Blood In The Barley // Scarecrow (DCU)

Prologue

AN: Which version of Scarecrow is this? ALL OF THEM. Plus my own Headcanon. A sad attempt at Gothic horror.

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Jonathon Crane considered the man sitting in his chair. He supposed that the man, no doubt holding a medical degree of questionable worth, had claimed to a be a highly skilled psychiatrist, and thus the right to that chair.

Arkham's doctors had set themselves forth attempting to determine the cause of his "episodes." It was a futile endeavour. For one thing, Jonathan knew exactly what he was, and had no wish to change it. But more importantly, the doctors assumed, through no small effort on Jonathan's part, that he and the Scarecrow were separate entities within one mind. They were trying to find a pattern, anything which triggered the emergence of the Scarecrow.

Mostly, it was Jonathan's mood. He hadn't decided yet whether he would wear his manners today. It was best to keep them off balance, and Jonathan had already decided that he would destroy the man in front of him.

He certainly never pretended to be above spite.

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Crane?"

Jonathan felt a slight tick in his eye. But if Easton wanted to wind him up, it would take more than that. He would be the soft-spoken Jonathan Crane tonight.

"Doctor." He let his Georgia accent take over, what Lilia used to call honeysuckle.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's Dr. Crane," Jonathan said. "If you don't mind."

"Your medical license was revoked."

"That does not reverse my training, nor does it nullify my PhD."

The muscles in Easton's flabby jaw worked, and Jonathan could see a vein working in his temple. The fact was that Jonathan Crane had completed a dual MD and PhD, the youngest in Gotham University's history, as well as holding a degree in psychopharmacology, and to Hell if he was going to let anyone forget it, let alone live it down.

"Alright," Easton said, forcing a smile. "Fair enough. So, what would you like to talk about?"

Jonathan raised his eyebrows and glanced at the window, fogged up from the rain.

"I'm sure," he said, looking back at Easton. "There are things you would like to hear. Few come to Arkham looking to actually cure anyone. You want to dig into my psyche, write an award-winning book about me, and move on work your life. Although, I should warn you, that's what Dr. Quinzel thought about her dear 'Mr. J.'"

It was stretching the truth. Harley had started with more or less good intentions. But Jonathan had always enjoyed how people ignored warnings. He could certainly relate to the fascination of the horrific.

"Are you friends with her?" There was a spark of interest, but the line of questioning held no interest for Jonathan.

"I suppose, as much as colleagues could be. I can't help you much with dissecting her, though. Her condition lies rather outside my field of expertise. "

Which was a flat-out lie. They had cordial relationship, one of born of mutual respect from one borderline psychiatrist to another, as well as Jonathan's personal knowledge as to Harleen Quinzel's perfectly passable aptitude at psychiatrist. Still, Jonathan had no doubt as to his own ability to change her; he found her much more interesting in her current state.

"So?" Easton asked. "How about you talk about how you got here?"

Jonathan have a small smile. "How I got where, exactly?"

Easton looked slightly confused. "Why do you think you are a patient here?"

"I know why I am locked in Arkham," Jonathan said. "I suppose it was asking too much to hope that you meant it in any way other than the literal. Perhaps you had wanted to know why I was here, in my current mental state. Or even why I came to Gotham."

Easton paused, and Jonathan could see him trying to regain control of the conversation. "Start at the beginning."

"Which beginning?" Now he was just being difficult. There was a definite satisfaction in that. "You mean my birth? I can assure you, my childhood was a perfect example of a Southern Gothic tale come to life. It could prove be very boring."

"I'm not familiar with the particulars of Southern Gothic," Easton said.

"If course you aren't." Jonathan motioned with his hand. "Maybe by beginning, you want to know how I came across my father, though. I was studying medicine by then, well past my formative years."

"What about Lilia?" Easton asked. "She seems to be a key figure in all this."

"That would be in medias res," Jonathan said. "And maybe not so important as you want to think. I suppose any horror story incomplete without a beautiful young woman in peril, though."

"Do you think you live in a horror story?"

Jonathan didn't just believe it. He knew it.