everything is new to a baby. sights, sounds, textures.
the simplest things amaze and delight a baby. the feeling of its toys in its hands, the meaningless hum of grown-ups' voices around it, the soft headpats from its mommy.
you resisted, at first.
you might have enjoyed being treated like a baby, but you were still an adult in the end! your world was too complex, your brain too developed, your awareness too sharp to really engage with anything truly for babies and babies alone.
so you kept playing your big kid games, and watching your big kid shows, and using your big kid words.
you'd be her little one, but apart from the infantile accessories and playful teasing, you were much like any other adult.
mindfulness training, she called it. mommy just wanted to help you with your anxiety, so you could learn to recenter when things got too much.
when your mind started to race, you learned to focus on the moment.
the feeling of the ground under your feet.
the quiet nuknuk of your pacifier.
the gentle trickle of warmth into your diaper.
you'd get anxious a lot, so you put mommy's lessons to good use.
it happened more and more. you'd start getting stressed, and then focus on these comforting sensations until your worries floated away. you were becoming so much calmer, so much more content.
you had to keep asking mommy to pause your shows. it was hard to pay attention to the plot when the soft stuffie in your arms was the center of your attention. you'd have to calm down first, then resume.
after a while, you realized how long it would take you to finish just one episode. so long that you'd start forgetting what had happened before the pause, and you'd have to rewind, which would make it take even longer...
you complained about this to mommy, and she just nodded thoughtfully. maybe, she said, you just needed something a little easier to follow.
you reluctantly agreed that made sense.
so mommy helped.
when you needed to pause a show too much, she'd just stop it and change to something simpler.
when you got overwhelmed by your games, she'd hand you a toy of some kind and help you play.
when you got frustrated at how you stumbled over words trying to solidify your thoughts, she'd suggest something more straightforward to say.
and it kept happening. and it helped.
you don't get nearly so anxious anymore. having to stop and breathe still happens, like when you recognize one of the grown-ups' faces or when someone tries to show you something too complicated. but your world is so much quieter now.
the way the blocks feel in your hands.
the comforting hum of mommy's voice.
the way your diaper sags after you wet it.
these things take all your attention now. these are your world. these are the only ripples on the calm, empty pond of your mind.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 364: Say My Name
[Summary: he's afraid, but he's no coward]
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says, very calmly. Too calmly. Like the eye of a storm passing overhead: the world’s been raging and now it’s deadly still, and he’s left with a sinking feeling in his gut and a bite mark on his lip. He can’t take it back. He shouldn’t take it back either. His nervous system is quivering, denoting his fear, but his feet aren’t turning, his knees not crashing so there’s this: he’s afraid, but he’s no coward.
“What?” He tilts his chin up, not in bravado – she can surely see how he’s shivering – so it’s in defiance of his shakes. “Said your name?” Commanded you, he doesn’t say. Made you stop, he doesn’t say. I won’t let you be a coward, he also doesn’t say yet it’s obvious. He’s standing despite all the threat her calm means – the eye of a storm only lasts so long before it’s all crashing down again and he’s prime to take the full force of it – and she was the one beating a retreat. Abandoning them.
Her eyes don’t flash. Worse. They’re a dead flat. His guts no longer sink, they spasm. An innate animal part of his brain saying we should run. This is dangerous.
But her leaving is dangerous too, and someone’s got to do it.
“Are you stupid?” So calm, still so calm.
“You have to help.” His voice trembling but his legs standing. “I’ve called you now. You can’t shirk your duty.” Like you were trying to, another unsaid thing that’s obvious; they’re halfway down the street. As abandoned as she’d have left them, a few street lights making bright pools. Moonshine lengthening their shadows. Does the night make her calm feel worse? He thinks so. Night is a biological fear, because that’s where the predators come out. He’s alone with her. He’s angered her. His brain’s age-old instincts are telling him she’s right, he is stupid.
“I already told you, I can’t.”
“Won’t.”
He flinches at the way her eyes go flatter. Danger, danger. If he ran now she’d catch him anyway. He needs her either way. He needs her power, her responsibility, her attempt. It shouldn’t really matter if the eye passes and crushes him to paste on the way. As long as she does what he needs her to do, what he’s invoked her name to make her do. Forbidden to say because it’s a nasty trick, forcing someone. Forbidden to say because someone who’s pissed will always need to take it out on someone and if you’re the one who uttered it, well. It shouldn’t matter, yet he’s terrified of it, and not terrified enough to have stopped himself. In a way, he’s stronger than her, an absolute insanity he’ll feel if she decides to take some revenge before doing as she has to.
Her mouth thins. It looks somehow sharper, a knife.
“So you’ve forced my hand, is it? You’ve chosen to overrule my assessment of the situation.”
“We need you,” and he’s desperate in tone and his heart is desperate in beats as if counting them down. “This is your duty, and we need you, and I wouldn’t have had to do it this way if you’d just done your job first.”
“All you have done,” she tells him, calm enough that it’s cold now; he can almost feel the rain of that storm coming closer, closer, the eye getting nearer to passing. She’ll snap, he’ll fall but she’ll have to go back and try. It’s worth it but fuck he wishes he was a coward now, in the face of it, shaking worse than an autumn leaf, “is guarantee that I will be at risk along with the rest of you. I told you already that I couldn’t.”
“You haven’t even tried.” Her face twitches; he keeps on. “You haven’t even tried, and if you’re at risk too as a consequence, well, isn’t that your whole job? Isn’t that what our whole deal with you is? I only said your name because you’ve forgotten that. You’ve let your fear get you.”
“And you’re brave, is it?” She takes in his shaking form, his clenched fists. It’s concrete underneath his feet, will that make it hurt more?
“I only did it because I had to,” he whispers. His voice cutting out a little. There’s something to the way she’s looking at him. Sizing him up, maybe. He’s never liked pain. His feet aren’t moving though, he’s not even going to try running. He’s going to wait and tremble about it, isn’t going to risk her trying to find a way out of the summons, and it’s not because he’s brave, it’s because he’s stupid and impulsive and right.
She keeps looking at him. The calmness is banking away from her. He can taste it like ozone in the air. Shut your eyes, he wills himself and doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be a coward at any point of this. Even as she steps forward. Even as his ears begin to roar with the returning storm, shaking him deep to his core. Her shadow darkens over him. His swallow echoes through his bones, perhaps the last sound he’ll ever make. She’s within a breath of him. He can’t see her eyes anymore.
Then she steps to the side, her shoulder checking his.
“Come along, brave boy,” she says while he almost melts to the floor. “If you’ve called me to act, it’s only right that you get in the thick of it with me. Then we’ll see how sturdy your constitution really is.”
She starts to walk past him. Back to where she should be going. He lets out a wretched breath. His lashes wet.
But she’s going where she should.
And he’s alive. For now.
He turns and follows her, desperately afraid but with something starting to spark in his gut. It’s tiny, an ember, but it looks like victory.
Word Count
1780
Author's Note
Dear reader, I fear I have cooked. A few months ago, I started my first year of law school, and promptly turned right back to fictional characters for comfort. I thought I left this behind in middle school. But apparently not.
I started playing around with the idea of a softer, more humane Jonathan Crane. As much as I love maniacal, borderline psychopathic Scarecrow, I wanted fluff. And then I figured I'd toss an OC into the mix to live out my dreams in ink.
I have a lot of ideas for this. I've got several chapters outlined. And I intend it to be my magnum opus. But I'm not going to promise frequent updates. I'm writing around my law school schedule, editing when I can. I don't want to post something I'm not at least content with, if not happy.
And as for the requests which have been marinating in my drafts, we're getting there. I'm so sorry for the delay. Life has been a mess, these last few years. I'm just happy I've rekindled enough spark to write. Someday. Someday soon.
Thank you to everyone who's stuck around and put up with me. Lots of love <3
Summary
It's just another night in Gotham. Or so Jonathan thought.
It was supposed to be just another normal night.
What did a normal night look like, for Jonathan? Well. A few fingers of whiskey. A bit of tinkering with the Toxin. And a light late-night stroll through Gotham to test his concoction, i.e. dousing any unlucky bastard who was unfortunate enough to stumble into his path.
And that's how tonight started. That's how tonight was supposed to go.
The clock struck midnight. The air stilled. And he descended. He came unto Gotham, flocked by ravens, a figure of fear, a figure of doom, a figure of death. Where he went, darkness followed, shrouding the city in shadow. In the near-pitch black, the Toxin gleamed. A delicate gold. The colour of fireflies, of promises, of sunsets by the sea. Beautiful. Deceptive. Fleeting. It illuminated his path as he skulked through the streets, ocean eyes always alert, always ablaze, in search of his next victim.
And where better to find a victim than Crime Alley itself?
Crime Alley. The heart of Gotham. The bloody, bruised, and broken heart. Yet one that continues to beat. It's no wonder Gotham is the way it is — a crime-addled city with no hopes of clawing its way out of the depths of its hell. The body cannot heal, if its very heart is infected; if the infection runs within its lifeblood, and is cursed to be passed to its descendants. For how can anything be separated from what sustains it?
And what sustains Gotham but Crime Alley itself? The blackened centre of the city, infested with the worst of pests, the lowest of scum. Criminals. Of all sorts. Drug lords and gangsters and murderers, ruling a kingdom of empty souls — hollowed henchmen and withered whores. And children. Innocent children. With too much hope in their hearts, and too much space in their stomachs.
Children, whose innocence fades, day in, and day out. Children, whose eyes lose light, faster than lightning strikes the skies and water flows to seas. Children, whose youthful hope is hollowed out, hammered out, and battered and bruised, until it becomes naught but shell; the finest of shells — the line between life, and loss.
That is Crime Alley. The bleeding heart of Gotham. A place so full of filth and scum, that even God dare not enter, for fear of soiling himself; for fear of tarnishing his purity, and falling into darkness.
The perfect haunt for a ghost of a man.
And so Jonathan prowled, Toxin glowing in the dark, ready to pounce upon, inflict fear upon, anyone who dared stumble into his path.
At this point, Gotham knew better. The greatest of sins may be committed in the light, with the whole world and God himself spectating. But the most horrific of sins, the most personal of them, always under cover of darkness — only ever a trick of the night, nothing more.
What happens beneath the dim glow of the stars is doomed to fade with them.
A rustle, a shift. And Jonathan grinned. A victim at last. He skulked down the street, turned the corner of the cobblestone path, and prepared to pounce.
And then he saw her. And his heart stopped.
-----
Irene.
Irene Martha Wayne.
The Bat's eldest. The Bat's everything. Adopted a year after Dick, with two on him. Never Robin. Never a vigilante. But vital nonetheless. Not to the mission. Not at all. But to Gotham.
They give her many names. The Wayne Princess. Fitting. Not only for her beauty, not only for her grace. But for her power, for her presence. Gotham's Angel. Better fitting. Why? Well…
Frankly, Jonathan thought, she was the only useful Wayne. Brucie, overall, no better than a whore. And Timmy, honestly, too sleep-deprived. They do what they do. Of course they do. Massive donations flow from the Wayne Trust to every charity in Gotham and beyond.
But how much does that actually do? How much of that money trickles down into the city's soul to seal the cracks that lie within? Not much.
But then there was Irene. President of the Martha Wayne Foundation. The only organization associated with the billionaire scum that actually did anything concrete. The MWF, under Irene, aimed to revitalize Gotham.
Its very presence altered Gotham's legal landscape, writing protections for marginalized communities, and vulnerable beings — animals, children, women, into legislation. It funded and ran orphanages and shelters, safe spaces for the abused. It decriminalized sex work, and put up barriers to it, allowing those trapped within the sphere to either operate safely, or escape entirely.
And at the forefront of it all was Irene. Irene, with her kind eyes and gentle soul. Irene, with her soft heart and steady hands. Irene, who never demeaned nor shamed the abused and the vulnerable. Irene, the saviour of the broken, the beaten, and the damned.
Jonathan had never been a man of sentiment. The word alone was enough to disgust him. But something about her, about angelic Irene, made him want to care. Because she cared. Because she saw and she heard the children who grew up within the same cruelties he faced. And she loved them and she saved them from suffering his fate.
-----
Jonathan stood in the shadows a moment, concealed by cover of darkness, free to lose himself in his little reverie, as he gazed at the angel that graced his presence. She was knelt by the alley wall, bare knees pressed into sharp cobblestone, ivory cashmere shawl wrapped around a scraggly cat and a litter of kittens. The expensive weave was soiled, with the grime of the earth, and the blood of birth, but she paid neither any heed.
And then the moment snapped to an end. His beloved companion, his most trusted confidant, his feathery daughter, his darling Ichabod — squawked. Adorable fluffy traitor.
Irene startled at the sound, head whipping to face them, hair tossing in the wind with her movement. And then her eyes caught upon the unmistakable firefly glow of Toxin. And she quivered. She stood on trembling legs, shielding the cats behind her, fumbling in her handbag.
And then she drew a gun. A pretty thing. A useless thing. A vintage revolver, wrought iron and cherry wood. Art-deco florals carved into the grip and the slide. Cute, certainly. But impractical. More bark than bite. More show than spirit.
"Don't come any closer," she warned, voice hoarse. Here tone softened to a whisper, "Please."
Ichabod squawked softly, flapped her wings, flew from Jonathan's shoulder to perch softly on Irene's. The gentle weight of the crow, tucked into the crook of her neck, threw her off-balance, only for a moment. Her shoulders tensed.
Ichabod pressed her beak into Irene's cheek, cooed softly, nuzzling her face. A distraction tactic. It had to be. A way to lower her guard, render her vulnerable, so the Scarecrow may have his fun with her. And goddamn it all, it was working.
Partly in joy, and partly in fear, Irene offered Ichabod the softest of head-scritches. For not even god knew what would happen if she refused. Ichabod preened under her touch (and Ichabod never preened under anyone's touch but Jonathan's), nuzzled her cheek in something almost resembling affection.
"Mama," Ichabod cawed, "My Mama."
Irene blanked, stilled. Did the Scarecrow's crow just call her…
Jonathan's eyes bulged beneath the burlap. In shock. In surprise. But also in something else, something almost quietly tender. Nevertheless, he strode forward. And Irene shook in response.
She was beautiful in her fear. The most beautiful girl in the world. Whiskey-obsidian eyes behind hammered-gold glasses, dilated pupils and red-rimmed irises. Dark lashes coated with mascara, and lengthened with tears. Hair falling in mussed waves around her shoulders, fluttering as her chest heaved with every ragged breath. Caramel skin, marred with acne scars, with trickles of tears. Rosebud lips, adorned with glitter gloss, which gleamed as they quivered in the low light of the moon.
He stalked towards her, lifted a hand. The syringes moulded against the flow of his veins gleamed filament gold. She stifled a soft whimper, pressed the muzzle of her revolver into his chest, into the soft dip in the burlap that concealed his heart.
"I'll shoot," she whispered. And almost as if in support of her, Ichabod pecked at the sallow flesh of his inner wrist, above the vein where his lifeblood pulsed. A peck of protest. A silent signal — don't mess with my mama.
He chuckled in response. A low, raspy sound. Not the sound of a maniac. But the sound of a man. The man he hid beneath the veneer of madness.
"Oh darlin'," he sighed, something almost fond in his tone, "Dontcha fret."
She tensed at the endearment. He smirked. And then his gaze fell upon the kittens curled up behind her. The ice in his ocean eyes seemed to melt, if only the smallest fraction. For who could resist the allure of a pile of kittens?
Her gaze fell on his, and she instinctively slid down to shield the cats. Her eyes widened, her breaths shallowed. The revolver trembled in her hands, the frosty light of the moon rippling over the carvings in the slide.
He sighed, exasperated, and crouched before her. He pried the gun from her trembling hands, tossed it aside. She winced as it cracked against the cobblestone. He scoffed beneath the burlap, reached out, a single claw-like fingertip tracing over the back of a kitten's head.
"Sweet lil things, ain't they?" he crooned. Ichabod cawed softly in agreement.
But Irene whimpered.
"Take me," she whispered, "Not them. Please, not them." He shifted, knelt on one knee, hooked a singular curled finger beneath the soft flesh under her chin.
"Look at me."
He lifted her chin, uncharacteristically gently. She flinched, but complied, gaze rising to meet his. His eyes bore into hers — aquamarine into obsidian. He thumbed at a stray tear on her cheek. A syringe pressed against her honey skin. She gasped, held her breath. But it didn't pierce her skin. He didn't let it.
"Take you, you said?"
"Take me. Not them. Please. They're innocent. They won't understand. They won't know what's happening. I will," she choked out, "Please. Not them."
"Take you…" he repeated.
His hand shifted, palm cradling the curve of her cheek. Her eyes fluttered a moment, and her subconscious sighed at the gesture. She caught herself before she leaned into his touch. His thumb skimmed her cheekbone, her glittery highlighter smudged into his fair skin. A keepsake. A memory.
"Someday, darlin'," he murmured, "Someday soon."
She blinked. And he was gone. Slunk into the shadows.
Their love was otherworldly, soulmates in every universe, a love so deep, they completed each other. But in a world full of cynics and bigots, their love was too fragile, too pure even for them. His love too intense, too passionate, a viper tail wrapped tightly around her. Her garden of roses pricking his calloused hands and bright light of hope blinding him. Too much too fast, the right person at the wrong time. They were too young to be in love but that was all they could think about. Romeo and Juliet had an ending and so did they. But she was his home and he was her paradise and even the lost nomad returns to right where they belong before sundown, always.
i spent my whole big life trying to be special, different
because being unique, clever, original gave me value
i was so caught up in it i didnt realize how much i was holding myself back
but no one expects a baby to be complex or mysterious
i like playing wif my blocks. i like plushies. i like my paci.
i like princesses and unicorns and mermaids.
i want my life repainted in the pink i was never brave enough to ask for.
i need someone to look down and smile when i babble about how much i love my favorite princess, even if they roll their eyes after because its the same one on all the shelves at the store.
i need to play dressup and have tea parties and wear a tiara around the house, have grown ups giggle and call me "your highness" in my pretty princess dress.
i need to have so much pink it looks like a barbie threw up.
when you spend your whole life longing to be normal, that manufactured stereotype becomes a dream.
my attempts to reengage with childhood interests in adulthood led only to connecting the dots between the pits in my stomach and the memories i wish i had forgotten.
i have no childhood to go back to. it was taken from me, too.
so im making a new self.
im reraising myself from the start, rebuilding my house on a foundation without the mold of my old stones.
im not trying to relive my childhood.
im trying to live my childhood for the first time.
