Little Things

The Beginning of a Story

a/n. Trigger warnings. Untreated mental illness, blood and gore, dark humor, romanticized thoughts of murder, death, homicide, dead body, puke

a/n. This is the second part of the chapter previous. Don't forget to comment so that I can improve my writing! Any and every comment is helpful for my writing process.

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"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?"

A shiver ran down the Scarecrow's spine. Jonathan, who is this? But Jonathan didn't know. The man waited patiently while the Scarecrow tried to remember who he might possibly be, the chaos around them momentarily forgotten.

"Alright," the stranger sighed, evidently bored. "Whilst you chatter on up in that head of yours, follow me, please." The Scarecrow hesitated before following him farther down the street and taking a left. The bakery was to the right; was it a good idea to stray from the known path in order to follow a creepy stranger to an unknown location? The Scarecrow could almost hear Jon say 'Absolutely.' He jogged a few steps to catch up to his guide.

"I do not know you," Crow stated. The man snorted.

"Well no shit. Of course you don't, I haven't introduced myself yet." He was almost as tall as Jon, and similarly built, with lean (or in Jon's case, nearly emaciated) limbs. His eyes were a brighter brown, almost yellow in the sun, which added to his off-putting vibe.

"Would you care to do so?"

"No."

Silence. Okay, then. Are you sure he is not a friend of yours? The Scarecrow asked again, but received no answer. The lack of input on the situation from his partner was unsettling enough to put him on edge. Unless he had a very specific reason not to, Jonathan usually took the reins when it came to social interaction. He was good with the mind, Scarecrow wasn't.

The silence continued for a long while before the Scarecrow noticed it. Quiet was hard to come by in Gotham, especially in the Narrows. In the lack of chaos, he could hear their footsteps on the sidewalk as they grew closer to whatever destination fate had in mind for them. If that destination were their final one, it seemed that no one would be around to spectate either. With every unsure step, the Scarecrow grew more and more suspicious of the stranger's nature.

"Alice told me about you," the man said, entirely unprompted. When the Scarecrow didn't say anything back, he continued. "I'm telling you because I don't like it when people are confused. They stop talking, like you are right now."

"Who is Alice?" Crow played. "I do not know any Alice."

"Maybe not, but she knows you apparently."

"That does not put me at ease." At this, the man chuckled.

"Yes," he sighed, smiling. "I tend to make people uncomfortable. I keep forgetting to warn them."

"You still have not answered my question. Who is Alice? And furthermore, how does she know me?"

"Alice is Alice. But no, she didn't know anything about you, my friend. Only Doctor Jonathan Crane, born in South Carolina out of wedlock. Oh, I can't help but feel that second-hand shame from his mother!" This made the Scarecrow flinch. The mention of Jon's mother brought up a jolt of pain from the back of his mind. But surprisingly, not from Jon.

The Scarecrow grimaced, which reminded him of the gore painted on his face. It was drying now, and had begun to crack along the thinner parts, which flaked off when his skin moved. It had been a while since he felt blood dry on his skin. Jonathan never enjoyed it and Crow was never quite sure how he felt about it, but now he noticed a hint of nostalgia. He couldn't help but remember more pleasurable times; times when he was still perfecting the Toxin, when he was still new to the world. When he was only a fragment of a personality, a figment of Jonathan's imagination come to fruition.