Fear Revisited [Jonathan Crane / Scarecrow]

007

It had been twelve hours, thirty-six minutes, and forty-five seconds since the last word Scarecrow had spoken to him.

The radio silence was maddening, especially as Jonathan could still feel Him there, hovering in the peripheral of his mind but doing nothing to regulate the influx of thoughts and feelings that plagued him.

He knew now that he was not being abandoned, but punished. Nevertheless, it was the longest he had been forced to make decisions and process stimuli without the straw man's input in over a decade.

He had met with several of the shadier citizens of Gotham to procure necessary chemicals for his ongoing research, doing nothing more than pretending to be a man with the power to intimidate.

He was grateful that his bluff was never called, as all of that power was firmly vested in Scarecrow - not in the physically unimpressive man in the suit, staring down thugs with dogs on the docks.

The experience of knowing it was only him, all alone, had left him more than a bit shaken, although he knew fear would not bring back his ally but likely extend whatever 'timeout' he had been placed on.

He could not even sit down to formulate or review new strains of toxin in the deafening silence of his own mind, unable to do so without the input of the voice which had become so intricately enmeshed in his own identity.

By the time evening arrived, he was on the verge of becoming a mess.

He was, for the first time since he was but a boy on the verge of becoming a man, flung headfirst into the one thing he truly feared - being alone.

He was filled with such an anxiety, such a roiling discomfort, that the idea of attempting to face Jane in such a state was overwhelming.

I assure you, she will not interfere with our research. I won't let her, he promised, reaching out with every ounce of mental strength he could.

Silence.

Tomorrow, we will have the weekend admissions to add to our experiments. We will continue the work as planned, he continued his appeal, verging on begging.

Silence.

He gripped his head in both hands, tugging in frustration at his hair.

Please don't make me choose between the two of you, he pleaded. We both know it would be you.

The none too subtle appeal to Scarecrow's ego seemed to work.

Because I have never left you. I've always been here.

The wave of relief at hearing that hissing, cold voice was palpable as it washed over Jonathan. It was the same sensation of glorious, free falling euphoria that an addict might experience after finally getting that next hit, an end to the tension that gripped him tight around the throat.

I know that, and I am grateful, he answered honestly, but I want this, too. Don't take this from me.

I told you before, this feeling is a weakness. Do you want to be weak, Jonathan?

Just this once, if that's what this is.

Fine. But when it burns to the ground around you, when it finally falls apart, I get to have my fun.

Jonathan did not want to acknowledge that such a time would come, but nevertheless made a silent pact with his other side that if it did, he would not lobby for Jane's escape.

It was a grim promise, but he was a practical, selfish creature; he knew in the darkest part of his heart that would have killed Jane with his own hands if that was what it took to lure Scarecrow back to him.