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.

Burlap Unveiling

Crane watched as Teagan's chest rose and fell in gentle rhythm with every breath, her eyes closed in peaceful slumber and her dark hair spilling across his white sheets like ink. They had spent the night lying side-by-side in his bed, her soft skin pressed against his, until Crane was certain she had fallen asleep and carefully detached himself from their embrace before retreating to the opposite side of the bed. As his eyes adjusting to the darkness of his bedroom, Crane observed her sleeping form and noted with a vain smirk the faint smile of content on her pale-pink lips.

He had allowed himself to enjoy their encounter, his composure lapsing into gratification as she lay beneath him and sighed into his ear. But even as he reveled in the satisfaction of triumph, a sense of self-disgust accompanied the pleasurable feelings. By participating in intimacy—albeit carefully-orchestrated, purposeful intimacy—he had entertained the side of himself that experienced lust and other primitive cravings. He was annoyed with Teagan for inspiring such unwanted emotions within him just as much as he was annoyed with himself for feeling them, and as he watched her sleep, oblivious and serene, he felt a surge of resentment in the pit of his stomach.

But Crane could not deny that their night together had been an exciting one, and he anticipated that they would share another very soon: this time a vital night of reintroduction and transparency. Whether there would be any more afterward would be her choice entirely, but already Crane knew that anywhere he went she would follow—even if it frightened her.

He need only ask.

With silent, rehearsed motions Crane reached beneath his pillow and fumbled in the darkness until he felt his fingers graze across the rough texture of burlap.

"Dr. Crane? Dr. Crane, are you there?"

Teagan's only response was the sound of her own voice echoing through Arkham's basement halls. The faint circular glow of her flashlight began to flicker ,and she smacked it against her palm in a vain attempt to reinvigorate its brightness, silently praying that the batteries would last just long enough for her to find Crane—if he was even there. The thought of indefinitely wandering aimlessly through the pitch-black cell blocks alone and without any source of light sent a chill down her spine, and with a shaky voice she called out for him again.

"Dr. Crane, please," Teagan pleaded, her tone now laced with panic, "my flashlight is about to die. I...I don't want to get lost down here."

She reached into her pocket and retrieved a slip of paper, unfolding it with clumsy fingers beneath the flashlight's beam to reread Crane's sharp handwriting for what felt like the hundredth time.

Tonight. The usual time and place. I'll be waiting.

Teagan had arrived at the asylum earlier in the day to find Crane's office empty, with the lights turned off and stack of files resting atop his otherwise meticulously-organized desk. Upon further inspection she discovered a carefully-concealed note, its white corners jutting out between light brown folders and the message written vaguely enough to be meaningless if read by anyone besides her. She spent the next several hours hiding in a corner of the office, poring over his note as sunlight faded into darkness and the familiar sounds signaling the end of a work day began to fill the outside hallway. She counted every open and shut of a door, every turn of a key, every chorus of footsteps walking rhythmically past the office before dissipating into silence.

If she'd learned anything from Crane, it was that patience was crucial. Absolutely, irreparably, dangerously crucial.

After what felt like an eternity of still quietness, Teagan was finally certain that she was alone; with cautious, painstakingly-slow movements, she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Breath caught in her throat and her heart pounding in her ears, she began her journey towards the basement on stocking-clad feet—she didn't dare risk the sound of her heels against the tile floor alerting anyone to her presence—armed only with her pumps in her left hand and the flashlight she'd found in Crane's desk drawer gripped tightly in her right.

And now she stood in the abandoned cell block, the flashlight bulb threatening to fade out entirely at any second, and wondered if perhaps she had made a grave mistake. Her cellphone (an older model she'd carried around for years, sporadic and unreliable at best) was unable to get a proper signal thanks to the basement's enclosure, and multiple attempts produced little beyond intermittent static. Even worse, the battery was nearly drained—she always forgot to charge it, and this time she cursed herself for it.

Rapidly approaching the point of desperation, Teagan scrolled through her contacts and dialed Crane's office phone anyway; despite already knowing that the attempt would more than likely prove to be useless, she nonetheless felt defeated when several distant-sounding rings were followed by Crane's garbled answering machine message.

"Dr. Crane—pffffff—isn't here right—pffff-if you'd—make an app—"

A pair of hands gripped Teagan by the shoulders, knocking her off balance and sending the cellphone and flashlight plummeting to the ground. She heard both shatter in the darkness as her feet slipped on the damp stone floor beneath her, and before she had a chance to regain her footing Teagan felt her back connect with the basement wall. She heard a sharp clicking sound followed by a blinding fluorescent brightness shining into her eyes, and she realized dimly that her assailant had a flashlight of their own.

"Shh," a raspy voice whispered into her ear, and Teagan immediately sighed with relief.

"Oh, it's you," she said, bringing a hand to her chest and letting out a quiet, nervous laugh. "Hah. You really scared me, Dr. Crane."

"No, not Crane. Not tonight. Not now."

The flashlight beam darted away from Teagan's eyes and towards the man standing before, illuminating his ragged face.

"Scarecrow."

Teagan screamed. A tumultuous sequence emotions washed over her—horror shock, confusion, and the awful realization that her greatest love and her greatest fear were one in the same. Her heart pounded in her chest and every instinct screamed at her to run run run, yet she remained frozen in place even as Scarecrow leaned forward to press his stitched mouth against hers.

She felt warm breath and burlap graze across her face, thick strands of thread digging into her lips as Scarecrow kissed her; gone was the cool reservation and restraint Crane exercised, replaced by unabashed intensity and a hungry fervor. He wanted to consume her—her body, her mind, her very soul—and even as she trembled with uncertainty he knew—they both knew—she would offer herself to him with little hesitation.

He need only ask.

When he pulled away Teagan saw his eyes twinkle beneath the burlap, as icy and blue as ever despite the dimness of the basement. She looked into the face that she'd hoped to never see again—the loathsome visage that burned through her mind and tore at her psyche until she became entangled in the hellish, hideous nightmare it had created for her—and reached forward to lovingly caress it.