disclaimer: I don't own the Batman, or anything really.

a/n: I had to... just had to. It isn't that bad. But not that good either. Just a little drabble for what has been playing on my mind but can't fit anywhere but its own little place. I'm sure its been done before. I'm sure. I just haven't seen/read it, so yeah. Because of how it plays out; you can think of it as a parody of Batman. But not really. I don't know.

Here you go.

They froze when he drew the gun.

They /froze/.

Why?

"Why?" they asked him, he only stood there, smiling sweetly. Something was off about him- Crane never used guns. Always words or his toxins. They made him do it. So silly, they were being. Stupid even. You don't get far without force. And besides; the costumes were getting old. Very old. The face paint too.

"Because," he tells them, pressing the gun to the Batman's head, "This is getting old."

The Joker makes the first move, questioning for the Batman, "Who's in charge right now? Scarecrow or Jonny boy?"

"Neither," is the slow reply, "Jonathan is."

It throws them for a loop; they didn't know who Jonathan was. Only Jonny and Scarecrow. The mental doctor and the cruel strawman.

Not Jonathan. Not the real one.

The original owner of the body.

"Jonathan?"

He doesn't know who asks the question, he only nods, glasses slipping off of his face. It was delightful, letting it be known that he was real. That there indeed had been someone- someone sane before the fear set in.

You didn't think he hadn't felt it, had you?

You did, he accuses you.

You did think he hadn't felt it before.

Well he'll tell you that he has- fear creates a mastery over fear. Bullies come from being bullies. Criminals come from a criminal. A hero from a hero. Good from good. Bad from good.

It is written in nature's working.

But there he is. Jonathan.

Someone who has escaped from the workings of fear, of controlling fear; from the bad, from being the criminal.

Here he is, the sanity of Scarecrow and Jonny.

There he was, about to kill the Batman.

Instead, he does a strange thing. Fingers wrap around the Batman's mask, he rips it off. And then the words drop like honey, "Hello Bruce."

Bruce's eyes widen as he slowly realizes that now they know. Now the only people he ever felt fear of knew he was the Batman. Now any could end up knowing. It could be common knowledge and he would have to choose. Choose as perhaps these people had to.

Jonathan only smiles.

The Joker laughs.

"What about you? Going to remove your mask, Joker?"

The clown freezes, staring at Jonathan oddly.

"No. No. I don't think you will," the former doctor answers for him. A pause, then the cold metal pressed against Bruce's temple, "What say you Bruce? Who better take out the theatrical, than someone ordinary?"

"They won't think you did it- they'll think the Joker did it," manages the unmasked vigilante.

That makes Jonathan pause, but then he goes about and says; "I know."

The trigger is pulled and the noose tightens- blood, red and arching sprays from the head of the dead man. Red, red, red, red. Such a beautiful color, decides Jonathan. He should see more of it. Dropping the gun, he ignores the look from the Joker.

Certainly, Jonathan is the better criminal than Jonny or Scarecrow.

Because he is real.

Then Scarecrow wakes up and sees the same old, same old walls of the cell. The bars mixed with glass keeping him there. Same old uncomfortable bed, the same glaring guards. He is greeted by the same old silly psychiatrist woman that Jonny probably hired at some point.

He sighs when she asks, "What did you dream of?"

"Reality," he replies, sounding weary.

She pauses, and writes something down on the clipboard. Something that doesn't matter anymore. "Reality? What do you mean?"

Shaking his head, he knows it is futile to explain. "Not this. Clearly."

A look of anger flashes across the face of the doctor, but she manages to say in a level voice, "It means something."

Giving up within a heartbeat, the Scarecrow merely says, "A place where I'm not this. I'm me."

It confuses her, and she leaves with a mild snort of disapproval.

Doesn't matter to him. He's going to be here forever, despite what people promise.

Sleep calls to him, and he lays back down. Slipping, slipping, slipping into the dark.

Perhaps today is the day when that reality takes over.

a/n: It is sort of depressing, if you think about it. But whatever.

Not much to say, really.

Review if you want.