Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Batman or any character contained within the Batman universe.
A/N: This is a very short one-shot that I wrote mainly as a writing exercise. I have been on a hiatus from fanfiction for the past few months due to some personal events occupying my time, and I am now trying to become comfortable with my writing again and resume working on my stories. I sincerely apologize for my absence—especially to those who are following The Evolution of Fear—and I hope that you enjoy this fic.
In the Orchard
It is springtime in Georgia, and Jonathan Crane is both tranquil and warm. He sits beneath the protective shade of a peach tree, his suit jacket folded neatly at his side and his tie loosened; the sleeves of the shirt that he had meticulously ironed earlier that morning are now rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons undone to expose his pale throat. A book lies open in his lap, its pages fluttering in the breeze; already he has forgotten what he was reading. The wind brings with it the fresh scent of blossoms and plants a light, cool kiss against his cheek. Never leave, the orchard begs, and tears prick at his eyes.
Never, he promises.
He brings a peach to his mouth, eyes closed to savor the firm velvet skin pressed against his lips before his teeth pierce the fruit's yellow flesh. A wet taste hits his tongue, both sour and sweet, and he cannot recall the last time he has ever felt this happy.
Forever, Crane promises.
His eyes open to meet a cloud of green mist, thick and impenetrable. Rain droplets that he cannot see soak his clothing and wet his hair, sending a deep chill throughout his body and goosebumps prickling across his skin. A scratching sensation fills his throat and he begins to cough, his breaths spiraling into jagged rasps before he realizes that he is choking. Something is stuck in his throat, constricting his airway—panic sends his heart racing, his lungs screaming for air—
Crane leans forward and retches, and a large beetle spills from his mouth and onto the ground. He stares at the insect, horrified beyond shock, and retches again; a cluster of worms join the beetle, writhing among the bile and filth. He digs his fingernails into the soil, his stomach lurching with revulsion and betrayed sobbing. In the haze he can barely see the peach rotting in his hand, leather-black and wilted with mold; he squeezes it in rage, putrid syrup oozing through his fingers and down his wrist.
The toxin. It was always the toxin.
Stay, begs the orchard.
He has no choice.