"What!" Crane exclaimed. "You can't be seri—I mean, you've got to be jok—," he trailed off with a frustrated sigh. Sometimes it was exceedingly difficult to talk to the Joker. In the back of his mind, Scarecrow was just as bemused. It was the last request either of them had expected. It briefly crossed Crane's mind that the clown was suggesting it purely to be unpredictable and irritating. If that were the case, it was working.
"So… you are willing to let me dose you with fear toxin in exchange for a kiss." Crane spoke slowly and carefully, in case speaking too quickly would cause the Joker to burst into laughter and demand something more…expected.
"Yeah, pretty much. Obviously the kiss has to be to my exacting standards, but it'll just be a kiss."
He's completely insane, Scarecrow suggested unhelpfully.
'Yes, thank you doctor,' Crane snipped.
Scarecrow scowled. So are you going to accept his stupid condition?
'Are you?' Crane retorted.
There was a sense of Scarecrow shrugging, despite the lack of shoulders. He does have a point about fairness. Whoever plays his game should be the one who gets to dose him.
'This is an extremely important opportunity to further the research and possibly gain an insight into this extraordinary individual. For the sake of science, I must be able to record notes and make observations.
So you'll kiss him then?
Crane was silent.
Come on, it'd be just like kissing a woman who's wearing too much lipstick.
'No it would not. And just how is that supposed to help, anyway? I don't want to kiss anyone, regardless of extenuating circumstances like gender and level of makeup. I most certainly don't want to put my lips anywhere near that plague-pit he calls a mouth. Have you seen the colour of his teeth?' Crane sneered.
Fine, I'll do it, but I get to play with him once he's dosed. I want to hear him scream.
Crane wisely refrained from pointing out that a low dose was unlikely to get an individual as strong as the Joker to scream, unless his unique brain chemistry made him over-sensitive to the compound.
Crane hesitated for a moment. 'Fine. You can play with him, but do not disrupt the process too much, and give me peace to study the reaction. Research and knowledge are important above all other considerations, including your 'fun'.'
There was a pause. Scarecrow waited, knowing that Jonathan was going to name another condition.
'Also, I will deliver the injection.'
Scarecrow's non-expression twisted into something resembling a smirk. Developing a sadist streak, are we? he asked.
'Most amusing, I'm sure,' Crane replied dryly. 'No, I simply want to make sure that the process is executed precisely and hygienically.'
Scarecrow smirked. Whatever you say.
There were several reasons why Scarecrow accepted the relatively unequal deal. Firstly, he wasn't as fussed with cleanliness, so kissing the Joker seemed a relatively small price to pay. Also, he did care about Jonathan. It was his primary purpose for existing—well, that and the fear. Finally, he wanted to test a theory he had and he highly doubted that Jonathan would have the presence of mind or the inclination to pursue this particular experiment. Scarecrow could be interested in science too, albeit in a warped, pseudo-scientific kind of way.
Crane returned his focus to the external world. "I accept," he replied in measured tones.
The Joker grinned. "I thought you might."
"Indeed. Now will you kindly give me some privacy?" Crane snapped.
The Joker shrugged. "Sure thing, doc. No need to get your panties in a bunch."
Crane glared at the Joker's retreating back. After that he re-locked the door, more out of habit rather than any real hope that it could keep the Joker out. Crane had thought that after that little conversation he would at least be able to have an uninterrupted shower. However, as soon as he stepped under the spray, Scarecrow was there and Crane had little choice but to step back and try and ignore anatomical inevitability.
From a psychological perspective, he found Scarecrow's thoughts during the process rather interesting. Scarecrow speculated on the sound of the Joker's scream. There were images of the clown's soulless eyes glazed with terror, his breathing harsh and fearful. Crane was surprised at just how effective these notions where. It wasn't long before a languid and satisfied Scarecrow faded into the background and allowed the doctor to pursue proper hygiene. Had he been thinking more clearly, without the endorphin rush, Crane may have been disconcerted.
After his shower, Crane retrieved the equipment he would need to begin the experiment. This equipment consisted of varying concentrations of the raw toxin, distilled water for making up fine-tuned concentrations, disposable gloves and syringes, and his note book and pens. He kept these in his briefcase along with the aerosol version of his compound and one further, rather more specialised item.
Doctor Crane regarded his mask. He had decided that he would be using an intervenous method of delivery. The dosage could be more precise and the process would be more efficient. Technically this meant his mask would be unnecessary. Crane picked up the crudely stitched burlap and rubbed the material between his fingers. There was absolutely no practical reason to even take it into the living area.
Scarecrow was silent in the back of his mind. This usually happened when Crane was in close proximity to his mask, but not wearing it. Whether Scarecrow's silence was from anticipation or a recoil response from seeing his face, Crane was unsure. Scarecrow had never said and Crane had never asked. The mask delineated them in a way that few things did. They were one and same, basically, but the mask… complicated things. Crane placed the mask back in his briefcase. Maybe aerosols would be involved at one point. It was best to be prepared.
Crane took his briefcase into the living room. He found the Joker flipping through one of the psychology journals. The doctor raised an eyebrow. Was the clown actually reading the text?
"Have you found anything interesting?" Crane ventured.
"Yep, this graph, if you tilt it like this, almost looks bat-shaped."
Crane resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. Bat-shaped. Of course it was. Still, the obsession itself was interesting; he really needed to ask the Joker about the Bat. However, there were more pressing concerns right now.
"Getting back to dosing you with toxin, I trust restraints won't be necessary," Crane began.
"Restraints?" The Joker looked up, clearly amused by the notion. "This wouldn't happen to be a not-so-subtle way of trying to get out of your end of the bargain, would it?"
Crane sighed. "Oh yes, because it's obvious that you'd be completely helpless if you were restrained. I suppose it's just blind luck that they never thought of restraining you when you were back in Arkham. Otherwise, you'd still be there today."
The Joker chuckled. "Hey, I'm making a valid point." He put down the journal and leant forward, casting his eyes left and right before fixing his gaze on Crane. "In Arkham I know they won't try and kill me, at least not outright, and I have all the time I need to pick the right escape technique."
Crane gave him a measured look. "You actually think I'd try to kill you?"
The Joker shrugged and leant back. "It's a possibility. I know you have the capacity to kill and you're certainly not above trying to give me a lethal dose of your toxin purely for curiosity's sake. Still, I suppose you want to get inside me head and that's a reason you'd hold back." The Joker smirked. "That and your fear, I guess."
Fear? Scarecrow seethed. I'll show him fear! I'll rip out his—
Crane closed his eyes briefly.
"I'm guessing Scary didn't like that comment," Joker commented.
"In a manner of speaking." Crane spoke slightly louder than usual over the tirade in his head.
The Joker giggled. "So, uh, why would I need restraints?"
"Because I don't relish the prospect of you being hyper-sensitive to the toxin, going mad with fear and killing me for no better reason than your own hallucinations. It would be a pointless way to die."
"Hmm, well that's just a risk you'll have to take, doc."
Crane had expected as much. Such a severe response to the toxin would be statistically unlikely, the Joker's unusual chemistry aside. Even if events did unfold in that manner, both he and Scarecrow were more than capable of evading a hallucinating, deranged test subject. Fear, and especially their fear toxin, broke down and subdued. Even the most extreme test subjects had crumpled under the influence of his toxin. It was the nature of the chemical reaction.
"Very well, take a seat and we'll get started."
The Joker nodded and sat on a dingy chair in the living area. He shrugged off his coat, unbuttoned his cuff, and rolled up his sleeve to expose the outside of his upper arm. Crane eyed the patch of skin just below the shoulder disdainfully.
"I'm not giving you a 'flu shot. Hold out your forearm so that I can get at your median cubital vein."
The Joker gave him a blank look but held out his forearm.
"Median cubital vein," Crane explained, pointing to the crook of the Joker's elbow. "It connects the basilic and cephalic veins and an intravenous injection will allow for the quickest response time."
"Don't worry, doc. I know anatomy intimately," he leered, "and I know which vein you're talking about. Let's just say I've had a lot of practical experience, but that I've never found the nomenclature important."
Crane looked up in surprise, startled by the use of the formal Latin-origin term. The Joker returned his look with an expression that clearly advised against underestimating him. Even with Crane's difficulties, and general disinterest, in reading expressions, the message was understood implicitly. Maybe the Joker hadn't just been looking for bat-shaped graphs in the psychology journal.
Crane cleared his throat and looked down at the arm. "How long has it been since you've washed your arm?" he asked disdainfully, in a deft change of topic.
The Joker shrugged, amused by the look of distaste on the ex-psychiatrist's face.
"For your sake, I hope your thugs didn't drink my 70% ethanol solution, or at least that they spared the antiseptic," Crane stated.
"There should be something antiseptic-y in your first aid kit. They're not allowed to mess with those sorts of supplies. There might be even some seventy percent ethanol lying around, though it would be in a bottle marked 'Vodka'."
Crane gave his grinning subject a withering look and went to retrieve the first aid kit. Luckily for the Joker, it hadn't been ransacked and contained some sterilising wipes that were individually sealed. It would be a shame for the Joker to drop dead from a second infection before Crane had had a chance to dissect that intriguing mind.
The doctor stepped back into the living area. The Joker was fiddling with the upholstery on the back of the chair and pulling out bits of foam. Apparently he was incapable of sitting still for two minutes. He turned around and proffered his arm again with a grin when he caught sight of Crane.
The doctor gave him a measured look before professionalism took over. "The vein is already fairly prominent, so I am not going to bother with a tourniquet," he announced. With surprising dexterity, Crane opened one of the wipes and swiped it across the target vein. His movements were graceful and assured. They were still full of that tight control, but the grace made him seem almost relaxed. Apparently 'doctor mode' was good for the ex-psychiatrist. The clown filed away the interesting information. He was watching Crane's face rather than the chosen injection site.
There was a glint of something unexpected, something off, lurking just behind the doctor's eyes. It wasn't something that was purely analytical and reserved. Scarecrow might be the embodiment of the really wild bits of Crane's personality, but there was strong overlap. The doctor had his own proclivities. He possessed a casual cruelty that went beyond a simple disregard for others. The interest in fear above other considerations was a bit of a giveaway.
What the Joker read in Crane's face as the injection site was sterilised, was not Scarecrow, but something just as dangerous. The Joker enjoyed seeing people in this way. It was novel to see another monster that existed without his help. So often, people needed to be coaxed to reveal themselves. With the doctor, it was written all across his face. Though in the Joker's experience, not everyone was capable of reading the obvious.
Perhaps part of it was Scarecrow getting impatient, but the boundaries between the two sides of Crane seemed pretty blurred. The Joker was not into labelling and categorisation, but he was certainly intrigued by the doctor's little 'situation'.
Crane picked up a syringe and drew a small measure of clear liquid toxin from a cryptically labelled vessel. "This is a very mild dose. The molarity is less than one." The doctor did not take his eyes off the fluid level as he spoke and so appeared to be addressing the hypodermic needle. He turned back to his subject when he had drawn up the correct amount.
The Joker's gaze switched from the doctor's face to his own vein network as the needle was placed against his skin. Most people avoided watching an injection site in case they tensed up and caused themselves pain. The Joker watched with unabashed interest and a slight level of anticipation. He giggled softly as the needle slid through his skin and pierced a vein. Crane's hand was rock steady and the Joker barely felt the prick of the needle.
He'd say this for Crane, the man was precise. At Arkham, the nurses' hands would always shake when they gave him an injection and sometimes they missed the spot entirely. They got so scared whenever they missed and it went in a sort of vicious cycle. They also weren't nearly as meticulous as Crane, so the Joker always felt Arkham injections with a painful clarity. It wasn't that he minded the pain. It was often the most entertaining thing that happened at Arkham, but it was unprofessional.
Crane carefully stowed away the syringe for proper disposal. Scarecrow was getting restless. Crane's hand twitched toward the mask. He hesitated for a fraction of a second and flipped open his notebook instead. He didn't pick up a pen and instead reached for his mask again. Intervenous delivery or not, some things were important beyond practical considerations. He picked up the mask and put it on. Scarecrow grinned and slid closer to his subject. This was going to be fun.
'Pupils dilated, breathing elevated, please check his pulse, Scarecrow,' Crane droned in the back of Scarecrow's mind.
"Are you hallucinating?" Scarecrow demanded of the Joker, ignoring Crane's request. "Do you feel fear crawling through your system? You will scream."
'His pulse, Scarecrow.'
Fine, Scarecrow all but snarled. He seized the Joker's wrist and laid two fingers over the radial artery. The Joker's eyes had been slightly glazed, but in an unfocused sort of way rather than one indicative of fear. Otherwise, his only reaction had been stillness. The lack of movement was disconcerting and only noticeable by its absence. Under normal circumstances, the Joker was a force of hyperactivity, seemingly incapable of remaining still for any length of time.
When he felt the Scarecrow's fingers against his wrist, the Joker's reaction was instantaneous. His gaze snapped toward the point of contact at his wrist and his breath hitched. A low growl emanated from the back of his throat, but his wrist shook slightly. Whether this was from tension or a genuine shiver, it was impossible to say. Scarecrow peered into his subject's eyes, searching for fear or at least trying to capture his gaze. The Joker's reaction to the toxin was odd.
"Tell me what you see," Scarecrow breathed, his tone all the more unsettling for its apparent gentleness. Scarecrow increased the pressure across the Joker's wrist to see what would happen, overriding Crane's warning in that back of his head.
The Joker's wrist remained still at this point. He was looking back at Scarecrow, but it was hard to tell if his sight was actually focused. Then a sudden trickle of laughter broke the relative silence. The sound sparked rage in Scarecrow. How dare this clown laugh in the face of fear! The Joker jerked his wrist back and his gaze flicked rapidly around the room. When it finally settled back on Scarecrow, his eyes were clear and focused. The Joker's breathing was still harsh, but his smile was broad.
The villains stared at one another for a moment. There was a strange sense of truce or unity hanging insubstantially in the air. They might have been seizing up one another if either of them were in their usual state of mind. As it was, the only thing that marked the passage of time was the slowing of breath. The Joker wasn't the only one with an elevated breathing rate.
The Joker finally spoke. "Well, that was… different."
Scarecrow scowled. "That was nothing. You need a stronger dose."
The Joker's grin became a smirk. "Maybe. But right now, it's my turn." The unconscious swipe of his tongue only served to emphasis his point.
Scarecrow removed his mask slowly and deliberately before placing it carefully back in the briefcase. "Fine. Your turn."