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In all of his years terrorizing the east valleys and mountains of Gotham, Jonathan Crane had never been so terrified as he was tonight.

Scratch that— he had never been terrified ever as he was tonight.

Not when Granny Keeney had forced him to tame that wild mare at only twelve years old; Not when he finally saw her lifeless corpse marred by crows; Not when he first shot a man point-blank with buckshot tearing through him; Not even when he finally donned the mask and devoted his life to terrorizing others.

It seemed like someone else had the same idea. Only, instead of a Scarecrow, they chose a Bat.

As Jonathan rode his steed on the outskirts of the newly rising Gotham City, he glanced back frantically to catch a glimpse of that black blur following him. Which was quite the challenge, considering it was as dark as the night that surrounded them.

The farther he rode from the city, the more Jonathan's pursuer blended in with the murky environment. The Bat's steed was as black as the Bat itself, and Jonathan began feeling as if he were being chased by his own horrifying shadow.

"You're only barkin' at a knot, stranger!" Jonathan shouted, another one of his measly attempts to dissuade the bat— and, deep down, to dissuade his own fear. "I'd have outrun you tenfold if I weren't havin' much fun being chased."

"Funny," the Bat spoke, barely audible above their horses' galloping hooves. "Let's see how you like getting caught."

Suddenly, Jonathan heard a sharp 'hyah!' and the sound of hooves at his side. Snapping to his side, he gripped his reins with a white-knuckled grip, for that had been the closest he'd ever gotten with the Bat. A legendary figure, he was— a legend, in fact. Jonathan hadn't believed the tales other bandits and criminals told him, of a protector garbed in pitch black, and a face the head of a bat. Jonathan thought it all hogwash.

Finally seeing the dark rider up close, he found it hard to disprove him now.

The Bat had eyes like white flame, and they scared the living daylights out of the fearless Scarecrow.

His grip on his horse's reins faltered, and the Bat siezed the opportunity to take them himself. Seeing the Bat's hand reach towards him struck a terrified chord in Jonathan that prompted him to action. So, remembering his predicament, Jonathan reached for his belt and sliced the Bat's hand with the sickle he always kept there.

Recoiling, the Bat's steed slowed after its rider had been hurt, and Jonathan gathered the last of his resolve to whip his own horse into speeds neither of them had seen before.

The outskirts of Gotham City was a wide, desolate land, with only hills and small, rocky crags to break up the monotony of dust, dirt, and shrub. It was there Jonathan had traveled many days coming to the growing city, having arrived from Georgia. Running from the crimes he'd done in the South, he sought to make some more down in the East.

It looked like he wouldn't have the chance to anymore, though. Not when he felt the pull of a rope wrap around his chest tumble him to the earth.

He'd seen only a few cowboys in his time successfully lasso somebody from a horse, especially not if they were riding one themselves. The Bat's display of skill only served to worsen Jonathan's fear, and the surprise of it all stunned him as he lay immobile against the earth's sandy floor.

His horse bounded ahead, galloping until it was out of sight, and Jonathan could no longer see its gray silhouette. He prayed to the God he no longer believed in that he would be able to track his steed afterwards with no trouble.

The burlap mask he wore protected his face from any real damage, but the same couldn't have been said for his pointed-hat. Having slipped from his fall, it caught itself on a mass of cacti. Jonathan looked miserably as thorns pierced its brown fabric. Just behind it, his misery grew as he saw the Bat on his horse approaching.

The Bat had the other end of the rope wound tightly around his fist, and of what little Jonathan could see of his face, he could see he was satisfied.

"You're coming with me," the Bat said.

Sitting up, Jonathan scoffed. "You ain't the law."

"No," the Bat agreed. Reaching into his vest, Jonathan began to test. "I'm not."

Instinctively, Jonathan flinched, thinking the Bat was pulling a gun on him. A Colt, perhaps, or a Smith, anything would do. To his immense surprise, he let out a sigh of relief once he only saw it was a pair of crude handcuffs.

That was when he remembered another detail about the Bat that the superstitious and cowardly told him— the poor bastard never used guns.

"I thought you wasn't the law," Jonathan scoffed, trying to shimmy his way out of his binds. The rope, unfortunately, was wound tight. "Think y'can arrest me?"

"That's for the law to decide," the Bat said. He jumped down from his horse and slowly walked towards Jonathan. He could start to properly see his figure with every step the legend took. "But they should arrest you."

The more the Bat became clear to Jonathan, the more real, the more Jonathan realized just how much of a joke it all was. A Bat. A bastard who didn't use a gun. More and more, his fears dripped out of him like a broken spittoon.

Jonathan could feel his shotgun slung on his back, pressing into him because of the rope— but that wasn't on his mind for offense at the moment. No, instead, he was thinking of a little experiment in a bottle he had stashed in his pocket. One he had carried with him all the way from Georgia.

Once the Bat was close enough, reaching for Jonathan's dirty-gloved hands to cuff, the bandit reared his head backwards and butted it as hard as he could against the legend. The both of them disoriented, Jonathan used the sickle at his side to cut himself free, and pulled the bottle out of his pant pocket.

"Let's see if you're all high n' might now!" Jonathan growled, throwing the bottle to the ground with a flourish.

Before either could react, they were covered in an orange cloud of Jonathan's own creation. He waded his way out of the plume, thankful for his burlap mask protecting him from the gas' adverse effects; a mix of his father's old, abandoned chemicals, Jonathan hadn't the chance to test out its side effects.

The Bat, he hoped, would prove to be a good first test subject.

From the sound of it, the Bat began coughing his lungs out, and groaning in a way that mimicked Jonathan's own sounds when he was still afraid. It delighted the bandit very much, but he knew it was about time he split.

So, making sure to retrieve his torn hat, he ran in the direction of his own horse, hoping he could catch up to make it out of there.

~~~

Setting up camp outside the outskirts of Gotham City, Jervis Tetch just hoped he would make it in time in the morning (for he so hated being late— just like the White Rabbit, I did!).

The thought amused him greatly, and made him reminisce of a kinder time, one much more… civilized than what he'd encountered so far in America. It was a good thing he brought a copy of Wonderland with him to such a place, for he knew he needed a piece of England to keep him sane.

Too bad that's why they kicked me out, Jervis thought ironically. Because I'm not. Sane.

He sighed. Setting a kettle over the meager campfire he had, he hoped to brew himself some tea while he was at it.

He didn't like thinking about England, not anymore, at least, because that was all behind him now. Quite literally! After his haberdashery business had fallen to the wayside (all because of 'mercury poisoning,' I said— imagine my offense when they told me I was mad all along!), Jervis sought to begin anew in America. A new era was arising here, one that involved lawlessness, disorder, unrest… and, to my pleasure, hats!

Every cowboy had a hat. Luckily for Jervis, he could make them. It made the utmost sense to him.

He chuckled to himself happily as the kettle brewed. Looking over to his mule, tied to his wagon, he smiled. "Absolutely clever, wouldn't you agree, Carroll?"

The mule chuffed. Jervis took that as a yes.

After setting his sights on America, Jervis decided to ride onto its East coast. He heard of what kind of messes the West went into, and though he wanted to capitalize on that, he wanted some semblance of society to remain. The East seemed a perfect balance.

Oh, how wrong he would soon be proven.

Much sooner than one would expect too, for just as his kettle began to boil, its whistle was accompanied by the sound of a fastly galloping horse.

"What in the…?" Jervis muttered to himself, looking around for the source of the sound. The only place he didn't think to look was above the small cliff face he set up camp behind, one no taller than he was.

Seeing as he was sitting, the gray stallion that came leaping from that cliff just narrowly missed trampling over his head as it landed (though the same couldn't have been said for his top hat— it fell off in the commotion!).

Jervis exclaimed in fright as his mule chuffed, and they both watched as the saddled horse continued on its wild, directionless journey. It was only then that Jervis realized it had a saddle, indeed, but then where is the rider?

His question was answered just minutes later when a bandit came tumbling down that cliff, clutching onto Jervis as if his life depended on it.

"Oh God— I HAVEN'T ANY MONEY!" Jervis begged, knowing full well that was a lie (he did have money, just… not very much). "I HAVEN'T ANY GOLD!"

That part was true, but the bandit didn't take heed. No, he looked far too distracted for such trivial matters— it was hard to tell, however, for an odd burlap mask concealed his face.

"That your wagon there?" The bandit hissed, holding Jervis close. Before Jervis could even mutter a hasty 'yes,' the bandit continued. "Listen here— I'm gonna hide in this here wagon and you're gonna shut yer trap about it to anybody who comes knockin' to ask."

"Who's going to come knocking—?" Jervis tried, but the stranger shook him to surprise.

"Just don't blab about me, and maybe I won't blow your top off," he hissed.

Jervis didn't doubt the threat, oh not at all! But it didn't feel as threatening seeing as the bandit wasn't exactly, well, threatening him. Especially not when he had every mean (and perhaps every reason) to.

The strange bandit, tall and towering over Jervis, loomed over the haberdasher and held him fast with both hands. Jervis was still sure this was a stick-up of some sort, but he'd never heard of any stick-up where the bandit didn't use the shotgun strapped to his back, the weaponized sickle hung on his belt, nor the knife hidden in his inner thigh.

Neither had he ever heard of a bandit sounding so desperate during the act.

Perhaps even scared.

Now would have been a good opportunity as any to take advantage of. I did have my own gun too, you know.

But, being a true gentleman, Jervis didn't.

"Alright," Jervis sighed, nodding. "Now unhand me so I can help you!"

From the holes of the bandit's mask, there flashed a sudden appreciation in those sharp, amber eyes. Appreciation that, from the look of it, seemed rare.

After calming his startled mule, Jervis led the stranger to his wagon, but blocked him from entering the door just yet.

"But, pray tell, just who might come knocking, asking for you?" Jervis asked.

"The less you know, the better you're off," the bandit hissed. Then in an odd, uncharacteristic voice, he added. "Please."

Jervis was surprised. It didn't sound like he used that word often.

Almost makes me feel special.

So with more eagerness than he intended, he let the stranger into his abode, and bid him to hide under the small, cramped bed. Seeing as the bandit was tall and gangly, it was a tight fit.

"I'll get you once the coast is clear," Jervis whispered. Then, lingering at the door, he added sternly. "Don't try anything with me."

"No bees in this bonnet, sir," the bandit sighed.

Jervis paused. "What?"

The bandit only chuckled. Cowboys and their slang. Balderdash!

Shutting the door to his wagon, Jervis only had to wait a few minutes longer to see who was in pursuit of the bandit.

Or, in his mind, what.

When the shadowed rider arrived at his campsite, seated upon a jet black steed, Jervis had only one thought; That can't possibly be human.

Eyes white like flame, claws that scratch…

The Jabberwock!

Jervis' chest fluttered all affright. He could barely stop himself from trembling at the newcomer's presence, nearly spilling the kettle that was now over-boiled. His first thought was to offer the beast some tea, for perhaps the Jabberwock would take a liking to it— considering its origin.

Jervis could barely look up from the fire at the creature, having now dismounted from its steed. What glance he did take, he could only make out a cowl as black as night, eyes as white as winter, and a hat so sharp it looked like the ears of a beast.

As it walked towards Jervis, its form billowed in the cold, desert air, shapeless and slick. Surely it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but by God were they like the wings of a wretched bat.

"Don't—" Jervis began feebly. Willing himself to meet the stranger's eyes, he mustered his last few words. "I— I don't want any trouble."

"You saw someone run away," the creature-beast said, voice low in a rumble. It sounded like it was recovering from a cough of sorts. "Didn't you?"

"I didn't," Jervis disagreed (which was partially true— the bandit hadn't left yet, after all). "I— I saw no one run away, no one."

The stranger's white eyes turned to slits. "What are you doing out here?"

Jervis subdued the urge to scream Jabberwock, and answered in a full truth. "I've… I've decided to camp here for the night to make a trip into the city in the morning. That's— That's Gotham City there, in the distance, isn't it?"

Pointing, he hoped to direct the man's attention away from himself. Those white eyes stayed fixed, unfortunately.

"Yes. It is," the Jabberwock said simply. Instead those eyes turned to the wagon just behind Jervis. "Traveling alone?"

"No," Jervis said, slipping. Quick to correct himself, he gestured towards the mule. "Carroll's accompanying me. I bought her just a week ago, down in port…"

The Jabberwock looked unimpressedly at the labor animal, then back at the wagon. It was as if he could sense the criminal within, a beastly display of instinct.

The Jabberwock stayed staring at it.

Jervis stayed staring back.

Praying to whatever gods would hear him, he breathed a sigh of relief once the Jabberwock turned back to its ashen steed.

"There's criminals 'round these parts," the Jabberwock said in lieu of a farewell. "Best to keep an eye out."

And with that, the Jabberwock left. With a gust of sand on its steed's trail, Jervis watched until it faded back into the night. It didn't take long. So, waiting a few minutes longer, he mustered his resolve to go back into his wagon and bid the bandit goodbye. When he did, however, he was still so shaken by the encounter, he hadn't even realized the bandit lingered to stay.

~~~

When Jonathan was finally let out of the carriage, he had expected his host to promptly shoo him away for intruding. The host, however, still seemed far too caught up in the sight of the Bat to remember to do so. Jonathan was amused.

"Havin' second thoughts about moving here?" He snickered.

The man simply sat by the fire, beside the now abandoned kettle. "What?"

"You'll see a lot more of him if you do," Jonathan said, sitting across from him.

"Who is he?" The man gasped. "What is he?"

"He's a damn fool who thinks himself some sorta guardian of the city," Jonathan scoffed. "Chasin' criminals left and right. Sorry to say that's all there is in this town."

"You're a criminal," his host asked. But from the sound of his 'question,' it seemed like he already knew the answer anyway.

"Proudly so," Jonathan scoffed.

"You're not going to do me in, are you? Now that you're through with that…" He paused. "Man."

"Bat," Jonathan corrected, which only seemed to puzzle his host more. "And no, I won't. I may be criminal, mister, but I still got manners." After a pause of his own, he cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "Thanks, anyhow, for… steering him off."

"My pleasure," his host sighed. "If I'd have known that was what would come looking to find you, I'd have hid alongside you as well."

"Tight fit," Jonathan sighed, and a silence fell upon the two.

It was then Jonathan decided to take a closer look at his gracious host— as close a look he could get across a flickering campfire, anyway. He had noticed the heavy English accent right away, but thought little of it until now. That paired with the man's choice of posh dressing, and a top hat that was in stark contrast to Jonathan's battered own, painted a perfectly clear picture to the bandit. A civilized foreigner had come to claim uncivilized land.

All of the England memorabilia that he saw within the wagon only confirmed his suspicions.

"You don't plan on actually staying here, do you?" Jonathan asked.

"Of course I do," the man scoffed. "I plan to make a name for myself."

"And what name might that be?"

"Jervis Tetch," Jervis introduced, offering a hand over the fire. "Haberdasher and milliner, at your service."

"Ain't those the same thing?" Jonathan asked, hesitating a moment before shaking Jervis' hand.

Again, Jervis scoffed. "Of course not! One's for selling and one's for making. Not very bright you cowboys are, no?"

"Most," Jonathan huffed. "But not me."

Letting go of Jervis' hand, he prepared to rise when Jervis reached across and caught him by the arm. The act surprised Jonathan to the point where he began reaching for his gun, only to find Jervis looking apologetically at him.

"Wait!" He said, urging Jonathan to remain seated. "I didn't mean to insult you, really. I— I'm sorry. Won't you stay for tea?"

Amused, Jonathan raised a brow under his mask. "Tea?"

"Very English, I know," Jervis chuckled. "But after the night we've had, I expect we'd need some."

Now intrigued, Jonathan gave in to the prospect of staying a few minutes longer. After Jervis returned the kettle atop the campfire, he went inside the cabin for a moment to pull out a small suitcase. Opening it, he took out a packet of loose tea leaves for when the water boiled again.

"You seem awfully fine with havin' a drink with a criminal," Jonathan noted.

"Well, if what you say is true and everyone is Gotham is a criminal of some sort, I can't be picky with my friends now, can I?" Jervis sighed. "Besides, it's not like I'm entirely free of… fault either."

"Really now?" Jonathan asked teasingly. "You're pullin' my leg."

"It's the reason why I'm even here, I assure you," Jervis insisted. "I've had a bit of a… mad reputation back in England. I mean to change that now."

Jonathan crossed his arms and sized up the man sitting before him. Short, heavy, dapper, gentlemanly… No, he wouldn't last a day here— not unless he was truly as mad as he said.

"But what about you?" Jervis asked. "You never did say your name."

"What is this, a social call?" Jonathan rolled his eyes. "Do you really expect someone wearin' a mask to want to give out their name?"

"It seems the least you could do, given what I did for you," Jervis hummed. By then, the kettle began to whistle, and he began preparing their tea. "Or shall I have the Bat come and fetch you?"

Jonathan chuckled. An odd man, Jervis Tetch was.

"Crane. Jonathan Crane," he said, nodding. "But in these parts, they call me the 'Scarecrow.'"

"Scarecrow?" Jervis couldn't help but laugh as he steeped their tea. "What is that, a nickname?"

"Of sorts," Jonathan agreed. "But only crooks n' cops call me that."

"Well, Scarecrow, it's a pleasure to meet you," Jervis chuckled, handing Jonathan his cup. It was a finely made porcelain cup, one fit for a European grandmother's cupboard. Jonathan lifted his mask only slightly to sip it. "If I'm to live here, will I need a name like that too? Imagine that, me being called something like… The Mad Hatter! Oh, how amusing you all are."

"You don't really get to choose," Jonathan said in between sips. "Then again, it's not like I mind my name."

The two were quiet for a while, sipping and drinking their tea. Jervis accomplished this much quicker than Jonathan had, probably because he was already so used to the heat and taste. Jonathan, however, often felt his tongue burning. He was astounded at the temperatures the haberdasher gulped his tea down in one sitting.

"Pretty scalding, ain't it?" Jonathan huffed, using his battered hat to fan himself.

Once Jervis had finished his cup, he was pouring himself another when the sight of Jonathan's hat entranced him.

"May I see that?" He asked, beckoning with his hand. "Your hat."

"Uh…" Jonathan hesitated. He suddenly felt very protective of it. "It's personal property, y'know."

"I know, I know— that's one thing I admire about you cowboys, your hats," Jervis said, waving a hand dismissively. "So, may I?"

Jonathan cautioned a frown towards the haberdasher, but eventually handed him the battered scrap that was his hat. It was a rugged thing, its brim moth-eaten, and its top stitched together with lame effort. Jervis looked almost pained to inspect it.

"What happened?" Jervis gasped, turning over the hat in his hands.

"Whaddaya think?" Jonathan scoffed, exaggerating his southern accent. Making a gun out of his fingers, he feigned shooting Jervis right at his head. "Saved my head once or twice."

"Certainly…" Jervis murmured, fingering a small tear in the hat. "It looks worse for wear than you do."

Jonathan nearly snorted out his tea. "You sayin' I look bad?"

"Please," Jervis laughed, rolling his eyes. Only now did Jonathan notice how blue they were. "I think we're far past being offended, Mr. Crane."

Jonathan winced at the name. "Don't call me that. Makin' me sound like my pa…"

"Well, what would you prefer?" Jervis asked, setting the hat down on his lap. "Jonathan?"

"Like I sad," Jonathan snickered. "Scarecrow."

Jervis rolled his eyes again, but nodded. "Very well, Scarecrow. I only noted the state of your hat because I want to offer to fix it."

"Ain't nothing wrong with it," Jonathan said, shaking his head.

"Yes there is— just look at it!" Jervis held it up, pointing at its various imperfections. "It's a shame, really. I know it's meant to be worn down like this, but how can you wear it if it doesn't even fit your head?"

While Jonathan was busy shrugging the milliner off, he barely noticed how the man had placed his hat upon his head. Indeed, it fell loosely forward atop his blond head, and reminded Jonathan of times it did the same on his own head. And, annoyingly, it reminded him of a rather… ridiculous rule that made him flush; he thanked God for the fact he was wearing a mask at the moment.

"Uh, wait—" he began, but Jervis continued to ramble.

"I can fix it up very nicely for you… Just think of it, my first commission! These hats can't be that different from the ones back home…" Jervis went on. He fiddled with the hat upon his head until he caught the wide-eyed stare coming from Jonathan's way. "What's the matter?"

His mask a little stuffier now, Jonathan shook his head. "Uh— Nothing, just… remembered something… stupid."

Jervis shrugged, and Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief once he finally took the hat off. Personal property indeed.

"So, what do you think?" Jervis asked expectantly.

"Huh?" Jonathan said, shaking his head from being flustered.

Jervis scoffed. "About my offer! I really will fix it, I assure you. If you promise to show me around the city tomorrow, I might not even charge you."

"I told you, it's personal property," Jonathan sighed.

"And I'll treat it as such!" Jervis insisted. "I'll give it back, I promise."

The image of inside Jervis' wagon flashed across Jonathan's mind. Alongside English memorabilia, there was an awful lot of hats…

"I never said nothin' about you keeping it," Jonathan said knowingly, watching as the color drained from Jervis' face. He snickered. "That another reason why the queen kicked you out? Y'steal her jewled hat too?"

"It's a crown." Jervis crossed his arms. Then, in a quieter voice, added. "And no… Not hers, anyway."

"You're a crook," Jonathan chuckled.

Jervis smiled. "I have to fit in somehow."

With more consideration now, Jonathan looked at the hat upon Jervis' lap, and back up at the man who held it. Normally, Jervis seemed the type of man whom Jonathan wouldn't mind scaring and robbing blind. Now, however, he saw that Jervis was no ordinary gentleman— no one spoke to Jonathan the way he did without being a little crooked themselves.

"Fine," Jonathan conceded. "But… I'm gonna need insurance."

"Of what kind?" Jervis cocked a brow.

"Any kind. Anything important to ya," Jonathan said, standing up with a huff. "Just to make sure you do return my hat, and I'll return what's yours."

"Well then, take whatever you want," Jervis said triumphantly. He watched as Jonathan paced around the camp, even looking back in the wagon for a moment. "I bought most of my things when I first came here anyhow."

"Most, yeah…" Jonathan mumbled, still pacing. His eye caught the suitcase Jervis took out earlier, one much more weathered than the rest of Jervis' things. "But not all."

Snatching it, his suspicions were confirmed by the way Jervis immediately stood to swipe it back. Jonathan used his height as an advantage, and held the suitcase far above the haberdasher's reach.

"Hey, that's—" Jervis huffed, reaching futily. "That's personal property!"

"I figured," Jonathan laughed. He turned away and rummaged through the bag's contents.

"Oh! Don't you know it's rude to make personal remarks!" Jervis finally took the bag back, but was left with two items less.

In Jonathan's hands, he held a copy of two books each. Looking from the covers to Jervis' face, he was amused to see it had turned the most frightened it had that night.

Looking scared was, admittedly, a nice appearance on Jervis' face.

Then again, Jonathan thought that way about anyone who was terrified.

And Jervis looked just positively devastated.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland…" Jonathan read the title of one cover. Then, the next. "Through the Looking-Glass…" Shrugging, he tucked them under one arm. "Can't say I've heard of 'em."

"They're new," Jervis huffed. He tried swiping the books once more, but only ended up tripping when Jonathan stepped out of the way.

Catching Jervis by the collar, Jonathan made sure the man didn't fall, all with a snicker. "This looks like perfect insurance to me."

"You can't take them!" Jervis exclaimed, floundering a little before regaining his balance. "I— you just can't."

"Relax, Tetch… if you take care a' my hat like you said, you'll see these covers soon enough," Jonathan said, feeling the spine of Wonderland, then flipping through the pages of Looking-Glass. He missed the feeling of a book in his hand for a change. "I could use an education again."

Jervis looked about ready to burst, his top, rabbit-like teeth chewing on his lower lip. After a heavy sigh, however, the man smoothened out his hair and, seemingly, his mind too.

"Very well!" He said promptly. "But if you damage those in any way, I'll personally see to it that you're shot by my own hand!"

"I could say the same for you," Jonathan said, smirking. Walking over to the wagon, he leaned on its side as he opened to Wonderland's first page. "And I'm the one with the bigger gun."

Jervis huffed, and bristled all the while as he packed up the remnants of their little 'tea party.' His mood seemed to worsen when he realized Jonathan had only drank half the tea he was served.

Jonathan ignored Jervis' sulking in favor of reading Wonderland's opening passage. His eyes glided over 'Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do,' and at once felt a long missed pleasure he rarely indulged in. Memories of his grandmother's library flooded his mind, one of the few good things that came from that accursed house.

He shook his head. No good ever came from him thinking of Georgia.

He was in Gotham now. A fresh start…

Perhaps more than one start than he first thought.

"You mean what you said earlier?" Jonathan asked, looking up from his book. Jervis scoffed at him.

"About shooting you? Absolutely."

"No, I mean about me not payin' you," Jonathan chuckled. "I could show you 'round town tomorrow, if you promise I won't pay a dime."

"Well… your hat won't be fixed by then, but…" Jervis trailed off. He paced around the dimming campfire for a moment before stopping in front of Jonathan. "One could say the offer is still on the table, yes."

"I'll take it." Jonathan thrust one of his hands out. Jervis stared at it a moment before shaking. "For your sake, Tetch, more than mine."

Jervis rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm sure."

As if on cue, the two turned upon the sound of a galloping horse. It was still some ways away in the distance, but as the noise grew, so did the silhouette of the animal. It was dark against the night sky, but had a certain gray sheen to it.

Terrified, Jervis drew close and gripped Jonathan's arm like a vice. Jonathan did his best not to comment on the act.

"The— The Jabberwock!" Jervis whispered in fright. "I thought he left!"

"What?" Jonathan scoffed. "Don't get all yellow. It's not the Bat— it's my horse."

Indeed, once the horse was at a closer range, it slowed its pace to a mere trot before stopping just outside the camp area. Its fur was gray and shiny, and remained quiet the whole time it stood.

To Jonathan's relief, all that training did prepare his horse to return to him if ever they got separated. He made a mental note to thank Cobblepot for such a technique.

"Steady, Crow…" Jonathan cooed as he approached his stallion. Jervis followed a few steps behind.

"Crow?" He asked.

To which Jonathan smiled under his mask. "That's what I named him. Yours?"

He nodded towards Jervis' mule, who chuffed at being acknowledged.

"Carroll," Jervis said simply. Then, he blushed once Jonathan looked back down at the book covers he held.

"You take good care of my personal property," Jonathan said playfully. "And I'll take care a' yours."

"I'll hold you to that!" Jervis huffed, watching as Jonathan mounted his steed.

He looked a very imposing figure on that horse, what with his burlap mask and various weapons strapped to his form. Jervis, however, looked at Jonathan as if he were just that— Jonathan. Not the Scarecrow.

It was Jonathan whom he met, after all. The Scarecrow would never come begging at a stranger out of fear.

Jonathan pushed that shame down as he bid his new acquaintance goodbye.

"I'll see you in town tomorrow?" He asked.

"Yes, but where?" Jervis asked in turn.

"The East road should be a good spot. I can take you somewhere nearby to conduct your business."

Jervis raised a brow in interest. "Can you, now?"

"All cowboys need hats," Jonathan said with a mild shrug. "Until then, Hatter."

And with that, he veered his horse away and left.

By the time he was a few meters away, he looked back to see the fire had finally died. Jervis had retired for the night, and Jonathan felt like it was about time he did the same.

He let Crow walk a few paces farther before stopping, pulling out a sleeping pallet from Crow's saddle side. He felt envious now of Jervis' wagon, but as he laid down and stretched on the rocky ground, he was at least glad he had the space to do so.

The haberdasher lingered for an oddly long time in his head. He tried not to pay it any mind, but it was hard when it seemed like he was about to dream only of hats.

So, sitting up in his pallet, he took the stolen— no, borrowed books from the milliner, and struck a match in order to read a few passages. When he finished the second chapter, he also finished the only matchbox he had.

So, now with a Wonderland-filled mind, he resolved to make Jervis pay for at least two matchboxes. It seemed only fair, after all; because of him, Jonathan had to dream of tea, rabbits, and hats that night.

And, particularly, of a certain Hatter too.