he finished, he peeled the gloves off and dropped them to the floor. Tilted his head the other way. “Better?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He didn’t smile, but he looked away for a second, like maybe he wasn’t used to being thanked.
You scrubbed at your face again with your sleeve. “It was nothing,” you muttered. “Shadows and spiderwebs.”
“Fear doesn’t require reason,” he said, voice flat but strangely gentle. “Only an audience.”
You squinted. “Was that from one of your lectures, or did you just make it up?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Classic.”
He glanced toward the stairs, where the closet door hung open behind you like it was sulking. “Next one,” he said, and turned, assuming you’d follow.
Of course you did.
Because even with the bedside manner of a haunted marionette, Crane made you feel safer. Somehow.
As you both moved on, the air shifted behind you. Not with a ghost or a monster. Tension bleeding away. Smoke without a fire. Fear without a face.
He moved ahead, backlit by your flashlight, scanning the closet one last time. Dust shimmered in the light as he swept it across the shelves. You could see the outline of his shoulder under the stretched old sweater—how thin he really was beneath it.
And then he flinched.
A twitch. Like something had brushed him. His shoulder jerked, and his hand retracted an inch.
You froze. Breath held.
But he didn’t pull away. He seemed to pause. Then leaned back in, slowly. Repeated the movement with eerie precision. Same angle. Same reach. Nothing.
His jaw flexed. His whole posture shifted—tighter. Sharper.
He crouched, set the camcorder on the floor with a soft clack. Slid the strap off his wrist. Then started pulling apart the bottom shelf with methodical intent, metal scraping metal.
It was surgical. And a little pissed off.
Something small and gray burst from the shadows. A hard thump against the floor.
You jumped.
A mouse flung itself out, hit the floor with a scrabble of tiny feet, then vanished into the gap under the baseboard.
Silence again.
Crane didn’t move.
He stared after the mouse like it had insulted him. Then picked up the camcorder and stood, pulling the hem of his sweater back down over a flash of pale skin like the moment had never happened.
“Not a ghost,” he said flatly.
You exhaled, almost laughed. “Thanks, boss.”
He didn’t react. Just stood there with that eerie stillness, like silence was something he curated.
He gave the closet one last look—not for safety. More like a warning.
Then he rolled his shoulder, reset something in his stance, and walked on.
You followed, trying to choke down the concern over his growing agitation. He wasn’t mad at you after all.
The hallway ahead was short but felt too long. The floor groaned with every step, tattling on your progress. Strips of paint curled down from the walls, and the air had taken on a sharper smell—copper and mildew. Wet pennies. Something long dead.
At the far end: a door. Slightly open, like someone had stepped through and forgot to shut it. The gap between the door and frame looked too dark. A grin with too many teeth.
“This one’s the bathroom, right?” you asked, your voice low. Trying to hear something that wasn’t your thoughts.
Crane nodded, then pushed the door open with two fingers.
The bathroom was offensively normal.
Coral-pink tile, faded to something unpleasant. A cracked sink, its drain crusted with something halfway between dried blood and bad memories. A clawfoot tub crouched in the back, stained with rust or worse.
The mirror above the sink was crooked, fractured like lightning had struck it, your reflection broken into alien geometry.
You stepped inside cautiously, flashlight slicing through the gloom. “No screaming ghosts yet,” you muttered.
“Not all of them scream,” Crane said behind you, like this was an obvious fact.
You clicked the light switch. Nothing. Only the dead click of failed electricity.
The medicine cabinet gaped open. You peered in—half-expecting teeth, maybe a face. Instead: pill bottles with no names. A crusted bar of soap. Q-tips the color of old teeth.
The toilet was cracked. You didn’t want to know why.
“Why is this place so gross?” you muttered, shining your light up. Mold bloomed over the ceiling, curling through the corners like veins.
You could feel Crane behind you. Close but not too close. That quiet tension he carried like a second coat.
The camcorder clicked softly as he swept it across the room.
“Anything?” you asked.
He hesitated.
Then: “No.”
You snorted. “So a moldy bathroom that smells like a murder. Great.”
He didn’t laugh, obviously. But he shifted—a bit, slightly, like he’d filed the comment away for later.
You turned back to the mirror. Your reflection—disheveled, wide-eyed, hoodie askew—looked like it didn’t trust you either.
But nothing jumped out.
Just mildew, mold, and the hum of nerves.
You pulled the door shut behind you with a little more force than necessary. “Next?”
Crane nodded.
And somewhere in the walls, the house creaked—like it had been waiting.
Or maybe your nerves were on their way to unraveling completely.
Acrid smoke stung your eyes between the passes of the oscillating fan that gave you respite while the cigarette between your teeth burned down a little by little. You were putting all your attention into counting and just been letting it burn at this point. Sucking that cancer in or not, you needed it. Praying to the god of Marlboro that a hit of nicotine will keep your eyes open just a bit longer even if it made it harder at the same time.
At the tail end of a nine hour shift, you had counted the same bills three times and come up with different numbers each time. Tired to the bones, it was day four of five of work and you had to come back tomorrow at seven pm. It was four forty seven am. You shouldn't have covered those three hours for Chitchat so she could go on that date. She owed you.
You just wanted to go home. Take a nice hot shower while you could still stand up then sleep. Fuck getting groceries tomorrow before work. Thirteen minutes and you were free. Just thirteen more. Thinking about it makes your arms feel heavier. Even counting the cash felt like a chore at this point, but you wanted to exchange the ones and fives in the club rather than making yourself a mark with trash bags full of cash on the subway.
“Hey, Bans! You got a guy!”
You couldn’t even manage a groan. After squeezing your eyes shut for a moment and letting your head tilt back to try to gather yourself as best you can, you rip the cigarette out of your mouth, asking as nicely as you could manage in spite of how your body was tensed up “Table or VIP?” “I dunno,” The other girl said, waddling past you with one of her heels off already, feet bright red from being on them all night. “Just asked for you on my way back and I said I’d get you for him.”
You snuff your smoke out slightly too aggressively, but luckily she doesn’t notice. You weren’t mad at her and didn’t want her to think that so you make sure to check yourself. Whatever, hopefully this would end with a big fat tip for your efforts. Not a bad way to end the night and so you pop a peppermint in your mouth out of the tray on the table and put on your best smile while shuffling your money, zipping it up in your bag to take home.
“Wish me luck.” You say tossing your bag back in the corner and shrugging on your ripped up black crop top, not bothering with your bra.. It was enough. They were lucky you even put your pants, tiny as they were, back on at this point. You weren’t going to put in that kind of effort this early in the morning. “Good luck!” She called after you, giddily flopping on the leather sofa you’d been taking up until then.
You nearly jump out of your skin when you straight up run into the guy after busting through the door a little too hard in your hurry to get home making him take a few staggered steps back. He’d been waiting so close to it you were shocked you didn’t hit him right in his very prominent schnoz. At least you knew who’d asked for you right away. “Well hey there, handsome!” He was, in fact, not handsome. He was- God, he was really sweaty. Why was he so sweaty? You’d barely touched him and you felt like someone hit you with a toad straight out of a parking lot puddle.
“Hh-ih-hhh-hi-” Oh God, he was a weird one. A really weird one. He stood there in all his yellow buck-toothed glory wringing his hands out of his element entirely in his dorky tweed suit with a terrible comb over and coke bottle glasses that magnified his eyes to the point of comedy. Shaking. Trembling. In absolute shambles and for no reason you could see. Existing was this creature’s enemy.
Those big doe eyes blinked up at you and he said…absolutely nothing. He only got out that squeaky greeting. He’d been hard to hear over the music, but you weren’t worried about Mr. Mumbles. You’d have him back in the VIP soon enough and be able to hear him just fine. You put that winning smile on and his shivering intensified. You didn’t think his eyes could get bigger, but he responded to a simple smile like you’d taken your top off in front of him for the second time tonight, but maybe he’d missed that.
He was just your type. Those sweet old nerds that never peaked fell head over heels for you and the 80’s goth aesthetic you so carefully cultivated. You triggered that nostalgia for that youth they missed out on, the prime they could have had. The hot girl in their comp-sci class they could never work up the courage to even wave at in the hall and for a couple of thin easily earned, for them at least, dollars you could be theirs for just a few minutes in the club. To look at and, for the right price, you’d touch them and they could pretend they hadn’t been such losers. If they tried outside of that your boss would remind them what being shoved in a locker felt like though.
“What can the Banshee do for you?” “Ha-hmm-” You glanced at the clock then back at him. There was no such thing as overtime here, little man. You couldn’t say that, but you certainly thought it at least twice before he finally said “I- ah, I was hoping wh-” He had some kind of a nervous tic. It looked like he flinched. Maybe he had, you weren’t a doctor. You couldn’t tell, but it made your hairless brow arch all the same. Around four foot ten, mousey brown hair. Greasy. Just everywhere, greasy all over. His eyes were watery, but it was too dark to see what color they were. He smelled like alcohol, but not the kind from the bar. Isopropyl alcohol.
The job came with its hazards and it looked like this geek might be one of them. You memorized his features the best you could just in case just like your boss taught you. There was plenty going on that would identify him if worse came to worse and plenty of cameras. “I was hh-hoping for a, um, private show?” He sounded funny and it wasn’t just the tic that had him stuttering. He had an accent. English? Now that he was actually managing some words you could hear it. That was weird on its own. This wasn’t exactly a tourist destination. He must work in the city? “Yeah?” You say hoping you sound more interested in it than you actually were.
It seemed to work, perking him up maybe a little too enthusiastically. “I brought money! A lot of money!” He reached into his coat and pulled out the biggest wad of cash you’d ever seen at once with both hands, it had to be at least ten thousand dollars. You grabbed his hands and held them down between the two of you so no one else could see. “Woah! Easy there, killer!” Was he insane?! This was downtown Gotham! Crime Alley was up the street. He’d have jumped for a couple of fives down here if anyone thought he had them in his wallet.
All he did in response was gasp that you had touched him then stare down at where your hands had met his actively vibrating ones. “Let’s take this to the back, alright? You gotta be more careful.” He didn’t move until you moved him. Taking that huge brick of cash in one hand and his wrist in the other, you marched him to the first empty lounge like he was a downright naughty boy being taken to his room.
Once the door was locked you turned to him “You could have been killed for this if anyone saw you with it.” You chastised bringing his hand up to press the cash in it. Making sure his fingers wrapped around it before you let go. He didn’t answer, still staring at your hand on his wrist so you let that go too. Your hands were sopping wet from the sheer amount of sweat pouring off him.
To his credit, he seemed to function better in the back after what looked like the human version of a computer restarting without warning you first so you lost the progress on that word document you’d been working on for over an hour. Lingering electronic ptsd from high school essays aside, maybe it had been the lights and loud music that had put him over the edge on top of whatever else he was dealing with naturally? You didn’t know, but after that quiet reboot he looked a little more human and less like a rat that had touched the third rail.
At least he was speaking up now. “I didn’t…think about it, I apologize.” He said in an awfully shrill voice making you question why he was apologizing to you? His voice was unsettling and gave you that shiver up your spine the same way something grainy like unpolished glass grinding together did. It had a certain cartoonish quality to it in both pitch and tone. If you’d heard it over the phone you would have sworn he was using some kind of modulator to hide what he really sounded like. Did he genuinely sound that way? If he didn't, why was he putting on a voice like that?
“I, ah- Well,” He held the money up again “I didn’t know how much to bring, you see, so I-well, I brought what seemed most reasonable for your, um, services?” He poised it as a question more than an answer. Like he was asking if it was reasonable rather than explaining that it was. You squinted at him. That was a reasonable amount of money to him? How disconnected from reality was he?
“VIP packages start at three fifty.” You informed after crossing your arms, partially trying to find a comfortable way to stand with your back so sore and partially trying to put some defense up against the tiny man now that you were discussing business. He gasped like this was breaking news he couldn’t have googled before coming at all. Your boss had just set up a whole website for it specifically so people would stop trying to haggle with the girls.
“Well,” The man counted out a few of the hundreds then fidgeted and looked back up at you “What’s the biggest package?” He was nearly cute in a kicked puppy way, but you didn’t let your defense down. You couldn’t afford to even with all that money on the table. “Do you have friends waiting outside or something?” “No! Why, no! No, mam, just me!” You felt your hand touch your cheek as you stared at the weirdo in absolute awed confusion. What on earth was this guy’s deal?
You were too nice. Always have been. You should have just taken the money. He wanted to spend it and here you were talking him down like an idiot. Take the whole wad and don’t look back, come on! “But-but, miss, I want the most time!” He yelped a little too loudly, it made his voice crack.
God, he was desperate. Your manicured finger tapped against your cheek as you pondered how this man hadn’t been scammed of every scant cent by now, especially in this city. “We can work that out, but what do you want?” Please, don’t say sex. You weren’t even sure if security was even still in the building and you’d had enough bad experiences with that. “I, um, need to give a presentation?”
What?
The look you must have given him prompted him to explain himself “I just need to give a presentation! At work! A presentation for my work at, uh, work and, well, I-” He melted into nervous giggles before he finished, but managed to suppress them enough to finish after a moment of looking like he was about to run away. “I need to practice. An audience so to speak and-” He looked miserable suddenly. “I don’t…” His voice lowered to a whisper “have any friends.”
Your heart felt a little pang for him. Ok, more than a little. Same, man. Well, sort of. You had work friends. That wasn’t the same thing as a friend friend, but it wasn’t hard to believe this guy had no one at all. “Truly, I do need this!” He added quickly “It’s very important! My research depends on this! I promise I don’t mean to insult you or waste your time! I could lose funding and-and-” “I’m happy to work something out with you, but let's get you a drink first, alright?” “Alright.” He parroted back happy for the break from explaining himself. Taking quick half breaths on the verge of hyperventilating it looked like.
With peace and love, he didn’t look like a man who could hold his liquor. Nor did he seem like the type that would handle it well if he managed to do so. He needed to relax and there wasn’t anyone better for the job. You were the complete package and proud of it. You knew how to wind them up and just as importantly wind them down. You knew how to make more than a quick few cocktails, it was a part of the job.Thumbing through the Rolodex of recipes in your head you stopped on the first one that wouldn’t kill him on impact.
A Friar Tuck. Chocolate milk for big boys. You glanced back at him on your way to the fully stocked minibar. Big enough boys. Hazelnut liqueur, dark crème de cacao, and Frangelico with, in this case, some nice cold half n’ half shaken with ice then strained in a glass. “Sip.” You say handing the glass to… hang on a second.
“Now,” You sat him down in a chair with some gentle ushering “Let’s try this again. Hello, handsome.” He giggled nervously at you and smiled a sort of odd suppressed smile over being called handsome. You realized he was trying to hide his teeth now that he was thinking about it. There was no hiding those buck teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Jervis. Jervis Tetch.”
Banner art: DRCL - Midnight Children by Sakamoto Shinichi
//Hey guys, I gotta tap. I can't handle the fucking "children going missing at the circus" shit. I can't. I'm dealing with enough. Check your antiziganism. I'm sick of taking it just so you fucks can enjoy your teehee new Batman show. I need a break.//
