Chapter Text
Criminals really have a thing for theatrics, Jonathan mused, wrapping his coat more securely around him, as the group of five large people approached him.
It was no secret that he was a scrawny and relatively small man, someone who posed no physical threat, and here he was, being stalked by a large group of criminals who just wouldn't let him move on with his life. He had none of his fear toxin with him— he hadn't made any in months, not since fear night— and he was completely defenceless (granted, the goons didn't know that) and if he were to wager a bet, he'd bet he wouldn't be getting out of here alive.
"Scarecrow," one of the goons announced, as Jonathan had to hold back a derisive snort. What's with heroes and villains stating the obvious?
"Doctor Crane, to you," he corrected, nevertheless. The man stepped forward— he was huge— and despite himself, Jonathan felt a pang of fear run through him. So this is how I die, he thought to himself, not knowing whether to be amused or ashamed. In a dark, dirty alleyway, with nobody to find me and nobody to miss me. He tried to keep his voice cool and level. "Can I help you?"
"You can't run, Scarecrow."
"I'm not Scarecrow, and I'm not running," Jonathan countered, hoping it wouldn't come to that. "You didn't say how I could help you."
"There's someone who wan's to see you," another one of the cronies said. They advanced towards him, slowly, painstakingly. Hating himself, Jonathan took a step back, knowing full well he was getting himself cornered. "He said you's Scarecrow, no mistake. You ain't goin' nowhere, Doctor," he laughed, as Jonathan took another step back.
"Who want's to see me?" Jonathan demanded, half out of actual curiosity, and partly to buy time. To do what, he didn't know.
"You'll see." The main thug said. "Come quietly, or things' gon' get ugly."
Jonathan had never really been suicidal, but there's was first time for everything. "No."
There was a moment of shocked silence, and then the thugs broke out into laughter. One of them, sniggering, swung at Jonathan, who sidestepped deftly.
The laughter died down. Clearly, while Jonathan was still no threat, they hadn't expected that.
"Alright," the leader said. "If that's the way it's gon' be."
The punch hit him in the gut so fast and so hard that he didn't have a moment to react, didn't even feel the pain until a good few seconds later— but when he did, it seared through his body, making him double over and wheeze. He hadn't been in a physical fight in a long time, and the pain from a single punch almost overwhelmed him. Eyes watering, he looked up just in time to see the thug's foot connect with him stomach, knocking off his glasses and sending him rolling down the alley.
There was a distinction between the fear and pain, he mused, his thought's surprisingly coherent considering the pain he was in. Pain was physical, almost tangible, something within the realm of understanding of the human mind, while fear— fear was raw emotion, something even Jonathan, the master of fear, had trouble understanding.
"Don' beat him up too much," one of the goons called to the leader. "Bossman needs him in one piece, he said."
"Don' worry," grinned the thug above Jonathan, showing off his repulsive, yellow teeth. "I just want to scare the Scarecrow a lit—"
He never got to finish the sentence.
Through his blurred vision and watering eyes, all Jonathan could really see was what looked like a shadow whirling around and beating the living breath out of the criminals, but he knew exactly who it was. Trying to ignore the pain and managing to stand, Jonathan backed away a little from the fight and the yelling, trying to regain his breath. There was no use for heroics if it was going to get him killed.
Despite his hatred for the Bat, he did have to admire the way he fought. He was strong, but lithe and agile, and the effortless ease with which he seemed to move was almost hypnotising to watch. It was almost like he was invisible at times, almost inhuman, flitting from place to place, and Jonathan could almost convince himself that he was hallucinating again, except for the fact that the goons were falling down one by one like wilted plants.
Jonathan heard a final thwack and the yelling was gone. He heard footsteps approaching him.
"Scarecrow," the Batman said, his voice hoarse but surprisingly soft. "Are you alright?"
"Does it matter?"
Batman thought about it for a second. If Jonathan could see under his cowl, he'd probably have found a raised eyebrow. "Maybe."
Jonathan snorted derisively, though he wasn't sure whether it was a good idea to piss off a giant Bat-ninja who'd just knocked down five people without losing a beat. "Are you expecting me to thank you?"
Batman sighed. "Not at all. I'm sorry I couldn't get here faster." He surveyed Jonathan shrewdly, his eyes sharp. "Are you hurt?"
"A little," he conceded. "It's nothing to worry about."
The Bat made a disbelieving hum at the back of his throat. "You need to get back home. Where do you live?"
"None of your damn business, Bat." Jonathan made a move to brush past him, and winced as his injured side brushed against the wall of the alleyway. He'd have to disinfect his cuts when he got home.
"I just want you to get home safe."
"Why?" Jonathan asked bitterly, not turning to look. He bent down and picked up his broken glasses and somehow managed to perch them atop his nose. "Haven't you already destroyed my life enough? Why do you want to make my life more of a living hell than you already have?"
"Scarecrow—"
"It's Doctor Crane," he said loudly. Why he was bothering to correct the Bat, he didn't know. "Scarecrow's gone. He's dead. Isn't that what you wanted?"
There was no answer. When he turned around, the Bat was gone.
***
Jonathan let himself into his excuse for an apartment as quietly as he could, though he didn't know why.
It was a small, cold little place, furnished with nothing more than a bed, a cupboard, a bathroom, a kitchen and a small table with a single chair. More books than he could really afford were strewn across the table and the bed, and he tried to not trip on his way to the bedroom.
"You need medical attention," said a voice above him.
"Jesus fucki—" Jonathan shrieked, backing away from the Bat, tripping over the chair in his haste. He almost fell over, but he felt a strong hand steady him, keeping him upright. Jonathan instantly spun around, trying to push Batman away, who didn't move. Somehow, that infuriated him even more, and he found himself shouting. "What is your fucking problem, you lunatic?"
It didn't seem to faze the Bat at all. "You're badly hurt. Believe me, injuries can be permanent."
"I'm completely capable of taking care of myself," Jonathan spat acidly.
Batman looked around the apartment. "Unless you're going to bandage yourself up with your bedsheets, I beg to differ."
"Wha—I—" Jonathan struggled to come up with a retort. "What's it to you, anyway?"
"I help people," Batman said, as if it was that simple. Jonathan was sorely tempted to tear the guy's cowl of his face and punch him in the jaw, consequences be damned.
"You don't help ex-Arkham inmates who terrorise the city!"
"Weren't you the one who said Scarecrow's gone?"
Jonathan gaped like a fish out of water. He had no retort to that.
Batman clipped a pouch off his belt and handed it to a wordless Jonathan, and then turned around to approach the window. Perched on the sill, he turned to address Jonathan.
"There's medical supplies in there. Take care of yourself. Oh, and also," he added, as an afterthought. "Your spare glasses from your old house are in there too. I thought you might need them."
"What?—" Jonathan opened the pouch, and sure enough, the first thing he saw were his favourite pair of glasses, one's he'd spent a lot of money on, but had lost in his previous house. "How—?"
When he looked up, there was nobody there.
“I don’t fucking need this,” he called loudly. There was no answer.
God fucking dammit.