It's the end of October, which means it's time for my annual Halloween fic!


"This is hopeless," Crane said. "There's simply no way. Even with my guidance, no, the risk is far too high."

Harley, safety goggles perched on her forehead and offering exactly zero protection to anything except her hairline, shook her head. "Come on, Professor Crane, we can make it work!"

"It's not an ill-fitting dress, it's advanced chemistry! Dangerous advanced chemistry!"

Crane brandished his hands, each one bandaged to the point it looked like he was wearing giant white mittens, at Harley. She looked at the hands and then at Crane's face. Then she looked back to the hands.

"Is that what happened to you?" Harley asked.

"What did you think injured me?" Crane replied.

Harley shrugged. "I dunno, hot coffee? Waffle iron? You wasn't thinkin' and tried to grab your phone when it fell into the spaghetti water?"

"That last one is from experience, isn't it?"

"They all are!" Harley said brightly.

Crane was thrilled that Harley could look back on her numerous mishaps with such positivity, but his chemical burns were a little too fresh and the pain of missing out on Halloween a little too looming for him to to share her attitude.

"I was gonna ask how it happened, but you seemed kinda in a bad mood."

"Because I was in blinding agony. I tried to hide the worst of it from you, but my blisters have blisters! I probably burned off some of my fingerprints." Crane sighed. "At least you know a back-alley doctor of some repute. Her painkillers are legitimate, if nothing else."

"Oh yeah, she's a great vet," Harley said. Then, moments later and realizing what she'd said, she forced a nervous laugh. "Uh, she's treated humans before! One time Bud had this rash, and then I had the same rash, so she gave us this cream and... At least she makes house calls!"

Crane took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He counted to ten, then to twenty, and figured maybe by the time he got to 200, he'd find a way to avoid exploding. Somewhere around 80, he allowed himself to find a spot of humor in the situation. At least the woman being a veterinarian explained why her medical bag was covered in cartoon dogs and cats.

After roughly three minutes of silent counting, Crane opened his eyes. He was honestly surprised to see Harley was still present, although she had moved closer to the door.

"Don't be afraid," Crane said for the first time in his life. "I'm not angry anymore. Not that angry, anyway. It can't have been any worse care than I've received from the Arkham infirmary."

Harley took a tentative step forward. When the Scarecrow didn't descend upon her, she risked another step. Still not thrown into her deepest, darkest nightmares, Harley shrugged and returned to her seat.

"Okay, okay, I got you a hyena doctor instead of a people doctor, so let me make it up to you. I can totally make fear toxin," Harley promised.

"I know I'm going to regret even entertaining this, but do you have any experience with chemistry?" Crane asked.

"Tons," Harley replied. "Me and Mr. J used to make all sorts of cool stuff: explosives, Joker gas, acid, souffles. And before you ask, cooking is art but baking is science."

"Thank you, Julia Child," Crane deadpanned. "Fine. I will give you one opportunity. You must do exactly as I say, present the most stringent safety standards, and show my process and work the utmost respect."

Harley crossed her heart. "You got it, Professor. What's the first thing we gotta do?"

"Step one is to put your safety goggles on the right way," Crane said.

"Good idea. Where'd they go, anyway?"

They were both going to be incinerated or poisoned to death, Crane just knew it.


Harley, goggles over her eyes, respirator over her mouth and nose, and hair tied back to avoid open flames, now looked the part. Crane, equally decked out in safety equipment, nodded his approval.

"We're going to start small with a single batch of fear toxin. Take two of those Erlenmeyer flasks and-"

"These?" Harley asked, holding up a box filled with glassware.

"Those are graduated cylinders," Crane replied.

"These?"

"No, Erlenmeyer flasks have a broader base and narrow neck. Look, right there." Crane pointed best he could with his left thumb, which was about the only part of his hands he could move at all.

Harley grabbed two of the glass flasks and placed them in front of her. "Okay, what next?"

Crane appreciated Harley's enthusiasm, but if it took that long just to find the correct flasks, it would be December before the poison was finished. They needed a better system.

"Find a marker. I've got a Sharpie on that clipboard over there," Crane said, again gesturing with his one functioning finger.

Harley fetched the marker. Crane instructed her to take one of every piece of glassware they would use, and then label each different type of flask, beaker, or tube with a letter of the alphabet. By the time Harley was done, she had gotten up to "M."

"Excellent, now we'll move on to the chemicals that will eventually fill the flasks. To avoid any confusion, let's switch to numbers."

It sounded simple when Crane said it, but Harley quickly realized the true scale of the project. She'd never considered how many ingredients Crane needed to brew his signature toxin, but any guess she might have proffered would have been far, far lower than the truth. As she found herself writing a number higher than her age on a tiny vial of powder, Harley discovered she was starting to sweat.

The next container Crane instructed Harley to number bore a label that wasn't in English or any other language that used Latin letters. Much of the text was in red, however, and the skull and crossbones pictogram warning was universal.

"Professor," Harley peeped.

"I do prefer to use chemicals from more reputable sources, but there are few American-based businesses that will send something of that nature with no questions asked to a random PO box in Gotham," Crane explained, as though he expected Harley to call him out for using cheap imports.

"It ain't that. It's just… Never mind." Harley scribbled a number on the container and moved onto the next one.

By the time Harley had finished laying out and numbering all the secret ingredients, she had nearly exhausted the Sharpie. Crane looked over the collection, ensured everything had number or a letter, and then returned to his seat.

"To continue your culinary metaphor from earlier, we should be finished with the mise en place," Crane said. "Now we can cook."

Maybe she could use that! Harley had been the one to first bring pastry arts into the conversation, and now she fixed herself to the idea of treating the fear toxin like it was a new, complicated recipe she'd never made before. She had instructions, she had a master chef with her, she could do this!

"Take one of the Erlenmeyer E flasks and fill it with 250 milliliters of sterile water from bottle 12," Crane said.

Knowledge Harley had had since kindergarten fled her mind. What was the alphabet? What were numbers? What in the name of all things hilarious was a milliliter?!

"Professor Crane," Harley whispered, as though her boisterous voice had fled along with all her basic knowledge.

"You'll have to speak up, the respirators do muffle speech a bit," Crane said.

"I CAN'T DO IT!" Harley wailed.

The sudden explosion of sound made Crane recoil. "You can't pour water?"

"No! I thought I could, but I can't! Even if I imagine it's a big birthday cake or somethin' like that!" Harley tore off her goggles and respirator. "I'm really sorry I got your hopes up. Please don't be too mad."

Crane removed his own safety gear. "You were aware of your own limits and knew you were overwhelmed, which means you followed my rule of safety standards. I'm not angry at all."

"Are you disappointed?" Harley asked. "'Cause people are always sayin' 'I'm not mad, just disappointed' and that's supposed to hurt more."

"I am disappointed. But not in you!" Crane corrected hastily when he saw Harley's face practically convulse with emotion. "I'm disappointed at the whole situation. At my being foolish enough to injure myself in the first place. At it occurring at such a pivotal time of year. Thank you for making the attempt."

Harley sniffled and wiped her eyes and nose. Crane was about to offer her a tissue (which she would have to get herself thanks to his hand situation) when Harley suddenly brightened.

"I got a great idea!" Harley said.

Crane suspected he and Harley had wildly different notions of what constituted a "great idea." He waited with trepidation for her to reveal her brilliant idea.

"I can't make fear toxin, but do you know what I can make? Halloween cookies! They'll be so cute. I'll make little pumpkin ones, and ghosts, and then we can decorate 'em! Just tell me how you want yours. And 'cause they're cookies, you can pick 'em up even with your hands wrapped up."

"I don't think I have anything you can use for baking," Crane said. "And I know I haven't got cookie cutters."

"No problem, I got everything we need at my place. I'll go get it and I'll be right back."

Before Crane could voice his reluctance, Harley was out the door. Left alone with only his throbbing hands for company, Crane sighed and leaned against the nearest wall. Cookies. He was the Scarecrow, he didn't bake. He terrorized and traumatized and tortured peoples' minds!

But he couldn't do any of that right now, not with his hands a painful mess. If he couldn't fill his lair with home-brewed fright, he supposed the warm smell of baking cookies would have to suffice.

The End


Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween.

Author's Notes:

Julia Child was one of the original celebrity chefs.

Mise en place is a French term that means gathering together all the necessary ingredients before starting to cook.