Title: Downward Spiral

Paring: Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne (Scarecrow/Batman)

Summary: Dr. Crane's descent into madness, ever pursued by Gotham's personification of fear both in and out of his Kevlar suit.

Rating: Part One: R

Warnings: (Overall) FilmSpoilers and S&M Tendencies

Disclaimer: So not mine.

AN: Takes place during the course of the movie-verse, (filling in the holes) a bit tricky to do so but I've given it a shot so there are some slightly AU elements. Written in 2005.

Guide: 'Thoughts'

Downward Spiral

Part One

There is a fine line between genius and insanity, and Jonathan Crane had been flirting rather vicariously with it since day one at Arkham Asylum. To give the good doctor some credit, his initial intention had been focused on the purest psychiatric advancements; an idealistic aim to shed light upon the inner workings of the human intellect twisted by criminal insanity. However, as he delved deeper into the human psyche of the men housed in the asylum he discovered one common link connecting every one of his patients; fear. In some form or another, a simple instinctual fear, resonating from a place hidden deep within the human mind, appeared to be the single driving force behind the criminal actions. As with all of Dr. Crane's previous endeavors, this new insight intrigued the young doctor, nagging in the back of his mind and begging incessantly to explore its theoretical potential. Thusly, if not only to satisfy him own twisted obsession then to advance in the field of psychiatry, leading him into the open arms of Ra's Al Ghul and his unnaturally blue hallucinogenic flowers. Not to mention Falcone's clutches in order to traffic the drugs into Gotham. Crane had been looking for some type of drug that would allow him to amplify the affects of terror in order to experiment with just how much the mind could take before it simply snapped, broken far beyond repair.

This strange, unnamed desire writhing hidden deep inside the externally sophisticated and composed young man, was how he came to find himself standing in one of Arkham's poorly illuminated bathrooms, staring at the tattered mask clutched in his pale hands. A cool sheen of sweat was pricking up the hairs on the back of his neck, just beneath the crisp white cotton collar; the only telltale physical sign that the young man was quietly berating himself in his mind. Standing before one of the stainless steal sinks mounted on the wall, Crane turned the course material over in his hands several times. In the flickering florescent light, as he moved the mask about it seemed to take on a life of its own, dim light catching on a few of the wires beneath the surface that made up the gasmask sewn into the fabric. Finally stopping the anxious movement, settling on just staring at it, he began looking for any possible places of weakness. One finger tugged with a suppressed anger at the frayed tear in the burlap, widening one of the small holes that had been purposely cut so that Crane could see.

A patient, a murder if he remember correctly, one he had testified for so the man could be transferred from prison to his asylum, a favor for Falcone, had not reacted as he thought. In fact, Crane had just come back to Arkham that morning from a psychiatric meeting with the infamous Carmine Falcone, the corrupt man had been attempting to cement an insanity plea that the good doctor had decided to help him with. The man actually retaliated after being subjected to the hallucinogenic gas; tried to gouge Jonathan's eye out with his blunt fingernails, clawing with everything he had left in his drugged body at the taunting mask. A shrill yelp of unadulterated terror had slipped unchecked past his lips as the crazed man lunged at him from across the table, fingers outstretched and tearing viciously at his hidden face. Jonathan had jumped away, retreating backwards until his lanky legs became tangled with the metal chair he had been standing before. Falling back onto the cold linoleum floor, the man had descended upon him in time to hook his fingers in the hole and rip the fabric. The gas, still clinging to the man's clothing, seeped through the burlap and as the patient pulled at the mask the filter stitched into the fabric was lifted off his mouth and nose. Still calling for help, he felt the slightest burning tingle of the secondhand remainder of his own drug filling his lungs before he clamped his mouth shut, holding his breath. Before the patient could do any real damage, the asylum guards had pulled him off the doctor. Shaken, Crane shrunk away into the corner of the room, tearing off the mask with trembling fingers as several of the nurses rustled the man into a confining straitjacket.

It had scared him.

'Experiments are not supposed to turn on you, Crane!' Jonathan's mind screamed in a self-deprecating tone as he flung the offending mask in one of the filthy corners of the bathroom. Nothing was supposed to frighten the man who inspired fear in Gotham's most perverse and horrifying criminals. Ignoring the pulsing walls that seemed to vibrate with their own life force, he turned back to look in the mirror hanging just above the sink. All he saw was the pale face staring blankly back at him; meek, frightened and a long shot from terrifying. Dark strands of hair, once combed in a perfectly presentable manner, appeared disheveled, falling in his eyes. His fingertips skidded over the curve of his cheekbones, dipping down to trace the hollow beneath. Electric blue eyes hidden behind glasses, the frames still slightly askew from the attack, flashed with a dangerous unbridled rage. Before his still somewhat lucid mind knew what his body was doing the twinkling of glass echoed in his ears. His arm lashed out, fist colliding with the mirror, smashing his own image into a thousand tiny pieces. The cacophony of glass clattering against steal and tile was followed closely by the icy pain as shattered fragments of mirror sliced open and buried themselves within his pale flesh.

'Been sniffing your own toxin, Scarecrow?' An oddly familiar voice he could not place, piercing and taunting in an eerie way, mocked him in his mind. It laughed shrilly as the doctor rushed to paper towel dispenser to mop up the blood draining in the sink and snaking down his arm, staining the stark white shirt a deep crimson. 'Afraid yet?' The voice whispered in his ear. It sounded so real, so close that he spun about, finding himself a little surprised when he saw no one standing there. He paused then, breath coming in short agitated puffs, looking down at the mess he had made of his own pale hand. Reflected in the blood splattered bits of mirror still lodged in knuckles he saw the mask lying in the corner, beckoning to him. Without a second thought, he crossed the small room, bent down and grasped the mask in his good hand, before pocketing it. Standing, he walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet.

Deliberately taking his time to feel every flicker of pain, Crane slowly pulled the shards of glass from his hand. Something in the pit of his stomach burned with long suppressed pleasure as he removed a small fleck, his skin clinging to it, seemingly reluctant to let the intruding object go. 'Slight masochistic and sadistic tendencies to keep that tinge of megalomania and ramped homosexuality company on cold nights, right Doc.?' The voice teased, using its very intimate knowledge of Jonathan Crane twisted psyche as well as its own insight into psychoanalysis against the young man's comprehensive mind. However, the doctor noted the voice's intimidating tenor was slowly fading as it lost its dominating sway over him, the 'Mister Hyde' to Jonathan's 'Doctor Jekyll' finally relapsing into the darker recesses of his mind. After tossing the sharp pieces into the trashcan, he attempted to sterilize the injuries with the cheap foam soap as best he could in the grimy bathroom before wrapping his hand in several clean paper towels. Teeth clenched, jaw muscles stinging from the overexerted pressure, he took a few deep breathes through his nose, attempting to find his natural composure somewhere amidst the chaos of his addled mind. Slipping his wounded hand into his pants pocket, the young doctor pushed open the swinging door leading out of the bathroom.

"Doctor Crane," the brunette secretary began, anxiously standing up at her desk upon seeing her employer walking the corridor. Jonathan continued down the hall in quick strides before stopping in front of her desk. Idly, he reached up to run a hand through his mussed hair and finally straightening the crooked glasses frames. "Someone is here to see you about making a donation to Arkham." She informed him, needlessly motioning to the frosted glass with his name scrawled on it, embedded in the upper half of the wooden door to his office. Smiling brightly at the young man, she remained standing with her hands clasped before her, resting against her flat stomach.

"Thank you, Miss Scarlet." Crane replied with an icy formality curbing his voice, somewhat annoyed by the more than obvious implications of twisted lust that her body language screamed. Intrigued though, he watched her for a moment, noticing how her dark eyes darted to the door, her painted lips pressed together in thinly veiled curiosity. The posture was not intended for him, of course, it never seemed to be, but was intended for whomever it was waiting in his office. Well, he would just have to find out what rich benefactor was keeping his secretary on the balls of her feet in anticipation. "Oh," he paused, his wounded hand resting on the doorknob, remembering the little fit he had in the bathroom. Pursing his lips, he turned back to the young woman with his head cocked to the side, dark brows drawn close in mock concern. "Would you send one of the custodians to check out the men's restroom on the third floor, I believe that someone has broken one of the mirrors." His voice raised a few octaves, peaking on the word 'broken' before he corrected his tone. Quickly turning to open the office door, the good doctor hid the manic smirk curling up the corner of his mouth on its own accord.

It was not as if he truly wanted to be in Arkham Asylum at the moment, let alone in the Narrows, though it was still daylight outside, but Alfred had been nagging him for a week or so about behaving more like a billionaire. Of course the suggested code of conduct was to go about Gotham driving ridiculously overpriced sports cars, stepping out with models and buying whatever caught his eye no matter the price or availability. However, after running into Rachel outside his newly acquired hotel, and listening as she vocalized her disapproval of his actions as playboy Bruce Wayne, actions she claimed spoke volumes above whatever was inside him, he decided to take a different path with his billionaire ambitions. Bruce settled on following in his father's footsteps; trying to help the floundering city by donating money, in addition to his nightly clean sweep of the city as the dark knight, Batman. It also did not hurt that Arkham was somewhat of a systematic attempt on Gotham's part to keep the unstable criminals off the streets and away from those who were innocent. Only after being tried for their crimes and found insane were men sent to the asylum, all to be inducted into therapy. After all, Batman had to believe in redemption or else the city itself had no hope of surviving.

Patients, a quality he had never in earnest possessed in the first place, wearing thin, Bruce began looking around the doctor's office while waiting for him to return from a session with some criminal lunatic. The small room was meticulously clean, save for the mass of papers and open books strewn over the desk. Glancing at one of the larger volumes laying on the desk, he saw it was an encyclopedia about botany, opened to a page concerning flowers and herbs that could be used for an antipsychotic. A strange feeling buzzed in the back of his mind as he ran is fingers over the oddly erratic script that sporadically made up the doctor's notes, coming and going with certain words and phrases. One other odd thing that he observed after walking about the small office was that this Doctor Crane did not seem to have any photographs whatsoever on his desk or anywhere else. The only items framed and hanging from the wall behind the faux mahogany desk were several diplomas with archaic looking script in scrawling black ink. After walking behind the desk, admiring the certificates, Bruce noticed the dates. With a genuinely awed expression, he realized just how young the man was for being the head of the psychiatric ward in the asylum, and thusly the head of Arkham itself, he seemed to be roughly about his own age if only a few years younger.

"Mister Wayne, if I'm not mistaken?" A chilly voice inquired, quickly drawing Bruce back into reality, causing him to gingerly step a respectable distance away from the man's personal effects. Stilted smile pulling at his thin lips, the man walked back to the seat he had been originally waiting in, directly across from Crane's own chair situated on the opposite side of the doctor's desk. Eyes quickly racking over the man with a finely tuned psychiatrist's mindset, Crane knew exactly why Scarlet had been in such a sexual frenzy over him, handsome and rich. He was the epitome of everything the young doctor had strived to be externally; strong, intimidating and powerful. Only after seeing the man in the flesh did the doctor realized why Gotham's favorite son had actually stepped foot inside the Narrows, even despite it still being broad daylight. There was an unreal presence to the man. It was as if he were far more than just that, though as the billionaire slouched casually in his chair Jonathan knew he was trying rather hard to hide it from anyone who did not care to look twice at someone they either hated or envied.

"Yes, that's correct, Doctor Crane." He replied, his smug look of superiority melting slowly into a more genuine expression as he watched the fascinating young doctor cross the room. The lithe figure stepped behind his desk and, for appearances sake and his own compulsion to impress a hopefully soon-to-be patron, began organizing the stacks of papers and scientific journals as he glanced up periodically at the well-groomed billionaire with a small smile. Bruce leaned forward, extending his hand across the desk in order to shake the other man's hand but found no response as the doctor's arms were already full of heavy encyclopedias. Beginning to speak, Crane walked over to the nearly ceiling high bookcase to put away the thick volumes.

"If you don't mind my inquiring," his voice broke, breath caught in his throat, as he struggled to reach the top shelf of the bookcase with one of the heaviest volume in his wounded hand. In retrospect a horrible lapse in judgment, but then again he was not exactly thinking clearly after the attack. Ever the gentleman, Bruce was across the room to assist the man just as Crane managed to shove the book into its correct place. Jonathan felt the warm brush of skin ghosting over the back of his hand, lingering against the makeshift paper towel bandage. Heart seeming to pump liquid fire through his veins, the young doctor look up at the man standing far closer than propriety allotted him to. Something flickered just beneath the surface in the man's eyes as he looked at the dark blood seeping through the dingy paper fibers before glancing back at his face. There was much more to Bruce Wayne than a gallivanting playboy the tabloids had typecast him as. But then again, Ra's Al Ghul had told him it would be a good idea to keep an eye on the man's antics for anything slightly suspicious, and this definitely fell into that category. Sliding his hand from beneath the tempting warmth supplied by Bruce's flesh, Crane cocked his head to one side as he silently studied the man standing before him in close proximity. "But exactly why do you wish do donate to Arkham?" He finally asked, continuing to speak with his same slow burning refined equanimity.

"Well, why do you work here?" Bruce countered with a condescending air, regaining his superior grin as he watched the very subtle tint faintly coloring the doctor's cheeks as he pulled his wounded hand away. Obviously the man was calling the validity of the query into question; implying with the inflections of his voice that if the qualified doctor had belief in the importance of his own asylum then the man should simply be grateful to have a benefactor and not question it. Buzzing in the back of his mind, Jonathan felt a surge of muted anger mingled closely with a darker rooted lust, all focused on the arrogant man for making his insides writhe with such a simple touch; he was better than that, stronger. He would not be intimidated. Thus, though he knew exactly what the man meant by defensively turning the matter at hand back on him, a response tactic the psychiatrist came up against several times in the past, Crane chose to be ornery and actually respond to the question posed before him. In truth, neither Arkham nor Jonathan Crane truly needed Bruce Wayne's extensive pocketbook on their side, in a few short weeks, after the ransoming of the city itself; money would no longer be a problem.

"If you really want to know," he began, contradicting his calm words with the effort of forcefully shoving the rest of the books onto the lower level shelves and turning to look at Bruce with a sardonic smile. Stepping away from the young doctor with his own strangely approving grin, not failing to note the man's subtle defiance, Bruce returned to his seat; silently listening to the man's low murmuring voice. "At first it was just to study the immoral psyche and how the criminally insane responded to psychiatric treatment." Crane began, refusing to look at Wayne as he focused on shuffling the loose-leaf papers into small piles of categorized patient notes.

"There is a fundamental difference between Arkham and jail, though I'm sure your D.A. friend would claim otherwise." A rather defensive tone clipped the doctor's words short, the same ridged manner spread to his agitated actions as he briskly tossed a few stacks of paper into a drawer. "Both are in accordance with judicial law, but one simply punishes without actually delving into the root of the problem." The young man's voice was beginning to take on a more impassioned quality as he allowed himself to get caught up in the topic. "Thus leaving the indignant criminal rather susceptible to being drawn right back into the life of crime. All jail truly does in this city is give criminals time to converse with one another and stew about resenting the system that put them there in the first place." Jonathan continued with the same fervor, feeling all the stress of the day balling up tightly in his chest before pouring from his lips. "No real good has been done." He paused to take a deep breath, realizing that he had allowed the irritating woman to actually get under his skin with her accusations and constant probing. Even if she had been spot on about his dealings with Falcone she had no right to question the validity of the asylum, making herself out to be holier-than-thou with her constant crusade for justice, thinking she was better than Jonathan Crane. As head of psychiatry at Arkham, his position was far more apt to assist those who had done wrong than her silly slap on the wrist prison. "The other attempts to explain the real driving force behind the crime and then try to fix it through therapy or pharmaceutical means so the men are actually rehabilitated; not merely kept off the streets for a short period of time." He finished, pushing the drawer closed with more force than he had intended, wincing slightly as it banged against the wooden back.

'A man after my own heart,' Bruce thought as his smile widened, remembering the seven year trip he had left college, Gotham and his name behind to try and learn more about the corrupt mind, though he focused on just the average petty ones not the truly insane. Also, the man was talking about hope, redemption all in accordance with justice. The young doctor was already racking up the extra brownie points, defiant yet polite in the same breath unlike the sycophants that constantly swarmed around him, phony smiles plastered on their faces, always with the same damned agreeable dispositions. And now he learned the young man had been researching his same cause, not to mention the poorly suppressed sexual attraction radiating from the slighter man.

"However, my job here quickly grew into so much more than just a psychiatric analytical study." The young man paused, attraction outweighing repulsion, as his eyes were drawn away from the papers to glance at the man. Staring for a moment, not surprised to find Bruce's eyes intently watching his every movement, Crane finished fussing with the lost attempt at straightening his desk. "You see there is one commonality I discovered linking all my patients; fear." Doctor Crane said with a wholly analytical tone, reminiscent of the old lecture classes at the university. However, while he slipped around the desk, a feral quality seemed to sharpen his movements. Stopping in front of were Bruce sat, the young man leaned against the edge of the desk with his arms folded across his thin chest. "You've felt fear, right Mister Wayne." He asked, inclining his head slightly and cocking an eyebrow. An underlying sadistic quality just barely slipped beneath the superficial surface of abstract psychobabble. Though he knew the man sitting before him had most definitely felt fear he still pressed the matter, some part of his touch of megalomania taking pleasure in watching the once intimidating man writhe while he loomed above him. Somewhat affronted by the offhand reference to his parents' murder, Bruce opened his mouth but slowly closed it as he waited to hear where the doctor was going with the tangent. "I'm sure that even up in your pristine ivory tower there are still things that go bump in the night." He mocked in a low murmur, a leer curling up the corners of his full lips.

Only one other person had spoken so, well blunt was not the right word, rather uncensored, and that had been his childhood friend, Rachel. If Bruce was completely honest with himself, he would admit that factor was a large part of the draw that the woman possessed. So when he found himself confronted by the young man, too effeminate to be handsome but too masculine to be pretty, he was able to recognize the bittersweet burning sensation in the pit of his stomach for what it was; attraction. Bruce could tell the man had a spark ignited within him that had yet to go out from wear and tear after several years of listening to the tormented screams of lunacy. He was definitely no where near as fragile as his thin frame would otherwise suggest.

"That's what I study." All traces of muted hostility seemed to drain from Jonathan as his spine straightened and his arms fell away from his chest. "The affects of fear and just what sway they have upon the criminal mind and thusly their body." Crane said, catching the strange glint in the man's eyes as he finished speaking. Observing that there was something more to the issue lurking just beneath the surface he continued with the topic trying to see if he could hit upon anything. "It's that raw fear that is most dangerous, especially if some misguided crusader ever learned how to manipulate it." That struck a cord within Bruce, as he once again knew from his own personal experience exactly what the doctor was speaking about; it was exactly what the Batman did. The sentiment triggered the man's mind, instantly replaying a request he had made before Ra's and Ducard long ago, 'I seek the means…to turn fear against those who prey on the fearful…'

"It's rather interesting," Jonathan stated, a quiet manner lacing his voice causing Bruce to strain to hear him, interrupting the man's memory. While he spoke he began gesturing distractedly with small fluid movements. However, if one watched the seemingly mindless fluttering of hands one would catch the sublet motioning towards himself and then to the other man while his lips lingered over the words 'mind' and 'body.' "Just how the mind and body fit together." The sinfully smooth and insinuating tenor curving Jonathan's voice was not lost on Bruce as he shifted uncomfortable in his chair. Anger slowly dissolving into the idea of a challenge posed by the man, Crane thought of trying to turn the billionaire's intimidation back on him. He thusly allowed himself to indulge in the dark, dominating lust that had hit his body only a few moments ago. "How useless the body would be render if it were devoid of a mind to…" Pausing, he looked down at the floor, as if the bland print could supply him with the answer. A clever tongue slipped out, tracing over the perfect, full lips before he parted them to speak as he found the right words. "Control it." He concluded, impossibly dusky eyelashes sweeping up as he glanced at Bruce over the rim of his glasses, piercing blue driving right into the very soul of the man. "Would you not agree, Mister Wayne?" Quickly snapping back into his natural role as propriety dictated, the young man inquired rhetorically. He straightened his posture, pushing away from where he was leaned against the edge of the desk before moving to cross back around to his own chair.

"Whole-heartedly," the man replied, distractedly tugging at the crisp white cuffs of his overpriced white collar shirt with a cool calm demeanor. He did not missing a beat, unwilling to show Crane the effect the young man was having on him; just as easily slipping back into his smug, aristocratic persona.

"So now that I've answered your question," Doctor Crane began with a dry, uninterested tone, slowly crossing one leg over the other and placing his folded hands on one knee, leaning in ever so slightly. The billionaire hid a grin as he watched the young doctor take on the almost too cliché psychiatric posture; a mildly interested glaze to his otherwise expressionless face as he leant in, keeping his distance yet at the same time allowing the man to know he was still listening. "Would you be so kind as to reciprocate the favor?" For a moment the two men sat in silence, staring calmly at one another while the unspoken challenge charged the air between them with a certain electric element. A wide smile, displaying the white glint of teeth, accompanied by a pretentious laugh poured from Bruce's lips as he rose to the test.

"Just want to do what I can to help keep the maniacs off the streets and getting treatment." It was in part the truth, just not all of it. Bruce pulled out the checkbook from his inner coat pocket, before searching in his suit's other compartments for a pen. With his dark brows raised in mock concern, lips pursed as if the man was wasting his valuable time, though Jonathan was loving every minute. He leaned across the desk, offering the man a fountain pen that had been hidden beneath the botany encyclopedia. Taking the proffered pen with a murmured thank you, the man began filling out the check. "My compassion, you know." Bruce said as he glanced up at the good doctor, speaking with the same haughty tenor he had used when speaking with many of the elite in Gotham while the topic at hand was the dark knight.

"Though in this case," Doctor Crane began, rising from his seat, walking slowly to the door of his office, implying with his body language that Mister Wayne would do well to follow him. "Since my asylum stands to benefit from your compassion," he stumbled over the word, the muscles in his jaw locking as he tried to wrap his tongue around the syllables, never having taking a liking to the concept of compassion. "I would otherwise tell you to keep it in check. It may be your downfall, Mister Wayne." The warning seemed oddly familiar though at the moment, looking down into the icy blue hidden behind glinting spectacles, Bruce could not seem to place it.

"I'll remember that, thanks." He whispered with a smile, leaning in close. Pressing his hand against the man's chest, Bruce tucked the folded check in the man's open breast pocket as he had done to the Maitre D the night before at the hotel he now owned. Unlike last night, however, his fingers lingered against the semi-expensive material for a little longer than what would be considered proper. Warm flesh caressed the back of his hand as Jonathan covered the man's hand, pulling it away from his chest to finally shake. A shock of want shot up Bruce's arm as the tapered fingertips pressed lightly against his pulse, feeling it jump up notch at the contact.

"My pleasure, Bruce." Jonathan murmured in the same low tone, lips wrapping around the name with a slight pucker, leaving them vulnerable for a stolen kiss that, to the young man's surprise, was not taken. The good doctor had seemingly forgotten that a man such as Bruce Wayne did not need to steal.

Once again in the very heart of the Narrows, drenched and searching for the other portion of the drug shipment Falcone had brought in, the dark knight found himself pulling apart a child's toy. Just as he discovered the small plastic bags containing the drugs, hidden inside the plush rabbits, he heard the click of a lock turning accompanied by squeaking hinges as the door opened. Looming in the unlit portion of the apartment he had slipped into a moment ago, Batman watched the three indistinguishable figures move about the room, veiled by the darkness. One of the men, the obvious superior of the three, murmured something in a low voice that he could not distinguish. The other two went about soaking the sorry excuse for an apartment in what he assumed to be gasoline. After making short work of the two thugs, sufficiently knocking both men out cold, he rounded on the third man. Before his frantic mind could grasp what was actually happening, catching a glimpse of a tattered burlap mask covering the man's face, he was breathing in the puff of white gas that the man had released into the air. It burned its way inside his lungs as he tried to no avail to fight it, sputtering and coughing.

He had felt that same sensation before, but not this potent.

The entire room began to pulsate with a strange erratic rhythm as the hallucinogen instantly reacted with his body, filtering quickly into his bloodstream as it filled his lungs. A searing current of twisted, sadistic pleasure filled the Scarecrow's mind and body as he watched the very symbol who was supposedly the embodiment of fear itself, fall victim to his overpowering toxin. The man was rapidly slipping beneath his control. He was Fear, not this caped crusader of the night, and he would show it to him one way or another. Batman would know exactly who in Gotham he should fear. Shrill laughter echoed in his ears, nearly splitting his eardrums, Batman stumbled backwards. His gloved hands pressed against his already protected ears in a vain attempt to block out the taunting sound. Frantic, he attempted to get away from the man in the frayed mask whose gaping mouth seemed to be dripping with squirming insects and bats. The man's own gangly arms were fluttering about in the slightly oversized suit coat as he spoke; resonating voice sounding contorted and warped in Batman's mind.

"You know nothing of fear, Bat-man." Scarecrow yelled, emphasizing the suffix of the symbol's name with a violent push; implying the man's mortality he had displayed by falling prey to the doctor's toxin. The tormenter followed him step for step, continuing to press his pale hands against the chest of Batman's black body armor. With a final shove, using all the strength he possessed, the man managed to push him across the room. Tripping on one of the wooden chairs that immediately splintered beneath the sudden weight, the dark knight was suddenly sprawled on his back in a puddle of flammable gasoline. Above him the chipping plaster ceiling began to swirl, strange stains mixing and mingling together to create a portal filled with deep, dark childhood nightmares that still haunted the man behind the black mask in the dead of night. Before he could catch his breath from the fall, a heavy weight effectively knocked the wind out of his lungs as it landed on his stomach and chest.

"I bet you've never been dominated." The crazed voice dropped low, though it was still warped demonically by the hallucinogen flooding Batman's system. His clever tongue caressed the last word as he rolled it around his mouth, tasting the sweet sound of it as he spoke to the infamous Batman. A cold terror bubbled up inside the deepest part of the dark knight's soul, bursting as he saw the frayed mask move nearer to his own face. Writhing beneath the light pressure of the Scarecrow's weight, he screwed his eyes shut while the man dipped his masked face closer to whisper in his ear. One oddly warm hand grasped his chin with a crushing grip, forcing the man to open his eyes. "Bet no one has seen you flat on your back before, gazing down at you with total control…" If not for the bitter sick sensation filling his stomach, the hard glide of slim hips shifting against his own, accompanied by the perversely seductive voice, it all would be nearly erotic. But then again that might just have been the weaponized hallucinogen talking. "You feel that," The man began, "in the pit of your stomach?" Pressing his hand against the stiff suit, the masked man's deft fingers searched for the down curve of the Batman's toned stomach sadly hidden beneath the body hugging Kevlar. "That's fear, that's terror." Scarecrow whispered sadistically, somehow holding the man's gaze as he slowly tugged off the burlap mask. A glinting mass of light illuminated the man's face in Batman's eyes, radiating a near blinding glow where two eyes should have been. Bright white, draining the color of the man's flesh, was all the dark knight could see as he looked up at the man straddling his hips. Ghosting effect taking over his vision, the man's skin appeared to be the same texture as the mask. The man's hand slowly slid back up to dig blunt nails into the tear resistant fiber weave protecting the Batman's chest.

"And maybe a little lower," his voice had changed back to at least somewhat resembling a human's. A mischievous grin spread upon the cracked man's face, bleeding over into his tone as he rocked his hips against Batman's. Trying to stabilize himself, the gloved hands grasped thin hips, squeezing tight before the man yelped. The sound dissolved into a moan as he thrust against the unyielding body armor once more. Unable to control himself while trying to block out the glowing young man backlit by a spinning ceiling, a guttural moan rolled in the back of his throat before leaking from his lips. "Fear and pleasure." The Scarecrow had won this round. "Welcome to my hell, Batman." He scoffed before closing the gap between the two. Lips crushing together with bruising force, Batman felt his body snap taut, shifting against the Scarecrow's slim hips as his body itself over to the searing heat. It was odd how soft the sinfully lush lips felt moving against his own. The warm tip of the Scarecrow's tongue traced over the Batman's fuller lower lip, caressing the flesh before nipping at it. He felt the cool chill of teeth graze over his lip before sinking into the yielding skin. Metallic tang filled both men's mouths as the Scarecrow's teeth drew blood. Tearing his lips away, slightly swollen from what could hardly be called a kiss, he pushed himself off the Batman as if suddenly disgusted. From where he stood, looming above the drugged man, the Scarecrow grinned.

"Have I getting you all hot and bothered?" In his delusional state of mind, the dark knight watched as the illuminated man pulled something from his pocket. And before he blinked everything was suddenly engulfed in flames.