Oh, my most wonderful reviewers, watchers and readers, thank you, thank you, thank you.

It's been a little over a year, but it's been a very, very crazy and ridiculous year. The move took over my life, and then I had a hard time finding a job, and then the wildfires happened, went without money for awhile, etc, etc, etc. I've been avoiding the computer so as not to be distracted in getting my life back on track. It's pretty steady now, so I will try to get these out as quick as I can! Thank you for being so patient.

SaJi, you're an angel in disguise. I'll be correcting my previous chapters as soon as I can. Your e-mails just warm my heart, and you're my most loyal fan. Thank you, thank you so so much. All my love.

You all keep me writing. Just brightens my day!

Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. Imagine if I DID, though, I mean, the -gay- and all.

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Chapter 5: The Bringer of Fear and the Agent of Chaos

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White, soft shoes, countless pairs, rushing by puce-colored walls.

The door was open. The television was..on? On.

Frighteningly still white-clad form---

"…I-I keep--trying to remember what we…didn't do. What went wrong so fast."

Wet, bare feet slapping against white linoleum.

Whirring, spinning, red alarms.

Glints of metal, jagged bent pipe---

"Why we weren't able to keep it under control. Isolated."

What is it about the unknown that so frightens people?

"…keep…Him under control…"

And yet--why do we constantly frighten one another. Why does a parent tell stories to their young children of a boogeyman under the bed, of the monster in the closet--of the thing in the lake that pulls children under the water to eat them…in hopes that it will keep their child away from bodies of water.

A parent might do so for protection. A friend, a colleague, sister, brother, lover--they might for fun. We scare one another, and ourselves, for cheap thrills.

That fear has been instilled in us since we were so very young. Avoid the darker corners. Keep a light in the hallway. Make sure the closet door is all the way closed. Leap into bed, so as not to expose one's ankles to the dark underneath for too long…something might reach out from there, and drag you down.

We all still do it.

You do. Admit it.

Walk quickly past a darkened room. Stare warily upwards, because you -swear- you just heard something. Avoid windows at night, anything could be staring in at you. Check over your shoulder…something could be there...lingering in the shadows…

You're taught to fear. From your first moment into life, screaming to high heaven, you're taught to be afraid. Not just of the intangible, but of things. Of people. Yourself.

Have your instincts ever frightened you. Have you ever stepped back from your body, and shiver at what you just thought of saying. Doing.

Some people aren't quite as lucky to experience such an enlightening experience. Some people don't understand what it is to be afraid.

And those people, children, are the movement in the dark. The slit eyes from under the bed, the crooked dirty claws curled around the closet door, the itch on the back of your neck when you know something is watching…

"I-I was trying to get to one of our panic buttons, th-they send out signals to the police station, the fire station, the…there was a wave of people, coming towards me. In the east wing, second floor. I didn't--know what they were running from. They were…"

Screaming, shoving, pushing, running--- a white-clad woman falls, in the midst of pandemonium, cowering, covering her head, crying out at the barrage of legs.

"She was being trampled…I stopped to--to get her up, I was trying to calm the rush--"

The bodies trickle out, and both nurse and doctor are able to rise to their feet.

"..and…I saw him.."

A light, ear-biting scraping--hunched shoulders, steady, strong steps--scarred, bare---he drags a broken stool leg in one hand, clutching a scalpel in another. Bodies litter the hall behind him. Twitching. Writhing vainly. Piles of flesh. Ignored.

"…I…I thought I was going to die…"

Man and woman turn to run---he swings--CRACK--and she tumbles to the ground, pulling him with her, back bloodied. Another swing, and her leg is unusable. The doctor scrambles backwards.

"Oh, God."

Her hair is pulled taut, the small blade pressed to her throat.

"..I left her…."

She reaches for him.

"…I left--I left her there…"

Jim Gordon looked on as Dr. Robert Meyerson covered his face and cried. He shifted from one foot to the other, his arm still throbbing in it's sling. Too fresh out of surgery, they had said. He needed to rest, they said. Jim didn't have time. This town waited for no one now.

Bullock glanced over his shoulder from his seat next to the bed. Jim nodded. They needed to keep moving.

"…Look, Doctor. I understand it's been…unbelievably tryin'…but--we need you to tell us something, anything about what the Joker said, where he might be going. And--what condition he's in right now--frankly, we don't know what to do if he's…tossed -all- of his eggs out of his basket, y'know?"

Harvey wasn't the most eloquent, but he did say what needed to be said. Sort've. It was best he was doing the talking. Gordon was having a hard time keeping himself under control. Unimaginable numbers, injured, dead and dying. A good portion of the force indefinitely hospitalized. His own daughter didn't make it away without a leg shattered in two places. If he unraveled now, where would the rest of them be…?

"Well, wh…What do you expect me to say, Detective?" Meyerson sniffed, leaning his head back. "There's some--miracle pill I can give him, so he won't try to destroy Gotham for the sake of a dead vigilante?"

"There has to be something you can tell us, Doctor, you've been treating him since he came here."

Meyerson glanced at Gordon. He sighed.

"…to say the Joker is…obsessed…with the Batman is a gross…-gross- understatement. His delusion of this--perfect world between the two of them is, frankly, mind-blowing. He truly believes that one cannot exist without the other. They are two of one whole, forever destined to be at odds, to be…together. In some fashion. The Batman is, and I quote, his 'reason'," He swallowed, rubbing one red eye. "For everything. He dominated his life so completely that when his apparatus was taken, he fell into a vicious…hysteria. Straying from my professional opinion, gentlemen…I think we should all get the hell out. Now."

A beat. A nurse wandered in, a lunch tray in hand. Harvey stood and made his way over to Gordon.

"Whadd'yathink." Harvey glanced back towards the bed-ridden doctor. Gordon watched his own shoes.

"…That's the most we'll get from him. I'm checking in downtown, make sure nothing funny's going on with Tetch. Maybe we'll get more from--"

Dawlings came trotting down the hall. There was a bandage across his left eye. Like many of the injured officers who avoided the short end of the stick, he decided to stay on duty. He stopped, lightly panting. Harvey turned to him.

"Well? Did he talk?"

"No, sir…" Dawlings turned to Gordon, swallowing lightly. "…He wants to talk to you. Only you."

Jim eyebrows shot upwards. He traded glances with Bullock, and started briskly down the hall, the Detective and Dawlings at his heels.

--------------------------------

"…undreds of people, horribly mangled--medical personnel has yet to identify the substance the Joker unleashed on the crowds. Gotham City is now clutched in wide-spread panic, unable to--"

The television popped, the screen going blank in a light white flash.

"Hey, whackjob." His eyes flicked to the owner of the offending finger that had switched off the monitor. "You gotta visitor."

He licked a finger, gingerly turning the page of his lightly singed book. He hadn't been watching, really. Listening, but not watching. It didn't matter, they were all saying the same thing. Joker on the loose, killing hundreds, threatening some big to-do all in the name of, dare he think it, love.

It made his brain tingle with excitement.

He turned another page. The light shuffle of shoes on linoleum at his doorway didn't tear him from the words on paper.

"Just a moment, commissioner," He lifted a finger, "I'll be right with you."

Harvey Bullock stepped forward, mouth open, something foul on his tongue. Gordon stopped him, a hand on his chest. They had to play nice. For now. The good Doctor listened to them murmur amongst themselves between the sentences in his book. The Commissioner was at the end of his rope, of course. He could hear it in him. Overcome by grief…it didn't touch on the Joker himself, but it was certainly deep. Jim really had cared about that winged menace. He did have to admit, a part of him felt…saddened…at his absence…saddened…elated…without the need to check under his bed every night…frightfully disappointing…

Finally, the skinny, bed-ridden psychopath marked his place, closed the book and set it aside. He turned a smile and nod to Commissioner Gordon.

"Jim. How are you feeling today."

"Hello, Dr. Crane." He stepped in, carefully pulling the curtains around the bed, obscuring the doorway. "I need to ask you some questions."

Jonathan Crane gave him a gentle nod, removing his glasses.

"About the Joker."

"..Yes. About the Joker." He pulled a chair near the incapacitated doctor. He lightly eyed his suspended, plaster covered leg, and the yellow bruises on his face.

"Awful, isn't it?" Crane gestured his mangled leg. "Broken in six places, the doctors said. Four metal pins were inserted up here--" He touched the side of his thigh, "And I--had some internal bleeding at some point."

"You were lucky, Dr. Crane."

"Yes, I've -heard-. Tell me, Commissioner," He leaned forward, as well as he could, gesturing with his glasses, "What were you feeling, up there…while he was next to you…"

Gordon paused, eyes wandering to the starched, foul-smelling hospital sheets.

"…what was it…like?"

'He belonged…to ME.'

Gordon unconsciously touched the small bandage on his cheek, covering the small, throbbing red mark.

The Scarecrow smiled. Gordon had been petrified.

"..That's not important." Gordon dropped his hand, fixing Crane with a steely gaze. "What did he say, Crane. What made him want to hurt you."

"He didn't say anything of interest to me, before he destroyed that wing of the new facility." He sighed, leaning back into his pillows. "What set him off was that." He nodded to the television. "He heard it. Every word."

Gordon swallowed thickly.

"Why he--found it necessary to attack -me-, well-- you know the Joker, Jim…don't you. I knew something about the Bat. And he didn't." Crane gave a light shrug and smile. "Simple as that."

Gordon leaned back in the chair, rubbing his forehead with his uninjured hand. Another dead-end. The few goons in custody didn't know anything about his--'finale', so he called it. The Clown had disappeared again.

"…If you would like my…professional opinion, Commissioner…"

Gordon lifted his head, locking eyes with the smiling Scarecrow.

"…Go on, Doctor."

"I haven't been granted the privilege of spending an exorbitant amount of time with the man, but.." He folded his glasses on the tray by his bed and steeped his fingers. "…There are some who theorize codependency is situational, and with the right form of treatments, can be dispelled. Permanently. Childhood trauma--lesser forms of Cinderella complex could be the cause, etcetera--I personally do not agree with them…anymore. Upon discovering the Joker, I was first taken by his appearance. Custom clothing, disjointed facial make-up; the purpose of which Arkham has yet to unravel of course, but I have a theory. Like the Bat, he has hidden himself behind an intimidating icon, and yet…neither are hidden at all." He lifted his fingers, holding them parallel. "What some have perceived as a mask is no mask at all…but the face one feels within. The Bat. And the Clown. As different as they seem to many, Commissioner, they are really very much alike…the Joker knows this. And in his righteous heart of hearts, I believe the Batman knew it as well, no matter how--he denied it, of course. His actions proved otherwise…Those few times Gotham thought it had been rid of the Clown, you weren't the only ones searching for the madman's body in the dead of night, commissioner. Whether it was solidification of his death, or in a hope that he might be alive, he looked."

Gordon frowned lightly, pained. The Scarecrow nodded.

"You know it, don't you. You've seen them together." What WOULDN'T he had given to study them. "My second fascination was with his attachment to the Batman. Like the most of his doctors, I thought it might have been rooted in hate…but I was very, very wrong. You see, Jim, codependency, at it's core, is one's need to look elsewhere for value, worth, and feeling whole. The Joker had Batman, and only Batman." He tilted his head lightly. "And…though it would seem Batman had Gotham City…he also had the Joker."

Gordon pressed his mouth against his fisted hand. The Scarecrow spoke quietly.

"Love hate. Hate love."

After a tense moment of quiet, the curtain was pushed aside revealing a plump nurse with a tray of beige-covered containers.

"…I'm so sorry, sir, but--it's lunch time--I can come back in a few minutes--"

"No, that's…that's all right." Gordon stood, fixing his glasses. "I'm finished here.

"I hope I've been some help to you, Commissioner." Jonathan Crane folded his hands across his stomach and gave the man a light smile.

"Hm." Gordon nodded, pushing the curtain back against the wall. "Take it easy, Dr. Crane. We'll have Arkham up and running by the time you're back on your feet."

Crane's smile faltered, and he grimaced as the food was set down by him. He lifted the lid of the largest container. It's contents only deepened his despair. "Oh, home sweet home."

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The street sped by out the window, before vanishing into a long, cloudy stretch of water, rapid blurs of gray obscuring the view.

Bullock kept silent as he watched Gordon stare out the tinted window of the squad car at the river, Dawlings behind the wheel. The bridge was young. But beautiful. He had only caught snippets of the conversation Jim had with the crackpot Crowboy. Frankly, the skinny sicko had lost him somewhere around co-dependant-whatsitcalled and the Joker.

He was never savvy on all that psycho-babble-mumbo-jumbo bullshit…but whatever the creep said, it sure had Jim in a worse mood than before.

Daughter in the hospital, half the force outta the game--he didn't blame the guy for being a little morose.

And as much as he didn't want to admit it, he was worried. Really, really worried about Gordon. If he broke up, Bullock was the next in line to take over, and…well, fuck that. He couldn't do it. He wasn't the goddamn commissioner. Garcia could take his street sweeps and shove 'em right back up his--

"Harvey.."

"..Jim?"

"…we…might be in over our heads here…"

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Jonathan Crane was not a fan of Jello. Let it be red, blue, green or chartreuse, anything wiggly and reflective was not for -eating-. He poked lightly at it's jiggling surface, leaving the watery stew and carton of milk untouched. Arkham meals were far superior…purely by the fact most of the inmates needed special diets. Feigning chemical distress, Jonathan had claimed trans-fats, toxin-enhanced and dehydrated foods would upset the delicate balance of his digestive tract.

Idiots.

He glanced towards the door where a few officers were standing guard to keep him a good little psychopath inside his window-less, bathroom-less, cabinet-less room. His useless leg already kept him from -going- anywhere…he reached for the large, bulky control for the television. Some news would take his mind of his stomach…

Surprise, surprise. More Batman babble. It seems they had found a few more pieces in the bay before completely pulling the search parties. Still..the absence of a body intrigued him…after all, a black-clad hulk like the Bat? Not exactly easy to miss…

During his ruminations, the good Doctor failed to notice two of the officers guarding him suddenly rush off. The other two drew their guns.

The lights flickered.

Crane glanced upwards, then towards the door. It was vacant.

He turned the television off then, leaning forward to look out into the white hallway.

It was…silent…

A woman went skidding across the floor--the same woman who had brought him his inedible dinner. She was weeping, blubbering--and tried to crawl away, her hands squeaking against the linoleum. Then, they were upon her--five of them, Clowns, panting--no sooner had the hiss of aerosol cans began that she started to scream, horribly. They disappeared into a cloud of god-knows-what…

Then he appeared.

Stepping through the mist, untouched--a scalpel in his hand, hair wild and sticking every which way--his jacket missing, sleeves rolled up to his elbows…hands blistered and bandaged.

Crane sat in silent awe as he stepped into his room, wiping wetness from his chin. The red, white and black were a blur…running, smearing into one another--flesh showed near the gnarled bumpy scars, naked and pink.

"Dr. Craaaaane…" He purred, quietly, standing near his bedside, reddish eyes gazing down at him, the small, sharp blade in his hand raising lightly.

The Scarecrow watched, throat dry…it was an exquisite fear…fitting it would be the last…wouldn't it..?

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Dun, dun, dun!!!

Next time: Chapter 6: Do you want to talk about it?

R&R my lovelies! Mmmmwah!