Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jonathan Crane did not have very many friends. At school, he was teased and ostracized and bullied relentlessly. Day in and day out, he was picked on and kicked and spat at like he was less than human. At home it was no better. His father was cruel and his mother was uncaring of the torment her son was put through.

But it was not all bad. Jonathan did have friends, they just weren’t of the human variety. Where he truly found solace was with the animals on the Crane farm. He’d fallen asleep cuddled up to his favourite brown cow more times than he could count, and he liked taking his favourite stallion out for rides around the field. Though the animals he truly loved were the birds.

They had a lot of birds on the farm. Mostly chickens, but they had quails and ducks and a few geese on top of that. The Crane homestead always had a surplus of eggs and many people in their small Georgia town were more than willing to pay for them. Crows were commonplace as well, but they weren’t intentionally domesticated like the other birds and simply came and went as they pleased. Jonathan was just happy that his father hadn’t found out that he’d been leaving extra food out for the crows every morning.

On top of all of their birds, they had one turkey. One that Elijah Crane had bought off an old farmer a few years ago. The turkey was already an adult by the time she got to their farm, but she fit right in with the other animals. She had found Jonathan huddled up in the barn one night and had gone to comfort him, pecking at his shoes until he couldn’t help but laugh.

And Jonathan really did love that turkey. He’d named her Sadie, after the clerk at the corner store that was always so nice to him. He had started getting up earlier just to spend more time with Sadie when he went out to feed the animals before school, and she was always the first animal he went to see after school. Sadie seemed to love him too, based on how she’d run to him when he got home and bend her neck down so he could pet her.

The Cranes had had Sadie for two years. It was a chilly November evening when she’d gone missing. Mrs. Crane had spent all day in the kitchen cooking. Heaven knows what Elijah Crane was up to. Jonathan, on the other hand, had spent all day looking for Sadie. She wasn’t in her shed when Jonathan got up to feed her. He checked all of her usual spots. She wasn’t in the chicken coop, she wasn’t in the barn, and she wasn’t by the pond. Hm.

Jonathan did whatever he could to find her. Searched her shed top to bottom no fewer than six times, left a trail of food for her to follow, and he’d even refilled the plastic kiddie pool that she liked splashing around in. He didn’t want to resort to asking about her, but he was left with no other choice.

Jonathan entered the house through the back door, ending up directly in the kitchen. Mashed potatoes and stuffing and bread rolls and deviled eggs had already been set on the table and his mother was waiting by the oven for a timer to go off.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“Have you seen Sadie? I can’t-”

Jonathan was cut off by the timer going off, a shrill ringing in his ears. Mrs. Crane popped open the door to the oven and pulled out something hidden under tinfoil. Careful not to burn her hands, she set it in the middle of the table and pulled the foil off.

“-find her.”

A turkey. Jonathan was staring at a cooked turkey. Golden brown and buttered and flaky. The head and feet had been cut off. If Jonathan had never seen a cooked turkey before, he wouldn’t know what he was looking at. But he knew. He knew all too well.

---

“Jonathan, you haven’t touched your food,” Mrs. Crane scolded him. “It’s Thanksgiving, dear, you need to eat.”

Jonathan said nothing, so Elijah Crane filled the silence.

“She spends all day cookin’ this for your ungrateful ass, and you won’t even eat it? You wanna disrespect your mother?”

Jonathan said nothing. He only stared at the centerpiece of the feast in front of him.

Elijah Crane huffed, standing from the table and struggling with the buckle of his belt.

“Come to the living room, boy. I oughta teach you a lesson.”

Chapter Text

Some families liked road trips. They liked the togetherness, liked being out on the open road with only each other as company. Stopping at the cheesy tourist traps and playing ‘I Spy' as miles and miles of highway vanished behind them. Some families liked road trips.

The Nashtons were not one of those families. They had gone from their home in northern Indiana to Arkansas to visit some family member the kids didn't know they had. Which meant a 9 hour trip there and, what they were currently doing, a 9 hour trip back.

There were three people and their suitcases crammed into the Nashton family vehicle (a dingy old ‘95 Ford Aspire that might've been white at some point). There was Jackie Nashton behind the wheel whose only goal was to get home as fast as possible. God forbid one of his kids asked to go pee. There was 14 year old Susan Nashton in the passenger seat who had packed a steady supply of magazines to keep herself entertained.

And in the back seat, squished between luggage on either side, was 10 year old Edward Nashton. He had brought a book, sure, but he had long since bored of it and chose “running his smart mouth” in favor of reading. At least, that's what Jackie said.

They had stopped at a gas station off the highway for yet another bathroom break. This time for Jackie, though, and that was cause for much less complaint in his eyes. Once he'd finished up in the bathroom, he wandered around the store in search of a snack. His little girl deserved one, after all.

He picked a brightly coloured bag of sour gummies off the shelf. He passed through the over-the-counter medicine shelf on his way to the register. As he did, he stopped and turned to look at one of the small boxes. He couldn't pronounce the name of the thing if his life depended on it. It started with a D, that much he was sure of. But the part that caught his eye was the text under the name- “sleep aid”. And an idea was formed in Jackie Nashton’s head.

--

“Here, kiddo. I got you some candy,” Jackie said as he handed Susan the bag. “And I got you some water, too, Ed.” Much less enthusiastically, he tossed a bottle of water into the back seat.

“Thanks, Dad.” Susan ripped open a corner of the bag and poured a few of the small circular gummies into her palm. She held her hand out towards her brother. “Do you want some?”

“I didn't buy them for him,” Jackie cut her off, “I bought them for you.”

“Oh.” Susan's face fell into a slight frown as she pulled her hand closer to herself again. “Sorry, Eddie.”

Eddie shrugged as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Hey, Susie. I read about this new paradox. You remember what a paradox is? You do? Good. It's called the Ship of Theseus paradox, and the basic idea is that if you have a ship that’s made up of, say, three hundred parts, but you replace all those parts over time…”

Jackie took a deep breath through his nose and put the car into drive. Only a little while longer of his son’s incessant chatter.

--

An hour and a half later, Eddie was finally quiet. His eyes were closed and his head rested against the stack of suitcases to his left and little snores slipped out of his lips.

Susan turned to look at Eddie for the fifth time in 10 minutes. “I just can't believe he's actually asleep.”

“Why not, pumpkin?”

“I've just never seen him sleep in the car before. He said he hates it.”

Jackie chewed on his bottom lip. “If I tell you something, you promise not to tell your brother?”

Susan raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

“Look in that bag I got from the gas station.”

Susan picked up the plastic bag at her feet. Huh. Weird. There was a little box inside with a long word on it.

She tried to sound it out. “Dox.. ill.. a.. mine?”

“I dunno. All I know is it puts you to sleep.”

Susan glanced between the box in her hand, her father, and her brother. “You gave it to Eddie?”

“Crushed some of it up in the bathroom and put it in his water.”

“Why?”

“Susie, come on,” Jackie said. “He chatted my ears off on the way down. I think I deserve some peace and quiet on the way back home, hm?”

“I… I guess that makes sense.” Susan toyed with the hem of her shirt.

“That's my girl.”

Eddie slept the rest of the ride home and for a few hours after that- he still woke up in the car, Jackie couldn't be bothered to carry him inside and Susan couldn't lift him. At least the ride back to Indiana was silent. Eddie was silent. Just the way Jackie liked him.

Chapter Text

Halloween at Arkham Asylum never failed to be eventful. The inmates were usually the cause of said events. Between the Scarecrow’s preference towards all things scary and Calendar Man’s tendency to commit crimes on major holidays- including Halloween- made the staff worry.

But this particular All Hallow’s Eve, the staff themselves would be the cause of the chaos.

Like many workplaces that liked to keep their staff happy, the Arkham Asylum liked to put on a Halloween party. The guards and psychiatrists and desk workers alike would bring food and candy and they’d all chat over drinks for a few hours. There were usually a few contests with prizes such as another drink ticket or some extra candy. It encouraged the staff to really try and have fun in the costume contest as well as the pumpkin carving competition. Nobody took it all that seriously, though.

Nobody except for, of course, Doctor Crane. He might not be the same person as the Scarecrow anymore, at least not exactly, but he still shared his love of autumn and Halloween especially. He never dressed up for the costume contest, he didn’t much care for silly clothes and preferred some level of professionalism in his dress. The pumpkin carving contest, on the other hand, he went all out for.

He had taken home first place every year that he’d entered since he started working at the Asylum. Most people used the little plastic carving tools that came in a five dollar set. Doctor Crane much preferred his two hundred dollar metal carving set intended for professional pumpkin carvers. He spent hours poring over the pumpkins at the store and would only pick one out when he had a solid vision. And always no more than three days out from the contest, couldn’t have the pumpkins rotting and ruining his chances. And for those three days before the contest, he would spend that he wasn’t working in the basement carving away at whatever it is he had planned for that year.

The year before, he had sculpted an anatomically correct skeleton out of no fewer than a dozen individual pumpkins. The sheer amount of them he used meant he had more than enough roasted pumpkin seeds to pass around at the party. It’d be hard to top the skeleton. He’d really have to think.

Eventually, he settled on a model haunted house. If his measurements were correct, which they always were, it’d be three pumpkins high, three pumpkins wide, and three pumpkins deep. If he stuck them all together, it would stand at two and a half feet tall. He had his plan. Now all he had to do was carve.

It took him several hours, longer than he was comfortable admitting. But he finished on the day of the party and managed to transport it in the bed of his truck. And, of course, it was the talk of the party. Very few other staff members even entered the pumpkin carving contest. What was the point if they were just going to lose to Doctor Crane like they always did?

Crane stood by his carving most of the night- no point socializing, he didn’t speak to most people he worked with- and looked over his competition. Bah. One pumpkin carvings. Amateurs. Though one was composed of two pumpkins and bore a vague resemblance to one of the security guards. Crane rolled his eyes at the sight of it. Bolton, the egomaniac. Of course he’d sculpt himself. It was horribly brutish too, the edges weren’t smooth at all. Crane smiled to himself. Once again, he had the contest “in the bag”. He hoped he was using that phrase right.

“Right,” Warden Arkham started, looking over a sheet of paper. “The winners of the contests. For the costume contest, the winner is Doctor Leland for her stunning portrayal of Queen Charlotte from… some show.”

A woman in a tightly corseted ball gown stepped forward to take her extra drink ticket.

“And for the pumpkin carving contest, the winner is Lyle Bolton for his bust sculpture entitled ‘Lyle Bolton’.”

Doctor Crane was aghast. Aggravated. Appalled. Enraged. How. In. The. Hell. Did Lyle Bolton take away his rightfully earned win? Even the other partygoers were surprised as they looked between each other, Bolton, Crane and the pumpkins.

Crane approached the Warden and tried his best to hide the way he glared at a sneering Bolton. “Excuse me, Jeremiah, and, pardon my language. Why the fuck did Bolton win?”

“He tried his best, y’know. Two pumpkins is a big step up for him,” Jeremiah Arkham said, “And besides, you’ve won the last five years. Lose with some dignity, would you?”

Crane was fuming. In fact, he was fuming for the few minutes that he stayed at the party. Especially when Bolton waved the extra drink ticket in his face. He wanted another whiskey sour. Damn that Bolton.

--

It didn’t take a genius of Edward Nygma’s caliber to see that Doctor Crane was upset when he came back from the Halloween party, but he was the first to notice.

“You okay, Crane?”

Crane pulled off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t win.”

“What?”

“What?” Jonathan, who had previously been watching something on his phone, was now scarily alert and staring directly at the Doctor.

“I didn’t win. Even though my carving was perfect and nobody else had anything nearly as good as I did- I didn’t win.”

“So who won?” Nygma asked.

“I’m afraid that if I tell you, it’ll turn into a death wish.”

“No.”

Crane was silent.

“No. It wasn’t Bolton, was it?”

“It was Bolton.”

Scarecrow seemed to have overheard the conversation and came barreling up the basement stairs. “Bolton beat the Doctor? What did he have?”

“Only a stupid two pumpkin carving of himself. It wasn’t even that good, his edges weren’t smooth at all and it was just- it was horrible.”

Scarecrow paused, almost seeming to contemplate something in that twisted mind of his. “Would you be against it if Scarecrow went to the Asylum and had a word with the party folk about this?”

Crane grinned a wicked grin. “Go right ahead, Scarecrow.”

--

The Arkham staff Halloween party was just starting to wrap up. The chip bags were being clipped closed and the drinks were being tucked back into coolers. So it was strange when there was a knock at the door. One of the security guards stepped up to answer it. She expected a coworker of hers, maybe somebody who had forgotten their wallet or keys or hat. What she was not expecting was a seven foot tall masked man holding some kind of aerosol can directly at her face.

“Wha- Scarecrow? How did you-”

Scarecrow pulled the trigger on his aerosol can as a sickly smelling orange gas started to fill the room.

“Nighty-night.”

Chapter Text

Jonathan Crane was missing. The first to notice was the Warden of Arkham Asylum, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. Dr. Crane hadn’t shown up to his shift, and that wasn’t like him. Dr. Sanchez noticed as well. As Head of Psychiatrics at the asylum, it was her job to monitor which of her psychiatrists would be in on what day. Dr. Crane hadn’t shown up to his shift, and that wasn’t like him.

The news of the doctor’s disappearance spread amongst the Arkham inmates and in a matter of a few days, all of which Jonathan was still missing, it was all the inmates could talk about. Even the lower profile inmates knew that Jonathan Crane and the prolific narcoterrorist Scarecrow were one and the same. So the disappearance of one of Gotham’s most infamous supervillains was nothing to be brushed over.

It was only a matter of time until the news reached Edward Nygma. He had been sitting in his cell ruminating on his next genius plan when he heard two guards walk past the door. Something about Crane. Crane? Why would they be talking about Crane? None of the Arkham guards gave two shits about Crane. Edward quieted his thoughts- with some difficulty- and listened in to their conversation.

“-a whole week he’s been missing now,” One of them said, “Wonder if somebody finally killed the big bad Scarecrow.”

“He had it comin’, if you ask me. When you run around doin’ what he does…” The voices grew distant as the guards walked further and further away from Edward’s cell.

Hm. Jonathan was missing? That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. No matter. Edward would get to the bottom of it. All he had to do for the time being was bide his time.

It was just another puzzle to solve.

---

Turns out, he didn’t have to bide his time for very long. That very same night, Joker and Penguin had orchestrated yet another prison break. The chaos and mayhem gave him the perfect window of opportunity to slip out of his cell and get where he needed to be. And he knew exactly where he needed to be.

Edward closed the door to Crane’s office as quietly as he could. It still wasn’t very quiet, the door was almost uncannily creaky. He needed to get Jonathan some WD-40 for that door. Still, though, the sounds of the inmates rioting in the recreational areas and the guards running down the hallways in their heavy boots drowned out the loud squeak of the door.

Looking around the room showed more than what Edward was perhaps ready to see. The chair that his patients would usually sit in was tipped over on the floor along with his floor lamp, papers and books and files were strewn about the floor, and, worst of all, there were what looked to be fingernail scratches on the usually perfectly polished surface of the desk. Edward scowled. This wasn’t ideal.

He turned his attention to the reel to reel tape recorder on Jonathan’s desk. It was still intact and there was still a tape in it. Most likely the last session that the doctor had with one of his patients; he always recorded those. Whether it was for treatment purposes or if Jonathan just liked listening to them, Edward wasn’t sure. He made sure the tape was at the beginning and then hit play.

Jonathan’s voice came over the recording.

“Arkham Asylum, the time is 2:28 pm. This is session… seven with Victor Fries. How are you today, Victor?”

Edward scoffed. He never did get along with that cryomaniac.

“I’m fine, Jonathan. How are you?”

“I’m doin’ well. Now, last time we talked about how you felt as though your mother was a burden on you because of her accident at the lake. We were frustratingly cut short before I could ask you what came next. So I ask you now- what became of your mother?”

Edward rolled his eyes. If he wanted to listen in on Victor’s private therapy session, he would’ve snuck out of his cell and eavesdropped like a normal person. He pressed and held on the fast forward button, occasionally stopping and listening for a few seconds to try and glean anything interesting. More of the same, his father left him, his mother’s accident, blah, blah, blah, Edward didn’t care about that. He heard what sounded like Victor opening the door and leaving. He expected the tape to end, but instead, Jonathan took a deep breath.

“I’ve been seeing Victor for almost two months now, and yet it feels like so little progress has been made. His father left, he killed his mother, he met his wife. It’s all cut and dry. There’s nowhere to go from there. There’s nothing I can do to crack him open. Nothing to scare him. I mean, how do you scare a man that believes he’s already lost everything?”

Jonathan paused.

“Well. Almost everything.”

Edward massaged the bridge of his nose. Jonathan, the perfect, stupid fool. He really went there.

---

Finding Victor’s hideout wasn’t hard. Edward had a feeling it’d be the easiest thing he’d do all day. Soon enough, Edward found himself in front of a rundown house in an older neighborhood of Gotham. It looked like it’d been condemned long ago, but the frost on the front porch told him it had to be where Freeze was. Edward crept up the stairs, careful to avoid slipping on the ice, and opened the door.

The ground floor of the house looked to be empty. Lived in for sure, based on the dishes in the sink and shoes left by the entrance, but what Edward did not see was a tall blue man in a robot suit. The house didn’t have a second floor. So it had to have had a basement. Edward huffed. Supervillains and their basements.

When Edward opened the basement door, the rush of cold air that hit his face confirmed his suspicions. Still taking care to not fall on the slick icy stone, he took the stairs one by one until he reached the floor. The dim blue glow queued him towards the man across from him who was looking down at a cryogenic chamber that was in the same orientation as a coffin. Hm. Edward could’ve sworn Nora’s chamber was stood up vertically rather than horizontally.

“Riddler,” Victor spoke, “How did I know you would find me here?”

“Oh, easy. You clicked on the IP grabber I sent you.”

Victor paused. “Ah. No matter. You are here for Jonathan, are you not?”

“You’d be correct. He’s all that anybody at the asylum can talk about, and I’d like to get him back, please.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that for you, Edward.”

Edward cocked an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“He has done me a terrible disservice. One that I cannot forgive. And thus, he must pay.”

“Pay how?”

Victor said nothing, only looked down at the cryogenic chamber between them. Edward followed his gaze. He looked closer, past the frosted glass and at the person inside.

That wasn’t Nora. That wasn’t even a woman. Edward would know that sad, dry skin anywhere. He’d know every inch of those calloused, bony hands in his sleep. And there was no mistaking the scar over the left eye.

He glanced back up at Victor. “Jonathan?”

“Cryogenic suspended animation. Encased in cold and ice, not unlike the woman he took from me.”

“Jonathan took Nora? No, no. That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“Yet it is true. Perhaps he thought it some cruel joke to take her from her chamber and replace her with a stuffed doll and a jack-o-lantern for a head. But he must pay the penance for his murder.”

“Look, Victor,” Edward pleaded, “You and I both know Jonathan isn’t the most sane person in the looney bin, but be reasonable. He wouldn’t kill Nora.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“He was probably just trying to scare you. That’s kind of his whole thing.”

“Still, she cannot survive outside of her chamber, not for longer than a few hours. Seeing as she has been gone for a week…” Victor’s voice trailed off.

“How about a deal, Victor? If I find you Nora, and she turns out to be okay, you give me Jonathan. If I find her and she isn’t okay, I’ll kill him myself.”

“If you don’t find her?”

“Oh. I will.”

---

Finding Nora was only slightly harder than finding the iceman himself. Victor had a DNA sample of hers- because of course he did- so Edward was able to follow her trail and figure out exactly where she went. She was exactly where he predicted she’d be; Jonathan’s apartment. Edward knew that Jonathan wasn’t stupid enough to actually kill her. Just stupid enough to kidnap her.

She had been set up on a gurney in Jonathan’s home office. A series of intricately woven tubes and wires connected to different parts of her body. It was a delicate system, and one that surely couldn’t be self-sustaining. Based on the key under the rug, though, Jonathan had had some outside help. Maybe from that new henchman of his. Edward examined the extensive medical equipment. Hm. It may not have been cryogenically done, but she did seem to be in a state of chemically-induced suspended animation. Not bad, Jonathan. Not bad. Done via some form of chilled saline dialysis, if he had to guess. Something like this would definitely be grounds for losing a medical license, but Jonathan seemed to have pulled it off. Now came the problem of getting Nora back to Freeze. That would be the hard part. He’d have to drive across Gotham and somehow keep her from an early grave. Edward sighed. Why did he always get wrapped up in things like this?

It was a meticulous and painstakingly agonizing process to get Nora unconnected from the various machines, but Edward managed eventually. Getting her back to the abandoned house was a similarly agonizing and nerve wracking experience, but soon enough he was parked back in front of the old building. He went back inside and down to the basement where Victor was awaiting him.

“She’s safe, Victor. She’s in my car outside.”

“And you did not think to carry her inside?”

“She’s your wife. You carry her.”

Victor seemed annoyed by the comment but chose to ignore it in favor of going up the stairs to retrieve his wife.

It didn’t take long for him to return to the basement, pushing past Edward to get Nora into her chamber. It took a few minutes for the machines to connect to her vital systems again. There was a palpable sigh of relief in the air when the screens flickered back to life and showed that she was, as Edward knew she would be, perfectly fine. Victor took a moment to press his hand to the glass.

After an uncomfortable silence, Victor spoke again. “I suppose it is time for me to fulfill my end of our deal, Edward.” He walked to the cryogenic chamber that encased Jonathan and pushed a few buttons along the side. With a hiss and a rush of frosted air, the glass lid opened.

“Thank you, Victor.” Edward placed a hand on Jonathan’s arm. He truly was cold as ice. Edward had to remind himself that Jonathan was still alive.

“It could be up to 48 hours before he is awake. I recommend you look after him until then to ensure his health.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, Edward. For returning my Nora to me.”

“No problem, Victor. Just one last favor. Could you help me get Jonathan out to my car?”

---

Edward started up his old car and began to drive to his current home- a dingy old apartment in the Narrows. A horrid place, sure, but as a villain, he and his henchladies had to pack up shop and move around quite a bit to avoid detection. He still managed to furnish the apartment with all the lavish luxuries he was used to.

He glanced in his rearview mirror into his back seat. Jonathan’s skin was still horribly pale and almost entirely frosted over, his lips took on a sickly shade of blue, and he looked nowhere near regaining consciousness anytime soon.

Edward almost couldn’t believe how stupid Jonathan was. The man was a doctor for crying out loud, so he ought to have known better than to kidnap the one thing that keeps Victor going. That’d be like somebody kidnapping Ichabod. Though Jonathan’s reaction to that would likely involve a lot more blood being spilled.

Edward had gotten so wrapped up in watching the gentle rise and fall of Jonathan’s chest that he’d forgotten he was driving. He returned his gaze to the road and sighed. Jonathan would be asleep for quite a while.

Edward would just have to chew him out for this later.

Chapter Text

Nygma was getting home late. Far later than usual. Typically the ones getting home late were Riddler, Scarecrow, or Jonathan. The first two because of their occupations, and the latter because of his tendency to stay out and bar hop until the bars all closed at two in the morning. But the latter was the reason that Nygma was getting home late this night.

Jonathan had overdone it with the drugs and the parties, of course he had. He had called Nygma to ask for a ride back to the manor. When Nygma arrived outside the sketchy apartment complex that matched the address he was given, he found Jonathan alright. He found Jonathan passed out behind a dumpster and nearly drowned in his own vomit. Nygma took him to the hospital, had to wait for 45 goddamn minutes to get Jonathan into a room to be treated. It was too late for Nygma to stay. So the doctors said they'd give him a call when Jonathan was ready to be discharged.

Nygma unlocked the front door to the manor as quietly as he could. He didn't think anybody else would be awake at such an early hour, and even if they were, they likely weren't on the ground floor. But still, the idea of the Doctor or god forbid Eddie waiting for him in the living room, alone and tired, made his heart ache. To his relief, though, the living room was empty. The lights were all off and there was no sign of anybody asleep on the couch. Nygma let out a sigh. He should get to bed too. But not without getting a drink first.

He went to the kitchen, grabbing a glass out of the cabinet. They had run out of bottled water earlier that day, he'd have to go to the store and get some. Out of sparkling water, too, Nygma was convinced that Eddie had taken the last bottle to his dorm at the university. He picked a few ice cubes out of the freezer. He filled it up with water from the sink. Not ideal, but it'd have to do. He turned back around- and nearly jumped out of his skin when he was met with the perfectly emotionless mask of the Scarecrow.

“Jesus- Scarecrow. Hello.” Nygma held the glass of water a little tighter in his hands. He'd spilled a little because of how startled he'd been. Hm. He'd have to wash that shirt.

“You're awake.”

“Yes, I am awake, Scarecrow. As are you.”

“It's late. Why are you awake, Sir?”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Nygma huffed. “Jonathan needed to be picked up. Hardly knew where he was.”

“Where is Jonathan now?”

“Hospital. Again.” Nygma sat down at the small circular table by the window. He took a moment to massage the bridge of his nose. “He worries me, Scarecrow. He really does.”

“Hm.” Scarecrow sat down beside him.

“I just- I don't get why he overdoes things like that so often. As far as I know, before all of… this,” Nygma gestured vaguely around the room, “Jonathan Crane didn't have any sort of substance abuse issues. So why is he so bad with it?”

“His father,” Scarecrow answered as if the question were not rhetorical.

“Pardon?”

“Our father. It's how Jonathan chooses to deal with what he did to us.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Does Edward remember his father?”

“No,” Nygma said, “I didn't get very many memories. I've heard bits and pieces from Eddie, though.”

“Perhaps it is for the best.”

“Do you remember your father, Scarecrow?”

“Yes.”

“What was he like?”

Scarecrow paused. He glanced down at his hands, tapping his fingertips together.

Nygma leaned forward, putting a hand on Scarecrow's shoulder and trying not to think about just how prominent the bone there was. “It's okay. I won't tell Doctor Crane. Promise.”

Scarecrow took a deep breath in. “He was- bad. Not a good man.”

Nygma stayed silent, though the expression he wore urged Scarecrow to continue.

“He hurt me. A lot. He would only ever give me the hottest plate at dinner in the hopes that I would burn my hands. That was if I got dinner at all. He would drip little bits of blood and corn oil onto my clothes so that the pigs and chickens and crows would hurt me. And he… no. No, I cannot say. I'm sorry.”

Nygma bit his lip, unsure of exactly what to say. His thumb rubbed up and down Scarecrow's arm in an attempt to comfort the hulking man. He looked up at Scarecrow's eyes, barely visible through the amber lenses- and furrowed his brows. Scarecrow wasn't looking at him. He was looking over Nygma's shoulder, into the dark living room.

Nygma turned to look over his shoulder as well, squinting his eyes and trying to make something out of the darkness. “Is there something there?”

Scarecrow said nothing.

“Scarecrow? Maize, look at me. Please?” Nygma brought his hands up to Scarecrow's face, bringing their foreheads close together so that Scarecrow could no longer see what was behind Nygma.

“I asked Father for a new pair of shoes,” Scarecrow muttered.

“Hm?”

“I asked my father for a new pair of shoes. The ones I had were tight and did not fit and could not be worn with laces. So I asked for new ones. And Father did not like that. He yelled at me, told me how ungrateful I was. Told me how I should never ask for things, not from him, not from his mother, not from the Lord, for I did not deserve it. He grabbed me by the hair. Dragged me outside to the pig’s water trough.

“Father held my head underwater. I don't know for how long. Long enough to make my chest tighten and my eyes start to bulge and make my nose sting and my hair wet. When Father brought my head up and let me breathe, he would hit my head against the wood and leave splinters in my jaw and make my lips bleed and then go right back to holding me underwater. He did that a few more times. When he pulled me up the last time, he looked over his son's face, tears and blood on his son’s cheeks. And he smiled.”

Nygma was silent at that. He looked Scarecrow in the eyes, still holding their foreheads together. He had known that Jon’s father was not a kind man, just as he knew from Eddie that his own father was not a kind man. But what Scarecrow described did not feel real. He brought both arms up to hold Scarecrow's face as close to his own as possible.

“I'm sorry, Scarecrow. I'm sorry that happened to you.”

“Mhmm.”

“Do you not believe me?”

“Did I deserve it?”

“What?”

“Father said that I do not deserve to ask for anything from anyone,” Scarecrow whispered, “That I do not deserve to be given anything by anyone.”

“You know that isn't true, Scarecrow.”

“Is it?”

“Listen to me now, Scarecrow, please. If you have never listened to me before and you will never listen to me again, just listen to me now.” Nygma brought one hand down to hold Scarecrow's as the other pressed against the back of his head to hold them close.

“This is what you deserve, my dear. To be loved, and held, and treasured for the man that you are. To be truly cherished by those who love you not for what you can do, but for who you are.”

Scarecrow paused for a second, simply staring at Nygma. After a couple seconds of no words being exchanged, he leaned forward, slowly, hesitantly, and wrapped his arms around Nygma to pull him close to his chest.

Nygma did not fight him, only wriggling his hands up underneath Scarecrow's thick wool poncho to be able to feel his skin through his leather gloves. He rested his cheek against Scarecrow's chest and whispered, “You deserve this.”

They stayed like that for a few perfect quiet minutes, the only sound being the distant chirping of crickets and quiet hum of the air conditioner. Scarecrow was the first to pull back, albeit with some hesitance. He stood from his chair with the same reluctance.
“It is late. We should sleep. I will see you in the morning, Edward.”

“Wait,” Nygma said. “Would you like to sleep in my room tonight? I'd like the company.”

Scarecrow glanced between Nygma and the basement stairs.

“I promise it's comfortable. And I'm not a blanket hog.”

“Very well, Edward. I shall sleep in your bed.”

Scarecrow followed Nygma up the stairs to his room on the third floor. The master bedroom, of course. It was big, much bigger than Scarecrow was used to. If his memory was correct, Nygma's bedroom was larger than Jonathan Crane's old apartment. And his bed was similarly massive, a large circular mattress with velvety headboards around the side closest to the wall.

Scarecrow slipped his poncho off, tossing it onto the hardwood floors. Sleeping in wool was uncomfortable. He wiggled his way underneath the plush blankets, taking a second to get comfortable. Nygma slipped under the covers beside him and switched the lights off with a remote on the nightstand.

To Nygma's surprise, Scarecrow was asleep before him. If the obnoxious snoring was anything to go by. As soon as Scarecrow had fallen asleep, he had grabbed Nygma and pulled him close, essentially ragdolling him like a human stuffed animal. But Nygma was alright with letting Scarecrow do as he pleased. Because he deserved it.

Chapter Text

When Nygma first suggested that the Facets do a gift exchange for the holidays, the others were skeptical to say the least. They’d skipped out on the first holiday season that all six of them were around for- they’d only known each other for a little over a month at that point. But Nygma insisted that they do something to celebrate.

They didn’t pick a specific holiday to celebrate. None of them could remember if Ed or Jon belonged to any specific religion, and frankly, none of them cared enough to pick one out for themselves. So they all sat in a circle on the floor in the living room, each of them sipping from mugs of hot cocoa with wrapped boxes or gift bags of various sizes in their laps.

“So,” Edward began, “We drew the names from the hats, went shopping, and now I see we’ve all got our gifts for everybody!”

Nygma’s energy was welcome, but perhaps not as infectious as they’d hoped.

“I’ll go first. Ahem. Riddler? Here is your present.” Edward passed the gift bag one person to his left.

“Oh. Well. Let’s see what you got me… sure it’s nothing special…” Riddler plucked the tissue paper out of the bag with a gloved hand.

The first thing he pulled out was a bottle, about the size of a regular water bottle, full of a clear liquid. Riddler read the label. “Turpentine? You actually listened?”

“There’s more.” Nygma grinned and silently gestured for Riddler to continue looking inside. Riddler pulled out another bottle, this one smaller and holding a thicker yellow liquid.

“Linseed oil. Hm. Didn’t think you’d know what kind of medium to get me.” Riddler looked down at the very bottom.

“Watercolour paints?”

“I know you usually do oil paintings,” Nygma said, “But I figured you might want to try a new supply. Y’know, broaden your horizons a little? There’s a sketchbook and some brushes in there too.”

“Huh. Well. Thank you, Edward. Your gifts are appreciated.” Riddler placed all three items back into the bag and set it to the side. “Am I next, then?” Receiving a nod from Edward in response, Riddler passed a flat, rectangular wrapped gift across the circle to the Scarecrow, careful to not spill any of the hot chocolate.

Scarecrow looked at the blue wrapping paper for a few moments before bringing it up to his ear and shaking it. There wasn’t a sound.

“Don’t shake it, Scarecrow. Just open it.”

Scarecrow shrugged and tore back the paper. His fingertips made contact with a smooth, fluid brushstroke atop a canvas. He stared down at what he was looking at.

It was a painting. Of him. It wasn’t complex, just a simple bust shot of him. His mask was still on, so there wasn’t much to be gained from his facial expression other than his eyes. Still, even though it wasn’t complex, it was still well-painted. Incredibly well-painted.

Scarecrow stared at that painting in silence for what had to have been more than five minutes before he finally looked back up at Riddler. “Thank you, Riddle Man. Scarecrow likes his gift. He likes it quite a bit.”

“Well that- that doesn’t mean you get to keep it. Give it back.”

Scarecrow tilted his head.

“The gift was that you get to see it. Once. Give it back, Scarecrow.”

Scarecrow hung his head, once more staring down at the painting like it owed him something. Riddler had a hand outstretched for no longer than ten seconds before sighing.

“Fine. You can keep it.”

Scarecrow’s eyes crinkled up in a way that could only mean he was smiling. “Thank you, Riddler. Is it Scarecrow’s turn?”

Scarecrow’s gift was easily the smallest of them all. It was a box even smaller than one a ring might fit into. He handed it across the circle to Edward.

“Oh! It’s so tiny. Jewelry, maybe? Let’s see…” Edward smiled as he unwrapped the present and took the lid off the small black box he now held.

“Paper? Hm.” Edward reached into the box and indeed pulled out a folded strip of paper. He read over whatever was written on it, each word making his smile grow more and more. By the end of whatever sentence he was reading, he looked positively giddy.

“What is it?” Crane tried to peek over Edward’s shoulder.

Edward, in turn, flipped the paper around so everybody else could see.

“You may use Scarecrow’s bank account until January 1st.”

“Access to his bank account is the gift?” Eddie glanced between the paper and Scarecrow. “How much money is on there?”

Scarecrow pulled out his cell phone, fiddling with it for a few minutes before turning it around to show the group. None of them had a number in mind, but if they had, the number they saw far exceeded their expectations. It would’ve surely made even Bruce Wayne salivate.

“How do you have that much money, Scarecrow?” Jonathan asked.

“Have you seen the price of fear toxin these days?” Riddler said.

“Fair point. I’ll go next.” Jonathan’s box was also one of the smaller ones. He handed it over to the man who sat beside him- Eddie.

“Aww, Jonny. You’re my gift giver? Hmm, let’s see here…” Eddie peeled open the top of the box. He pulled out a knitted scarf with a yellow and black striped pattern. He unfolded it and held it across his hands. “It’s so long.”

“Well- you said somethin’ about wantin’ us to be able to share a scarf ‘cause you thought it’d be cute. I figured I might as well get us an extra long scarf.”

“Jonathan, that’s so sweet.” Eddie draped the scarf over his shoulders, then looped it around Jonathan’s neck. Because of their height difference, the scarf sat near Jonathan’s neck but completely covered the lower half of Eddie’s face.

“.. Sorry. Guess I didn’t think through how it’d sit with me bein’ taller than you ‘n all,” Jonathan said.

“Jon, it’s perfect. Now my nose won’t get so cold in the snow.” Eddie smiled- not that anybody could tell, given the scarf. “I’ll go next. Here you go, Doctor.” Eddie passed a box wrapped in a nice gold paper over to Crane.

“Ooh. Heavy.” Crane picked at the tape. “Let’s save this beautiful wrapping paper. We can use it next year.”

“Doctor. Nobody saves wrapping paper.” Eddie rolled his eyes.

“I do, and I’m saving it.”

Crane continued to pick at the tape holding the wrapping paper on until he was left with one square of wrapping paper and two thick books in his lap. He picked up the slightly smaller one first. “Mm. The Great Compendium of Terrors. Volume Three! I needed this volume to finish my collection. Thank you, dear Eddie.”

“Look at the other one.”

Crane picked up the other book. “The cover is on the wrong side.” He skimmed through the pages. “And it’s a comic book?”

“It’s a manga, Doctor. Like a Japanese comic. It’s by this guy named Junji Ito. He does a lot of horror stuff, I think you’ll like it.”

Crane flipped the book over to the other side and read the title to himself. “Uzumaki. Hm. That means.. spiral, right?”

“Probably.” Eddie shrugged. “It’s about spirals.”

“Thank you, Eddie. I’ll read it only because it’d be rude not to.” Crane looked over to the only person left in the circle who hadn’t received their gift. “Your turn, Jonathan.” He handed over a decently sized box to Jonathan.

“Hoo. This one’s heavy too.” Jonathan ripped off the wrapping paper in one swipe- much to Crane’s annoyance- and popped the lid off the box. The first thing he pulled out was a bomber jacket lined with a nice plush faux fur. “Huh. Warm.”

“Your old brown coat is practically falling apart. Figured you may want to stay warm.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Jonathan looked in the box and pulled out a thick stack of papers all bound together by plastic rings. It appeared to be the source of the box’s weight. “Fuck is this?”

“Your current psychoanalysis. It’s very thorough.” Crane said with a smile.

“It’s so long, though. This’ll tell me everything what’s wrong with me?”

“Mhmm. And why, as well.”

“I ain’t readin’ allat. But it’ll make a nice coaster for my whiskey glasses.”

“Your alcoholism is addressed in the psychoanalysis.”

“Fuckin’ ‘course it is.” Jonathan held the stack of papers in his lap and looked around the circle. “So. Now what?”

They all seemed to think for a moment before Edward spoke up. “Who wants to put on a shitty rom-com and order Chinese takeout and liquor?”

The other Facets all nodded in agreement almost simultaneously. Nygma smiled and grabbed the remote. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

For once, it was a cold night in Georgia. It made sense, it was November after all. The only sounds carried through the air was the ruffle of the wind through tree branches and tall grass. It was a cold November night in Georgia. A young boy in Calhoun had turned seventeen earlier that day. His birthday was not celebrated. It never was, not in his family. He spent his birthday locked away in his room, the same one he’d stayed in since his birth. His bed was still too small. The floorboards still creaked and groaned underneath his admittedly miniscule weight. The only gift he received was the mercy of his father. He hadn’t been beaten or berated once that day. He spent his birthday hunched over notebooks and a small makeshift chemistry lab underneath the creaky floorboards.

It was a cold night in Georgia, and Jonathan Crane had just killed his father.

The idea of a chemical serum to induce intense fear was his father’s idea, at first. He had mentioned it offhandedly a few times as an empty threat towards his son. But Jonathan was a whiz at science, and he had been for years. Perhaps it was the reason he was so ruthlessly picked on at school by the jocks, the preps that never tried hard enough. He had stolen equipment from the school’s only science lab. It was never used, and so it was never noticed.

He spent years perfecting his formula. He had to use himself as a test subject, and the failed formulas had made him sick a number of times. A specific test when he was 15 only hindered his already slow metabolism. He was even more skin and bones than he was before, and that was truly saying something.

But earlier in November, he had finally done it. He had completely perfected his formula. Once more, he had tested it on himself. Shadows crept and danced on the walls of his bedroom and clawed hands scratched at every fiber of his being, trying to drag him to the abyss with them. His father’s voice echoed in his ears, every single insult or beratement thrown his way circling through his brain. It was terrifying, and it was beautiful.

Jonathan spent only a week thinking of how he could get revenge on his father after a childhood of torture. He had dug his own father’s grave, locked the front door on the night of his plan. The safe dose for his experimental drug was 10 milligrams; that’s what he theorized, at least. He gave Elijah Crane 200 milligrams. It was cathartic to see a man so untouchable, a man so powerful reduced to a horrified heap of flesh. Jonathan could only fantasize about the way that his father’s heart must have beat out of his chest, how every bone in his body must’ve felt like it was on fire.

He wishes he could know what Elijah Crane saw that night. But, of course, he didn’t see it. All he saw was his father, having stumbled into his own grave, reaching up to the Scarecrow on its post. Elijah had tried to beg for mercy, some kind of release from the torment he was being put through. But the Scarecrow offered no mercy, the same way he was never offered mercy for seventeen years.

Then came the difficult part. Jonathan had to figure out where to go from there. There were no witnesses to his crime, but he couldn’t stick around. The few friends that Elijah Crane had would notice his disappearance, would come to his house, would find his freshly dug grave and would suspect the son. Jonathan couldn’t stay in Calhoun. Hell, he couldn’t stay in Georgia at all. He would be found out if he did. He had to move away.

With his father dead in the backyard, Jonathan sat at the kitchen table, looking around the house that was now his. He wondered what he would do with it once he ran away. Maybe he’d burn it down. Maybe he’d leave it standing as a museum to the torment he endured. He would decide that once he decided where to go.

He went to the counter to pour himself a cold cup of coffee from the coffee pot that would forever go untouched after his hand left it. He sat back down and flicked through the pile of mail on the table that Elijah would never read. Taxes, bank statements, utility bills… and a newspaper. Jonathan unfolded it and opened it. He’d always liked reading, and he’d never pass on the opportunity, especially not now.

Local invasive species, firefighter chief retiring, whatever.. Jonathan didn’t care. His eyes scanned down the page, looking for something interesting.

And then he found it. A businessman in Atlanta had cut a deal with a man by the name of Thomas Wayne. There was to be an expansion made onto some tower in Wayne's name in Gotham City. Gotham City. Jonathan had heard it brought up in passing a few times, mostly as a dream place to visit for people who would never leave the state of Georgia. It was supposed to be a city of opportunity. That was all he knew about it. It was also the only place he knew that was far enough away from Georgia to hopefully erase him from Calhoun’s collective memory.

He didn’t have a driver’s license. The only money he had was whatever was in his father’s wallet that he planned on finding and stealing. All he had was himself, a few bottles of his as-of-yet unnamed chemical, his pet bird, and his father’s corpse. But he would get by.

He went up the wooden stairs that were borderline collapsing and walked into his father’s bedroom. He’d never been inside before- he was strictly forbidden from entering. There was nobody stopping him now, though. It was a mess, that he could’ve expected. Dirty clothes were strewn about and empty liquor bottles littered the floor. He glanced to the top of the dresser. There was his wallet. Jonathan plucked it off the dresser and tucked it into his pocket. He grabbed a fur-lined brown coat on his way back into the hall. It would be colder in Gotham City than it would be in Georgia, he might need it. He’d just have to wash the smell of booze off of it over time.

He stopped by his bedroom before he went back to the ground floor. He didn’t have many belongings, but he wanted to take a few things with him. Firstly, he grabbed his withering backpack and stuffed his thin blanket into it. Once again, he would likely need it. He couldn’t take his chemistry equipment, it was too delicate. He turned to his bookshelf. Much more barren than he’d like it to be, but he did have his favorites. He shoved a few books into his bag alongside some notebooks and pens. He couldn’t fit anything else in his bag other than a few snacks that he planned on grabbing on his way out the door. There was just one last order of business. He turned to the small golden birdcage that was hidden under a blanket in the corner of the room. He gently lifted the blanket up to see Ichabod resting on her perch.

“Ikky,” Jonathan whispered. “We’re finally getting out of here, girl.”

Ichabod didn’t regard him with more than a tilt of her head and a quiet caw.

“You can caw all you want, Ikky. He ain’t here no more, he won’t never find out about you.” Jonathan stuck his fingers through the bars of the cage and scratched Ichabod’s neck. She puffed out her feathers and leaned into his touch in response. “Good girl,” He muttered to her.

Jonathan draped the blanket that was previously covering the cage over his shoulders and picked up the cage by a ring on the top. He had everything he needed. He took the steps four at a time on his way down, walked to the front door, grabbed the keys to his father’s truck that were hanging on the wall, and walked out of his home. Hopefully for the last time.

He had driven his father’s truck only a few times. But he felt he had a good enough hang of it to drive halfway across the country. It took a few tries to start up- it was a terribly old vehicle- but Jonathan got it running. He set Ichabod’s cage in the passenger seat and buckled her up before reaching into the glove box and pulling out a map of the major US highways. If he took Interstate 81, he could get to New Jersey in less than a day. That was something he could get behind. He put the truck into reverse and left Calhoun without a second glance back. Finally, he was free.

Chapter Text

Moving to the United States was supposed to be a fresh start for Allison Blackshaw. After what she experienced at her boarding school as a child, there was little she wouldn’t do to get away from Bristol. As soon as she could, she packed her things, kissed her parents goodbye, and set off for Gotham City. And for so long, her life was fine. She had a job as an overnight receptionist at a hotel downtown. It wasn’t the best job in the world, she got her fair share of drunk or rude customers or men that would come onto her a little too forcefully. But it paid her well and, for the most part, she could sit at the desk reading all night unless she had a customer to attend to. She got occasional book recommendations from the hotel guests, which she was always happy to follow through on- she did love reading.

She had even gotten a boyfriend during her time as a receptionist. It was one of the few gentlemen that she came across while she worked. They chatted for half an hour in the lobby of the Gotham Royal Hotel about their favorite books, he asked her out to dinner the next night she was off work, and they hit it off almost immediately. They didn’t live together, but they were working up to that, saving up money for it.

The one thing she didn’t expect about the city was the rampant “supervillainy”, as Gothamites had taken to calling it. Downtown Gotham was a hotspot for those so-called supervillain attacks. Why, she had no clue. But her employers had an extensive plan of defense in the event of Joker gas, Scarecrow gas, bombings, hostile takeovers, robberies, arson… you name it. It was a comprehensive list, but she was frankly glad it was there. There was even a detailed evacuation plan if the building wasn’t safe. She hoped she’d never have to use it.

Her hope was horribly misplaced. She’d been living in Gotham for nearly five years on the day of the attack. The Joker- whom Allison was quickly growing to despise, he seriously needed to leave the Gotham Royal Hotel alone- and a much taller man with tubes of a bright green viscous liquid running across his body stormed the lobby of the hotel, ordering those who valued their lives to leave as they were setting up a trap for the Batman. Allison complied. They had guns, after all. She wasn’t going to argue with men with guns. Still, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Supervillains were the worst. She wasn’t hasty to run off. If she was lucky, she could beat the late night rush at her favorite diner and be able to sit and enjoy a stack of pancakes far enough away from the hotel to be safe.

Allison walked briskly down the sidewalk, holding her purse to her side. She checked her phone- damn. No service. The Joker must’ve taken out the internet so nobody inside or around the hotel could call the cops. She hated that they could be smart sometimes. No matter, she knew the way to the diner like the back of her hand.

Most of the people she saw were either speed walking or running away from the Gotham Royal. But there was one man who was instead walking down the middle of the road towards it. She couldn’t help but turn her gaze to see the face of the surely crazy man who would willingly walk towards a classic Gotham holdup. And she had to stop.

The first thing that caught Allison’s gaze was the man’s fiery orange hair. The next thing was his attire of dress- it was far too formal for a Thursday evening in Gotham. Who the hell would wear a three piece suit, tailcoat, and top hat that looked like it was pulled straight out of the 1800s in a city like Gotham? The final thing that Allison noticed were the man’s eyes. They were blue, almost too blue, and pierced through her like icicles. She felt a chill roll down her spine as his gaze met hers. Only one thought raced through her head.

She knew those eyes.

Allison suddenly found herself in much more of a hurry. She turned her face away as quickly as she could, starting to pick up the pace as she walked down the sidewalk. She cursed herself for insisting on wearing white heels to work that day. She couldn’t run in those; she wished she could. Allison turned down an alleyway and prayed she wasn’t being followed. Now that she thought about it, her pancakes could wait. She was going home.

Allison Blackshaw was not usually a paranoid person. She thought she was safe, she thought she was away from the boogeyman that tormented her for over four years. As it turned out, though, that was the farthest thing from the truth. He was in Gotham with her, and now he had seen her. Would he follow her? She had a restraining order. He couldn’t knowingly get within a certain distance of her without it being illegal. Would that even deter him? Surely it would. It had to. He might be a lunatic, but surely the law would keep him away from her.

Still, that didn’t stop Allison from looking over her shoulder nearly every minute of every day for six months. Most of the time, she saw nothing other than the usual Gotham day-to-day life. Sometimes, though, she saw him. And he saw her.

Should she leave Gotham? It’d be hard. She had a good life, but not a good enough life to upend her home, her job, and her boyfriend. She didn’t have the financials for that. Maybe she could just take a vacation. Leave Gotham for long enough to make him think she was gone for good. Would that stop him? He had followed her across a literal ocean. There were few places that she could think of that he wouldn’t follow. For now, all she could think to do was air on the side of caution and try her best to be wary of redheads. Good thing her boyfriend was a brunette- she had grown to hate redheads.

For a few weeks, she was fine. In some fleeting moments of peace, she was able to forget about her newly acquired stalker. Those moments never did last long, though.

One fateful February night, only a few days before Valentine’s Day, Allison was working. She had her nose buried in the latest book that her boyfriend had suggested she read. She was enjoying it a lot so far. So much, in fact, that she didn’t immediately process it when a customer had entered the lobby. They were able to make their way right in front of Allison’s desk before she looked up.

Oh god. Not him.

If Allison were conscious to remember it, she’d happily regale her therapist with the story of how she was knocked over the head, slung over a bony shoulder, and taken out to a car. Unfortunately, Allison was not conscious. Equally as unfortunate, she was not dreaming when she woke up.

Allison hated the color blue. Since she left her old boarding school, she had hated the color blue. Just looking at that pale shade of robin’s egg blue that she wore for four years made her nauseous. But as she looked down at the dress she was now in, she felt that same curl in her stomach. Allison tried to move- she couldn’t. She was bound to her chair with some form of rope that burned and itched at her skin in an all too familiar way. She glanced up and around the room. She was sitting at the end of a very, very long table. It was adorned with a baby blue tablecloth and no fewer than 20 mismatched teacups, saucers, and teapots. If she had better past memories, maybe the smell of earl gray tea brewing would remind her of her home back in England. Now, though, it only brought back the worst of her memories.

She heard fingers drumming against the table. She tried to peer into the darkness, squinting her eyes to try and see the source of the noise. She knew what, or rather who the noise was coming from regardless. The table vibrated and soon she saw a pair of shoes walking along the tablecloth towards her. She looked up at the man that now stood before her. His hat obscured his eyes but did nothing to hide his wicked, toothy grin.

“Jervis Tetch,” She spat.

“Dear Alice, is that any way to speak to an old friend?” He hopped down from the table and draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and ignoring her attempts to worm away from him.

“So the Alice thing is back?”

Jervis hesitated. “Is… back? Dear, it never left.”

“You’re insane, Tetch.”

“Ha! Well, they don’t call me the Mad Hatter for nothing, darling. Ah, speaking of which- this ‘Tetch’ thing has to stop. I’d much prefer it if you called me by my real name.”

Allison scowled. “That is your name.”

Jervis’s smile faded for the briefest of moments. “No, Alice, no, that’s all wrong, isn’t it? All upside-down, inside-out, topsy-turvy, and wrong…” His voice trailed off as he muttered the last few words to himself.

“Let me go, Jervis.”

“Now why would I do that, my dear? We’re together again, and this time, nothing- nothing will come between us. Isn’t that just splendid?” Jervis picked up a teacup and sipped from it lazily, leaning against the table.

“Jervis-”

“Hatter.”

“Fine. Hatter, this is completely delusional. You can’t keep me here. My boyfriend is going to notice I’m gone, and-”

The teacup in Jervis’s hand shattered and hot tea splashed onto Allison’s black shoes. Shards of glass stuck into his glove, but he didn’t seem to care. “Alice… dear Alice, am I truly, terribly mad, or did I just hear the word ‘boyfriend’ come out of your mouth?”

“For the last time, my name is Allison, not Alice. And yes, you did. He’ll notice I’m gone, and he’ll find me, and you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars. I’m not letting you keep me in here like this again!”

“Alice. Darling, darling Alice. I did hope I could convince you. But you are not so easily swayed are you? No… no, your determination is something I’ve always admired about you. Though, that is fitting, with the White Rabbit and whatnot. Oh well. If I cannot convince you, maybe they can.”

“Who’s they?”

Jervis clapped his hands twice and three people that Allison hadn’t noticed before stepped out of the shadows. Each of them was wearing a different mask, ones that she had seen much cruder versions of several years prior. What Allison found the strangest, though, was the fact that none of them did much of anything aside from just standing there. They didn’t look at her, didn’t look at Tetch, hell, none of them so much as twitched a finger.

Jervis walked around behind them, putting his hands on the shoulders of the first one in line; a tall, skinny man wearing a white rabbit mask. “Ah, the White Rabbit,” Jervis said wistfully. “I’m sure you’re happy to see him, Alice, yes? I know he’s happy to see you. Shocking that he’s on time, isn’t it?”

He walked a few steps to the person in the center, a slightly portlier older man wearing a purple cat mask. “And who could forget the Cheshire Cat, hm? Still grinning, as he always does and is known to do.” Jervis gestured vaguely to the smile painted onto the mask.

It was only two steps before he was standing behind the last person in line. Allison couldn’t tell their gender, but they wore a mask of a woman’s face with heart-shaped paint around the eyes and lips. “And, of course, the fearsome Queen of Hearts. Ah, no need to fear, Alice. Your dear Hatter will protect you from her tyranny. Now-” He clapped his hands again as he sat down in a chair far too close to Allison. “Put on a show for Alice and I.”

The three of them didn’t hesitate to break into some form of dance. Allison wanted nothing more than to look away, but for some reason, she couldn’t. It was simultaneously rigid and loose, rehearsed and spontaneous. Everything about it screamed “unnatural”, and yet here she was witnessing it with her own two eyes. She had to force herself to turn her gaze away long enough to get a glimpse at the man beside her. He was watching the dance as well, but the expression on his face was far more contemplative and analytical than anything she had ever seen on him before. Somehow, that was far more unnerving than the dance itself.

With yet another clap of Jervis’s hands, the dance number stopped and the three people before Allison stood and stared straight ahead yet again. The stern expression on Jervis’s face finally fell away as he turned to Allison and smiled. “Wasn’t that delightful, Alice?”

A chill ran down Allison’s spine. “What did you do to these people, Jervis?”

Jervis’s smile fell entirely, replaced with a deep frown. “It’s Hatter. And if I told you, that would be telling, now wouldn’t it? And that isn’t sporting at all.”

“Do they even… Do they even want to be here? Or did you kidnap them the same way you did to me?”

“Oh, well. Kidnapping is such an ugly word, Alice. They’re happier like this, can’t you see! They’re all elated to do as I say. Aren’t you, my pets?”

The three people nodded in perfect unison.

“See?”

“You’re demented.”

“Come now, Alice. That’s hardly fitting language.” He leaned in ever closer towards Allison as his voice grew quieter. “Please apologize to your dear Hatter.”

Allison stared down at the teeth that poked through Jervis’s smile. He wanted her to apologize to him? Fat chance. She would sooner spit into his mouth.

And that’s exactly what she did. Jervis pulled back, sputtering, clearly startled. His smile was no more, and for once, Allison couldn’t read the expression that replaced it. He wiped his tongue off on his glove and reached into his coat pocket with his other hand.

Allison only managed a brief glance at what he grabbed from his pocket. It was rather unassuming; just a small white slip of paper, about the same size as a playing card. In the few seconds she had to process what she was looking at, she could’ve sworn she saw those same cards tucked behind the masks of the three other people in the room.

Jervis’s smile curled back onto his face, now even deeper and more intense than before.

“I really wanted to be nice, Alice, I really did. But you just won’t play along, and that’s no fun, my darling. So if you won’t play along…”

He moved to brush a lock of hair out of her face, slyly slipping the card behind her ear as he did so. His gaze softened as he watched her eyes go glassy.

“Then I’ll have to make you.”