Author's note: Are my stories really that dark? Yes, I suppose they are. The other day I started writing a Ragdoll fic that was supposed to be light and fun...but then things went badly...so the Nikkums challenged me to write a story in which my favorite scrawny villain did not get brutally beaten, emotionally abused, or both...

This, my friends, is that fic.

Which brings me to the disclaimer: I do not own Batman, the Scarecrow, or Arkham Asylum. I only wish I did...

'Tis the Season

It was nothing but an old barn in what had once been a family farm, now abandoned and rotting, the roof falling in, the remains of crops rotting in once-neatly-plowed fields. A dejected-looking scarecrow stood not far off, its straw stuffing mostly gone, its head and arms hanging, limp. The burlap sack that had once been a round, grinning face had been faded by the sun, showing a clear line where it had once been topped with a jaunty hat.

Batman could guess where the hat had gone.

The shadow that was the Bat detached from the blackened ruins of the burned-out farmhouse and darted across the open ground, leaving unavoidable footprints in the snow that lightly covered the ground. Other than that, the casual observer might not have believed that anyone had been there at all.

There was no moon this Christmas Eve to reveal the pale human flesh against the dark mask, or the thin plumes of warm breath briefly coalescing in the air before they dissipated, all smoke and mirrors. There was nothing to reveal him as a human being tonight. He was only a shadow, more Bat than Man.

Up the outer wall of the barn he went, quick and noiseless. He was the silent hunter stalking his prey. He was the inexorable nightmare coming for his unsuspecting, sleeping victim.

But was the victim unsuspecting? Now, that was the question.

Strange things had been happening in Gotham lately. Mass suicides of ordinarily happy, healthy people—far too many than could be accounted for by coincidence or holiday depression. Numerous robberies of pharmaceutical companies—again, far more than was usual, even in Gotham. A sense of fear in the men he questioned—yet again, nothing outside the norm, but on a far greater scale than he was willing to accept.

Something was coming. He blamed the Scarecrow.

Batman crouched in the hayloft, alert for any alarms he might have tripped. He could see nothing. The only sound was faint music playing somewhere below. He crept to the edge of the loft and looked down.

There he was—Jonathan Crane—the Scarecrow. Batman had last seen him early in October. He looked like he had fallen on hard times since then, but he always looked like a man who had fallen on hard times. Painfully thin and ragged-looking no matter how well he was fed and clothed, the Scarecrow was truly an embodiment of his name. He would have been a pathetic figure, someone to be pitied, if Batman had not known the evils he was capable of, the madness lurking within his brilliant mind. If he had not known firsthand the terror brought on by Crane's toxin, the utter, breathless, screaming torment that Crane would give to anyone who came too near him, in the name of greed or revenge, or simply to study the effects.

Batman had to remind himself of what Crane really was, as he did with all his enemies who looked so innocent without their masks. The awkward Riddler, beautiful Selina, bookish Jonathan Crane…in some ways it was easier fighting the Joker, who made no attempt to hide his true nature. The Joker was his mask, as much as Batman was his.

He stayed for a few moments, perfectly still, taking in the scene below him, letting his eyes pick out every possible weapon and escape route, searching for signs of any others, reading what he could from the Scarecrow's actions and appearance.

He was wearing several layers of clothing to keep out the cold, and sitting next to a space heater, huddled over slightly. The breath still steamed from his lips, crystallizing briefly in the frigid air. He was sewing by candlelight, repairing an old mask or making a new one, holding it close to his face in the dim light.

This could not be a comfortable place for him. There was an old, dirty mattress in one corner of the room, piled high with blankets; it would still be a cold place to sleep. Several cans of food were stacked in another corner, enough to last until the new year, but no longer. A bookshelf occupied the obvious place of honor; it was filled with tattered paperbacks that looked like nothing but light reading, but apparently Crane considered light reading better than no reading at all, as there were more books stacked on the floor around the shelf in neat piles, knee high. Along with the books were three or four CDs, which surprised Batman a little. He had never seen the Scarecrow as a music lover.

Leaning down closer, Batman saw Crane's lips moving as he sang along to the soundtrack in his battery-powered CD player:

"It's a bat. Will it bend? It's a rat. Will it break? Perhaps it's the head that I found in the lake."

That sounded like his cue. Batman swooped down, landing almost silently just behind Crane as the song continued:

"Listen now, you don't understand. That's not the point of Christmas land."

Crane didn't turn around. Batman could hardly believe that he had actually gotten the jump on his enemy. He surprised the ordinary thugs all the time, but never the vigilant, paranoid Scarecrow.

He lunged forward, going for the arms, hoping his luck would hold and he could avoid a real fight.

His luck didn't hold. It never did.

The Scarecrow heard him and ducked out of the way, flinging the burlap mask at his face. He batted it away, only to have something hard bounce off his head and shatter at his feet. He covered his mouth, bracing himself for the oncoming panic, the warping of reality, the irresistible urge to fall down, screaming, and never get up.

It didn't come.

He looked down and saw a milky white liquid flowing out of the broken glass bottle. He looked up at Crane, who had put the space heater between them as his only line of defense and was backing away, one hand cocked back, ready to throw his empty CD case.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"I think you know." The Bat made his voice a deep, menacing growl, knowing he could claim the title Master of Fear as easily as the Scarecrow could.

The oddly cheery song went on: "Do they bite? Do they snap? Or explode in a sack? Or perhaps they just spring out and scare girls and boys?"

Batman took a step toward Crane, who made a move to throw his weapon, useless as it was.

"Stay back! I wasn't doing anything."

"Your kind is always up to something," Batman said. "I want to know what."

"Nothing. Really," Crane insisted. He looked down at the broken bottle, and a petulant frown crossed his face. "I wanted that eggnog."

"Then you shouldn't have thrown it at me. I'm not going to fight you unless you fight me. I just want to talk to you." He took another step forward. Crane jumped back, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses.

"Your kind never just wants to talk."

"Look, I'm not going to beat you senseless on Christmas Eve."

"It's Christmas Eve?" Crane looked troubled. He lowered his CD case slightly, contemplating. "Did I sleep through Sunday? I haven't been keeping my calendar…"

Batman rushed him, taking advantage of the distraction. Crane stumbled back, threw the empty case, and ran for the door. He only made it a few steps before Batman tackled him, easily pinning the smaller man to the floor. Crane thrashed, struggling to get out from under Batman's weight.

"Stop—just stop it," Batman ordered. He caught Crane's right arm and twisted it behind his back until the man gasped in pain and went limp. Batman relaxed his grip slightly, but made no move to get up. "Now, one way or another, you're going to talk to me."

"About what? I haven't left here since Halloween. If something's happening in Gotham, I'd have no way of knowing about it."

"And why should I believe that?" Batman growled.

"Logically, if I had been anywhere near civilization, don't you think I would have gotten the ingredients for my fear toxin? And if I had that, don't you think I would have gassed you the minute you came in here, instead of wasting my only bottle of eggnog?" He squirmed a little, and Batman pressed his knee into Crane's back to keep him still.

"Have you had any visitors here?"

"Visiting hours are from 9:00 to 5:00," Crane mumbled. Batman quashed his irritation.

"Have you had any visitors?" he repeated.

"Who would visit me?" Batman felt a brief flash of pity for his foe. How sad that he was so utterly alone, that the only person who cared to look for him in two months' time was his greatest enemy. Then he quashed his pity as well. He couldn't afford to feel anything for this man. There were bigger things to worry about.

"I'm visiting you. Has there been anyone else?" He knew he could put a little pressure on the Scarecrow's wrist and get his answers a lot faster, but what he had said earlier was true—he didn't want to hurt him unnecessarily. Not on Christmas Eve.

"No one," Crane muttered. His voice was beginning to sound strained, his breath coming in shallow pants. Batman eased a little of his weight off the other man's back.

"Then what have you been doing out here all this time?"

"Hiding from you, what do you think? Do you think I'm crazy enough to want to go back to Arkham?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Batman admitted. He took a set of handcuffs from his utility belt and secured Crane's wrists behind his back.

"You're taking me back now, aren't you?" Crane pouted.

"That shouldn't surprise you by now." He hefted the smaller man to his feet. "Honestly, how many times have we been through this?"

"I must just be confused by the lack of blood and bruises," he replied, only slightly bitter.

"Call it the spirit of Christmas." Batman gave Crane a push toward the door.

"Wait! My books—they'll be damaged if I leave them here. It won't take long for the weather to get to them." He looked terribly worried about them. Batman almost smiled.

"I'll take care of them. I'll come back for them as soon as I get you to Arkham," he promised.

"But…"

"You wouldn't be trying to stall me, would you?" He shifted his grip slightly on the Scarecrow's arms, lifted him bodily off the ground, and carried him toward the door. Surprised, Crane kicked out at him. Batman held him at arm's length, still dangling an inch or two above the hard-packed dirt.

"All right, all right! Put me down. I'll walk." Batman set him down, more gently than was his habit. With a sullen glare, Crane tossed his head back, trying to settle the glasses that were sliding down his nose.

Crane walked with as much dignity as he could muster in such an undignified situation, as Batman guided him toward the car. He did admire his enemy in some strange way, Batman reflected as the two of them trudged together across the snowy field. He wondered—a part of him hoped that Crane felt the same about him.

Behind them, the music continued to play.

"It's almost here and we can't wait, so ring the bells and celebrate. 'Cause when the full moon starts to climb, we'll all sing out, 'It's Christmastime!'"

It was too late to go back and turn it off. The CD would just have to play until the batteries died.

He opened the car door for Crane and strapped him in, earning a rather perplexed look from his captured enemy.

"This can't be meant to restrain me..."

"Just in case of an accident," Batman said with a shrug. He got into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"You can't be worried about my safety..."

"Believe it or not, I don't like hurting you." He guided the car onto the icy road, heading back toward the city. "I just want to bring you to justice. I'm not a monster." He glanced over at Crane, who was glaring at him skeptically and shivering slightly. "But, hey, believe whatever you want." He reached over and turned up the heat.

"Hmm," Crane grunted.

They didn't speak another word to each other that night. But when they reached Arkham, Crane didn't resist.

--

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear and cold in Gotham City. In Arkham Asylum, both the administrator and the chief of security found Christmas cards from Batman waiting on their desks. They met in the hallway of the high-security ward and went together to the Scarecrow's cell, where they found him asleep in the bed he had last occupied nearly three months before. The look on his face might not have been easily described as "comfort and joy," but at least he was happy enough to be out of the cold.

A package arrived for him later that day. The security officer looked through it before handing it over, but decided there could be no harm in letting Crane have the massive box of used books—and three or four new, leather-bound volumes. He kept back the CD player and CDs (all classical, except for one movie soundtrack that didn't seem to belong there) but left the note: a simple "Merry Christmas" surrounded by the shape of a stylized bat.