Hey, guys. I'm sorry I am so late on this one. It's been a crazy couple of weeks, and Thanksgiving is perhaps the only break I've gotten that didn't involve having to do a project of some kind or another. I just needed a bit of a break to readjust and regain my sanity before the finals started. Thank you all for your support over these past few months. I know my schedule has been sporadic. Hopefully, my schedule next semester won't be so time-consuming.
Anyways, onwards, my fellow viewers!
P.S. - I don't really know how to dress bullet wounds, and all the advice I got online was to get to a hospital, so I did the best I could.
It was raining by the time Crane and Becky had stopped for the night, the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the metal rooftop over their heads providing a soothing melody as they tried to rest.
The abandoned, ramshackle hut near the docks was not the roomiest of hideaways, but it would do for now while they tried to recover. Luckily, the former residents had provided them with a medical kit, so they could clean their wounds without fear of infection.
"Hold still, Jon!" Becky said, struggling to keep the former professor's arm and shoulder still as she applied antiseptic to the wound. "If you keep wiggling around like this, I can't prevent you from getting infected and possibly getting worse."
"I've survived much worse than this, Becky! I'll be fine," he growled, wincing at the stinging sensation in his shoulder. The bullet was still lodged in there, but they could do nothing about it until they could find something to pull it out. Thankfully, the bleeding had stopped and the wound didn't look infected, so if all went well, they would bandage it up and then head over to Hush to see if he could help pull it out. If not, then Becky would have to do it for him, and as much as he trusted her, he didn't really want her to try to dig the bullet out herself, especially since the bullet was in a very sensitive muscle that made it incredibly painful to move his arm.
"Not if you don't get that bullet out, you won't," she retorted, unwrapping a bandage from the kit and wrapping it around his shoulder. "There. All done."
He glanced up at the now cauterized wound, wincing slightly as he shifted his shoulder. "Hmm, not bad." He glanced in her direction. "What about you? I'm sure that I wasn't the only one that was wounded."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, looking away from him.
He eyed her suspiciously. "Becky, tell me the truth."
"I am telling you the truth!" she said snappily.
"No, you're not! Turn around," he commanded.
"Jonathan…."
"Now, Becky!"
She sighed, before turning around. The back of her top was stained red with blood, several holes dotting the torn fabric. He pulled up the top of the shirt, ignoring an offended protest from Becky, and examined her back. He couldn't see where the bullets had entered, but perhaps the blood obscured it.
Picking up a spare water bottle from the cooler at his side, he poured some of the water onto a spare cloth he had found and started rubbing off the dried blood from her back.
"Are you quite done yet?" she replied tiredly, her head starting to droop. The rush of escaping from Arkham seemed to be wearing off, and she felt unbelievably tired.
"That's strange," he murmured.
"What's strange?" she replied, craning her head to see what he was talking about.
"There don't appear to be any wounds."
"I told you I was fine," she replied.
"That's the point. From the blood on your shirt, I could have sworn that you would have a wound or even a large scrape from that attack. But there's nothing, nothing at all," he said.
"What do you mean, nothing?"
"I mean nothing, Becky," he replied, starting to pack the supplies back into the medical kit. "There's no scars, no wounds, no nothing. It's just perfectly smooth skin." Very beautiful skin, too, he thought silently.
Her eyes widened. "Wait… you said there were no scars?"
"Yes," he replied. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"When I was twelve, I had corrective back surgery to treat my scoliosis," she said, feeling stunned. Scars didn't just disappear. "There should have been a scar there. Are you saying that somehow my body just…healed over the tissue?"
"Yes," he replied, looking over at her with concern. There was no way that scars just disappeared. Something must have happened, either over their time in prison or…"Becky, how much do you remember about that night?"
"You mean the one when you became the Scarebeast?"
He sighed. He hated remembering the night that he had lost control. "Yes, that one."
She closed her eyes, replaying the frayed tapes of the night's events in her mind. "I don't remember much. All I remember was fighting Friitawa and losing, then being thrown off the building and hitting my head."
"Are you sure you don't remember anything else?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Very well. We'll rest here for the remainder of the night, then we'll move on to the hideout."
She nodded sleepily, half dozing already. "Oh, and Jon…"
"What?"
She smiled. "…Thank you."
He smiled at her. "You're welcome, Becky," he replied, placing a soft kiss on her temple. "Get some sleep. I'll take the first watch."
As she curled up, her curly hair falling around her shoulders, she finally fell into a deep slumber.
Crane crouched on the edge of the roof, his eyes peering into the darkness for any sign of movement. Police sirens wailed in the distance, no doubt looking for him or any other escaped convicts that had managed to elude them. Every so often, he would look through the window at his companion's sleeping form, assured that she was still sleeping as soundly as ever.
He ducked out of sight as a GCPD helicopter flew over him, its light shining down briefly on the building before turning away. He let out a sigh of relief once he could hear the loud whirring of the blades spinning away from his location. It would not due to get caught just as they had escaped.
"Anxious, Johnny-boy?"
He whipped around, grasping the handle of his extendable scythe from the hidden compartment in his left boot, his form crouched and ready should anyone approach. He instantly lowered it, however, as he saw the figure encroached behind him.
The figure appeared to be in his costume, its long, skinny form mimicking his own in every way, except instead of his usual mask, which was quite conical, this one wore what looked to be a hybrid of his own mask and a gas mask.
"What? Thought I was the Bat?" the figure, whom Crane often called by his alter ego, Scarecrow, chuckled, taking a perch near the edge of the roof. "Relax. As far as I know, the Bat's busy on the other side of town."
Crane frowned, taking a seat beside the costumed doppelganger. He couldn't exactly remember when he had first heard his costume talking to him or when it had began to follow him around like a shadow or even whether what he was seeing was a hallucination brought on by his once-habitual dose of fear gas he had given himself or if it had always been with him since his childhood in Georgia. But ever since, whenever he was alone with his thoughts, it would find him.
"What do you want?" he growled, glaring at the imaginary man. There was once a time where he had welcomed the figure with open arms. But now, he really wished it would just disappear.
"Well, now, that's a way to treat a friend. Am I not welcome anymore?" the Scarecrow asked sarcastically, a lit cigarette appearing in its hand, the smoke snaking its way through the air.
"Not especially, no," he said testily, wincing as pain surged from his shoulder,
"Oh, don't be like that, Johnny-boy," the figure replied, clapping a hand on his uninjured shoulder. "What would you do without me? Face it, you would be nothing without me."
Crane shook his head sadly. Perhaps it was true. He honestly didn't know anymore. Everything was so confusing. Just over a week ago, he had thought that fear was the answer for everything; the reason life was so meaningful, the reason why people continued to cling to life so tightly. But now, he was starting to have his doubts. Certainly, fear held power; his childhood and most of his adult life was a testament to that fact, but he was starting to question the absolutes of that power.
"…Maybe you're right…" he answered softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He had made his choice long ago, and now, after 10 years of crime and terror, he knew he could never go back. Gotham wouldn't let him go back, and even if he could run away from her, Batman would make sure he was put back in his place. It was just the nature of things, he knew.
The costume smiled. "I always am, Johnny. I always am." Its eyes then caught a flash of color on the dark streets below. "Say, isn't that your little mouse scurrying around in the dark?"
Crane instantly leapt to his feet, his eyes darting towards a figure running down the street, the streetlights illuminating the soft blues and grey of her costume as she ran.
"Becky," Jonathan called, shimmying down the narrow drainpipe that he had climbed up, and running towards her. "Becky, what are you doing out here?"
Becky didn't respond. She just continued on her way, not even seeming to notice his presence. Her eyes were blank and unseeing, as if she was in a trance. As she passed him, she seemed to glance over to her side, mumbling something under her breath.
"Becky? Becky!" he cried, finally getting ahead of her, blocking her path. "What's going on? Why are you out this late?"
She still didn't respond.
"Becky, please, you're scaring me. And I don't scare easily," Crane pleaded, only to fall on deaf ears. He shook her lightly. "Becky, please answer me!"
At his touch, she seemed to stir, her eyes half-lidded, as she seemed to struggle to stay standing. "Jonathan?" she murmured, shaking her head out of the fogginess that had previously engulfed her mind. She had no idea how she had gotten here, or why Crane seemed to be so startled. "Where are we?"
"Somewhere in Park Row, I think," he said, quickly looking at his surroundings through squinted eyes. The landmarks that helped him identify Park Row were obscured, with not even the lights shinning to help him see the shops. Even the streetlights were out, leaving the entire place cloaked in darkness. "The power must be out."
"It seems like it," Becky replied, struggling to not trip over anything as she followed Crane into the alley. "You said Hush lives around this part of town, right?"
"Yes," Crane said, his eyes scanning the sky and his ears peeled for any sign or sound of the Bat. He would rather not get caught right now, especially with the lights out. A Bat with the light's out would be almost impossible to fight against or flee. "He should be near here, unless he decided to move hideouts again."
"Let's just hope he's still here, then. This darkness is starting to make me anxious," she replied, glancing furtively around with him. Having been born and raised in Gotham, she was used to the bright, neon lights of the city. To have such darkness here, especially for so long, worried her greatly.
Crane was just about to open his mouth when he heard a soft whisper coming from the door to his right. "Psst, guys, get in here! Quickly!" Hush whispered from the safety of his hideout.
Without another word, the two followed the man inside. Unlike the darkened city, the lights inside Hush's hideout were still alit, a small generator in the corner humming steadily, keeping the power on.
"So, you were caught in the blackout, I take it. Must have been your lucky night to leave Arkham," Hush said, shutting the door and locking the numerous locks behind it.
"Not as lucky as it could have been, Thomas," Crane sighed, wincing as he rolled up the sleeves of his costume. He was certain the wound was swollen. It wouldn't hurt this much if it wasn't swollen. Thankfully, because of Becky's treatment, the wound wasn't infected. "A few of the idiot guards decided to try to put a few holes in us before we could escape."
"Heh, figures," Hush snorted, turning away from them as he cleaned the syringe in his hands. "Now, I need you to take off your shirt, Professor."
Crane sighed. "Fine," he huffed, reluctantly removing his orange prison shirt. He winced as he pulled it over his head, the coarse material rubbing against the swollen skin.
Becky struggled not to wince as she saw the massive amount of scar tissue that covered his torso. It seemed that every inch of his back and chest were covered with scars, with not a piece of smooth skin in sight. Some she could tell were from his past in Georgia, such as the chunks taken out of his arms and neck by the crows, but others, such as the large slash running down his back she could tell he had gotten during his time as a criminal.
"Enjoying the view?" Crane quipped sarcastically, causing Becky to blush and look away.
"N-No! I'm just surprised that you have that many scars, that's all," she said quickly. She had only had a brief glance during her attempt to cauterize and bandage his wounds, but she had not seen the full extent of his scars.
He only snorted, enjoying the numb feeling in his shoulder as the syringe pierced his skin and released its contents. "You get used to it, after awhile," he murmured, his eyes closing as he fell into an exhausted sleep.
She smiled softly, brushing a bit of hair from his eyes, before looking up at Hush. "Is he going to be okay?"
Hush nodded. "He's going to be fine. The wound's just swollen from him using his arm." He was just about to reach for his scalpel when it occurred to him that he wasn't alone. "Oh, and if you're squeamish, you want to look away."
"I can take it," she said bravely, her furrowed, worried brow casting a shadow across her face. As much as she loved Jonathan, she still didn't trust Hush. The surgeon, although he provided necessary treatment and sometimes shelter for both of them, seemed very sinister beneath his bandaged mask. She had a feeling that if she wasn't with Jonathan, he would not hesitate to kill her, if need be.
Hush looked over at her, cocking one of his eyebrows at her tenseness. "You seem tense, Becky. Anything on your mind?" he asked, the bullet safely plucked from Jonathan's flesh by the pair of tweezers in his hand.
"You could say that," she muttered, rubbing the sleepiness out of her eyes. She felt so exhausted. Despite the little bit of sleep she had managed to catch, she still felt like a train had run over her. She looked down at him, nudging him slightly. "Isn't he supposed to wake up by now?"
"Usually," Hush said, carefully taking his bloody latex gloves by the cuffs and pulling them off. "But the good professor usually doesn't get much sleep even on the best of nights. So, I did him a favor, for old time's sake."
"How long have you known each other, anyway? You act like you've known him your entire life," Becky asked, her eyes still on the Scarecrow's still form. She couldn't help but smirk at his sleeping form; his arms flopped out to his side, a slight bit of drool on his face, much like a drunken college kid that had passed out on the floor.
"Not quite. I've only known him for ten years or so, ever since he taught me in the University," he said, pulling up two chairs, before offering her one. Becky shook her head, and he shrugged and put one back. "He helped me out during a difficult period of my life. You know he actually coined my moniker?"
"Really?" she exclaimed, interested. She had always thought that the new villains always chose their own names. It seemed quite uncommon that other villains would come up with a name for someone else.
"Yeah. It comes from the nursery rhyme. You know, 'Hush, little baby, don't you…' Becky, are you okay?"
Becky didn't respond. Her body froze, her breathing quickening and her heart racing. For there, just behind Hush's back, was the doppelganger in her costume. It smiled leeringly at her, its eyes glowing a poisonous green beneath its masked face. Not to mention that its limp form and splayed body looked like the man she had accidentally killed, something that still haunted her dreams and would probably never leave.
Then, suddenly, one of its hands moved upwards, and pointed at her.
Her breath caught in her throat, her whole body trembling. This can't be real, she thought, her eyes trained on the figure, as if it would disappear at any second if she looked away. That…That thing's only a dream! It can't possibly be real.
Suddenly, a hand came up in front of her face, shaking her out of her stupor.
"Becky, is everything alright? You look like you just saw a ghost," Hush said, a tinge of worry in his voice.
She looked behind him, only to find that the lying figure was gone.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," she said, hesitantly, before yawning. "I probably just need some rest."
"Probably."
With another yawn, she waved him goodnight as she stumbled off towards the lone cot, falling into a dreamless sleep once her body hit the covers.
