Absonditus Metus - Hidden Fear Part 1

He'd come by train to Gotham City.

He'd come by train, and it had been a very long, very tiring ride.

Not that his life had been anything but long and tiring, mind you, but Jonathan Crane had found this trip far too long for his liking. This was the first time he'd ever even been out of Georgia, that he could remember, and he planned on never going back…if he could help it.

There was nothing for him back there, in that old decaying mansion that was no longer filled with anything more than rotting wood and dead memories. He'd sold off everything he could from the place, furniture, heirlooms, and valuables if they remained; anything that he could potentially use to get him as far away from his own personal Hell called Arlen, Georgia. That's how he'd found his records.

And why he was headed to Gotham City.

According to the paperwork and all the letters he'd found stashed in his Great Granny's personal writing desk in the corner of her now vacant bedroom, he was the illegitimate son of her great-grand daughter Karen and an elusive man by the name of Gerald Crane…who now worked as a construction manager in Gotham. (Secretly he'd tracked the man down, not that it was overly hard to do.) No surprise there, that he wasn't wanted, not with the way they had treated him all his life. Leaving him alone in that house with her for so long without so much as a word of contact…

What was a surprise was the fact that according to the return addresses on most of the letters and envelopes, most of his family was now located in Gotham or in the suburbs around it. So, that's where he'd planned on going, packing every little thing he owned and selling off everything he could for funding, including a lot of the books in the library.

This was why he now found himself on the Gotham train platform, his measly luggage in one hand, making his way towards the bus stop that would take him to the University. Hopefully it would be there soon, though by the looks of the other patrons waiting along-side him, he doubted that it was ever on time. That was okay, he had all night, and he was here nearly a week early anyways. It was a good thing that the Dean had approved his early arrival, otherwise he'd have had no place to stay. He really couldn't afford to live in a hotel for even a night, let alone an entire week.

It seemed like hours to him, before the bus came, when in reality it had only been forty-five minutes since they'd disembarked from the train. Forty-five long, drug out minutes, spent with him sitting on his luggage, an old book being leafed through as he tucked his scarf further around his long neck. It was only fall here in Gotham, but already the weather was turning cold, much colder then he'd ever felt before, and he didn't have the proper form of attire for such a chill climate. As soon as he came into some money, he'd have to find some decent used clothing, along with other things he'd need to survive here. If not, that he was more than certain he'd freeze to death in the process.

But this city wasn't completely without its charms, he reflected tiredly, no, not at all. It had numerous new libraries to discover and explore, shop upon shop of new and used books, clothing, anything he could think up, he was more than certain he could find. There were even shops for people just like him, people who had not much to live on but more than enough ambition to fuel themselves with. If only he had the money…

But he would, soon.

He'd be starting his new job at the college the day after his arrival, today, and would start looking around for another one for part time hours whenever they could give them to him. He could work and go to school, enough so to keep his head above water and partially out of debt...though he doubted it for long, but it couldn't hurt none the less. But every little bit helped, and so it was with growing confidence that Jonathan Crane boarded the overly late bus.

xXx

The ride started off peacefully enough, though Jonathan had never ridden public transit in his life, or a bus for that matter, before today, he hid his wonderment well. And though it reeked of human body odor and a multitude of other foul excrement, and there was a hobo sleeping on the last seat all the way in the back, Jonathan still found it fascinating. Overall, it sort of added to the charm of the city, which served to only douse his flickering flame of curiosity in gasoline.

Even the littlest of things would peak his interest. Like how the people would spread themselves out when presented with the option, or how those left without a spaced out seat would chose their chairs and partners carefully for transit. How they would weigh other people's worth based on few minute observations and a multitude of human stereotypes that he knew they all had. It was intriguing to watch the men find other male partners to sit near, while women sought out other women…and it was utterly attention grabbing.

So much so, that he didn't see the elderly man sit down next to him in the vacant outer seat in his queue. So much so that he didn't see the very man glance over at him and smile in pure mirth and joy at his wonderment, or how he removed his hat and set it in his lap before tucking the legal college-headed print paper into his jacket once more. He did, however, notice the man when Jonathan was promptly hit from one side when the bus lurched into motion, causing him to lose the tight grip he had on the book still in his hands. It went flying to the floor, only stopping to rest at the feet of the elderly man a seat away from him.

Jonathan's eyes fell to the floor as he bent down to retrieve it, mumbling his apologies as he went, his still southern accented voice sounding odd in the stuffy bus compartment, even too his ears. His cheeks were burning; he could feel them, just as much as he could feel the eyes of the older man watching him as he moved jerkily to the floor in a graceless bend. If only he hadn't been so careless to drop the book in the first place, then he wouldn't have had to open his mouth at all and let out that ridiculous sounding voice. It was the bane of his existence, much like his current monetary situation and the fact that he hadn't a clue in a world this big.

Jonathan tried to move quicker, but the man's hand beat him to the book.

Jonathan's eyes snapped up as the hand moved back, drawing his book with it, slowly moving up and towards the elderly man now clutching one of the very last few remaining possessions he carried with him from the manor. The man…the man had his book!

"Ghosts…now that's a name I haven't heard in a very long time." The man said fondly, turning the old and rather ragged book over in his hands. "And it is in good condition too. You must take very good care of this book."

The man smiled as Jonathan attempted to straighten himself out, long limbs awkward as he moved to face the man now holding his book, attempting to hold in a variety of feelings as they made their way across his mind and face. He narrowed bright blue eyes behind coke bottle frames taped at the bridge, trying desperately to figure out the motivation behind speaking to someone like him. Not even his own family wanted to do that… So then why did a man on a bus in a city he hadn't even been in for a day want to speak to him?

"I try to take very good care of my books." Jonathan decided to say finally, wincing at how his 'my' came out as 'mia' and his vowels far too long for his liking. Though he knew he was speaking quietly, he couldn't help but feel that everyone could hear him. "They're one of the few possessions I value above all else."

"Indeed, a good book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where man's mind can get both provocation and privacy." The man responded calmly, fingers moving over the spine gently as he looked the book over.

Jonathan paused.

"Edward P. Morgan, correct?" He asked, eyebrow arched at the quote the man had just presented him with. It wasn't an overly used one, or a favored author, but it was one he'd heard none the less.

"Brilliant, just brilliant son, and you are correct. I'm impressed, not many people are familiar with his work." The man's smile was enlightening and encouraging, as if he was truly proud. It made Jonathan feel just a bit warmer, if only just. "Tell me, what about this one? It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it."

"Oscar Wilde, of course." Jonathan said, a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth behind the scarf, just barely seen. "Though I haven't quite finished The Importance of Being Earnest just yet, I did read The Picture of Dorian Gray a few months back. His work is rather interesting, I must say."

"You will have to fix that, of course. Finishing the book, I mean." The man held out the book, eyes searching Jonathan's as his head rose to meet him finally, eyes hesitant but intrigued. "And don't worry about the accent, son, it will go away with time. Try not to worry about it too much. It isn't as noticeable as you think it is."

Jonathan could only nod as he accepted the book back, the smile dropping from the corners of his mouth as he turned his eyes away from the man's face at mention of his accent. He was trying too hard to control it, to break himself of the habit it still had lingering within him. It was a stain, a constant reminder of the torture he'd gone through…and he didn't want it. Not here, not at his fresh start.

"Just remember, the scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady value." He smiled and patted Jonathan on the shoulder fondly, like a grandparent would do with a smaller child, or what Jonathan had always imagined to be that way. "Rely on others, but most importantly, believe in yourself. You can do anything you put your mind to."

And the man got up to get off the bus, the lingering smell of tobacco, dust, and books trailing in his wake, the impressions and words of Washington Irving stinging Jonathan like a blow to the face.

Oh, he most definitely knew that.