AN: How to know you've been at work for way too long: In a desperate attempt to alleviate your boredom, you start mentally assessing what color power ring each of your coworkers would be best suited to, because you've already assigned them all Batman characters. Then, once everyone has been given a color, you start wondering which of the Lantern Corps you would be best suited for, deciding on either red or yellow. Then, once you've decided it should be yellow if only because the powers associated with the red ring would endanger all your coworkers and customers, you start to wonder if your concern for their safety means you should have the indigo ring instead.

Bottom line being, I work too much. And I've also probably completely bewildered anyone who isn't a Green Lantern fan. For the latter, here you go: en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Power_ring_(DC_Comics)

Thanks for the reviews!


"He isn't eating."

Anika had always excelled in stating the obvious.

She had also chosen an extraordinarily uncomfortable spot to spy from. The Scarecrow was still seated on the pull-out couch, staring at and occasionally poking the food on his plate with a fork as though he absorbed nutrients via osmosis, so Anika had chosen to watch him from behind the half-wall separating the rooms. Abigail still wasn't sure why they'd felt the need to hide behind something in the first place, only that it had seemed absolutely imperative at the time. Now, several minutes later, there was no progress in consumption on the Scarecrow's part and Abigail was beginning to lose sensation in her arms from putting her bodyweight on the countertop as she leaned forward. She was also developing a stiff neck from the awkward angle she had to tilt her head at in order to just barely glance over the wall.

Anika, being exactly the same height and weight as her twin, had to be suffering as well, but she didn't show it. The only suffering apparent in her features was heartbreak over the fact that the Scarecrow wasn't enjoying her rice. It wasn't that Abigail couldn't sympathize—cooking was Anika's passion as much as sewing was her own—but her sister was missing the rather important detail that the Scarecrow was clearly already out to lunch and probably wasn't even aware that there was a plate in front of him, let alone that he was meant to be eating from it.

"He's sick, Ani. He probably doesn't have any appetite." The Scarecrow's blood pressure should be lowered by now, but there was still the issue of the antipsychotics. He shouldn't be going into withdrawal yet; unless Jackie had broken out a few days ago and only brought his friend here this morning—unlikely, as that sort of thing ought to be headline news—the drugs should still be in the Scarecrow's system. Should. Given how disoriented their new friend was acting, Abigail was beginning to question that. Maybe his body burned through the drugs faster than expected. He was certainly skinny enough. Maybe being moved to a new place and surrounded by strangers had exacerbated his condition. Or maybe he was just this out of it all the time, drugs or not.

"He doesn't like my cooking," Anika all but wailed, as the Scarecrow regarded the plate briefly before turning his gaze to the bedspread, staring at the sheets as though he was trying to decipher the Rosetta Stone.

"Don't be ridiculous."

Adrian was on the phone with his suppliers now, attempting to hunt down an antipsychotic either identical or very similar to the Scarecrow's as soon as possible. It would have been one thing if Jackie had brought a friend with an infected wound. They had penicillin and drainage tubes and all the other necessities for that. But back alley doctors weren't known for psychiatric work, and they had nothing of that sort on hand apart from sedatives. And while there was a demand for psychiatric drugs on the market, it was for recreational use. Abigail could only hope he would find something before the Scarecrow entered withdrawal.

She also hoped that Jackie would return bearing cash before Adrian could get sick of the hassle involved with caring for the clown's friend and send the Scarecrow packing. He wouldn't throw the poor guy out on the street—Adrian may act apathetic, but he wasn't that heartless—but it wouldn't be out of character for her brother to leave their houseguest on a street corner and then call Arkham Asylum as soon as he was out of earshot. It was good business sense, but Abigail didn't want the Scarecrow to leave. Sure, he was antisocial, near-mute, and had made no efforts thus far to connect with any of them, but he was fun, like an adorable stray kitten rescued from a storm drain. She wanted to give him a costume and a hug and several dozen cookies. Yes, he was a dangerous criminal. Yes, his toxin had nearly gotten them killed. But it was hard to care about any of that when he acted so cutely out of touch with the world.

Besides, while she didn't know the extent of the Scarecrow's condition or what strides, if any, he made during his incarceration, Arkham didn't appear to have done him any favors.

"'Gail." Anika's voice penetrated through her thoughts, at a whining pitch not unlike a mosquito's buzz. "What if he's anorexic?"

How quick she was to forget her glee over the Scarecrow's appreciation for the cookie last night. "He's not anorexic." He was thin, too thin from what she'd seen when he changed into Adrian's clothes last night, but his body still retained somewhat healthy proportions, and he hadn't objected to her presence when his skin was exposed. Presuming he was aware that she'd been in the room at all. The Scarecrow was a lot of things, but Abigail doubted anorexic was one of them.

"You can't know that for sure. Look at him. He's had like two bites in the last half hour. He's anorexic."

"He's not anorexic," the Scarecrow said, without bothering to look in their direction. "And he's not deaf, either."

So he can be coherent. Sheepishly, Abigail stood, wincing at the resounding crack throughout her spine as she did. She stepped through the doorway, Anika close behind, and made her way to the couch. "Sorry. Would you rather eat something else?"

The Scarecrow regarded his plate as if he was seeing it for the first time. Whatever lucidity he'd managed to gain seemed to have slipped back out in the last few seconds, like a light bulb giving one final spark before it went dead. "Not hungry."

"You have to eat something." Anika tried nudging the plate gently toward the Scarecrow. He didn't even look at it, opting instead to stare at Anika as though she'd grown a second head. Maybe in his broken mind, she had. "I can heat it back up if you want."

The Scarecrow sighed.

"She's going to keep pestering you about it until you've got something in your system." Abigail hoped she seemed sympathetic toward his cause. Leaning forward, she added in what she hoped the Scarecrow took as a conspiratorial whisper, "If I were you, I'd eat as much as I could without making myself sick now so she would leave me alone about it for as long as possible."

He considered this, biting softly at his chapped lips as he did.

Anika waited all of five seconds for his decision before taking the plate from his hands and setting off for the microwave. "You don't have to eat all of it, but you do have to eat."

There was no sign of annoyance on the Scarecrow's face as he watched her retreating back, only confusion. "I thought her hair was short." Short.

If Anika's hair was any shorter, she'd stop looking like Peter Pan and start resembling an army recruit. "It is."

"Oh." He looked unconvinced.

"Don't get it too hot, Ani." As detached from the world as their new friend was proving himself to be, Abigail doubted he'd notice if he was burning his tongue on food. Or, if he did notice, she wasn't sure he would care enough to stop.

"I won't."

Abigail ran a hand through the Scarecrow's hair. It was thick and wavy and begging for a brush, but there was little point in salvaging it this late in the evening. It had been sticking out every which way all day long, but attacking his hair while he was feeling nauseated and dizzy wasn't something she'd imagined he'd appreciate. "How did you meet Jackie?"

For someone so catlike, he didn't respond well to being petted, eyes narrowed as he fidgeted, moving enough to broadcast his discomfort but not enough to dislodge her hand. She kept at it anyway, if only to keep his attention.

"The Joker," Abigail clarified when he didn't respond. "How did you meet him in Arkham?" It would have to have been in the cafeteria or the rec room or something like that. Granted, she couldn't see Jackie being allowed access to those things, but maybe there was a rule that all the patients had to have free time. It couldn't have been anything like group therapy. Letting Jackie near other patients at all was a dangerous idea, but she could hardly start to imagine the chaos any group discussion would devolve into the moment Jackie had the chance to speak.

"The doctors let us talk." His words were tinged with obvious distaste, though Abigail couldn't tell if it was directed toward the hospital or the hand still stroking his hair. It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping at the revelation. A psychiatrist—more than one psychiatrist, and presumably the asylum's administrator as well—had decided it would be a good idea to let the city's two most destructive criminals speak to each other. No wonder the success rates at that place were so terrible.

The microwave beeped and the Scarecrow, who had been on the verge of squirming away, froze in place like a startled rabbit. So he didn't like loud noises. Or maybe just unexpected ones. Or maybe just microwaves. She filed all that away for future reference as Anika appeared in the doorway with the plate of reheated rice.

"Here you go." Anika put the plate on his lap, waiting, and Abigail lowered her hand. When his first act was to sit and stare blankly, Anika took that hand and placed the fork into it, then guided it back to the plate.

The Scarecrow continued to imitate his namesake by sitting there like an inanimate object.

"You need to eat." Anika tried guiding his hand to lift the rice onto the fork. The Scarecrow allowed his hand to be moved. He didn't act defiant or even apathetic. If he was being purposefully difficult, he gave no indication. Abigail was inclined to think their houseguest was simply too distracted with whatever was going on inside his head to focus on trivial things like adequate nutrition. Or maybe he assumed that scarecrows didn't need food.

Abigail, struck with inspiration, reached out and ruffled the Scarecrow's hair again.

His eyes flitted to meet hers, pale blue and cold enough to freeze beer.

"You should eat."

He continued to glare, and she ruffled again.

The Scarecrow muttered something that she couldn't make out, mouthed it again, and turned back to the plate. It didn't take a third stroke to coax him into moving the fork to his mouth. Manipulating the mentally ill shouldn't feel this rewarding.

From the hallway, Abigail heard a door click. She took her eyes away from the Scarecrow's culinary progress and turned toward the hall as Adrian appeared, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Any luck?"

"Possibly." He didn't expound, but he didn't have to. His less-than-thrilled expression made it clear that whatever solution he'd found wasn't ideal. Perhaps it would take days to get the proper drugs, or maybe he hadn't been able to find an ideal substitute. Whatever it was—and she intended to find out when the Scarecrow wasn't in hearing range—they'd have to make the best of it. They didn't have much choice to the contrary.

Typical Jackie, giving away a pet without providing any of the supplies needed to care for it. He was going to have a stern talking-to the next time he showed up. Not that he would care, but it might provide her with some catharsis.

Abigail nodded and turned back to the Scarecrow, who had once again abandoned the plate, this time in favor of staring at Adrian. Either Adrian or the wallpaper, anyway. It was hard to be sure. She reached out to stroke his hair again, and his hand shot up and grabbed hers. Quick learner.

"You should—you bite your nails?" Abigail maneuvered her hand to gain control of his, bringing it closer to her face. His nails were at uneven lengths, bitten nearly to the quick.

"Let go," he muttered, with a half-hearted attempt to pull free. Go.

She didn't, staring transfixed despite the way it turned her stomach. Abigail had always had a thing about fingernails. She didn't know what it stemmed from. Her brother's line of work had made her acutely aware of just how important hygiene was. Sometimes patients were rushed in with conditions so dire that there wasn't even time to snap on a pair of gloves. And her father had always had long, filthy nails, so there was that. Whatever the reason, she had always kept her nails short, cleaned, and, in the case of her toenails, which had no business rummaging in a person's body, painted. "You shouldn't do that."

She moved his hand again, examining it from a different angle, and her arm rubbed against his, pulling down the slightly overlarge sleeve.

His skin was marred with cuts.

Maybe marred wasn't the right word. There weren't many—she'd pulled his sleeve down to the elbow and only counted four—but they were long and reddened. She'd seen them last night, now that she thought back on it, but they hadn't seemed as striking then, what with Jackie serving as his usual distraction. Now, when they were inches from her face and the clown wasn't there to demand attention, they were all-encompassing.

"Are those self-inflicted?" Anika probably thought her voice was at a low whisper. Suffice to say it wasn't, but the Scarecrow, who had transferred the fork to his other hand and was now struggling to eat left-handed, didn't glance in their direction.

Adrian was sliding the Scarecrow's hand out of hers, studying the cuts. "Possibly. Even if they weren't, I'd say he's been scratching at them."

So their scarecrow was a self-injurer. It might have been nice if Jackie had mentioned that.

"I'll get bandages," Adrian added, releasing the man's hand. "And disinfectant. Watch him."

Anika stood as their brother moved back down the hall, stretching. "I'll get the nail polish."

It had been a very trying day and Abigail couldn't help but gape. "What?"

"Well, if his nails are painted, he might remember not to bite them."

Abigail could only shake her head, transferring the fork back to the Scarecrow's left hand. Jackie was going to get more than a stern talking-to whenever he returned. And the next time he brought something over, it had better be low maintenance. Maybe a puppy.