AN: Okay. So I don't exactly love Gotham's take on his backstory, BUT this wouldn't let me sleep. Long story short, Kitty's mum found out about everything, had a row with Gerald Crane (Jonathan's dad) that resulted in her threatening to report him to the police for abuse, neglect, and assault (he'd grabbed her wrist during their row and left bruises). Seeing as Gerald seems to be shaping up to be more serial-killer-y, Jonathan's paranoid that this is far from over. If you guys like it, I'll see about expanding this little idea. If not, I'll probably just let it lie.
Sketch1997-Agreed. Especially the bit about maybe Ed and Oswald meeting.
Christineoftheopera-I don't mind. Jonathan minds, but he's just paranoid, that's all.
Guest-I know what I'll do-edit it until I like it better. :p
Johanna Crane-Didn't we all...some people are dense, though. 'I think the kid's gonna be the Scarecrow!' No, really?
It's midnight, it's raining, and he hasn't slept at all. Kitty's been in here for about an hour, squeezing him around the ribs, but that isn't the problem.
No, the problem is that he knows full well this isn't over.
He remembers another rainy night, not so very long ago, that he'd been woken from a fitful sleep by his father coming in from a late walk. That in itself had been odd enough, but the stains on his clothes-red, blotchy stains-had given him the idea that the Scarecrow Killer might be…well…
It hadn't helped that there probably weren't that many creepy scarecrow masks floating around Gotham in February.
He should have said something then, but better the devil you know than the devil you don't, and he'd heard horror stories about the System. It was only two months until his birthday, anyway. He could stick it out.
He shivers, remembering that horrid mask coming out of the darkness of the basement, the stitched grin seeming to grow wider in the flickering light.
No. No, no. There's no grin now, and there won't be.
But Gerald Crane had never liked to be told no.
It isn't that he thinks the man will come looking for him because he misses him, oh, no. He knows better than that. But he will come looking because he's been beaten in an argument-by a woman, no less!-and because Jonathan hasn't told half of what he's done. If he did tell Mrs. Richardson anything else, she'd take him straight to the police station then and that's just too much of a hassle. He'll deal with Gerald in his own way, soon enough.
If he gets the chance. The minute he's back in that basement, he'll never get out.
One more month. One more month and it counts as kidnapping.
Problem is, Gerald's killed before. He's seen the news, he's not an idiot. He may very well kill everyone here-whether this includes him or not, he doesn't know.
He tried to tell Mrs. Richardson that-sort of-but she dismissed it as fever and nerves. So now here he is, unable to sleep and listening desperately for any sound of somebody inside.
Creak.
Like that.
Could be nothing, he tells himself. Just the house settling. Or one of Kitty's parents-probably Mrs. Richardson, her dad's a sound sleeper-up for a drink of water.
Yes.
That's all.
Or, his insidious inner voice whispers, or it could be a tall, gangly monster with a doctor's bag and a burlap face.
Creak.
Someone on the staircase? Mrs. Richardson. Hopefully she won't look in…although he suspects she knows more than she lets on. He'll just pretend to be asleep if she opens the door.
Creak.
Breathe. Breathe evenly. It's nothing.
Hasn't he broken in before? That last girl…slipped into her bedroom in the dead of the night and took her.
Creak.
He'd have heard the door open, wouldn't he? Unless he's been inside since earlier-they were all outside with the door wide open, he could have slipped in, hidden in a coat closet or something.
Stoppit!
Creak.
Kitty sighs and her arms slide a little further down his ribs. He wonders, briefly, what she would see. Roaches? Probably roaches, burrowing down her throat, suffocating…
Enough!
There's dead silence in the room and he shivers, knowing it really isn't that cold in here but unsure whether it's fever or fear.
Maybe both.
Did the door move? It's dark and he can't see for shit without his glasses.
He reaches over towards the nightstand, trying not to move too much, and closes his fingers around the earpiece. He still can't see very well-too dark-but the door does not appear to have moved.
He lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding and lets his head fall back. It's nothing. It's just nonsense to believe that-
There's a scarecrow at the window.
He can't move, only lay there and look at it. The familiar grin-far too wide to be natural-looks back at him.
He should wake her up, tell her to wake her mother and call the police, but he can't move. He can't even breathe.
The grinning face twists to the side and long, thick fingers reach up to rest on the glass.
Before he can do anything, the scarecrow disappears.
He won't be sleeping at all tonight.
THE END