AN: 'Fear of garlic'. Really.

So for laughs, I was coming up with, like, 'special attacks' for some of my characters, like for a video game? Kitty's got two: 'Revenge of the Boston Tea Party-hurls scalding tea into opponent's face, causing temporary disorientation' and 'Closer to Hell-shatters opponent's kneecaps, causing temporary paralysis'. She's thrilled. I'm not, because DANG IT KITTY, I WROTE YOU AS THE NICE ONE. LOOK AT YOU.

I'm the sociable one! It's an easy mistake.

I've created a monster. This wasn't my intent. It wasn't.

I mean, I suppose I'm the nice one. I ask after them as I'm removing their organs.

Fantastic.

McStaken-SHH. When we get back to Gotham, maybe. We draw too much attention to ourselves, Batman'll show up. It's not as though the brat died, I don't know why he's overreacting.

"Kitty," Jonathan says faintly, once they're in the car to go home at (is it really?) two in the morning, "I have a vampire for a patient."

"Oh, you've found your kin!" He gives her a flat look. "Delusions of vampirism? Blood drinking?"

"Alliumphobia."

"Explain like I'm five, love."

"Fear of garlic."

She does that annoyingly endearing thing where she snorts and starts to giggle into her hands. He starts the car and flails to turn the air off before they freeze and die.

"Really?"

"Mm-hm. Scarecrow hasn't turned off his terrible Dracula impression all. Day."

Fuck you, it's great.

No.

Okay, repeat after me, you'll get dork-points, that works for you.

Oh, no…

Say, 'I vant to suck your-'

I want to go to bed, and sleep. That's all.

"He's doing it now, isn't he."

"Yes."

"I'm not attracted to vampires, just so's you know. Necrophilia is not a thing I'm willing to go for."

So there.

They're technically undead, so it would still work.

"He's being an idiot."

"It's past his bed time." She pats his arm. "Light's green."

WHAT.

It is late.

BED TIME!? WHAT? NO! I HAVE NO BED TIME!

"So what are you going to do with him?"

"Scarecrow? Suffer."

"No, your vampire."

In between his horrendous vampire impressions, Scarecrow's been begging for a crack at him. It's tempting. This is one of those outlandish phobias that he was eighty percent certain only had a name because somebody was bored and wanted to feel clever.

Hm.

"I'm not sure yet." he says, settling deeper into the seat and trying to tune out Scarecrow's shrieks of, THE INDIGNITY! "We'll see, hm?"

"Mm." She draws her arms inside her jacket. "F'you say so, love."

"If you fall asleep, I am not carrying you upstairs."

She grins at him, sleepy.

"Liar."

Perhaps. But that doesn't mean he has to admit it.

This particular patient snapped, murdered his family with an ice pick, and tucked them all into bed as though nothing had happened.

He's not at all interesting. Jonathan would have pawned him off if it weren't for the meltdown over what was supposed to be garlic toast. This being Arkham, Jonathan doubts that's what it was, but that doesn't matter now.

He's due for a session in about twenty minutes. Plenty of time to prepare. This is for his own good, you understand. This sort of phobia is not at all rational, and it's clearly affecting his quality of life. It is Jonathan's duty as a doctor to offer what assistance he can.

If said assistance has the side effect of terrorizing the man, well…it always gets worse before it gets better.

Ah, the advantage of long limbs and a decent height-hanging a strand of dried garlic above the door is no problem. He'll have to get some candles or something once this is over, but he's willing to make these sorts of sacrifices. For the good of the poor, dumb souls in his care, of course.

You're such a dick.

Now, now. Exposure therapy has been proven to help-

Admit it, you're bitter that he cried and tried to hug you last time.

An unfortunate incident.

ADMIT IT.

I would have preferred that he not.

Scarecrow cackles. Jonathan takes his glasses off, rubs his eyes, and leans back into his chair. Ohhh, he wishes he'd gotten more sleep last night…really, another hour, even, would have been suitable.

HMMM?

Insomnia, remove your mind from the gutter.

Oh.

Idiot.

YOU SONOFA-

"Dr. Crane?" He looks up. "You ready?"

"Mm-hm." So very much. "Bring him in."

Remy Jones is led in, hands shackled (no need, but one must take precautions…) and eyes downcast. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

No matter. He'll provide amusement-er, be healed-soon enough.

Oh my god.

Silence.

I love you, kid. I really fuckin' do. Never change.

He ignores Scarecrow. It's his only defense.

"You can leave." Witnesses-outsiders, he meant outsiders-often disturb the patients, making these sessions tragically ineffective. "We'll be fine, won't we, Remy?"

Remy nods, picking at his uniform with stubby fingers. Been biting his nails again, has he? Lovely.

The guards leave and Jonathan replaces his glasses and fixes a bland smile on. Remy hasn't noticed the garlic yet. Excellent.

"How are you feeling today, Remy?" He shrugs. Jonathan tsks and says gently, "We've talked about this. Words, not shoulders."

"M'okay."

"That's better." He flicks his eyes towards the garlic strand, hoping the simpleton will take the hint. "I understand there was an incident in the cafeteria recently, Remy. Why don't we discuss that?"

I'LL HELP.

Patience. You'll have your turn soon enough.

Remy swallows and transfers his picking to his skin. Jonathan taps a pen and he stops, looking utterly miserable. Hm.

"Well?"

"It burns, Doc." Fine, whatever, now was there some sort of traumatic childhood incident? Traumatic adulthood incident? Or is this one of those ones that just cropped up out of nowhere? (He hates those, there's no explanation and there's not much to be done for fixing them, either.) "It eats through my skin-"

He's getting agitated. No, no, it's too soon for that.

"Calm down. Deep breaths, now." He gestures with his pen and is gratified to see Remy's eyes go back to downtrodden rather than panicked. "That's right…so. Garlic, hm?" Remy nods, faster this time. "This is news to me…is this recent, or…?"

"I don't wanna talk about it, Doc." Why. Why do these…charming people…insist on cutting off one little syllable? Why? "Sorry."

"We must all step outside our comfort zones, Remy."

Says you.

Murder is outside most people's comfort zones.

…true.

"But-"

"Which is why, in the interests of your treatment, we're going to discuss it."

"It doesn't have shit to do with anything."

I'm tempted to step outside my comfort zone.

Did…did you want me to stop you? 'Cuz I ain't your impulse control, Jonny. That's on you.

This is distressingly true.

"We can't be sure until we investigate further. The human mind is a very complex thing. So. How far back does this go?"

Remy is silent. That's fine. Jonathan, over the years, has mastered the art of making a silence very, very awkward. Most people, he's found, has a fear of silence, a need to fill it with mundane babble. Heaven forbid, after all, that they be alone with their thoughts…oh. That's right, they have none.

He busies himself with jotting down a few notes-the nail-biting is actually something he needs to track-and sure enough, Remy starts twitching and twisting.

Jonathan can pinpoint the exact second he sees the garlic-he tenses, going the stillest he's ever been in this room, and says, without turning around, "Doc."

"It has been there since you walked in, Remy." he says softly. "Nothing has happened to you in the…ten minutes…you've been here."

"Take it away."

"No." Really, it's as though he's forgotten who's in charge here. "It is going to stay there for the next thirty minutes, Remy. Turn around and look at me."

Wait.

Dude, you're only scary if they're looking at you. I'm helping.

Sadly, Scarecrow is correct. Kitty, after a few glasses of wine, once described him as a demonic choir boy. He doesn't remember his response. He'd been keeping up with her well enough.

Remy does not turn around-either Scarecrow isn't as effective as he thinks or the garlic is trumping him. Either way, they're both now decidedly annoyed.

Jonathan opens his desk. The Mask gazes up at him, empty-eyed and limp, and Scarecrow stirs.

He's all yours.

Remy's still staring at the garlic. Whatever. Scarecrow removes Jonny's glasses-he'll bitch if they get scratched, and he can see okay at this range-and pulls his face on. Ahh. Much better. He is not a demonic choir boy, thanks.

"Reeeeemyyyyyyyy." he whispers, pressing his palms flat against the desk. "Turn around, Remy."

"Please, Doc-"

"Doctor Crane's not here, Remy." Oblivious fucker. TURN AROUND. COME ON.

It's human nature to keep dangerous things in view at all times-

SHH.

He stands up and leans over the desk, fingers clawing for Remy's uniform. The man finally twitches his head, just enough to see him.

"What the hell-"

"Remember me, Remy?"

"No-"

"We had so much FUN!" They really had. Scarecrow had been coming from another cell and Remy had been drugged, staring out into the hall. Fear toxin had not been needed. "Now I'm here for you!"

"Get away!"

"Shh, shh." Scarecrow pats him and lets go of his uniform. He gets up and stills, eyes darting between him and the garlic. The sight is…it's art. "You can go, if you can get past that."

"No…"

But he's not screaming yet. Scarecrow's disappointed. It's that damn garlic! It's upstaging him.

Can't have that.

DON'T YOU SNARK AT ME.

Because Jonny's a paranoid bastard, he keeps their new gadget on while he's at work. Scarecrow's never been happier.

He grins and tilts his head to the left. Remy has just enough time to look terrified and confused before he raises his arm and tilts his wrist. Remy's head is enveloped in whiteness and he coughs, tries to bat at it with his cuffed hands.

"No, no, please-"

"Should've left!"

He sees Scarecrow, and then he starts to scream. Y'know what? A little garlic never hurt anybody.

Scarecrow crosses the room and takes the garlic down, dangles it in front of him like a giant, bulby pendulum.

"Tick-tock, goes the clock, tock-tick go the hands! All the while counting down to the demise of man!"

"PLEASE!"

Remy scrambles backwards, towards the window.

DO NOT LET HIM JUMP. Explaining that is going to be a hassle.

Relax.

"Get away! Get away from me!"

Scarecrow steps closer. Remy makes some sort of…gurgle…and rams his head against the desk.

That was fun.

Move, I'll deal with this.

By the time the guards get back in here, the poor thing has knocked himself out. Jonathan, of course, has no idea what triggered the incident, but if the response times are going to be that slow, he'll have to hire some new people. Really. Something could have happened to him.

THE END