AN/TW: if it's not obvious enough, this story is dealing in general with dark themes and crippled mental health. Comic inspired villains, BTAS version of our heroes. Shifting first person POV chapters between characters (but mostly Crane probably). What can I say the guy's a favorite to write for.
It's no secret I have little regard for the opposite sex. I've worked on rare occasion with one of the venomous mistresses who are deadly to cross and venomous with independence. I've run my fair share of exams and experiments on the female sections of the population, quickly growing bored with the basic fears which plague the painted women fleeing in their pumps with all the grace of a maimed gazelle. Or the lack of interest even the so-called "book worms" are able to entreat, their ability to hold a conversation fleeting at best or less with their pure disgust for my appearance or my biting wit. It's no secret at all: Jonathan Crane does not waste his time with women. And women don't waste their time with Jonathan. So naturally, I had very little in the way of experience to pull from when a fresh face settled down on the sofa next to me in the recreation room of Arkham Asylum. True, it's not like I was using the seat myself, but even among the most loony of inmates, they all knew to give me my space. Or learned it quickly. I didn't need to glance at the page number for the copy of Sleepy Hollow I was re-reading for...well I lost count on the re-reads long ago. But the guards always thought it funny to ensure it was one of the few tomes I have access to. I snapped the book shut and turned a narrowed gaze to the vixen, opening my mouth to enunciate my displeasure with the intrusion, but she launched into a greeting before I could push the words out.
"You specialize in fear, I hear, don't you?" the words were fast, her brown eyes wide, anxiety already riddling her body posture in one hundred minute details untrained eyes would fail to notice. But I noticed. It sparked my irritation into interest instantly, a lop-sided grin accompanying the gravel in my voice,
"I do." I did a quick assessment. Glasses in thick round frames, platinum blonde hair with dark roots growing in, a dye job that fell in a sheet past her shoulders, dark brows beneath. Petite frame. No visible tattoos or piercings. The plain gray Arkham wear did little to assist with the quick physical observation in terms of informing on personality, but then I've always been good at poking and prodding to learn what I need, "Why does a sweet thing like you want to know?"
"Who says anything about being sweet?"
"Well you aren't in the homicide ward, for one. You lack the physical scars or subtle deformities to indicate you've spent much if any time fighting, unless those are hiding in the less accessible places?" my pale eyes danced over the sections of skin her clothes covered, but she didn't flinch.
"I'll cut to the chase-"
"Oh, but we're just getting to know each other. You did approach me, after all. And not even with a name, where are your manners?" In years past I might have blubbered and flustered at a girl wanting to talk to me, but that was so long ago. Now it was a game. I gave the unimpressed looking girl a smirk as she returned a blank face.
"Right. I'm Naomi." she lifted a hand to shake, which I took.
"Professor Jonathan Crane, better known as the Scarecrow: Master of Fear."
"Which is why I'm here. I hear you've created a substance that can cause anyone to confront their deepest darkest. I don't suppose you have access to any such resources here, or not so much?" I hadn't let go of her hand, a subtle power play that doubled to test her discomfort levels. She, disappointingly, made no notice of the inappropriately prolonged contact or tried to remove her hand from my grasp.
"Ah, so this is business," which is the only way a woman approaching me makes any sense even in this environment, "And who would be the intended recipient of my particular brand of medicine?" revenge, after all, is a dish I always delight in seeing served.
"Me."
"...You?" That didn't add up, I used the hand of hers still in my grip to pull her closer and lean in, "You do realize what you're requesting?" but she answered without hesitation,
"Academically, certainly. In practice: only one way to find out." My close proximity was doing nothing to incentivize an increase in nerves. If anything the earlier mark of anxiety drifted over her figure was a deceptive veil.
"I'm not accustomed to volunteers for my treatment. You do understand I'm not liable for the potential resulting damages be they physical or mental, yes? My methods are well known to be a touch...advanced."
"Understood." I leaned back at last and released her hand. She was too calm for what she was agreeing to.
"Understood. That's all you have to say? No questions? No counter-offers? No conditions or stipulations?"
"When and where?" I blinked at her, and the memories of the many pranks pulled on me in my teenage years came flooding back and escaped me in a growl,
"What kind of trick is this, girl? Who put you up to this?" At last she shrank backwards.
"What?"
"I made my inquiry perfectly clear, but if you are truly so dense let me repeat myself slower. Who. Put. You. Up. To. This?" Each syllable drew me to tower over her, to lean in closer, until at last she reached out and shoved my face away from hers, standing from the couch. I reached out and snatched her arm, yanked her back down to the sofa and spoke in a calmer voice that was more warning than soothing.
"Hold still. We're not done." my gaze glanced to the guard at the door, but the dolt didn't notice the short exchange. Good.
"Oh. Oh I get it." the realization in her voice drew my attention back, "You think I'm one of those. You think I have friends waiting to pounce?"
"I think an unknown girl has a lot of variables, and I would not put it past some of my fellow Rogues Gallery to play an elaborate prank with a pretty unknown face." She rolled her eyes,
"Right. Basic paranoia among rogues. And here I thought you wouldn't be afraid of anything." the slight made my grip tighten enough that a small pained sound escaped her,
"I'm not afraid. But you will be, soon enough. And so will anyone you're working for. So you might as well tell me now. Or I can dig it out of you. Your choice." I expected anger, and got something between confusion and sass.
"I literally just volunteered for a dose of your work. And now you're threatening me with the very thing I requested?" Oh. Valid point. I settled my tongue by glaring at her instead.
"And you have no follow up questions. Very well, I have some for you. Why? Why, exactly, are you so keen to venture down this path? Do be specific," I cozied up to her the way I have my hired muscle in the past, draped an arm around her both to keep her in place and as a deliberate invasion of her personal space, "don't leave any detail out."
"You're not my therapist."
"I disagree, if you're reaching out for my medication that very much makes you a patient of mine. So tell me what's ailing you."
"I take it that's the only way to gain your assistance?"
"It's the only way I might consider providing." She thought on that. I waited. I had all the time in the world and no concern for the oppressive weight of silence. She broke first.
"It's all packed in a box. And no matter what I try it stays there. I want to face it and can't seem to manage on my own. I hear you're good at making that confrontation happen, so intend to find out if it's rumor or fact." Now we were getting somewhere.
"Confront what, my dear?"
"My emotions. I've forgotten how to take them out." It clicked into place.
"And feeling something is better than nothing, even if that something is fear?" It was actually a common occurrence, and easily rationalized her need to approach me. She fit into the asylum just fine.
"Yes. I just want to feel anything but exhausted."
"That, I can assist you with. I'll make the arrangements. I'll be in charge of the time and place. I do hope you won't go changing your mind."
"See you then I guess." She sounded confident enough as she stood. But then, they always do at first. I slid back away from her, plucked my book up from where I had left it, and shoed her away with one hand.
"Oh, and don't do that." She instantly snapped.
"Pardon?"
"Do not for one second mistake my exhaustion for lack of intellect. First you assumed I'm the kind of idiot who would set you up for a laugh, next you assumed I was working for anyone but myself, now you're motioning at me like a dog. I'm in a low place, fine, I admit that, but I won't always be here. And when I'm back on top, rest assured I will remember every detail of how you treated me." She actually believed that. Believed she would not just survive my toxins, but overcome them. Either she was truly delusional, or just... stubborn? Intriguing, if her assumption could prove accurate.
"Very well. Then what kind of girl are you, if not what you claim I've assumed you are?"
"You'll find out, won't you?" I allowed the pause, and she turned on a heel to leave.
"Oh I certainly will." I muttered more to myself, and pretended to still be interested in my book.