A/N: This story is a crossover between 'Batman' and 'The Phantom of the Opera'. The narration will focus on Jonathan Crane's (aka the Scarecrow's) thoughts and experiences. My target audience are mainly fans of said villain as a way to introduce them to the Phantom story, of which no prior knowledge is required (just spreadin' the awesomeness :D ). Then again, it will not be a retelling of the horror classic and follow a new plot instead.

So much for the introduction, and now I hope you enjoy reading. If you have any questions, comments, aspects of criticism etc, don't hesitate to write them. Feedback is always appreciated. ;)


The librarian was an old man of a sickly frame and a strangely subservient posture, for he constantly kept his nearly bald head bowed. Thus, his intelligent, green eyes used to look up at people even as short as the Mad Hatter above the frame of a pair of thick glasses.

"To answer your question," he said in a friendly, grandfatherly manner while leading his two guests through the twisted corridors between the countless rows of impressively tall, wooden book shelves, "of course we have a section with old classics. This library is proud to call even some valuable originals its own, but I would prefer you to stick to the reprinted versions, if you know what I mean."

Although he had spoken to both men, he always seemed to address mainly Jonathan who had donned a sweater with a brown and beige check, which made him, in addition to his own glasses and unobtrusively gray trousers, thoroughly look like a cliché bookworm. Of course the tall, auburn-haired man was as oblivious to this as the librarian was to the fact that he was dealing with two experienced criminals who were badly wanted by the police in their far-off home – but the old man had nothing to fear, for the strangers meant no harm and had merely come for this building's famous collection of rare literature.

"These are really a lot of books," Jervis remarked in awe with his slightly British accent, looking about himself while walking. Absentmindedly, his partner-in-crime nodded in silent agreement. Jonathan's gaze would not leave the slim novellas and boldly lettered tomes, and he as well felt the urge to run a hand over the rough, leathery surface of their backs.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity to the impatient Hatter, the group reached a small, solid door, probably made of teak wood. The librarian took the overloaded key ring from its noose at his belt – the clanking noise of metal against metal reverberated with the high ceiling in the deserted corridors – and chose a shiny golden one to unlock the door. With a genuine smile, which was almost entirely hidden by his bushy, white mustache, the old man turned toward his guests and pulled the door – which was obviously quite heavy, for it took him some effort – open.

Immediately a wave of stale air hit the three of them. In case they had not noticed the smell of ancient paper before, now its intensity was unmistakable. Jervis observed his friend growing more enthusiastic with every second he eyed the room before them. This trip was worth it, after all, and even he, who had reluctantly agreed to join his ally and leave his beloved trademark hat behind for the sake of remaining incognito, had to admit his own excitement over the promise of seeing an original copy of Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

"I am going to leave you alone now. You look like two fellows who appreciate the value of a good book, so I trust you not to touch the copies in the showcase. Feel free to read everything else, I'll check on you later" the librarian's voice sounded from behind them, audibly pleased by the men's reaction, and he stepped forward to press a switch which illuminated the room with the dim shine of a small, single light bulb hanging down from the ceiling. "But watch out for the ghosts, some people say this chamber is haunted." The old man laughed and gave them a teasing wink. With this, he closed the door behind him and went off humming a catchy tune.

A surprised whistle through the teeth escaped Jonathan's mouth as he admired the old covers whose colors were faded due to the influence of light and dust over the decades. Turning to his companion, he said, "I still cannot believe that he allowed us to view the library's treasures, let alone without his vigil. Do you, by any chance, have something to do with this?" He shot the Hatter a meaningful glance.

"Not exactly. The guy's just too trustful, I suppose. But-" Jervis paused for emphasis and raised his hand to push a shock of golden hair aside, revealing a slim, red mind control head band hidden beneath his untamed bangs, "-I will take care that he won't come back too early." He displayed his typical toothy Cheshire grin in such a child-like manner that the taller man, who was known as the infamous Scarecrow, could barely stifle a chuckle.

Indeed Jonathan was in a jovial mood, for this place offered more than he could ever wish for. With both arms spread he took the whole collection of horror novels from its place in the book shelf at once, embracing the weight of so much promising literature with joyful anticipation.

Instead of taking a seat in the stuffed chair at the neat writing desk beneath the light source, he simply sat down on the floor next to it and deposed the books in small heaps all about him.

Briefly he flinched at a loud, squeaking outcry which rang in his ears for a while with its familiar, penetrating pitch. Quite obviously, Jervis had just found his object of interest. For the self-proclaimed Master of Fear, this meant that he would have all the time in the world to lose himself in the endless oceans of words and letters. Relaxed, he settled back against the table's solid rear, his long legs folded in a position which could impossibly be thought comfortable by anyone else, and reached for his first read.

Yet when he picked it up, he merely frowned at the title – he already knew this one! Reluctantly he put it back and scanned his surroundings for a second choice until his gaze rested on a copy in a plain, particularly old cover beside him. Encouraged by its simple beauty, he brought the slim novel to the level of his eyes and adjusted his glasses to decipher the smooth, elegant writing on its front:

"The Phantom of the Opera...?" Jonathan murmured and doubtfully raised an eyebrow at the hand-written ink. "Certainly this one must be very old," he estimated and quickly wondered why it had been standing among the common prints instead of inside the safe glass case.

With a shrug he opened it at the first page and while holding it with due diligence, he ran his thumb over the yellowed, parchment-like paper. Curious, he began to read.