A/N: This is just a little fic that came into my head through various inspiration. It takes place during Lock Up, and focuses mainly on Jonathan Crane's memories of Iris.

I do not own Batman.

Title: Cold Eyes, Yearning Soul

Summary: The Scarecrow does not need anyone to care. He has lived his whole life as a man who thrives in the darkness, using its power to conceive his plans, using its power to carry those plans out. No one has ever cared, and he has learned to push away any hope of caring. All who stare into the cold, merciless eyes of the Master of Fear will learn what fear is. Their hope will die as their terror is born. But even the Master of Fear has a secret. Even the God of Terror yearns for the loving touch of the one person who looked into his eyes....and forced him to see his own fear.

"The voice of the intelligence is drowned out by the roar of fear. It is ignored by the voice of desire. It is contradicted by the voice of shame. It is biased by hate and extinguished by anger. Most of all it is silenced by ignorance."
Karl A. Menninger

Chapter 1: Silence

It was quiet.

Jonathan Crane was used to silence. He lived in silence…thrived in it. Silence was a rarity that one mustn't abuse, for it was a sacred blessing. He had learned that simple truth as a young boy who worshiped the quiet hours during his granny's afternoon naps; a youth who used the darkness and quiet of the night to prowl throughout Granny Keany's Southern mansion, slipping into the forbidden room and throwing himself into a world overflowing with knowledge…with power.

He had learned to respect the silence that filled his laboratory those dark nights as he hunched over his books and notes, perfecting his experiments. Perfecting his revenge upon those miserable fools who had ruined his life. They had destroyed him…taken away his life…all his years of hard work…

And they had taken him away from her.

In fact, was she not the reason he had been fired? Of course that imbecilic fool Long said otherwise, condemning him for his experiments on the students. He had done it because of her. It was all for her. Those poor innocents he had so mercilessly tortured…innocent indeed! Long and the board of directors wouldn't believe the twisted words of the insane professor, telling them of the crimes those students had committed. Well, maybe it wasn't a crime in the eyes of the law—what little good that was. His mouth tightened in anger as the words came to his mind…

Justice.

Charity.

Compassion.

Mercy.

Where were those pretty words when she needed them? Where was compassion and mercy when she came to him, her body covered in injuries more brutal than the bullies of his youth had inflicted upon him? Where was her justice? No one except him ever believed her story, so she just stopped talking. She closed herself off from the rest of the world, wrapping herself in a cocoon of anger, self-loathing, agony, and tears that she would not allow to fall.

Oh yes…compassionate, charitable, merciful people indeed. They had allowed their students to take a healthy young woman, vibrant and passionate for knowledge…a shining star in the field of psychology…and turned her into a broken, angry and frightened object used for twisted pleasure.

But he had made them pay.

His eyes closed, the silence gently coaxing away his anger to remember better times. Times when he was not locked away in this miserable place, with bars on the windows that reminded him of that hated aviary from childhood. A time when he had lived his life to teach students the wondrous world of psychology….when his home was not in a cold, barren cell, but the warm abode of an office, located in one of the higher rooms of the university.

He could see it now. He could see the day he first met her.

On the whole, just from his location at his desk in the front center of the room, Jonathan Crane could already deduce his student body would be depressingly typical—an assortment of brain-dead quarterbacks and powder-faced cheerleaders who spent the entire class preening themselves. There would be little to expect from this class, that much he could already tell. With a soft sigh, he rose from his seat and began his lecture. As predicted, his dark eyes already saw those boorish athletes slumped in their seat, sleeping away their hangover from last night's activities, and blondes with crimped curls and nauseatingly red lips examining themselves in a small compact mirror. He was far too used to this to care by now. His lecture would fall on deaf ears and dull eyes. He comforted himself with the notion that he would merely repay their lack of attention by delivering low grades this semester, not unlike last semester…and the semester before that…and the semester before—

Fortunately, he had recited this material so often that it was possible for him to continue lecturing when his attention was entirely elsewhere. His eyes had just fallen upon a student seated in the front, near the center, not too far from where his podium was located. He didn't know how he had missed her—this glittering gem amongst the dull coal of the rest. She was tall and quite thin, not unlike himself, with narrow hips and subtle, almost unnoticeable curves. Her long legs were folded demurely under her seat, covered with a neat, professional pair of dark jeans, with simple black boots on her feet. Her long, slender-toned torso sported a simple dark sweater, no doubt to provide protection against the brisk winds of autumn. Her long mane of black hair hung down her back, a thick curtain over the right side of her face and spilling lightly down her chest. A pen rested in the hold of black-tipped fingers, flying over the stark white paper of her notebook. The required textbook lay open beside the notebook, and on occasion as he lectured, she would trade out the pen for a yellow highlighter and run it over a line or two in the textbook.

The class had been packing long before the clock finally turned to the hour hand. Crane lightly closed his book and tucked it away in his worn-leather messenger bag. He certainly had a lively semester to look forward to this semester, he thought sarcastically.

"Professor Crane?"

He paused, turning and seeing, with a jolt, the very woman he'd been distracted by earlier. Her hand outstretched, "Iris DeLaine," she said. Her voice was lower than most girls, but not unpleasantly so. In fact, it was almost a rich deepness that added a soothing rhythm to her brisk and professional tone, "I thought I should introduce myself now, so we don't have to worry about that next week." At his look, her naturally dark lips turned into a half-smile, "Next week, all freshmen are required to meet with their counselors, Professor, I was assigned to you."

"Yes, of course," he said, taking her hand, noting the firmness of her handshake, "Forgive me, Miss DeLaine…the first day of class, I'm afraid my mind is a touch unhinged."

She smiled widely, showing a row of clean white teeth, "Of course, Professor, I understand. I look forward to our meeting."

"As do I," he said politely, walking out the classroom door with her, "Have you already selected a course of action for your future, Miss DeLaine?"

"Psychology," she answered simply, "Human psychology has never failed to intrigue me, hence a degree investigating it seemed most logical."

"Indeed," he said, "In that case, Miss DeLaine…I will see you next week. Good day."

He watched her walk away, her hair swinging lightly in the autumn winds. It reminded him very much of his personal favorite poem; the words passed his lips in a soft whisper that was caught by the wind and carried away.

"Quoth the raven…nevermore…"

There were footsteps coming near his cell. Heavy footsteps that seemed to punish the floor just by walking on it. Jonathan cringed immediately. All the symptoms he once observed in his victims, he could now feel them in his own body—cold sweat covering his body in a thin sheen, pupils tightening, constricting to tiny dots of terror, limbs shaking, the blood in the veins running frigid cold with no way to warm them, the heart pounding violently against the rib cage, so much it felt as though it would rip clean through the flesh.

Not him…he clung to the sheets, to the bed frame, anything sturdy, Please no…not now…please…

The door slid open, and the heavy footsteps drew nearer…nearer…

The cold metal of handcuffs snapped his thin wrists to the bed post.

Dark laughter filled the room, echoing in his ear, though he tried to force it away.

His eyes closed tight, tight, tighter. His mind was racing, trying to find any sort of memory that would dim, vanquish even, the agonizing pain that was soon to come…the humiliation…the torture that must remain in secret…

Tears burned the rims of his closed eyes, but he would not let them fall. This…this animal would never see his tears. Only she could see them.

Only Iris DeLaine had seen the broken child that still existed deep within the Master of Fear. And she had accepted that child…she hadn't thrown him away like everyone else did.

Just like when his last plans had gone entirely wrong…he had forgotten how potent his toxin had been. He hadn't meant for it to infect him the way it did. He hadn't meant to lose so horribly.

"One second…one whole second…just one second…someone…call…only one second…"

He could feel their eyes on him, gawking through the slot of the isolation cell as though staring at an animal locked away in a cage. He could hear the voice of Bartholomew speaking to the orderlies, telling them to keep him in there this time.

Yes…keep the animal in the cage.

Keep him for all to see…let him be made an example of.

"Just as now is your lesson to learn, Jonathan…"

No…no, Granny please….I'll be good….please not this…I'll be good. I swear I'll be good! Just don't do this!

She was walking away…away from the chapel, her voice raised in a hymn. Oh the irony…the sickeningly perfect irony…

"Granny, PLEASE! PLEASE don't do this! Please don't do this AGAIN! I can't stand it!! PLEASE!!!!!"

She never listened. And they were coming. He could hear the steady, deadly beat of their wings as they swooped in through the open hatch of the aviary. Their talons bared, beaks ready to rip cloth…tear flesh from bone…their eyes were red. Red as the blood his suit was soaked in…they were here.

They were coming for him.

And all would watch. They would watch the Scarecrow be ripped to shreds…and they would laugh. He was the side-show freak again…the source of twisted amusement. No one would come to his rescue.

The claws had him, grabbing at his clothes, tearing it away, shredding it as they would soon shred his flesh. Eyes burning a hellish red seared him. He couldn't get away.

"NO!!!! No, PLEASE!! PLEASE!!!!!"

The claws had him…they were going to kill…

Suddenly, it wasn't claws anymore. A pair of hands pulled away the straitjacket, letting it fall unwanted to the cold concrete floor. They touched his face, gentle and motherly, not vicious and murderous. His pupils slowly returned from their dilated form as the hallucinations passed away. The gentle, feathery touch of fingertips and long nails brushed the toxin's affects away, cleaned his system of his own poison. He was not leaning against the worn wooden door of the chapel, or the cold, unfeeling walls of the cell. There was warm skin…soft silken strands of hair falling against his cheek, black as the night sky above him. He was lying against a chest…a chest with low, flat curves…his arms wound child-like around a long, narrow waist. His body outstretched between two legs, long and toned with lean muscles. One leg, the one facing the door, was drawn up, protecting from gawking eyes and ridiculing thoughts. Those hands were in his hair, stroking gently with long nails that felt soft and lovingly.

"Iris…" the name was a broken whisper from his lips, afraid that if he spoke her name, this would prove to be no more than a cruel trick from his toxin.

"I'm here," she whispered, sending a cathartic wave of relief crashing over him, "I'm here, Jonathan…shhh…"

He could see a soft glint of silver in the dim light. One hand continued to stroke his hair gently, "I took the cure from a hospital," she whispered soothingly in his ear, "It's going to make you sleep for a while…and when you wake up…you'll be fine, alright? Will you let me help you?"

"Will…will you still be here…?" there it was, the frightened child that had pounded so desperately upon the walls of the chapel, begging for mercy. The child needed to know he would wake up still holding on to her, with her arms still around him, still telling him he was safe.

There was a sharp but brief pain in his upper arm. He had taught her well…he barely felt the needle pierce the skin…barely felt the medicine seep down through his veins.

"Yes…" she whispered.

There was pain…oh there was so much pain. His tears seeped down his face, not unlike the blood seeping from the wounds on his body. He couldn't even try to move, to cover himself with his clothes or the sheets. He knew his wrists were now free; the dull, cold weight of the handcuffs was no longer there. But he couldn't move…the only movement he had done was curl into the fetal position, arms tight around himself, the tears searing his face as they fell.

He wished Iris was here.

But she wasn't.

A/N: The last flashback is from "Dreams in Darkness". By the way, if you're looking for a happy fic, stop reading this one now. There is very little happiness...because frankly, "Lock Up" just wasn't a happy episode! Please review anyway.