"Don't worry, child. No one will miss you, that's why I chose you," Crane said as he turned his back to the girl in the chair. He turned around to see the fear in her eyes but the first thing he noticed was her hair, how silky it was, this nice plain brown color that ran down her neck and onto the curves of her upper torso. Obviously this was a distraction to men she used to lure them in. It's why he noticed it first. She nodded cooperatively and kept her mouth sealed so as not to please him. "Now be quiet for a minute, this won't hurt a bit." He picked up a syringe with a black fingernail-ed hand and squirted it a bit before sticking it in the girl's neck, pumping her full of a lysergic cocktail he liked to test so much.
Now this was the point where he usually lectured his patients… subjects. Tell them a little about himself, analyze them a little himself, let his voice sooth them a little before the cocktail starting working a little. He didn't want to tonight for some reason. Tonight he was in the mood for actions more than words. Tonight he was tired, listless. So he waited instead. And after about thirty seconds of eye contact with the girl with the hair and no results, his teeth began to grit themselves.
"So I see you're a strong young girl. I hardly get those. Strange, this concoction must be weaker than the rest," he mumbled a bit to himself, turning around again. A part of him missed her hair, the same part that kept him silent that night. "I suppose that test failed." He whipped around to the girl and gave her a smile. "You're lucky, child." She gave him a weak smile back, fearing the result of any more. He took a few steps towards her, just enough so that she had to stretch her neck to get a good look at him. "So tell me…" he bent down, his grey eyes boring through the holes in his mask, "What are you afraid of?" Her eyes held his for a small period of time, maybe a few seconds, before she broke and looked away, tears gathering in the lower lids of her eyes. Crane cocked his head to the side in a desperate curiosity. "…me?" Under his mask grew an enormous smile. "Are you afraid of me, child?" The girl with the hair swallowed hard and refused to meet his eyes—just as well, he could see more of her hair if her head was bent down, all the way up to her healthy, shiny roots. "You're afraid of me!" he exclaimed with a whispered quality of both surprise and fascination. She inhaled deeply but did not cry. One of his graceful hands made it's way up to her face, raising her head to look him in the eyes. She still did not cry. She continued to breathe deeply, but did not cry. His other hand took hers and removed the Scarecrow mask, which made no improvement in the fear factor, which he liked. Finally, finally the part of him that loved her hair so much seized both of his hands and ran his fingers through it. It wasn't soft, but it was smooth and well taken care of. The hair, the fear of the girl, all the silky hair… one hand remained on her head and the other hand removed every single article of clothing that the two of them had on. And the best part? He smelled the fear, grape-scented lysergic acid, like the stuff given to a child before a surgery, like the child, as he had calling her, so demeaning, beneath him, beneath his body. The strong, sexual scent of fear permeated through her hair, her breath never ceased the sharp inhales, the huffing exhales, which spread like a plague to the Scarecrow as soon as her clothes came off, by her own hand of course, with his hand merely as a guiding point. And Jonathan kept his head buried in her gorgeous, silky, grape-scented hair the entire time.
"So what is your name, child?"
"…Sofie."
"Are you still afraid of me, Sofie?"
She didn't answer. A pause sunk into their bodies, indistinguishable as two.
"…Sofie?"
She kissed him, and he kissed back more passionately than he had kissed anyone in his life.
"Yes."
Another pause.
"How would you like to be my… assistant, Sofie?"
She smiled.
…which leaves you to wonder, what is Jonathan Crane's real fetish—fear, grape, or hair? Tune in next time, to—
...ahem.