AN: So the always awesome sapzberry made an fan art of the drawing Joker put on Jonathan's wall (the one with the unicorn) and it is of course fantastic. Should you care to see it, this is the link (take out the spaces): http :// atroxbasium. deviantart. com/ art/ BBQ-SAUCE-112923337 That is what the Joker draws like. Imagining waking to find something like that in your room each morning. I don't see what Jonathan's complaining about. And yes, the writing is in barbeque sauce. Amazing, no?

This chapter takes place a few weeks after the first. That becomes obvious after a bit, but I thought I should warn you in case the beginning was confusing.

Thanks for the reviews!

The first thing Jonathan became aware of was that his bed seemed to have gone missing.

He knew it even without opening his eyes. Or perhaps he'd simply been moved out of the bed; that would make more sense. If he had been moved, it didn't seem to be out of his bedroom. He could recognize the scent of the apartment he'd been living in for the past three weeks, a combination of must and disinfectant and old cigarette smoke, from not so long ago when smoking had still been permitted in the building. And the floor under him was hard and cold; wooden, which only the floor in the bedroom was, every other room had worn brown carpeting.

He opened his eyes. The pounding in his head indicated that he'd either had a wild drinking binge the night before that he had no recollection of, or that he'd been drugged. The latter seemed more likely. He tried to ignore the pain in his head, the way the light filtering in through the filthy window seemed to stab at his eyes, and glanced around.

He was lying where his bed would usually be, only the bed was gone. As was the dresser, and from what he could see in the half-open closet, the clothes hanging there had been taken as well. The only things left in the room, in fact, were the shoes he'd kicked off before getting in bed. Someone must have broken in.

Well, no shit, Scarecrow said, ignoring the stiffness and general misery coursing through their body as he sat up. And I'm sure you've figured out whom?

Obviously. His disorientation upon standing was another sign that his system was processing some sort of drug. And he highly doubted that any ordinary thieves would take the effort to drug their victim instead of shooting him, or knocking him out with blunt force. Nor would they take something as large and cumbersome—and worthless—as a bed. The Joker, then.

The Joker had appeared in Crane's cell for the next two nights after the time he'd announced his intentions; the first bringing ice cream he'd stolen from the kitchens, which Crane did not eat, and the second bringing flowers he'd taken from the asylum grounds. Crane had also refused those, and informed him that, while there was no way in hell he would ever forgive him anyway, there was even less chance if he kept bringing gifts. The Joker had agreed, though he lingered on, bothering Crane until he fell back asleep.

The day after that, the Joker had escaped, taking Harley with him.

No one was quite sure why. Harley hadn't informed any of them, not even Isley, who'd developed a very close friendship with Harley despite her contempt for the Joker. The best bet—which, as of late, had been supported by new reports—was revenge against the mob. Jonathan wasn't sure exactly what the Joker's relationship with the mob was these days, but he knew that when the clown gave orders, they listened, if they didn't want to die. Whatever the connection, the mob seemed to have angered the Joker in some way, and one could hardly turn on the news these days without hearing another mob member had gone missing, or been found dead.

The day the breakout occurred, however, Jonathan hadn't known any of this. What he did know was that he didn't want any part in the Joker's mad scheme to reconcile them, and that the disorder caused by the Joker's escape would be the perfect time to work on getting out himself. He hadn't broken out on the same day, only taken advantage of the staff's distraction to take the things necessary to get out. In the aftermath of an escape, particularly of someone as dangerous as the Joker, people seemed content to believe they'd misplaced their pass keys in confusion, the idea that someone might have taken them never crossing their minds.

Two days later, he was out.

He'd wondered, for the first day, if his friends might not come after him again, as they had when he last broke out. They hadn't. He assumed this was because either last time he had been at death's door, and now that he wasn't about to die, they trusted him to fend for himself, or that they thought he'd broken out to return to criminal activity, and they didn't want to interfere. It was rare for the villains to work together as they had to retrieve him. It had never been done before, and never since. Relations between the criminals had always been good—sort of an 'us against them,' Jonathan guessed, 'freaks' against regular society—but they tended to leave one another's professional enterprises alone. Aside from an occasional partnership, everyone seemed to recognize that generally, they all had different goals that they shouldn't try forcing together. It would only end violently.

If he'd been able to particularly care, it would have touched him that they were able to put all that aside when they tracked him down. Jonathan, however, still resented being brought back to Arkham—and by extension, the Joker's latest scheme—and was unmoved by the entire ordeal.

He hadn't told them about the Joker's insistence that they become friends again, so they weren't about to rush out to save him from the Clown Prince of Crime and whatever grisly methods he'd use to restore that relationship. Mentioning the pictures had been bad enough; it took three hours and ever other villain to convince Isley that she could not break into the Joker's cell and kill him. Jonathan was still humiliated enough that all the stress he went through in the last breakout had reduced him to a pathetic, childish mess who'd actually looked to the Batman for comfort, so he wasn't about to go whining to them about this latest development. He could fight his own battles.

Not that he'd had to. He expected the Joker to have tracked him down the instant word of his breakout hit the news stations, but the past three weeks had gone by without incident, until now. The time had been peaceful enough that he'd lingered in Gotham, instead of following the original plan, which had been to run like hell. He'd never particularly wanted to leave the city, anyway; despite all the misery he'd endured here, it was still better than Georgia. And still his home.

Told you we should have left, Scarecrow muttered as Jonathan made his way into the bathroom. Everything was gone from there as well, aside from what was bolted down. He held in a sigh, went back into the hall. His alter ego was right, of course. His primary objective should have been leaving, and this insanity was a consequence he could only blame himself for. Well, himself and the Joker. He should have foreseen something like this, realized last night that his tea tasted unusually bitter instead of chalking it up to running out of sugar and drinking it down. At least he should have noticed how exhausted it had made him.

The living room, as he was not surprised to find, was bare. Couches, television, DVDs and books, they were all missing. As were the table and chairs from the kitchen, and the refrigerator. Even the pantry had been ransacked. Well, now he was just being tormented for the sake of torment.

I'm going to kill that son of a bitch.

As Scarecrow went off on the methods of torture he'd use, each sounding more deliciously frightening than the last, Jonathan spotted the card on the counter. The ace of hearts, a car key sitting beside it. And on the card was scrawled an address.

Thank God he'd fallen asleep with his clothes on. He couldn't think of a less appealing prospect than tracking down the Joker in pajamas.

He found the car with little effort, and was happy to find the gas tank full, as the address took him outside the city limits, a good distance away.

As he drove, part of him cautioned that he'd be driving straight into a trap. The Joker may not want to kill him anymore—and who even knew if he was being honest about that—but the man was a dangerous psychotic, and his idea of reconciling could be just as deadly and painful as his tortures. His things weren't that important; better just to get out of the city and start over.

He didn't, though. The fact of the matter was that he didn't want to go through the effort of beginning again. Besides, the Joker had his research, and he refused to lose that.

The address took him to a house, far enough outside the city to have a decent-sized yard. Huge, in fact, especially when compared to the house itself, which was a small, one story thing made up of green shingles and yellow wood. Not a garish, bright yellow, but a light, mild shade. His sister's room was painted a similar color, or it had been last time he'd been in his mother apartment. Years ago. It was probably different by now.

He got out of the car and headed to the house. He'd just noted that there didn't appear to be any other vehicles in the driveway, when he heard something behind him, a familiar sound he couldn't quite place, and turned around.

"Hello, Jonny."

Of two things he was immediately aware: One, the Joker was riding a horse, and two, the Joker had no idea how to ride a horse. The sight of the animal trotting around—the familiar sound he'd heard—while the Joker struggled to stay upright would have been comical, were it not so confusing and bizarre. Oh, this was going to be a long day. "Where are my things?"

"Fantastic, isn't it?" the Joker asked, risking taking his hand off the reins for a minute to stroke the horse's mane. "It's worth over six figures."

The horse was beautiful; tall, strongly built without being bulky, and deep brown, nearly black. He was clearly well-cared for, which Crane took to indicate that he hadn't been in the Joker's care for long. The clown didn't seem the type to abuse animals, but he did seem neglectful. "Why do you have a horse?" he asked, in spite of himself.

"Well, you see—" The Joker began with the hand gestures he was seemingly unable to speak without making, and nearly fell off. He grabbed the reins again, straightened out. "See, one of the mob fools I took down bred race horses. Now, I was gonna cut this one's head off—" he stroked the horse's mane again, "—and stick it in the guy's bed before I took him out. The Godfather, you see?"

"Yes."

"Right. Everybody appreciates a good movie reference. But then I thought, hey, who do I know that rides horses? So it's yours, scaredy cat. I've been thinking up ways to make you see that, uh, my intentions are sincere, and I thought, what little girl doesn't want a pony?"

"That's a thoroughbred." There was a time when the Joker calling him a girl would have offended him. He couldn't force himself to be bothered anymore.

"A horse is a horse. Don'tcha like it?" Before Crane could respond, the Joker straightened, continued. "Oh yeah, I haven't told you the best part yet. And this is when I realized it's fate for you to have it, okay? His name's Nightmare. Cool, huh?"

"What do you expect me to do with a horse?"

The Joker shrugged. "Whatever you want, angel. Ride it, make sandwiches out of it, use it as a getaway car—"

He rolled his eyes. "As if he'd be nearly fast enough."

"Hey, it's a race horse," he said, as if that made all the difference in the world. "And wait, there's more. Here." From somewhere in his coat he pulled out a bag, the decorative kind used to put gifts in, and extended it out to Crane, as far as he could without upsetting his balance. Against his better judgment, Crane took it.

He pulled out a rose. For the first time, it wasn't yellow, but a deep orange.

"Orange for apology," the Joker explained with a wide grin when he met Crane's questioning glance.

"Orange represents passion."

"Right. Because I'm passionately sorry. Anyway, there's more inside."

Crane pulled a tube of a medicinal-looking substance from the bag, stared at it. "What's Mederma?"

"You use it—" the Joker looked pained. "You put it on your scars and it's supposed to make 'em stand out less." He seemed disgusted by the very idea. "And hey, you're not allowed to use it on scars I gave you, got it?"

Crane was too busy hiding his elation at the thought of lessening the scars to come up with a sarcastic response. It took a few minutes and a good bit of will power to keep himself from leaping into the Joker's arms and forgiving him then and there. Not that he could ever forgive him, not really. But for a moment, it was tempting.

He collected himself, looked back up with a suitably contemptuous gaze. "I don't have anything necessary to take care of a horse."

"Thought of that. I just took all the stuff out of Nightmare's former owner's stable."

As if it mattered. What was he supposed to do, leave the horse in a parking lot? Not that he was about to accept, beautiful as the creature was. "I live in an apartment, you idiot."

Joker stared, expression blank. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. You should know, you robbed me this morning."

"Oh. Oh." Comprehension dawned on the Joker's face. "Honey, I didn't rob you. Harley and I just transitioned things for you." He smirked at Crane's confused look. "Check the bag again, Jonny."

He put his hand in, felt it close around something small and metal that he knew was a house key before he even looked. He stared down at it for a moment, then to the house, silent with disbelief. When he turned back to the Joker, the clown was dismounting. "C'mon, go check it out."

It was nice on the inside in the same way it had been on the out. Nothing about the paper and painting on the walls, or the floor rugs was particularly lovely or eye-catching, but it wasn't bad. Nothing that made him want to take a match to it, anyway. And all of his things were there, in one piece and un-tampered with.

Not only un-tampered with, Crane realized, as he walked around the kitchen, but placed in the exact order things had been in his apartment. Exactly, right down to the spices in the cabinets. The Joker confirmed it when he pulled a handful of pictures taken in the apartment from his pockets and offered them to Crane for purposes of comparison.

"Why?" he'd asked, astounded.

"Because you're an incredibly anal guy, Jonny, and I thought it'd be better for the transition if everything was where you had it."

Assuming I agree to this, he thought but did not say, merely carrying on walking, stunned. Not everything was exactly how he'd left it, as he discovered when he opened the refrigerator. There was a pizza sitting inside—covered in anchovies, he noted when he lifted the lid—and the freezer was absolutely stuffed with various containers of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

He was still stunned speechless. The Joker seemed to accept this and didn't speak either, only walked beside him, smile growing by the second. He came to the bedroom, flipped on the lights, and was unable to hold back a gasp of surprise.

For the first time, something was hanging from his canopy bed—not curtains, but a strand of origami cranes, strung together and wrapped around the curtain bars. Judging by the number of times the cranes wrapped around the bed and the variety of paper and color he saw, there were definitely a thousand. Some were folded on colored paper, some from loose leaf, and a large one that appeared to have been made from a sheet of newspaper.

And every tenth crane or so, there was the glitter of aluminum foil.

The connection between his mouth and his brain seemed to have broken again. "I…you…this…wh—"

"I think you know what my wish was?" the Joker asked, giggling as Crane stammered.

"I thought you couldn't fold cranes," he managed when his mind began to work once more. He commanded himself not to be moved by the gesture. It's a trick, Jonathan. He just wants things to go back to how they were so he can hurt you again.

And he knew that. But still…

No. No, there was no still. So what if a part of him continued to feel for the maniac? He wasn't about to give in.

"Harley taught me." The Joker's mouth twisted a bit as he spoke, as if he didn't like admitting that even he had to learn things, on occasion. "She made about half. She thinks it's good for us to be friends again. I made all the aluminum ones, though," he added suddenly, sharply, as if it lives depended on that fact.

"But it's only been three weeks."

He shrugged. "I don't need a lot of sleep when I go on killing sprees. Must be the adrenaline rush or something."

Something like psychosis? Scarecrow stopped him from saying it out loud. He needed to get out of this situation, decline the gifts in a way that wouldn't get him gutted. Because he couldn't say yes. That would be encouraging this madness to continue, risk slipping back into compliance. Already part of him wanted to forgive everything, but he wouldn't. He couldn't, because letting the Joker into his life again would probably kill him this time, and even if it didn't, it would certainly hurt. "Not that I don't appreciate the effort, but I thought you promised there'd be no more gifts?"

"Oh, these aren't gifts, Jonny." He answered calmly, he'd likely been expecting the question. "I wanna bargain with you."

"I'm not going to be your friend again." He said it almost in reflex, tensed.

The Joker only nodded. "I get that you're hurt. Look, angel, I'm not asking you to be my friend again. Not yet, anyway, I know you need time."

Crane stared, something in his stomach twisting. The Joker couldn't be serious. This was too…compassionate for him, too controlled. Don't fall for it, Jonathan. It's just another trap. "Then what do you want?"

"For you to talk to me again. Stop trying to run, and stop acting like every second of my presence is akin to, uh, being denailed or something. I just want us on speaking terms. And that includes your alter ego, all right? Are we agreed?"

Like hell, Scarecrow said instantaneously. Crane didn't relay the message, only stood silent in thought. On the one hand, the Joker would certainly twist this arrangement, like he had all the others. On the other hand, if he ran again the Joker would find him, that was a given, and probably hurt him for trying. And it wasn't as if saying yes would be agreeing to friendship. It would be better to agree.

Fuck that, Scarecrow said. Seriously, fuck that. Jonathan, there's no way you can agree to this.

What choice do I have? If you want to fight him, be my guest.

Scarecrow was silent.

"Agreed."

"Zip a dee doo dah." The Joker took Crane's hand, Crane neither moving to help or hinder him, and shook it a few times. "Enjoy your house. Harley's probably going to drop by tomorrow. She misses you."

"Wait a second," Crane said, as the Joker started out of the room. His insides were still twisting in tension over just what he'd agreed to.

"Yeah?"

"Where's the horse going to sleep? There's no stable."

The Joker pondered, licked his scars. "Dunno. You're gonna have to figure that out on your own." Off Crane's indignant look, he giggled. "Can't make things too easy for you, can I?"

"I hate you."

"Love you too, angel." The Joker took off down the hall and dodged the shoe thrown at him without looking back.

AN: The ace of hearts in tarot relates to home environment, and represents visits or a change of address.

For those who don't know, there's a scene in The Godfather where the mob cuts off the head of a man's race horse and puts it in his bed as a threat. On the sandwiches line, horse meat is delicious. I know, that's a terrible thing to say, and horses are pets and friends and all that, but it's just like ham but with less fat. I had it in Paris and I'm addicted. Also, my dad used to work for a chicken company and took me to play with the baby chicks, so I'm used to bonding with sweet, adorable things before I eat them.

In many of the comics, Scarecrow has a horse. I'm not sure if it's named Nightmare or if that's the name of his crow, however.

Denailing is ripping the finger/toenails out.