Characters: Jervis Tetch, Jonathan Crane, Harley Quinn, Pamela Isley, Edward Nigma, Arnold Wesker, assorted others

Pairings: Minor HatterXScarecorw, indirect HarleyxJoker, and I guess some IvyxRiddler UST if you squint

Chapter Rating: T

Summary: Our five anti-heroes ruminate on their imminent escape and what they'll do when they're finally free.

Warnings: Language, Crude/Adult Humor, Slightly Graphic Description of Nausea (if that's even worth warning you about)

Sooo yes so far so good. I honestly can't believe I've been updating this sucker regularly. AND the inner-monologue train just keeps on chuggin' doesn't it? Things will happen soon. I promise, they will. Beyond that, I'm starting to think that I'll be writing a lot more fannon friendships and dynamics than I'd originally intended. That is, if this little trio of hanger-ons sticks around for much longer. I can't imagine letting them drop off the end of the story though.

xxxx

Sooner than what seemed realistic, the time of reckoning had arrived, and Jervis, utterly beaten by the stress of bringing it about, was doing all within his power to avoid face-planting into his tray of standard institutional mush. Why he'd even bothered to gather the "food" at all was beyond him, he had no intention of consuming it. He refused to look directly at it, lest his gorges rise.

Steadfast as he was, The Mad Hatter was, in converse, terribly finicky. That isn't to say that his diet of choice was a healthy one, on the contrary, he sustained himself most commonly on high-end sweets and aromatic teas, but when he was in Arkham, he could scarcely bring himself to eat at all. Sometimes there was fresh fruit, and often there were breakfast potatoes. He would eat those, generally. Not today, though. He'd barely ingested a forkful all week, and as such, he was beginning to feel the sting of a rebelling body. The questionable smells wafting around the cafeteria ultimately proved to be too much for the weakened Hatter, and his normally rosy cheeks went as white as a rabbit's fur. An unwelcome surplus of saliva pooled in the back of his throat, the way that it would in times of sudden nausea. He pushed his tray aside and put his head down, waiting impatiently for the customary dry-heaving to begin so he could jolly well move on to more important things, namely waiting for that same dry-heaving to end. He knew he wouldn't actually wretch, that wasn't how this worked. He would only gag helplessly for a minute or two before recovering and carrying on with his day as if it hadn't happened. He knew that he was the only one to blame for this problem, that the malnutrition was self-induced, but he didn't rightly care. The food was awful. He out and out refused to touch it, and at the moment, he was much too unhappy to eat anyways. As his quiet sputtering ebbed, Jervis was dimly and thankfully aware of a slim hand ghosting the length of his back in a feeble attempt to soothe. It was more a gesture of patient solidarity than anything, but welcome despite its futility. When he recouped, the enfeebled Hatter flicked a few errant tears away and thanked his partner, who didn't even have a tray. Unlike Tetch, he paid no mind to the hollow feeling in his guts.

Even though their long-awaited escape was set a mere three days away, Jonathan was surprisingly undaunted. It wasn't confidence or excitement that stood in place of trepidation; it was a simple nothing, as if he didn't register the imminent change at all. The professor would have felt puzzled by it if he wasn't so busy feeling neutral. So he only thought puzzled instead, which was a good enough substitute. But thinking wouldn't satisfactorily replace some other feelings, like thrills or love or self-satisfaction. In the weeks that had recently slipped by, he wondered passively where those affectations went. He was sure he would have been concerned about it, if he could manage to muster up such a reaction. He knew exactly what was happening, but he didn't like to admit it. He knew that his better half could see it too. That's why they were leaving.

Crane watched with muted sympathy as The Hatter coughed away the last specks of his affliction.

"Are we alright Jervis?"

"Yes," he choked out unsteadily, one hand pressed cautiously against the base of his neck. "We most certainly are."

The rest of the mess hall was abuzz with nothing in particular. Two Face could be seen in a far corner, brooding in front of a pile of steaming mush on a plate and probably arguing with his repressed alter-ego. Also kept to himself was The Penguin, or rather, the former Penguin, but God knew how long that would last. He was on the other end of the room, jabbing indignantly at his gruel with a spoon like a squeamish surgeon. Many of the lower risk patients were chatting happily amongst themselves, and The Joker was still in solitary, so despite being close to full capacity, the room's general energy was low. Unsurprisingly, Harley and Ivy were sitting side by side, laughing and chatting sociably over cups of some doubtlessly fermented "orange drink." Lately, they'd also fallen into the habit of spending time with Nigma and Wesker, a seemingly arbitrary development that made Jervis cringe.

God, this was really happening.

He made a mental note never to trust Harley with potentially compromising information ever again.

"And so I'm there with my shoes in'a plastic bag in one hand an' this chump's fuggin' shotgun in the other—guys! Lissin, lissin!— so I cock it an' I'm like: 'Y'can either let me an' my pal here off the hook, or the warden's wife won't be the only thing you'll be sleepin' with, capiche?' And get this: guy is so messed, he actually backs off the bridge and falls four stories down inta the bay. I didn't have to lift a gawddamn finger!"

Ivy smiled and rolled her eyes at her friend's prideful beaming. "You told that one already Harl," she said in exaggerated boredom.

"Well I thought it was superb," The Riddler interjected, matching Harley's grin. "Very clever of you to steal his key ring like that."

"Gee, thanks Ed! Say, maybe if our little you-know-what goes off, we can team up sometime!"

And perhaps she would slowly build a small army of snarky gingers in green suits, and all would be right with the world. Many of her good friends wore green, she suddenly mused. Harley liked it that way. She liked the cohesion.

As the two continued to cajole one another (with Ivy playing their long suffering babysitter) Arnold wondered nervously if Miss Quinzel ought to be saying "you-know-what" so loudly. He squeezed his right wrist habitually, wondering what Scarface would say to silence a blabbermouth. Despite his very literal close connection to the puppet, The Ventriloquist was ashamed to admit to himself that he could not contrive a well-characterized response on his own. Although the fact was often under scrutiny, Wesker was telling the truth when he said that he had no idea what went on in his puppet's "mind."

Then, another thought crossed his mind: in this situation, what would Arnold Wesker say? He glanced nervously around the room, as if one of the other Arkhamites might pass him an answer etched on a shining golden scroll.

Alas, no one did. He would have to decide for himself.

For once, his second personality was not there to scold him for contemplating such things, but on further thought, he considered it a moot point. Arnold Wesker would not say anything. That was not the sort of thing that Arnold Wesker would do. Scarface would get angry at the girl. He would probably threaten her. Arnold Wesker didn't like to do things like that. And so he continued to do what Arnold Wesker did best: he sat quietly, stately, almost, but behind his glasses, his small eyes shone with anticipation. 'Three days,' he thought eagerly. In three days he could go home, he could make a new puppet, and Scarface could take it from there.

Sitting beside him, the ever boffo Riddler was thinking more ambitious thoughts. His smile flashed confidently as he laughed along with his female consorts. One of them was obviously enjoying herself more than the other, but Eddie didn't mind. Little Pammie could spit out whatever aspersions she wanted. She could call him "patriarchal pig" or "obsessive dingbat" until she was blue in the face, he honestly didn't care. He was gonna ride this idiotcoaster right out of the bin, yes sirree bob, and when he hit the streets, he was going to hit them hard. Having been behind bars for so long, he had had time in abundance, and as such, a wonderful little stockpile of new riddles and traps and all manner of subterfuge stored in that precious braincase of his. He was going to own baby, big time.

Bored with the happy expression plastered across Nigma's square-jawed visage, venomous Pamela Isley devised a quick insult. It didn't matter that if it was arbitrary, or even inaccurate.

"Hold on a minute Eddie," she said, lifting a finger to silence him. Under the naive impression that she had something civil to say, he obeyed. "Sorry, I got distracted by your nose-hair. It's just that it's gotten so long that it's starting to look like a Hitler mustache."

Eddie raised an irked and outwardly unimpressed eyebrow. 'Oooh, classy.'

In one swift motion, he rolled his shoulders, folded his hands on the table, and fit his face with the most winning smile possible. "Blow me," he said brightly.

"The only part of you that's ever been blown is your ego, because it's obviously made of glass."

Eddie let out a hissing giggle at her quip. "You really are a charmer Miss Isley. It's no wonder you have to rely so heavily on those pheromones of yours."

She turned to Harley with a frown. "Can I hit him?"

Quinn simply shrugged and smiled goofily. The Riddler let loose a full-throated laugh in response, ignorant to the fact that Pam had taken it upon herself to hock a well-aimed wad of spit into his drink while he was distracted. She and her consort exchanged a quick smirk before the blonde excused herself, beckoning the tight-lipped Ventriloquist to go with her. He rose from his place stiffly and scurried after her, grateful that he wouldn't have to stay to find out what sort of toxins could be found in Poison Ivy's spittle or what it would do to Mr. Nigma.

"Where are we going?" He asked quietly, shadowing his much more bombastic company. "The rec-room," she piped, depositing her refuse into a garbage can. She did her best to ignore the wary orderlies eyeing her. "We got group therapy in half'a hour, but until then we can play ping pong or watch TV or somethin'. It'll be fun!" She took one last look around the cafeteria, pleased to see all of her friends in one place, despite the obvious misfortune of their detainment. Roxie Rocket was firing spitballs at the back of Oswald's head, daring him to react as he stifled his swiftly developing rage. Killer Croc was gnawing on the side of his table with gusto. Shifting her vision slightly, Harley was amused to note that Edward had started to scratch at the side of his face and was wearing a concerned expression. A few tables down from there, Professor Crane was running a hand through his partner's hair, imparting some sort of hushed advice. Much as she had all but forgotten that Mr. Wesker was waiting for her, Harley failed to notice the look of sheer discontent on Jervis's round face.

At the sight of this tenderness, the girl cocked her head to one side and pouted. She wondered with a lonely sigh what her puddin' was up to just then, and her strong anticipation for the nearing jailbreak suddenly failed her.