She wouldn't stop crying. She stayed on her bed, her back to him, her head in the corner, her golden hair draped over her face and tears. He watched her, and at that point she didn't care. He watched the shoulder blades rise and fall, her skin showing through that tattered shirt. She banged her forehead on the concrete wall, and he would've sworn she was going to make her head start bleeding if she continued.

She had been abandoned, left behind by the man who had somehow managed to steal her heart while he was out stealing mob money. He was driving her insane, Crane could see that, but not in any of the ways she wanted. She was becoming obsessive and dependent, something great minds like her should never be. But he didn't say anything, he figured she already knew.

She even cried in her sleep, when she'd become so exhausted she couldn't keep her eyes open, but the tears continued. She was younger than him, by a few years, enough to make a difference. Her mind was brilliant, he knew that, but also very young. He figured she was a woman who had stayed in control in her relationships. When the relationships were broken they were broken by her. She had never fallen in love like this before, she had never had such heartache before that she could have learned from. He on the other hand, had a strong resistance to such pains. He had over the years built up an immunity to abandonment, he expected to be left alone, he had grown accustomed.

She was so beautiful, she must've grabbed any man she wanted. They must've worshipped her, done anything she wanted. And she had the mind to understand them, to control them. That's what she was, a woman always in control. But she had given that all up and now she was alone and the one man she wanted more than anything else could have cared less about her. Joker didn't concern himself with his company, he didn't think about women, or love, or anything like that. Joker had bats in his brains and that was all, Crane hadn't even met the Joker in person but he had gathered that much. It was that obvious, anyone could see it they just had to look. Joker wore his mind like a coat, he wanted the world to see it, to gawk at it, and never be able to comprehend it. What could happen to a man that could make him forget a woman like Harleen Quinzel, he didn't know.

He watched her closely, and on the third straight day of her crying, he could take it no longer. He recognized so well the familiar scars of her tears, he remembered the night he had spent crying in his bed, long ago when the kids would call him Scarecrow and the girl he loved would only laugh at him.

"Don't worry, Harley." Crane said through the crack. "I'll get you out of here."

He had convinced his old colleagues, and now his doctors, that a plant was a merciful gift in a place so dreary. He smiled on that day he walked into their office. He wore the white coats all the crazy people did, but he pushed up his glasses and seemed to them so small and fragile, skin on bone, a scarecrow. He had them talking like the old days.

Funny thing he had observed, the so called sane people were nothing of the sort. They were as predictable and easily figured out as the insane, perhaps even more so. He thought up in his mind his own little diagnosis to classify all the different sorts of sane people there were. All the years he'd spent at Arkham as their "friend," all the discussions about the crazies, all the diagnosis, all the decided treatments. Sometimes they all went out to lunch and talked about the normal and usual things that sane peopled talked about. He had discovered their fears by the way they avoided subjects and how their voices changed at the mention of some subtle to the world but deep in their souls. His old friends, he came to them, and laughed a little at himself.

"I'm sorry." He said to them. "You must think such awful things of me."

"What you did, John, is unforgivable." They all said in various ways.

And then he put on this look of such utter regret, such sadness and despair that he had worn in his real life years ago. He drifted to the open window, to the sun, he scraped his fingers on the glass and he sighed a horrible sigh and he shrank in front of them. He was toying with them, he had in those years become an actor. He had manipulated and acted out the fears of the insane, that he could not act to manipulate the sane.

"I didn't know." He said with a slight quiver in his voice. "I didn't know what they were going to do with it."

His poisons, his fear gases.

"You were using our patients, Crane!" They say in their various ways. "Remember the oath? 'Do no harm?' What were you doing!?"

"I was helping them!" Then he shakes his head. He cries out and wipes his eyes. "Oh, God." he doesn't really believe in God. "I need help."

They stare with their sad eyes, their old friend, the one they had shared so many coffees with.

"I keep hearing them screaming!" He yells at them. "At night, they're all screaming and I can't get them out of my head!"

By the end of their session they had decided that their old friend was hurting, but he was curable. They had been convinced the crimes he did were not of his own understanding, and that he himself had fallen victim to his drug and madness. They wanted to help him most of all. They allowed him one tiny mercy.

A flower, he suggested, his favorite flower. A rare thing, grown only in the mountains of Asia, but he had a garden full at home. They brought him a little pot of one little blue flower.

It was this flower that sat at his barred window where it could gather sun. He grabbed it then that night, his beautiful blue little flower. He could hear her crying still. He emptied the pot and uprooted the flower. He took a rock and began beating the petals into watery powder. He mixed it every so slightly and reached into the toilet where under the bowl he had hidden a fine chemical that he had swallowed and thrown up in a fine plastic capsule. He mixed it with the powder and it began to smoke and sizzle.

A guard who feared contracting a tapeworm that would eat away at his brain passed by an hour later. He was all in all a good man. Crane put his face between the bars, and stopped him as he passed by, the keys to the cells by his belt.

"I'm sorry to bother you." He told the guard. "But the woman next door, something's wrong, she hasn't stopped crying."

"That's Harleen Quinzel, Mr. Crane." The guard says. "She'll get over it soon enough."

"Quinzel? Really?"

"Yeah."

"Wow…Hey, there's a crack in my wall, I can see right through it, do you think they could patch it up, doesn't seem right peeping into a crying girl's room."

"Where?"

"Here, closer, it's right there."

He points to the crack, the guard leans down, he grabs the guard's face, rubbing that chemical all over, making him eat it, breath it, fear it. The guard pushes him away, but Crane grabs his belt and holds him close to the bars. The man starts to feel worms in his body, his legs give out, his arms flail at nothing. Crane fits his skinny arms through the bars and grabs the keys, walking out of his cell. He drags the guard into his cell, putting him on the bed, wrapping him up good and tight so he doesn't fall over and hurt himself.

Scarecrow walks next door, opening it. Harley Quinn looks over through her tears. She immediately stopped crying.

In moments they're running down the halls, down the stairs, where the crazies watch and laugh as they go by. He turned left, she turned right. She looked back at him with this evil smile she must have learned from Joker.

"I can't go out like this." She smiled and swayed her hips. "I don't have my face on, and I'm entirely dressed wrong."

She lead him down to the Criminal Possessions room. She kicked the door down with ease, and walked in like she owned the place. She smashed open her drawer and grabbed out that red and black hat that she loved to wear. He saw her putting it on and felt this was a good chance to get some of what he lost as well. He ran over to find his name where his suit had been placed, beneath it the gas canisters, and beneath that his face. He pulled off his tattered shirt, hearing a giggle from Harley. He looked over at her, his concave chest bare, his ribs clearly outlined in his thin layer of skin. He pushed up his glasses and started buttoning his collar shirt. He hid behind a desk to put on his nice pants and nice shoes.

The next time he looked over at her his mouth dropped. She had taken off her shirt, wearing now only a black bra and red and black diamond pants. Her hips stuck out, her body twisted, she was absolutely the most gorgeous thing he'd seen his life since high school. She was pulling up her hair into a bun. She didn't even have to look at him, she shifted her weight onto another leg, swaying her hips.

"You're staring." She said.

She didn't sound like she was forbidding it, she didn't sound like she was approving it either. She just said a simple fact, that he was staring. Despite her apathetic meaning, he immediately turned away, grabbing his canisters and securing him on his wrist.

But his eyes moved back to her, she was so slow in putting on the rest of his outfit that he felt maybe she wanted him to look. But then he realized it wasn't that, she was just so comfortable in her skin that she didn't care who saw what. She put on a corset finally, opting to carry the rest of her outfit separately. Her red and black hat covered her eyes, the two tails dangly at her pale and sharp shoulders. She was putting on black lipstick, smearing it across her cheeks like his scars smeared across his when she gasped.

"What?"

"Oh no!" She grabbed a little orange bottle. "His medicine!"

"Medicine?"

"Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no." She said strapping her boots on.

"What?"

"He's got a skin condition!" She cried out. "Pale skin, he can't be out in the sun much, and these rashes. Oh, gosh, I hope he got a new bottle." She seemed so motherly then, so worried her baby was going to get ill.

"Rashes?"

"Yes!" She yelled at him. "He's got a skin condition, okay? It's not his fault."

"It's just strange."

"What?"

"To imagine the Joker has some sort of weakness."

"It's not a weakness." She was quick to defend him. "It hurts without the medicine, but that's never stopped him before. Still." she held tightly onto the bottle.

The scars didn't end on his face. They had warehouses where he plotted, abandoned and forgotten, no one bothered them there. He had plans upon plans, stacked up against the walls for any sort of case. Months on months of planning, it never stopped. He had three plans going at once, each to be completely four months apart from each other. She can remember when the last one failed, when the Bat had given him a few new bruises, a few new scars. He had all these bruises up and down his ribs, and it was hard for him to laugh, but he did anyway, because he loved them, he loved the pain. "Love marks," he called them. He walked by her once, the scars of stabs and bullets that he probably had gotten years before he ever put on make up. He walked by at night, the one light hitting him. His skin looked white, pinkish skin in places where there were rashes. Scars never seemed to heal, wounds always bled, bruises took weeks to go away. He popped in some pills and gave her the duty to make sure he took them twice a day. I had some accidents in my past, he said, and I was always a sickly guy since.

She gripped the bottle in her hand. She remembered lying naked in their bed, the sheets tangled up in her legs. He never looked at her, he never touched her. She didn't exist to him unless she had some make up on her face like him.

That's when the alarm sounded, and they knew they were escaping. She grabbed from her drawer three metal rectangles that she quickly made into a gun.

"Let's go." she said.

He put on his face. That precious mask he had fashioned for himself years ago. That Scarecrow mask. He tightened the noose around his neck, securing it on his head. She twisted her head, the tails of her hat spinning in place of her hair. She looked at him and smiled with her black lips.

"You look silly." She said.

"You're still very pretty."

She was a warrior woman, that's what she was. She plowed through guards like they were rag dolls. They were cornered at some stairs and she kicked a man in the knee, breaking it, he grabbed his friend, and she pushed them down the stairs, and they ran into the other friends. Another guard ran at her, she kicked him in the mouth, then punched him in the throat. Another guard ran at Crane, he dodged as the guard swung at him, and Harley plowed him into her knee. Down the hall guards came, she fired her gun and shot them all in the calf. She was unstoppable. Her body twisted and turned, she did flips and crushed necks with her legs. She had grown to hurt men, but he noticed that she never killed them.

"What do you got, Slim?" She asked him.

"Scarecrow." He insisted.

"That's a silly name." She said. "What's wrong with you? You missin' a brain?"

The alarms were going off and he could barely hear her. But he knew she was making fun of him, even as he was trying to save her, she was laughing at him. The mask protected him, she couldn't see how hurt he was.

Guards were turning the corner, he pushed her aside with a thud.

"Don't breathe." He told her.

"What do you got?" She asked again.

The Guards came at him. He had the greatest weapon of all.

"FEAR!" He screamed and he held up his arms and the precious gas flew into their lungs and their brains.

He grabbed Harley's arm, and pulled her through the gas, where guards began to cough and then scream in horrible nightmares. She started laughing, but you couldn't tell between the alarm and the screaming. But Crane heard, she was laughing, laughing just like that clown.

Under the protection of the dark they made it to the outside fence, they ran out the same hole the Joker had made, and then they were free.

---------

He was back in his suit and hour later, holding his face like an extra bag he was carrying around. Unlike the Joker or Two-face he found it very easy to blend in, it also helped that when people thought of all the crazies in Arkham they managed to forget him. They had made their way to a little 50s diner late at night when only they and some other low-life folk were enjoying the taste of cheeseburgers. He stared at her from across the table, no one seemed to suspect her, she was just a beautiful lady in red and black. She was wiping off the excess lipstick so she wouldn't smear it on any of her food at the time.

"You were very impressive back there." He tells her.

"I better be." She laughs to herself. "I mean it's what I've been trained for."

"Trained?"

She smirks to herself, trying to shake it off.

"A few months ago all I had in this field was a few years of cheerleading. He hits me all the time."

He leans in closer, how many times had he'd met with young women with their abusive boyfriends and fathers, he couldn't remember.

"But he does it so I can get used to it." She shrugs. "It's a secret, but I'm his body guard. His own personally trained body guard. He'll hit me and it's my job not to be surprised, to take it, to stop it." She shrugs. "I'm getting better, that's for sure, but he teaches to fight dirty, but eh, I throw some punches."

She then smiles.

"Hey! I never thanked you. Thank you."

"Oh, yes, no problem."

He leans back in his chair, quite happy with himself.

"Now what?" he asks.

She leans forward, sipping on her milkshake the waitress just brought her.

"We do it all over again." She smiles. "That's us. We get out, we work the city, try and take it from the man who protects it, spread the wisdom of madness around. Kill people."

"That's what you do, huh?"

"Yeah, what? Don't you?"

He leans back in his chair.

"Originally I was gonna get paid then move to Europe." he shrugs.

"Heh. You really are something, you know that? One of a kind."

"Why? Just because I don't obsess about a man dressed up as a bat?"

"Yeah."

Her lips playfully smile through the straw of her milkshake. She looks up with a warm smile and beautiful blue eyes.

"Well, he's simple in my book. He's downright crazy. He thinks he can stop crime, he's a madness more akin to a cancer. His presence attracts more madness and more chaos, your Mr. J isn't helping with this in any manner. He's the culmination of it, in fact. He thinks he's fear, but he's not, I am. Not everyone's scared of some rodent with wings."

She laughs at him.

"You're the only person I know who doesn't fear Batman."

"I'm on the contrary, fascinated by him. Fascinated by what he's done to this city. But obsessed? No, more amused, than obsessed."

She tilts her head so her hair hangs down over her eyes.

"I don't know what I'll do." He shrugs again. "I don't want to leave anymore though, everything is getting increasingly interesting. I suppose I'll get some money, buy a place, live there and watch and torment as I please."

She laughs between her teeth, a quiet laugh.

"You're so funny." She tells him.

Their food is brought to them.

"I'm gonna find Puddin'." She tells him.

"Shouldn't be too hard."

"No, no, no, he lays pretty low for the first weeks while he's planning. He's got a slight OCD when it comes to his plans. We have a rendezvous point though, a safe house of sorts, that's where I'll find him."

"Harleen, you're much more sane than the papers make you out to be."

"That's the problem."

They ate the rest of their burgers in a bit of awkward silence. People exchanged them odd looks as they passed. When they had finished and they'd paid the bill she looked at him and he nodded. She took out a gun from her bag, a big machine gun. She shot the ceiling and screamed at the top of her lungs for them to put the cash in the bag. They left quietly once that was over, and they left a very generous tip because they were very satisfied with their waiter.

They walked the night for about forty minutes, musing that perhaps Batman was following them, laughing at themselves.

She got to the apartment she was supposed to be at. He said he'd wait for her to tell him she was okay, and she nodded. She said she'd have to keep it secret because Joker would kill her if she knew she had brought him there.

It was five minutes when she came out screaming, saying he had been taken.