AN: As always, sorry about the delay. (I know that two days without an update is by no stretch of the word a delay, and yet I still feel the need to apologize. It's weird.) Anyway, Thursday night's lack of anything was based partly in writer's block, and partly because I spent half the evening in another dorm meeting where we had to vote on things like whether or not we wanted sign-up lists for our laundry. All of which we'd already voted on using paper ballots, so I'm really not sure as to why we had to do it again. At least I had a sweater to knit during the meeting, and there were Little Mermaid cupcakes afterward.
Yesterday, I was away from my dorm for pretty much then entire day after classes were over. Remember the author I'm always recommending and now recommending again, 4ofCups? Well, yesterday I actually got to meet her in real life. To say that it was the Greatest Experience Ever doesn't fully cover it.
Thanks for the reviews!
Scarecrow was the one to walk through the door, but Jonathan was the one inside, after the initial steps.
Immediately after noticing that, Bruce realized he could tell the difference before the man had even turned around. Once he knew what he was looking for, the disparities in posture and movement were blindingly obvious, and just as he had outside, he felt self-disgust at not noticing sooner. He'd unwittingly written those changes off as a symptom of psychosis, or part of a mood swing. And while that was what they boiled down to, in essence, it was a complete over-simplification, akin to describe the infinite size of the universe as very big.
The entire situation was a textbook example of why making assumptions was a terrible idea.
During this revelation, Jonathan had turned back to face him, now regarding his expression with a mix of confusion and anxiety. "What?"
"Nothing. Just thinking."
He looked even more uncomfortable, at that. Bruce guessed that it was fear that conversing with Scarecrow had changed his mind about allowing Jonathan to stay, and that he was about to be carted back to the asylum. He decided not to say anything against the idea, not wanting to suggest the idea if that wasn't what had been going through the man's mind.
"Are you hungry?"
"No."
Bruce tried to think of when Jonathan had last consumed something besides coffee. He must have at some point yesterday, but Bruce had no idea as to when that point was. "You don't eat much, do you?"
"You don't sleep much."
"Touché."
There was irritation on Jonathan's features now, and he moved away from Bruce to the nearest piece of furniture—a couch—and sat. "Don't look at me that way."
"What way?"
"As if I'm a mystery to be solved." He leaned back, absentmindedly rubbing his temple in a way that appeared to indicate frustration for once, as opposed to pain. "There are two halves to me. It's not that hard to figure out. Move on."
He wondered if the renewed directness was a compensation for fear at the thought of being thrown out, or newfound courage in the knowledge that his other half's temperament hadn't been enough to break Bruce's patience. "It's not that easy."
Jonathan opened his eyes, not quite glaring. "Why not?"
"Most people don't have…" Hallucinations that can take over their bodies? Split personalities that defy psychiatric criteria? There was no delicate way to say it, even if he could define it. "A second person in their bodies."
"He's not a second person. He's a part of me while being completely separate."
He said it as if it made perfect sense, rather than making things all the more convoluted. It was a reminder that, much as Bruce strove to understand the criminal mind, he'd hate for his own thought processes to resemble anything close to the villains. "And how does that work?"
Jonathan sighed. The manner in which he did so left it open to interpretation as to whether he was purposefully loud about to annoyance, or honestly didn't grasp his lack of tact. Knowing him, it could be either. "Ask a Christian."
It took several seconds to adjust to the absolute randomness of the statement enough to reply. "What?"
"The Holy Trinity. From Christianity. God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. I'm sure you've heard of it."
If Jonathan had any sense of humor whatsoever, Bruce would have concluded that he was being set up for the punch line of a bizarre joke. That was how much sense this made. "I thought you weren't religious."
His look of faint irritation was immediately dropped for one of more obvious suspicion. "How do you know that?"
"It's in your file."
He flushed slightly, but continued. "I'm not. Religion only serves to assuage the fears of uncertainty and mortality. But that's not the point. The point is, the Holy Trinity is made up of three distinct selves that are still one entity, and no one ever questions the workings of that."
"So…" This sort of thing made much more sense when applied to deities far more complex and powerful than humanity could ever hope to be. "It's the mental equivalent of being one person with two bodies?"
Bruce was expecting a biting response, surprised to instead hear, "Almost. Only each "body" has a distinct personality while still being part of the same human. It's not that odd."
It certainly is. He didn't say it aloud, but his expression must have given it away, as Jonathan glared again and added, "It's a deeper version of your own brand of duality. Imagine if Bruce Wayne was separate from you."
So he was still "Batman" as far as Jonathan was concerned. Wonderful. With that in mind, it was a wonder they were speaking at all. "And he's always been there?"
"Yes." It was impressive, how terse and exasperated he could make a monosyllabic word. "We couldn't trade control until after you poisoned me, but he's always existed."
Shit. There were certain realizations that destroyed a person's happiness, and the knowledge that, in addition to giving Jonathan brain damage, he'd inadvertently worsened the man's already severe mental condition was definitely one of them. "Oh."
Jonathan raised his head for the first time since asking about the files, meeting Bruce's eye. For all his ineptitude at understanding the people around him, he had an uncanny ability to figure out a person's weak point and dig at it, repeatedly. He'd done that last February, with his constant remarks about Batman being nothing more than a cover for thrill-seeking, and by the look in his eyes, he was thinking of doing it again.
So, as a distraction, Bruce asked the first question to pop into his mind. Which, unfortunately, was "Which one of you kissed me?"
What?
He'd been hoping that he'd heard wrong, and Scarecrow would correct him. Rather, his other half was as bemused as he was, and could only offer Did he seriously ask that?
Gaping was not something Jonathan made a habit of doing—unless he was around the Joker, as that was the only sane way to respond to the clown the majority of the time—but he was unable not to now. That was what Batman was concerned with? Not the fact that what was essentially another captive had been hidden from him the entire time, and not that he'd been absolutely clueless as to that fact, but which half had put their lips together? It was almost surreal, how unnecessary of a question it was.
How the hell was he supposed to answer that, anyway? Not responding would make it clear that it was him, but he doubted an explanation along the lines of "Apparently, you turned Scarecrow on rather badly and when I woke up, I was drugged and unable to figure out what was going on beyond that I was pinned and aroused, and since kissing the Joker usually got him to let go I assumed the same would work in this situation" would achieve anything. Aside from getting him sent back to the madhouse.
He was trying to decide whether it would be better to start stammering out an explanation and hope that a convincing lie came out or just to glare until the Bat dropped the matter, when Batman made things much simpler for him.
"Sorry. You don't have to answer that."
So he was capable of figuring out when he was being absolutely tactless. That was new. And hopefully permanent.
Though with that said, now that the situation was brought back to mind, he couldn't make himself forget it.
Scarecrow?
Yes? Judging from his tone, Scarecrow had realized exactly what he was about to be asked, and was just as uncomfortable thinking about it as Jonathan was about asking.
Yesterday…when I woke up on the bed…what happened? He knew from the bite marks that there had been a cold shower involved at some point in the day, but beyond that, it was blank, and until now, he hadn't given it much thought. Now that he was considering it, he realized that in order for there to be a cold shower preceding the kiss, Scarecrow must have been aroused by the Bat at least twice. Wonderful. This was why they said ignorance was bliss.
What happened is that the Batman had me pinned to a bed. His body was pressed up against mine. Friction. It happens.
That, Jonathan was willing to believe. The body had natural reactions, and it seemed those reactions always occurred at the worst possible time. Not to mention, as he'd realized while conducting his experiments in Arkham Asylum and during his time with the Joker, that Scarecrow had a "thing" for fear, as long as it was either someone else's, or, when it was his own, non-life-threatening. Generally, Jonathan had never viewed it as a problem, because Scarecrow had always dealt with that sort of thing after an experiment or with the incredibly willing Joker—though the latter was utterly mortifying—but those circumstances had never involved Batman.
And the time before that?
Silence. Absolute silence. The link between them was open as ever, but Scarecrow was apparently unwilling to answer.
Scarecrow? He gave the mental equivalent of a nudge, hoping he wouldn't be shouted at in response.
For a moment he thought Scarecrow wasn't going to respond at all. Then: He has nice hands, all right?
Fantastic. He was a prisoner—better than being locked up in Arkham, but still—he'd yet to discover a way out of the manor or a method to remove the GPS, and now the realization that his other half was reaching arousal and torturing them with freezing showers because Batman had nice hands. Things could not possibly get any worse or more humiliating, unless the Bat had been aware of Scarecrow's predicament. And if that happened, he may have to kill himself out of the shame.
It wasn't that bad.
That's debatable. Scarecrow, at least, had a sex drive. Jonathan, on the other hand, had been put off of the entire business long ago—being accused of masturbating and then terribly punished for it before he even fully understood what masturbating was tended to do that for—and had almost no physical response without direct stimulation. So for him, the very fact that his body had responded was very much "that bad." Add in the fact that the Bat might have realized what was going on, and it become outright hellish.
On the rare occasions when Jonathan conceded that there might be some sort of divine entity in the universe, he usually concluded that it was malevolent. At least, as far as his life was concerned.
He didn't notice.
How can you be sure of that?
Because. He felt Scarecrow roll his eyes. Think about it, Jonathan. I'm sure you've figured out by now that the Batman is incapable of leaving well enough alone. If he'd noticed, he'd have demanded an answer about it.
Somehow, I think even he'd have the sense to leave this one alone.
Well, he'd start blushing or avoiding eye contact or something if he knew. Trust me.
He was lying on top of you! How would he not know?!
Let's not question the miracle, all right?
There was a hand waving in front of his face, suddenly, and he snapped out of the internal dialogue, blinking. "What?"
"Are you all right?" Batman looked concerned, and it was at times like these when Jonathan wished that he had the slightest ability to judge whether or not emotions were faked. With his patients, he'd been good at it, but his patients had never expressed concern for him.
"Fine."
"You were staring off into space," he explained, looking somewhat sheepish. Probably just remembered Scarecrow's existence and realized that Jonathan was in a separate conversation. For an intelligent person, he could be an idiot.
"I was thinking."
"Right." The Bat straightened up, with a glance toward the door. "Well, I'm getting lunch, if you want anything."
Don't.
But loath as either of them was to admit it, they were hungry, so Jonathan stood and followed. During the walk to the manor's kitchen, he got a good look and decided that, while it didn't arouse him in the least, Batman did have nice hands.
