Doctor Jonathan Crane (nightmareserum) wrote in newalliance, @ 2012-05-28 20:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | poison ivy, scarecrow |
Who: Jonathan Crane and Poison Ivy
Where: Ivy's hideout (and Jonathan's temporary home)
When: May 29th, 2012
What: A conversation and failed seduction.
Rating: PG-13 to R (warnings for talk of severe child abuse).
Jonathan poured himself a glass of scotch, staring at the amber liquid before drinking half of it, leaning on the island. He had been living with Ivy for a week now, and the only thing he had earned from it was an eternal hard-on and an eternal headache.
He drained the glass before pouring a second, sighing heavily, resting his head against the cool marble, trying to remember why he didn’t just phone Edward and beg to go home again.
...oh yeah, he was giving Edward his ‘space’ before he tried that.
“Kill me,” he muttered.
“That can be arranged,” Pamela said as she stepped into the parlor. She was still wearing her outfit from teaching that day. A pair of sensible heels, gray fitted pencil skirt and a white blouse with short sleeves. Her hair, however, was no longer in the neatly done French roll, but cascaded over her shoulders in gentle waves. She wasn’t bothering to hide the green tint of her skin at home, so that was possibly the only thing, besides her hair, that appeared different now than it had when she was at Gotham Heights a few hours before.
She’d generally kept her distance since bringing Jonathan home from Arkham. They shared the same living space, but she purposely made herself scarce. His words still seemed to reverberate through her mind on occasion. She was broken the same way he was. Sex was something shared and apparently the way she did it, wasn’t normal. Or the way he liked it. Thinking upon it, however, only seemed to upset the delicate balance of her moods.
“Oh, you didn’t actually mean that, did you?” she came over to pick up the bottle of scotch. One of hers. He hadn’t asked. She frankly, right then, didn’t care. Liquor was liquor and she had it more for show than for her own consumption.
“Not if you want the toxin finished,” he said, turning his head to look at her, a small smile crossing his lips. He couldn’t help it. He prefered her more ‘natural’ then she was when she walked out the door in the morning to head to the school and to see her with her hair unbound and the green tinting her skin it made him happy.
Not, that his happiness apparently mattered in their...relationship.
“I hope you don’t mind I opened it,” he said, referring to the scotch. It wasn’t like he could ask, she hadn’t been home, and when she was she was off avoiding him, doing her best to keep out of sight and out of where he could find her without sending a search party.
“How was school?” he straightened, sipping the scotch more slowly this time around as he leaned against the island, turning towards her.
She waved a hand at him when he spoke of the drink.
“The usual,” she replied, though they never had this conversation before, “A bunch of teenagers either oversexed or still trying to let go of childhood, gallivanting about and wasting their lives caring more about who is doing what this summer as opposed to worrying that their grades on their finals will likely lead to them spending that summer in school.” She didn’t look at Jonathan, but she poured herself a glass as well. While not a drinker, she didn’t see the harm in using the alcohol to unwind the way that other teachers often preferred to do.
With the glass in hand, she swirled its contents as she went to take a seat in a chair, “It makes me happy that I was never subjected to public schooling. The education standards here were so beneath what I’m accustomed to.” Pam crossed one leg over the other and stared at the nearest window.
“And you? How was your time in the lab?”
“And now you know why I won’t be returning to teaching...ever.” Not that he could, but the point remained. He watched her legs as she crossed them, before raising his eyes to her face, taking a hefty swallow. “It was fine...a bit annoying as one of your plants that you gave me to study tried to eat me, but I’m sure that was an accident,” he raised an eyebrow at her.
Pam chuckled, “Oh, he’s just a bit jealous, that’s all. I don’t really bring anyone home with me. And he doesn’t really see anyone except me. I suppose I spoiled him.” She took a sip of the drink and winced. What on earth did people enjoy about it? Still, it could be one of those “acquired taste” things, so she drank a little more. Even if it wasn’t a particularly enjoyable experience for her taste buds.
“I’ll chat with him,” she said, “He’ll leave you alone.”
“Thank you, I like to not be eaten by my subjects,” he said, before moving to sit in a chair across from her. “Beyond that, I should have the first trial dosage for your plants soon, I will need your help to increase their growth so I can harvest the seeds without having to wait another growing season,”
He sighed, leaning back in the chair, tilting his head back. Talking with Pam anymore was a dance around subject that had meaning, as if they were two strangers on a train instead of current roommates.
..actually, strangers on a train had more interesting conversations.
“You’re from Georgia,” she said very matter-of-factly, “Your accent. The one you try to hide, that is. It’s from Georgia. It took me a bit to figure it out.” Pam looked up from the glass as she brought it to her lips. Did he even remember that it had slipped? Possibly not, but she said it because talking about school and work, it got boring very quickly. And she wanted to see how he reacted to her knowledge.
She took another gulp as she waited. The taste did improve slightly as she drank. How much she could drink before she felt the effects? Maybe tonight was a good night to find out.
“The accent that I do hide,” he corrected, draining his glass as he watched her, standing and grabbing the bottle, pouring another glass as he returned to his chair. “But yes, I’m from Georgia. I’m surprised you narrowed it down, most just classify it as ‘southern’ and leave it at that while mentally lowering my IQ a hundred points,”
And no, he didn’t sound at all bitter as he spoke. he drained his glass again, staring down at the still bright and whole ice, realizing he was well on his way to getting utterly smashed, something he hadn’t done since he graduated from Harvard.
“We’re going to need more alcohol,” he muttered.
“It took a little research,” Pam explained, “But I managed to narrow it down to a state. Region within that state, however, would be beyond me. You seem impressed.” Then there was a smile and she looked at the glass once more. He was right. They were going to need more to drink. She set the now empty glass down on the nearest side table and then rose to her feet, walking over to the liquor cabinet and then opening the doors.
She browsed over the names and plucked a bottle of whiskey. Now that she was getting a taste for scotch, why not try something new? Bottle in hand, she turned to face Jonathan, “So what brought you out of Georgia? Work? School? At what point did you decide you wanted to create that fear toxin of yours?”
“The middle region,” he muttered before watching her. “Of course I’m impressed, like I said, most people don’t bother.” At the rest of her questions he drained his drink again, and waited until she wasn’t looking before taking a long drink from the bottle.
“I left to get the hell away from my family,” he said bitterly, before turning his mind to the rest of her question. “I ‘decided’ to create the fear toxin when one of my professors got funding for it from Harvard, it was once a valid drug...if lethal,”
It was that lethality that got the study shut down. He could still remember standing in the dean’s office, listening as the man detailed all the reasons why they had to close down the program. Six dead students, students he knew...intimately, one lone survivor of the second trial...the control.
The only student who knew every ingredient that went into the drug, who knew its chemical creation.
He took another long swallow from the bottle, not caring if she was watching, manners be damned against the memories of his boyfriend’s smile, their friend’s laughter, the moans of pleasure that time past mixed with their screams of terror.
Pam listened as he spoke, walking back over to her own glass and filling it to the brim with the whiskey. Putting the bottle down, she glanced up to see him drinking the scotch straight from the bottle. “What did your family do?” she asked, knowing they were delving into more personal topics, but the more she drank, the less she seemed to care. She might even tell him a bit about her own past should he get to asking. But for now, he was the topic of conversation.
“Beat you? Scream at you? Put you down constantly?” she seated herself once more, undong the top button of her blouse. It was getting a little warm in the room. With the hand that held the glass, the finger pointed to him, “Or did they do what my parents did. Pretend you weren’t even there.”
“I would have prefered that...well, my mother actually perfected that art...too bad my Great-Grandmother knew all too well that I was there,” he said before setting the bottle aside and standing.
He unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off, before opening his belt and pants, turning so that she could see his back. Jonathan had paid a heavy price in pain and money, being a guinea pig for the plastic surgery department and most of the scars on his arms, chest and stomach had faded, becoming nothing more then hair thin lines that you couldn’t see unless you looked close.
The large scars across his back however, could never be faded, the doctors too afraid to work on them anymore then they had for fear of damaging Jonathan’s spine and back muscles. So he was eternally left with large, thick claw like scars across his shoulders and mid back, with a deep, heavy gash across his lower back, dipping under his waistband.
The lowest scar had very obviously been the worst, so deep into his skin it was a wonder he was alive let alone walking, and the edges were stretched, obviously moving with age as his body grew.
“My Grandmother raised crows,” he said softly, zipping up his pants, not bothering to button them as he sat back down. “She used them to punish me,”
There was a moment of confusion on Pam’s part when Jonathan began to undress. A raised eyebrow and a question unspoken. But she understood what he was talking about when the light of the parlor shone over his skin, revealing the scars that varied in size and severity. The only question left was who was responsible for it, and he supplied the answer when he spoke next. HIs grandmother.
“So that is why you use the name you do,” she noted, “Scarecrow.” Her lips parted softly but she wasn’t sure what else to say. She could offer him remedies, but the wounds were old and it would take a great deal of herbs not within her possession to hide those memories. “It’s a good reason to run away,” she said, “I wouldn’t have been able to.” An admission.
“The one on your back,” she questioned, “The larger one...the others have faded more or less, but that one...” Pam trailed off but essentially asking for the story behind it. Why was that, and not the others, still so prominently visible?
“Not quite,” he said with a fond smile, referencing his name. “We had an old Scarecrow on the farm...he was always visible to me, from either my room or the church...he was what I stared at for days on end, to hide away from the pain,”
Jonathan swallowed thickly as she spoke of his worst scar and he stared at his hands. He had told the full story only twice, the rest brushed off with some easy lie or dismissal. For some reason, he didn’t want to do that with Pam.
“I was five,” he said softly, his voice devoid of emotion. “I was clearin’ the table and dropped a plate,” his accent thicked his voice where the emotions should have, giving weight to the words. “There was a carvin’ knife on the counter, left over from the ham. Granma grabbed it and stabbed into my back. I twisted away an’ it left the scar you see. The doctors tried but...the tissue’s too entwined with my spine and nerves to be removed and a laser won’t work on the thickness,”
He coughed, taking another long drink from the bottle. “Sorry,” he said, his accent audibly fading mid-word. “I’m not used to remembering that,”
During his story, Pamela had served herself a second glass of whiskey, and then a third. Her focus was a little funny and she felt strangely light headed. Did it matter? Not at all. “You’re lucky you survived,” she said and leaned her head against the side of the armchair, “I died twice. Maybe three times? I lost count.” Her eyes fluttered closed and she smiled, which was a little odd considering what she just said.
“College was supposed to be an escape for me too,” she said, now giving her own story freely, without needing the question, “I didn’t have any friends though. I never did, none that I could speak to. And then he stepped into my life.” The smile faded, her eyes opened and she stared past where Jonathan was seated, at the wall but not really at the wall. Beyond it? No, just off distantly to a memory that seemed so long ago.
Nudging the glass away she went on, “Dr. Jason Woodrue. That’s what he went back. I didn’t find out later that his name was actually Alec Holland. Though I suppose he’s more infamously known as Swamp Thing.” The cup she pushed away was now in her grasp again, “I made the perfect victim, you know. So weak, fragile, I was ripe for the taking and he did just that. He took me, killed me over and over with injections until.” Her free hand snapped.
“The funny thing is,” she pointed at him, “As much as I hate him...those experiments gave me the power that I have now. I suppose I should be grateful to him. I just can’t seem to muster up that feeling for him.” There was more to the story. The well laid seduction, the mind games that she so easily fell for, the way he manipulated her over and over to let him continue to inject her with one serum after another.
Pam glanced at the glass, “Is this what alcohol does? Makes you dwell on memories you’d rather not think on?”
“No, that’s what talking with friends does,” Jonathan said softly, giving her a sad smile. “He’s the one who broke you, isn’t he?” Granted, she was probably broken in ways before him, but not in the way he meant.
“I was already broken when he got to me,” Pam said, “He just...finished the job, you could say. I don’t think he expected me to survive, and I don’t think he expected me to become what I am. That is the satisfaction I get to live with. Though I don’t think there’s much of who I was left. When he broke me, he shattered me.” Was she admitting that she was broken? Yes. Because the Pam that was speaking now was tipsy and willing to admit things that she thought she wasn’t sure about. It could be the truth and it was very likely that it was.
She put the glass aside, swearing mentally it was the last time she would pick it up, only to seize the bottle, “I don’t want to be like that though. The pathetic thing I was before. Sniveling. Easy to manipulate or give in because I didn’t think anyone else wanted me.” Pam rose to her feet, perhaps a little too quickly because she faltered, but she managed to catch her bearings to prevent a collapse.
“Men want me,” she said, “Lots of them do. And I get to be the one to tear them down, to break them until they are screaming for it all to end.” Despite the pride her words meant, she didn’t sound very happy then. The bottle dropped to the ground, its remnants spilling over the expensive rug and she stumbled forward.
“Except you,” she said, “And I don’t blame you.”
Jonathan stood, grabbing her around the waist, holding her steady. “Except me what? That I don’t want you, or that you can’t break me?” he asked, tilting her head up. He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you, Ivy,” he breathed, holding her close. “But no, you can’t, and will not break me...because there’s nothing left of me,”
He pulled away from her ear, but kept a hold of her so that she didn’t try moving or falling. “You my dear, are completely smashed,” he said, laughing, feeling the effect of the alcohol himself, though she seemed quite a bit further done then he.
When he was dancing naked on the table tops, he would know he had drunk too much.
“Isn’t it better, to have one person in your life you can’t control?”
“I can’t control Batman,” she offered, “I never could. I never will. And you. I thought I could, but I was wrong. And smashed means drunk, doesn’t it?” Pam touched his face sloppily and then let out a laugh, “I hate being wrong too, you know. But I haven’t met someone who enjoys that.” She felt tipsy but she wasn’t necessarily completely smashed. Perhaps she was indulging a bit, or maybe she was actually somewhat off. Still, while Pamela was there, Ivy was more of a presence.
She stared at him, “You like to push the limits. One day that’s going to get you killed.”
“One day, but not yet,” Jonathan said with a grin. “Besides, what’s the point of limits if you can’t push at them? No one would ever change or grow as people,” He kept his arm loosely around her waist, not really trusting her to stand unassisted anymore and not wanting to have to help her up off the ground.
“It depends on who you are pushing,” she spoke softly, looking up at him, “Some limits shouldn’t be pushed. They are the ones that you should be afraid of pushing.” She laid a hand on his chest and looked at his neck, eyes batting a few times softly. Pam was contemplating on how to turn this to her advantage. Maybe if she played this up a bit more, he seemed entertained by the idea she was tipsy.
Leaning into him, she breathed quietly with her head resting against his shoulders, “I don’t think i can walk right now.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m holding you,” he said, smiling down at her, his hand sliding up to support her back, yet be able to play with the ends of her hair, twining it around his finger. “Do you want me to help you upstairs to your room?” he asked, brushing his hand back down her back, gently rubbing it.
Pam closed her eyes nodding slowly, “Maybe that’s for the best...you could help me into bed too?” She squeezed against him in a hug, letting her fingernails run over his back through his shirt with the slightest bit of pressure. It might get him into her room and from there, she’d work out a way to get him under control. He’d enjoy having her in control, it wasn’t so bad, at least, she’d never heard any complaints before...
“Please?” she whispered and kissed his throat gently.
Jonathan moaned softly before shifting, lifting her easily up into his arms and carrying her up the stairs. Given that he was actually allowed near her room, it was interesting to note he knew the way without asking, standing her on her feet long enough to pull the covers of her bed back before laying her down on it, brushing her hair from her face as he gave her a small kiss, before tucking her in.
Pamela let him move her as needed. Once in the room which was as much of a stranger to her as many of the others in her large home, she was in the bed and lying down. As he tucked her in she took his hand off the blankets, trying not to be as forceful as she wanted to be. “Stay,” she said, forcing a weakness in her voice, “Don’t go yet.”
“If you want,” Jonathan said, taking as seat on the bed next to her, gently running his fingers through her hair, combing free tangles from it. He brushed a finger along her cheek, smiling. “You are so beautiful,” he said softly, returning his fingers to her hair. “I wish you wouldn’t hide away your skin,”
“I have to,” she replied meekly, “Otherwise they’d know who I was and everything I’ve been having you do would be for nothing. I can’t make you waste your work like that.” Yes, make it all about him. Poor Jonathan, all that work she had him doing, no, this was his work too, not just hers. Of course. Pamela took his hand with hers and then looked over and kissed the palm, “Stay with me tonight.”
She then kissed the inside of his wrist and looked at him. There was only a slight hint of that sweetness there, but a sort of sultry look that said she wasn’t talking about just sharing the bed.
Jonathan groaned, both from the brush of her lips against his skin, and the look in her eyes. Jonathan leaned over her, resting his hands next to her head, smirking slightly. “If you wish,” he said, before leaning down to kiss her, just the softest brush of lips against hers, keeping the rest of his body from touching her.
Hook. Line. And...maybe. If she could only keep this up. Though Pamela was growing impatient and she hated being in the scratchy bed. Which was odd since she spent most nights asleep in the grass and most people always thought to be more uncomfortable. She kissed him back, leaning up from the pillow and using the kiss as a lure to draw him in further. She’d try to be more careful this time, but dammit, the liquor hadn’t helped at all.
“You don’t lose any part of you when you submit,” she whispered, “If anything, I’ve seen men say it makes them feel free.”
Jonathan’s head hung as she spoke and he pulled away, pushing his glasses up to look down at her. “No, Ivy,” he said with a sigh of want before sitting up fully. He stood, smoothing the bed where he had been sitting.
“What is so wrong about it?” she protested, feeling flushed that he was, once again, pulling away, “Why does it have to be shared? It doesn’t have to be a loss if you don’t want it be.” Why on earth was he being so stubborn about this? It didn’t make sense to her, it might never. She glared at him from in the bed.
“Because it has implications psychologically I don’t like, Ivy. I’m not that sort of man,” he gave a shrug, looking down at her before sitting down again, taking her hand. “Your submission killed you, why can’t you understand why I can’t allow myself to bend in such a manner and give that power to someone else completely?”
“Sexual submission didn’t kill me,” she argued, “Poison killed me. Toxins killed me. Woodrue killed me. Never submission.” Pam sat up, glaring at him and then pushed the covers off angrily, climbing out of bed. It was clear she hadn’t really needed that much help getting up the stairs, in fact, she was carrying herself rather well. Lies were nothing new to the game.
She seethed, “Not everyone you bend to will abuse you. It’s a power, but it feels good from both sides if they both want it enough.”
“I highly doubt that,” Jonathan said softly, not looking up at her, hurt from her lies and being used just so she could try to break him again. He stood, placing a soft kiss in her lips before heading for the door, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Good night, Ivy, pleasant dreams,” he said, still not looking at her as he headed for one of the upstairs balconies, needing to think and mope outside rather than downstairs where he would likely take it out on her bitchy plant.
The room was strange and foreign. Pam knew she didn’t belong there. She was furious and confused. Fine. His loss. He’d regret it someday. She just hated how much it reminded her of him. Batman. Walking away unaffected, like it was some joke that was being played on her. She didn’t stay in the room long, but marched out, heading back outside to her room home. Under the stars with the moon hanging above and the stars to lull her to sleep. Where she was surrounded by everything she loved and that loved her back.