When she wakes up, he's already dressed and having what looks like a cup of cheap coffee from a café nearby, standing at the window and looking out at the Narrows streets. Angelface sits up, stretches, and wordlessly scoops up her clothes and walks into the bathroom for a shower. She finally, finally washes her hair again, and it's wonderful to walk out of that bathroom with damp but clean hair that smells like that bar of soap left in the shower. She's in the middle of putting the silver rings back into the sides of her long mouth, to hold them shut again, when she scoops up Crane's mask and tosses it to him. It's got to be eight or nine in the morning, judging from the sunlight.
"When are we putting the plan into action?" She asks him, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing her hair out with her fingers.
"The thirty first." Crane replies, having caught his mask and now setting it aside, safely. He takes another sip of his hot coffee and glances at her, as she ruffles her hair out to look normal, finally getting her steel hoops to fit just right in her mouth so that she won't accidentally bite them and hurt herself. There's a darkening bruise on her cheekbone that he doesn't remember inflicting. Probably just a random act in the cool heat of passionless sex.
"Halloween? Festive." She comments, now examining the huge blood spots on her white dress. She's never going to be able to go outside in this thing, just like Crane can't walk around without trying to disguise exactly who he really is.
"It wasn't my idea." He says back, but has already returned to staring out the window. She doesn't speak back, only stares down at her lap. There's no need for Crane to tell her that they're not a couple and that they're never going to be, how she's just another thug to him, or the fact that the only reason he even bothers to fuck her is because she insists. He's very aware that she's gotten the message loud and clear, especially how after they had finished the night before, he laid on his side of the bed and when she tried to cuddle, he shoved her off the bed and told her she was only his sex toy (though his exact words happened to be a bit more coarse; 'Don't touch me you slut; remember who the boss is here' happened to be the actual statement, but same difference). Of course, that was the ever-eloquent Scarecrow choosing their vocabulary, but it wasn't as if it weren't true, though Crane would have been less coarse about saying so. Crane himself still wanted nothing to do with her, and though he had remained in control on their drunken tryst, last night he decided that he didn't want to put up with it and let Scarecrow have his fun. Misanthropy runs deep, and he doesn't even really enjoy sex anymore, if he ever had. It's too much effort and a waste of time when he could be perfecting his plans and working on other, more important things.
One good thing did come out of it, though. Scarecrow is in a very good mood.
After about ten minutes of digging around the apartment, Angelface finds some old clothes of the last inhabitants (they sure left a lot of their stuff here; she wonders why) and with the help of a scarf is able to disguise herself in a new wardrobe. Crane hands her the rest of the money he has on him, which is only a couple hundred dollars, and tells her to buy them food because everything in the refrigerator is rotten. She comes back jauntily in fifteen minutes with enough foodstuffs to last them for tonight and tomorrow, which is all the time they should plan ahead for, seeing as the day after tomorrow is the good ol' day of Halloween, and the day they rain terror on Gotham. Crane has called Joker and his goons and has started having his secret cache of toxin moved to the appropriate locations, and now all they have to do is wait. The threat of Batman still looms over their heads, and so they can't just run around to kill time.
And so they sit. And they sit. And they wait.
"Crane?" Angelface eventually asks, sprawled on the bed and bored. Crane himself sits at the small table, drinking a cup of mediocre coffee. Angelface hasn't seen him eat one thing the entire time she's been working for him. He glances up at her for a moment, before returning to the crossword puzzle he's been working on for a half hour or so.
"Mm?" It's all the response she gets, but she's happy he acknowledged her at all. She rolls onto her stomach and watches him, playing with the rings in the corner of her mouth.
"You look sick. Are you okay?" She watches, as he glances up at her over the rim of his glasses. She's trying to mother him, of course; Crane has been expecting her to start this. She loves him. She'll, of course, want to protect him and care for him.
He's not having that.
"Fine, Angel." He says, curtly, and fills in another word. Nine letter synonym for infuriating?
"Are you sure?" She asks him, care and worry in his eyes. He's sickened by the love she has for him.
'Angelface', he fills in the nine-letter crossword space.
"You shouldn't be so worried about me," Crane says to her, in cold monotone, "And should be more worried about that bulimia problem you seem to have." Knife to the heart. He sees her pale and her face tighten up, as if she'll cry. He would laugh, if he were any other sort of man.
"I'm not bulimic." She snaps, and he's almost relieved that she's angry with him. Anger he can deal with. Fear he loves. But love itself? He abhors it. A series of chemical reactions that render a perfectly sane human being into a willing slave. He's taking more pleasure in hurting Angelface than he ever would have taken from loving her.
"Mhm? And so you've just had the stomach flu at convenient points in time for the past week, then?" Crane shoots back, scribbling in another word on the crossword. Five letter world for a lover?
Angelface starts crying into her hands, starting out as quiet whimpers that eventually turn into loud sobs. He's made her cry. He'd be happy about that if she would just cry quieter.
'Whore' he scribes into the little white boxes, ignoring the sobbing. He can play her emotions if he likes, making her feel better, or he can just ignore her. She's not getting any quieter, and his thoughts are being scrambled by the noise. His crossword is never going to get done. So he sets down his pen, walks over to her, pries her hands away from her face, and leans in so that their faces are about a half-inch from one another.
"Angelface, I'm giving you one, and only one opportunity. You're going to be very quiet now, you're going to be completely silent." Crane says this in a cold tone, but the threat in his voice is still apparent. She's got her eyes wide open and is staring at him, afraid, and that pleases him in some way or another, but not enough to make him give her a break. "If I hear one noise from you, then I'm going to put on that mask and I'm going to do horrible things to you. I will pull off your fingernails, and knock out all your teeth, and then I'm going to let Scarecrow do even worse. Do. You. Understand. Me?" He gives her head a short shake with every word, for emphasis, and she nods without making a noise. Crane lets her go, picks up his mask, and carries it back to his table and coffee to finish his crossword in peace. She makes no noise for the next six hours, just sits on the bed and remains deadly silent as Crane finishes his crossword and then starts on another. His concentration is pure, and he's even able to ignore Angelface's teary stares; longing, plaintive gazes.
By nighttime, he's had a long, relaxing day reading the newspaper, having another glass of coffee, walking around to kill more boredom, and threatening Angelface. She sits on the end of their bed, head in her hands, face hidden, and she cries silently with tears dripping pitifully from her chin and onto her lap. He's in a white button-up shirt, snazzy, and his black suit pants. Even when he's plotting to destroy Gotham City, he's going to dress well while he's doing it. She's in a white top that looks almost like a bikini top, the ends of it tied in a knot over her navel, and wearing daisy dukes. Crane knows he's not going to be able to sleep well if she's just going to sit there and mourn all night.
"Angel," He says, tersely, coming to stand in front of her. If he can placate her enough, she'll go to sleep and so can he. She looks up at him, blue eyes bleary and her face red, eyes puffy, and just stares. "Quit crying. I'm not angry anymore."
She leans forward suddenly, wrapping her arms around his torso and burying her face in his chest, wailing. The force she knocks into him with almost knocks him to the floor; he's not a big man, taller than Angelface but not much bulkier.
"I just want to make you happy!" She shrieks, and Crane tries to push her off of him. Scarecrow is itching to just slap her across the face, over and over again, until he sees blood. Crane is only barely resisting the urge of letting him go ahead and do it.
"Then get off." He orders, but she's not budging, sliding downwards slightly and sobbing into his stomach. Crane knows that there's only one way to fix it and have her happy and willing to help him on Halloween night, and he's going to let Scarecrow do that. He still doesn't want anything to do with her; wants to hurt her and make her cry. He'll have to do that later. He's not the charming one of either half of Jonathan Crane; Scarecrow is the charmer, when he feels like it. It's not Crane that hooks his hands underneath her jaw and ears, a hand on each side of her head, and pulls her to her feet with a painful jerk. She doesn't yelp, because she's used to pain, but closes her eyes and continues whimpering.
"Open your eyes. Look at me." Scarecrow commands, and she does. "Angel, shut up. Quit crying, quit moaning like you think you're going to make me love you. Me or Jonny Crane. Because you won't! I don't love you, he absolutely despises you, and you're lucky either of us even puts up with you." He tells her, and begins petting her face in a mocking imitation of affection. "You're beautiful, did you know that? Even with these." Scarecrow flips her rings, hears them jingle against one another. He's playing her like a violin. Time to cut her strings.
"Baby doll," He coos a pet name, a random one, and sees her eyes warm up when he does, "You're a pretty thing, but that's just it. You're pretty. But that's not what Jonny-Jonny keeps you around for. Ya see, we keep you here to do work. And when you're crying and carrying on like this, we can't do our work, and you can't do your work. Now," He leans in, speaking very softly to her, smiling in a sly, almost seductive sort of way, and when she leans her weight against him, leans up for a kiss, he takes a step back and slaps her across the face, as hard as he can. Crane is the control, Scarecrow is the passion.
"You need to do your fucking work. Be a good baby doll; look pretty, and don't talk unless we talk to you first." He tells her, walking away as she picks herself up off the floor, silently. Scarecrow turns, walks around the room, pacing.
'Hey Jonny.'
Yes?
'Think I can have fun tonight? I mean, I'm already riled up, and when you take over again, you'll be riled up too and I know how much you hate that.'
Sex? I'm exhausted already.
'Come on! We have tomorrow off, and we're not moving for the plan until nightfall on Halloween. You have all day to laze around and recuperate. Besides, it'll shut her up and make her happy...ish.'
…Fine. Have your fun, but I'm not having any part of it.
'Didn't expect you to, Jonny old boy. Not in the mood for a menage a trois.'
Scarecrow heads over to the table and pulls on his mask, setting Crane's glasses on the table and turning back to Angelface, already undoing the buttons of his shirt with one hand. "C'mon, Angelface. Crane's not here and you've just got me to spend the night with."
By the time he's pinning her down on the bed, she's already staring blankly at the wall, passionlessly.