AN: Thanks for the reviews!


Scarecrow was confused into silence for once, leaving Jonathan to stammer out an answer. "Excuse me?" was the best he could come up with, as he placed his all but forgotten spork—the forks were still under lock and key—back on the plate and tried not to let his bewilderment show on his face.

"Your last apartment. Do you know its address?"

He did, although he'd only been inside of it twice during his last escape. The first time, it had been to hide and sleep for the night after his breakout, and the second had been to bring back all his belongings that he'd not-so-legally retrieved from police storage, the ones that had been in the house the Joker had unexpectedly given him. The next time he'd gone out of the apartment after that, he'd ended up running from the Batman, thus sparking the chain of events that brought him here.

But he still knew the address. He'd used the apartment before that breakout. It was the place where he'd been residing before the Joker had decided to steal all his things and put them outside city limits in the former home of a mob member. It wasn't the wisest of places to return to, but none of the other tenants had ever seemed suspicious of him during his previous stay, and it did have the advantage of the landlord already being traumatized into avoiding him. That sort of thing took time, the sort of time he didn't have immediately after escaping Arkham.

Not that he told the Batman any of that. He was too busy trying to puzzle out what the man would want with his address in the first place.

"Jonathan?"

Hearing their hated enemy speak to his other half on a first name basis snapped Scarecrow out of his own reverie instantaneously. "Of course I remember where it is. It may be hard to grasp, thick as you are, but not everyone else's head is empty enough to rent out space."

The Batman just stared for a moment as Scarecrow continued to scowl and Jonathan tried to work out why he hadn't been hit yet. "What?"

"Idiot."

Jonathan couldn't see the Bat anymore, as Scarecrow had chosen to stare down at the plate instead, but the sigh he heard made the other's expression clear nonetheless. "Then you know the address."

"Obviously."

There was a moment of awkward silence before the Batman had to make things even more awkward by speaking again. "What is it?"

"What on Earth makes you think I'd tell you?" Scarecrow had raised his head to glare at the man, now moving his gaze downward at the spork, contemplating whether or not he should throw it at the Bat and what the odds of hitting his eye were if he tried. Jonathan, still calm enough to maintain the self-preservation instinct, took control of their hand and kept it firmly in place.

Killjoy.

If by killjoy you mean not suicidal, then yes.

The Batman had a similarly controlled expression, looking as if it was taking all he had not to sigh again. "What is it with you?"

"Excuse me?"

He shook his head, avoiding eye contact as Jonathan so often did. "Nothing. Never mind."

Scarecrow was absolutely not going to "never mind," and was thinking of the most offensive, possibly vulgar way to say so when Jonathan took charge of the situation. "Why do you care what the address is?"

Jonathan. What are you doing?

It took him longer than it should have to answer, because in all honesty, he had no idea. Avoiding a fight was the abridged response, but if that was his only goal, he ought to have just kept his mouth as still as his hand. It hadn't occurred to him at the time, which also should to pass as an excuse, but even he didn't buy it. Speaking should not have been the unconscious response, considering his hatred for the Bat.

Still, he couldn't not give an answer, so the one he gave was To get information.

Bullshit.

Damn mental connections and his habit of forgetting them at the worst possible moments. Look, I'm tired. You of all people should know how draining these last few weeks have been. I don't want to get into a shouting match with the Batman, and I don't want to sit there in silence and set him off asking what's wrong every two seconds again. We might as well find out what he wants with the address.

Scarecrow was quiet in a way that suggested he was searching for something contrary to say. It was a silence Jonathan had heard often throughout his life, following many things he'd said aloud and even more of his thoughts.

You can't tell me you're not curious.

Not enough to talk to the Bat. But he was. Jonathan wasn't the only one who'd forgotten to restrict the mental link. And he wasn't the only one dying to know what sinister purpose the Batman could have that required their address.

"I want to bring your things here."

That was unexpected. There was nothing in the Batman's gaze, expression, or posture to suggest that he was lying, which only made the pair all the more suspicious. The Bat didn't perform such acts of charity. Not for people like Jonathan Crane. "I don't believe you."

"Jonathan." There was something new to his voice. It wasn't pleading—Jonathan could only imagine how much he would have savored the moment if it was—but it was imploring, in a way. And with that same unnerving straightforwardness as his explanation. "Why else would I possibly want your address?"

"As if I've got any idea what goes on in your sick mind," Scarecrow said, taking control once more. From his tone and the sudden stiffness to their posture, Jonathan got the impression that this argument wasn't about to end any time soon. Wonderful. Even with the sleep he'd gotten, he was still exhausted, and the last thing he wanted was to started shouting and possibly throwing sporks at the Bat.

He did sigh this time, so loudly and for so long that Jonathan was honestly surprised he wasn't gasping for air by the time he finished. "Fine. You win. I really wanted to go over there and vandalize the place, or steal everything and sell it online, because I'm not overworked enough as it is without adding onto it. You're right. That makes perfect sense."

Jonathan considering pointing out that his workload was entirely his own fault, or asking how much he did at Wayne Enterprises to begin with, but the headache he felt building up told him it wasn't worth it. The idea of the Batman being anywhere near his things made his stomach clench, but he fought the feeling—and Scarecrow's protests—and spoke anyway. "If I tell you, will you just go and stop talking?"

"Yes."

So he did.


"You're not, uh, really taking that, are ya?"

Abigail unplugged the television, the screen flickering from A Night at the Opera to darkness, implying that yes, she was taking it. Not that the Joker needed that visual to make it apparent; the glare she was fixing him with made it all too clear.

"Look, I don't wanna sound inconsiderate of your feelings here, but don'tcha think you're being a little—"

"Bad Jackie!" It was a tone of voice that ought to be used for dogs, or very small children. Not dangerous, anarchist clowns. God, how he wished he could get his hands around her neck again. "Bad!"

The Joker was very much beginning to regret giving her a name for him. He had no idea if that was his name to begin with—probably not, considering how very unreliable his memory tended to be—but fake or genuine, a name simply wasn't as scary as a title. Too human. At least she was using it to treat him like an animal. It balanced things out again. "I don't see what you're so mad about."

She looked as if she wanted to smack one of his casts with all her might, and possibly bludgeon him with the television as well.

"Really, I don't. No matter how much you like to play dress up with me, I'm still a guy, ya know. Guys have needs; it's only natural—"

"Don't you even start." A flush came to her checks, one from anger rather than embarrassment. "I don't care how bored you were—and that's the worst excuse I've ever heard, by the way—"

"It's not an excuse." Really, it wasn't. He was going mad with cabin fever, starting to hate everything about his limited conversation partners, and had gotten more than a bit sick of watching reruns and Hallmark movies day in and day out. It had been one thing when Batsy had him locked up. At least then, he could move.

"Quiet." She paused in her attempt to lift the television, setting in back down on the dresser to run her hands through her thick, dark hair, already on end from all the wringing she'd done to it earlier. "When civilized people are bored, they ask for a book, or a CD or something. A game of Sudoku or a crossword. They don't start pleasuring themselves on my Little Mermaid sheets!"

Christ. People got so pissy when you ejaculated on their childhood nostalgia items. "Masturbation is a natural thing. You can't fault me for it."

"Just watch me. You want to get off? Fine." She looked absolutely psychotic when she was riled up like this. It was amusing, but not nearly as much as it could have been if he wasn't at her mercy. "But why couldn't you have asked for a few tissues first?"

"That, uh, didn't cross my mind until it was a bit late to ask. I didn't want you to be overwhelmed by the sight of my manhood were you to walk in with—"

"Oh, you wish. You're average at best."

The Joker scoffed so hard that he ended up choking on his salvia for a good thirty seconds. "You take that back."

"No." Abigail had the look of a woman who knew she was digging her own grave and further knew that she was too enraged to care. "Is that why you dye your hair green downstairs? To detract from your utter normalcy?"

If he glared any more fiercely, his eyes would set fire from the effort. "You just moved to the top of my kill list."

"Please. I can be over the border by the time you get out of that bed and you know it. Anyway, if you really wanted to protect my innocence, you wouldn't have started screaming "Batman" at the top of your lungs. Listen, you, I grew up with those sheets. They survived my wear and tear of my childhood and I'm not about to let my idiot houseguest destroy them with his…fluids. It doesn't matter to me if you're bored or hot and bothered or anything else; don't you even think about rubbing your rhubarb on this bed again without—"

"Whoing my what?" That little euphemism was just odd enough to make him drop his current line of thought, the one about how much more interesting she'd look without her jaw.

"I'm not calling it masturbation." She sounded perfectly matter-of-fact while still seething with rage. It was a talent that impressed him, albeit grudgingly. "Masturbation implies a normal, healthy act, and what you did was just sick and wrong. Though if the rhubarb one bothers you, we could call it the beef strokin' off."

"Abigail, I truly think you've lost it."

"Or fisting your mister. Or doing the five knuckle shuffle. Or going on a date with Rosie Palm and her five sisters. Or jerkin' the gherkin. Or choking the chicken. Or taking the sausage hostage. Or cleaning the pipes. Or sending out the seamen."

"You can, uh, stop now."

She didn't. The Joker had heard tell of people speaking in tongues while under emotional duress, and wondered if this was something similar. "Or roughing up the suspect. Or tenderizing the tube steak. Or flogging the log. Or feeding the geese. Or beating the dolphin."

The Joker pulled a pillow over his head. It didn't block her out in the slightest.

"Or painting the ceiling white. Or polishing the trombone. Or shaking hands with the unemployed. Or yanking the crank. Or finding Nemo—"

"What?"

"Oh wait, that last one was for girls."

"You do realize you're just making me want to sully your sheets all over again, right? Being all, uh, annoying like that."

"Look at this, Jackie."

He pulled the pillow off of his head to see a swatch of fabric dangling in his face. Corduroy and pink. Not a bright or outrageous pink, but a subdued shade, like cotton candy or a baby blanket. He didn't like the expression on her face as she dangled it there. Not one bit. "What's that?"

"A sample of several yards of fabric I got on sale. And if you don't start to behave, I'll make a coat out of this, put in on you, and send the pictures to The Gotham Times. I'd make a matching vest too. Maybe in plaid."

Screw tearing off her jaw; she wouldn't have any extremities left once he was through. "You wouldn't dare."

"You're right. But I will stop bringing you your bedpan."

"Anika—"

"Ani believes in treating a mermaid princess with the same respect that I do." Spoken like Disney marketing's dream come true. "And Adrian isn't going to play nurse to you, so unless you want a liquid diet and a catheter to go with it, I'd suggest that you stop cleaning your rifle over my possessions."

"Do you have a death wish?"

"You can't kill me, I'm the only one who makes your pockets just the way you like them. If you promise to behave, I'll let you keep the TV."

All her extremities torn off, and all her organs taken out. That's what he was going to do. "And if I refuse?"

"I take the TV. And the Batman doll."

Oh, that bitch. "Fine," he muttered, clutching the doll with the force only a depraved clown was capable of and wishing with all his heart that he could find another seamstress once he got out, so he could kill her without remorse.


AN: "Never rub another man's rhubarb." -The Joker, in the 1989 Batman film.

So yeah...I've sort of got no idea where any of that came from. I've wanted to do a euphemism overload for some time, so there's that, I guess.