AN: The Scarecrow's nightmares aren't nice. TW: Some blood, medication-induced state, some fighting, inner demons. I don't own anything.


The fluttering wings cut into his flesh. He knew the way their black sheen glistened, he didn't need to see them. The Murder screamed in their frenzy around him. He held his breath as best he could. He tried not to protect himself, not to lash out.

'No, I am not here. This isn't real. Stop it.'

He heard the Scarecrow's laughter behind him, through the wall of crows. But he was not that small boy. Not now. And this was the Scarecrow's doing. They'd left him alone with him again, his tormentors had. The Scarecrow was in a whirling frenzy. The solitude didn't suit him. Neither did the bone-crushing idleness. The blackness tightened around his face and Jonathan finally lashed out, striking at the feathery mass, scratching at their eyes. His flossed nails connected with the mass and he struggled until his fingers recognised the cold, rough surface. He lay still, focusing on the concrete floor, controlling his breath.

'Listen to me!' cried the Scarecrow.

Jonathan opened his eyes. The nightmares dissolved. The world around him was a dizzying blur. There was only light and dark. That hideous pale light. His mouth was so unbearably dry. An ache pulsated in his skull.

'They will pay. They will all rue their pathetic actions. We will rise above them all! We will hear their screams of anguish! They will bow in reverent terror to the glory of Scarecrow!'

'I know, I know,' Jonathan mentally soothed the creature.

If only he could get out of this bizarre hole. He felt a prodding pain in his side. Fatigue had a firm grasp of him, dissuading him from doing anything about it. Everything was painful. He almost missed the first few days… Months?... Years? The first time after he returned. He hadn't been able to move for ages, but he could bear the restraints for at least they gave him morphine. Oh, sweet soothing relief. It didn't last. It never did. Now, he didn't even know if it was night or day. All he knew was this void and the infrequent respite given to him when he was hauled away. It was a toss up between heaven or hell. That oaf of a psychiatrist or… her.

'You are worthless.'

The Scarecrow gained a certain lilt, a mocking replication of his great-grandmother's accent. Jonathan exhaled. It was all in his head, he told himself, he was in control. How amusing it was that the physicians, thinking they knew his mind better than he did himself, trapped him here, unable to fight it. They took control away from him. Why? Incompetence? Torture? He had many theories.

'Stand up and fight! You sniveling little roach!'

Jonathan forced himself up onto one bruised elbow. The pain in his side subsided. He fumbled along his own torso and the sweat-drenched patient-uniform to find the spot. His vision spun, almost causing him to spew whatever was left in him. His free hand lunged to the floor to steady him further, connecting with something. A brief moment of panic as he felt glass. Why would they give him glass? Did he cut himself? The fingers found the shape of the object. He sighed, raising the glasses, placing them back onto his nose. It helped a little, naturally he wasn't reading anything in here. They had to have forgotten them when… When was that? He was sure he'd had a letter at some point. Or was it a file? Nevermind.

He focused his eyes upon the floor. There was blood smeared in a few places. His own, unfortunately. His hands looked like a pale silk brocade, patterned in brown, blue, red and black. You couldn't punch and scratch away concrete. The padded walls above him had fewer blemishes. The glass on the left side of his glasses had cracked. He slowly lowered himself back onto the floor. Heavy footsteps came down the corridor outside. Jonathan closed his eyes. He'd tried not eating of course. They often put the medication in the food if you refused to take it. Still, that didn't last in the long run. There was always a way for them and he would occasionally comply to escape being restrained. Without movement, he couldn't fight his demons. He waited patiently, as the lock was turned and the heavy door forced open. He waited for the familiar sound of a tray being none-too-gently placed on the floor, but it didn't come.

"Up," said a gruff voice.

Someone entered, when Jonathan didn't move a muscle. Then two people hoisted him up. Perhaps, he thought, it was one of those days and they'd let him out. Out where she would be waiting for him. He recognized no faces but had they not been blurred there was no guarantee he should have either.

"Now, I had heard you had been giving trouble but this is a little childish, is it not?" said a cheerful, singsongy voice that made Jonathan shudder. "Up we go! We can use our own two legs, can't we Jonathan? Well done!"

He stood, slowly opening his eyes. If that quack knew how much of a disappointment he was - oh, but he did, didn't he? Jonathan fought the urge to rip Dr Washington's throat out, knowing he wouldn't get so far.

"Aren't you lucky that I'm escorting you myself today? We'll have a little more time to talk, won't we?"

Jonathan said nothing at all - as was his custom with this infuriating excuse for a psychiatrist. This non-response only made the shorter and much younger doctor chuckle.

"Come along, you can have a cup of tea if you like! Do try to be a little communicative today, yes? I know it's been a rough few days, but we'll manage this together, won't we? No need to be difficult! We are just having a little chat, yes? My, you're doing very well. I see we'll need to have a look at those hands in my office again!"

The constant barrage of idle chatter continued as Jonathan half walked, half let himself be dragged, down the corridor heading to a full hour of torment.


"Back off!"

A tray was flung, but Harley didn't arrive in time to see who threw it. It was only the floor and Poison Ivy jumped on a much larger guy, spitting and sneering. She barely got a kick in before three of the orderlies pulled the two of them apart.

"Red!" Harley cried, running to the scene, only to be pushed away by a staff member.

"He started it!" Pamela cried. "Get him away from me!"

"Quiet!" Yelled one of the orderlies as she successfully restrained the other patient. "I saw you throw a punch! Do you want solitary? Do you?!"

"Red, don't!" Harley frantically cried, knowing she couldn't physically intervene and win.

Pamela exhaled sharply and tugged one last time against their hold on her before relaxing.

"Stupid bitch," spat the other patient, still struggling to get to her.

The redhead's breathing was still fast and furious but she stood still, remarkably self-restrained. They tried loosening their grip and when she neither fled nor fought, Ivy was released entirely. The other patient was not so clever.

"Keep it down, Vasquez!" Yelled the orderly restraining him. "Right, John, help me get him to his room. He needs to cool off. And you, Isley, stay in line, you hear?"

Pamela nodded and very reluctantly muttered a 'yes, ma'am' to go with it. Harley rushed to her side the moment the orderlies got Vasquez through the door. Taking her friend's arm, Harley rushed to get away, before their caretakers reconsidered and decided to punish Ivy.

"Why'd ya do that?" Harley hissed at Ivy as the two of them got away into the sparse and very small library, which Arkham provided.

"Why do you care?" Poison Ivy sneered.

She tore herself away and sat down at one of the round plastic tables available.

"Sorry," she said, her voice softening.

Pamela buried her face in her hands as Harley dragged another chair over to join her. Hayley would be lying if she said Ivy was a favorite person of hers right now, but she'd be equally untruthful if she said she didn't care what happened to her. Very few people dared say a kind word to Harley at the moment - if they even wanted to. Her stupid, traitorous friend hadn't turned her back on her.

"Ey, it's a-okay, Red," Harley offered, glancing over her should at a hushed conversation between two other patients.

"He was talking about you, you know," Ivy said from behind her hands. "He called you… Things."

"Oh," Harley replied. "Well, let 'im!"

Poison Ivy shook her head angrily and lowered her hands.

"You just don't get it, do you?" said Pamela.

Harley crossed her arms.

"Ya didn't have ta do anything," she argued. "Nobody asked ya to!"

"And then what? You're going to take them all on? One by one, or a whole gang of them?" Ivy replied.

"If I 'ave to!" Harley returned, raising her voice.

Poison Ivy clenched her teeth. Harley found it difficult to be really angry though she did her best. Truth be told it had scared her for a moment seeing Ivy fight - not that she wouldn't win, but if they'd locked her away Harley would have no one to talk to.

"It's you they'll put away."

"Huh?" Harley exclaimed.

"You heard me," Poison Ivy continued. "If the sight of you causes a stir, if they all gang up on you, it's you who's going to solitary - or protective accommodations, whatever they want to call it. Do you think you'll see your latest precious madman then?"

"Stop calling him that," Harley pouted - because she really didn't know how to refute that.

"I'm just taking the brunt of it," Poison Ivy proudly - and smugly, proclaimed.

"I'll think of somethin', you'll see!" Harley replied, still pouting.

There sounded a huff from Ivy. The momentary silence between them let the mention of her own name reach Harley's ears. She pinpointed it as coming from the conversation behind her. Harley looked to Ivy, hoping she hadn't noticed. No such luck. Poison Ivy glared at the three inmates huddled around another table behind them.

"See something funny?" Ivy called to them.

They turned back to each other, muttering and mumbling.

"Red!" Harley hissed.

"Thought so," Pamela declared.

Harley let out a groan.

"This wouldn't be such a headache if only… If only he wasn't hurt… If only I could get us out of here," she said, her voice lower and serious.

"If only you knew how to look out for yourself," Pamela interjected, mimicking Harley.

"Yeah, yeah, ya said it," Harley waved it off. "Dammit, I need time to break through the laundry wall again!"

"Oh, really?" Ivy replied, carefully watching as the other patients stood up. "He's in solitary, Harles', or as good as. You're gonna get him through a hole in the wall, how exactly? And time? Time's the one thing you haven't got!"

"So you'd help? Come with us?" Harley asked.

"You know our Jack? My brother?" said a voice behind her before Ivy could reply.

Harley and Poison Ivy were both on their feet in an instant. Harley spun to see the three patients, two women and a man standing there. One of the women - a tall, broad lady with faded blue curls, was speaking. Harley stood still, not fully registering the question had been for her.

"So what if she did. Nothing to you," Ivy spat.

"I kinda think it is," the woman replied. "Seeing as he's in Stonegate more often than not."

"Back off! Come Harley, we're leaving!"

But Harley ignored Ivy pulling on her arm.

"Since you're an expert now or something," the male patient chimed in. "How horrible exactly is that toxin, huh? What exactly did you do to Rosa's brother?"

"Nothin'.." Harley mumbled, quickly following Ivy.

The third patient grabbed her by the other arm and pulled both Harley and Pamela to a halt this way.

"Aha, well we'd ask your boyfriend but seeing as he isn't here… We'll take it up with you!" She giggled.


"I always loved chamomile tea! I think it's very invigorating, don't you? Actually, when I was young, my grandmother and I used to pick the flowers from the meadows near her house! Oh, that smell! She'd always smell like chamomile. I'd go to sleep with a few in my pillow, actually. That reminds me…"

Jonathan's eyes focused on the carpet. The worn pattern moved like ocean waves. He held onto the chair for dear life. The nausea was overwhelming. If only he could be sick on that carpet. I might shut Dr Washington up for once. What would he even throw back up? He hadn't eaten in… What? Hours? Days? Had he eaten? He had to. Unless he'd taken his meds willingly recently - he didn't think he would have.

"And that's where we met old Mr Jack, who…"

Yes, yes, he knew that. It was a long time since he'd first realized that man had about five anecdotes repeating on rotation. Was this deliberate or was he really that much of a fool?

"Jonathan, drink your tea," said the annoying voice now.

He glared at the small plastic cup on the little table next to him. Was it safe? With shaking, handcuffed hands he reached out, struggling quite a bit with his aim before finally grasping it two-handed.

'Lukewarm', he thought bitterly as he felt the cup.

He supposed they had learned that lesson by now. He probably couldn't throw with much accuracy in this state either way. He raised the cup to his lips, blowing on it and touching the plastic rim with his mouth to simulate a sip. A hum of approval came from the man across from him.

"Great! I know you've always loved that!" said doctor Washington from behind his desk - or was he in front?

Why was the lighting so dim - the walls so liquid?

"Are you going to use your words today?"

Jonathan sneered loudly and slumbed sideways, dropping the cup into the all-consuming void formed beneath the chair.

"Will you look at that! What a mess! No, no! Leave it!"

As if he was going to follow it into the darkness. He grabbed the chair again and tried to steady himself enough to sit upright.

"Well, well, what a pity. We'll have to practice our physical coordination, won't we Jonathan?" laughed the psychiatrist.

The disgraced psychologist found his stupid blurry face and sneered. He had to be doing it on purpose! There was no one in this world truly that infuriating! Jonathan breathed sharply.

"How are you feeling?" he said with syrupy sweet concern.

"You did this," Jonathan hissed, wobbling dangerously.

"Jonathan…"

"Dr Crane," Jonathan furiously interrupted.

This was all wrong. He shouldn't react. He shouldn't give them anything. He should be in control. He should rip this miserable idiot mentally to shreds. If only he could focus… If only.

"Yes, yes," replied Dr Washington - dismissing the objection with a wave of his hand. "We all know you're very clever, Jon.. Eh, Dr Crane, if you like. You don't have to prove anything to me, you know that. Let's just take a deep breath and collect our thoughts, yes? Everyone makes mistakes. I'll get you another cup of tea if you like. This is a safe space for you, yes? You and I, we're just going to have another little chat - and if you'd like to join in - that would be just lovely!"

He clenched his teeth in rebellion. He knew it'd be noticed. He could barely focus on anything around him but he knew this place. His own personal hell. The birds, the nightmares, the scarecrow - they were preferable to this inane chatter. The room had that unsettling vibe - created when someone took a sterile, institutional place and tried to make it 'cozy' and 'welcoming'. Dr Washingtong made his patients sit in an armchair. He kept a little fountain with lights in it over by the bookshelf. And the books, oh the books! The collection had told Jonathan all he needed to know a long time ago. The few psychologists he included - the ones he didn't. The specific selection of medical texts and pharmacology. Despite the man's demeanor this psychiatrist didn't see much value in therapy. It wasn't uncommon. It was the charade that insulted Jonathan. Did he truly think he'd be fooled? What was it even for?

"Your grandmother," Dr Crane finally said, his voice icy and cold despite his state.

"Jonathan," Dr Washington chided.

"Did she chase away your nightmares that way?"

Dr Washington leaned forward in his chair - so he was behind his desk.

"Why? Did yours?" he asked, with apparent amusement.

They'd played this game before. And the chained man would win! He'd win for he was Dr Jonathan Crane - professor of psychology, god of fear, lord of despair, the almighty and terrible Scarecrow!

"Did you find solace, refuge, absolation in those moments?" this creature continued, unhindered.

He hadn't done this in ages, no. He'd personally made a number of doctors resign. He'd torn them down - but this one, this one learned. After the first few times, he kept coming back. And this, this delirium, this artificial stupor, it was his weapon. Still, he'd underestimated the power of weaponized silence.

"An interesting choice of words," replied the psychiatrist. "Is there any particular reason you came to that conclusion?"

If they didn't do this to him, Jonathan was too powerful, too quick for any of them. It was cheap and cowardly and he seethed at the injustice of his impaired state. This man was vile. A disgrace. Jonathan longed for his screams, his agony, his complete and utter helplessness. Why, he'd even settle for something as banal as getting to wrap his hands around that throat - if only it would shut him up for good!

"Do you still stuff flowers in your pillows?" he continued, near a whisper.

"From time to time," Dr Washington admitted. "It reminds me of her. But really…"

"She'd always love you, would she not? Always accepting you? No matter what you had done, no matter what you were? She was safe. She… Do you feel her presence when you lie on those pillows?"

"We're here to talk about someone else, right Jonathan? Remember our discussion about this?"

"No one else can love you like she did," Dr Crane continued, both provoked and enticed by Dr Washington's disapproval. "No one else could love you despite what you are. What you truly are!"

"That's enough, Jonathan! I'm warning you!" Dr Washington sternly snapped.

"You are ashamed, are you not? You know what you are. They all think they know you - but you and I, we recognize you for the disgusting, mediocre pitiful man you are! What did she see in you? How did she love you despite all of this? Why were you robbed of the one person you never deserved? Your only truly happy times?"

The psychiatrist tensed and rose abruptly to his feet. Jonathan smiled gleefully at the blurry whitecoated apparition. Only a little more and he'd press the panic button and Jonathan would be dragged back into the darkness where no outer demons could touch him. Dr Washington's breathing and posture changed.

"Is that how you feel about little Miss Quinzel, Jonathan?" he said sweetly, drawing out the sentence and enjoying it.

Dr Crane felt every inch on his body twitch, his nails dug into the scratchy upholstery of the guest armchair. His body betrayed him. He could practically sense the smile he couldn't see across the room. How far away was that man? Could he make it before he'd lose his balance? How much blood could he draw before being overpowered? He bent forwards, clasping his knees and facing the carpet-ocean for a moment.

"It's alright, Jonathan," a patronizing voice said, a little nearer him than before. "Nothing to be ashamed of, now is it?"

"You miss her," he monotonically replied. "It was something real. Why cannot everyone in your life give you that? Do you think about her every day? Do you look into the eyes of your loved ones and despise them for loving you only conditionally? Do you wish they were like her? Were her?"

"Jonathan!" Dr Washington said sharply, no longer amused. "You know exactly what…"

"You did not answer my question," Jonathan cut him off.

"You know I won't!" the psychiatrist replied. "One more word about this and we'll have a situation on our hands! You know what this behavior will get you!"

That didn't matter. There were lines you didn't cross and he'd fill his shoes with molten lead before he'd willingly let them dissect that chamber of his heart.

"Do you feel her presence when you lie on those pillows?" Dr Crane insisted. "Is she watching you? Protecting you? Judging you? Does she watch you when you sleep?"

"That's it," said Dr Washington as he moved towards the 'hidden' button.

The Scarecrow twisted its head upwards.

"Do you bed your wife on those pillows? Do you imagine…"

A loud crash came as Dr Washington knocked something off the desk and the noise drowned out the rest of the sentence. The Scarecrow's manic, screeching laughter tore through the old stone walls. The euphoria numbed him to everything else. The orderlies shouted as they came through the door and just in time to prevent having to pull the doctor off of him. His stomach burned from laughing. No longer was he on his feet but it didn't matter. He'd drag them all to hell with him.


The redheaded woman ducked as Harley expertly landed a high kick to Rosa's chin, sending her flying backwards as her jaw clicked shut violently. The blue-haired woman cried out in pain as the male punched Harley in the ribs. The third lady threw a chair across the room, hitting nothing of importance before jumping after Ivy.

"Red!" Harley squealed, jumping on the man's back and struggling to pull his arm into an arm-lock.

He stumbled into a table, knocking over the chairs which, unlike the table, weren't bolted to the floor. Harley released him and ran to Pamela. She dug her fingers into the woman's hair and pulled as hard as she could. The woman screamed in fury and pain as Pamela fought her way out of her grasp. The woman spun, kicking Harley over the shin. Harley let go with a howl.

"What the…" a voice roared. "On the ground! Now!"

An orderly rushed into the room, alerted by the noise. Pamela practically threw herself to the floor but she was the only one to do so.

"I said: On the ground!" cried the orderly, raising a tranquilizer-gun.

Harley and the lady fell to the floor, though not purposefully, still kicking and scratching each other. Rosa did the opposite and stumbled to her feet, taking one of the knocked-over chairs and raising it above her head. Harley had a face full of her assailant's hair and didn't see what happened but Rosa howled loudly, the chair fell to the floor and the guard started screaming obscenities. Additional boots rushed into the small library and just as Harley managed to roll the two of them over enough that she could put all her weight behind a knee to the lady's ribcage, the male patient was wrestled into a bookshelf, sending outdated comics and self help books flying. A pair of arms wrapped around her torso and lifted her off of the lady.

"Ay! Le' go! Whaddya doing?" Harley cried, as the orderly struggled to get her into a hold.

Her face was pressed to the worn linoleum floor next to her redheaded friend.

"Shut up," Ivy mouthed at her.

The harlequin huffed, but let herself be manhandled, as the orderlies attempted to subdue the others. The bitterness in her heart wouldn't be stomped down. She turned her head away as if in anger, but she couldn't deny to herself that she felt awful, knowing Ivy was right and that she'd be in trouble for defending Harley. Stupid Harley. Useless Harley. Harley who couldn't do anything right. Harley who ruined everything. Dr Crane would have told her off for being impatient too, she sighed. Why did any of them put up with her?

TBC