A/N:) I've always wanted to write Crane/Harley and I'll tell you there's two writers on here particularly that write the pairing, be in friendship or romance, excellently. Toccata No. 9 and E. S. Young, are amazing authors and after reading them I decided to give the pairing a try. It was comforting to know that I wasn't the only one to believe that, whether as friends or lovers, Jonathan and Harley could have a relationship. You should check them out, they're superb authors. This chapter is more of a Scarecrow/Harley, though, because once I started this the thoughts were just too bold for Jonathan, and he didn't seem to possess any shame or reproach for himself. So here I go, treading the waters of this pairing. I'm hoping to have one-shots up featuring them as well. So tell me your opinions (I always like critique); I'll certainly take your comments into consideration. This was inspired by prompt #35, Lithium from the livejournal community, 50scenes.

Disclaimer: I, Amber, Heart of Friendship deny any ownership of Harleen Quinzel, Jonathan Crane, Scarecrow, and any other character from either the movies or comics that you see. As much I wish I could own them, I'm not quite sure what I would do if I did. I wouldn't write fanfiction anymore...and that would be sad.

The first time he had seen Harleen Quinzel, black heels causing echoes to reverberate off the walls, she had been speaking with Joan Leland. Her hair was pulled tightly back. She looked so professional, so practical at least to the untrained eyes. Not to him, though.

Scarecrow, he saw past that coating. Had you removed just one of those bobby pins holding up that bun, her blonde hair would have tumbled to lie as it naturally did. Her skirt, though knee-length was tight on her legs, fitting the womanly curves she possessed. Her loose, pearl button-up even added to the picture. She was pretty, and Scarecrow knew many a man who would tremble at the gentle stretch of those crimson lips whose hue was a tad darker than normal.

Yet, when was he ever normal? Jonathan Crane had never quite been so; how else would he have acquired the nickname Scarecrow, not to mention an alter by the same name? And now just look where that landed the doctor and him: staring from the bars of Jon's once directed asylum. The man had never been quite grounded, he'd always been stiff and cruel, and now he was dark. He was a prisoner in his own hospital, not that he didn't deserve it. He and Scarecrow agreed on that. Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow agreed that he had committed atrocities, but so long as he was housed in this dark little hole of hell, why worry about it? Besides, Falcone had deserved what he got. It was only that woman, Rachel, Jonathan regretted poisoning—Scarecrow attested that perhaps that was a little too far even after he had been tased—luckily, though, the woman had lived. Yet it was short reprise. What a pity.

Now Scarecrow, for he was in control whilst Jon slumbered, was faced with an even greater one. This was a deep pity.

The first time he seen Harleen Quinzel, he could taste the darkness on his tongue. He could see the madness that lied just beneath her surface. There was something not quite normal about her, either. Her eyes were sharp and calculating only a shade perhaps darker than Jon's. Blonde and blue-eyed, what a sweet picture of an American girl. Yet sweet did not quite describe her now, no, now it could not be used at all in reference to her.

Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, tousled and wavy. Her legs were covered first by black fishnets and then by boots, flat and most likely steel-toed. One was crimson, the other ebony like the feathers of the darkest crow. Jonathan would feel abashed for seeming to leer at her when Scarecrow informed him of his observations, but that didn't mean he'd stop his eyes from trailing the figure of the once doctor. Jonny wasn't awake, so while the doctor was away, the scarecrow would play.

Harley had gone rogue years ago. It was strange to see her now, for she like Jonathan would share the fact of once having traversed the halls free and then be locked in as a patient. Harleen Quinzel, now Harley Quinn, had supposedly fallen for the Joker and set him free in a hopeless plead for his affections. The man was sociopath and a narcissist, love was not a word in his vocabulary. Surely Harleen Quinzel was not blinded so easily.

She had changed. Her dancer body was more toned—running from Batman did strengthen the stamina—and the short skirt gave Scarecrow very obvious evidence of her fitness as her legs tumbled beautifully from beneath the crimson material, whose black belt matched well with the dark cross-stitching decorating the article. He'd not made it pass her waist and he was already enjoying the newest inmate. Jonathan wouldn't deny it either in the end, but he kept his attention on her and continued his perusal, almost wanting to whistle in appreciation.

She wore a black corset, or so it appeared. It was a vest that fitted tightly from just above her hips to right beneath her bust, and what a generous asset that was. The crimson leather that crossed the front as belts matched nicely with the blouse that she wore under it and the skirt.

She was jester, but her stiff body belied no scar to her self-esteem. Her stance was rigid despite seemingly to be following direction. Her gaze was directed downward, but not in submission. Harley Quinn was not broken, and surely a man such as the Joker would have beaten her for any semblance of weakness such as an infatuation with him. Scarecrow was very curious now of the woman, interested in ways that went beyond such a lustrous exterior. Harleen Quinzel had been pretty, but this woman was beautiful in a dark way. His gaze attested to that and his mind buzzed in intrigue.

Her sapphire eyes rose to his and she lifted her face. It was stained with fading white paint, black coating her lips and eyes. She was terrifying, a harbinger, but her eyes were bright and her mouth soft as she stared at him. She was calm and madness did not seep into her expression, only an uncanny intelligence. She shifted her shoulders and the lithium colored chains that bound her hands rattled softly.

Scarecrow watched as she was led down the hall towards him. Just she passed, she tilted her head and gave him a grin as if sharing a secret with him. He grinned back and purred silently.

The first time he had saw Harley Quinn, Scarecrow felt a satisfying fear. She was dangerous, but not for him. He wondered how many people would end up screaming in absolute terror of her? He couldn't wait.