Why are you doing that, Jonathan? Scarecrow asked, interest piqued. Jonathan didn't answer, adjusting the headphones over his ears but neglecting what it'd done to his hair. Didn't matter, didn't matter.

Why are you doing that, Jonathan? Scarecrow asked again, more insistent. Jonathan could feel him smiling though, starting to take his meaning and instead of respecting it, mocking it. He reached over to the dial on the stereo. There was work to be done. Not as fun as the actual testing parts with the patients and the screaming, and the crying and; Jonathan sighed. It was amazing how easily they broke under the influence of the pretty blue flowers that they'd sent him. He hadn't seen many plants with such a peculiar composition and that was so easily weaponized.

You're over-complimenting yourself, it wasn't so easy Scarecrow chastised him. The corner of his mouth flicked downwards for a moment, but Jonathan smoothed it over, remembering that he was going to ignore the Scarecrow today. There was work to be done, he reminded himself again. Testing without documentation was useless; something the Scarecrow didn't understand. He saw the effects, and had fun with them, but he didn't understand that there was /more/ to it than simply petrifying the subjects.

Jonathan, you won't be able to hear me like that, the Scarecrow told him, tone light, as though he were casual about the affair. In truth, it was a warning, and Jonathan knew it. Even when he was ignoring him. Jonathan reached over to the dial again, his other hand still writing down his observations; presented with extreme paranoia, hallucinations…

The Scarecrow was laughing, and even over the noise it rang clear.

Jonathan! You already know what it's like! Why are you writing it down?

He didn't have an answer to that. He didn't have to answer though, and it was better not to encourage Scarecrow with responses when he didn't have the time.

But Scarecrow didn't like it when he neglected him either, so he lost either way.

From behind, the Scarecrow seized the hand he held with a pen, dragging it across the paper in heavy lines and filled in his haphazard drawing violently, making Jonathan's hand cramp with the effort to keep up. Jonathan watched, gritting his teeth, knowing that he couldn't get himself free without damaging himself.

Him, what do you think of him?he demanded, thrusting Jonathan's hand to the side. He was getting stronger, Jonathan noted.

On the paper was a symbol of a bat. Scarecrow wanted to know more about the bat man. Scarecrow only knew what he knew, but to give him the information so freely...it was spoiling him. And perhaps he could use it as a rewards system, leverage. But if he was growing as strong as Jonathan thought he might be, rewards could become a futile system and Scarecrow just force it out of him. He frowned, not altogether concerned by the notion, seeing as Scarecrow did seem to harbour some concern over his well-being. They were a part of each other; whatever happened, Jonathan was sure that his overall safety was ensured by Scarecrow. It was just a matter of Scarecrow's patience for his research that worried him. He couldn't do anything with constant interruption.

"He uses the costume to frighten people; stuns them with his image to slow them down," he began thoughtfully, laying the bait.

I could have figured that out for myself.

Jonathan smiled faintly at the parched dry tone, recognizing the feeling of control as he sensed Scarecrow waiting for him to go on. It was working.

"Let me finish this, and I'll explain when I'm done," Jonathan offered, lifting his hand from his side again and beginning to write again. The Scarecrow might be more frightening than him, and stronger with the sort of strength that came from reckless abandon, but Jonathan assured himself that he was still the more intelligent of their partnership.

The Scarecrow knew it. That's why he wouldn't make demands and expect then to always be followed, why he'd wait until Jonathan had the time for him.

Jonathan waited a moment and when Scarecrow didn't make any further harassments, he took off the headphones, grateful to have bought at least some fraction of time to work in peace.

"The Sandman's coming in his train of cars, with moonbeam windows and with wheels of stars," Jonathan sang in quiet delight, leaning back in the chair, feeling the stiffness in his back slowly uncoil. Things had been going well, the concentrated doses working beautifully. Once dosed, most people wouldn't have a chance of coming out of it. He admired the canister in his hands, thinking of the last few modifications he'd made in it.

So hush you little ones and have no fear, the man-in-the-moon, he is the engineer.

Jonathan frowned. He wasn't certain on the peculiar sensation he got when Scarecrow finished the lines.

"Where've you been?" Jonathan asked mildly, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. One thing that the Scarecrow could understand better than anyone else was the sheer excitement he felt over fear inducing toxins. It wasn't something brought up at dinner parties very much, much less understood. Not that he went to dinner parties or social functions very often, and when he did it was due to some outside responsibility where he had to keep the Scarecrow at bay. He knew this made him sharp of tongue and easily agitated; a positive, rather than a negative. His wit was quicker when he was annoyed, a blessing in crowds.

Left you alone. Just like you asked. Miss me?

He had to bite back the "yes" that'd nearly leapt from his throat. If he told the Scarecrow /that, there'd be no sending him off again. And if he couldn't send him off, he couldn't make the things that made them both happy.

"Well, thank-you, because now," Jonathan held up the canister of gas he'd just finished with, "we get to try the new dose."

On the mobster?

"On the mobster."

Scarecrow's eyes lighted with the same blue as Jonathan's, reflecting a mutual fervour of anticipation.

I wonder what mobsters are afraid of…

"Probably nothing dissimilar to anyone else," Jonathan admitted. It didn't lessen his excitement on the issue. Scarecrow nodded, resting his arms over Jonathan's shoulders from behind to examine the canister. He wasn't perturbed, used to Scarecrow's strangely affectionate movements. Looking at their identical pairs of hands slowly turning the sleek metal between their hands, Jonathan let the excitement settle into a warm contentment. Before he got too comfortable though, the Scarecrow slid his slender fingers away, and took the opposing chair beside him.

You told me that you'd tell me what you think about the Bat Man Scarecrow said.

"Oh, yes," Jonathan said, collecting his words for a moment as he set down the canister into the rack alongside the others.

Well?

"I said that he's trying to frighten them with his costume. What I'd be interested in confirming is why a bat. What I presume, is that he's afraid of them."

How do you figure that?

"Because, when he was choosing it, he wanted to intimidate. He's more than a crack-pot vigilante; he actually thinks, believe it or not. He's altruistic, yes, but not a vigilante. A vigilante takes everything personally and from what you and I know from our research is that there's nothing more personal than fear. As 'Batman', he's inducing it in everyone who sees him, sharing it. Spreading it, instead of keeping it solely for himself."

That wasn't the entirety of his thoughts on the Bat Man; he'd ration more for later. Scarecrow leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands.

I like the spreading bit, but you're still not telling me everything, he investigated, peering overtop the wire-rimmed glasses they shared.

"No, I'm not. But we've got other things to do at the moment," Jonathan said, tapping the table in an indication that they needed to go.

Ah, right.

"Shall we?"

After you.

Falcone went berserk before he even got to realize what he was asking, and as Crane watched, he was certain that he wasn't going to come back to any semblance of himself. Ever; the dose was perfect. Better than the one he'd given to the League.

Watching the terror on his face, his pores break out into sweat, the scent a mix of fear and bodily exertion; Jonathan felt the exhilaration twist his mouth into a grin, Scarecrow at his side, nails digging into his shoulder as they watched the descent. It was a maddening delight, too see the man scream and beg, especially given his brutish candour in his criminal life. He watched for as long as he dared, the old mobster railing backwards and screaming for his life against all the nightmares that'd just entered in through the mist.

Who's the nut now?

Falcone was muttering and shouting intermittently "Scarecrow, scarecrow!"; Jonathan was pleased that he'd at least made the top five in the mans greatest fears.

Jonathan exchanged his grin with Scarecrow, but their joy was so mutual that it was merely for a mirror image.

They left quickly, but Scarecrow couldn't resist some small commentary, Well, he's not faking. Not that one. They had to be more careful than that, as not to attract suspicion, he reminded himself distantly. But it was just too funny. Scarecrow took several hurried steps ahead, trying to find a more secluded space where if he were grinning, they wouldn't be seen and inquired and answering in irresistible stand-up. Once the coast was clear, he turned, walking backwards, to face Jonathan.

Mm, well that was fun, he said, cheer infectiously laced in his voice. When can we have another go?

Like Jonathan, he was currently incapable of relinquishing the jovial manner. The inspiration still bubbled in his own chest, and given how short these things lasted, Jonathan indulged it completely, and was glad to have someone to indulge in it with him. Satisfaction, entertainment, some minor sense of achievement; things that were hard to come by in a city as rotted as Gotham.

When can we try it on the Bat Man?

"Soon enough," Jonathan assured, not plagued with the usual irritability that'd come with Scarecrow's recent obsession with the Bat Man.

Why are we waiting? Scarecrow asked, his expression falling dark. Jonathan watched with mild interest at the sudden change in behaviour. Falcone's fear was beginning to fade from his mind, his body tensing as he prepped himself for Scarecrow's sudden change in behaviour. His unpredictability made him more interesting, kept Jonathan on his toes, but it was also painfully irritating to have someone trying to take control simply because it suited them.

"What, you want to go out into the night, hunting this creature and risk revealing ourselves to everyone? You know what the League would do to us," Jonathan reasoned. And he wasn't exaggerating; the League had found them knew what they wanted, knew how to get what they wanted and had no qualms killing off people who got in the way and compromised them. Jonathan would admit it; he was a pawn, but then, the ends allowed him to justify the means. He could play subservient, at least for a while, especially since they weren't playing the same games. His games were in the mind, their's were in some demented form of justice. It was a co-operative effort where he got what he wanted even if it placed him in a lower position.

Who cares! Scarecrow shouted, eyes flashing darkly at Jonathan as he crossed the space between them. Jonathan frowned. So he was beyond reasoning at this point.

"I care about keeping the both of us alive," Jonathan said shortly, and taking a step to go around Scarecrow. It didn't work, Scarecrow matching his movement and going a step further and clamping a hand over his throat. Jonathan's hand released the handle of his brief case, sending it clattering to the floor as he reached up to claw Scarecrow off of him. So much for discretion.

Scared, Jonathan?

He coughed, prompting Scarecrow to loosen his grip so that he could answer.

"No, but he'll come to us sooner than we could find him."

Scarecrow released him completely, the defiance that'd just flared up in his eyes dimming down to embers. He's gotten much stronger, Jonathan thought, rubbing a hand over his throat, soothing the hot skin. Scarecrow didn't apologize or wait for Jonathan as he walked away. He reached down to collect the briefcase, checking the clasp that held it close and pressing it back down firmly when he saw that it was open.

Soon? Scarecrow asked finally as they were driving, apparently done with his pouting.

"Soon," Jonathan promised, hoping for his own sake that he was right.

Sooner than either of them had predicted.

The moment he heard the glass break, he got ready -he didn't now what for, but Scarecrow prompted him and it did make sense. He pulled on the mask, quickly and carefully fitting the gas mask in place. Quickly he tested the gas releasing mechanism, a small burst of the thick, foggy vapour jetting out.

It was the Bat Man; he wasn't surprised, learning quickly of the masked crusader's talents for disruption.

Having trouble? Scarecrow asked. The black gloves went up in surprise at the release of the gas as Jonathan hit the button.

Take a seat.

"Have a drink," Jonathan added, tossing the gasoline over top the large black figure, feeling his own fingers trembling. Scarecrow shot him a grin, not noticing any of the fear Jonathan was experiencing from the Bat's resemblance too other certain winged creatures; which was unusual given their exposure to it. Although, this was what Scarecrow had been waiting for, so his powers of observation were likely fogged over when it came to the fears of his counter-part.

"You look like a man who takes himself too seriously," Scarecrow informed.

What's your professional opinion, doctor? he asked Jonathan, tossing a look of impish pleasure to his side. It made any phobias he maintained dissipate.

"Do you want my opinion?" Jonathan asked, playing along and looking back to the now obviously panicked man on the floor. He didn't cry or scream though - killjoy. Although he did swat quite a bit around his face, confirming Jonathan's suspicions that he feared the winged rodents he'd personified into his alter ego.

"You need to lighten up."

They'd gone back home, the hazy light feeling of imagining the bat man terrified and helpless -and on fire- still with them. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it in the closet and untied his shoes. For all the enjoyment of the day, it still ended quite regular to anyone else's. His keys tinkled lightly as he tossed them in the bowl he kept by the door so that he wouldn't misplace it. Scarecrow followed suit, but was finished before Jonathan, and stepped out into the open space of the loft. Settling down into the navy blue couch, he asked very bluntly,

Diagnosis?

"By choosing the bat, he's mastering his chiroptophobia and capitalizing on it by making others fear it; when he sees their fear, he associates their fear of him to his fear of bats, and when confronted with the thought of actual bats, he's reminded of who he doesn't want to be," Jonathan theorized, settling into the couch beside Scarecrow, leaning back and shutting his eyes. It was tiring, all this League of Shadows business.

The Bat Man's choice was a choice that intrigued and irked Jonathan because he'd made the opposite choice in the identity of his composite persona. Composite because when he was Scarecrow he was all the elements of himself.

The doctor that the "civil" world knew, was the extension, the one who knew how to work the systems. Scarecrow was just the one who got to play in the real world once the doctor had made it fit for such purposes. He was a rational man, not an anarchist and while he had his own flare for drama as the Bat Man did, he had no delusions of grandeur or any other desire than to watch and study fear.

But why the bat? It was a similar question he could ask himself if he didn't already know the reason; why a Scarecrow? It was a scarecrow because of the birds. Wretched winged beasts, too stupid to do anything but pick at the diseased carcasses of their own kind, tossing themselves from shadow to shadow in squalor that rats and cockroaches bred in. Rat's and roaches were fine, situated on the ground and making small noises, and they were easily scared off. But birds? They were too stupid, they'd come at you, claws forward, desperately trying to propel themselves upwards, even if they hit walls. They clustered, squawking and pecking at each other if they got in each other's way. They even made noises when there was no reason to, breaking the silence with throaty cries; not at all unlike his patients at Arkham, but instead with sleek little bodies that darted unexpectedly and the glassy eyes they looked at you with, too deep to read so that you couldn't decipher for a reason. The reason for this was simple too; there was no reason in them.

In short, it had to be a scarecrow. It had to be something frightening enough to keep them away from him.

But what the bat man had done was the opposite. He took his greatest fear and took it a step further than just making it an accepted part of him. He became it, made it an icon for the city, but also, Jonathan's doctor's mind suspected, he did it for himself. Jonathan gave him the credit of courage, but courage didn't mean much to him. Courage only mattered if you were afraid of something, and since he was only irrationally afraid of one thing...well, he wasn't going to become the bird man. The Scarecrow persona was much more personal than his fear. He'd been wrong to say that there was nothing more personal than fear; revenge was just as equally personal. He didn't need to face any fears when he had that, and he hadn't needed to as he watched that jock and the girl who'd so overzealously rejected him be literally frightened to death.

He felt a weight descend overtop him, and fingers at his throat, pulling at his tie.

Hello, Jonathan, care to share?

"No, I'd rather not," he grinded out, mood taking a turn in the opposite direction as he thought about things past. He opened his eyes, banishing the recollections, Scarecrow's face filling the space of his thought instead. It was too dark to see him properly, even though he was close enough to feel him breathing, silhouetted by the back window.

No? Well, you shouldn't sleep like this, Scarecrow stated matter-of-factly, pulling back the knot of the tie and slipping it over his head. Their hands knocked together as Jonathan listlessly aided him. He didn't resist any of Scarecrow's movements, too tired, allowing him to take over, long fingers taking off his glasses, unbuttoning his shirt, loosing the buckle to his trousers.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, Scarecrow began to recite. This was his favourite nursery rhyme before sleep; it also meant that he thought it was time to eat.

"Apple in the morning --Doctor's warning," Jonathan continued, taking the next line as he stood, Scarecrow clambering off him. Scarecrow pulled his arms out of his shirt from behind as he took the following line,

Roast apple at night - starves the doctor outright.

"Eat an apple going to bed - knock the doctor on the head."

Scarecrow bumped him lightly on the head with a bright green apple from the bowl on the counter. Jonathan took it appreciatively, suddenly realizing that he hadn't eaten in all the excitement.

Three each day, seven days a week - ruddy apple, ruddy cheek.

Jonathan smiled faintly, leaning over the counter and taking a bite. Crisp, sweet.

Why do you like nursery rhymes so much? Scarecrow asked, leaning back on the steel counter beside him, unbuttoning his own shirt with slow care.

"They make me feel good," Jonathan answered languidly.

Don't talk with you're mouth full.

"Yes, mother," Jonathan said, purposefully chewing as he spoke. It didn't bring him the satisfaction it would have brought a child however, and he carefully chewed and then swallowed. If you talked with your mouth full, one day you'd choke.

"Sorry," he apologized, frowning. Scarecrow shrugged, and began to recite another nursery rhyme, Little Boy Blue. Jonathan waved a hand, indicating that he did indeed get the message that it was getting to be time for sleep.