The Skin That Crawls From You [A Jonathan Crane Fan-fiction]

Puddin'

We land at Louis Armstrong Airport. I've heard plenty about New Orleans, and I always expected it's main airport to be bigger as it's such a destination. We walk from our terminal, I prop up my hood and follow Dr. Crane down to baggage claim. We pass tourist shops flaunting Tabasco sauce, saints memorabilia and hand-knit voodoo dolls piled into bins. Crane & I  shared a singular suitcase as what he packed for me was barely enough clothes for a week.

His PhD truly does not cover any sort of common sense either, as everything he packed is mismatched. Most of it; pajama t-shirts that I usually wouldn't wear out. He at least made an attempt.

I'm still wearing that ramones T-shirt and a white thrasher hoody I stole from a middle school boyfriend. He at least packed my favorite jeans.

We gather our suitcase and get into a cued cab.

"1219 Decatur"
Crane says. He slips a credit card into the meter attached to the back of the passenger's seat.

The cab ride is silent, until the driver clicks on a jazzy christmas station. Christmas! It's almost Christmas.

Will my mom think about me this Christmas?

I haven't decided what I want to tell her. Currently I'm beneath the radar. I don't have to make a decision. I will soon.

What does Crane do for Christmas? Does he even have a family to go home too? I know so little about the man beside me. I only know Doctor Crane. Who is Jonathan?

"Jonathan- Dr. Crane?"
I ask, his first name sounds forbidden on my lips.

He raises a brow and turns to me.

"Miss Alcott?"
His response makes me feel small.

I want to ask about his family- his Christmas. It sounds too personal for a man I'm obviously only on a last name basis with.

"Is this your tshirt?"
Am I wearing his tshirt?
I pulled up my hoody slightly to reveal the RadioHead tshirt I haven't taken off.

He squints slightly and smirks.

"It is."

"Do you like Radiohead?"

"I do."

"How old are you?"
I finally decide to ask. A general question. Not too personal.

"Twenty two."
He tells me.

"But you're a doctor- doesn't that take like 8-10 years?"
I ask .

"For most. I started my degree at fourteen."

Behind Crane's head, we exit the highway and pass a fenced in cemetery.

As my gaze lingers, he turns to see what I've fixated on.

"St. Louis Cemetery number 2. Where the common man is buried. No one important."

He's changing the subject, but I'm curious. So I take the bait.

"They segregate classes here? Even after death?"

"Well of course."
He tells me.

"There is always more misery among the lower classes than there is humanity in the higher."

"Les misérables?"

He nods and we drive into the heart of the French quarter.

•

Harley Quinn

"Anything for you puddin'."

"Anything?"

"Anything!"
I giggle. I'm straddling his lap on a leather couch. He's warm beneath my thighs- I never expect warmth. He is, however, a person despite how it often seems. Just a person. My person.

"Okay- then give them to me alive."
He smiles at me. Lips curling as he eyes mine.

"OOh are we gonna torture them? Main em'?"

"Yes Harley girl. We are."

"I think it's time we get some new toys anyway! Those Arkham guards are starting to get stinky.
I point to the massive cage in the corner of Mistah J's place.

"I think they died."
I whisper.

With that, his hand harshly slams into my rib cage and pushes me onto the couch beside us. I tumble and land, feet on the floor.

He stalks to the metal cage, pulls his gun from his shoulder holster and begins to slam it against the bars. The guards don't flinch.

"Wakey wakey!"
He yells.
They don't answer.

"I'm not going to ask twice."

He quickly fires two shots into the guard's limp heads.

He turns rapidly on his heels and faces me. He's smiling. When he sees me, his face twists into something sour.

"You're still here? Go! Go!"
He begins to yell.

"Go catch me a birdy and her scarecrow."