Content Warning: Mention of medical procedures

xxxx

Oddly enough, with this new bit of information in mind, things made a lot more sense. What didn't make sense was Wayne's own failure to deduce it, rather than blindly stumble into discovering it, as he of course had just managed. He was supposed to be detective, after all. Legendary. Compared to Holmes regularly. He was that good. But at the moment, he felt like little more than a Clouseu. Looking back, it should have been obvious.

Deep in the recesses of his self-made cave, The Batman had spent a night updating his records and shifting headshots around on a bulletin board.

This intelligence he'd come into wasn't a game-changer, but it certainly made a helluva big difference.

Who else knew about this? Unlike Harley and Joker, or even Baby Doll and Killer Croc who came afterwards, The Scarecrow and The Mad Hatter were obviously not public. Due to the, ah, nature of their relationship, it was hard to deny that it came complete with some level of scandal. With its dense Catholic population—both Roman and Irish— Gotham was not immediately gay friendly.

An hour into his work and all Bruce felt he could truly verify was that The Riddler had to know. He was just as perceptive as the Dark Knight himself, and beyond that a long-time ally to both of the men in question. Every other Rogue seemed a tossup.

The Penguin? Poison Ivy? Hugo Strange? Did these two even have any other collaborators? Confidantes? Friends? Bruce wouldn't have been at all surprised if the answer was no. Frankly, he hadn't been aware that either of them were emotionally capable of holding down friendships, let alone something like this. What even… was this? Bruce had to concede, if only to himself, that he didn't quite have all the facts.

xxxx

Finally. After countless nights wasted on fruitless stakeouts and dead-end leads, the smoke had finally cleared, and Batman had finally hit paydirt: he'd found The Scarecrow's lair, or at least one of his many temporary bases, this particular nest being a long-since condemned studio flat, one of thousands in the city, cramped and squalid. Non-descript. Easy to miss. But Bruce was good.

Sweeping in silently through the window, the Bat took note of a disheveled mattress on the floor and several leather-bound books tossed haphazardly around. Despite the mess, it was plain to see that the tenement hadn't been occupied for long; there was no chemistry paraphernalia to be seen, no haystacks, and no human remains as of yet. The Scarecrow was here alright, but he'd just barely moved in. As a matter of fact, it was still a question as to whether he was even present at the moment, or it had been, until the vigilante picked up on the sound of murmuring coming from behind the only door in the space, save for the entrance. He took a purposeful step forward, ginger all the while, and squinted as he listened, picking up on little swatches that soon developed into a full dialogue.

"…hurt… squirming like that…"

"It wasn't—ah!… then I wouldn't."

"Hush, let me work."

Then came more silence, save for the soft inarticulate quibbling that Batman had connected to Jervis Tetch. Based on the voice's cadence and its current company, there was no one else it could have been. Bruce halted by the door, wondering if he might glean any useful information this way.

After a few beats of semi-silence, The Hatter spoke up again, voice wavering. "How many more am I going to need?"

"At least three," the Scarecrow replied, his tone a steady counterpoint to his companion's mewling. "Unless you care to take your chances with bleeding out."

"No…"

Bruce guessed that he was administering stitches.

More silence came and went, soon broken by a few gentle snaps and some fumbling. "There," the Scarecrow announced, in a tone of voice that the detective was not at all familiar with. It then dawned on him that he'd only ever heard the Scarecrow speak in the throes of his theatrical crimes, or else wailing in agony, physical or otherwise. But he sounded calm and disquieted now, hitting a tenor that almost made him seem like someone else, even when speaking sharply.

"Ap, ap! I'm not finished. You still need bandages."

The Mad Hatter groaned unhappily. His voice, on the other hand, was the same as ever.

"Well , if you'd been more careful, this wouldn't have happened."

"Your hindsight is impeccable as usual Jonathan." His voice briefly took on a sarcastic edge that faded just as quickly as it had arrived.

"Unfortunately, we can't say the same for your hand-to-hand combat skills," Crane remarked flatly, followed by a tearing sound. "There we are. We'll have another look at your cuts in a few days to see how they're progressing."

"Alright."

Tetch tutted effetely as his medic jostled around, probably packing his remaining supplies away. Those sounds ceased with a light clatter, and the Scarecrow spoke up once more, markedly stern.

"You're not to pull another stunt like that Jervis, do you understand? Don't even think about it."

The injured man sighed heavily in response, later forcing out a defeated apology. Batman was aware that the two were close collaborators, but he never realized how personal their relationship had gotten. It seemed almost paternal.

Crane's voice lost its edge. "I wish you wouldn't throw yourself into harm's way like that."

His patient choked out a scoff. "Oh yes? And I suppose you'd rather I stay at home and wait for you as well."

"Nothing of the sort," came an irritable reply. "You're only difficult to manage is all."

"I'm very sorry you've been annoyed," Hatter quoted sincerely.

"I'm not annoyed. I was only—"

"Frightened?"

"Concerned," Crane hissed back. The other let out a soft titter at that. "Of course luv, of course."

'Luv?' A perplexing thought crossed Bruce's mind, and he found that he nearly knocked his head against the doorframe, struggling to hear as the fugitives' voices dropped lower and lower.

"Then I'm sorry for whatever grief I've caused you," the Hatter went on, his intonation hazy and soft. The Scarecrow's response was little more than suspiration. "No need…"

The gentle smacking sounds that followed were telling.

A chagrinned frown settled on Bruce's face as he stepped back quietly, suddenly gripped by the urge to dash back out the window from whence he came.

So much for his earlier 'paternal' theory.

xxxx

Wayne squirmed uncomfortably at the memory. He wasn't supposed to know about their affair, nor did he particularly care to, but it was a minute detail that was important to have in mind nonetheless. Not that he'd set out to uncover it, of course he hadn't even suspected it, but like all humans, Batman had 20/20 hindsight, and that little encounter explained quite a bit of odd behavior.

He stared blankly at the headshots on his wall. Between two photographs—of Crane and Tetch, respectively—was a newly drawn red line, connecting them. It was not unlike the line connecting images of The Joker and Harley. Though further investigation was necessary for a variety of pressing reasons, Bruce somehow suspected that it wouldn't yield much. Those two had seemed almost human back there.