Chapter Text
You hadn’t see him in months.
Not since you’d heard the news: that an accident in Arkham due to Killer Croc had probably left him dead. Arkham staff had never found his body. He’d been declared deceased by the city, but…you hadn’t wanted to believe it. Refused to believe it. After all, he always came home. Even during his darkest times, he always came home.
Everyday, you wandered into his lab. His months of absence had left it lonely and still, a ghost trapped between two worlds. A memory forever frozen in time. Beakers were still sitting in place, filled with liquid that had now turned to black sludge and was probably radioactive from not being preserved properly. Dead moths laid decaying on the boarded up windowsills that only let the smallest sliver of light in, catching dust in the air. Cobwebs hung from the corners; there was an ever-present lingering smell of must and medicine. Anyone else might’ve complained and gagged, but you…well, it was home.
Sharp, heavy drops of rain pelted the roof like bullets. The thunderstorm that the weatherman predicted was here in full force, drenching Gotham in its downpour. White flashes of lighting sparked across the sky, at times filling the dim house with beacons of bright light. Every once in a while, thunder clapped throughout the city, rattling the weak windows and making the house shudder like giants stomping nearby.
You sat, staring into the roaring fireplace, illuminating orange and cast shadows along the walls, peeling with ripped wallpaper. You had barely bothered with upkeep of the house. Your worry, your agony, had kept you locked in chains of despair that you could not break. All you wanted was a sign. A body. Confirmation that he was gone.
Maybe then you could finally move on with your sorry life instead of remaining in this frozen hell.
You closed your eyes; a wave of exhaustion rolled over you, as if someone rested a boulder on your chest. The breath in your lungs was tight, your fingers and back stiff from weeks upon weeks of sitting in the recliner and staring out the window into the abyss. You should get to bed. Should try to get some fucking sleep. Maybe then—
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A heavy pounding at the front door made your eyes flash open. Thick raps, not hesitant, but demanding entrance and notice. Who could be here at this hour? And in this weather?
Hesitantly, you stood, the blanket in your lap falling into a pool of fabric at your feet. You snatched up the pistol nearby, gripping it in between stiff, shaky fingers as fear trickled up the back of your spine. Each step made the floorboards underneath your creak as you grew closer and closer to the front door.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three more heavy raps. You unlocked the door, grabbed onto the doorknob – and then yanked open the door, gun in hand.
But the sight before your eyes made the gun slip from your hand and clatter to the ground.
“J – Jonathan…?” you whispered.
It felt like you were seeing a ghost.
Because there he stood: Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow. But…there was something different about him. He was wearing the same brown coat and hood, pulled over his head – but when he leaned in, the porchlight casting a subtle yellow glow across his face – you realized it wasn’t his face at all.
Instead, his skin was mask-like, almost like burlap had been sewn into his skin. Something that eerily made him look like a walking, living Scarecrow come to life from the corn fields. The sight made your stomach roll; it was so jarring, so terrifying, you were too frozen to speak words or even move.
His head tilted slightly to the side. “Aren’t you going to allow me into my own home?” His voice had changed; colder, now. Icy, making your skin crawl. It was only his bright blue eye – the one that didn’t look cloudy and blind – that you recognized.
You nodded and stepped aside, before quickly snatching up the gun. He stepped into the house, narrowed eyes scanning the room. His footsteps were heavy, and that’s when you realized there was a brace around his leg, causing the heavy thumping against the wooden floor. A sour smell clung to him – something like chemicals and rain and sewage. He was dripping dirty water all over the floor, the tiny droplets of rain filling the silence.
A heavy beat of silence followed.
“…where have you been?” you finally whispered, managing to find your voice.
“Away. Recovering,” he answered, barely acknowledging you.
“That’s not good enough, Jonathan,” you hissed. “I thought you were dead. They declared you deceased. I didn’t even have a fucking body to bury, I didn’t—”
His head tilted slightly towards you, the dark shadows dancing across his face. “I did die, my dear. But I have been reborn. Reborn in the shadow of oblivion, in the greatest depths of fear and chaos. I am the Scarecrow, born anew.”
“Bullshit,” you muttered. “You couldn’t write? Couldn’t call? Couldn’t send one informant to let me know you were alive?”
“No,” he replied, coldly. “I needed people to believe I was dead.”
“Why?”
He finally turned to face you, eyes cold and mask-like face making your shiver. The burlap sap looked like it was sewn into his scalp; you didn’t even know the full extent of his injuries.
“I am planning something,” he replied, lowly. “Revenge, you might call. Batman is the one to blame for this. And I plan to bathe Gotham in a cloud of fear.”
You scoffed; you couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t believe, after all this time…he was still trying to chase a theory he couldn’t prove. Trying to chase a science that wasn’t perfect.
And you were sick of it.
“No,” you said, a bite in your voice. “You need to stop, Jonathan. Give up this foolish chase for fear. We can move out of Gotham, we can—”
“No.” That one word. Cold. Cutting you off. Leaving no room for debate.
“What do you mean no?” you hissed.
“I have simply come to collect a few notes,” he said, his voice calm and even. “You can join me, or step aside. It is your choice.”
Tears blurred your vision. Your legs were weak and jello-like, hands curling into fists so tight you dug your nails into your palms. You couldn’t believe he was doing this to you – not after all he had put you through. For years, you’d followed him.
But you could not follow anymore.
So you stepped aside.
Jonathan said nothing as he made his way into his lab. You stood there, lost in your own agonizing thoughts as you listened to him rattle around to find notes and research papers. After several, long, quiet minutes, he emerged with a briefcase in his hand.
“Just so you know, Jonathan,” you whispered. “If you walk out that door, I will not follow you.”
He blinked. Studied you. The mask-like face left no room for him to express his emotions, other than through his eyes. But he simply said nothing as he turned on his heels, his back to you, head held high.
And then he walked out the door without another word.