It was going to rain soon.

Of course. Why not? It's the perfect end to the perfect day.

Stacy trudged down the street, head down, adamantly refusing to notice the heavy black clouds that had rolled in to cover the sky just minutes after she'd left the apartment.

I said I was going to get in shape, god damn it. Come rain or sleet or dead of night. Or…something. Oh, hell.

Her back was aching under the weight of the groceries she had loaded into her backpack. The two bags she was carrying were lighter, but her hands were cramping almost as much as her legs, which were not used to walking this far even at the easy pace she had set for herself on the way down. Now, as the first fat drops of rain began to fall, every muscle in her body screamed its angry protest at the strain she was putting it through.

I'm already screwed, she decided. I might as well take the shortcut and stay a little drier.

She slipped through the gate into the parking deck of a nearby office building. It might not be the safest place for a woman to walk alone, but it wasn't exactly in a bad part of town, and this was the middle of the afternoon, no matter how dark the clouds made it seem. And she wasn't completely helpless. What was the worst that could happen?

Your tombstone could read, "Stacy Robinson's left pinky toe, the only solid part the cleanup crew could find." That's the worst that could happen. Or, at least, it's probably in the top ten.

(Well, it was Gotham, after all.)

She kept a sharp eye on the cars on either side of her, hoping she would be able to spot anyone coming for her. Unfortunately, the lights were not cooperating, flickering spastically and throwing weird shadows that seemed to move along with her.

Grow up, Stace. That crap only happens in bad movies. You need to look out for real danger, not dying light bulbs.

There was a scuffling sound somewhere behind her. Stacy's pulse quickened.

You're safe. There's nothing there. Just keep walking.

Her right hand moved toward her pocket, and the comforting weight of her mace. She hooked her thumb through the ring that should have attached it to her keychain.

You're an idiot. You and your shortcuts. You should have just let yourself get wet. You should have taken the bus. Who cares about getting fat, anyway? I never want to walk anywhere again as long as I live.

However long that might be. Was she hearing footsteps, or just the echo of her own? She started to slip the mace out of her pocket.

"Freeze," said a voice just behind her.

She couldn't have disobeyed if she'd wanted to. How did he get this close without my seeing him? Stupid, stupid! An arm, long thin, and far stronger than she would have expected, came across her throat, pulling her close to the body of her unknown assailant.

"Who—" Her voice came out as a dry croak. She swallowed hard.

"I'll ask the questions," the man said, his voice a menacing whisper. She felt warm breath on her ear, and the faint scratch of burlap against her cheek. Burlap? A mask? The Scarecrow? "Which car is yours?" he demanded.

"None. I mean, I didn't park here. It's just a shortcut."

"Oh." He cursed under his breath. "A shortcut to where?"

"Pride's Court."

"The apartments?"

"No, the fish cannery," she snapped. He pressed something hard and plastic up under her chin, and she decided this was as good a time as any to shut the hell up.

"Too far to walk in broad daylight," he muttered. "All right, what's in the bags?"

"Groceries."

"And the backpack?"

"More groceries! Look, I don't have much money, but if you let me go, I'll give you whatever you want. I…I have cookies," she said hopefully.

"No. I need a car, but failing that, you'll do as a hostage."

"No, I won't! I'd make a terrible hostage. You'd be better off letting me go." (Well, it was worth a try.)

"Miss," he said, clearly annoyed, "I can take you hostage, or I can kill you now. What's it going to be?" She hesitated. "Well?"

"Stacy," she whispered.

"What?"

"My name is Stacy."

"Good. Let's go, Stacy." He started walking, steering her toward the elevator.

Don't panic. It's just an elevator. It's just an elevator.

And he's just the Scarecrow.

"Wouldn't you rather take the stairs?" she asked.

"Why?"

The cable isn't going to snap. You aren't going to fall.

"It's…good for your heart."

The power isn't going to go out. It isn't going to get stuck between floors. You aren't going to be trapped in that little box for hours, all alone.

No, stupid, you'll be trapped with him.

When he reached out to press the button, she stomped down hard on his foot, driving an elbow back into his stomach. He grunted in pain and dropped his weapon, relaxing his grip on her enough for her to pull away.

And now she got her first look at him. Tall (inhumanly tall!) Thin (nothing that thin should be that strong!) Grinning (It's just a mask, she told herself, but the only part of him that seemed even remotely human were those eyes, and they certainly weren't very comforting.)

She hadn't hurt him much—he was already straightening up and reaching for her—

But she had managed to piss him off.

Shit. Shit on a stick.

Without thinking, she swung her right arm at him, and managed to hit him in the head with her bag of groceries.

Good plan, stupid. Beat him down with carrots and broccoli. Because that won't piss him off more.

She dropped the bag and took off, digging out her mace as she ran.

Don't chase me. I'm not worth it. Don't chase me.

Was he following her silent urging?

Was he chasing her?

Oh, God!

The exit was so close. She risked a glance over her shoulder, and saw…nothing.

Where the hell is he? Did he give up? Is he—

She should have been watching where she was going.

She slammed into a body far more solid than she would have thought from looking at him, and had time for one coherent thought (He's quick!) before she utterly panicked. She squeezed her eyes shut and screamed something highly improper, even as the self-defense classes finally kicked in.

Knee to the groin, mace to the eyes, heel of the palm to the spot just below where the ribs met.

Did I get him? Tell me I got him.

She didn't actually open her eyes until she heard the body hit the floor.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Oh, fuck me gently with a chainsaw, I got the wrong guy.

I…just…maced…Batman.

"You got him." The Scarecrow no longer sounded threatening—he sounded delighted—but she still whirled around to face him, adrenaline pumping. "I applaud. No one ever does that to the Batman. You're a hero to villains everywhere."

"Don't—don't come any closer, or I'll do the same to you!" He chuckled.

"Brave words, Stacy, but you dropped your mace."

Stupid! she berated herself.

But she still had a bag in her left hand. It was full of cookies, and heavier than the broccoli.

She threw it at him and ran.

Rain? No problem. Sore muscles? What sore muscles? Stacy ran out of there like a bat out of hell (no pun intended) and didn't stop until she was safe inside her apartment, soaking wet and trembling, but safe.

It was only then that she realized that he hadn't chased her.

Well, of course he didn't chase you. Duh. He has Batman at his mercy. That's far more important than anything he could get from you.

Well, either that, or he's as big a fan of chocolate chip as you are.

Well, she said to that little voice in her head that wanted her to lose weight, I knew it couldn't hurt to get the cookies, just this once.

But, next time, I'm taking the bus.

And I'm going to need more mace.

Author's note: And thus, the terms of my New Year's resolution are fulfilled. One Scarecrow fic, no pain. For him, anyway.

I don't own the Scarecrow, Batman, or any other DC characters.

I do, however, own some mace.

This story is dedicated to my sweet little old Granny, who kindly made sure I was properly armed for Christmas.

"And it doesn't even hurt them."

"Really?"

"Not permanently."