"When we are confronted with a perceived danger, our bodies respond in specific ways. Can anyone offer a few said responses?"

A sea of drowsy eyes avoided his own once he looked up from his leisurely pace. Their bored expressions met his small grin with welcomed contempt. The fools! With a short nod, he sauntered around his desk where his briefcase sat propped on his chair and riffled through it for several seconds.

"Betrand Russell once said, 'Collective fear stimulates herd instinct and tends to produce ferocity toward those who are not regarded as members of the herd." The animosity attached to said quote conjured an ugly sneer on his elegantly curved lips. No one noticed the seamless transition from bitter rage to relief once his fingertips brushed across the cool metal.

This lesson was for education's sake but he couldn't shed the shivers roaming up and down his spine for the coming reaction. "Be sure you're taking notes," he commented and with that, whipped out the handheld pistol and fired -BANG!- a single shot upward to the high ceiling. The unexpected thunderclap commanded every ounce of wandering attention onto the scrawny professor in his brown, moth-eaten suit. His usual lackluster eyes a blazing cerulean behind spotless lenses far too expensive to afford on his salary.

Shocked gasps, shrieks, and banging chairs of those jolting in their seats mixed to make the overture of a fine symphony. Narrow minds soaked in cheap beer drowned in their own toxins at the adrenaline rush. The students had no mind of their own as for what to do; but collectively, they acted as expected: A flock of paralyzed sheep.

The smoking barrel lowered gracefully and matched eye level with an Aryan prince sat gawking in the second row; the same boy so arrogant to think he could suck his way to decent marks. How dare he think that an established mentor of his aptitude would sink to such lows? He'd have to make an example out of the fraternity whore, though others would assume the target random; the boy would know.

And oh how he did.

"I should be seeing writing utensils poised and taking notes as I instructed." His expression grew all the more fonder when pens scratched across notepads and keyboards click click clicked away in a frenzy. Their ever fearful gazes never once left the aim he had locked between the boy's saucer eyes. The fact the steel chamber held only blanks didn't -couldn't- subtract from this: His interest didn't lie in carmine splatters and rigid post-mortem. Quivering lips and tear-rimmed eyes; shuddering breaths and erratic coronary pumps was what made this all extremely worthwhile.

His thumb angled to cock the hammer, but the result was only a squeak. He tried again and it happened again. As confusion swept up his calm satisfaction into a perturbed pout, grins sprouted across terror-stricken faces. With every failed attempt -pointing the gun at every smile and triggering a squeak- giggles from the ladies and hearty laughs from the men ensued.

"Stop- stop laughing at me!" The pitchy shriek of his pre-pubescence reclaimed his vocal chords.

Their laughter increased only more: Exposed teeth chomping on hiccups and each sharp intake of breath to fuel the process was hot pokers to his brain. "Stop it - Stop it - STOP IT!" Each shout was accented with a useless pull of the trigger. "What is wrong with this thing?!" He glared down at the pistol.

There, under the curl of his fingers and pinned against his palm was a fat, screeching bat writhing in his grasp. It's midnight fur and leathery wings itching against his skin. Tiny fangs snapping at the pad of his thumb, emitting the most ungodly of noises. A strangled yelp tore from his plump lips already parted in horror.

Gross caricatures of his former students howled their amusement and spouted all those terrible insults that marked his youth. They fell short to the rabid cries mutilating his ear drums.

"Ga- ARRGH!" His arms pulled from his socket at the force he threw down the dark bundle and pitched only air. Only a flicker of puzzlement before the flapping of much larger wings drew his eyes ahead.

Black talons snapped around a hand full of hair and forced him back. The scene shattered like glass where his back should have hit chalkboard. Raining bits cut and nicked his skin. Bloody chips clung to the demon's flesh.

His upper half seized off the mattress -tearing through the veil of troubled slumber- and gasped for air. Eyes pulsing from their sockets and heart pounding in his ears.

"'Despite alienating himself from patients and staff alike, subject has been interacting consistently during meal times this past week with-' guess whose name I'm gonna read."

He jerked and scrambled to the corner of the mattress, huddled against the joining walls. Terror still fresh in his system. Vision bleary as he squinted into the darkness of his cell: The over-dimmed lights revealed a fuzzy, carrot orange sitting cross-legged at the foot of his cot. "Hmm?" he grumbled; just a little annoyed with the recognition, but mostly relieved. Fighting to regulate his breathing, he reached to where his glasses lay folded on his nightstand and jammed them onto his face. He blinked several times to wear away the lingering sleep and adjust to the night. He wasn't particularly in the mood, but some distraction would prove useful. If there was one thing the clown was good at, it was demanding all attention onto him.

Except there was no silhouette of an orderly standing guard outside like usual and the odd question that escaped his comprehension upon waking didn't follow along with protocol.

"Whose file is that?" he asked with pointed interest at the manila folder held open to the other man's observation.

"I'm, uh, asking the questions herrre…" His narrowed eyes scanned from top to bottom on the page his thumb bookmarked. He had it all memorized by now. Every single stitch of ink and the bits of information gold amongst all the other B.S.

Sensing the subtle shift of weight across the cot as the small doctor tried to sneak a peak at the goodies, he promptly slapped the folder shut and tossed it to the side. He grinned at Jonathan's rapidly retreating form. Those bad dreams that had him wriggle and writhe didn't treat Jonny very well.
And they -no, he- calls himself, "Master of Fear."
He indulged himself with a throaty chuckle.
"Oh Jonny, Jonny, Jonny," he said, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. "Why'd you have to go and lie?"

"Lie?" Jonathan blurted without a thought. Reconsidering present company though, he swallowed his offended retaliation and avoided the nervous strumming in the pit of his stomach. "I don't recall lying-"

"Lie of o-mission, Jonny Boy," the clown replied as a matter of fact.

"Who knew he was capable of such big words," the dry rumble of his other half filled his mind. The Scarecrow's voice, always a consistency of snapping blades of straw; always there and never changing. He doubted he could sufficiently divide his focus between the Joker, Scarecrow, and the words that will actually come out of his mouth. He didn't trust himself with such matters anymore. The Batman could be the one to thank for that.

"I'd advise you to, uh, shut--it in there, Crow." A crooked finger jabbed at his forehead, already creased in thought. Jagged scars stretched and puckered as they drew near. Jonathan shivered with the growl in response confined to his skull. "I wanna have a lit-tle chat with Jonny." His head dipped to catch downcast blue eyes. "And only Jonny."

Other than the indistinguishable grumbling, Scarecrow hung back and listened; still weary of his last encounter with the clown. Jonathan's other half lacked certain eloquence and tactfulness that dealing with Joker and surviving usually involved.

"I assume we have an understanding, yes?" He twitched a nod, saving Crane from making the decision and answering for himself. "Goooood…" Yellowed canines bared in a warped likeness of a satisfied child. He shifted to face Jonathan on the mattress; legs tucked under him pretzel-style. Cold hands wrapped around delicate wrists and held them in a vice between them. The young, ex-doctor's pulse raced under his touch. He couldn't help but giggle at the little effort it took to terrify the doe-eyed man.

His Adams apple bobbed against his heavy gulp. The fight for composure all the more difficult to attain at this point in the night when sleep fogged over Jonthan's perceptions and the twitchy nerves of a premature wake dominated his system. The Joker's presence compared to the continuation of REM-thrashed encounters with the Batman was, of course, the lesser of two evils. The clown could be counted on to be unpredictable which in lied a certain, strained predictability to his actions.

He probably will have a nice, long visit to the infirmary in the morning.

That he could be sure of in the very least.

Contempt rippled across the Joker's hunched shoulders. Was Scaredy talking over him? No, that just wouldn't do…

"What--- did you do while I was away that week?" He'd start with a simple question -broad strokes so Jonny would fill in the blanks.

"I read."

Pale lips puckered as he sucked his teeth. Well-adjusted eyes narrowed and scrutinized a terse, plump mouth. Sleepy blues bored into him without a shred of deception. "I'm sure… but who with, hmm?"

The realization struck him then. Jonathan inwardly groaned, longing to get his hands on Wayne's case file only feet away yet instantly resenting that it all, once again, came down to the flying rodent. He adjusted his glasses, though they were perfectly fine, just to have an excuse to aim his searing glare elsewhere. The night time simulation throughout the cells could allow him to get away with only so much under the clown's watchful eyes.

"What does it matter?" His voice was even and controlled; that perfect air of apathy mastered over years of studying human psychology.

"It matters when--" His tongue traced and relished along his dry, cracked lips. Obviously too long since paint had graced them. "When my Bat, uh, mentions Jonny Crane during our couple's therapy."

Eye lids receded into his skull. A shrug drew close his bony shoulders. "What kind of treatment plan do they have you on?"
"I'm not seeing how that has anything directly to do with me."

"Funny you, heh heh, say that because of how right. You. Are." His hold on the other's wrist squeezed, pinching skin. Thoughts dripping with acid from his session earlier with Bats.

"You might as well pair me up with Crane-" How long will it take till that happens?
An underlying growl strangled past his smile.

"Make. Him. Leave, Jonathan. Before he breaks both our wrists. He must think you and the Bat…" The implying tone snaking through brittle stalks of grain repulsed him more than the bathroom facilities at Arkham.

"I never!" Jonathan gagged. Just the slightest notion of such a- "Euugh!" He shook his head in utter disgust.

"Care to, ah, shed some light on what's goin' on in that big ole melon of yours, Jonny?"

Repressing his total abhorrence to his other half's musings, he swallowed down the nausea and readdressed the clown. "Look I don't know what's written in that file, but I assure you that idiot, Horn, is just clutching at straws. Wayne just sat at the table. I didn't invite him and I made that quite clear." His answer would surely satisfy the madman, because it was the honest to God truth. "The bastard gave me brain damage. Why would I be his meal time buddy?"

"The clown's logic alludes us both, Jonathan."

Slanted, blue-inked cursive flooded his thoughts; Horn's bunched, inscrutable writing painting a picture of what he missed during his absence of his Bat's virginal week of "Rehabilitation." So far black and white but the soon to be added red would make it all the more richer.

Subject, though heavily ignored by Patient Crane, shows signs of curiosity towards his fellow inmate
i.e. watching and insisting on returning to the same table, the same seat
My only possible explanation is the subject is seeking out familiarity in a new environment
Possibly relying on Crane to remind him of his alter ego, the Batman
But it seems to be to a limit, explaining his aversion to the Joker--------nothing to remind him of his downfall perhaps?
Consult with Quinzel's notes and inquire further in therapy

Curious---with Crane?! How could his Bat find anything remotely mind-boggling about Jonny? Sure, Scaredy could be a real hoot if you got him angry enough… nothing else except those hypnotizing baby blues and that oh so tempting, fuckable mouth.

"----the file?"

"Huh--erm, come again?"

"Shows how much you're listening… may I see the file?" Sometime during his recollection, the smaller man had coaxed his way out of his grasp and assumed a more dignified seating farther from the Joker and legs crossed over the mattress' edge, hands clasped over the knee to disguise the shaking.

"Why sure," the Joker chirped and pointed at the folder tossed on the other side of the cell: The hallway's lights illuminating the label, Bruce Wayne, and peaks of well-organized documents. "There, you see it." His cheeky grin was received with an annoyed narrow of cerulean.

"Why don't you just leave?" He nodded stiffly at the door cracked open an inch.

"We could -should- leave right now, Jonathan. The Batman can't bring us back if he's already in here. We could get out through the basement." It took an entity as impulsive and primitive as Scarecrow to point out the most blatantly obvious. He bypassed the admonishing thoughts of declaring himself "Stupid," because he knew that simply wasn't true; being the head of his class since preschool (by his estimate). Instead he blamed his amazing skill of adapting to tortuous lifestyles. So long at Arkham, in general, and leaving for good crossed his thoughts every once in a blue moon. Admittedly Gotham with its decaying structures and bleeding heart citizens had found a special place in his soul. The disease inside of him for years regenerated and infectious on a large scale. Gotham was, for the select few like him, somewhere to belong.

"See you eye ballin' the door there, Jon."

Something plagued him though: The man beside him wasn't easily institutionalized, instead meant to burn them down with a whooping call and harvest moon smile. But why then… "Joker," he started and looked at his peer. His heart fluttering more over the prospect of freedom than a leather-winged dream. A pout on his full lips. "If you can leave your cell without the guards, then-"

"Why am I still hanging around this dump?" He quirked a brow with an amused grin, even though jealousy was still very fresh on his mind.

"Well, yes," Crane breathed and looked on, disbelieving. "No one can stop you. Why stay, and don't say it's for the food."

The clown chuckled in response to this. Jonny could be so transparent. Please, he could almost hear Crow whispering into the blue-eyed man's ear and filling his head with thoughts of escape. Frail limbs slowly tensing to make a run for it. "Uh, we're staying cuz Batsy is stayin'," he corrected with a flicker of tongue.

Laughter strained from constricted lungs; the clown's confidence filling him with dread. "You're joking," but as soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to beat them out of memory with one of his canisters of fear toxin.

"Of course the Joker jokes but never about the Batman." His skin paled to the likeness of rain-doused paper.

"Why- why should I have any reason to stay? Wayne is here-"

"Yeeeah… but Bats won't entertain me the way you do, so until then… you stay put." He would just have to keep the vigilante's attention on him -rightfully so- and make sure Jonny understands that he and the Bat are separately his.

Anger prickled across his skin at the clown's greasy words. White teeth glared in the darkness, a lip aching sneer. Long, skeletal fingers curled -nails dragging- atop his knee cap: Self restraint administered as to not lash out at the lunatic, so very pleased with his "Control." No, Jonathan wouldn't ever dare raise an ill-intended fist toward the Joker lest he had given up on life in general and wanted to meet Death with the most interesting story of his demise. He wasn't a fool.

Scarecrow on the other hand…

The demanding shouts to be released overwhelmed his stubborn hold. "No, you would only make matters worse."

"At least I'm willing to do something instead of rolling over and being the clown's bitch!"

Sucking in the stuffy air to calm himself, he slid his glasses of his face with every intention to polish the already crystal clear lenses. A shallow smirk settling his features. "… despite what you may think, Mr. Joker, I was not locked up in this institution to entertain you in------- whatever ways I've consented to in the past…"

Jonny's snide tone, gentle but firm, grated on his nerves in the most pleasurable way. "Jonny and his illusions of control… this is my game. My rules (or lack there of, heh). And you, Crane, are going to play."

"Now there's an opportunity to get out and stay out…" His legs slipped from its crossed position. Hands braced on each thigh to stand. "Then I say there's nothing to keep me here."

A sly grin pulled garish scars, as the smaller man swept dark locks from his face and rose from the mattress with a resolute nod. Jonathan's insides screamed and boiled in excitement with each quick step. A sigh of relief gushed from him once his finger tips brushed along cool steel. Finally he can get back to his experiments and have a decent meal.

Low chuckles chased after in three easy strides. "Oh, uh, Jonny?"

The Joker's sure hand seized Jonathan by the hair -jagged nails tearing at the scalp- and tugged him back, flush against his chest. Heart hammering from the nostalgic hold, his victim fell against him like a rag doll: Eyes wide and straining; the toxin's lasting effects immobilizing him in terror, save for his labored breathing. Sighing a horrible wheezing in the stillness of the cell.

Running his fingers down the ex-doctor's disheveled white undershirt, the clown nuzzled against Jonathan's neck -happy with himself- and teased the other's waistband, thumb rubbing circles against the tuft of dark hair trailing down to his groin. "… what kind of citizen would I be if I just- just allow a criminal to escape?"

Along with the rest of the asylum, Bruce jerked from his dozing at the sudden bout of screaming. Rising from the cot, he tilted his head with inquiring eyes as he tread carefully to the glass. A gang of orderlies rushed past and turned out of sight. He cringed and waited for the alarms to sound, the cries and shouts and cackles of the late night were none, save for the click of the air ventilation and that blood curdling scream.

Human beings shouldn't be able to make those noises.

He had the urge to break out of his cell (because he knew he could) and rush to the poor victim's aid. It was Batman's job to do such things.

But Bats you're in the loony bin!

As the wailing notes dragged on, they battled down the rusted shell protecting the small bit of him still a frightened child.
Back at the opera house.
That night reclaimed him.

Arkham, always a waking nightmare.

He shuffled backwards to his cot -eyes trained on the outside- until his calves brushed against the iron frame. Lowering himself, his legs folded against his chest and, unconsciously, his hands slid up to cover his ears. Anything to block out the haunting sound.

"Please…" he muttered softly. Eyes shut and his body huddling more into himself. "Please, just- … just stop."

The screaming was trapped in his ears through dawn.

'T was once - and only once - and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass -- some pow'r
Or spell had bound me -- 't was the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit - or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly - or the stars - howe'er it was,
That dream was as that night-wind -- let it pass.

The ending passage was an exert from Edgar Allan Poe's, Dreams, end of the first stanza

Yes, a Jonathan Crane chapter. Don't worry, it's not going to retract from B/J.

Thanks to those of you who have reviewed. They are most welcome and make my dull days colorful.