03
Hours passed. Edward lay spread eagle on the floor, staring blindly up at the basement ceiling's maze of pipes. His face was red but pale beneath the flush, and tear-stained. His copper hair was matted to his head with sweat, and his pupils were still dilated with terror. He was hyperventilating, the breaths heaving his slender frame, and making small, whimpering sounds. Finally, he gave a last, heart-wrenching wail, and curled into a fetal position. He sobbed loudly into his arms with unrestrained misery.
The Scarecrow was entwined into the pipes above, watching him with a languid fascination. It always wound down after that climax of screams: varying shades of fear to misery and back again. He yawned, realizing that it must be near morning by now. This batch of fear gas had turned out far stronger than he ever would have imagined. Yet even such a long reaction was not enough. It was never enough.
Jonathan Crane removed the hat, straw wig, and mask, and put on his glasses. Then, he jumped down and stood over his victim like a cat over a dead mouse.
"You were a model- No, an exceptional patient," he told Nigma, crouching down in front of him. "Your screams of terror were so unconstrained, so natural." He idly rustled a hand through Edward's lanky hair. "Mm. I wish they all could be like you."
Edward yelped at his touch, moving his head away. "Don't, don't! Don't, please, don't hit me again! Please, stop! Just … just stop."
"I didn't actually hit you," Jonathan murmured. He sat back with his hands in a steeple before his mouth, thinking. "Do you feel it? Do you honestly-"
He reached down and squeezed the man's upper thigh, and Nigma howled in imagined pain. A sadistic smile crossed Dr. Crane's thin lips.
"Well, this new batch really is stronger," he remarked. "I could never completely trick the mind into feeling actual pain, not as strongly as this, certainly not for such a long duration. I can't wait to test it on the Batman!"
He looked down the passageway, and suddenly realized that he would be able to escape using Edward's plan. He had been so caught up in tormenting the man that he had not once considered breaking out himself.
Crane looked down at Edward, pondering him. It would be risky to bring someone so shattered with him, but . . . Well. How could he leave behind such a pleasing specimen?
"Come on." He took Edward by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Edward swatted at him and protested. Though he hated to comfort pain, he briskly hushed him, "It's all right, Mr. Nigma. I'm not going to hurt you. We have to leave now, and- Oh!"
Edward suddenly threw his arms around him, and he froze. His spine went rigid, as he felt the other man's warmth seeping into his body. For a moment, the fear-monger felt a pang of fear himself, and it angered and confused him. "U-um . . . " The Scarecrow just stood, mask, hat, and wig in one hand, the other still holding Edward's arm. "Ah . . . . "
Nigma was hysterical, and the former psychiatrist knew there was sometimes no dealing with hysteria (other than a tranquilizer in a major artery). With a heavy sigh, he returned the embrace mechanically, soothing the man. "Th-there . . . There, there. It's . . . all right now." His voice sounded a bit stern still, and he cleared his throat. Looked fully into Edward's crazed eyes, he allowed himself to warm with sympathy. It had been many years since he had stopped to remember all the times he had been so broken by fear, and suddenly it came flooding back to him. The doctor was earnest as he said, "No one is going to hurt you now."
Edward seemed to believe him, and sniffled as he calmed. Jonathan took his hand in his own, surprised by how intimate the simple gesture felt, and led him through the tunnel. Edward followed, though he remained paranoid and occasionally burst into sobs all over again.
As they walked along, Jonathan Crane's brow was furrowed deeply. Now that he had let his old memories in, they did not want to be shut away again. The abuse Edward suffered from his father reminded him of the smothering over-protection he had suffered from his mother. Nigma, Senior had never believed his son was a genius; Mrs. Crane had never believed her son was a man. The first person you ever fear is always a parent.
Edward broke down towards the end of the tunnels, breaking out of Crane's bony hand. "Where are you taking me?" he asked frantically. "I don't want to go home! Don't make me go back there!"
Jonathan glanced worriedly out the barred windows near the exit. Dawn was breaking.
"No, no, I'm not taking you home," he said urgently. "Please, Mr. N- Edward. Please, listen to me."
"No. No! No!"
Jonathan tried to grab his hands, but Edward fought him away. He turned to run, and Crane had to grab him violently by the shoulders, causing him to struggle more. Though he was not as weak as his frail frame would suggest, Jonathan preferred not to tussle in any situation. It was always a bore and a hassle.
Edward fought with all the strength of a helpless child, but he was no longer actually a boy. His long limbs were taught from the effort, and his flailing fists were quite capable. Jonathan was barely able to restrain him. One of Edward's blows grazed his cheek, knocking his glasses askew and bruising his cheekbone.
"Stop it!" he snapped. "Don't make me gas you again."
The words surprised him as he spoke them. Why didn't he simply use the fear gas again? It always made even the strongest person manageable. Of course, another round with this strong batch might break Edward Nigma permanently, but wouldn't that be fun to see?
For some reason, Jonathan just couldn't see the appeal in it. Still, this was no time to worry about his own muddled emotions.
"Edward, listen- Edward! Ed-" Jonathan slammed the man against the wall with a burst of strength, holding both wrists against it to restrain him. He felt a tickle of pleasure as he saw Nigma flinch. "Listen!"
Their eyes met, and rational, methodical Jonathan Crane was overtaken by the urge to kiss him. Their lips met next, and he was delighted to taste the gasp as it happened, to inhale that fear. The days in the asylum were long and lonely. This was the most vibrant physical contact either man had felt in a very long time. Being an inmate, one was not picky about one's choices, and took pleasure as it came.
It was soothing at first, but then the kiss became rough, eager. Edward squirmed out of it, protesting weakly, and then loudly. He struggled, but Crane had him firmly against the wall. The other man pressed into him, kissing his neck, his shoulder. Edward became desperate, screaming now.
Crane had to tear himself away from that symphony of frightful panic. He stared at Edward, breathing labored, body burning hot and flushed. He wanted him. It had been many years since he had yearned for anyone in this way, and all those years seemed to have been stored up for now, for him. He was so vulnerable, so frightened, and so handsome. Quirky, maybe too sharp-featured to some, but appealing- very appealing.
And his mind! Jonathan ran a hand through Edward's hair, over his head, stroking the temple. Edward flushed and turned his face uncomfortably. "Mmph."
Such a mind! It was brilliant and complex, but so deliciously soft and fragmented, like a child's mind matured with intellect rather than experience. How many more fears lay uncovered in its secret chambers? How many more layers were waiting to be stripped away?
"Come with me," Jonathan said softly, pleadingly. He brushed the side of his face against Edward's cheek. "Please."
"No, no. I don't want to go- go-"
"You are not going home," Crane told him. Then, a thought occurred to him, and he said, "We're going to a contest. A puzzle contest."
Edward eyed him warily. "We are?"
"Yes!" Jonathan took his hand in his own again. "Let's, er, practice. How about . . . about that?" Something the Hatter had spouted once came to mind, and he said, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"
Edward thought, frowning. "Because the notes for which they are noted are not noted for being musical notes."
"No, no, that isn't right."
Distracted by Lewis Carroll's answer-less riddle, Edward allowed himself to be pulled through the corridor as he thought. "Because Poe wrote on both."
Jonathan smiled, pleased that he had outwitted the Riddler. "Wrong!"
"The both have inky quills?"
"Oh no. That's terrible."
So, it went on. They exited Arkham Asylum onto the shores of the island where the sewage emptied into the ocean. There was a small, unguarded boat waiting away from the docks, in a position where the high cliffs of the island's main land would make viewing it in escape impossible, even if anyone was watching the waters at this hour.
On the boat, Edward huddled up in a corner, hugging his knees. "I don't know!" he was crying. "I don't know. I-I . . . I am stupid. I'm stupid, and I had to cheat. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Leaving the little vessel to sail by its automatic small engine, Jonathan stood over him. He had no reason to deal with Edward anymore, but he found himself feeling sorry for him. He crouched down in front of him and touched his face. "No, no you're not stupid," he said, a little impatiently. "One more answer. Try again."
"Because . . . Because it can produce a few notes, though… they are very flat; and it is nevar put with the wrong end in front!" [ The misspelling is intentional; "nevar" is "raven" backwards.]
The pun was always lost in spoken word, but nonetheless, Crane told him, "Yes, yes, that's it. See? You knew it."
"No, no, I read it in a book somewhere," Edward said, shaking his head. He buried his head in his arms. "I'm stupid. A stupid cheater."
He began to cry, and Jonathan stood, exhaling. The sexual desire was still crackling through him, but there was nothing to be done about that on this boat. He stared down at Edward, contemplating the way the man's features were stricken malleable and honest as a little boy's. It was a strange dichotomy to witness. Jonathan wondered if there was a complete child inside every adult. Or were only shattered childhoods the ones to remain, their jagged pieces sticking into the brain like shards of glass?
Before long, Crane's pity had worn out, and he was struck by the urge to unleash another dose of fear gas on him. How entrancing he was when he was frightened; those green eyes so wide, and his lips trembling, his vain efforts to retain his pride, his intelligence, and the feeling of watching it crumble piece by piece as his precious mind betrayed him. It felt immeasurably good to bring such a smug, arrogant man down and humble him a bit. No man was rational enough to deny their own soul. Logic never held through when faced with the impossible. No man was strong enough to face himself and win.
Well . . . except for Batman, perhaps.
Jonathan looked out at Gotham City's skyline, black against the feeble rising sun, blotting out the fresh light. He needed the rest of this fear gas to study its formulation and perfect it, and could not waste it on Edward. Besides, it would be dangerous to attempt breaking a man completely on such a small boat.
Yet . . . Yet he almost didn't care . . .
Crane stared out at the orange and red dawn for a long time. When he finally glanced back at Edward, he found the man had fallen into a fitful sleep on the floor of the boat. The psychiatrist knelt down beside him, touching his troubled face. He would not be having pleasant dreams, that much was certain. Watching him murmur and cringe in his sleep, Jonathan felt that sympathy crawling back under his skin.
Jonathan found a blanket and covered him. He hesitated before standing again, transfixed by this new desire and fondness. He stroked the man's red hair, then his cheek. Finally, he gave in, and settled down with Edward in his arms, against his chest. He held him tenderly, and, in an eerie imitation of the mother he had long since murdered, began murmuring a lullaby.
"Go to sleep, go to sleep . . . hmm hm hm hm, hmm hm hm . . . "
His voice was as hushed and faraway as the quiet brush of the gentle waves. However, it calmed Edward's nightmares some, and he clung to the man in his sleep.
It was the first time in his entire life that he had ever been comforted.
