Archive of Our Own

“Hah! Check!” Edward gloated, sticking out his tongue as knight took pawn. “Good luck getting out of that, Crane.” It was the third game they’d played that day and Edward had done fantastically well, as expected. Leaning forward in his seat, Edward grinned at his opponent, “You’re slipping, old man.”

No response from the other side.

“Jon,” Edward said, “Jon, it’s your turn.”
“Mmhm?” Pointed chin resting on the heel of his curled palm, Jon was technically looking at Edward’s king but, clearly, no one was home inside. Edward huffed angrily.
“You know, even I find it difficult to enjoy an empty game,” Edward complained. Jon poked his rook, then heaved a sigh when it fell over with a soft clack. Also heaving a sigh, Edward crossed his arms and flopped back into his chair, perfect posture abandoned. No point in trying when his opponent could barely conjure a thought.

“Jon, I’m bored.”
No response.
“Jon, you’re boring me.”
No response.
“Jon! Ugh, you’re useless.”
Crane’s eyes flicked up and Scarecrow scowled at Edward. Then, as quickly as he appeared, Jon’s companion slipped back under the fog of every anti-psychotic Arkham’s pharmacist could conjure up.

An over-reaction on their part. Scarecrow only bit one person during admission. No one died.

Edward had been quite excited when he heard Jonathan would be joining them in Arkham. If nothing else, the doctor provided somewhat stimulating dialogue. When he chose to. But this neutered zombie was about as interesting as a sponge. The only benefit to his companionship was that other patients gave Jon a wide berth. Apparently, the dull set in his face, combined with his overwhelming height and a hollow cheeks, was “creepy”.

Anyone else who might be worth Edward’s attention walked free on the outside, leaving Edward torn between a zombie and Kite-Man, who still hadn’t forgiven Edward for the whole ‘gang war, child murder’ business a few years ago.

Such a difficult choice! How ever could he decide? Perhaps he might flip a coin. It would be more interesting than this stupid chess game. 

Edward needed to get out of Arkham. Another week and his brain would leak from his ears. Escape was now a medical necessity. And, unfortunately, Jon would have to come with him. Mindless though the Master of Fear may be, he was by far the tallest man in Arkham, perfect for reaching into ceilings. He also had a strangely specific knowledge of Arkham’s crawl spaces.

Apparently, the asylum had a raccoon problem during Jon’s tenure as a psychiatrist, and no money for an exterminator. Present-day Edward would give anything to see 6’5” Doctor Crane crawling through the ceiling with nothing but a broom to defend himself.

Another, more personal reason for bringing Crane was a concern for his well-being. Not that Edward and Jon were friends, of course, merely colleagues. But it was only a matter of time before the other inmates acclimated to Jon’s docility and Edward could think of dozens of people, staff included, who’d love to take advantage of that. It would be a shame if any of Edward’s future plans were pre-emptively thwarted by Jon's untimely demise.

No other reason.

Certainly not because he liked Jon’s irradiated blue eyes or the charming way his glasses slid down his crooked nose. The Riddler didn’t have time to notice trivial things like how Jonathan Crane’s dexterous hands remained steady despite the destabilizing drugs in his system. Never had intrusive thoughts about how Jon’s long, clever fingers would reach all the right spots or be pleasantly cool against flushed skin. And Edward most certainly had never been distracted enough by Jon's narrow waist to stub his toes against a  doorframe when the man stretched his arms over his head after an uncomfortable night in an Arkham cell.

“TIME’S UP! Rec time is over! Back to your cells, inmates!”

Edward jolted when the guard started shouting. Had he been staring? Damnit. Flustered, Edward patted his cheeks. How embarrassing. Fortunately, Jonathan was entranced by the flickering ceiling lights and completely oblivious to Edward’s lapse in decorum.

“On your feet, inmates!” a guard called while flipping the light switch on-and-off, giving Edward a headache.
“Patients,” Lila, an overworked recreational therapist working on her PhD, corrected him for what had to be the hundredth.
“It’s the end of the day. I’m out of patience,” the guard snapped.
“They’re patients, not inmates." The guard rolled his eyes.
“Word of advice, honey. Stay in your lane." He brushed past her to kick the Ventriloquist, who was waiting on Scarface's permission to stand, "Hey. Inmate! get up!” 

Lila flipped him off behind his back. “Asshole.”
Edward snorted, helping Jon catch his balance when he tried to stand. Expecting Jon to provide assistance, Edward grunted in pain when his hip hit the edge of the metal table bolted to the floor. Another bruise, no doubt. Both hands braced against Jonathan’s chest, Edward pushed the swaying psychiatrist to his feet and was pleasantly surprised at the ease of doing so. Either Edward had grown stronger, or Jonathan had regained his equilibrium.

Neither, Edward realized when he saw another person stabilizing Jon.

“Hey, Edward,” Lady greeted softly while Edward righted himself and stepped forward to take some of Jon’s weight.
“Lady,” Edward greeted in return. Edward liked Lady. Though not particularly bribable or prone to leaving her keycard laying around, she was a nurse who genuinely tried, and could be cajoled into sharing a sweet treat or two. Together, they acted as crutches carrying Jon into the hall.
“This new guy is horrible,” Lady murmured to Edward as they shambled down the hall. He looked at her with sharp surprise. Lady, much like her name implied, preferred a form of gentle optimism and care that required few words. Certainly not one to gossip or complain about others aloud. She continued, “He and Strange are like two terrible little peas-in-a-pod. Strange wants to test every drug combination he can and Bolton’s happy to help.”

“What about Arkham or Leland?” Edward asked.
“Arkham thinks he’s mysterious, locked away in his office and refusing to see patients.”
They were thirty feet from Jon’s cell (‘room’, Lady insisted) when Lady’s pager buzzed. She asked Edward to take Jon’s full weight so she could disentangle herself and respond on her hand radio.
A Raveon Atlas PT, Edward casually noted, equipped with GPS tracking and a “man-down” alert. It appeared Arkham was taking unprecedented interest in the wellbeing of their employees. 

Or the med staff pooled their plasma donation money again.

Jon’s bad leg chose that moment to give out. He was saved the indignity of falling on his ass by grabbing Edward’s shoulder. Edward, already off balance, stumbled and fell forward, scraping his hands against the industrial carpet. Utterly embarrassing. More importantly, the spectacle prevented him from hearing Lady’s radio conversation. Whatever was said, it was important enough that Lady's mouth was twisted with worry when she pulled Edward to his feet and stabilized Jon.

She led Edward past an alcove that might have once housed a suit of armor and into Jon’s cell where he normally wouldn’t be allowed to go. Jon followed, bumping his head on the low door frame. Taking him by the elbow, Lady guided Jon to sit on the edge of his cot so she could fuss over a set of bandages protecting his throat. Something in her palm reflected the overhead light briefly before she opened her hand and it slid down Jon’s collar into his shirt.

“I’m going to tell you something that could get me fired,” Lady said slowly without looking at Edward. If anyone watched through the cameras, it would look like a nurse talking to her patients. She had, Edward realized, led him into a blind spot in the cell where no one could see the extra occupant. “The new head of security, Bolton. He’s obsessed with the idea of an impenetrable prison. He’ll do anything for it. You’ve seen the bruises. It’s like he has a grudge against certain patients. Leland’s digging in her heels but her case files will be redistributed when she goes on maternity leave.”

“When does her leave start?” Edward matched her almost imperceptible murmur. He’d noticed bruises on Jonathan’s wrists early in their chess game. Now the bandages on his neck, which Edward assumed to be for rope burn, seemed a little more sinister.
“A couple weeks? All her other kids came early.”

A dirty joke sat on Edward’s tongue but he swallowed it down. Lady wouldn’t appreciate it, and he was loath to lose her over something so below him.

“There’re other things too. But the point is, a major patient is incoming, less than ten minutes. As soon as they’re in the gates, everything locks down and all eyes are on the front door.” Edward nodded slowly, mind whirling. Lady fixed Jon’s collar and stepped back, still not looking at Edward. “It’s not safe here.”

“LOCK-DOWN! ALL INMATES BACK TO THEIR CELLS! LOOK DOWN” A guard shouted. Several voices began speaking over Lady’s radio at the same time.

“10-11C, everyone. Non-sedated. Clear the halls. Who hears?”
A harsh, electro-mechanical alarm started a continuous, steady tone that made Edward cover his ears. The overhead fluorescents went dark for exactly ten seconds before red lights lit up the halls, turning everything a shade of red. Jon’s door slammed shut, locking clicking into place to trap all three inside.

Edward’s heart leapt into his throat, certain they had lost their chance until Lady clicked on her radio.

“This is Lady," she spoke calmly and clearly despite the noise, “I’m closed into Room A14. Over.”
“Confirm, Lady, Room 14, A-Block? Over.”
“Confirm. I was closed in caring for a patient. Over.”
“Unlocking A14 now. Lock reengages in 15 seconds.”

The lock clicked again and the door automatically opened just a crack. Without looking back, Lady clicked off her radio and walked out the door. The lock reengaged, bouncing off the door frame. She hadn’t closed the door behind her.

“Come on, Jon!” Edward snatched Jon by the arm and hauled him to his feet, “We’re leaving!” Jon grunted but didn’t argue.
This wasn’t how Edward wanted to escape. Improvisation was for thespians and fools. Surprisingly, it was Jon who propelled Edward down the hall. Initially eager to follow, Edward soon baulked when Jon led him into an empty closet.
“Jon, what are you–”
Jon shoved Edward into the closet and shut the door behind them.

“Jon. You… You… You IDIOT!” Edward stamped his foot. They had a limited amount of time and he was wasting it, “What are you thinking? You braindead, dimwitted, ignaramus! How stupid can you—  Are you even listening to me?? What are you doing?” He demanded, furious, because Jon was not listening to Edward. He was poking at something on the ceiling. 

Approaching with full intent to punch his compatriot in the kidneys, Edward stopped when he saw what Jon was doing. There was an air duct in the corner. On his own, Edward wouldn’t be able to reach the metal covering without standing a stack of overturned buckets. But Jon, sentient tree that he was, couldn’t stretch his arms over his head without bumping the ceiling and so could easily reach. And when he partially unzipped his jumpsuit, Edward could finally see what Lady had slipped her former boss. A tiny flathead screwdriver no longer than Edward’s finger.

“Jonathan, I could kiss you!” He gasped when the grate came loose. Jonathan sighed.
“Oh, alright. But you’re so damn chatty.”
“Huh—?”  Edward was cut off when Jonathan grabbed him by the nape of the neck, leaned down, and kissed Edward breathless. Jon's lips were warm and faintly chapped compared to the cool hand resting across the back of Edward's neck, making goosebumps prickle across his skin. Edward was a perfectly average height, thank you very much, but Jon, tall, willowy Jon, had to bend to steal the air from his lungs. 
Is this how women feel? Edward thought absurdly.

And then Jon let go. Just let go, letting Edward stumble back until his shoulders bumped against a shelf of spare blankets, eyes wide, mouth open, glasses askew from bumping frames, every witty thought dead or missing from his head.

Had… Had Jonathan kissed him? Here, in this musty closet, the entirety of the asylum on a plywood door away?

Sure, Edward had entertained a number of fantasies, some involving Jon’s death, others not. But to be kissed here, if all places, by Jonathan Crane. Jonathan Crane, who appeared to have lost his momentum during Edward’s brief crisis.

Right. Things to do. Seeing Jon step away from the vent, Edward planted his shoulder between Jon’s shoulder blades to propel him back into position, making Jon grunt.
“Focus, Jon. Help me up.”
Shaking his head to somewhat clear the fog, Jon nodded and cupped his hands expectantly. Stepping a foot onto Jonathan’s hands and bracing himself with a bony shoulder, Edward cleared his throat and said in the most even voice he could, “I hope, of course, you know this changes nothing.”

Jon boosted him into the ceiling without comment. It seemed there were more pressing matters at hand.

— — —

The vents of Arkham were… surprisingly clean, Edward thought as he crawled through them on hands-and-knees. As in, ‘might-have-been-swept-out-in-the-last-year’ clean. He couldn’t imagine someone actually had but it still surprised him. He didn’t dare voice his thoughts but Jonathan seemed to hear them anyway.

“An exterminator was hired during the summer to remove the raccoons,” Jon explained in a slow, slurring  voice, “He failed. Take a right.” Edward obeyed, unsure what surprised him more. Arkham hiring an exterminator or Jonathan having the mental capacity to explain the story?

The adrenaline of escape seemed to be shaking Jonathan out of his medicinal haze, at least in spurts. He still paused periodically and occasionally mumbled nonsense under his breath, but would soon shake his head clear and provide useful instructions.
“Up,” Jon said unexpectedly after one of his blank periods. Stopping in place, Edward craned his neck to look up but, as expected, only found the top of the vent they were in.
“What are you talking about,” Edward hissed, “There is no ‘up’.”
They had started on the fourth floor and only made it as far as the second floor. They should be going down, not horizontal, and certainly not up. Jon pointed ahead, past Edward, and gestured.
“Up.”

There was indeed, Edward begrudgingly realized, an ‘up’. Just not a natural one.

The ‘up’ Jonathan referred to was a hole ripped into the top of the air duct by an unknown creature, presumably one with claws. One could almost get tetanus just by looking at the jagged edges. Beyond the hole was darkness. At least the air ducts had occasional vents and outlets. Edward swallowed, certain Jon was leading him to his death. Perhaps the psychiatrist was more lucid than he seemed and was playing an act to lure Edward into one of his labs.

But, Edward rationalized, the threat of Bolton seemed very real. And Jon would never have been able to convince Lady to help him kidnap Edward. The escape seemed to be entirely Lady’s idea, done in a burst of bravery with no prompting from Edward or Jon. If Edward had to place his trust in an Arkham employee – a monumentally stupid conundrum  – it would be Lady.

And so, with that in mind, he crawled a few feet forward. Still leery, no matter how much he willed himself otherwise, he passed the hole and waited for Jon to crawl up first. Grabbing Jon’s wrists, Edward allowed himself to be pulled up into something too tall to be a crawlspace but also not the attic. Edward had been in the Asylum attic plenty of times and this was not it.

Once in the space, he could see it wasn’t completely pitch black. Patches of light shone from small square holes cut into the bottom of the room. He couldn’t see where the holes went but it looked like long, sharp drops.
“Follow me,” Jon instructed, “Don’t step off.”
“What happens if I do?” Edward asked, eyeing a series of paths made by 2x4s resting on what appeared to be support beams.
“You’ll fall through the roof,” Jon shrugged and stepped onto one of the 2x4s with shocking dexterity for someone who previously couldn’t stand on his own. Edward followed, arms out to keep his balance.

The “floor” of the room appeared to be a loose lattice of thin wood strips atop a plaster finish. Mentally running the calculations through his head based on the path they had taken through the vents, Edward frowned. He… he didn’t know where they were. How was that possible? He knew every inch of this asylum, had studied the floorplans, explored every room and bolthole, knew every secret tunnel, every hidden passage. So where the hell were they?

Caught up in his frustration and focused on stepping one foot in-front of the other so not to fall off the 2x4, Edward failed to notice Jon stop until he nearly bumped into him.
“This way,” Jon said. And jumped.
The hole Jon had jumped into was on the far side of the room, merely inches from the wall. It also, Edward noted glumly, was barely a square foot wide. Peering over the edge, Edward found Jon standing in an empty cement room almost twenty feet below. How he survived such a fall without snapping his ankles, Edward suspected he would never know. Not without forcing the man into one of his mazes, which would end terribly. Either Jon died and their daring escape was for not, or Jon survived and Scarecrow hung Edward’s guts on the Gotham bridge as a warning. Both bad.

Down below it appeared the landing had knocked what sense he had from Jon’s addled brain.
“Don’t worry, Scarecrow’s got you,” he called up with a serene smile. Jon looked so dorky in his orange slippers, enormous glasses reflecting the fluorescents like little spotlights. Almost endearingly, he looked like a man that didn’t know where he was but was happy to be there. Almost endearing, if he wasn’t asking Edward to jump to his death.

“Kill yourself,” Edward grumbled back and looked desperately for an alternative. A bookshelf to climb or mattress to land on, hell, a dangling wire to swing from like Tarzan himself. Anything except trusting a man who weighed less than a great dane. Edward could already hear bones snapping.

No alternative appeared. Edward had no choice. He’d jumped further, sure, usually escaping the Bat but this felt different. Hopefully Jon was referring to himself in third person and not that Scarecrow himself would be making an appearance. Scarecrow would probably miss on purpose. With clenched jaw, Edward looked at Jon, who was holding out his arms, utterly unbothered by the possibility of being crushed.
“Ugh. Fine.” And he jumped.

Jon caught Edward with a deep ‘--OOOUF’ that made Edward’s ass clench. But despite sounding like he’d had the air knocked out of him, Jon was surprisingly structurally sound and gently set Edward’s feet on the ground.

“See?” Jon hummed. Edward rolled his eyes.
“Come on!” He tugged Jon along by the sleeve. As much as he wanted to inspect the room, they were running out of time. If Lady, who Edward had begrudging admitted he might trust, told them to flee, Edward dared not linger. He could always quiz Jon later.

Speaking of Jon, there was the matter of his muddled state and how his chin began bobbing down to his chest every few steps. He was shaking his head less and rubbing his eyes more, long steps slow enough he had to be hurried along. How long, Edward realized with mounting anxiety, before the good doctor collapsed in a heap of medicinal cataplexy?

The cement room was small and possessed no exits except the hole they had dropped through and a broken stained glass window. A chilly breeze swept through the window, whistling through the room and shaking the leaves of the giant oak tree planted against Arkham’s north wall.

“Can we go out through here?” Edward asked anxiously instead of the list of questions he wanted. Rubbing his rubbing against the space between his eyes, Jon nodded.
“Yes.”

Choosing to believe Jon wouldn’t lead him astray, Edward took his hand and together they climbed out the window of a doorless room.

— — —

It had taken twenty minutes to go from Jon’s cell to the empty room, and another ten awkwardly lowering themselves from branch-to-branch until their feet touched muddy ground. Jon was lucky. He had black slippers. Edward only had grippy socks and it had rained recently, turning the grass into a swampy mess.

He would have been worried more about being spotted but, judging by the sounds echoing from the Asylum entrance, it would still be hours before anyone bothered to check if all patients were in their cells for bedtime. Choosing to drop off Croc unsedated was further proof of the Bat’s idiocy.

From the oak tree, it was a simple matter of making their way into the employee parking lot behind the asylum, where Jon revealed Lady had given him a second gift. Tightly secured under the wrapped bandages protecting the raw skin of his throat, like a sacred charm in an Egyptian mummy, was a car key. Not to Lady’s car. She was too bright for that. It was the key to an Arkham transport vehicle.

The pair drove down the winding driveway, through the Arkham gates, and onto the bridge without a single person bothering to stop them. Lady, Edward decided, was the greatest woman in the world. He would have to see if she had any student loans or other outstanding debts that could be anonymously paid off. Better to return a kindness with a kindness than let it fester into an outstanding favor. Hopefully, it would also assure her that he had no intention of using their escape as leverage against her.

Jon passed out in the passenger seat before they even cleared the gates. One arm slung over his eyes and the other dangling usually at his side, the only proof Edward had that Jon hadn’t died was the slow rise-and-fall of his chest.

Driving the Arkham bus could only get them so far. People in the city no longer noticed lights-and-sirens from regular ambulances and police cars, but they did notice Arkham vehicles. Some PhD students at Gotham University had actually written their social sciences thesis on the phenomenon. A vaguely interesting read.

They needed to ditch the bus, and quickly. The problem was, the study also proved that people noticed Arkham’s orange jumpsuits more than any other outfit. A minor Rogue could be standing next to an inmate wearing their jumpsuit and people would clock the inmate first.

So what to do? Leave the bus in a parking lot and run through the streets and alleys until they found new clothes? A quick search at an empty four-way stop told Edward there weren’t any spare clothes in the back of the bus, just flimsy patient gowns and extra grippy socks.

“Ed. ‘m naus’s,” Crane mumbled, speaking for the first time since the empty room. Edward hadn’t even realized he was awake. The last thing he wanted was Jonathan Crane puking all over himself inside the bus. Not only would it stink, being covered in vomit would take the jumpsuit from “noticable” to “memorable”. 

Like a revelation, green and blue neons caught Edward’s eye. A disgusting, no-tell motel tucked between buildings. Hidden enough the general public could ignore it but lit-up enough to attract its preferred clientele. The perfect place for people wishing to go unseen. Thus a plan began to form.

Step 1: Ditch the bus.

Despite its markings, it looked enough like an ambulance people would ignore it parked in the back of a parking lot. Hoping to blend in a little more, Edward unzipped the top of this jumpsuit and tied it around his waist, leaving him in his white undershirt. Jon had no undershirt on and thus was left as is.

What appeared to be a prostitute in drag noticed Edward dragging Jon down the alley between the motel and parking lot, but politely looked away when Edward put a finger to his lips. Whether she realized he was the Riddler or assumed he was an average murderer was unclear, but Edward felt confident she wouldn’t tell anyone.

Step 2: Procure a room.

Neither of them had any money but Edward was confident he could pick a lock with Lady’s screwdriver. There were no cameras watching the motel, so he left Jon in the alley next to the motel, picked the lock of the closest second floor room, retrieved Jon, and hauled them both inside.

The interior looked identical to every other motel Edward had ever stayed in. Beige print walls and a beige carpet that was slightly darker in color to mask some of the stains. A door leading to a tiny bathroom next CR-TV on a dresser directly across from the queen-sized bed that Jon flopped onto without a thought. Edward shuddered as he watched Jon pull a pillow over his head.

The last thing Edward wanted to do was contract some unknown disease from the bedspread but there were no chairs in the room and he didn’t trust the floor. So, with a disgusted noise, Edward zipped his jumpsuit all the way up for protection and sat next to Jon.
“Don’t worry, Jon,” he assured the miserable man, “I’ll find us a ride.

Step 3: Find a ride.

Oswald, Edward was certain, owed him enough favors to send a car. Oswald disagreed. The pair began to get headedly animated, feeding off of each other until they were practically shouting. Under his pillow, Jon curled up further and groaned, trying to block out the noise by pressing his hand over his ear. It didn’t work. Edward had a way  of making himself impossible to ignore.
“Ed,” Jonathan mumbled through the pillow.

“Ed,” he repeated a little louder when Edward paid him no mind, too busy arguing over the motel phone to notice Jonathan’s pleading tone. He barely reacted when Jon’s floppy hand weakly tapped his thigh.
“Oswald, I swear by my bowler hat, if you don’t—! Hello? Hello! How dare he!” Edward slammed the phone back into its receiver with a clang. “I can’t believe it. The—! The nerve of that man! After everything I’ve done for him!”
“Ed.”
“But not to fear, Jonathan! I promised I’d find us a ride, and you know the Riddler always keeps his promises. It may cost a few more favors than I intended,” he grumbled that last part, seemingly oblivious to Jonathan pawing his leg. “But never fear!”
Arguing with Oswald had invigorated Edward. Finally he felt like himself again.
“Ed. Shh.”

Mentally swearing revenge at Oswald’s charade of neutrality (as if that ever stopped the Bat), Edward began typing the next number but was stopped. 
“Jonathan,” he started saying when Jonathan, presumably trying to press a finger against Edward’s lips, accidentally shoved half his right hand knuckle-deep into Edward’s open mouth. Disgusting. Sputtering and spitting, Edward knocked Jonathan’s hand aside, “Jonathan, really?” 
“Mm.”

For the first time since abandoning the bus, Edward took full stock of his compatriot and felt a twinge of something straddling guilt and empathy. The unholy cocktail of drugs and excitement of their escape had taken a toll on Jonathan’s body. Now that the adrenaline was fading, every nerve and neuron in Jon’s body would be spinning out of control. The lights probably hurt him as well, Edward acknowledged, and withdrawals couldn’t be far behind. Peroxatine was a bitch to go off of.

“T’red.”
“I know you’re tired,” Edward soothed by running his fingers through Jonathan’s hair, something he would normally never dare do, and nearly at how greasy it was. “But we’re not safe yet.”

Jon’s discomfort didn't change their situation. Assuming the pair weren’t devoured by roaches, bed bugs, or sentient mold, it was only a matter of time before the motel manager noticed someone squatting in one of his rooms. They were far too close to Arkham for Edward’s liking, with a limited window of time before far too many people came looking for them. Laying low in this grubby motel was hardly an option he wanted to explore. 

Jonathan could stay if he liked. Edward had silk sheets and fresh pajamas waiting for him. Not to mention the moment Jon’s metabolism burned off enough of the medications, Scarecrow would be surging to the surface in a restless frenzy over Jonathan’s wellbeing. Edward had no intention of being present for it. Truthfully, he should have been forcing Jonathan to stay awake to prevent the possibility of Scarecrow bullying through the haze.

“I’m going to get us out of here,” Edward reiterated, “Oswald may be a cowardly traitor, but there are plenty of others who owe me favors. And don’t think I’ll let them forget what they owe me and why. There’s a reason I’m the Riddler, and I won’t have anyone– Really, Jon, stop it.” Edward lightly scolded Jon when the man looped a hand around Edward’s neck.

“Jon, I–” Edward was cut off when Jon pushed himself up onto an elbow to meet him halfway. All words, complaints, and assurances died on Edward’s tongue. Because Jonathan Crane kissed him again. Another terrible venue but it was Jon and Jon was kissing him.

The kiss was more a delayed peck than a true kiss but that didn’t stop Edward’s mind from spinning out of control when Jon pulled away, arm still looped around Edward’s neck so they barely separated more than an inch.
“Ed, shh,” Jonathan mumbled, resting his forehead on Edward’s and slowly closing his eyes, “‘m tired.”

“I know, Jon,” Edward stammered, “But we–”
Jon cut him off with another kiss. This one was longer, a quick movement followed by the intentional press of parted lips. Jon sank into the bed, pulling Edward down with him.

“Sleep, Edward," Jon whispered against his lips, “J’st for a bit.”
“It’s not safe,” Edward said back, trying to remain rational while his head spun with wild thoughts of ‘JonJonJon’. Jon’s arm was still around his neck, pulling Edward close and half on top of him, their chests touching and legs intertwined. Jon shook his head.
“He’s quiet right now. I promise. It’ll be a few days.”

That wasn’t what Edward was worried about but it strangely did help ease some tension from his mind. A third kiss from Jonathan broke his resolve.

“Fine,” Edward assented, allowing himself to be tucked thoroughly into Jonathan’s side, a sigh of relief ruffling his red hair, “But just for a little while.” 

— — —

Irradiated eyes blinked open, pupils blown wide as they took in the room. A sliver of sunlight illuminated the dim room from a crack in the black-out curtains. Everything was silent except a whistle-snore coming from the man beside them. Like a little flute had been shoved up his surgically perfected nose.

Nygma was practically wrapped around them. Ironic for how reluctant the man had been when Jonny begged him to stop. Their nose wrinkled in distaste. Scarecrow hated it when Jonny had to beg. Nygma snorted and shifted away in his sleep. Perhaps he sensed a predator in the room. Humans were funny like that.

Sliding back into control was no easy feat. Nothing like riding a bike or whatever bullshit people said. It took most of Scarecrow’s attention remembering to breathe, swallow, and blink at the same time. For now, anything greater than observing was out of reach. So observe he did.

While Jonny slept safely tucked into their mind where Scarecrow could ensure proper rest, Scarecrow watched Nygma. Studied the way the man twitched and rolled restlessly in his sleep. Counted the freckles on his nose and cheeks. It was as close to curiosity as he could get.

Nygma wasn’t interesting, not truly. Jonny was the only person Scarecrow had ever met worth being interested in. But Jonny was attached to Nygma, which meant there must be something of value in the annoying little man.

Scarecrow hated it. Hated how Jonny let the parakeet cling like Spanish moss and expected Scarecrow to allow it. Scarecrow would, of course. For now. As long as his child wished it, until Nygma proved himself enough of a threat or nuisance.

Their arm was still draped over Nygma’s waist. Focusing with great effort of a single digit, Scarecrow was able to make their pointer finger twitch at knuckle. Then the middle. Eventually, Scarecrow was able to move the hand and most of the arm, though their wrist remained stiff.

Fingers splayed across Nygma’s chest, Scarecrow slowly pushed their hand up until they brushed Nygma’s bare collarbone, making him shudder and twitch. Ticklish, then.

Another inch and Scarecrow found his target. Nygma’s throat was pale, as unguarded and exposed as the man himself. Resting their open hand on Nygma’s neck, Scarecrow could feel the bob of his Adam’s apple, the rasp of his breath, and, underneath it all, the sluggish pump of blood through his carotid artery. Scarecrow imagined wrapping their hand around Nygma’s throat and squeezing until his Adam’s apple stopped bobbing and his artery stilled. 

i still know what you did,” he thought harshly, dON’T think i’ve forgotten. i know what you did.

— — —

Jonathan Crane woke up slowly to a pounding head, cotton mouth, and the overall sensation of being hit by a bus. Each individual muscle seemed to have developed vertigo, making him feel like a tie-dyed kaleidoscope being slowly rotated. Even his eyes were crusted shut, gritty and itchy and blurry when he opened them to find Edward Nygma practically sharing his pillow. A surprisingly plush one with a pillowcase that smelled like fresh bleach, on top of a comforter that definitely wasn’t Arkham-issued.

A hotel then, Jon thought as he sat up, pulling his arm out from under Edward’s head. Correction, a motel.

Jostled awake by the loss of his neck support, Edward sat up with an exaggerated stretch that popped at least three vertebrae in his back.
“Good morning, Jon. Glad to see you survived,” he said brightly, far too happy for Jonathan to handle in his current state, “How are you feeling?”
“Like hell. Where are we?” Jon asked.

“That would be the withdrawals from the unholy cocktail of antipsychotics you were given. I imagine you’ll be miserable for weeks.”
“Great,” Jon mumbled, battling a whirlpool of nausea when he tried to stand up. “Where are we?”
Edward moved like he was trying to help him, but backed off when Jonathan knocked his hands away, mystified by the gesture.

“What do you remember?” Edward asked instead of dwelling on what felt suspiciously like hurt at being rejected.
“Next to nothing,” Jon rubbed his eyes again, looking around for his glasses, which Edward handed him without comment.

“I see,” Edward hummed, “Well, as you might have noticed, we’ve escaped Arkham Asylum and are hiding in a motel. I’ve no idea how many people are looking for us, but most assuredly our absence has been noticed. I have a ride coming,” he continued thoughtlessly, the perfect picture of bravado, “You’re welcome to join, or you can stay here.”

It was an utter lie. Edward had no ride coming, only the hope that Nina or Diedre would answer their phones now that it was daytime. Really, he should have been collaborating with Jon, who didn’t seem concerned about their location and likely had a bolthold nearby. But Edward couldn’t help a bitter sting at Jon’s lack of reaction. No thanks, no recognition of Edward’s efforts. No recollection of their escape.

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything?” Edward pressed a little too hopefully. Jon clocked his eager tone, of course he did, but showed no understanding of what Edward wanted.
“The vents, I suppose,” Jon ventured, rubbing a budding headache under his right temple, “Did we steal an ambulance?”

“An Arkham one, yes,” Edward dismissed, “What else?”
Jon half-heartedly glared at him, “I don’t know, Ed. If there’s something specific I’m s’pposed to remember, just tell me.”

Disappointed, Edward deflated somewhat before crossing his arms and snidely turning his nose away, “No reason. It must not matter if you can’t be bothered to remember.”

Jon looked equally confused and irritated at Edward’s theatrics. Whatever Edward wanted, it obviously did matter if he was throwing such a fit about it. Edward's posture screamed wanted Jon to either press more or magically remember. Jon couldn’t do the later and wouldn’t indulge Edward by doing the former, so he shrugged and walked into the tiny bathroom.

The moment the bathroom door closed, Edward’s posturing faded.

Jonathan didn’t remember. He didn’t remember how reliant he was on Edward during their stay in Arkham, how he leaned on Edward for support, and how he begged Edward to stop and sleep next to him. More importantly, he didn’t remember kissing Edward.

There was always the chance Jon was intentionally pretending not to remember but Edward dismissed the thought quickly. If kissing Edward meant nothing to Jon, the man would say so with impunity.

Instead, he just… didn’t remember. That was it. Trapped in a haze of drugs, Jonathan Crane had kissed Edward Nygma. Now he was back in his right mind and couldn’t remember a thing because Jonathan Crane kissing Edward Nygma was an unfathomable idea.

Snatching the landline off the bedside table, Edward typed in a number at record speed. He needed to get out of there. A medical necessity. Thank God Deidre answered on the second ring.

Thirty minutes later Edward was sliding into the passenger seat of Deidre’s car. She didn’t say much, just greeted him and shifted the car from park to drive. Perfectly fine by Edward, who was ready to be done with this catastrophy.

Looking out the passenger window while buckling his seatbelt, Edward saw Jon standing in the window of their motel room, clearly still confused and drugged addled. Perhaps they should have taken him with them, but Edward’s pride was stung just enough to make him petty. Besides, when one was a wanted criminal, one best not hide with another wanted criminal.

And, frankly, Jon’s confused face was the most pricelessly adorable thing Edward had ever seen. Unable to resist, he gave Jon a cheeky wave and mimed holding a phone to his ear.
Call me,” he mouthed with a sly grin. Brow furrowed, Jon blankly waved back.

“I told you he wants me,” Edward smugly told Deidre, lounging back in his chair with his hands behind his head.
“Sure, boss,” Deidre agreed.

If Crane made the first move while in an altered mental state, it was only a matter of time before he did so while in his right mind. And Edward was more than happy to encourage him along. Not too much though. Some things Jon needed to figure it out himself.

“He wants me bad.”
“Sure, boss.”

— — —

Meanwhile in an empty hotel room, Jonathan Crane closed the curtains and wondered what the hell just happened.