BD: Hurt

Batman Drabbles

A collection of stories that were too short to call one-shots.

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I do not own any of the characters. They belong to DC Comics. This was written purely for fun.
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Hurt

   The cool breeze that hit his face brought back some semblance of lucidity. With a terrible amount of effort, Jonathan Crane opened his eyes. He was met with the sight of dingy brick. Oh...yeah. He was still in that alley. How long had he been here, leaned against the wall and trying to collect enough energy to keep moving?

   He fought to keep his eyes open. He set his jaw and struggled to bring his right arm up. He placed his hand upon the brick, cold and rough against his palm. It took nearly all of his will power to fight the desire to just stay against the wall, but he knew that he had to keep moving. He pushed himself away from the wall and stumbled backward. When he caught his footing, he looked blearily at the wall, at the dark stains that was obvious upon the brick even in the dark.

   The common clamor of the city was lost upon him. He stood in the cold night air, listening only to the sound of droplets hitting the concrete. He bowed his head and watched the slowly growing puddle of blood. His eyes followed a drop of blood from the tip of his nose that splashed down into the pool of crimson life.

   He blinked from his trance and snapped his head back up and turned toward the mouth of the alley. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment when the buildings began to dance and sway. The skyline and the ground blurred together when he opened his eyes again. After a moment of observing the dizzying sight before him, he took a steadying breath and stepped off, stumbling over the waves of asphalt that rolled beneath his feet.

   He staggered across the deserted, poorly-lit sidewalk, having no idea where he was going. His feet seemed to know what direction he was going in; Crane was just along for the ride. He hardly remembered moving through this part of the city, past the broken down buildings and over shattered glass. He slipped in and out of awareness, usually emerging from his daze when he found himself about to bump into a building. He'd lay his right hand on the side of the structure and push himself back onto the sidewalk.

   When he finally regained awareness again, he found himself against a door. His forehead was pressed against the wooden entry. He grimaced when his head throbbed, drawing a hissing breath in through clenched teeth. He bought a shaky right hand up and let it fall against the door, making a quiet knock sound. He felt his eyes slip shut—

   His eyes shot open when the door began to open. He instantly readied the toxin hidden in his sleeve. He didn't realize that the door had been the only thing keeping him standing; as it opened, he fell forward.

   A gasp reached his ears, along with what sounded like "Jon—!"

   Jonathan fell into somebody, his forehead coming to a rest against one shoulder and his right hand draping over the other. His eyes closed when his head had collided and he completely lost his footing. Instead of falling, as he thought he would, the person took a step back to support his weight. He felt a powerful grip on his left arm, just above his elbow, and another under his right arm and upon his back. He was being held up by the person he had collapsed into, not being pushed away like he would have imagined, much to his surprise.

   For a moment, all Jonathan could focus on was the sudden warmth against his battered body. He hardly noticed how close he was being held to the person's chest; all that he knew at that moment was the heat bringing some life back into his person.

   Words finally floated into Jonathan's consciousness. The words themselves were meaningless to him, but he recognized the foreign dialect. He instantly matched the accent to the person and felt himself relax. He forced his eyes open, and sure enough, he was met with the familiar blue fabric of an overcoat.

   The words slowly began to make sense in his sluggish mind. "Oh dear... Oh dear..."

   Despite the worry that radiated from the words, Jonathan felt a strange sense of peace. His right hand slipped down from the shoulder it was resting on until his fingers was resting on the curvature of the shoulder. He tightened his grip slightly, holding onto the fabric.

   Had he not been so disoriented, Jonathan knew he would never have come to Jervis Tetch in this state. He would have never gone to anyone when he was this weak, this fragile. He hadn't even realized this was where his feet had been taking him on his trek across Gotham. He knew that if he'd been in his right mind, he'd have never come to Jervis so he could see him in this state.

   ...but he knew he'd never fool himself into believing that he wasn't comforted by the fact that he was with Jervis. He'd blame it on blood loss later, but he was genuinely glad to see Jervis and that it was him he was with now.