Chapter Text
Weird.
If Carmine Falcone had to describe Doctor Jonathan Crane in one word, he would definitely use weird.
The doctor could be intelligent, cold, and calculating, whatever came to mind, but his weirdness also stood out, just like the lousy stitching on his suit coat. Who the fuck used brown thread to sew a black suit?
At least Falcone's bad reputation wasn't for his style of dress but for being a mob boss. More weight fell on his shoulders when his right-hand man, Oswald Cobblepot, would get into trouble and end up in business fights. Carmine would never admit it, but he felt like he was putting the noose around his neck when the police arrested one of his goons. He had to send Doctor Crane to tell the judge that the bad guy was actually in a psychotic break and couldn't be in jail, and it was better to send the man to Arkham Hospital.
The noose was beginning to tighten with the arrival of the new serial killer he had just discovered called himself the Riddler.
The news was full of the murder of Commissioner Savage, and that made Falcone nervous, pacing back and forth listening to the Riddler's video speech. The mobster was well known for his temper. They could drive him out of his mind and make him yell angry, but to worry him and make him doubt himself? Oh, that was new, Crane thought.
While Falcone was pacing in circles like a frightened child, Jonathan was watching the news more closely as if his glasses weren't helping his nearsightedness and had to press his face to the TV screen. He was attentive to every detail of the video, the Riddler's words, and how he expressed himself. How charismatic he looked.
"I will kill again and again and again until our day of judgment. When the truth about our city will finally be unmasked. Goodbye!"
Falcone turned off the television in his office, not wanting to hear more of that Riddler. As soon as the screen went black, Jonathan blinked a couple of times. He had been so immersed in the video that it was like putting out a fire in a fireplace he had previously stood watching and feeling its heat so closely, only to be suddenly hit by the cold breeze.
“I want him dead,” Carmine declared loudly and firmly to Jonathan, the only one in his office. Of course, he wouldn't let his other workers see him this paranoid. A respectable boss was never weak.
Jonathan sighed, turning away from the television with his hands tucked into his pants pockets and taking a few steps before the man. “Mr. Falcone, with all due respect, I am not a bounty hunter.”
“Strange. I thought a case like this would interest you, doctor,” Carmine spoke with that tone of superiority that irritated Jonathan.
“No more favors. I already risked too much with your thug Victor Zsasz by getting him out of jail.”
“Hey, I scratch your back, you scratch mine, doc. I'm bringing in the shipments.”
The following could be considered a weakness, Jonathan found it difficult to hide or calm his facial expressions. When he didn't agree with someone, it showed on his face. Maybe that was why his wrinkles were marked. He didn't like anyone.
He raised an eyebrow, and when he opened his mouth to counterattack Falcone, Carmine stole the floor, “Listen, doctor, you and the stupid great project of your toxin would be nothing without me,” and here it came, a great sermon on how Crane's success was thanks to Carmine. Jonathan was so tired of those speeches that whenever a word went out of Falcone's stinking mouth, he could only imagine cutting his throat to shut him up.
The mobster continued, “And now, that Riddler is killing every person with power in the city!” he raised his voice, pointing at the television, “He thinks he's so smart, but so am I. I don't know how, but he has information he shouldn't, and now he's probably coming after me. If the Riddler gets rid of me, all your years of work go down with me, doctor. So, you'd better do as I ask, find him before he brings any more secrets to light.”
“You think I can find a serial killer we barely know about? I'm not a detective, Mr. Falcone. I'm a psychiatrist.”
“Use that brain of yours and think, Crane! I have a lot of faith in you. You're smarter than the entire police department. Ha! And they work for me! They can't do what you do,” he encouraged. “Hunt down that Riddler and make him your lab rat for your experiments. I don't know. I don't care what you do with him. I just want him out of the news as soon as possible.”
Carmine may have had more than half the city as his money-driven puppets, but controlling Crane was difficult for him initially. It was like trying to catch water in his hands; it always slipped and managed to escape somehow.
“Listen, Crane,” he spoke again, a little softer and more patient, resting his hand on the doctor's shoulder as if they were lifelong friends. “The Riddler wants to cause terror all over town. He wants to... take away your position in that regard. Don't you see? The reporters' voices tremble when they tell the news, and you, just one or two people are afraid of you because you play the strong one.”
Was that supposed to cheer Crane up or humiliate him?
What a pathetic attempt at manipulation. Jonathan was not an envious man who wanted first place in everything. All those words were a waste of Falcone's energy and time.
“Why don't you show everyone who the real master of fear is, huh? Who will they fear more? The Riddler or...the man who brought me his head?”
It took Jonathan one, two, three seconds to answer and think of a better plan, “I understand, Mr. Falcone. I'll do what I can,” he finished, not wanting to dwell on the matter. All he wanted to do was leave.
Turning to pick up his briefcase and walk towards the door, he heard Carmine shout one last warning. “Don't you dare fail me, Crane. You don't want to be the one shaking with fear then.”
The doctor turned his head slightly without turning completely around, keeping his hand on the door handle. “It won't happen, Mr. Falcone.”
No. Of course, it won't happen.
He had other plans for Falcone, plans that included the Riddler, and not precisely to finish him off if he ever found him.
───
The best part of the day was when it was almost over.
Arriving at his basic, practical apartment, Jonathan heard his cat meowing. It was her way of saying, "Welcome back, you bastard. I'm starving."
“Coming, Terror. Give me a moment. I just got here,” said Jonathan to his cat as soon as she didn't stop meowing loudly after his arrival. Indeed this time, she was famished. “You won't believe what that asshole Falcone did today,” his voice changed a little, more animated and energetic, as he removed his suit jacket and left it on the coat rack. Finally, he could let off some steam and talk shit about the guy who thought was his boss.
It was normal for Jonathan to have flowing conversations with his cat. He liked to imagine that she understood and listened to him, and from her cat-like expressions, it seemed like she was bodily talking back to him. It was funny how her face scrunched up too much, common in the sphinx breed.
The cat circled her owner's leg, still meowing and not listening to the talk he was giving her. “Falcone thinks he's manipulating me. But he doesn't know that I'm manipulating him by letting him think he's manipulating me,” Jon laughed at his conversation as he pulled out the can of fresh food for Terror. “Ha! I'm a damn genius. What do you think, Terror?”
Another meow, and this time Terror got up on two legs to start scratching Crane's leg in desperation.
“Hey! Don't do that, choo,” he gently pushed her away from his leg. “That's the best pair of pants I have. What's wrong with you? I'm going to give you your food, don't you see?” he showed her the can, to which the feline shook her head in a meow. Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Whether you like it or not, that's the way it is, you ungrateful girl. It'll be tomorrow before I buy you a different meal.”
He reached over to empty the can into the food dish, written in black ink, "Sir. Terror." Then Jonathan realized it was still full. “You haven't even finished your food. What's the matter with you?” he asked, turning to look at her. “Are you in heat?”
The question seemed to disgust Terror so much that she began to emit gagging and gasping sounds from her effort to expel something from her open mouth.
“Oh, no, Terror, how can you have a hairball if you don't even have any hair?” Jonathan grimaced as he watched his poor cat's abdomen contract as a sign that she was about to vomit.
The vomit came out along with what Crane made out was the complete skeleton of a sardine that Terror's stomach couldn't digest.
Jonathan never gave Terror whole sardines.
And neither would she meow endlessly at his arrival; not even she was that excited to see him.
Terror was warning him of something.
He noticed it belatedly when an arm wrapped tightly around his neck and pulled him backward, choking him.
It took Crane by surprise, but that was no excuse for his attacker to win. Jonathan could move fast too. He took advantage of the open can of cat food in hand and smashed it against the stranger's face he heard complaining after. In that distraction, he stomped hard on the unknown's foot and kicked them in the leg, managing to wriggle out of the grip and move away.
When he turned around and was on the other side, he noticed that his attacker was none other than the Riddler, cleaning his glasses dirty with cat food.
“Riddler,” he called in surprise, in an internal hesitation of whether or not to let his guard down. If he had a serial killer in the house, it was because he would be the next victim, but Jonathan didn't want to look so defensive when he had big plans in mind for him. “Look, it will sound strange, but I need to talk to you. You can hear me from your place.”
Not surprisingly, there wasn't a chance of reasoning with violent killers. The Riddler let out a shout of fury as he ran towards him, now with a knife in hand.
Jonathan was able to dodge it quickly and easily by moving to the side. “Hey, I'm telling you to listen to me!” another snarl came from the Riddler, and again the doctor had to evade another attack by ducking.
With every punch the Riddler threw and Crane dodged, the anger of both increased. Jonathan hated it when people didn't listen to him, and he couldn't reason with them. On the other hand, the Riddler hated that Crane was still talking by then.
The Riddler tried to strike with his bare fist but missed. Jonathan had stopped both of Riddler’s wrists, one above and one below. “You know, I had higher expectations of your fighting,” Crane admitted, giving the Riddler a quick twirl. “Are we going to fight or dance, sweetheart? ” he played, releasing the criminal to make him stumble and watch him fall to the ground.
They both panted, the Riddler from the pain of the brutal hit to the ground and Jonathan from the effort he was making. The Riddler was bigger and heavier than he looked in the video. Jonathan knew how to defend himself and throw a few punches of what he called violent dancing, but he hadn't done it in a long time.
“I don't want to fight you, but you're forcing me to,” Jonathan spoke with a bit of weariness in his throat. “And if you're really trying to dance, I suggest you get some lessons first and then invite your partner with more manners.”
“Shut the fuck up already!” the Riddler finally shouted a few words, launching himself at Crane from the floor and pushing him with the full force of his weight against the large bookcase on the wall.
Jonathan whimpered as he hit his back and head on the wood and the other books that fell to the floor. “Oh, so you do know how to speak,” he mocked, still in pain. “I thought you were a wild animal for a second.”
“I'm going to cut out your goddamn tongue,” he snarled, pointing the knife at the doctor's face.
The doctor managed to stop him before the Riddler got too far and gouged his eye out, grabbing his wrist with both hands. “I told you to listen to me. You don't want me to get violent with you seriously, you really don't,” he threatened, watching the blade slowly approach him. Jonathan didn't have enough physical strength to stop a man who weighed probably less than twice as much as he did.
“I'm not going to listen to a corrupt man like you. I'm sick of listening to all of you.”
He was leaving the Scarecrow no choice.
Jonathan discharged a dose of his fear toxin under the sleeve of his white shirt. The gas thoroughly bathed the Riddler's masked face from the close proximity. The poor guy must have inhaled a large amount with that.
But he didn't.
There was no scream, not even a cough.
In the middle of that gas cloud created like a mist, Crane could see the Riddler's mask like a lighthouse shining, warning him to get away from him before he crashed and made a big mess.
“How?” the confused and offended tone from the Scarecrow drew a laugh from the Riddler.
The Riddler shook his head to raise it slightly, revealing a pair of nose plugs. “What? You think I come to kill the Scarecrow without a clue of his fear toxin?” it was he who mocked now, angering Jonathan. It couldn't be that a pair of cotton balls on the nose had beaten his lifelong project.
Crane was the savage one who screamed now, pushing the Riddler off his shoulders with all his strength and retreating from the bookcase.
The two had become rabid animals, snarling and salivating as they circled around, waiting for one of them to strike first. It was like watching the Animal Planet live channel with nature and action music playing in the background.
The Riddler didn't seem to have the initiative, so Jonathan dared the first blow with his long leg in a kick. If, at first, they were in a dance, it turned into a real fight, the Riddler dodging kicks and returning blows with his giant gloved hands and the knife in his fist.
They were polar opposites, coming close when they wanted to hurt each other. The Scarecrow was quick in his reflexes and movements, stretching and flexing his limbs to hit or avoid the impacts the Riddler gave in response. The Riddler had little experience in physical combat; however, that did not detract from the strength and hardness of his blows.
In an unsuspecting movement, the knife blade grazed Jonathan's abdomen, tearing his shirt and skin and leaving a thin red line of blood near his stomach and waist. “Fuck!” he groaned in pain at the burning, instinctively bringing his hand to the wounded area, distracting himself.
Bad time to check himself. The Riddler punched Crane's face, knocking him to the ground, and immediately sat on Scarecrow’s thin body to put all his weight on his abdomen without giving him a chance to get up. “I knew you'd be the one who was going to fight the most out of all the other pigs.”
Jonathan did his best to turn around and switch roles but to no avail. The guy was bigger than he was, and now he felt so small, back to being that kid who scared nothing but birds.
“Get off of me!” he continued to fight, slapping his hands on the Riddler's fat body with several blows. He was barely tickling the assassin in that military uniform of his.
Jonathan's wrists were grabbed by the Riddler's big hand, stretching his long arms above his head to stop his futile blows. The action brought the Riddler's face close to Crane's, letting Jonathan hear his deep, agitated breathing beneath the mask. “We've finished. Now stop moving. You've lost.”
“I'll be waiting for you in hell.”
The Riddler laughed, gently running his knife across the Scarecrow's face without harming him. “I'll see you there then for a second round,” he said, sliding the blade to Crane's neck, who grunted and raised his head to avoid its edge.
“You son of a bitch, you didn’t even listen to- mph! Mmh!” the Riddler had covered Jonathan’s mouth with duct tape, silencing his words instantly.
“God, you're even more annoying in person,” the Riddler claimed, rolling his eyes and releasing the doctor's slender wrists to pull the entire roll of duct tape out with both of his hands. “How about we make you a new mask? Huh, Crane? Would you like that?”
“Mmm! Hm!” he let out angrily, probably cursing and swearing.
The Riddler stretched out a large strip of duct tape, breathing deep and loud behind his mask, his glasses glinting in the night's glare.
“Don't worry, doctor, I'll make sure everyone knows about your illegal experiments and projects. Your work will not have been in va-”
Without finishing his sentence, the Riddler gasped for air as he felt a prick in his thigh. His eyes, wide and with large, trembling pupils, lowered to see a syringe piercing his military pants. The doctor emptied the orange liquid in the needle, carrying the fear toxin into the Riddler’s blood.
“N-No. No,” a lump in the Riddler's throat made him stutter, seeing the doctor's deep blue eyes also watching him with seriousness and anger. “You can't- no. It's not supposed to be like this, no!”
Crane removed the needle once he injected him. He kept in his pants pockets a few syringes filled with fear toxin as a spare and emergency for cases like this.
With the first symptoms of the toxin, it was easy to remove the Riddler's body on top of him and have him fall off the other side. Jonathan stood up and removed the duct tape from his mouth to take a deep breath. “I told you you didn't want me to get violent with you.”
The Riddler's uncontrolled panting and breathing were signs of his heart pumping the toxin-filled blood, passing into his brain and all the veins in his body.
“No. No. It's not real. It's not real,” the Riddler tried to convince himself. He covered his eyes full of tears and hallucinations with the palms of his hands, but that didn't work at all. It was like covering the sun with a finger; after all, the sun was still there. Crane could already see his fears in his tears. “It’snotrealit’snotrealit’snotreal.”
“Oh, Riddler. This is real,” if only Jonathan knew the Riddler’s real name, it would make it all more personal. He could get into his fears in a more intimate place. Now he had to be content with just seeing his green eyes, that forest within them amid a great rain from his tears, turning into a hurricane that blew all the trees down until it left nothing but destruction and flooding.
What would the great and fearsome Riddler be afraid of?
Jonathan was standing beside him, watching him from above as if he were God about to judge all his creation and the sins they have committed on earth to condemn them.
The Riddler, in a moment, stretched out his arm, his trembling hand clutched at Crane's dress pants. In that flooded forest, the Riddler was already drowning, and he had to hold on to anything if he didn't want to end up dead.
The grip and the way the man wrapped his arms around Jonathan’s leg as if it were a trunk from one of his few surviving trees aroused Crane's curiosity, cocking his head slightly.
Then the Riddler spoke trembling and terrified, a terror Dr. Crane had not seen in his patients, “I'm not going to fail you, no. I'm doing it, I'm saving you all,” he whimpered in the midst of his hallucination.
He was no longer hanging on to Jonathan's leg; he was hugging it with all his might as if it were a person he didn't want to fade away. “This is our only chance. I'm not going to waste it, no, no, no, no,” the Riddler stammered again. His breathing had become hoarse from his sobbing like a woman at a funeral.
Crane cupped what were the man's cheeks over the mask, raising his gaze to make eye contact. His frown was one of annoyance at not being able to comprehend what the Riddler was seeing, who he was speaking to and holding with such anguish.
“P-Please,” implored the Riddler, “please don't hurt the children. Give them a chance.”
Jonathan shook his head slowly, wanting to understand. “What children?”
“They've suffered enough. No more. No more. Nomorenomorenomo-”
This was getting nowhere, so Jonathan squeezed the Riddler's hidden cheeks harder and delivered a hard blow to Riddler’s head with his forehead. Hard enough to make the Riddler fall unconscious and his own brain rumble.
He brought his hand to his forehead, feeding back his idea. It wasn't the best, but it worked. “Agh, fuck.”
His head spun, bouncing like sound waves off the walls until he caught a mewl that snapped him out of his pain.
Terror emerged from her hiding place behind the single armchair where Jonathan usually sat reading. She slowly and carefully approached the man passed out on the floor.
“So there you were,” Jonathan spoke to her, continuing to rub his forehead. “You could have lived up to your name and scratched him a little to help me, you know,” he scolded, crossing his arms as he watched Terror run her paw along the Riddler's arm to see if he would react or not. “I may have to change your name to Scaredy.”
The Riddler's body gave no reflex response to the feline's paw. So Terror jumped onto the assassin's bloated stomach confidently, appearing to reach for something inside one of the pockets of the military suit.
“What are you doing? You're going to wake him up, and I don't want to hit him again with my head,” Jon whispered as if his voice was going to disturb the compulsory sleep he put the Riddler in.
Seconds later, Terror poked her head out of the suit pocket near the Riddler's chest, holding between her sharp teeth a fresh sardine.
Jonathan opened his mouth, offended. “Ah, so that's how this bastard bought you, huh? Traitor,” he accused Terror, sticking out his tongue as an expression of anger while Terror didn't even turn to look at him and jumped on the Riddler's stomach like a trampoline. “Go on, go eat raw fish. Some people have to work,” he said, bending down now that he was one hundred percent sure of the assassin's unconscious state.
Carefully and without being abrupt, he removed the glasses and the winter military mask, revealing the criminal's face.
Jonathan blinked and cocked his head to the side as he encountered the naked face of what he estimated to be a man in his early thirties. He slowly scanned his face, taking in every little detail about him. The Scarecrow wouldn't allow himself to forget what the person who almost killed him looked like. In any case, if he escaped, he already knew what he looked like.
His cheeks, chubby, were pink and soaked from his previous crying. His nose, curved like a mountain, was bleeding a little from all the fighting. His prominent forehead glistened with so much sweat from the heat of the plastic coating all over his hair. Lastly, his light pink lips were half open, the lower lip a little bigger than the upper one, which was almost heart-shaped and well-marked.
“Hm,” Jonathan exclaimed. It was an unusual face for someone who murdered the mayor in such a brutal manner and live-streamed a couple of rats eating the commissioner's face. If Jon saw him in any other mundane context, he would even think the man smelled of pancakes and honey, not sweat and the chemicals of his toxin as he did now.
One shouldn't judge a book by its cover, right? Having a good boy face was advantageous for looking innocent and pretending he wouldn't kill a fly.
Jonathan gently ran his thumb across one of the Riddler's cheeks, brushing away the tears that wet his face.
Meow.
Terror's meow had burst Jonathan's bubble in which he hovered and thought, drawing his attention to her, who held the skeleton of the sardine between her paws.
“I'll need help lifting him out of here,” he commented to Terror as if she was capable of helping him lift a man weighing over ninety kilos.
The Scarecrow would have enough time to accommodate him and think of a more detailed plan now that he really had the Riddler in front of him.
───
One, two, or three hours passed. Jonathan thought the Riddler was no longer passed out and had fallen asleep for real, taking a nap to rest from all the day's carnage.
He had plenty of time to rearrange the books from the shelves in order as he had them organized by category and alphabet. He also dressed the wound on his abdomen and sewed up his shirt while he was at it.
Seeing the Riddler tied up in a chair with his head down, and eyes closed was making him sleepy.
Enough. Jonathan approached him, patting the Riddler’s cheek to wake him up. “Hey,” he called, “Wakey wakey eggs and bakey,” he called back, receiving no response.
Meow.
Jonathan turned to look at Terror. She was sitting there wagging her tail, watching him.
“I didn't kill him,” he defended himself against Terror's accusations. “He's still alive. Look how his chest is puffing out,” he pointed to the criminal's peaceful breaths, reaching out again to open the Riddler's eyelid and wake him up. His green eye twirled a couple of times, and Jon blew on it to wake him up. “Wake up, asshole.”
No response. Jonathan sighed in frustration, going to fill a glass of ice water in the kitchen.
Once the glass was in hand, he threw the water in the Riddler's face.
“Eh! Batman?” the Riddler snapped awake, turning his head to all sides in search of the masked vigilante until he came upon Crane's figure standing with his arms folded.
“Do I look like a guy who goes out at night dressed as a bat?” Jonathan complained, sitting down in the chair opposite the Riddler. Terror jumped into his lap to sit in it, being immediately caressed on her back by Jonathan's bony hand.
“Scarecrow,” he said in disgust and raised an eyebrow at the image of the other criminal with his hairless cat purring in his lap. “You really take the role of villain seriously.”
Jonathan's eyebrow rose just the same, not understanding what he was referring to until the Riddler's green eyes pointed at the cat. “Oh,” he expressed low as he caught the idea, embarrassed at how cliché he now looked. He lowered Terror from his thighs, letting her go.
As Crane cleared his throat to ignore what happened, the Riddler tried to untangle himself from the knots behind his hands without success. “You son of a bitch, what did you do to me?”
“I just injected you with some fear toxin, and then I hit you in your big head,” he explained, shrugging his shoulders as if it were a typical routine for anyone. “Be thankful it wasn't a concentrated dose. Your mind would have collapsed.”
“What are you going to do with me? Exploit my greatest fears? Keep me here forever as a lab rabbit? Sew my mouth shut to become your mask?”
“Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow,” Jonathan stopped him, laughing and extending his hands as a sign for him to stop. “You've got quite an imagination,” he mocked. “I don't go around sewing and kidnapping people,” he clarified. “You're giving me ideas for the future, though, good ideas.”
The Riddler shook his head in disgust at the Scarecrow. “You're sick,” he commented grumpily.
Crane rolled his eyes. He thought someone like the Riddler would be more sympathetic. “Look, let's not talk about my diagnosis now, shall we? I don't even have my mask on now for you to think I will attack you.”
“No, but you've got me tied up in a chair like a kidnap victim.”
“It's for precautionnnn,” Jonathan said as if it were obvious. “If I didn't, you'd already be throwing more punches thinking you're a ninja. Now, listen, I need you to-”
“Why don't you have your mask on?” the Riddler interrupted.
Crane stopped everything he was going to say. “Would you like to see my mask?” he got up from his seat, reaching for his work briefcase. “I use it in my experiments,” he said, returning to his chair.
The Riddler's mouth opened in a small 'o,' beginning to sweat from his forehead. “No, no, no,” he quickly denied before the Scarecrow opened the briefcase. “I know what you do with it. There’s no need for a demonstration. I was just… asking because you don't seem to intend to poison me again.”
“How clever of you,” Jonathan encouraged, placing his briefcase on the floor. “I won't if you behave nicely,” he pointed out. “And although your fears have made me very curious, it's not the time now.”
“I don't know if I should be more frightened by the idea that you won't do any of your experiments on me, and you have other plans in your twisted mind.”
“Hey, relax, will you?” Jon leaned one of his arms on the back of the chair while he raised one of his legs on top of the other. “For the first time, I'm not trying to scare someone, and you're acting like this.”
The Riddler's round face grimaced almost in shame as he asked, “So... What do you want?”
“I thought you'd figure it out at this point, aren't you the Riddler?”
“Pfft, yes. I connect pieces to find an answer. I don't have a crystal ball to guess what the fuck you want.”
“Wow, what a pisser,” Crane huffed. “But okay, I'll be frank, uh... What's your name?” he questioned, not wanting to always refer to him as Riddler.
“Screw you if you think I'll give my name to an asshole like you.”
The Riddler's uncooperative attitude was making the doctor's veins boil. He took a breath, reaching for his briefcase again, “You're trying my patience,” he said, unlocking the briefcase.
“Pa-Patrick!” the Riddler shouted before the Scarecrow opened the briefcase. “My name is Patrick.”
Jonathan's hands stopped, raising his gaze to the frightened man. His blue eyes furrowed, analyzing the captive's every move. “Patrick what?”
“Patrick Parker.”
After a few seconds of silence, Crane burst out laughing and opened the briefcase. “What a ridiculous name. Look at you! You're in a cold sweat. You're such a fucking liar.”
As soon as Crane pulled out the burlap mask, the Riddler's lips quivered, wanting to arrange the letters of the alphabet to say a word before he was drugged once more. “Edward! My real name is Edward!”
Jonathan paused before putting on his mask, reanalyzing the Riddler's body language as if he were a lie detector machine. “Good. That's more convincing. See how easier things are if you just listen to me?”
“Damn, you're good at this,” Edward mumbled. “And fuck off, seriously. Don't ever call me a liar again.”
“I don't call you a liar, and you don't lie to me. Everyone's happy. What do you say?”
Edward sighed, resigned. “Just get to your damn point. My wrists are falling asleep, and you're starting to put me to sleep too.”
“That's where I'm going, that's where I'm going, but you keep interrupting me,” Jonathan took another breath to speak. “I know you want to kill Carmine Falcone. I don't know what other people are on your hitlist, but-”
“ You , for example,” the Riddler cut him off.
“See? That's what I mean by you keep interrupting me,” Crane claimed. Edward just rolled his eyes at him and whispered a soft "go on," to which Jonathan continued, “I don't care how many others you want to kill, do it- well, kill everyone except me,” Jonathan clarified with a low chuckle. “I just want us to kill Falcone together.”
That last thing made Edward turn his face to look at the doctor, gaining his attention. “And how exactly do you know I'm going to kill him?”
“Please, it's too obvious,” Jonathan shrugged his shoulders from his relaxed posture, talking about a whole murder and more illegal things as if discussing the weather. “Well, it is evident when you're involved in all the dirty business in town. And he knows you're after him. In fact, Falcone sent me personally to kill you before you kill him.”
The emerald in Edward's eyes expanded, his eyes widening. “And... are you going to do it?” he asked, trembling. He was tied up and unable to move; he didn't stand a chance of escaping.
“Are you paying attention to what I'm saying? No! Man, I want to form an alliance with you.”
The Riddler's big brain seemed to short-circuit, sparking as he cocked his head. “But why?”
“Falcone is not just a pain in the ass to you. He's been being a limit to all my plans, thinking he's my boss when he controls nothing but his stupid men.”
“You just want to eliminate him to make this city worse.”
“No, no. I'm a bad guy in your eyes, but I'm not. I am a doctor. It's the city that's bad. It's-”
“Sick,” it wasn't an interruption this time; Edward finished the sentence for Jonathan, who smiled.
Before Crane could say anything else, his cell phone rang with an incoming call. “A thousand apologies,” he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, seeing Falcone's name on it. “Don't talk if you don't want to be dead,” he ordered, taking a big gulp of air to answer, “Mr. Falcone! Good evening,” he greeted, feigning a friendly tone. “Yes, sir. You won't believe it. The Riddler came to me intending to kill me. To his bad luck, he didn't succeed. But unfortunately, he escaped from me as well. He fled in terror. Don't worry- I'll handle him as we agreed. Yes, sir. See you tomorrow.”
“Who's the liar now?”
Crane rolled his eyes, putting his cell phone away again. “Do you want to stay alive or not?”
“And why the fuck did you let him know we already had an encounter? That doesn't help at all.”
“It helps make him think that if you're against me too, I have no choice but to kill you,” Jonathan explained.
Edward clicked his tongue, unconvinced by Crane's ideas. “Well, I am against you.”
“Hey, look. You have your reasons for killing Falcone, and I have mine, same result. Why go different ways?”
The Riddler opened his mouth, unable to cope with the doctor's ignorance. “You speak as if you were innocent. You experiment without morals. You cause paranoia in patients with mental illnesses and disorders. You've even sent so many criminals who deserve jail to your stupid psychiatric hospital as if it were a hotel!”
“The work offered by organized crime must have some sort of attraction to the insane.”
“Or the corrupt!”
“In my defense, that's Falcone's fault,” Jonathan pointed out. “But you should know that by now. If I don't do what he asks, I'll appear in the newspaper with big letters saying that my cause of death was suicide with ten bullets in my back. If it were up to me, I'd let them rot in prison too.”
Edward didn't answer, just thinking of all his options now. “If I don't join you, are you going to kill me?”
“No,” to Edward’s surprise, Crane didn't want to kill him. “If you don't want to work together, that's fine. I'll tell Falcone that I couldn't find you again after you escaped,” he declared calmly. “You can go and continue with your plans without any problems, solve all the puzzles you want at home. We'll see who kills Falcone first. But... if you decide to join forces with me, we can accomplish more than you can imagine. Just think about this sick city, cured by you and me. ”
Another few seconds of silence. Edward was analyzing Crane's words like puzzle pieces to put together to make sense of the outcome.
Jonathan stood up, pulling a card from his shirt pocket. “I'll give you time to think about it. You've probably planned this for a long time, and I'm here to improvise,” he commented, walking over to the Riddler to stand behind him and hand him his work card in his hands. “Call me anytime. There's my phone number. Just don't take too long; I can start a plan by myself then.”
Without hesitation, he untied the knot on the Riddler’s wrists, to which Edward turned a little curiously, clenching the card in his hands. “Are you going to let me go just like that?”
“You're smart, aren't you? You must be aware that if you say anything about this to the police, then the one I'll kill first is you and then Falcone,” he explained as he removed the ropes that tied him from his chest to the back of the chair. “Just think about what I told you, and don't discuss it with anyone. Whatever your answer is, I won't hurt you.”
“Untying me with as much confidence as if I had never hurt you before, how wonderful.”
“If I want you to trust me, I have to trust you too,” Jon murmured, walking to the front of the Riddler, where he bent down to untie the ropes from his ankles. “That's it. You can go,” he declared, getting up but not before patting the Riddler's thick thigh as if he were a small child and not a murderer.
Edward stood up in confusion and rubbed his wrists, which were red with rope marks. “Can I have my mask back?”
Jonathan walked to the table where he had left it next to the glasses, too, returning to the man in military fatigues to hand them over. “The mask is lovely. Simple, but it does the job.”
The Riddler nodded, with nothing more to say about it. “I... climbed in through your window on the fire escape. I broke the lock,” he said since he clearly wasn't going to come out the front entrance dressed as the most wanted criminal in the city nowadays.
The doctor did nothing more than roll his eyes and give way to the window to watch as he approached it and opened it. “Edward,” Crane called before the man left.
Edward turned to look at him, one leg already out on the fire escape, waiting for the doctor to speak.
Crane sighed, hands behind his back. “You can look at it this way: me being the doctor and you being the cure for this sick city.”
The last thing Jonathan saw of Edward was how he seemed to memorize that phrase, then put the military mask next to his glasses over the top and walked out the window without giving him a definitive answer.
Jonathan ruined the Riddler's stealthy escape when, after a few seconds of leaving, he poked his head out the window and saw Edward descending the stairs one by one in big footsteps that shook all the old metal.
“You're not very athletic, are you?” the doctor shouted from his window, looking down, causing the Riddler to gibber and curse between his teeth.
“Shhhh!” Edward shushed, raising his head to meet Crane's gaze and his cat watching him.
“Why don't you roll like a ninja? Maybe you'll get down faster that way,” Jon shouted again in derision, to which the Riddler just resigned himself to throwing him the middle finger and continuing going down the stairs.
Even as he walked down the sidewalk and crossed the street, Edward still heard the doctor's laughter.
Before walking farther away, he took one last look at the apartment building. Jonathan was still there, and noticing that he turned to look at him, the doctor dared wave goodbye with his hand to finally get inside.
All the Riddler could think of was how weird the Scarecrow was.