04
The boat ran aground on a dirty, abandoned beach. By that time, both escaped inmates were asleep. They might have remained that way until the Gotham Coast Guard came searching, if Edward had not woken Dr. Crane up with jarring screams.
Jonathan woke up with a startled yell of his own, only to find Edward thrashing about in the blanket covering them. He tried to restrain him, took a blow to the chin, and then made more effort. He wrapped his long legs around Nigma's, and covered his mouth with one hand. "Shhhh! Be quiet!" He struggled to find a sufficient threat. He shook Nigma violently, settling on, "Do you want your father to hear you?"
Edward shut up instantly, shaking his head. "Mm mm."
"All right, then."
Crane released him, but Edward was in a bad state. He crumbled on the floor, clutching his head, wailing and moaning. "No, no, don't ignore me. I am smart, I am. I'm a genius. I am. Why don't you believe me? Listen to me. Please, listen! I didn't mean to cheat. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it."
Crane left him gibbering and stepped onto the shore. He looked out at the landscape, trying to determine their location. His mouth twitched in annoyance. He could have used Nigma and his memorized maps of Gotham City about now. Had he permanently ruined the Riddler's mind? Crane had seen fear gas put people into a state of shock or trauma for days. Would this batch be the one that went a step further?
Jonathan decided to use his old, still unknown hideout in an abandoned school building. There were lab supplies, beds, basic medical equipment, and the demolition was not scheduled for another six months (given Gotham contractors, Jonathan estimated this translated into a year at the very least). He could work on his formula, and Edward could sleep the effects of the fear gas off. If Crane needed a partner in crime or a test subject, Nigma would be there.
Crane came back to the boat, giving Nigma a weary glance. Edward was hugging his knees and rocking back and forth. Getting him out of Arkham had been difficult enough, and he did not feel like cajoling him all the way to the hideout. Fortunately, he kept a variety of chemicals on his costume for use at any given time. He crept over to Edward, humming that lullaby again, and caressed him for a few moments. When Nigma was calm enough, Crane stuck him with a sedative-laced needle (hidden in one of the straws in his hat). In moments, Nigma was unconscious. Scarecrow was usually the one being heaved about like a sack of straw (by Batman), but this time he was the one doing the carrying; he lifted Edward over one shoulder, grunting at the weight, and set off.
It was going to be a long, long morning.
Edward was more aware of himself when he awoke from the drug-induced sleep. His bleary eyes blinked into focus, but instead of seeing the same four stone walls, he saw nothing but blackness overhead. He turned his face on the pillow, and realized he was in a large, open room that looked like a hospital ward. It was night. His throat was raw and he coughed and swallowed several times before he was able to make even a wordless sound. He was heard, however, and footsteps approached.
"Wh . . . Wh . . . "
"Where are we?" an aloof, familiar voice provided. There were sounds of glass objects being shuffled about, then water running. "Safe, and far from Arkham, Edward."
Edward pulled himself up so he was half-sitting, propped up on his elbows, and his eyes fell upon Jonathan Crane. The man was not in the Scarecrow costume anymore, but wearing an old-fashioned brown suit. Only his eyes were recognizable from Scarecrow: they were always the same icy blue, with the same distant apathy.
"Get away from me!" Edward shrieked. "You- You- You drugged me!"
"Relax, the worst of it is over, sadly," Crane said. He handed the man a glass of water. "Drink this."
"No!" Edward hit the glass out of his hand; it flew and shattered on the linoleum floor. "You maniac! Do you know what you did to me? What you put me through?"
Crane could not help his lips tugging up at the corners, and turned his face to hide the smile. His brown hair fell over his eyes, and his profile had a straight, elegant line to it. Edward caught the smile, however, and scowled.
"You evil bastard!" he spat at him, attempting to climb down from the old, steel-framed bed. His feet were bare on the cold floor, and he stumbled when he tried to walk. To his chagrin, he fell right into Crane's arms, and had to cling to his shoulders for support. Blushing, he tried to push away from him. "Get the hell off me! How dare you! How dare you even look at me after what you did!"
"Now settle down. This is not healthy."
"You're not a doctor! Not anymore!" Edward exploded, struggling. "Get away from me!"
"But I treated you, didn't I?" Jonathan was strong, and he wrestled the man into the wall, held him there by the wrists. "Wasn't it . . . cathartic?"
"Why do people always use that as a positive adjective?" scoffed Edward, though he had stopped fighting, his body weak and disoriented. "Cathartic." He was released, and yanked his arms away from the former doctor. "Hmph. Yes, it was 'cathartic': a vile, cold probe into the most secret and sensitive parts of my mind, completely draining me."
Jonathan crossed his arms. "And don't you feel refreshed now that all that pain has drained away?"
"No, I don't!" snapped Edward. "I feel . . . " He sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaling wearily. "Tired. Just tired, and . . . and depressed."
Jonathan filled another glass with water and handed it to him. This time, Nigma took it and drank it in one go. As Crane refilled it for him, he asked softly, "Why?"
Crane handed the glass back. "Why, what?"
"Why do you . . . Oh, never mind," Edward said, shaking his head. "We all know the answer."
"No. Actually, no one knows the answer," Crane said. He hesitated, and then sat on the edge of the bed beside Edward. His eyes traced his worn, exhausted face, the pain in his eyes. The remnants of the frightened little boy were still there, beneath the facade of maturity.
Crane shook himself out of his observational woolgathering. "To put it in terms you understand . . . Question: Why do we do the things we are apt to do?"
Edward opened his mouth to answer, and realized that he had no answer. He shut it again, and bowed his head, running a hand through his hair. "Well . . . " He blew out a sigh of frustration. "That isn't a riddle! It's a question for philosophers!"
"Exactly. So many answers, yet not a single definitive answer. Who knows?" Crane replied. "Obviously, there are reasons behind our actions, such as our countless back-stories and neuroses, our aspirations and egos. But there are many out there that would love to actually carry out such desires, and more, yet they do not. So, why do we? It is . . . " He smirked. "An enigma."
Edward crossed his arms. He was desperately turning the problem around in his mind, trying to think of some witty explanation, some summed-up reason for the mass of tangled minds feeding off of Arkham and this city.
"The answer is in the mind, but what is the mind, anyway?" Jonathan said thoughtfully, more to himself than to Nigma. "The mind is like your puzzle boxes, the ones you set to explode on your last robbery, remember?"
Edward nodded.
"The mind is a puzzle box," Jonathan repeated. "Fear, you see, is one of the great triggers. A spring, a button, a lever. Once pulled, pushed, it releases its influence. It permeates the entire structure and holds it in its grasp. It runs in and out of the endless maze, cold and gnawing away at the walls. It may not solve anything, since we are all helpless to defeat it, but it does bring the root of the problem to the surface. You see?"
Edward stared at him, impressed by his admittedly brilliant insight. "I follow."
"If you go far enough with it, it will bring the entire thing crashing down," Jonathan said, his eyes shining with delight. "Like a string of dominoes, each piece of intellect, reason, pride, all coming down one right after the other. It's beautiful."
Edward shook his head, shuddering uncontrollably. I think I understand him now, he thought. But it's worse understanding him than not. He's rationally, utterly, unapologetically sadistic. He is truly evil.
But . . . brilliant.
Jonathan looked at him, and he winced beneath that basilisk's gaze. However, Crane merely touched the side of his face, with a disarmingly loving stroke. "Look at you," he murmured. "Always so arrogant, so sure of yourself. But it's all a disguise: a flamboyant, methodical act. Who has ever scratched the surface of that act? Who has ever bothered to?"
Edward crossed his arms. "Should I be honored to be your victim, then?"
"My patient," Jonathan corrected. His hand slid down to Edward's neck, soothingly cool. "My most interesting patient . . . other than Batman."
"Why am I so interesting?" Edward asked miserably. His crossed arms shifted, until he was more hugging himself than anything. "It's simple, really, isn't it? Typical abused child profile: over-confidence masking insecurity, misunderstood and outcast by genius, obsessive-compulsive, desperation for attention due to lack of childhood recognition . . . Oh, it's a simple, ugly, petty little puzzle."
"Perhaps." Crane ruffled his hair. "Nonetheless, it intrigues me. You intrigue me. You have so many fears of incompetence and anonymity. Then, there is that deathly terror of abuse from your father, yet also . . . " He put a hand to his chin in thought. "Also, desire for it. Some deep-rooted guilt that makes you want to be hurt, to be caught. Fear of lying, of cheating. You are a mass of contradictions and complexes. No, Edward, you are interesting."
Edward felt inwardly pleased by this assessment, proud of standing out from the ordinary. "Well, if you say so, doctor," he grumbled, though he watched Crane from the corner of his eyes.
Crane smirked, understanding the hope in his eyes "I say so, Edward."
Nigma pulled his legs onto the bed, crossing them beneath him, and faced the man. He had been wondering when Crane had started using his first name, caressing him openly, treating him with . . . was it intimacy? More than that, he also wondered when he had decided he was okay with it, and why he was not protesting.
"Do you think I enjoyed being stripped of everything I've ever had to protect myself?" he asked quietly. "Do you think I wanted to be beaten and belittled?"
"I didn't actually hit you," Crane said. In a fast movement, he had pulled Nigma down onto his stomach on the bed, and yanked down the back of his pants. "You see? No bruises."
"H-hey, what are you-" Edward glanced over his shoulder; it was true, there was not a single welt or mark on his backside, thighs, or back. He rolled up his sleeves and looked at his hands and arms. All the painful bruises the belting had left behind were gone. They had never been made.
"Perhaps I should have," mused Crane, his eyes gratuitously moving over the other's half-unclothed body. "It would have been more . . . authentic."
Their eyes met, and Edward felt his cheeks blazing. He opened his mouth to say something outraged, but could not muster anything up. Crane smiled, a bit smugly, and then leaned down to kiss him.
Edward's body responded before his mind had a chance to comprehend it. He reached up and put his arms around the man's shoulders. They melted into each other, and Crane lifted his long legs up to sit fully on the bed. He drew Edward into his arms, and Ed wrapped his limbs around the man, desperate for the comfort of closeness. He, too, had been alone for a long time, and also felt all the years of solitude weighing down on him.
Jonathan peeled off the rest of Nigma's stolen janitor's uniform, fingertips occasionally resting lightly on the his warm skin, and then he undressed himself. Moonlight shone in feebly through the dusty, cracked windows of the abandoned school building. The beams glinted on the frames of Crane's glasses and glossed over his dark hair. The moonlight gave Jonathan's pale skin an eerie glow, contrasting the shadows in the deep hollows of his bony figure. There could not be an ounce of fat on Jonathan's lean body, Edward noted, and every muscle was taut with wiry strength. Crane did not need his costume to look inhuman, Nigma thought. He looked otherworldly in the moonlight.
"I- I . . . "
"Shh," Crane hushed him, burying his face in his neck and kissing his collarbone. "Don't be-" He cut himself off, grinning knowingly at Edward; they both knew he would never tell anyone not to be afraid. "Well. Just be still."
Edward watched him uneasily, but the desire was too strong to fight back. As Crane kissed his chest, he exhaled, shutting his eyes in pleasure. What the hell? Why not?
"You're so scared," Jonathan mused as he straddled Edward. He ran his tongue over Edward's abashed face, down his neck, and grinned. "Oh. You're shaking."
Edward was indeed trembling, his skin hot but still broken out into gooseflesh. Jonathan's spindly fingers eased him into arousal, seeming to know exactly where to touch. There was an amazing level of command in the thin man, and he swiftly took charge of Edward. The more he steered him, surprisingly, the more Edward longed for the control. Jonathan chuckled at his struggle to challenge him, not relinquishing his superiority for a second.
Edward gripped his shoulders tightly, gasping as the other man drove into him suddenly. He realized the other was inside him, physically and mentally, and felt violated, confused. But as Jonathan had surmised, a part of him did want it. He wanted it very much.
Jonathan's breath was labored, as he pulled the man closer, impossibly close. "Heh." He smiled down at him. "I know . . . I know you want to. Go ahead . . . huh . . . cry." His long fingernails dug into Edward's arms, nearly breaking the skin. "Scream for me. I know you're a- . . . afraid. You can't hide it- mmph- from me."
Cry out he did, finally, and he felt himself breaking down again. Jonathan was lost in ecstasy, even after it ended. He collapsed on his back beside Nigma, who sank down from hand and knee onto his stomach. Shaking violently with exhaustion, he crawled onto Jonathan's chest. He was sobbing again, and did not make the effort to stop. Crane's skin was slick with myriad body fluids, but he did not mind. He stroked the back of Edward's head, shivering as Nigma's wet eyelashes tickled his skin. His fingers grazed Edward's spine, from the base of his neck to between his shoulder-blades.
Without saying a word, Edward lifted his tear-stained face. He wiped his face with the back of his arm, wiping that on the side of the mattress they were on. His precious mind had indeed been decimated, devoid of any coherent thought. Yet the experience was liberating, and he threw himself into it. Raw with need, Edward rushed into a voracious kiss. Jonathan met it with equal force, and took him into his arms again.
They made love in anger and despair and lunacy. It was unclear whether they were trying to break each other, themselves, or the shackles of Arkham- perhaps they wished to break the world. It was a dance and a fight. All the lonely frustration was burned away with the night's chill.
Real freedom was having the luxury to enslave or be enslaved. The world was really an infinite set of nesting puzzle boxes, one inside the other. In a smaller way, so were people.
