Content Warning: Language; body horror

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The Scarecrow— normally formidable, currently whiny—lay prostrate on his cot, resplendent in his regulatory Arkham uniform with the softcover copy of James Joyce's 'Dubliners' that he'd so graciously been issued flopped limply over his face, pages loose and spine straining. This sorry behavior had stood as his main pastime since returning from his daily therapy sessions, over the course of which he'd essentially been forced to face and discuss a recent and most uncomfortable occurrence. From his own bed across the room, Nigma stared in pitying silence.

"I can't believe this. I can't damnwell believe this. I cannot humanly fathom this." The older man's unhappy declarations to no one in particular were muffled by his book. His cellmate was sarcastic, and of no help. "Well I'd recommend you start fathoming it professor, or else it's all downhill from here, I suspect."

"And just what does it matter to you?" Jonathan sat up with a jolt, and'Dubliners' fluttered uselessly to the floor like a mangled bird in a tailspin. His glasses were slightly skewed.

Edward simply shrugged. "It looks like you're caught in headlights is all."

The Riddler wasn't really interested in being helpful. Secretly, he was a little disappointed. He found Jonathan's touted disgust with romance refreshing, a fine companion to his own ambivalence thereof. Maybe it was his burgeoning Early Thirties Crisis talking, but Edward was up to his eyeballs in his associates' love affairs. They were insipid. Crane and Tetch, while brilliant perhaps, were no exception.

Which wasn't to say that he didn't feel some condolence for what had happened to them, what with the whole… public outing thing. Because he did. It was unfortunate, this invasion of their privacy, but c'est la vive,really. They had to know that the doctors were bound to find them out eventually, living under constant supervision like that. From the looks of things, Jonathan was much more bent up about the idea of this special order couple's therapy thing than the actual outing at this point anyway, which struck his cellmate as odd. Perhaps he'd finally learned that there was no percentage in dwelling on irreversible problems?

More likely, he would rather gripe about moderate inconveniences than what really ailed him. No wonder The Scarecrow hated therapy.

xx

"—and suppose they take him away from me, indefinitely! What if I never see the March Hare again? That simply cannot be! Our tea party can't very well go on if we're always separate, can it? I couldn't bear to face Time alone, not without my Hare. Why—why without him the balance is thrown completely off! Is that what they want? To break Wonderland? Arnold, are you even listening to me!?"

The Hatter turned in a tizzy from the cell's plexiglass door to the bunk beds on his left. Upon the lower berth sat Arnold Wesker sans dummy, heels dug into the metal bedframe, hands fidgeting upon his drawn up knees. "Yes," he responded plainly, showing no signs of dishonesty. Tetch's temper faltered. "Hm… yes well—th-thanks." His eyes shot to the floor in muted frustration, sitting cross-legged with one hand pressed against the barrier before him. "I'm only just—I'm very startled by what's happening now." He pushed his free thumb into the center of his forehead miserably, tripping off into a high-strung daze. His cellmate tried his best to sound supportive.

"Okay."

Jervis suddenly fumed, whirling again. "It's not okay!" He snapped.

"Sorry."

With an affected "hmph," the younger fellow returned his attention to the floor. The Ventriloquist's plaintive nature drew out a very domineering side of the Hatter, one which was not often so plainly apparent. Even with a gentle companion at hand, his temper was reaching a boiling point, and he was no doubt winding up into a wonderful new psychotic episode as well. Being celled apart from Jonathan set off every wretched alarm bell in his braincase, insisting that he panic, and all of a sudden the puckish Jervis Tetch was no longer so demure or jolly. Though he worried outwardly about complete separation from Jonathan, what he really meant was a lack ofunsupervised companionship, as the Scarecrow had proven time and time again that PDA was strictly off limits. Of course, they could always try to escape, but given the new arrangement that could prove to be a challenge…

xx

"I'm sorry about this Anne, I know it's short notice, but Robert and I are both swamped."

Dr. Leland's tone was apologetic, but her hands were nonetheless eager to pass the buck along with two patient files in a manila folder. The woman called Dr. Carver remained cordial.

"Oh, it's no trouble," she said, taking the papers and tucking them under her right arm. "It is my job, after all." She struggled to mask the weariness in her voice.

The exchange came and went in a blur, and when Joan left the room, a newly appointed "couple's therapist" was free to let her shoulders slump in fatigue, one elbow propped against the break room's water cooler.

That's just what she needed, the woman thought with an internal sigh. More madness. Two more crazies to babysit. Two more files to memorize. She knew it wasn't Joan's fault nor was it necessarily the fault of the patients, but she found it hard not to blame them anyways.

In a few more steps which she barely recalled taking, she was before a mirror in the ladies' room, staring in disbelief at a curly bobcut and two hooded eyes peering up from behind a pair of rimless glasses. This was herface.

'Anne,' she addressed herself silently 'you seem a very tired girl.'

xx

In a matter of days, Carver's premier session as a couple's therapist to the criminally insane (uhg) had arrived. However, none of the involved parties seemed especially thrilled. To Crane it was yet another wasted hour spent under some hack's magnifying glass, to Jervis an insult, while their appointed doctor barely had the energy or interest to focus. Anne was uncomfortable in this room. Its fine leather couches and perky potted ficuses had become both a home and a prison to her. With a twinge of resentment, Anne would also concede that the two men inhabiting her office were just as much her jailers as they were her captives.

She leaned forward slightly, trying desperately to look like she gave a shit about her job.

"Well, uhm, do you two know why you're here?"

Damn. That wasn't right. She had to avoid making this sound like a punishment. Of course, the only person in this room who was being punished was Dr. Anne Carver.

"Beurocracy," the Scarecrow grunted, arms folded across his chest unamiably. Tetch merely glared at her accusingly.

'You're here because this city's criminal justice system is in the shitter.'

"You're here because your therapists have agreed that your… relationshipmight work to your advantages over the course of your respective recoveries."

The Hatter's response was impulsive and shrill, like a donkey braying in pain. "We're not recovering!" he snapped, receiving a swift jab from his partner's shiv of an elbow for his trouble. The doctor set her jaw and continued to power through as if she hadn't been interrupted. "Your relationship isn't entirely unhealthy," she said. "In fact, the staff has agreed that it seems to be a step in the right direction."

"Well how generous of them to say." Crane somehow managed to sound both ambivalent and offended at the same time. His new councilor had to admit that a part of her was very impressed. She too, was very bitter.

There was a beat of resigned silence. The three of them were stuck together in a proverbial finger-trap, mutually resisting and unwillingly holding each other in place all the while.

With an internal sigh, the councilor continued. "Is there anything in particular the two of you would like to discuss?"

Crane took the role of spokesperson for both The Hatter and himself. "No."

He received a dubious stare in return. "…Sex life?"

"No!" They answered in unison that time. Ooh, must have been a touchy subject. No pun intended.

What were you supposed to do in a relationship, even? Even if she'd had that information in mind, a prototypical relationship's configuration, hopefully, would bear no resemblance to however The Scarecrow and The Hatter carried on.

Though the session seemed to carry on forever, God knew that Anne wouldn't have been able to dredge one whit of it out of her conscious memory were she asked.

Crane and Tetch had been returned to their respective cells at some point or another, as if it made much difference, leaving the lady alone to rub her temples and groan privately. It was only then that she felt a twinge of panic. The skin about her eye felt… loose.

Uh oh. With renewed purpose and vigor, she stood up and strode the mirror on the backmost wall, hung up among a small collection of exotic looking masks, moving to examine herself and, luck, nothing appeared out of place at first glance.

She peered further for a moment, noticing a slight sag in her left cheek. Her gaze traced the crease up to the rim of her eyelid, where indeed she could see a pale scrap of Jane Doe peeking out to say hello.

Wuh-oh.

The cypher became annoyed, momentarily breaking character to fuss with her mask, straining its faux flesh and thinking absently of Ed Gein.

Somewhere, in a different corner of the building, Jonathan was ushered back into his cell. He turned to his cohabitant with all the good humor of an insurance claims investigator. "How long have you known that Anne Carver is dead?"

The Riddler began to snicker into his palm.