Clinophobia

Note: So, the next chapter of In Vino Veritas needs to be rewritten because I feel that it just falls flat, and, all last week, I had midterms that are extending into this week. There should really be a law against that, but as long as College gets my money, College doesn't care about anything else. XP Anyway, because of that, there will be a very slight delay that this little one-shot will hopefully make up for.

This, and the one-shots that follow, are set in the "Fear and Malice with sex" universe, and I honestly think that that's what I'm gonna call it from now on. :-P

He could do this, he told himself as he strode through the halls of Arkham. After all, it was hardly unusual. Normal couples did it all the time.

As if you two are normal, the Scarecrow jibed, amused. And since when did you become a 'couple?'

He took a left at the break room.

Since I consulted Merriam-Webster and couldn't find anything else to define what that woman has done to me.

I could define what she's done to you. In your office, in a straightjacket, with leather restraints, on an examining table—

At least she's never done it in a supply closet, he thought curtly, heading down the hall toward the offices.

Yet. Then the voice sighed. Jonathan, you have sex with the woman, and you've decided not to kill her. And sometimes she spends the night and makes you breakfast the next morning—that hardly makes you a 'couple.'

Any two people who are sexually associated with one another can be defined as a couple. And it isn't just sex. The handholding's nice, he mused before he could stop himself and winced outwardly. Damnit. He was acting like some lovesick schoolboy and it was all because of that tiny blonde halfwit, who incidentally wasn't a halfwit but someone he could hold an actual conversation with, who also happened to be quite evil, which, unfortunately, only made her more appealing, yet at the same time, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was being absolutely sincere whenever she said that she never wanted to hurt him.

Damnit!

Dwell on this later,the Scarecrow lectured. You're going to give yourself a migraine.

Fine, he agreed. But I'll have you know, you sound like her, saying that.

Don't go there, Jonathan. Do not.

With a satisfied smirk, he paused outside her office. The light was on, which meant that she was inside. But she always kept her door locked, and he knew by now that if he knocked and received no answer…

That means she's in bed. Despite himself, he felt the corners of his mouth pull upward. The first time he had entered her office, he had realized that Harleen's couch was a pullout, but at the time had been unable to think of why she would need such a thing. Now he knew.

Silently, he raised his hand.

And what if she isn't there? the Scarecrow, manifestation of his darkest thoughts and doubts, could not help but inquire.

He hesitated.

She will be. If she knows what's good for her.

After all, they only had about an hour to do this and he wasn't about to go looking for her.

He rapped his knuckles against the door.

No answer.

With an odd combination of both relief and anxiety, he pulled out his set of keys, swiftly unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

It was embarrassing how relieved he felt when he saw that she hadn't disappointed him. She was resting on the futon, facing the door, eyes closed but probably still awake, and down to her camisole and underwear. A look at her closet revealed her clothing hung up neatly beside a set of empty hangers. Meant for him, most likely. She knew how much he hated to get his clothes wrinkled.

He stole another glance at her unmoving form before quickly undressing himself, hanging his suit up next to hers. Now bare-footed, silently padding over to the bed, he climbed in on the other side, scowling slightly as the creaky mattress disrupted the quiet of the room. With a few muttered curses, he settled in behind her, tangling a leg with both of hers and slipping his arms around her waist. He sighed, and propped his chin on her shoulder.

This was not a normal part of his schedule. But when all week, he'd been working relentlessly on a particularly violent patient, a new toxin, and procuring funds for a new security system, he was worn out. Last night's bedtime escapades with the blonde tart hadn't helped, either. She hadn't even made him breakfast, although, to make up for it, she'd suggested that they sneak off to take a nap together during lunch. Since he knew that an unrested mind and body would not perform as well as they could (and that even he had limits), he had told her that he would consider it.

Making a split-second decision is not the same as 'considering it.'

Shut up.

"I didn't think you'd show," she said after a minute.

He shrugged absently, letting her take his hand in her own.

"You would have been disappointed if I hadn't."

Clinophobia – fear of sleep. Because even though there's a phobia for the fear of objects at the right side of your body (dextrophobia), and there are at least ten different names for the fear of being alone, there apparently isn't one for the fear of napping or, better yet, the fear of disappointment.

Jonathan is such an evil, smug, control-freak-bastard. And…that's why we love him? I guess? And the Scarecrow seems almost…reasonable in this. Maybe it's because he's able to vent all of his rage into the sex? Even though he's probably more of a voyeur than an actual participant.

Notes

…the blonde tart… - 'tart' has always seemed like more of a term of endearment, to me, even though calling a woman such is obviously meant to be an insult. This is probably because it makes me think of cute little pastries that taste semi-sweet and semi-sharp. Which…y'know…kinda describes Harley. :-3

She hadn't even made him breakfast – I still can't picture Jonathan eating breakfast (or lunch…or dinner, sometimes), but the idea of him whining about not getting it amuses me.

Disclaimer: You guys know by now that they're not mine, right? Thought so.