Johnny stared up at the ceiling, pillow clutched desperately in his arms as he trembled from under the blankets. The hot, stuffy night air might have been unbearable to most visitors, but Johnny felt nothing about the air when had something else entirely keeping him up at night.
"She ain't real," he said in a hushed voice, the quake in his words leading any listeners to the contrary of his attempts to calm his own wild imagination. The sweltering environment made a blanket an almost insupportable addition to his bed, and yet he didn't dare leave its shelter. "She ain't real she ain't real."
It was an old house, he knew for a fact. Ghosts were probably haunting every room in that dusty rat's nest anyhow. Things moved and they creaked and they skittered within the walls, and that was something everyone had to grow accustomed to. Johnny knew it was all in his head, but it wasn't his conscious decision to have his fear spike when he heard his door creak just a sliver. Images of what could be coming through haunted his nightmares and leaked into sleepless nights. Children and their active imaginations had to have had it the worst.
Sitting up, Johnny had let his nerves get the best of him. He knew that all he needed to do to dissipate his fear was look out the window, make sure she was still in her place, and then he could get some sleep. It's what he did every night, like how a little girl will religiously check under her bed or a young man will look back at his alarm five more times the night before an interview; he knew his fears were unwarranted, but he needed the reassurance. The child took in a slow breath, rubbing an eye tiredly and telling himself it would all be okay. All he needed to do was look left and out the window.
Moonlight shimmered past thinning clouds, illuminating fields of corn that shielded the farmland they grew from. One could get lost in such a maze, lord knows he certainly had several times. His anxiety spiked at the haunting scenery, his mind running wild as they traveled to what jutted out of the fields, and so he simply tried to keep his thoughts busy by running his fingers along his wounds. He played with superficial scratches made by swooping talons or vicious pecking. He dared not touch the lashings along his body, however, knowing even they pained too much for him to touch. He had grown awfully sick the last time he had done so, having reopened a few nasty lesions.
Johnny's gaze slowly rose to the only marker in that cornfield, it being an empty cross that stuck out of the earth like a the sprout of a crop among flat soil. He blinked, eyes growing upon realizing the straw figure that had rested her body the thin frame was nowhere to be seen. "Granny," he called weakly, his voice barely crossing a whisper. He found difficulty in swallowing, breathing becoming labored as his eyes never left the field.
He heard that door creak wider, unable to help when his head snapped to see what was emerging. Silence consumed the room, only burdened by his rapid breathing as his heart pounded in apprehension and terror. He felt that instinctual urge to call out to his great-grandmother even louder, only holding his tongue when he remembered how awful the retaliation would be for his treachery.
A shriek left him when the door snapped open to make way for a pair of large crows, their own cries lost within his piercing terror. He brung the hem of the old quilt up to his chest, scooting back up against the headboard as the two carrion birds fluttered to perch on the opposing footboard. Heart in his throat, he let out a shuddering whimper with teary eyes as he silently begged for their mercy. A yelp found its way out when a couple feathers found their way onto his lap. A slow, cautious look upward revealed the rim of his headboard to be the home of countless other black avians that found this young boy to fuel their intrigue. He stilled in dread, mouth silently forming the prayer his Granny had him repeat every night.
The hallway leading from his room was enveloped in darkness, and yet it was a hint of movement deep in the recesses of shadow, undisrupted by moonlight, that caught his attention.
Johnny.
It's me.
His heart sank when he heard that scratchy, distinctly female voice of a monster made of straw and crow feathers. For his attention, he was treated to the wide, white-eyed stare of something in the shadows of his doorway, bright like headlights without the rays. A scream tore through his throat as he quickly hid his thin frame under the moth-eaten quilt, sweat beginning to drip from his head. "It's jus' a bad dream it's jus' a bad dream it's jus' a bad dream," he cried, hot tears already spilling as his terror consumed his thoughts. "Git her away fro' me!" With the aid of the moonlight, a shadow draped through the the thin material of his blanket, allowing him to see her tall, imposing figure that now stood over his bed. "Granny! Granny!" He screamed for the only salvation he could think of, since God never seemed to turn his head his way.
Why do ya wanna mean ol' witch like her?
Ya have me.
The blankets were ripped off to reveal that thin, mangled and weathered body of the monster in the cornfield, staring down at him with white eyes and a smile that stretched for miles. She was even taller than even his towering granny, seven feet he reckoned. She reached for him with long, broken fingers hidden by burlap. He curled up in his bed, a scream tearing past his throat.
Johnny was jolted into a sitting position by the piercing shout that echoed through the house. Hair matted with sweat and cheeks wet with tears, his eyes pinballed wildly around the empty room. A frazzled mind pieced the events together as he wiped away a tear-stained face. There were no crows, no Scarecrow, no nothing.
"JONATHAN, THIS IS THE LAST TIME-!"
He yelped in his bed, a newfound terror sparking inside him once more. He looked back out that window, only to see her perched up on the cross as she always was. Her head was canted to one side with those black eyes and smile pointed upwards at his window, as if she was speaking directly to him.
You've gone n' done it now.
He gulped, tears streaming anew as his apprehension grew. From the storming footfalls ringing down the hall, marching closer towards him, he knew what was about to come.
Johnny.
Why am I scarier than her?
"Get her away from me…"
Jervis pulled away from the phone, raising a brow for a brief second, swiftly realizing it must have been another one of his babbles.
"The hospital? Why, Dormouse, you're about as mad as I am!" he spat, letting a panicked groan escape him. "What are you talking about?" Riddler challenged, clearly as cognizant of their lack of time as the Hatter, or so he thought. "He's a part of the tea party; they'd have him die in the state he's in! It would be like putting a white rose in a red rose bush!" the Mad Hatter shrieked, the weight of their predicament weighing down heavily on his mental state. He laughed at his own perturbed thoughts, his reasoning and judgement a dither as he fell back to his old coping habits. "And if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know." A sharp laugh followed Jervis', rising from the speared Jonathan, who jerked and spasmed for a few moments despite his clear injury. Without the hindrance of pain, there was no stopping the type of damage that could be inflicted by his own actions. "Whoa whoa, Hatter, 'you shan't be beheaded!'" Edward replied on instinct, knowing the line off of the top of his head as one of the few quotes from the book that was effective in roping the madman back into reality. A few unintelligible noises were babbled, but Tetch somehow stayed with him. "As much as it hinders us, you're probably right," conceded the Riddler, "so I believe I know a way, but you need to get Jonathan into a car and drive like a bat out of hell. Or a mome rath out of Jabberwocky or what have you. Tracing the location of your phone, you're a good half an hour from Gotham, and right now, that's certainly looking like your best option."
As Nygma spoke to him, Tetch was already climbing out of the embankment. There on the road he saw the blasted car that had impacted their vehicle. The owner stood just outside the door, inspecting his car for damage. It looked to be a superior vehicle to their own, despite it now having a large dent in its front and causing cracks to spider up the windshield. Before the man could even turn around, a card was slipped behind his ear. "Off yourself. Make it painful," muttered the impatient hat-maker, already shuffling through the interior of the car to find things of use. The man left his presence, leaving him with total control of the ride now in his possession.
Finding a blanket, Jervis hastily made his way back to the bleeding Jonathan, returning just in time to hear him mutter "get her away from me" once more under choking breaths. Nearly tearing the car door of the frame to access the passenger seat, Jervis eagerly began tearing the blanket into thick strips. "Don't worry, March Hare," he assured hurriedly, taking in the daunting metal blade that had imbedded itself in his friend's chest, "you'll be right as rain in no time! We just need to get that nasty thorn out of your paw and you'll act like the lion you are once again." Taking in a shuddering breath, he gripped the broken tang of the metal, only backtracking when he heard Edward cry, "Wait wait, you aren't going to try and pry the thing out, are you?" Tetch couldn't help the indecipherable babbles of frustration. "Is that so wrong? If you saw a knife in dear Dinah, wouldn't you want to take it out?" Figuring Edward knew best, however, he handed the pieces of cloth to Jonathan. "Put pressure around the wound," he ordered quickly, thankful to see he still retained some control in Jonathan's broken state when he complied and focused force on the slowly growing stain.
"For one, none of us are privy on how to take out an object of that size from the human torso," Edward explained, still refusing to be economic in his language despite the direness of the situation, "and even though I'm sure I could achieve it with ease, I doubt I could direct you over the phone. You'd probably mistake his intestines for the caterpillars hookah pipe in your sta-"
"Dormouse, our dear lovely Hare is dying. I'd rather not hear one of your stories at the moment," Jervis reminded, wrapping an arm around Jonathan's back and the other scooping under his legs whilst the phone was tucked on his shoulder. With a deep breath, he heaved the man into his arms, easily trekking back up the embankment. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord, my soul to keep," he could hear spouting from Jonathan in hushed whispers. "Speak roughly to your little boy, and bear him when he sneezes!" the Hatter laughed in retaliation, a spurt of madness taking over as he nearly gave into the voices. "Hatter!" The sharp admonishment snapped Jervis back into reality, reminding him that now was no time to be volatile. "Just get him to a vehicle. I'm still searching my files," Edward commanded, but at that point Jervis was back on the highway. "Halfway there," the Hatter spoke. "The blasted knob jockey who hit us thankfully left his car." Nygma paused, clearly opening his mouth to speak on the other end, but noticeably decided to divagate to another subject. "Wait, are you carrying him?" A affirming "hmmm" met his question. "How are you-?"
"Oh pish posh, Dormouse, he's as light as a feather," Hatter said simply, actually able to jog his way to the car. He sat Jonathan in the passenger's seat, sharply rounding the car and slumping himself in the driver's seat. "And down will come baby, cradle and all!" the dying man suddenly shouted with a spasmic laugh. "Oh my, we really do need to talk more about your childhood," Hatter sighed, wasting no time in getting the car back in track, bringing the needle to the opposing end of the dial with the intent to kill that gas pedal. In his panic he nearly found himself driving on the wrong side of the road, quickly steering the car in to right direction. "Americans. Drive on the left side of the road like everybody else," he growled in his agitations. "We're heading back to Wonderland. Dormouse, tell me a story, mainly about where I should be going right now."
"I'll be taking you though a route to get to him quicker," Riddler responded, the typing ceasing. At least it would divert the Batman off of their trail. "You'll be taking a right when you reach the next intersection."
"'Him'? Not that I don't trust your discernment, dear mouse, but who is 'him'?" Jervis questioned, focusing on Edward instead of the tricks in his mind. To that, the Riddler followed it up with an invention of a coded rebus just for him.
"The mammal, the man, the Greek repleted play, I take the flesh of man and I mold it like clay. What am I?"
Oh if he could only see the thin-lipped glower being thrown the road's way. "Riddler," he said flatly, a tone usually reserved for mothers ready to chide a child in denial. "Oh you have about thirty minutes until you reach him. Thankfully he's in the more secluded slums of Gotham. You have time," Nygma encouraged, a lackadaisical tone edging into his words. "Besides, a few brainteasers will keep that reverie at bay. You want to know, don't you?"
"I'm going to remember this the next time my hands get ahold of my poleax," Jervis replied, letting out a soft groan as his head was rocked by another hit of pain. "Ugh. Ow… let's see… mammal. Man. Play. Man-Bat? No, certainly not. Oh this better not be some politician or some local Gotham celebrity. You know I'm not so well-versed in those types of circles."
"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out by now," Riddler taunted, although his usual haughty attitude was toned down given he was a) helping a dying man, and b) among fellow villains. "It's practically child's play! Though, I suppose it would only make sense; the only riddles you fancy are found in books and forgo the answers. Remember, you should never include…"
"You should exclude," Jervis finished, thoughts rushing. Nygma was right: despite his frustrating games, Jervis was being distracted from the stress of Jonathan right beside him. At this point he had even tuned out from the constant muttering of rhymes the obstreperous Scarecrow had subjected him to. Had he not had Edward there, the stress would have more than likely seeped into his mind and cause an uncontrollable episode that would leave with a dead March Hare. Ed knew what he was doing, even if he was making Hatter want to outgribe like a mome rath during a Jabberwocky.
"Wait," he said suddenly, the puzzle clicking together. "Mome raths! That's it!" Edward's addlepated reaction was evident from the loud "um" he gave on the other end. "Oh, you're leading me to the good Professor Pyg!" Jervis cheered, newfound hope in the dire situation. "Well, I mean, that's the answer," Nygma replied after a few seconds. "Very good, even though I can't quite connect how you came to that conclusion."
"Your riddle, silly," Hatter tittered, taking another glance at Jonathan to ensure he would live, as if his will alone would keep his friend alive. "Oh how a Dormouse loves his stories! You're a genius! You couldn't be more pleasanter at this moment. I feel so frabjous I could shove you in a teapot!"
"Oh please not again," Edward groaned under his breath. Realizing Jervis was once again losing his contact with reality, he kept talking. "Pyg's the only one we know, perhaps besides Hush, that knows how to keep someone still alive on the operating table. He has all the equipment needed to keep Jonathan going. You just need to get to him in time." He failed to mention how short on time they really were, but only because he knew the slithy bastard would still live. Jonathan and the rest of the residents of Arkham's most well-guarded wing were like cockroaches compared to the rest of the world. It almost seemed unthinkable for someone as seemingly immortal a man as Jonathan to just bleed out and die like some victim in a dark alley. Even Nygma cringed at the thought; dying from a crash because you stabbed yourself with your own weapon. It all just seemed too degrading and humiliating for their caliber of infamy.
"Hey, what is that sound?" Edward suddenly asked, leading Jervis to look over in brief confusion at the only man who was making any sound in the passing moments of silence on the road. "Jonathan," Jervis answered with a tired sigh. "Like I said, he's… not all there." He bit his lip, letting out a tense groan. "Oh dear, he's nearly madder than I!" Jonathan twitched, hand pressing down on the wound with a force like no other, mindlessly whispering a repeated phrase.
"Get him away from me…"
Tetch grimaced at it all, letting his worry nearly consume his thoughts. "Get what away from you, Hare?" he could only say, knowing that he couldn't be heard, or at least registered in that moment.
Jonathan jerked in a fashion that could almost be considered a convulsion. "He put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well." He let out a high giggle, before going back to his susurrus and staring at the road without thought. Blood dribbled down his chin as he visibly took in deeper breaths, but other than that, he just concentrated on whatever was before him. "Jesus Jervis, what did you do to him?" Edward asked over the phone.
Jervis didn't reply initially, taking his eyes off the road to stare at the broken man in the passenger seat. Those dark, unsound thoughts surfaced back in his mind, and so he had to scold himself for all the things he had considered doing while Jonathan was under. "I…" He stopped, feeling sick in that moment. His hands unconsciously tapped the steering wheel in those slow intervals to assuage his overturned stomach. A deep frown found its way onto his expression, realizing not only what he had done, but what he had been going to do had Jonathan himself hadn't unconsciously stopped him. He just wished it had been in a way other than crashing the damn car.
"I haven't the slightest idea," he murmured, focusing back at the road as he was forced to deal with his own grievance.
"Get him away from me…"
"Jon! Where are ya, Jon?"
Jonathan didn't give the curtesy of even turning around, knowing if he did it would damn near be his last polite act. Under the thin cover of darkness, he ducked into the cornfield, silently praying to whatever would listen that he wouldn't be found.
"He's somewhere in the cornfield, I reckon. That's where I saw him."
"Jon! Come out ya beanpole! You aren't scared of guns, are ya? It's just a BB!"
Jonathan felt his heart race a mile a minute, carelessly pushing his glasses further up his nose despite one eye of the frame being too damaged to properly hold in the lens. He grimaced when shaking fingers touched that forming bruise under his eye, skimming along its defined edge to properly consider how much the injury would spread along his cheek by the next day. At the appearance of headlights cutting through the cornfield, he knew he needed to move. Reluctantly he migrated deeper into field, thankfully able to find his way through after years of working them. At the sound of their taunts and jeers, he lowered his head and ducked deeper into the field, all up until he came across that large, towering figure that guarded the farmland. No longer a young boy, the height of the timeworn Scarecrow was far less threatening, but still daunting in a way that teased his most primal fears, no matter how far he buried them. Weather and age had not been kind to him, tearing up clothing and taking out chunks of hay from the main parts of his body. Even that hat of his had blown off, and that bit had specifically been sewn on. He would almost look pathetic if it wasn't for that mental image of him climbing off that cross to crawl through Jonathan's window to drag him away. His head sagged downwards, black eyes staring directly into Jonathan's.
About time ya came to fix me up.
"Shut your mouth," Jonathan hissed, looking back at where he had come with a steadying heart rate. No one as of yet, he thought thankfully.
"C'mon, Crane, we're just jokin' around!"
"Yeah, Ichabod. Just c'mon out. No need to go runnin' back to your corn, ya hick."
"Where the fuck'd that rube run off to? C'mon, he's probably over here."
Tears threatened his eyes at the humiliation of it all, angrily wiping then with a dirtied sleeve. He was breathing hard, he realized, almost to the point where he found it hard to breathe. His back coming against the wooden pole that held up the Scarecrow, he slumped into a sitting position, knees brought up to his chest as he tried desperately to dry his eyes.
Hey.
He blinked, looking up at the monster. The monster in question stared forward as usual, head sloped to one side and the stitching to his mouth gone slack from a few too many nights in the rain. He hadn't been fixed since his Great-Grandmother had installed him into the fields, and upon seeing him so close in the night, Jonathan almost felt sorry for the level of damage that had befallen him. Had he not been in the situation he was already in, he would have considered tending to the Scarecrow.
He gave him his attention, bringing up a sleeve again to wipe away his wet vision.
Are you honestly crying right now?
Jonathan's cheeks burned as he looked away in frustration. His heartbeat refused to slow for him, his instincts on full alarm. First his peers, and now the Scarecrow.
You're letting them do this to you?
"An' what would yew have me do?" Jonathan brayed with a hush leveling the intensity of his voice, unable to prevent the stream of tears that inevitably broke his vision. Breathing labored, all he could do now to stop his own chagrin was keep his mouth shut and pray they went away. These men had far too much time of their hands, however, and sadistic intentions tended to outlast his will to stay hidden for so long. He jumped in his spot upon hearing the shot of a pellet gun in the air, clamping a hand over his mouth and letting his terror run high as he heard the laughing of the men hunting him down. They had obviously been trying to scare his location out, but with a hand clamped around his own mouth, he had been able to prevent giving himself up as potential target practice. When another shot ran out, he had to actively bite down on his sleeve to keep himself from reacting to the obvious bait.
The scythe is in the took shed.
"Are you suggestin' Ah kill them?" he asked incredulously, now alarmed by the Scarecrow and his sudden change in methodology. 'F course not, though it's not like we're doin' the world any favors by keepin' them around. Jonathan glared up at him, his thoughts about the ordeal already made clear. Even still, those nagging dark thoughts surfaced from the back of his mind, if even only slightly.
Take my face.
Jonathan stared up at the frozen, burlap visage, unresponsive to the command. Show them the same fear they inflict upon you. Give them a taste of what you suffer through each day. That worn burlap would certainly do well to double as a frightening mask. Jonathan's fingers twitched, feeling that almost intimate urge to follow through. He heard another shot ring through the air and lurched only slightly, a glower forming behind broken glasses as that familiar rise of anger and hatred bubbled from deep inside him. Just once he wanted to have the upper-hand; be the harbinger of that same fear he had been subjected to his entire life. Toxic emotions continued to brew within him as they did every day, wanting so desperately to give in to that voice that urged some of his most sinful and disgusting thoughts. Despite all those deadly thoughts that stewed in his mind, he couldn't help how greatly his hands shook when he reached up to follow through. Tears streamed further, this time brought about by frustration over his own cowardice.
If you won' do it, I will.
"An' how do ya plan to get down from there?" Jonathan scoffed through his tears. A gasp nearly left upon seeing the rays of a flashlight shine past the thick walls of crops.
"Hey, I think he's over here! Hey, Jon! I though you were scared a' scarecrows!"
That sudden struggle to breathe returned as he nearly choked on his own fear, leaping to his feet despite the pain to his side from having been unwilling target practice minutes earlier. "Get away from me," he begged under his breath. "Get him away from me…"
I will. Eventually.
Jonathan scrambled away, his fear renewed. It would all end, he knew. Eventually. That's what he told himself every day for the past decade or so, praying to a God he wasn't sure he could believe in anymore that it would all disappear. He didn't want revenge, he wanted to be left alone. That's what he repeated like scripture each day. Yet it was revenge that had consumed his mind moments before.
When I do, we'll do it together.
"By the by, how in the name of Queen Alice did you find him?" Jervis had to ask, relieved to see those familiar white dots of Gotham's lights in the distance. "Oh you underestimate me," laughed the Riddler. "Take a left at Hargrove Street. Anyhow, I have the location of most villains in Gotham. Its all about knowing who buys properties and their usage and whatnot. Back before I became the Riddler, I used to assist a few shady men by being a bit of a go-between when it came to purchasing properties for various dubious needs. You know how it is." "Ah, you used to be an information broker to those types of fiends," Tetch recalled fondly, knowing Edward had a less-than-clean reputation before he adopted the green question mark. "The best of my kind," Riddler crowed. "I still hold onto knowledge of who owns what, mostly in case I need a bit of space of my own. Usually the only criminals I can't track are ones that decide to go about using abandoned buildings or using the illegal route. That always made you more than difficult to find."
Tetch had no time to smirk when he heard Jonathan wheeze out another cough. His breathing had only strained further, and despite their best efforts, that blood pool was growing dangerously large. Nygma had been right about the scythe; had it been pulled out without expertise, Jonathan would have most likely bled out in a matter of minutes. Now he had a fighting chance, even if it was Edward and Jervis that had to do all the fighting for him. "Get him away from me…" Tetch frowned at those words, wondering what sort of delusions the man was having.
"You're just ten minutes away," Edward reminded him when he was met with silence. "He's going to be just fine. I mean, it's Jonathan. You could behead him and he would still live on like the roach he is."
"Off with his head!" Jervis laughed softly, trying to keep his mind on the road. With cars now plentiful along the path to Gotham, he was forced to slow it down, even if it was just a tad. He was sure he had still broken many laws just trying to get where he needed, but right now a speeding ticket was of no concern to him.
"Anyways, I recognized one of Lazlo's old aliases when an old building was bought off. Chances are he's there, as he's had yet to return to Arkham," Riddler continued to explain, recognizing that Jervis needed to be in a clear state of mind if he was going to confront the Professor. He tapped randomly on his keyboard, releasing a heavy sigh. "The more I stay at home, the safer you feel. What am I?"
"He's not going to stuff the good Hare, is he?" Tetch had to ask, ignoring the riddle in hopes he would catch on to his silent criticism of Edward's less than appropriate attitude; this was no time for riddles. When he heard that initial sound of confusion, he clarified with, "Are you sure he won't make him into a doll?"
"No no, of course not," Edward assured him, despite sounding pretty one hundred percent unsure. "Pyg likes you, I know that. Well, as much as that madman can like another without turning them into genderless zombies. You're both into turning people into mindless dolls; he's just a bit more permanent with his. I'm sure you can convince him. Besides, I'm sure Jonathan's way too substandard for his tastes. Just as you come up just short."
Jervis may not have been too well-versed in all of Riddler's quips, but he knew a play at his height when he heard one. "Just so long as you don't mention me to that culmination of Two-Face's fever dreams, we're going to be fine," Nygma continued, sounding as though he was leaning back in his chair. Jervis was less than pleased with his friend's flippant tone.
"Perhaps I should tell Dr. Pyg just how I came to know his location. I'm sure you know just how much he hates being interrupted," the Hatter suggested, casually with a hum. A lurch was heard over the phone. "You. Wouldn't. Dare," Nygma warned, his voice becoming serious as he took immense weight in that threat. "Unlike Jonathan and I, you're perfectly average in height, build, very little scars…" Jervis went on, feigning innocence as Edward clearly became more riled up over the phone. "Jervis, I swear to you-" He finished with an indecipherable bundle of various threats. It was really no secret between the three of them that Edward was absolutely terrified of the surgeon, as Scarecrow had gleefully come to find out. While fairly harmless back in the Asylum, a run-in with the madman outside their walls left Nygma hurling into the trashcan at the very thought of him. Fear really is quite the power, Tetch thought. "Oh, if I simply mentioned your name, I'm sure he would be simply galumphing to see you!"
"I'm going to galumph my foot up your-"
"If our dear, delightful, dying Hare meets his end because of your decision to send him to the Duchess, you shall do no such thing," Jervis scoffed, oh so matter-of-factly, "for I, as much as it pains me to say such mimsy threats, will make sure Pyg scrambles that precious brain of yours into a mush thin enough to spread on my bread at tea time."
"He tried to kill me!"
"And he spared you."
"Oh heavens, what a saint!"
Tetch raised his eyes to peer at the street signs, quickly turning as Nygma had instructed and onto the dingy road that Pyg was said to be residing. "You won't have to worry about it, I'm sure," Jervis replied in a softened tone. "I trust your judgement. If I didn't, I wouldn't have called you."
"You're a sick man, Hatter," was all Edward could reply with. "We are what we are," Tetch smiled, melodically tapping the steering wheel without missing a beat. "God, you two are perfect for each other." The Hatter opened his mouth to spit back, but in the end just bit his lip and let Edward finish. "Turn into the old factory. That's where he should be staying."
"You know, if Jonathan were in your position and you in his, I would have threatened him all the same," Jervis defended, pulling into the lot. He paused to consider his next words, but not for too long and he went to quickly pulling the keys out. "Thank you, Dormouse."
"Consider this even between me and him. It's all on you now. Good luck," Edward spoke, before hanging up the call.
Jervis was not a man to waste time; he didn't need to be more late than he already was. Letting out a shuddering sigh, he turned to his companion with a gesture to the building. "And that's the jury-box." He raised his gaze up to the building itself, noticing a few still faces filling the window closest to them. He licked his lips, hoping none of Crane's toxic fumes were getting to him. "And those twelve creatures…" He looked over at Jonathan, hoping he would finish it with Alice's line. His March Hare was growing deathly pale, no longer bothering to look at him in favor of staring at the nothing straight ahead. "Get him away from me…" was all he could whisper to whatever imaginary fiend he was seeing. "Oh dear, the doctor will fix you up," Jervis squeaked in worry, scrambling out of the car and going around to retrieve Jonathan. He frowned in momentary puzzlement when Crane waved a hand wildly at him when the door was opened, as if to startle him away, but he soon halted his efforts and once again let the hypnotist bring him into his arms. Those faces left the window as he went about running up to the double doors of the forsaken factory. With a foot he pushed open the entrance open with ease, letting the light of the streets flood the darkened opening and pull out a few outlines of men in the shadows. Hatter stopping so suddenly when faced with the staring blank canvases that were Pyg's dollotrons. If they hadn't turned to look at them initially, they could have completely passed for statues. Plastic faces, a mess of red hair, still expressions from painstaking surgical work done on their bodies, and a clear lack of intelligence or thought with all the damage done to their minds. "Oh my," Jervis murmured under his breath, eyes wide at their appearance. There were only three, but he really only needed one to find the old friend. He almost felt sick at the sight, a sudden wave of doubt enveloping him. The hatter nearly considered actually taking Jonathan to the hospital, but he snapped himself out of it, realizing he just wasn't in the right mindset. He couldn't stop himself from laughing suddenly in the presence of these dolls that were once actual human beings, letting that madness overtake his mind. "Why, the Duchess' children are looking fairer than ever!" he proclaimed with a jovial grin, skipping over to them with a tight grip on the thin man in his arms. "Could you be a good sounder of swine and take me to the just-as-good Duchess?" The dollotrons stared blankly, before one turned and began to saunter their way to another room. Hatter smiled and followed suit, waving goodbye to the other dollotrons with a gleeful shake of his foot.
Upon entering the upper level operating room, Mad Hatter was treated to quite the show: bright fluorescent installed into a cracking ceiling, casting their rays on a single surgical table in a sea of black, surrounded by various medical tools and equipment needed to keep a living being alive. Dried blood stained the floor, the only telltale remnants of what was once human. He wouldn't have been surprised if that very blood was from the very man (to be honest, he couldn't tell if they were ever once a man or a woman) that had led them to the spot. In the center of that light, sitting on a stool and inspecting his gloves, was the beastly doctor himself. His unusual pig mask obscuring a majority of his face save for his mouth, his emotions were indecipherable with an exception to the gentle humming of a distant tune within his mind. His apron was soiled with blood that had dried long ago, and from the looks of the medical equipment laid out so neatly, he was about to perform another operation.
At the sound of their approach, the thing once known as that brilliant surgeon, Lazlo Valentin, snapped his head up. As Hatter stepped into the light with the dollotron at his side and the Scarecrow in his arms, Pyg seemed to grow wary. "Tetch?" he spoke in vague recognition, a hand reaching for the drill on one of the trays. Hatter grinned madly, reciting, "You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!"
Pyg stopped, seemingly brightening up at his words. "The Hat Man!" he cheered, rising up from his seat and galumphing over gladly. "Oh my oh my oh my, Pyg is always joyful to see another admirer of his work, as well as another true sycophant to Mother Goat!" He seemed to finally notice the dying Jonathan in his arms. Without hesitation, he reached forward to scoop up his newest patient with a pleased snort. Jervis found himself a bit reluctant to let go, but willingly gave the injured man to the doctor. "Coming to Pyg with the bag of bones layered with sinew and skin?" Immediately Valentin beckoned the dollotron. "The reagents. Thank you, my perfect." As the doll stumbled away, he turned his attention to Jonathan, immediately hooking him up to the heart rate monitor. That rapid beeping showed the Hare was terrified, and in return it shook the Hatter, further enveloping him in his own madness as the voices he had tried so hard to drown out spoke to him of death. They lit up when they saw the dollotron with small vials, each with their own little dropper, but their glee wasn't out of hope. How grand it would be to have a doll like that, the Cheshire Cat would tell him. Perhaps a March Hare? He shrunk back from the disgusting nature of his own thoughts, shaking his head as if it would somehow rid him of them.
"Tell me, tell Pyg! What can Pyg do for the Mad Hatter?" Pyg requested, taking a separate dropper to soak up some of Jonathan's blood and drip them into separate petri dishes. "It appears I need a favor," Hatter spoke, standing on the tips of his toes in order to get a higher view of the soon-saved man. "In return for anything you need!"
"Ah, I see, I see; Pyg sees the truth in the…" the larger man sneered at Crane's mangled body, "… imperfection you have laid before Pyg and our dear Mother Goat." He let out a hearty laugh, patting Hatter on the back with a smile. "You want the straw man to become perfect!" There was a pause to scoff as he dropped in a different reagent into each sample of blood, watching some immediately thin with a simple stir of a curette. "Get Pyg O negative!" he called to his doll. O negative? Well, his Hare certainly was a rare breed. Hatter wouldn't be surprised if the favor Pyg asked him to return was having Jonathan donate blood to him every now and then. With how many bodies he regularly worked on, he would certainly need it. "Retrieve the other beautifuls as well! Pyg is soon to make… art! Another perfect!" He set aside the mini blood test to prepare the IV. "Of course of course, not Pyg's perfect, not Mother's perfect, but your perfect! The Mad Hat Man's special brand of perfection! You have come to the proper artist! Pyg folds flesh like clay. Pyg can make a stunner out of a straw man; a siren out of a scarecrow! A March Hare out of a miscreant?" Dark, wild eyes met Hatter's own as Jervis found himself eagerly taking in the suggestions of the man. "This is your favor, is it not?"
Hatter will admit: he had a moment. A moment where his mouth went to form the beginnings of a "y", nearly giving into the mad voices in his head. For once, however, he forced his mouth to wrench shut, internally screaming at his own twisted thoughts for even considering such an atrocity. His lower lip bled from the amount of forced applied, the will to stop himself from making such a decision overpowering those filthy thoughts within his head. "No… no no," he spoke softly, voice cracking. This caught the other by surprise, characterized by the sudden squeal engendered by the refusal. "I prefer the March Hare as he is!" Jervis explained after a deep, shaky exhale. "I simply need you to fix him— in the usual sense, of course!" He gestured to the blade that stuck out from Jonathan's torso. "That is the main problem, you see. I need him to get better, please!"
Pyg seemed dissatisfied, given the annoyed snort that erupted from behind that mask. The three dollotrons returned, vaguely recognizing it was time to operate after handing him the packet of blood, as one immediately removed a bone saw from a distant tray and stood by over the body. "Fine fine. Pyg does not usually deal with the menial or the subpar— Mother Goat only asks perfection!— but for you, Pyg shall make an exception and grant you this favor!"
As Pyg momentarily left to retrieve a retractor, neither man noticed the large, looming figure that stood over the operating table, peering down at The patient and listening to his heart beat rapidly enough to fill a gallon within a minute.
Scared? Jonathan gasped for breath, his vision dark, and yet still clinging to that small bit of light that kept him on this world. Unable to answer, he could only stare up at them with a terror that had been foreign to both for a number of years. They're going to put you under, Johnny. An unintelligible sound spilled from his blood-tainted mouth. All he could taste was that iron what was forced back down his throat after being coughed up from his airways. Their large, white eyes seemed to glow brighter than the surgical lights themselves. He could vividly feel that cold touch of burlap against his skin, the glove clutching at his face as his fear ramped. He tried to say something; anything, really.
"Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye, four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie." Jervis looked over at him curiously, not noticing Scarecrow or how they glared so fiercely at his small figure. Jonathan just wanted to scream, unable to break himself from this cycle. Memories of his past would flash before his mind, and as soon as he played through them, they were forgotten. He refused to follow the Hatter's commands, and yet he was happy to become obsequious as soon as they were mentioned. His mind felt melted, slowly oozing like treacle as he barely felt able to think. I know you still like your little friend. Scarecrow tilted their head, turning their attention back to their only captive audience. Leaning their head in close, they were practically nose to nose. If you so dearly want to keep his mind intact, he better pray he never meets me for what he's doing to you. Jonathan saw Jervis' worried face in his peripherals, tears springing to his eyes as he gasped for more air. Terror filled him as he looked back into those bright spotlights, silently begging to be released from his constant state of torment. I thought we were past this. Jonathan forced himself to look away as Pyg arrived. All you truly need is me.
Pyg had just injected Jonathan with a dose of paralytic drug to keep him still, and was certainly surprised when a weak arm gripped his wrist like iron. "Get him away from me… please," Jonathan begged, the desperation in his voice shocking Jervis. "Do not worry, for Pyg will save you!" the professor declared, bringing out a scalpel and a bone cutter. Jonathan's eyes widened to the size of Scarecrow's when he saw a scalpel approach his chest. Scarecrow themselves couldn't help the look of shock crossing their artificial face. He wouldn't dare.
"Duchess!" Hatter screeched, halting the professor, who looked over with a hidden expression of puzzlement. "Anesthesia!" he reminded the doctor with a jittery laugh. Pyg lowered his tools with a groan/snort (a grort, he thought). With reluctance, he moved to grab the anesthesia he only used for rare cases. "Oh, and Pyg." The countenance of utter agitation translated far beyond the restraints of that still mask of his. Hatter grinned sheepishly. "Would it be too much to ask that your tools stay above the belt?" Pyg just let out a hog's grunt as he brought back the anesthesia, activating the gas and placing it over his patient's airways. "The Hatter is lucky— very fortunate indeed! —that Mother Goat shows favor for him," was all he said.
Jonathan's vision blurred, darkened, and with the last images of Scarecrow smiling down at him now burned deep into his memory, it faded as well.
"What were you thinking?" Jervis snapped at himself, repeatedly thumping his own head with the heel of his wrist. "I don't think- then you shouldn't talk!" Interrupting his own words with more nonsense quotes, it was all he had to keep himself stable. "People who don't think shouldn't talk." He stood outside the operating room, scolding his own thoughts as a dollotron sat silently beside him. Despite the fact that they could not think or feel, Hatter still preferred one beside him for imaginary emotional support; he just needed someone to vent to.
"Oh my, could you imagine if I had slipped? If I had said yes?" Jervis groaned, letting out a whimper as a headache racked his mind; the worst one he'd had in a while, he noted regretfully. "Oh dear," he groaned, "I could never forgive myself." Well, forever is a very bold term, he knew, before shaking his head. "No no, oh gracious me!" He took in a shaky sigh. "Oh, could you imagine the Dormouse's reaction if I had gone through?" He could already picture Edward's confusion turned horror at a "fixed" March Hare. Hatter felt the urge to vomit then, simply out of disgust for himself instead of the act that would have followed through. This was because, despite his denials, he was quite used to the idea. Lazlo and he had shared many secrets of their trade, and yes, the thought of taking up that offer had crossed his mind only once, maybe twice, but no more. Well, up until a few hours ago, of course. They were only fantasies, he reprimanded himself, but he was ashamed of the ideas and unsound desires that had crossed his mind when Crane had been under his control; thoughts he couldn't share with anyone, not even the sick man that had once been his doctor. The scariest bit was what would have occurred had he been any deeper in his own delusions; he didn't think he would have been able to stop himself.
With a shuddering breath, he looked over at the dollotron assigned to keep him company. "What do you think?" The doll stared at him silently, before slowly raising a thumb up to him.
Jervis was surprised when the door opened and out exited Lazlo, wiping fresh blood onto his apron after a job well done. "Professor Pyg has completed his work," he proclaimed. "Not his best work, for sure, but for the Hatter, he can downgrade."
"Already?" Tetch asked, surprised at the rapid rate at which his Hare was cured. It had really only been an hour and a half after Pyg had started, leading Hatter to become wary. "How efficient. Is he…?"
Valentin gestured him to follow, allowing him to enter the operating room to take a gander himself. To Tetch's immense relief, the Hare lived. He was roughly stitched up, the bloody blade of that wicked scythe lying beside the operating table. He was still breathing, with the aid of a ventilator. How Valentin was able to get ahold of all this equipment was hard to comprehend, but Jervis could only be thankful that the third member of the tea party would live to hop another day, along with the noticeable fact that none of the scars led anywhere worrying. It looks like Lazlo had kept his promise, which he found to frankly be a miracle. He was not in the proper state of mind to deal with the stress of a castration at the moment.
"He's alive," Hatter gasped with renewed verve. Skipping over, he quickly examined the unconscious Jonathan. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it," he grinned, turning to Pyg. "And the moral there is that you're absolutely brilliant, oh I could kiss you if you weren't covered in blood." Pyg seemed satisfied with his own work, letting out a laugh and a squeal of joy. "Now that you've helped me, I fear I must warn you," Jervis confessed, catching the Professor's attention. "The Batman is on my trail. No doubt he'll track Jonathan and I to this very cozy abode of yours." The grunt from his associate was nearly threatening. "I apologize dearly. It may be in your best interest if you and your dollotrons disappear for a couple of days, or at least until you and your dear children are in the clear from the Jabberwock's gaze!"
Lazlo's displeased disposition was evident, but he nodded and ordered his three children to pack up necessities, seeing as the Circus of the Strange was going back on the road again.
"Don't move the straw man until he has returned to this imperfect world," Valentin instructed as his dollotrons began loading their things into his van in the back. "He needs that ventilator until he returns, in which you can remove the tube and leave, as he will be able to breathe on his own.
Jervis nodded, taking the words into deep consideration as Lazlo and his boys/girls/somethings were all packed up within an hour. Jervis was still sitting by Jonathan's side when they left, and as two more hours passed and the threat of Batman grew, he still sat by. He fretted that if he moved him, Jonathan would die, and so he simply waited for nature to take its course. Pyg had said it would take a few hours, but it felt like an eternity. A watched pot never boils, he was forced to remind himself, and so he decided to busy himself by going to the break room of the building and boiling an actual pot of water, waiting to see which would rise first. He thought to make tea, but knowing he had nothing to produce it, he simply had himself a nice warm cup of water after waiting a lifetime for the water to bubble. He couldn't help his impatience, and so he took to reciting his favorite book, in French, as waited and took to getting himself that hot cup. He poured a glass for Jonathan, too, knowing he could be downright thirsty when he awoke.
To Tetch's glee, it had been Jonathan to wake first, as he was laid, wide-eyed on the table when he got back. Jervis grinned, running over and spilling a hefty amount of water, but not caring all the same as he freed Crane from that ventilator. Jonathan jerked in reaction, shivering from the cold air, he believed. "Hare, you're awake!" he grinned, the cup set aside as he hopped onto the table with a mad grin. "Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whispers! Oh my dear old thing, you- ah!" Jervis fell off the table when the man taking up a majority of its space twisted away in spite of the immense amounts of pain he must be feeling. Tetch rose to his feet, confusion clearly evident. "March Hare?"
"Ladybug, ladybug fly away home, your house is on fire, your children will burn," Jonathan whispered in that wispy tone, curling up slightly in his position. His gaze rose to something above him that Tetch could not see. "Get him away from me," he begged, twisting in his very spot.
Jonathan shuddered, his mind trying to recall where he was or even who he was, but everything came up short. "Get him away from me," he repeated once more, shaking and shivering as he turned away from the light that shone down on him.
Jervis felt his heart sink at the recited quote, having hoped that the surgery and a rest would have be rid him of the hypnotist's control. At this point, he was no longer the March Hare, but a man curled up on the operating table like a mere child.
Hopeful, Tetch brought out his pocket watch, setting it to tick loudly. "Now, March Hare, I-" He had to pause, noticing that Jonathan had suddenly become far more talkative, susurration to himself starting up as soon as he tried to end the trance.
"Listen to the sound of the tick," Jervis requested in spite of the whispers, gaining only a shudder in response and further mutterings. Still, he decided to continue as he ignored the growing sense of worry within his chest. "Match the sound to the tempo of your breathing," he spoke, watching the heart rate monitor carefully. "Match the tick to the beat of your heart." He gulped, noticing that the beeping of the monitor had yet to slow as it was supposed to. It beat even faster than it had when he was first brought in, as if his body was constantly pumping more adrenaline into his system. It was like he was in this constant state of… "No," he denied, his grip on his pocket watch tightening as his own worry began to weigh like a dead weight within his own chest. "You're not scared. You can't be. You told me yourself you can't feel fear anymore!" he tittered shrilly, begging for another reason to Jonathan's state. "Oh I ought to smack you for being such a lying rabbit."
Crane jolted, the whisperings only growing louder. No longer rhymes, he noted, but actual words, as if he were holding a conversation with some unknown man in the room. His hands gripped the edges of the table, white-knuckled as if he was in some sort of hidden danger.
"Hare, are you listening to me?" Jervis whispered, rounding the table to face him. He held up that pocket watch, noticing how Jonathan's eyes trained on it immediately. "As I was saying, I want you to listen to the tick," he tried again, this time with the Hare's full attention.
"… you're back here again, with the breaking and pushing and hurting. Give me a good reason not to…"
Tetch was caught off his guard when he caught a sudden glimpse of whatever delusion Jonathan had immersed himself in. "Match… match it to your breathing," he continued, silently hoping it would cease the Hare's impulses. If anything, it only increased his rapid breathing.
"… he doesn't know you like I do, Johnny. He would never…"
Jervis paused, brow furrowed. "Who in all of Wonderland are you…?" He stopped himself, trying to get back to the task at hand. "Match the tick to your- to your hearbea-"
"He broke you, so I'll break his neck."
Tetch halted, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead as it dawned on him that he was getting nowhere. He shut the watch, taking Jonathan off of the heart rate monitor. He just couldn't stand that infernal beating. Tetch eventually forced himself to shut the entire thing off, seeing as the long drawl of the single note of death was going to drive him absolutely mad.
"When I count to three, I will absolve my control over you," he tried, now grasping at straws at this point. "You will have no more consuming thoughts about me, understood Hare?" The mutterings never ceased. "Jonathan?" That queasy feeling only grew within his chest as trepidation began to consume him. "One… two…"
"Hatter."
Jervis was startled by the interruption, blinking wildly.
"Can you hear me?"
Tetch blinked in surprise when he realized from Jonathan's intent stare that the words were actually meant for him. "I… I beg your pardon?" he replied, his tone denoting his uncertainty on even answering. He questioned whether if his command had set something off within the March Hare. Jonathan was no longer clutching the table with an iron grip, a slow smile crossing an unexpectedly stolid expression. "Can you hear me?" the question repeated itself. Jervis found himself unable to speak, his face twisted in a slack-jawed look of bewilderment. "It's me." Hatter struggled to understand the meaning behind the words, taking it as more babble from the melted mind of his former doctor. He must have damaged Crane more than originally thought. "Jonathan?" he inquired, knowing that talking was a good sign. To his slow enlightenment, the man shook his head, slow and purposefully. "Your little Hare is out for the evening." A chuckle escaped him, riding on a hard wheeze. "I've wanted to meet you for the longest time, Hatter," he grinned, thinned eyes only showing traces of madness and malice. Hatter realized in that moment that he ought to stop interfering in the intricacies of the madman's mind. They watched each other as he carefully backed towards the door. "The good doctor was always protective of you. Ever since you became his patient." Jervis' hand pressed against the door, opening it as he didn't grace the man with a response. "But he isn't here right now."
A laugh echoed through the empty building as Hatter forced himself out, finding breathing difficult as he fell to his knees. He felt the urge to puke then and there, but rejected that impulse in favor of kneeling on the floor, back against the same doors he had just exited as he tried to regain control of his own breathing. "What did I do?" he whispered, burying his face in his hands as he simply waited for everything to fade away.
An hour had passed before the front doors creaked open. He heard those heavy footsteps climb the stairs, and before long he was within the shadow of the Dark Knight.
Both were silent as Jevis sat back, frazzled mind focusing on a different man in particular. Batman watched him, approaching slowly as Tetch removed his hat and set it on the ground as a sign of his concession. "I don't mean many of the things I do," he croaked, looking down at blood encrusted hands from when he had heaved the Hare around. "At least that's what I tell myself." Batman steadily lowered himself onto a knee, coming to Tetch's level. "Where is he?" he asked softly, fearing the worst had befallen the other villain. Hatter just shook his head and scooted out of the door's way. "I can fix him. I just need time, but…" He trailed off. The Knight grabbed the hat left on the ground and came to a stand, ready to end this once and for all. He gestured for Jervis to follow suit, having realized at this point he was no longer a threat. Tetch looked up at him warily. "I don't quite believe I want to," he confessed, not exactly pleading, but trying to come to terms with what had happened.
"You need to," was all Batman replied with. To this the Hatter just slowly nodded in agreement, rising to his feet with clear reluctance, but nonetheless following suit.
The doors were opened, with Batman being the first to enter and a approach the man lying down on the bloodied operating table. Upon hearing their entrance, Jonathan jolted, his heartbeat quickening as the Dark Knight came closer. The table was gripped with enough force to worry any doctor, and it was clear from the way Crane began to writhe with fear that he was still impervious to all the pain. He had been fixed up by a medical professional, Batman deduced, and from the sight of a roughly-assembled shrine in the dark corner, it had been Lazlo that had assisted the two. With all of Crane's movements, he would undoubtedly reopen old wounds and fracture his bones once again. A hospital visit was all he needed, but at this moment Crane's state could get him killed.
At the sight of the Batman leaning over him, a swell of panic came of Jonathan's expression. "Get him away from me," he whispered, clearly making a move to crawl off of the table and away, but he was impeded by the hero clutching his wrist. "Oracle. Call for an ambulance for Crane," he ordered through the earpiece. "He's alive, but he's delusional. Make sure they restrain him so he doesn't hurt himself or anyone else. Have the doctors see if Tetch will be of any use in breaking him out of his trance before he's sent to Arkham."
"You got it," Barbara spoke on the other end. "Glad this is all finally over." Batman could only silently agree, knowing Jervis was watching him curiously by the door. Reaching into his belt, the crusader pulled out the injector for the antidote he had used on himself at the motel. "Any citizen would agree that you don't deserve this type of mercy," chastised the Bat, "but we need to stabilize you." As the injector approached his neck, his tool was forced to a stop by the two thinner hands that wrapped around his wrist. Jonathan looking into his eyes with a fear he hadn't seen in years, his voice trembling as each croaked word indicated he was in an unending cycle of trepidation. "Get him… away from me," Crane pleaded, hands shaking despite Batman ceasing his efforts to cure him. Bruce came to a slow realization as he looked back, noticing Jervis playing with his thumbs anxiously.
"Jervis. Get him a glass of water," he ordered, knowing the Hatter wouldn't try to run from the scene. Tetch blinked, surprised, but eagerly nodded and left the room without remembering he had already brought in a glass earlier. The moment those doors closed, Jonathan's hands went slack. His breathing died down to a slow, normal pace, and the rapid thumping of his heart seemed to be of no concern when it steadied itself in a matter of two minutes. Batman watched the man lie back, hair matted in exhausted sweat mingled with blood. He slowly put the tool away, silent as he observed Jonathan heavily-lidded eyes shut, hoping to get some sort of rest from his draining emotions.
"Here!" Jervis called, passing through the double doors with a bottle of water for the patient. Immediately Crane's body went back to alarm, kicking at the table under him as Tetch came closer, but Batman refused to let him go.
"Oracle. Get a police car here as well. Jervis needs to be taken directly to Arkham. He and Crane need to be separated," Batman ordered, surprising the milliner. "What? But I…" Jervis looked down at Crane worriedly before fixing his angry gaze at the Batman. "I can fix him! I was the one who put him under, after all."
"You're only harming him," the Dark Knight contradicted, placing his arms under Crane in order to lift him up to carry him downstairs. Jonathan shook, the mutterings to himself starting up again. Jervis frowned deeply, not bothering to hide how the comment affected him. "No no, that's impossible," Tetch denied, letting out a small laugh as he set the glass down as he rapidly tried to come up with an explanation. "Jonathan trusts me! He's just… having a nasty reaction to his toxin, is all."
"He isn't having a bad reaction to the toxin," Batman told him solemnly. "He's having a bad reaction to you."
Jervis opened his mouth to fire back, to shout obscenities and to tell him he had no idea what he was talking about. Nothing ever came out. He could say not a word, as he simply had no idea what to respond. Even when he was taken to the back of the police car, he stayed in grieving silence the entire way through.
... You may be wondering what's up with Scarecrow's pronoun changes...
Imma let you figure that one out.