Chapter Nine: He who will not live on Pop Tarts.
So far my morning was going well ignoring the nightmares, I had gotten out of bed in a decent time (had I left the heating on?), brushed my teeth and splashed my face in the sink in the corner of my room. Eventually I changed into my favourite winter, lazy day jumper made of soft and none itchy black wool, and a pair of old, ink splattered jeans. With candle wielding snowman socks.
Rolling my shoulders contently, I think that I'll just grab my coat, scarf and shoes to wander Gotham's streets for a peaceful café to have breakfast in, then I'll take my sketch book to that park I had been reading about and...
I push down the noble brass handle to my room and pull. The door falls leisurely towards me; automatically I scramble away, throwing myself out of the light wooden door's tragic fall just in time to avoid being horrifically crushed before breakfast.
A glasses wearing man wielding a battered can of deodorant appears from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his midsection and his dark hair slicked back with water, dripping and scanning for the non-existent danger.
"R-relax, I just forgot about the door," I mumble, averting my eyes quickly from Crane's bruised, scarred torso before he notices me looking.
A mutter of 'be more careful next time you bumbling idiot' and a waft of humid air as the bathroom door closed, later; I rethink my plan about finding that café. Maybe later... when I don't have a psychopathic criminal living with me...
Shivering, I step through my battered door frame and make a point of walking as assertively as possible to the living room. I need to stay optimistic. Scarecrow's not going to be in control whilst Crane is in the apartment and there are our four rules, so what's there to be afraid of? Flipping on the television, Gotham City News reporting live in the 'Narrows', the reporter (an elderly man, if the grey streaks in his hair are anything to go by) speaks hurriedly, occasionally wiping his brow with a handkerchief. I frown, scratching my neck as the man speaks about the details of 'The Breakout in Arkham'. Hadn't that thug (in the snow) mentioned Arkham?
"We are still trying to capture several criminals," a police officer on the small screen states, "but there are still many of these criminals at large. For example, Arnold Wesker –otherwise known as the Ventriloquist- is highly dangerous and yes, he has Scarface with him, thus we consider him a threat to the lives of the public. We suggest that..."
My frown deepens as the thug's words finally echo in my mind: "...Crane here tried to poison the whole of Gotham City, was locked away in Arkham –a loony bin for freaks- and just keeps escaping…"
"Who do I think caused this? Scarecrow of course." At the sound of his name, my breathing hitches and my attention is focusing entirely on the words which leave the officer's mouth. "He worked here an' so Scare- Doctor Crane, would know the best means of escaping; not to mention he has escaped the asylum twice before."
The clip ends and the old reporter is back in the Narrows.
"The police and Batman have found another group of victims, most likely killed by one or more of the criminally insane escapees from Arkham."
A picture of each of the thugs whom I had (somewhat) stopped from beating Crane flash up on screen. My spine chills suddenly.
"Do not worry yourself," Crane says from behind me, "the police and their pet Bat will not be able to trace their deaths back to me. Thus you are safe from them."
Note how he says from 'them'...
"What about you?" I ask, aware of my voice drops to a whisper when another –more familiar- picture strikes the screen.
"Jonathan Crane, aka Scarecrow, is still at large and is a definite threat to the public. Should you see him, do not confront him. It is highly likely that he will be carrying a portable version of the gas which affected the Narrows on the-"
"You give the impression that you do not trust my word, Crow."
"-figures now show there to be at least eighty terminally impaired victims due to the gas, mainly consisting of the elderly and already mentally ill persons. I shall repeat, if you see Crane do not confront him. Call the police or the following helpline should you find a victim of the fear toxin..."
"I have to admit it's difficult trusting the word of a..." I trail off, lost for a word to describe Crane and his actions.
"A...?" He prompts, reaching over the cold leather of the sofa to rest a skeletal hand on my shoulder. A warning that he wants an answer and that he will not let me go until he has it.
I try shrug it off, uncomfortable at his touch. The doctor's hand becomes a vice, squeezing with a vicious knowledge until I am still once more.
"I haven't the w-word to describe you- you're just... You. W-why would you do that," I jerkily nod in the direction of the screen, the weather (heavy snow all week) now playing, "to anyone? Oh God, that thu- man, was telling the truth... you did try to poison the whole of Gotham!" Tucking my chin into my chest for reasons unknown to even myself, I try to ignore Crane's ominous footfall as his shadow drops over me.
"I did intoxicate a great deal of Gotham's people, yes." Jonathan affirms without any signs of emotion in his voice. Hesitantly, I find myself staring into his face, hoping desperately for some sign of remorse for what he had done.
I can see nothing upon that face. Perhaps a reason? Yes... Crane is a logical man, he will have some sort of reasoning behind what he did. Experimentation, asserting power, what about-?
"I needed the money for my experiments," the dark haired man resumes. Somewhat shocked into being nonchalantly, I note how the path of a single droplet of water from his shower is cut short of its path down his sharp features by a callous swipe of a lanky, bandaged hand.
The hand which had saved, hurt, held and gassed me. Jonathan Crane I can't understand you, what do you want to do next...?
Are you sure that you don't want to let me out, Johnny? Our careless Crow won't know the difference between us if I play with the stronger-
Exaggerating a sigh, I sit next to the brunette on the leather couch, turning my gaze to the 'Joker Killings' on the news. This man is causing quite a stir...
Makes you jealous does it? Scarecrow pounces upon my feelings, picking each on apart like a- Crow? He screeches, howling with laughter as I shake my head, snapping it to and fro in order to dispel the demon from my mind.
"Be quiet!" I growl in a barely audible voice, I swear if she thinks I can't even control- Oh, Johnny-sonny! I think you're obsessed!
"C-Crane, i-is it...?" not even bothering to face the owner of the trembling whisper, I hiss an affirmative to her unfinished question.
"I am in control." Liar. You are little good without me Johns; but if you insist in your weak attempts to keep me away from the interesting things in your life, then I'll just have to use brute force to make you see things my way.
We have an agreement! I snap, my inner voice tumbling on the very edge of a shout, to which Scarecrow only cackles at drawing out some raw emotion from me. I resume, reciting our agreement for good measure. I shall get you your test subjects in one of the bases which-!
-will be highly suspicious and the Bat will realise that people are suddenly disappearing, hunt us down and have our little Crow taken away from us along with our freedom. Oh dear me, can't have that happen can we? That means that I'll need something to induce fear into here. His voice has a certain smugness to it, one which can only be gained from presenting an argument and knowing –before the opponent's rebuttal- that you have won.
You-!
"A drop of wine was all it took that time,
His lips against her own,
Oh, please not now-
Lust is at home.
Lust is my name
And you are my game.
Control is what you bind me with;
Hook her up now, her mind's a sieve.
Hurry now or she'll forget your name!
(Better move slow; lest her remember your game.)
Quickly now, a terrible thought!
What if the other's
Attention
I've
Caught...?"
A quality of calmness runs over my senses from the sweetness of the rhythm of the words, soothing, like a song or lullaby. Yet –unfortunately- Crow appeared to of remembered who she is sitting with and trailed off with a question hanging most peculiarly in the air.
On the upper hand however, Scarecrow is a mere buzz in the recess of my head, somehow subdued by the young woman's (spontaneous?) poem. Questioningly I lift and turn my head to face Crow, her cheeks an awkward rouge and her darker eyes avoiding my own until I shift closer, instantaneously drawing her attention to me and my motives. Yet I know that my body language will be infuriatingly neutral, impossible for the inexperienced (in the terms of psychoanalysis of course, I am not the sort of person to take on a Lolita... she would be much too old to be a Lolita anyway), recently graduated girl to read. Smirking internally, I reassure myself that my face is blank before further proceeding.
"A song to tame the beast, Crow? I never thought you able to withhold your fears enough to speak clearly; never mind improvise a half-decent poem."
Something akin to her normal personality (or so I would imagine it to be) appears to seep back as Cara smiles; albeit the fact that I have just insulted her. Strange. I try again,annoyed. "You do realise that I have just insulted you?"
She nods; regardless the smile on her face creeping more towards a grin now.
"What?" I snap, unable to get the joke. What can be so funny in her situation? She's basically a hostage in her own home, is covered in bruises and –well- there's always Hyde locked away up here...
"Dorothy? Oh Dorothy! Where are you? Dorothy!" Following Crow's amused gaze to the screen, I watch as an old woman appears to be looking for 'Dorothy' in the middle of a hurricane, before being ushered down a trapdoor in the side of home or barn.
Frowning at the black and white film, something flickers in the back of head, a long-forgotten memory from years back.
"The Wizard of Oz?" I muse aloud, wondering wherefore or not I had guessed correctly. Now why is it so funny-?
Aw, coos a familiar voice; albeit a fraction less imposing as usual, does Johnny need a brain?
I catch on. Scarecrow. Of course!
"It may not be too tasteful to play this Doctor Crane; although," Crow backtracks as she glances at my expression, "I-I'm guessing that was accidental- when you moved closer you must've accidently switched the channels to this, hm?"
I nod, once and with extreme deliberation, making sure that the woman would not laugh at my mistake. That would remind me of things- people, whom I would rather forget.
And gas.
And gas. I agree, settling the matter.
"Doctor Crane?"
"Yes?" Ouch, is this a setback Johns? She's calling you 'Doctor'!
"I was, was just wondering if you like Pop Tarts..."
I frown, partly at the queer weight of Scarecrow's previous comment, as for some reason I find the prospect of being called something less formal rather attractive at this point in time. Maybe I've lost too much blood in too little time... And at the mention of the said Pop Tarts (which I can still vaguely remember being rammed down my throat by a drunken room-mate, seeing as I hadn't the money to afford a single dorm when I first moved out seeing as I could not sell Granny's mansion without the deeds) my throat constricts as my lips twist in distaste.
"No, Miss Crow, I think I would rather eat a canister of my own fear toxin, than suffer eating any of those sugar riddled creations..."
"Ah, well," Cara twists a strand of her hair nervously between her index finger and thumb, starring me in the eyes with a sure look of defiance and... victory? on her smiling face, "you should have thought about that sooner before you threw away that hotpot, that compost, I made... what have you been eating for the past few days if not... oh God, y-you didn't," the smile on her face drops as my own smile (and interest) rise at the sheer horror on the brunette's face.
Somewhere in the back of my head, Scarecrow sighs exasperatedly.
Johnny-boy, you haven't quite got the knack of this yet... you either want to terrify her (and will let me join in, damn you!) or you want to be little friends with our little Crow. Make up your mind for the last time or I swear I'm going to go mad in here!
With some minor difficulty, I manage to pull my lips into a straight line; albeit my interest I don't even attempt to rein in.
"You didn't, did you, Crane?" She persists, moving off the sofa and making a bee-line towards the fridge. Naturally I wander over too, just to see what had worried Crow in checking her... her freezer?
"Oh thank goodness," she sighs, about to reclose the door when I lean over to check what could be so important that-
Scarecrow laughs (if not a little nervously).
I stare.
Cara shuts the freezer door with a 'whump'.
"What," I start, disbelief lacing my words, "is all that ice-cream for?"
"Emergencies." Crow grins, turning to face me. Scarecrow grumbles something about her apparent lack of fear; but otherwise is undisturbed by this. This however, sets me on edge: where did that stutter go? "And it's what you'll be living off from now on."
I open the fridge door, revealing something other than ginger ale, apparently shocking Crow into –trying- to speak illiterate sentences. Courtesy of Tesco online...
"I- what- you- shopping- cook- crazy- you- you-?" Shaking her head slowly, my eyes catch hers and the confusion which lies there. "You bought a pineapple. Why?"
"To make more fear toxin out of." Apparently Crow misses my sarcasm and pales significantly.
"Really-?"
"No," I snap, "one tends to eat pineapples; not scream because of them!"
"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that... have you seen Little Nicky?"
It is a good film. Scarecrow joins in sniggering knowingly.
"Oh, shut up both of you. You both act like children sometimes..." Massaging my temples with a practiced motion, I glare down at the woman in front of me. "Do you not need to go to work or something?"
"I told you, I'm an artist, only..." something seemingly clicks in her head (note to self: emotion flickers across her face so readily, I –we- can make use of this if necessary later), as she hesitantly continues. "Not many commissions have been coming through recently... I might actually have to get an established job."
"Very funny," I say dryly, suddenly aware of the amount of spare time I shall have to spend with the woman; unless she finds a real job.
A real job?
What's your point? I sigh, already exhausted by the morning's banter.
Like the one we had up at Arkham? Glee laces Scarecrow's words and I don't miss the way his thoughts and intentions are uncannily parallel to my own at the prospect of having someone 'on the inside' as it were. The perfect set up.
A loud knock at the door is enough to make Crow jump and for my thoughts to resurface into reality however.
"You should hide,"
I nod, already moving hastily.
"I shall be in the study, reading." As we enter the stone corridor, I fall back slightly, just so that I am behind the brunette as I warn her softly. "If that's your friend... 'Izzy' at the door, I insist that you have fun, invite her in, drink tea, whatever. Just remember,"
A tapping of a tune at the door rings out down the hallway.
"Not to tell her about you, I know Crane. I will not."
"Good choice." I finish, turning off into the study and closing the damaged (courtesy of Scarecrow's happy stabbing) door curtly behind me.
Immediately, I flatten my back against the door, waiting for any sign that the two women are calling the police or... The muffled noise of a conversation tells me that Miss Crow has kept her side of the deal. But why? I am –for once- at a loss for a motive; for 'out of the goodness of her heart' has never and shall never be the case for anyone. Everyone wants something.
As footsteps move past the study's thick, wooden door, I relax, deftly walking in the direction of the desk and inspecting the –randomly shelved- books as I go.
A good portion of which appear to be on psychology.
Taking one of the books at random, several scraps of paper catch my eye, poking –almost guiltily- out of the sides of the hefty tome. Making for the desk still, I open the book on the first page with an insert: Dealing with Nightmares, it reads, scanning the text beneath with a critical eye I make out the advice given to be akin to that of a two year old giving advice on how to build a rocket. Thankfully, the curling handwriting on the paper inserted agrees with my observation.
After flicking through the rest of the –painful to read- book, I hunt for something for stimulating to read. Lovecraft, perhaps?
The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the door interrupts my search; the sound of Miss Crow's panicked voice and the panic in the second (presumably Izzy's... Isabelle's) causes me to draw out the last canister of fear gas I have.
Just waste them, Scarecrow sings, tugging at my consciousness for his much desired control, but do it slowly Johns. We won't be able to do this again for a while when-
Hush, this is for a warning, nothing more. I am staying here to recover and to do that best I should not have to lug corpses or shrieking women about. You should stay out of this. I need to concentrate.
The door opens with a furious looking young woman holding a spoon (still dripping with ice-cream and... are those marshmallows?) like it is a knife in her outstretched hand.
"Sorry Jonathan," Crow winces at the glare I send her, as her friend advances, apparently unaware of who I happen to be... or too enraged by something to realise it. "But Izzy knows me all too well to realise when something is wrong. Izzy, please don't kill Crane, he wasn't the one who gassed-"
With narrowed eyes, the second brunette prowls further towards me.
"The freak manipulated you into kissing him." The spoon shakes lightly, as the glare intensifies into something I feel the need to actually acknowledge as a threat. "That's just sick..."
I raise the canister. No. That was necessary.
"Crane! No!" Snarls Crow, gone is the meek, submissive creature I had become almost accustomed to. Crow's protective instincts appear to have finally kicked in. Understandable. If only it were for herself, the fool. "What about our agreement? No psychological damage to be done to the other? Or are you a liar as well as a murderer?" Crow sidesteps her spoon-wielding friend to confront me.
Why that little-!
"And you would know all about lying would you not, Lilly Root, how original!"
"Says you Doctor Psycho'!" She howls back. If that's the way you want to play...
"Bumbling idiot!"
"Straw brains!"
"Pathetic little Crow with cleithrophobia!"
"Sack head with an obsession for fear!"
"Useless cook!"
"Bastard! Take that back!"
"I don't think I shall!"
Laughter breaks up our explosive banter and in an eerie unison we creak our necks (somewhat reluctantly, thanks to the beatings we had both previously been on the receiving end of) to intensely stare at the still giggling Izzy, who had pocketed the spoon. She definitely is a strange one.
"You guys seem fine, okay kids; I'm off to work now! With the other crazies I need to take care of..." Turning swiftly to leave, the taller (than Crow; not myself fortunately) woman pauses momentarily before turning and glaring at me from a reasonably safe distance. "Doctor Crane, don't let me here of any more problems concerning Cara or I'll maul you, comprendo?" Without waiting for an answer, the odd, violent woman leaves the room only to be stopped once more by her friend calling her name.
"Hey Izzy! You couldn't pick me up an application form at work could you please? Things haven't been going quite to plan and there's rent to pay still."
'Izzy' grins peculiarly and I swear that her eyes vibrate. "You're joining us in the madness, Cara-kun? Phantasmagorical. Just be careful of him," she juts her freckled face in my direction, "he's the scariest and most dangerous one you'll have to deal with... and you're living with him, yeash, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night! Call me later to say you're okay, right?"
A self-assured smirk weaves itself onto my lips at the shiver which passes unintentionally down the speaker's blue suited body as she comprehends just who I am and what I do.
Let's play with her! I wonder what makes her scr-?
I do believe that we were warned specifically not to harm this woman? I raise an eyebrow. Least our fingers be cut off and shoved down our throat, that is.
Scarecrow pouts; but is pacified. Spoilsport. He mutters, before receding to corners of my subconscious. Plotting, most likely, of how to instil fear into our host-age.
The front door clicks and the clinking of the chain being replaced shivers down the hallway and into the open study. I wait for the footsteps to move and when they do I hear them come towards me, uneven and uncertain of their path.
"Miss Crow," I say, as the said woman comes almost shyly into view, "would you care for a game of chess?" She nods once, watching me closely as I return the canister of toxin into my suit, then leads the way towards the board.
"Sorry," she says as we sit opposite the other, setting up the pieces for their war, I can somehow see us playing this game often. "For snapping at you, sorry, that was unnecessary and –well- rude... although you did take out the gas. I- I thought you were going to-"
I move first, playing the white knight nearest the queen into the open battlefield of unforgiving black and white.
"-poison your friend? No, I remembered that you warned me explicitly not to do so and I believe that I do owe you something for allowing me to stay." I watch impassively as Crow moves a stout pawn, proudly wielding a short sword and oval shield two spaces into the middle of the board. The lone piece appears so helpless in that sea of oblivion black and oblivion white squares.
Remind you of someone?
Hush, Scarecrow. Don't ask double ended questions.
I block it with one of my own pawns, observing the blank, focused expression upon my opponent's face as her eyes flicker between our pieces' positions. A commander at work.
Crow moves the pawn obscuring her left-hand rook, glancing across the board again, then at me briefly before letting go.
"Thanks," she smiles, returning her attention back to the battle at hand, "for not hurting her. When I-"
The third piece I move is the same as the first.
"-told her that you were the 'boyfriend' my neighbour mentioned to her, Izzy actually looked terrified. I've never seen her like-"
Without really thinking, I move a pawn, analysing the recount Crow gives me of her companion's reaction with interest. She also moves a pawn.
"-that, even after we had been to the cinema to watch a horror film. The night you attacked the Narrows, Izzy was there, she told me terrible things of-"
Again, I block her pawn.
"-what she saw and about the patients she now treats because of what you'd done. They just scream is what she told me. Scream night and day. They have to be sedated just to eat and sleep; otherwise they wouldn't, they can't, they just... scream."
It must be a wonderful sound mustn't it, Johnny? We should give her a recorder just to listen to it...
Growling at Scarecrow's distracting comment (only because it appeals to you, doesn't it Johns?), I realise that Crow has not yet taken her turn; instead just sits there, gazing with downcast, dead eyes at the board, lost in her thoughts. Not to be narcissistic; but I have a hunch to believe that she is reconsidering the implications of letting me stay...
"It is your turn to move."
"And so it is," she moves yet another pawn half-heartedly, not really seeing the board anymore.
With a groan, I lean back into the carved oak of my chair, running a hand frustratingly through my –finally dry- wavy hair.
"Miss Crow," I start, gleaming a good look at the woman through my rimless glasses as she eventually glowers up at me through her own, "I understand if this new information has changed your perspective of me; but do you really want to continue acting so bipolar for the rest of my stay? Terrified and shaking one moment, returning to your 'normal' the next, aggressive and protective with a single threat and now," I raise my eyebrows, leaning forward to emphasise my point, "depressed?"
Without moving, Miss Crow protests her response through her teeth.
"I am not depressed."
My neck tilts, my head tilting along with it.
"Then this is your norm?" I challenge, Scarecrow smirks finally liking my assertive attitude.
"No." Crow sits straighter, defying my dominance with the curt answer. Scarecrow's smirk grows like a cancer at this, the ragged seams of his lips fit to burst once her eyes regain some of her odd personality. Something which I will need to explore further if I –we- are to stay for much longer, which we are planning on.
"Good; otherwise your norm would be incredibly boring for us to endure."
"Well, I would be awfully sorry to bore you, Jonathan!"
Scarecrow cackles as my eyebrows furrow suddenly, that didn't quite go to plan...
In your twenties and still that same socially challenged teenager! Whatever shall I do about you Johns? I roll neck, my face smirking involuntarily. Let me show you how to-
Scarecrow, no!I gasp, moving to stand, to move away from Crow before he fully takes control.
"Take it!" With my hands writhing, jerking and convulsing, I toss my weapon to the petrified Miss Crow, who scarcely manages to move to catch it in time as she rushes to her feet, backing away from me a safe –but not safe enough- distance.
The mask is oddly not ushered swiftly over my face; albeit Scarecrow is in control of my body now. He can do as pleases.
I have done all that I can, Cara, just do not give him the toxin for the love of-!
The toxin feels sturdy, powerful, dangerous and most of all terrifying in my hands. The wall behind and to the left-hand side of me more of the first perhaps.
Why corners, Cara? I sigh, letting the shuddering breath leave me and all too quickly taking another. And another. And- Stop it, I need to calm down. Calm down. Scarecrow doesn't have the toxin does he? I do. He can't hurt me, I beat him in a fist-fight once and I can do it again if I must.
Nothing, however, can prepare me for those words –that poem- recited flawlessly by Crane's alter ego.
"That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her because thou know'st I love her,
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suff'ring my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And, losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross.
But here's the joy: my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone."
I recognise his words of those of Shakespeare's passion, a sonnet, Sonnet 42. I had only put it on my wall because of my indecisiveness between which of the numerous, beautiful (despite the way I try to reject romance, a part of me still yearns for it) sonnets by Shakespeare to share with the walls, the meaning life: 42, struck me as one I should include. Yet now I regret doing such an impulsive, foolhardy, innocent thing. Or do I? That indecisiveness scares me as much as Scarecrow does, even with his toxin (which I hide between my back and the wall). A secondary, more practical thought inspires me next: how can he remember all fourteen lines? That poem is defiantly in the hallway so Scarecrow can't be reading it from one of the walls around us in the living room...
"Although Johnny's memory is quite questionable, mine is photographic." The Crane-but-not's lips twitch into a crude smile, reminding me of his lack of honourable human interaction. Even a child knows how to smile. I nod, acknowledging Scarecrow's boast, eyes never leaving the taller man's patient advance and calculating glances: where is the toxin? How will she attack? How will I attack? Running through what I hypothesise to be in the madman's head, I prepare myself for the worst possible outcome. If Scarecrow does get the toxin (if, I will not let him even touch this canister!) what will, what should I do? I cannot, will not, rely on Crane stabbing himself in the hand (literally or otherwise) to save me again.
I am not helpless!
Scarecrow's footfall is close, too close, imposing, now. I am looking directly into his electric eyes as he stands over me, curse him for using our height difference against me. Clever man. No! Stop thinking so erratically, irrationally! Ignore the lack of personal space! He's manipulating you, you silly girl! He wants you to panic and-!
Lean, suited arms snake smoothly, swiftly around my soot coloured jumper, sliding around my shape until they slip the canister of fear gas from my stunned fingers.
Scarecrow starts to draw the canister back towards him.
Instinctively, I push my back against his retreating hands, still holding their prize, locking them behind me against the loyal stone wall. My hands shake slightly as I grip the top of his arms and hold them steady as he pulls against my resistance to allow him, the delusional 'doctor', to take his foul toxin to cause more fear than he already causes me now.
He stops moving. Breathing with more emphasis than I would usually, I gaze finally upwards into the man's face. Scarecrow stares back.
"Jonathan?" I tersely call; although my voice rises a few octaves and leaves me feeling breathless. "Jonathan Crane, I-I know you can hear me, please-" Scarecrow (Crane- Jonathan, would never do this, I think...) leans in so close that our noses brush lightly. Flinching does very little; I am already virtually merging with the callous stone of the wall, Scarecrow chuckles quietly and I can't help but wish that Izzy had not left, thinking me safe with this deceiving fiend.
"Tell me... what causes a young woman like you to be afraid of being close to someone?" Another throaty chuckle and I wince at the minty breath (must've used my mouthwash... I'm not even going to think about my toothbrush...) on my lower face and neck. "Did someone hurt you?" Softer now, taunting me. "Break your heart? Unlikely the latter isn't it though, since Johnny took the pleasure of pilfering your first-"
Head butting Scarecrow doesn't quite go to plan. The second I graze his forehead with my own, he somehow had predicted my action and moves back with my reckless momentum. The floor, it turns out, is just as impassive as the wall. Tumbling about for a few minutes of brutish brawling, I manage to pin Scarecrow's arms under my legs and hold the toxin, nozzle facing him, to his face. Our breathing is heavy and gratefully received.
"Do it." Demands the defeated man, watching my fingers go ridged on the nozzle, I feel the automated tensing of the muscles in Scarecrow's scrawny arms under my legs as he holds his breath for a moment before continuing to breathe deeply. He isn't afraid... Of course, what has the Scarecrow got to be afraid of?
My fingers loosen, turning lax on the worn nozzle before leaving it completely. I let the canister roll idly to the far wall of the room until it hits another wall. Still and harmless for now.
"I'm not like you, Scarecrow." The said villain grunts with effort as he attempts to force me off him, for a moment I can feel myself being moved; yet I shift my weight and hold down the struggling arms with a force I find myself pleasantly surprised (if not a tad unnerved) to have. "I will never listen to your orders, nor shall I act upon them. You can never, never, make me believe that anything you told me before is true; although I will congratulate your memory: reciting a whole sonnet so perfectly after barely seeing it... what an act!"
Scarecrow growls a warning, something I feel shudders from by simply repeating, even in the relative safety of my own mind, before saying the second most curious thing of the... oh my, it is still just the morning... In a daze, I steal a swift glance at the clock on the sun filled wall: 8:09am. Much too early for this...
"Little Crow, my little Crow." He reaffirms, accidently a shade of disquiet must have breached my mask of pokerfaced self-preservation, as a wide smirk spreads ghostlike onto Scarecrow's angular features at my silent discomfort. "I just wanted to let you know how much I want to play with you, I can't do exactly everything I want to do at once, we need to take both our wants in moderation- I don't want to frighten you, much. Yet." Scarecrow laughs quietly, momentarily moving his piercing eyes from mine. They snap back, pinning them like a sadistic collector would with insects and keen pins. "But I have to admit, you are making everything rather difficult for yourself..."
"How's that?" I argue, accidently leaning closer before catching myself and jerking back. "You were the one who-!"
Yet another infuriating chuckle. "As I recall, little Crow, you were the one who just wouldn't let me go..."
Instinctively, I push my back against his retreating hands, still holding their prize, locking them behind me against the loyal stone wall. My hands shake slightly as I grip the top of his arms and hold them steady...
"Y-you would have-!" I start, unsure all of sudden. What's he getting at?
"I would have... what? Poisoned you? But I was the one holding back your precious Jonathan when your pal came to the rescue. If I hadn't stopped him, she would be dead or worse," Scarecrow pauses dramatically, embarrassingly, my breath catches as he does so, "her mind would be broken."
"L-liar, you're the one wh-who..." what if Scarecrow's telling the truth? I bite my lip, both of my hands scratching the bruised sides of my neck anxiously. "Y-you killed those thugs. Jonathan's... kinder than you... he-" Wracking my brain for a memory, hell, a mere sign of an example, I realise that the only positive things I can find are minuscule in comparison to all of the bad: those few and far between smiles count for very little when positioned next to the poisoning, the killing, the hurt...
"It's okay, my dear, it's all okay," a hand runs through my loose hair, down my shaking back and repeats the motion. We're both sitting on the floor, cold; but comfortable and sturdy. "He insults and hurts you and doesn't even try to thank you for helping him when you got us both out of the snow... which I happen to be very grateful for by the way." The shoulder I am pulled into is not quite as warm as me; but reassuring in an alien way and welcome.
"You're welcome," I mumble into it, for some reason my arms find themselves wrapped –clinging- to the torso the shoulder is attached to; yet this doesn't worry me. It's Scarecrow, I'm safe. Faintly alarm bells ring in my head: this is wrong, move, you're standing now, why are you still hugging him so readily? Scarecrow was the one who gassed you; not-! I brush these troublesome thoughts aside. Content that finally I feel safe in this new country with this strange, new man. Gotham was beginning to frighten me; things are so much more terrifying when you're alone.
I just want to feel safe. Is this too much to ask? Nobody answers. Of course, I hadn't spoken it. No-one answers in your head unless you suffer from-
"Little Crow?" I nuzzle the side of my head further into the grey suit before staring up at the gentle voice and its owner. Scarecrow smiles his broken smile as I keep eye contact with him, also smiling at ease.
"What is it?" I ask, moving a hand from around his back to push the hair falling onto his face away. It's starting to block his eyes... I note peacefully, as it flops back into place; albeit more in line with the rest of his hair, like it had been when I had first seen him. When... was being hurt. Not Scarecrow, but... who? Only grinning even wider, Scarecrow takes my smaller hand and engulfs it within his own, skeletal one with an effortlessness motion. "Scarecrow-?"
"Nothing, my dear, nothing at all... just a little buzz in my ear is all, thought I heard something."
Curious, I am about to ask more questions, but a pair of cracked lips pressing onto the back of my engulfed hand pauses me.
Shuddering unwillingly, I am about to pull back, away from my tormentor when I remember that this is Scarecrow, I'm safe with Scarecrow.
But I would be safer with Crane. Where did that thought come from? Everything's jumbled...
Just go to sleep. It's okay.
Those last two thoughts seem to be in my head; yet I cannot shake the feeling that I had in fact heard them. My senses are... chaotic. I frown, not sure of how to speak; yet –with valiant effort- my voice whispers.
"Scarecrow?"
"Yes?"
"When did you mange to drug me?"
Oh my, that grin cannot be a good sign... Another frown drips my brow, low and puzzled; or is it? No! It isn't! Think! Whatever's in my system, I can fight it!
"What gave me away, little Crow?" His arms hold me an arm length away, whilst his eyes take in whatever reactions I am unable to inhibit.
"The lack of space... Personal space, you don't appear to have heard of it." Scarecrow's vibrant stare continues, evaluating and smirking menacingly. My vision begins to fade. "Wh-what's happening?" I stutter, alarmed. Chuckling darkly, the man lets go of my right shoulder; but pulls me forward using my left in the direction of the kitchen. "Sca-Scarecrow! Why can't I s-see?"
"One of the side effects," he glances over his shoulder as he speaks, "it's to stop my patients from running; some do still try of course. Don't tell me you're not smart enough to realise what happens to them." The glare he must have sent me is outright chilling; despite my lack of sight at the present. "Anyway," Scarecrow resumes, opening and shutting draws at random, listening intently I try to map which draws he checks... difficult, but not impossible thankfully. "The reactions test subjects give as each of their senses shut down. One. By. One. Can be... revealing," stopping now next to the draw where the knives are- Time to go!
A scrawny hand hauls me –shaking- back. Letting rip an urgent battle cry, I lunge towards the villain at full speed in a jump.
He sidesteps masterfully.
The grey stone unit, however, does not.
