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When he held the costume out to her she wanted to refuse. Slap the offending item of clothing to the floor, tell him how sick he was for thinking she would join him, that she was somehow like him. Wanted to scream at him about his hirelings invading her home and beating her black and blue. She was ready to unleash a fiery tirade at him, to take him apart with her words and expose him for the deranged stalker he was. He had found her. Again. It was no accident of circumstance: he sought her out. Watched her. Followed her. Learned her routine.
Discovered her dress size.
He made that costume for her. A disgusting parody of his own, prettied and sexualised according to his desires. The thought that it would sway her was laughable - the design was crude, fetishised, and she knew - she just knew - it was akin to a stranger offering her lingerie. It was creepy. Disturbing.
Her heart beat so fast, a frantic tattoo of anger and anticipation. Her fists balled, her teeth set, her feet planted firm as she leant against the wall for strength. She ignored the way her leg shook, rebelling against taking the weight without her cane. She fought through the urge to look away from him, defiant in her outrage, and met his gaze.
She faltered.
There was something in his eyes, something hidden behind the manic gleam of an obsessive man who had cornered his victim. Something remarkably human.
Was it loneliness?
Optimism?
Possibly, but there was something else, too... something more keenly familiar in the way he presented the dress, and the beats of tense silence after his desperate offer.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of humiliation.
Fear.
Becky's heart lurched. The Scarecrow was scared of her. She held the power to dash his hopes or lift his spirits, to condemn him to solitude and bitterness or peel back the protective layers he swaddled himself in. She could bring the burning sting of rejection to his eyes, or a sigh of relief to his lips.
She had never held this much power over anyone before. Why would she? She had been the butt of the bullies' jokes, the sickly girl who was the target of playground jabs and college pranks. Always overlooked and underestimated. Passed over and forgotten about. Considered a hindrance when she was considered at all.
But the way the Scarecrow watched her... no-one had looked at her like that before.
He was devoted.
Obsessed.
Scared.
She narrowed her eyes as she scrutinised him. He shuffled on the spot, his attempted façade of confidence cracking as he awaited her reply. His eyes were so human. Unremarkable. His mouth, too, if she looked past the threads that stretched over his costumed grimace.
He was just a man.
She smiled, a small thing that curled the corner of her mouth but didn't reach her eyes, and gave a nod. He wanted her to join him. He wanted to give her the means to take apart those who had tormented her, to seek revenge for the wrongs heaped upon her by bigoted fools.
Where better to start than with him?
He wanted a mistress, so she would make him suffer for everything he had done.
And he would love her for it.