Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any aspect of the Batman universe. I own nothing save for any original characters that I have created.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who left a review! I was so happy to read your lovely comments.
Crane's Lure
Despite her best efforts, Crane still considered his intern to be little more than an inconvenient burden.
While Teagan had taken great care not to disturb Crane over the past week, dutifully organizing his files with silent efficiency and speaking only when spoken to, he wanted her gone nonetheless; Crane had always preferred solitude to the company of others, and the girl's presence in his office was a constant, stifling annoyance. She was a tiny, timid girl who never once questioned or protested his lack of expected scholarly guidance, instead choosing to accept his inattention with shy, timid passivity. But rather than appreciate her quiet compliance, he found it offensive—her meek awkwardness reminded Crane of his own private insecurities, and he resented her for it.
Crane did not look up from his paperwork when he heard the office door open, and his gaze never wavered from his desktop even as he listened to the sound of Teagan's worn leather heels click-clacking in a rhythmic pattern against the tile floor and signaling her arrival.
"Miss James." His greeting was a curt, impersonal courtesy and nothing more than ingrained politeness; had he been in a less charitable mood, he would not have bothered to greet her at all.
"Hello, Dr. Crane," she replied quietly. By now Teagan had come to expect his cool indifference, and knew better than to attempt any further conversation.
The room fell silent again as Teagan began to organize his files for the fifth time, and neither spoke to the other until five o'clock, when Crane bade her a hurried goodbye before handing Tegan her coat and promptly shutting the office door behind her.
Crane gazed on with bored detachment as a patient writhed and twisted on a rotting bed in the basement's abandoned cell blocks, his screams intermittently fading into choked gargles as he struggled against his restraints in a weary, vain attempt to escape from his living nightmare.
"Help me! For the love of God, someone, anyone, help me! HELP ME!"
The patient's pleads took on a primal, jagged edge, and after several minutes of tiresome screeching Crane sighed and injected the inmate with a dose of his antitoxin; within seconds the patient's movements and cries had given way to lethargic protests, and moments later he finally closed his eyes as his chest began to rise and fall with peaceful slumber.
Crane sighed again and unfastened his burlap mask; the thick material was confining and hot, and when he slid off the mask the basement's damp air was cool relief against his sweaty face. He smoothed his damp, disheveled hair with the palm of his hand before putting on his glasses and adjusting his tie and collar, and in a few simple gestures Scarecrow had returned to the unassuming role of Dr. Jonathan Crane.
His fear toxin had been a success, albeit a now dull and stale one. After months of experiencing its effects first-hand, Crane had begun to pluck test subjects from the inmate population; the frequent experiments provided him with enough data to develop a gas form of his toxin to serve as a companion to his original serum, and he began to use both during his sessions. He had fashioned a gas mask into the burlap to avoid accidental exposure to the toxin, allowing him to safely watch his patients first startle with surprise as a burst of gas hit their face and filled their lungs before devolving into cries of horror. The mask was more than just a safety precaution—it completely concealed Crane's face and gave the patients a frightening, intimate glimpse of Scarecrow as they helplessly plunged into their own personal Hell. Every scream and shed tear brought Scarecrow to life and nourished Crane until he was drunk with exhilarating triumph; the toxin granted him the only true happiness he had ever known along with an enlightened, masterful control of fear in all of its terrible glory.
But that would all end soon.
Crane had exhausted the potential of the inmates. While their reactions were powerful testaments to the effectiveness of his toxin, they were now also repetitive and worthless. He could not incur the risks of further experiments if they no longer benefited him—he had been able to remain undetected thus far by employing a great deal of caution, and he had achieved far too much to lose his prized research to carelessness and useless gambles.
Crane had made his decision. Until new test subjects were available, there would be no more fear toxin experiments.
The thought filled him with a rare fit of melancholy, and when he looked down at the mask clasped tightly in his hands he felt the bitterness of failure.
Crane did not greet Teagan when she arrived the next day, and upon observing his sour mood she resumed her filing without speaking a word, not wishing to draw attention towards herself and receive a sharp remark or icy glare. After several moments he looked up from his notes to see her sitting on the floor with several folders stacked in small piles before her; one lay open in her lap and she appeared to be engrossed in its contents, her brow furrowed in concentration as she read with her glasses perched crookedly on the brim of her nose.
He watched her for a few moments before loudly clearing his throat. She jumped and let out a small gasp of surprise before quickly straightening her back and regaining her composure, clearly embarrassed by her reaction.
"What are you doing?" Crane asked.
"Oh! Um..." Teagan shifted nervously, worried that Crane's question was the prerequisite to a stern reprimand. "Well, you told me to use my best judgment and I noticed some consistencies among several of your case files, so I was just...kind of grouping them together, I guess." She winced, half-expecting to be rebuked for unnecessarily complicating what should have been a simple organizational task with her amateurish, unwanted theories.
Crane stared at her with an expression that she could not decipher, and after a moment of heavy silence passed she was sure that her initiative had been a mistake.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I'll refile them alphabetically."
"Consistencies, you said?" His voice was as calm and collected as ever, but Teagan found his lack of identifiable emotion to be more disquieting than comforting—despite knowing Crane for only a week, it was apparent to her that he was a man with little patience for foolishness or errors, and she felt dangerously close to being deemed guilty of both.
"It was stupid of me. I'll put them back. I really shouldn't have-"
"Let me see."
Teagan's eyes widened with surprise. "You...you want to look at them?"
"Please," he replied tersely. "Is that a problem?"
She hesitated before rising from the floor and crossing the office to warily hand him the file. Her stomach twisted into knots of anxiety as she watched him turn page after page, and when he finally closed the folder and set it onto his desk she felt as if she might be sick from anticipation.
"Very interesting."
She blinked, taken aback by the compliment. "Interesting?"
"Yes. I'm impressed. I can see why you were chosen for the program."
"Oh. I...um..." She stammered, overcome with relief and shock, and for the first time since her internship began the corners of her lips turned upwards into a faint smile.
For a fleeting moment, Crane found her to be rather adorable.
"May I ask how old are you, Miss James?"
"I'm twenty-two, sir."
"Dr. Leland said that you're the top of your class. Is that true?"
She glanced at the floor, embarrassed by the question. "Yes, sir."
Crane nods. "Impressive. Keep up the good work, then."
He returned to his paperwork, effectively ending their conversation. Teagan hesitated for a self-conscious moment, debating whether or not she should thank him before ultimately deciding to silently return to her filing instead while he was still in a generous mood.
"Miss James."
Teagan stopped mid-stride and turned to face Crane. "Yes, Dr. Crane?"
"I want to apologize to you for not providing the direction that you may have expected to receive when you applied for this internship," Crane said, adjusting his glasses as he spoke "I have been tremendously preoccupied with other duties, and as a result I have neglected my obligations to you."
"Oh." Teagan bit her lower lip, clearly uncomfortable with the subject—exactly as Crane suspected she would be. "I understand, Dr. Crane. You have more important things to do."
"Well, be that as it may," Crane replied, doing his best to sound remorseful, "I hope that you will give me the opportunity to make it up to you. Would you by any chance be free for lunch tomorrow?"
She blushed a crimson red, and Crane fought the urge to smirk at her naïve predictability.
"It will give us a chance to discuss any questions that you may have outside of this...shall we say, dreary environment. But if you have other plans..." Crane's voice tapered off into just the right amount of disappointment, as if her refusing his invitation would truly pain him.
"Oh, no! Not at all," she said hastily. "I would really like that, Dr. Crane."
"Excellent."
Crane smiled.
Perhaps finding a new test subject was going to be easier than he thought.