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Sleep had not been kind to Jervis Tetch.
When one was desperate for the sweet release of the Red King’s slumber, the darkness becomes suffocating. What one would consider a thick blanket, used to cover and drown out the world around, tends to do the opposite. Quite contradictory by nature, you see, as the deprivation of one sense merely make the others more clear. More refined. The mind honing in on the littlest of sensations: the starched feel of cotton sheets, the lead weight of limbs as they anchored the rest of the body into the springs of the mattress.
And of course, the heat of the other person who happened to be occupying the same space.
Jonathan Crane was a very different man in sleep than he was in the waking world. The stiff-lipped ex-professor had a habit of holding himself a bit too poised, spine erect in a way to fit only for enhancing his extraordinary height. The Georgian-bred man did not shy away from that which othered him, broad shoulders only seeming to sharpen with every twist and turn of his form. Thin and lanky frame swaying in an unnatural rhythm, a sort of guanty weightlessness to his being. Rigid yet listless. Controlled in its chaotic animation and fervor.
Another series of contradiction.
Yet, that was not the Jonathan Crane that laid against the Englishman-- curled onto the side, spindly arms having wrapped itself around Hatter’s arm in the night. There, for Jervis to see-- to take in and store away within the organized crevices of his mind-- was Jonathan in his most vulnerable state. Large protruding brow lain placid, the usual sneer smoothed out like clay against a sculpture’s thumb. ( Tetch’s tentative extremities twitched at the thought of it, desire to touch tickling ungloved hands with titillation. ) Jonathan breathed slowly, evenly-- turtle lips parted ever so slightly as he exhaled softly onto Jervis’ arm.
It was enough to drive the Hatter mad with ache and longing.
The Englishman never set out on falling for the man in question. Jonathan Crane wasn’t like anyone Jervis had developed adoration for before. Granted, there hadn’t been many proceeding him-- most of the women had come and gone, swimming past Tetch like all the others in his pool of tears. And of course there had been her. Alice Pleasance Reynolds. Sweet and curious, her naivete about the plight of the world practically refreshing. So open and carefree. The beautiful and ever youthful woman of his dreams.
Jonathan was nothing like Alice.
In some ways this brought Jervis Tetch comfort. In Arkham the fellow inmates liked to poke at the subject like a fire iron stoking embers-- lest his feelings on the matter cool with time. It was hard to hide his preference for surrounding himself with beautiful blonde-haired women. The warm embraces from Dr. Harleen Quinzel taking away some of the darkness, gentle pecks of affection on the cheek from Selina Kyle lighting his insides with warmth.
And of course there had been Alice.
Yet, staring into the face of the man who had become his world in a mere matter of months, it was clear to see Jonathan was nothing like them. He wasn’t soft-- not in the way that touching and holding his female companions tended to be. The professor was no spring chicken either, the crows feet clawed into his skin, the heavy bags of many years of burning the midnight oil evident. And he wasn’t attractive . Not in the way that films and story books told him the heroes of the tales had to be. Not with that brow, not with that chin that stabbed into the Englishman’s chubby arm, stinging more than any verbal lashing he had ever received by the Georgian gentleman.
None of that seemed to matter.
No, Professor Crane wasn’t like anyone he had met before. Carefree with his bite and wit, deposition as prickly as a nettle bush. (And oh, how his words had a habit of leaving gashes. ) When displeased he felt no shame in letting the world know, in fact, may existence tremble in the wake of the Scarecrow's ire! Jonathan lived off that energy, eyes wide with his madness as he sought out his next victim. Fear was merely kindling, as he fed upon it.
Yet never had he turned against him, never had the wild hare tore into the flesh of the Englishman that dared to domesticate him. Jonathan would wear the clothes he bought him, would follow his schedules. Drink his blasted teas. The Scarecrow would strip away his burlap to simply be a human being, and all because Jervis Tetch somehow became someone he would openly call his friend.
Jervis sighed, temptation getting the better of him as he allowed a free hand to brush away flaming fringe from Jonathan’s forehead. Light so as not to startle the man out of his slumber. Another memory to file away for when he lost the privilege of being so near. And let it be known that was what would happen. (Just as sure as he was that ferrets were ferrets.) His Haigha would one day wake up-- finally see through wafts of steam from their countless cups littering the table of their tea party- and things would finally be clear enough to take in every look of longing the poor old Hatter had thrown his way. He’d see, it would be known, and then Jonathan Crane would pack up his things and leave with all the contempt he could ever feel for a man stupid enough to love him. The Scarecrow. The Master of Fear and Nightmares.
It was the rejection Jervis dreaded, but very much expected.
But, that was a problem for future Hatter to face. That man would crumble, shatter like a stone against the surface of a looking-glass. Broken and useless, left with only his remains to piece back together like a dangerous jigsaw puzzle. If he could even be fixed at all: one could only go through so much trauma before they were deemed worthy of being swept up and thrown out with the rest of the rubbish.
But that was then , and this was now. And the Jervis of the present didn’t wish to think about bleeding painted roses, or how Humpty Dumpty was doomed to fall off the brick wall he perched on. This Jervis, the one who still had the affections of his March Hare, merely wanted to hold onto the moment for a little while longer.
Even if the price had to be yet another sleepless night.