AN: Surprisingly, I don't own DC Comics and this is a labour of love. An on that note - thank you so much Rose 3

This is part (1) of two companion chapters. I'll do my best to get the other viewpoint out soon, this one turned out a great deal longer than I'd thought.


A strange scent crept along the concrete floor. Blurry flashes passed him by in a seemingly endless succession of signs, keypads and grimy fluorescent lights. Jonathan's worn hospital slippers scraped against the rough flooring. The sockets of his shoulders screamed at the way in which he was carried but almost no sound of discomfort passed his lips. What was that scent?

It was familiar to him but his brain had seemingly numbed itself to anything other than the monotonous, damp landscape he occupied daily, and the nightmares which Poisons Ivy's ruckus had kept him from. The torment of sensory input was perhaps intentional. Every inch of his body twitched and begged him to retreat. Away from the onslaught of sensory horror that was that office. He knew what to expect. There was nothing Jonathan wasn't the master of - if not himself. He was in complete control. It was not fear he felt. It was only a reasonable worry. Naturally .

A guard shook his arm roughly, nearly disjointing it in process. He'd been too quiet and spoiled their fun. He didn't have to fake the cry of pain, nor the stammers and nonsensical pleas that followed. Yet, he congratulated himself when their smirks and derisive comments showed that they were clearly fooled by his 'performance'. Metal clattered as one of the guards released him and let him fall, his head only held off of the floor by the grip the other man had of his shirt. The scent was stronger. Sweet yet… They pressed their cards against the keypad and waited until the door clicked open with a small buzz. A barely visibly cloud rolled out of the doorway, striking Jonathan in the face. He coughed. It mixed with other scents, familiar and dreadful ones. He mumbled broken pleas as they took him again and moved him into a swirling sea of faded patterns. The scraping sound of his feet muffled. He kept his eyes down to the horrid carpet beneath him.

They took him to the armchair, following some instructions that went unnoticed by him. He slumped into it. His eyes were still intentionally unfocused but he sensed the presence in the room. It would not do to look, to show that he had any real understanding of his surroundings. He whimpered slightly as they attached the restraints to something underneath the chair. The sound made something shift out there in the darkness. The room was as dim as ever. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the LED-lights on the fountain. He curled up in the chair. The chains rattled and the movement let him steal a quick glance around the room. Something was glowing on the desk. Smoking. Incense, he realized. Sweet and overpowering. Overly perfumed. Unfamiliar and worrisome. A looming shadow stood behind the desk, silent.

"Should we..?" one of the orderlies said.

The shadow waved them away and they closed the door behind them. The 'click' as it snapped shut, highlighted the sound of running water and the absence of anything else. It moved. Slowly, Jonathan slumped to the side, looking away. A small click of a tongue, snapped him unwillingly to attention, betraying his shaper reflexes to a trained eye. Rows of strong, white teeth appeared out of the shadows. The smile remained for several seconds.

"Well, well, well… What a pleasure , isn't it Jonathan? How are we feeling?"

A few steps sounded until they too were swallowed by the carpet.

"Now, my friend, coffee or tea?"

The paper cup was held tauntingly just out of reach. He'd have to raise his hands to grasp it, but refused. The smart thing to do would be to let the psychiatrist have the pleasure of it. Jonathan just couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he let his hands remain in his lap. His eyes glared at the fabric on his pajama-like trousers. Looking down hopefully made him look pitiful enough. He couldn't risk the doctor seeing any semblance of lucidity in his eyes. The younger man lost patience. Something was poured and then cold hands gently folded Jonathan's fingers around the plastic cup.

"For one who supposedly had a lot to say to my staff, someone's awfully quiet, hmm? Cat got your tongue? We know this is a safespace, don't we?"

A hand patted Jonathan's shoulder and he trembled beneath the touch, not from fear but rage.

'Disgusting!'

Oh, how he despised what he was about to do. He held the cup too tightly. Forcing his facial muscles to relax was more important. He did not have the strength for absolute perfection.

"I…" Jonathan mumbled and it caused the other man to pause expectantly.

"Please…" he continued, the word so bitter on his tongue. "Stop the… m-medication. Please, I cannot…"

"That's certainly a tall order, isn't it?" Said the cheery voice above him. "And you know better than most, it's for your own good."

"No! I would…rather talk," Jonathan interjected.

A chuckle.

" Would we rather talk? Why, Jonathan , can you imagine why some of us might think that was telling lies, hmm? Of course I'd be delighted, that would be a long overdue improvement. However… Someone was awfully rude when we last tried, weren't they? Are they going to play nicely?"

Jonathan couldn't help the sneer that appeared. His eyes blinked rapidly and he swayed.

"Yes," he replied.

"Shall we try that again and say it like we mean it?"

"I am… Sorry ," Jonathan amended through less clenched teeth. "I will… Will talk. Please. "

"Good, good," said the floating smile and he moved again, towards the desk.

With his back to Jonathan his hands rummaged through a folder. The patient studied him.

"Why don't we start with the main thing," said the psychiatrist. "No, no… Let's not waste time on what someone's been up to - or why. Rather let's talk about how you feel, how you react."

The mental eye rolling that occurred bowled a strike.

"Have we gotten our beauty sleep recently?"

The veiled insult that it was, provoked no noticeable reaction from a victim so numbed to ridicule of his own physique. Instead Jonathan replied:

"Y-you know that I cannot… With that woman.. H-howling, screaming."

"Well, we must all show a little understanding , mustn't we? I know someone who's had their fair share of nightmares here. But that being said, how do you feel about her? I know your egotistical worldview rarely allows for shared spaces."

"That is not why…" Jonathan began but caught himself before falling into a much too cohesive rebuttal.

"Do you dislike Pamela Isley?" pressed the psychiatrist, having turned to face him at some point.

His neck twisted involuntarily as a cold, low breath crept up Jonathan's neck and spine. He drew a deep breath, ignoring the presence as best he could. Losing control would not do.

"You know I do," said Jonathan.

"We're not here to talk about what I know, what I feel… Are we?" said the blurry, icy smile.

Jonathan shrugged. The chains jingled, answering audibly on his behalf.

"I suppose I should commend you," Dr Washington continued to Jonathan's surprise. "In the past you've been a lot less patient with your fellow residents. Is she special?"

'We should have done away with her! You look weak! Pathetic!'

'He knows. He sent her,' Jonathan thought, trying to sooth his inner self.

Still it begged the question: Did he want her dead or did the doctor want Jonathan's hopes destroyed by his own actions? He had ceased his attempts and borne the torment - not for Dr Isley's sake but for Harleen's alone.

"She is… Admirable," Jonathan replied.

"And yet you've not befriended her. Is it revenge? She did stop you. Or perhaps you're threatened by her? She might easily outdo you perhaps? Take your… Position, infamy… Connections."

At this Jonathan glared at his tea. The man was ridiculous - making it up as he went along or incompetent. There was no world in which he was second to Poison Ivy.

"Miss Quinzel, perhaps," said the psychiatrist, smiling.

Jonathan's eyes snapped up. There they met the other man's gaze. The reaction was anticipated. Dr Crane swallowed the remark that had crawled to the tip of his tongue.

"Yes," the younger man confirmed. "You met her at Gotham University first, is that correct?"

He paused but not for an answer. He didn't seem surprised not to be provided with one.

"Tell me about that moment when you first saw her. Come now, my friend, tit for tat, isn't that so?"

"No," Jonathan finally responded.

"Pardon?"

The tone was jovial, the expression was not.

"I… I do not remember," Jonathan clarified hesitantly. "She was not… Im-immediately noticeable."

"Ah, but she did make herself noticed? What did she do?"

What was the point of this line of questioning if not to further torment him? Jonathan considered it. How could he best bend the truth? The man before him was not so much a fool as to believe anything but the truth was too dear and fantasy too risky.

"S-she…" Jonathan replied, purposely stalling for time. "Answered a question. S-she seemed…. promising."

Dr Washington let out a 'hmm' resembling actual humming.

"Jonathan."

"Dr Crane," the patient corrected him.

"We shouldn't lie, should we?" Dr Washington continued, not acknowledging the correction. "That's a bad start to a new beginning, isn't it?"

'Nothing but lies and low cunning, you wretched philistine!' he screamed internally.

"It was d-different then," Jonathan amended, sticking to a technically correct statement. "She was different. I… That is… We were not… Close."

The psychiatrist said nothing for a moment as his eyes scanned the patient. There was no obvious indication in either his face or body as to whether he found that explanation sufficient, but he did not comment upon it. Jonathan's dry throat itched to an increasing degree as he inhaled ever increasing amounts of that foul, sweet-smelling smoke.

"And that is how we'd describe that relationship now? Close… " said the psychiatrist, hastily doodling on a notepad, pretending to write. "Dr Wei noted he considered you entirely unable to show and appreciate affection. What do we think of that?"

"Uncouth ignoramus with an undergrad's understanding of the limbic system!"

"Well, these feelings are of course valid and accepted," the psychiatrist mused at this sudden outburst. "It follows though, we might want to give more constructive criticism."

"Ap-pologies," Jonathan mumbled.

"Was that… Him?" said the floating smile, much to professor Crane's confusion.

"Wh-what do y-you mean?" he stammered, overselling it just slightly.

" Someone's done their fair share of yelling at me , but it's commonly followed by a declaration that Jonathan isn't here with me."

"He is not! " Jonathan growled before catching himself. "I prefer Dr Crane - or Professor Crane."

"But you're not a professor, Jonathan. Have we forgotten why we were dismissed from that position? And you're not licensed - nor will you ever be again."

The tone was harder, provoking. The Scarecrow bristled but held his tongue - barely.

"You're upset by that fact?"

"We are the… same," Jonathan finally replied, spilling a little tea onto the carpet as he tried to balance the cup on the arm of the chair.

"Yes, yes… I know… Though in these files there has been much debate about whether it was a different personality altogether. Yes, I know! No need to correct me, Jonathan. But you can't really blame them. I mean, who'd have thought a twisted, pathetic twig like you had it in him to do anything like what the Scarecrow has done?"

The cup fell to the carpet with a soft thud. Brown liquid soaked the fibers. The two men remained exactly where they were, neither taking notice of it.

"Perhaps an oversimplification to make it easier for themselves, yes? Shall we say that?" said Dr Washington in a warm voice once again, either ignorant of - or ignoring, the quiet seething of the patient. "But someone's asked to be unmedicated. I think that warrants a bit of a runthrough of what we've learned of you so far, no? After all, we need to have some progress to justify it, don't we? That brings me back to the good Dr Wei and his determination that Jonathan Crane is indeed devoid of empathy, the ability to form any meaningful emotional connections and to give and receive affection. That's a grave 'accusation' indeed, isn't it? What do we say to that?"

"What does it matter?" Jonathan replied, coldly.

"Oh, but it matters. Funny, I'd have thought a psychologist would know that! Hmm? A patient completely without empathy or friends means trouble outside of isolation. We can't have them roaming the hallways if they might endanger the other patients."

Flashes of Poison Ivy's snarling face appeared before his inner eye. Sent to die. But why? Why indeed. Not because of who she was, but because of how tempting a victim she might be to him. Was that disappointment he detected in the younger man's blurry visage? Dr Isley's corpse would have been a nail in the door of this oubliette. At least one of them would never leave these halls alive.

"You don't deny it then?" said Dr Washington.

He had yet to offer Jonathan a replacement cup, which he would have any other day. This was noted and found troublesome.

"I do," replied Dr Crane coldly. "But I do not flatter myself that my opinion carries any weight."

"On the contrary, your opinion is all that matters - when we're trying to ascertain how you see the world. Go on then, what's a meaningful relationship you've had? And don't bother with your family. I'm aware," said Dr Washington, raising the file to underline that fact.

There was no true alternative, no one to name that could be verified but also believed. No one but…

"Harleen Quinzel."

"Very good, Jonathan," said the smiling phantom. "Admission is a big step. Now do we think we can have a discussion about that?"

"I… Suppose," Jonathan replied, shifting uncomfortably in his chains.

The doctor moved towards him suddenly. The shine of something metal in his hand caused Jonathan to recoil though he had not far to go. The white of Washington's coat stopped before him and his hands found their way to Jonathan's face. Determined not to bow to the creeping fears of what might come, Jonathan kept his eyes open and gaze stiff. A sharp discomfort followed as metal was incorrectly placed over his sore ears and grimy hair. Clenching his teeth through it, he found Dr Washington's face before his - clear and abominable. Smudged fingerprints littered his field of vision. One side of the glasses was still cracked but what sharpened senses it gave him was welcomed by an audible sigh of relief. The doctor nodded, clearly pleased with himself and returned from whence he came, pulling his chair to the front of his desk to sit down without the barrier between them. Swirls of smoke rose behind him as his frame obscured the incense.

"I will repeat my earlier question. This time we agree we'll have a proper answer? How did little Miss Quinzel catch your eye?"

"She…"

"Yes?" the psychiatrist urged him.

"She answered… Incorrectly," Jonathan admitted though the act pained him and made him feel keenly that he was, in the moment, the most unworthy and disloyal of men. "But it was a challenge to her."

The other man whistled, jotting down a few lines on his notepad.

"And how long has she been special to you?"

Jonathan twisted his wrists in the restraints, desperately feeling the helplessness of the situation. To be trapped was one thing, but there were things he kept for himself. Things he never told the staff. Things he never told her.

"Always," he whispered.

"Why, Jonathan! " smirked Dr Washington. "That would have been very inappropriate of you!"

"I am aware," the patient responded. "I never… Said anything. Never… Allowed for anything."

"How did you feel when she became the Joker's paramour?" Dr Washington continued, scooting a little further out of his chair.

"Disgusted," Jonathan sneered. "She deserved better! He is a brute! A worthless manipulator! A bully!"

The Scarecrow twitched uncomfortably around as Dr Washington ignored this completely and made further nonsensical doodles in his notes.

"It was all over town," he finally said. "What he did to her. Rumors spread fast. Did she come to you first? You must have been delighted. Finally a chance to take her for yourself, hmm?"

"Do not presume to comprehend my intentions!"

"I'm just asking," Dr Washington laughed.

Jonathan hissed and twitched but calmed just enough to prevent the growing guilt in his stomach from overpowering him. That sweet smoke was dizzying him, he reasoned. No doubt some devilish play by the fiend in white.

"I know some of what happened of course," he continued.

The doctor withdrew something from the file. A newspaper article. Though at this distance and in this lighting, Jonathan could not read the headline - despite the return of his spectacles. The picture on the front seemed familiar though. He could not see Harley but knew she'd be in the back. His own outline was fairly visible in front. This was the robbery of the Gotham museum of Natural Sciences. That seemed like such a distant memory now. A faded relic from a happier time. He'd been so certain of himself. That this time - despite all the others, his plans would truly come to fruition. Who'd care to help prisoners? Who'd look for him in a prison? The cackles of the clown ricocheted in Jonathan's brain. But despite the destruction of his body or the expediency with which the Batman had to have delivered him to Arkham - his downfall was caused by neither. No, it was the one who had led them both there. The creature who had vowed to destroy any speckle of happiness he might have gained from Harleen's presence and undeserved kindness.

"That's an unpleasant thought we're having isn't it?" a voice said, much too physically close for comfort.

Jonathan blinked. The man was right beside him again. When had he moved? Why didn't he notice? What was that he was holding?

A small vial had been withdrawn from a pocket. Jonathan's eyes fixed upon it, trying to read the label, while the Scarecrow sneered at the words. The label was torn. Deliberately? No, he was becoming paranoid. He was still holding that stupid article. No, he was putting it… In Jonathan's hands? Stiff fingers grasped it by reflex and held it tightly and reverently. There… He could see the shadowy form of her in the background. Perhaps - a fraction of his mind dared to hope, if he looked up he'd see her there. Sitting nonchalantly on his desk, crumbling his papers and ignoring his admonishments. She'd sigh happily or hum one of her silly little tunes. She'd look at him with those eyes. Those eyes which had seen so much darkness and yet retained so little. His heartbeat quickened and he skipped several breaths.

"We're doing very well," said a voice but Jonathan barely registered it. "You love her, don't you?"

Oh, if only Washington would be quiet. That voice didn't belong in his memory. In his hour of sunlight. Something flashed in the corner of his eye and it violently tore Jonathan from the illusion. A syringe. It was in a hand. The psychiatrist had already extracted the liquid from the vial. Dr Washington saw him noticing and held it up for Jonathan to examine.

"We wanted to get off the medication, yes? Well, then this will counteract some of the effects - because we are deeply troubled by the effects, aren't we?"

The smile was icy, the voice cold and his eyes daring Jonathan to refute this. The Scarecrow screeched in his insides in absence of the fear that would years ago have taken him. He immediately shot backwards in the armchair, as far back as it would let him.

"We're holding up very well considering the dosage, I must say," Dr Washington continued, inching nearer. "Remarkably.You want this. Don't you, my friend?"

It could be anything. What trust was there between them?

"Tsk, tsk, I'm afraid I can't justify letting an uncooperative patient roam the halls, doesn't Dr Crane agree?"

'Not like this,' Jonathan thought.

There was no real reason for this. No reason other than to test him. Jonathan knew what was left unsaid. Trying to cancel out one drug with another was not easy work - even less so if he'd had a whole concoction of drugs in his system. But what if he had none? What effect would it have on him then? Only one of them could venture a guess and that person wasn't him.

"You want to see her again, don't you?"

The question taunted Jonathan. He was an educated man, in his time a respected professor, a celebrated psychiatrist - a feared researcher. He was - only a toy for this man to torment. The needle was getting closer.

"Y-yes," he whispered, keeping his eyes on the metal shimmering in the dim light.

"Then offer me your arms," commanded a voice like Dr Washingtons and so unlike it.

'If it kills me, I will have died trying. Let her know I tried.'

But Jonathan knew his great grandmother's god was not there to hear such a prayer. Nothing was here. No one knew. He had no choice. The pain was brief. The man wasted no time, nor did he seem to relish the submission. Jonathan breathed deeply.

"Let's continue, hmm?" say a cheery voice, returning the syringe and vial to the desk.

The article was still in Jonathan's hands. The puncture wound had not been sealed with cotton and he drew in his arm to press the skin against himself.

"This must have been Harley's idea, no? The toxin I get but… Jewels aren't really your style, eh? Perhaps," Dr Washington laughed. "You didn't think a ruby that size was a bit much for a girl who never even looked twice at you?"

"Let me see her," hissed the Scarecrow. "You promised you would…

He swayed and blinked, steadying himself against the armrest. That infernal incense!

"No, I gave you that drug and you talked," barked the psychiatrist. "Now if you want out as well, you'd better talk some more! Were you happy then?"

Jonathan nodded, clutching the article to his torso. Something was happening, familiar but his mind was too foggy to identify it.

"I'll take that," said the smile as it floated across his field of vision. "You know they never found your hideaway - at least we don't think so. It must have been quite a place. Is that were you this 'Carnival Ruby'?"

"What do you…" Jonathan mumbled. "No… Yes… Why…?"

"I told you… Tit for tat," said the psychiatrist. "You cannot have sold it. You'd have needed it cut into smaller sections. Neither of you have those contacts."

The patient slumbled - falling nearly entirely out of the chair. He was held off of the floor only by the chains catching on the armrests.

"What did you… What w-was…?" he whispered.

"Oh that!" replied Dr Washington as he strutted over to Jonathan's side, righting him with the tip of his boot. "Just a little morphine… Well, enough morphine. Where did you hide, my friend?"

"You…" Jonathan countered in as accusatory a voice as he could manage. "... Promised to…"

"You want to get out of this basement? You want to have the run of the hallways? You want to see your little clown again? Well, I want things too, professor, and I'm a very patient man, I'll tell you that. I've spent months on you, listening, caring , forgiving you. The least you could do is confess."

The Scarecrow angrily shook his head, the pain was gone. His woes were gone. His body cried out for the inevitable slumber that would come. He fought it as hard as he could.

"After what happened recently… Who know's how long she'll last without you."

There is was. Fear. He knew the feeling so well and yet was so detached from it that he felt as if he stood beside his own body, marveling at the reaction. His body was no longer his own and so his throat could not even produce the words.

'What happened to Harleen?!'

"I know, I know," replied the psychiatrist to what he read in Jonathan's eyes. "You'd like to go upstairs wouldn't you?"

Fractions. Mumbling. Whispered sounds. Half of it didn't even make sense to Jonathan as he forced himself to say it. But the smiling man listened patiently, drawing so close to Jonathan's lips that the patient could smell chamomile and cheap cologne.

"We've come a long way, my friend," said the doctor. "And I appreciate the honesty. Oh? No need to make that face at me. I know."

Straw and feather spiraled in Jonathan Crane's center as he clung to his faculties with every ounce of strength he had left.

'Harleen! Harleen! What happened? Is she safe?' he cried in his mind and mouthed the words with his broken lips.

"I don't know," the doctor responded.

Desperation clawed at Jonathan as the imbecile once again got his meaning wrong.

"No one knows," continued Dr Washington as he pressed the 'secret' button. "But I suppose she's well, happy perhaps. Oh, but of course you don't know, do you? She escaped. 48 hours ago. Left you behind. Probably for the best. That new fellow she's got is promising. Up-and-coming, young… Handsome."

The door buzzed as Jonathan's vision darkened, the air in his lungs escaped in a terrifying shriek and he fell, chains screaming, restraints digging into bony flesh.

"That's our therapy time for today I'm afraid. Time to have some fun."

TBC