Who: Jonathan Crane What: A narrative. Where: New Arkham. When: Recently Warnings/Rating: None.
If there was one thing that Jonathan Crane had learned while reading about the exploits of his predecessor was that the other man had absolutely no notion of subtlety. Much like the latter half of his namesake, he all but crowed about his plans all over the journals, taking absolutely no effort to remain quiet about his actions, and that more than anything else, had been his downfall. There was something to be said about keeping quiet about one's actions, to keep people looking elsewhere even as you did as you desired. And this Jonathan Crane, barely over 20 and still green with youth, did not intend on making the same sort of mistakes as his predecessor.
No, this Crane was practicing control. Control of his actions, of his emotions, of those that he spoke to (and those he did not), of what was said and what he did not talk about. It was all about control, of looking into the future as far as one could in order to make the best decisions possible.
And right now, it was about playing nice. That wasn't to say his current behaviour was wholly an act. He had a kind bone or two within his body, but years of abuse at the hands of both family and his peers had left him hardly in the mood to be anything but sharp-edged and destructive. But this was a second chance to put something right together in his life, security that he had longed for, and on the heels of that, the world would eventually come to fear him once more. If he played his cards correctly, by the time any of them noticed, it would be entirely too late for them to stop it, and they would be left pawns in his games, pieces that he moved here and there to do his bidding.
These were the things he thought of since he had been informed of his impending release. The innocent young man who was not yet the person everyone knew, the man who was more brains than straw, who was more control than chaos. But he would need to be patient, and that was something that he had never been very good at. He was the sort of man who desired results, visible ones, as soon as he could receive them. Biding his time and waiting quietly was not something he excelled at, but again, it was about control. He would, with time, ingratiate himself to the man known as the Bat Man. He would, in time, see defenses lowered. And then he would move in.
Until then, he would play the part he had been playing since he realised what was going on, the role he had stepped into some weeks prior. He knew well enough that he could not say a word to anyone about what he was doing, the things going through his mind, and that would be difficult, particularly with the few people he had spoken to. Edward, for one, and perhaps Becky.
Becky. Oh, Becky. Unexpected, unplanned, the person he didn't know he wanted until she was standing in front of him. Jonathan found he couldn't wholly get her out of her thoughts, soft skin and soft words, the shy glances she gave to him during the handful of minutes they had managed to spend together in that strange room in the hotel. The very last thing that he wanted to do was to harm her, and there was a chance that the only way he could keep from hurting her was to push her away.
But therein lied the problem.
He wanted her. He nearly had her. And he did not want to let her go.
Jonathan stared out the window of his room, shoulder butted against the wall as he lost himself in thought. He knew that there was only a week between now and his release, but it felt like an eternity from where he was standing, and the possibility that so much would go wrong before those doors opened before him and he put this place behind him.