Little Things

The End of a Story

a/n. Hey, the thing I linked is just the song that I listened to while writing this piece of rubbish. Also, enjoy the story and don't forget to comment to tell me what you think.

Tw: Severe untreated mental illness, implied possible suicidal thoughts and actions, live mutilation, straight up no debate cold blooded murder, implied mutilation of a dead body, grieving
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"Human beings are so unpredictable. I say that as though I weren't one of them, though sometimes I do feel so separate from them," Jonathan said, watching a building burn down in the Dark Zone. The only palatable bakery in Gotham was deep in the abyss, much to his distaste. But he was entirely willing to risk his safety to get to it.

"That is such a human thing to say," the Scarecrow responded, equally as despondent. The loss of human life was undesirable. He couldn't help but note that Jonathan had a point, though, while the two of them watched an entire group of crazies run into the flames, yelling praises as they jovially skipped to a violent death. "Even if we wanted to be separate from them, we would not be successful in severing that tie."

Jonathan turned away from the fire, a lump in his throat, and resumed his journey. Even blocks away he could hear those special gurgling screams, each one sounding oh so familiar but impossible to place. He wasn't afraid, of course not. No, he wasn't worried either because worry is too close to fear. What did the doctor feel? Perhaps, maybe he felt disgust. Yes, disgust is acceptable because he is definitely not afraid.

"Let me take this one, Jonny." There was a certain tenderness in the Scarecrow's voice that might've startled Jon a year ago. Scarecrow had his hands resting on the controls, a show of confidence and what could have been perceived as affection for his flatmate. "I can deal with this until we're out of the Narrows."

"I can't, Crow," the doctor sighed. "If I am going to see her, then I have to see it myself." But I hope to God she's dead, he added to himself. Scarecrow wasn't as apt in the study of the human mind as his counterpart but he knew that Jonathan Crane needed closure. So, he settled back and passively watched as Jon scanned every passing gang and every burning car for a specific face that neither of them really wanted to see.

Every time that the two wandered into the Abyss, for "baked goods," the Scarecrow was intrigued with the idea that they had never been attacked. Several times a week, Jon would meander into the territory of the cracked and the insane, and emerge without injury. Jonathan himself didn't care to find out why, and the Crow even suspected he was disappointed at surviving his unscheduled trips downtown. This was sufficient reasoning to not leave him to run about unsupervised, but still only a hunch.

Scarecrow could remember that multiple people had mentioned that the doctor smelled funny. Of course, not in the sense of simple body odor or tainted laundry detergent. No, there was a smell unique to this body, and house most likely. The most accurate description they'd received was that Jon "reeked" of fear.

With this information, the Scarecrow could assume that this body they shared developed an accidental defense mechanism. Perhaps with the prolonged exposure to his homemade toxins and drugs, Jonathan's skin eternally smelled like the hallucinations he could deploy at a moment's notice. But this was only a hypothesis, of course. And if he was correct, it would explain why the denizens of the Dark Zone crossed to the other side of the street when he came near.

With insanity comes some extra perks, the Crow mused.

Jonathan stopped in his tracks when he heard a 'howl' begin. Just blocks away he heard a bout of shrill laughter, followed by another voice, and then another. Within seconds, the entire area was laughing and giggling loudly into the sky, the sound spreading like a wave. Every single time, the experience chilled him to the bone.

"Like hyenas," Jonathan whispered. "They aren't even people anymore, Crow. They're animals." The Scarecrow could hear the anger in his voice. There was a malice clear in his words, almost a bloodlust.

But just as he was about to reply, with what he had no idea, their ears almost literally perked up after catching wind of a very familiar voice. There was a chill in the air as Jon singled it out and ran.

Dear God, the Scarecrow prayed. Dear God, please let her be dead. Don't let that be her.

"Jonathan Crane!" he yelled, however close he could get to a yell without a mouth of his own. "Do not run, Jonathan!"

Jon couldn't hear him over the pounding of his heart and that shrill, childlike laughter in his ear. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Jump over that dead body, dodge the crashed van, hold that breath when smoke appears. Jonathan Crane was in survival mode now. The Scarecrow was violently shoved back into his mind, confined in a claustrophobic little corner and unable to surface until the adrenaline faded.

There. In the middle of the street. A crowd gathered there, swarming and practically dancing around whatever excited them. The voice was there. As he approached, Jonathan pulled his handgun from the waistband of his pants and came to a stop.

In a moment of fear, he screamed into the mass of bodies to gather their attention. To his surprise, they all screamed back in reply. Every single body in the area was turned to him, and the street was almost silent. Even the hyenas that chased him came to a full stop before him, though they were still ready to pounce.

Jon shot his pistol into the air and screamed again at the top of his lungs, again prompting both screams and jeering from the crowd. This time, he watched the faces around him, scanning for the source of the voice he was looking for.

To his relief, he found the face that made the sound and she wasn't her. Jon lowered his arm to aim at his target, a young black woman with a grin. She stood crookedly, her left foot sitting at an odd angle, and wore nothing above the waist. Her face was covered in blood, presumably from the screw that had been nailed into her face, just below the eye. At first, Jonathan had assumed that she had shaved her head but upon a second look he discovered that she had been scalped, though it had since scabbed over into a bumpy discolored helmet of sorts. He aimed his gun between her eyes.

"Speak," he commanded. When she showed no response, he yelled, "Fucking speak, God damn it!"

With this he was met with silence.

"We need to leave, Jonny," the Scarecrow whispered. "We are no longer welcome here, or maybe a little too welcome." Jonathan took a moment to glance around himself. So many sets of eyes were trained on him and not a single mouth spoke. He took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

The bang didn't even have time to echo before the crowd began spewing off-kilter jeers and moved erratically around him. The Scarecrow thought to himself, So much for that theory on our smell. Jonathan was frozen in fear, watching those animals descend on the unnamed woman.

One man in particular soaked his hands in her blood, puddled on the asphalt, then stood up and calmly walked toward her shooter. Both Jonathan and the Scarecrow watched the man absently paint their face in red.

"Sir," the Scarecrow piped up. He had to get them out of there before the situation escalated. The man looked him in the eyes.

"Yes?" This startled the Scarecrow. No, not startled, perhaps surprised.

"Since you can speak," he started, carefully. "Would you mind telling me what you think you're doing?" For the first time, the man smiled. But instead of a giddy, hysterical grin, it was soft.

"Since you seem to speak for the good doctor," the man finished his piece of art and licked some of his fingers clean. "Would you mind telling me why Crane is in this part of town?"

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a/n 1312 words, not bad. I originally started this to end the story-line between Jonathan Crane and Harley Quinn, and so it has (sorta). There will be a second part to resolve that cliffhanger there, don't worry.