AN; Any opinions are not my own (they actually might not even be the character's own, with these two). Swearing, implied murder, taunting, madness, general manipulation, and very shaky moral ground ahead; so, the usual. No one belongs to me, nor do their hypothetical toxins or awesome iconic canes.

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Most residents of Gotham City knew better than to pay much attention to other people's business, and only the completely foolish would be silly enough to casually look into windows while scurrying through dangerous areas of the city. Had anyone the inclination toward being particularly suicidal on the night in question, they may have peeked through a crack in the blinds of a dimly lit apartment in a moderately decrepit brick building; old and worn as most of that part of Gotham, but not yet unserviceable for human occupation. Certainly, they would have seen a rather interesting display unfolding, but in all likelihood would have (one way or another) had the natural habit of keeping their eyes on the sidewalk reinforced.

A man clad in green, clearly mad with frustration, was pacing as he spoke and sputtered in turn. The cadence of his words, though, remained quick enough to assure anyone listening that he was most definitely unhinged. His pitch and tone had been alternating in a swift and fascinating cycle from low growls to what an observer would be forgiven for assuming was something only dolphins could hear.

Another man, painfully thin for his tall frame and generally disheveled in appearance, sat with his long arms crossed and watched with an expression of supreme boredom. The shorter man continued on obliviously, the cane in his hands waving as though to emphasize his words.

"-but this time, this time he's too far, way too far. What am I saying? He's the definition of too far, always has been. Over and over and over! Not after this, no, no way, I'm done, and I've got him. I swear, I've got him – or at the very least, three of his limbs... I figured it out, it's all set up. I might be able to use your help. I know the toxin doesn't work on him, but listen! It has to be precise, detailed, and I think I can trust you with it. I believe that if we time everything perfectly, you can get the right-"

Jonathan watched Edward pace back and forth, practically wearing a hole in the carpet as he spoke. Crane might have cared, but it wasn't his carpet. Then again, he probably still wouldn't have cared. The old man who had lived in the usurped run-down apartment had been a terrible test subject; one of Scarecrow's worst. He might have expected it, but a heart attack occurring less than a minute after injection was a new record. He shook his head. At least the man had been surly enough that none of the other occupants of the building were concerned with his disappearance.

And now… this. A raving Riddler in his work room had definitely not been on his list of goals for the day. Crane had not made such a list, of course, but had he made one, Edward would not have been involved.

Only a half of an hour previous to his current situation, Crane had been working at a folding table in the living room. The table was a bit rickety, but it served. It was very nearly level, even, once Jonathan had propped one of the legs up with a magazine.

His notebooks, some 'borrowed' chemistry texts, psychology periodicals, reference guides, various writing implements, Pyrex and vials marked in color coded labels, and a few novels had quickly cluttered the workspace (and every surrounding surface). So what if it may have spilled off into small piles on the floor? As long as he could find the paper or item he needed, untidiness was low on Scarecrow's list of concerns.

He had gone through the last resident's mail, checking if he had any social connections that might cause a problem. Jonathan had only came up with junk, coupons, and a few utility bills. Unsurprised, he had pushed it all off to a pile in the corner of the table.

He'd been concentrating on his recently failed experiment, scribbling notes in a journal propped haphazardly upon the well-worn table, while examining several small glass vials. Was it possible the batch was actually too strong? He needed a subject; a healthy subject. Definitely not an old man. That had been so disappointing; all he'd conclusively learned was that the subject had a weak heart, and Scarecrow hated to waste resources.

Crane had been absorbed with his thoughts of neurochemistry, the nervous system, and terror; nothing unusual for him, but things had been... hectic, as of late. At least he could finally concentrate and make some useful notations about his concoction. It only made sense that the Universe would find it amusing to pester him at that exact moment. Naturally, Crane was wrenched from his work by a rapping at the front door.

Startled, he quickly forced himself to relax. He'd only been there a few days, and he doubted anyone was actively looking for him... well, at that precise time, anyway. He'd been too busy with this formula to make his presence widely known for at least three weeks, and with the recent breakout and most of Arkham on the loose... The Bat and Birdie-boy were probably occupied elsewhere.

Out of habit, he recited, "'Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more." It wasn't as if the Batman knocked.

The rapping quickly increased to fervent knocking. "Hey! Hey, Jon! I need to talk to you, business, let me in! I know you're here. JON! Hey! Let me in! You reclusive praying mantis! I need to talk to you, damn it! Jonny!" the door was then pounded in time with the syllables, "JON-A-THAN!"

Edward. Subtle, as always... Of course he would have already learned of Crane's change of address. For all his intelligence, though, the young man seemed to have no concern about showing up in front of Crane's door and shouting his name loudly enough to disturb the neighbors, all the while wearing a glaringly bright suit covered in question marks. He should have never opened the door.

Maybe he could have opened it a crack, leaving the chain on, and sprayed the manic nuisance full in the face with one of his weaker batches of toxin. The noise he'd cause couldn't be any louder than the Riddler was already making. Crane smiled, but discarded the thought. No door opening shall be done at all, he concluded.

His recently acquired neighbors would not even peek outside. It was easy to assume anyone with that level of enthusiasm for seeing another person in this area was a junkie asking for money, or even visiting a dealer. Jonathan didn't like the idea of that label being applied to him, but it was certainly not rare. Indeed, it was a great deal less problematic than the occupants of the surrounding units knowing they were neighbors with the Scarecrow.

-SLAM SLAM SLAM-

Was he...? The Riddler was actually beating his door with that stupid cane of his! The maddening little brat! Nothing else the man carried on his person would make a sound like that! No. This had to stop, so he would stop it. Jonathan scowled as he stood and made his way to the door, which he was certain would have question mark shaped indentations in it by now, with the force the 'genius' was using.

Maybe it was actually important. It wouldn't be, he thought, but he entertained the possibility that it could be. If he wasn't still trying to keep under Batman's radar, he would have pushed the pest's buttons a bit by calling out, "Who is this?"

Edward hated that. Unfortunately, he also responded to it with loud, long-winded speeches consisting not only of his name, but various ridiculous titles and monikers he'd taken on. 'Prince of Puzzles', indeed. Crane didn't need that in the hallway right now. Or ever, really, anywhere.

Jonathan hesitated before opening the door. He had known that he shouldn't open the door, even before opening the door. He had still opened the damned door. There would be time to chastise himself later. Right then, he had to deal with this intrusion and shut Nygma up.

Scarecrow opened the door fast, and in a fluid motion he caught the ginger man's cane mid-swing, using his surprise to wrench it from his hands. It wasn't very different than working with his scythe, though the cane was shorter. A random part of his mind supplied, "Freud would have something to say on that." Jonathan ignored it.

"What is wrong with you?!" Crane hissed, holding tight to the offending cane.

Riddler huffed indignantly but didn't reply. He made a failed snatch for his makeshift door knocker, which Crane then held above his head while giving the maniac a smug look. Edward made one jump for his cane, missed the mark by at least a foot, and growled. Visibly taking a deep breath and shaking off his irritation, he strode into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He graced his friend with a nod while still obviously glaring at the tall man, muttering what Crane suspected was an anagramic insult under his breath. The Riddler curled his lip at the mess around Jonathan's workspace, but his eyes moved on swiftly.

Stepping back theatrically, Jonathan smirked tauntingly at Edward. He casually leaned on the other man's cane with both spindly hands in an imitation of the Riddler's posture. The smaller man's left eye actually gave a convulsive twitch. Jonathan considered snatching his hat, as well, but decided against it. The whining would be unbearable. Sarcastic politeness dripped from his voice as he said, "Please, by all means, step into my parlor." Edward was not amused. Jonathan decided to keep that going. He did an uncanny impression of the man standing in front of him as he asked, "Riddle me this; does this business of yours include not only assaulting my door, but also screaming loudly enough to wake the neighborhood and bring a giant Bat down on us?"

As soon as he saw the gleam in Edward's eye, he regretted asking. Perhaps he could knock Nygma out with his own cane before he started? Crane mused. That would be almost enough retribution for disturbing him, and he did like the irony...

"Not at all!" No such luck. Of course not. He and luck had been on the outs since his conception. In less than a second, the Riddler's expression changed from indignant to defiantly determined as he launched into an unreasonably excited speech. Jonathan had trouble following said speech, but it seemed to him that anything the other man found so exciting must have been unreasonable.

Nygma was more manic than he usually would be when he had a plan, and that was saying something. From what Jonathan could piece together, it seemed that the Joker had been amusing himself with stalking Edward's hideouts, stealing the clues left around the city, and generally making a gigantic, giggling nuisance of himself.

That was hardly new. When the Joker was bored with blowing things up, it was understood someone was going to be tortured in one way or another. It seemed the Joker was clever enough to target the Riddler's pride. When Edward found that the clown had unlocked all the doors in two perfectly crafted deathtraps, the Riddler had snapped.

Edward hadn't called his charade of tests deathtraps, but Jonathan, better than the rest of Gotham, knew it was not an inappropriate term. Putting mere humans in a situation where their lives were on the line generally caused panic. Crane understood exactly how much that level of fear usually crippled minds; Edward was, by definition, cheating. He had never bothered to voice that opinion to the Riddler; it would be a waste of breath. Nygma's own fears ensured he wouldn't have accepted the idea, as obvious and simple as it was. Besides, for the most part, Jonathan approved of the hobby. Edward's love of playing bat-bait had allowed Crane to get away with more than one villainous activity entirely unnoticed.

Edward gesticulated furiously, unconscious of Crane's growing amusement, while explaining that he had spent weeks on the clues for the Bat, the questions, finding the right people... His clues were fucking gone and the people walked right out the damned door!

At this point he managed to snatch back his cane, which Jonathan had been absently twirling between his hands. "Give that back before you hurt yourself! You're lucky you didn't trigger something, you know!" Without missing a beat, he went on as if there had been no interruption. "He hacked my speaker system and yelled filthy jokes about me through it! The idiots were already a block away, but I could hear them laughing! If they had any idea what I could have- what I will-"

Jonathan made a Herculean effort not to smirk. He failed. Had Nygma actually taken a breath at all during this outburst? It didn't really matter, Crane decided; he had finally gotten bored and retreated to his seat at the work table.

He understood his friend's frustration. He hated the Joker. Nearly everyone hated the Joker. But, the Joker was the Joker and he did what he did. The Scarecrow was just happy the demented man was bothering someone else and not planting C4 under another of Jonathan's labs. The man occasionally even bought toxin from Crane, for the love of...! He really didn't know or care what Joker ever did with it; he paid well enough, and Crane only sold his poorer batches.

All the same, why? Why would he blow up the lab?! Well, obviously he did these things because he was the Joker.

That was the answer, the only one Jonathan could ever find; "Because Joker." Crane had learned the hard way that when a question had that answer, it was best to leave it alone.

Apparently, Edward didn't want to play anymore.

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AN; It can seem Nygma isn't given enough credit at times in stories. After having Crane rattle around in my head for a while, I sort of understand it now. *laugh* It's not really that he's being written as unintelligent; it's just the force of his personality overshadows it in some chapters. It's nearly impossible not to write him that way in a humor fiction. (Just to clarify, the only reason I chose to make Edward younger than Jonathan is that he was first shown around 1948, and Scarecrow appeared in 1941. It doesn't really matter.) Thanks for reading!