Scarecrow/Joker - "Holy Villain-Sex, Batman!"
Title: See You In the Funny Papers (alternate titles include Holy Villain-Sex, Batman! and Oh My God There's a Plot Now?)
Fandom: Dark Knight (Nolanverse!Batman)
Spoilers: Yes! Fairly major ones.
Pairing: Scarecrow/Joker
Rating: PG-13? Sort of?
Words: 2454ish
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I have no money. I'm just a fan with an overactive imagination and a love of pop culture references.
Notes: A continuation of "You Had Me at Hello." You will proooobably be a little bit confused if you don't read that first. Thanks go out to everyone who reviewed, as well as to tafadhali (as always) and skittycat for some kickass art of the first chapter.




Jonathan had, in fact, abandoned the grimy apartment in the Narrows, though not without thoughts of setting fire to the couch. However, he eventually opted not to risk the fire marshal's attention, and simply moved the small number of possessions he had there to another location. Living arrangements were only slightly more uncomfortable in his new occupation as a fugitive from justice than they had been before. Dr. Jonathan Crane could hardly secure respectable lodgings anywhere, of course, but the city's bustling counterfeit community ensured that with the proper papers (or improper papers, he supposed, depending on how you looked at it), he could rent a motel room or moldy tenement from anybody who chose not to examine his face too closely. It also didn't hurt that neither his name nor his face were all that well known, as he had yet to achieve the level of notoriety of some of his ... for want of a better word, peers.

One day had gone by, and then two, and he had begun to wonder if that was the last that he, personally, was going to hear from the Joker.

It was on the evening of the third day, in the hallway outside his latest motel room, that the Joker found him.

"You know what's funny, about that little drug you gave me?"

He had been about to fumble for his room key. Suppressing a shudder, Jonathan slowly turned around. There was no denying it: Same white face, same black eye-pits, the same jagged red crack of a mouth.

He said, in a tone of withering dryness, "I can't even begin to imagine."

"Oh come on, don't give me that face." The Joker pulled a grotesque pout, quickly replaced by a look of solicitous enquiry. "This is because I didn't call, isn't it? Well I'm sorry, but maybe you could cut me just a little slack. Things come up."

"Oh, I have no doubt they do." Jonathan looked him over; unfortunately, the bulk and drape of his ludicrous suit made it difficult to determine where he was hiding a weapon. Though maybe the question was where he wasn't hiding a weapon.

"I want you to know," the Joker said, holding up his hands defensively as if to ward off reproach, "and this is the honest, honest truth here-- that I've been nothing but a gentleman where you're concerned."

Jonathan's eyebrows arched.

"That's certainly one interpretation," he allowed. His lips quirked in what was not exactly wryness. "However, given recent events, you'll forgive me if I don't subscribe to it myself."

The Joker laughed, and the sound of it sent an unpleasant jolt down Jonathan's spine.

"There's that sense of humor. You know, I was worried about our, ah, our morning after." He licked at a corner of his mouth, reflexively. "I was worried you wouldn't respect me anymore. And then there are the scars, you know, they tend to put people off-- tell me you'll be different, Scary."

Jonathan smiled, razor-thin and utterly without humor.

"Frankly, I'm not sure you're my type."

The Joker clapped a hand to his heart as if he'd been stabbed there, staggering back against the opposite wall.

"Oh, say it isn't so, Doc," he exclaimed. "Say it isn't-- so." He shook his head, wringing his hands together in agitation. "Well, I, I, I'm speechless, frankly, I don't know what to do with myself. You meet a nice guy, you wine him and dine him a little--"

"My recollection is slightly different, surprisingly enough."

The Joker paused, and shot him a look of deep sympathy.

"Well of course yours would be, sweetness. The other night, you were, ah ... pretty far gone." An earnest expression clapped over his features like a mask. "Now I know all the other kids are doing it, Scary, but drugs kill."

A beat, in which-- despite Jonathan's look of mordant disdain-- the Joker brightened. "Which brings me to my original point." He tilted his head curiously, almost whimsically to the side. "It's funny, isn't it, how even with that highly-- dangerous-- deadly toxin swimming around in your veins ... you're still here. Upright and breathing."

Crane smiled thinly.

"If you really were hoping to kill me, I'm sorry to disappoint."

"Kill you?" The Joker sounded both appalled and wounded. "After what we shared? Nonono, I'm simply remarking, isn't it odd how things work out. For instance ... your little wonder drug didn't live up to the hype ... and here you are. I call that a win, personally." He frowned, shaking a finger in tsk-tsk-tsk. "Though there is the small matter of you promising me some deadly toxin. You promised, Scary."

There was childhood and temper tantrum in his tone, and Jonathan was a little more amused by it than perhaps he should have been.

"Considering that your first action upon being presented with even a small amount of my compound was to turn it on me," he noted dryly, "I fail to see any incentive for giving you more."

"Okay, look-- listen," the Joker said, holding up his hands. "I know we got off on the wrong foot-- no pun intended." A beat. "Maybe just a little intended. But it's absolutely nothing--" A beat, as he seemed to be searching for the right word. "Personal. Sometimes I just-- do things, you know? I'm impulsive like that. But I think if we both try to put it behind us, this could be the start of a beautiful ... friendship."

A door creaked open-- Room 209-- and a big, burly type stepped forward, wicked-looking facial piercings gleaming in the hallway light. Then he caught sight of them, and his eyes bugged wide before the door slammed shut with a floor-shaking rattle. A few moments later, Jonathan thought he could hear scrambling on the fire escape.

Fabulous.

Meanwhile, the Joker's gaze snapped to the closed door of 209 and back. He stepped forward, tongue darting out to a corner of his mouth, and gave Jonathan a slow, conspiratorial smile.

"But if you're still not sure ... I can tell you why you don't have anything to worry about. Positive proof."

Jonathan's eyebrows lifted.

"By all means. Indulge me."

The Joker laughed, a soft, grating chuckle.

"See, the thing is ... you're a crow of a different color, Scary. The common criminal has no-- imagination. It's dog eat dog, kill or be killed, anything to make a buck. But you ... you're not after any of that, are you, beautiful? No, no-no-no-no-no, you want something ... bigger. You've got vision. And I like that, I really do."

He reached up and out-- almost as if to brush Jonathan's cheek, before he seemed to think better of it and let his fingers drift down, down, where they fluttered lightly over his throat before withdrawing. Jonathan watched the progress of his hands with detached interest, watched them slip back down to his sides and wait there.

Another step, and the Joker was crushing cracked, oily lips to Jonathan's ear.

"And you are ... very ... beautiful."

Jonathan tensed. His gaze fell naturally over the Joker's shoulder; he noted the lank green of his hair, smelling like unwash and gunpowder and dye, the purple of his suit, and the uninspired print papering the opposite wall with equal detail.

The Joker laughed, the sound exploding against his ear like gunfire, and rapped lightly on Jonathan's chest with his knuckles.

"Pit-a-pat, Doc. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were nervous." He stepped back, mouth splitting open in an uneven grin.

Jonathan's eyebrows arched.

"Unfortunately, an acceleration in resting heart rate is not necessary indicative of any particular agitation." A slight twitch of his lips. "Particularly when the nervous system is processing poisons."

Another harsh bark of a laugh.

"Scary, you're a real card. You know that? Here's mine, by the way." His wrist flicked, sliding something out from up his sleeve-- Jonathan was expecting a knife, but it really only was a playing card-- and tucked it deftly, neatly into the breast pocket of his suit.

"Give me a call when you've worked the kinks out ... with that little toxin of yours."

He melted easily into the shadows-- too easily, given the shock of makeup and the purple suit. Jonathan peered for a moment into the darkness at the end of the hall.

Upon ascertaining that it was truly empty, he pulled out his key, slid it into the slot, and closed the door softly behind him.


***


Jonathan examined the card from every conceivable angle. Explosive, secret razor blade, tracking device (you never knew)-- all to no avail. It was almost as if the Joker's master plan was simply to cause him to waste his time.

He felt both vindicated and irked to discover that on the back of the card, at the bottom left corner, was a particular concentration of his DNA.

He could guess at where he'd gotten it.

All tackiness aside, as the card did not contain a date and time, or even an address, Jonathan presumed that the Joker would simply drop in without warning once he deemed sufficient time had passed for the formulation of a new toxin. This was not a prospect that he particularly relished.



At approximately 12:35 am on a Thursday night, a mild man in a mild suit strode anxiously down a largely-unpopulated street outside Gotham's North Side. The neighborhood was predominantly Italian, with Chinatown encroaching from the south, and given the frenzied gang activity in the area, it was never a safe place to be alone after dark.

He was counting on a mugging in ten minutes or less.

Seven minutes and forty-nine seconds later, a voice called out in the darkness, "Hey! Where ya going?"

Jonathan paused, turning slowly and with interest to regard a pair of young men-- not mob, they looked like garden-variety hoodlums-- who stood beneath a broken streetlight.

Quite politely, he said, "I beg your pardon?"

Two more hoods materialized from out of the darkness.

"There's a fee for walking down this street," said the one who'd spoken first. He cracked an unsavory grin. "After dark, you know?"

"Oh." Comprehension seemed to dawn; Jonathan smiled faintly. "Of course."

One of the men gave him a shove.

"Whatcha got in the briefcase, pal?" he demanded.

Jonathan brushed absently at his sleeve, turning to face him.

"Would you like to find out?"

"Whatever, man, just take his cash and let's get out of here," a third man snapped.

"Oh no, I insist," Jonathan said, flipping the bag open with an easy gesture and reaching in.

"Hey--"

"I'm afraid the first minute or so won't exactly be comfortable," he continued, "but after that-- here we are." His lips quirked. "Well. After that, you won't have a thing to worry about."


***


EXCERPTED FROM THE GOTHAM TIMES, August 12, 2008; Page A1

POLICE BAFFLED BY CHEERY CORPSES, SUSPECT FOUL PLAY
By Vicki Vale, Staff Writer

The deaths of 4 members of the so-called "Red Hood" gang have attracted police attention due to the manner of their demise.

Although there was no sign of a struggle, the 4 victims-- identified as Benjamin "Benny" Jenks, 26; Carl Ruggieri, 29; Terry "Three-Toe" Pierce, 31; and Joseph Stanislaw, 25-- were discovered with identical rictus grins and contortions indicative of some manner of seizure. Preliminary coroner reports suggest that this was likely the result of poisoning, though further blood work will be needed to confirm the finding.

City police are hesitant to point fingers in this bizarre case. When asked if the Joker might be behind the murders due to similarities to past crimes, Gotham City police detective Harvey Bullock had no comment.

The criminal known as the Joker, recently escaped from Arkham Asylum, was responsible for a string of murders, assassinations, and acts of terrorism earlier in the summer.


***


Bruce Wayne put down the newspaper in disgust.

"Something wrong with your cereal, sir?" Alfred came around the counter with a pot of coffee, which he poured deftly into a large mug.

"Oh, it's great," Bruce assured him, still frowning (though his spirits could not help but lift at the smell of caffeine). "I'm a little less thrilled with the front page."

"Mysterious poisonings?"

"Got it in one." He unenthusiastically spooned himself another mouthful of Cocoa Puffs while Alfred added sugar to the coffee.

"That reporter seemed to have her own suspicions," he noted. A glance at Bruce as he passed him his coffee. Bruce sighed, accepting the mug, and inhaled deeply.

"Mmm. Better than Starbucks."

"I'm going to assume that was meant as a compliment, sir."

Bruce flashed him a completely innocuous grin, which was replaced by a look of frustration as he once again regarded the paper.

"... I don't know," he said finally. "Something doesn't feel right."

Alfred picked up his own mug, which was tea by the looks of it.

"Less right than usual in a case of multiple homicide, you mean, sir?"

"... Exactly." Bruce looked wry. He blew on his coffee to cool it, fingertips tapping the paper. "If this is the Joker, he's expanding his arsenal."

Alfred didn't reply for a moment, preoccupied with inspecting his tea for proper temperature and flavor. Bruce's eyebrows arched.

"What?"

"Nothing, Mister Wayne." Alfred set down his cup with a thin porcelain clink. "I was only thinking that perhaps it might be best not to go tilting at windmills, as it were."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Only that despite your best efforts, sir, that man is not the only criminal left in Gotham." A beat. "In fact, do you know what that talk of poison really reminds me of?"

The frown sharpened abruptly.

"Crane."

"In this case, Mister Wayne, I think we're better off if we don't jump to any conclusions. But I can't help but recall that Jonathan Crane is also at large."

Bruce grinned up at him wearily.

"You're working on not having any more of those 'I-told-you-so' moments, aren't you?"

"I'd prefer to have as few of them as possible, Mister Wayne."

"Fair enough." Bruce glanced down at his coffee. "I'll talk to Gordon tonight."

"If I may, sir--"

Bruce looked up. "What?"

"News travels fast. It may be that with your relationship with the Gotham City Police Department officially severed, it might behoove you to cultivate alternative channels of information." He reached out to top off Bruce's mug.

"Thanks." A frown. "Channels like what?"

A beat. Alfred gave the paper a significant glance.

"... You don't mean reporters."

Silence.



"I'm going to need some more coffee."