Crane only smiled, tilting his head. He was so very close; he could almost taste it in the atmosphere like a potent storm. Slowly, he stepped closer to her, arms limp at his sides.
"You're only proving my point, Harleen. He's got you around his finger twice, and you're powerless. Can't you see the trees in the forest? He will not treat you kindly, he will not even try. Get away from him, before you destroy the rest of us."
His tone seemed of the utmost sincerity, bright eyes shining imploringly. His true boredom lied underneath this mask-of-sorts, his lack of interest. Harley Quinn could be an asset, part of him murmured, she could help you escape this place and never look back. Not just Arkham--but Gotham itself. The city trapped them all, didn't it? The little voice in his head insisted that they could go somewhere that nobody would know them, maybe another university.
The Scarecrow laughed, seemingly out of nowhere--a high, wheezing laugh that appeared to suit him almost too well. At this point, he simply didn't care about the guards, or the psychiatrist. The whole scene was so absurd that it slapped him in the face, and so his reaction could only be described as involuntary. However, he did not stop himself, only staring at Harley with a venomous look in his eyes and a giggle on his lips.
“Don’t call me that!!” Harley said heatedly; and when Crane continued speaking, something snapped behind her gaze. Her face fell for a split second, tears springing to her eyes before leaking down her cheeks, but her expression grew hostile as he finished speaking. She opened her mouth to reply, but—
But then he laughed.
It wasn’t a pretty laugh like her Puddin’s; it wasn’t a laugh born of joy or humor or anything fun. It was ugly and frightening and for a moment she couldn’t breathe—and suddenly her fist was swinging towards the spindly man’s face and Harley couldn’t bring herself to care, was only aware of her own voice, yelling:
“Don’t you talk that way about me and my Puddin’!! You don’t know anythin’ about us! He loves me and I love ‘im and we’re gonna—settle down and be together forever, you’ll see! You’ll all see! I ain’t some—dumb broad, you good-for-nothin’—“
And that would, approximately, be when the guards decided to intervene.
One black eye and two weeks later, Arkham had not stopped moving.
It was rather silly that he thought it would, just because of an incident so insignificant. No real news of the Joker, or anyone else. Not Isley, Quinn, even Nygma. It was getting too droll for his tastes in this place, and so he found himself returning to the dilapidated couch in the recreation room, taking down several of the worn books. It was almost therapeutic--moreso than his actual therapy--to read these texts. Like he back in high school.
Then again, he hated high school. He also hated the asylum that he helped shape. Had he known he would be having an "extended stay" at some point, he would've left better policies in place. Whatever. Past in the past, Jonny-boy. It wasn't all too bad. He got singular shower privileges (halfway, he suspected, because the other inmates were afraid of him) and decent hours out of the claustrophobic (padded!) cell. For a major criminal, he was living a relatively cozy life. Key word: relatively.
His head hurt like hellfire for days, and the black eye stung for longer--but, hey. He acknowledged it to be in the order of things, and moved on. His glasses were useless, at this point, thus causing him to forgo them. They were mostly for image, anyways--he could see fine, for the most part, and he took them off regularly for the Scarecrow persona.
(Better not to dwell on the mask, now. The persona would return in good time.)
And so he found himself curled up on the pathetic sofa, reading one of the multiple outdated chemistry books. Child's play, really and truly.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2015-02-25 10:13 am (UTC)"You're only proving my point, Harleen. He's got you around his finger twice, and you're powerless. Can't you see the trees in the forest? He will not treat you kindly, he will not even try. Get away from him, before you destroy the rest of us."
His tone seemed of the utmost sincerity, bright eyes shining imploringly. His true boredom lied underneath this mask-of-sorts, his lack of interest. Harley Quinn could be an asset, part of him murmured, she could help you escape this place and never look back. Not just Arkham--but Gotham itself. The city trapped them all, didn't it? The little voice in his head insisted that they could go somewhere that nobody would know them, maybe another university.
The Scarecrow laughed, seemingly out of nowhere--a high, wheezing laugh that appeared to suit him almost too well. At this point, he simply didn't care about the guards, or the psychiatrist. The whole scene was so absurd that it slapped him in the face, and so his reaction could only be described as involuntary. However, he did not stop himself, only staring at Harley with a venomous look in his eyes and a giggle on his lips.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-25 08:54 pm (UTC)But then he laughed.
It wasn’t a pretty laugh like her Puddin’s; it wasn’t a laugh born of joy or humor or anything fun. It was ugly and frightening and for a moment she couldn’t breathe—and suddenly her fist was swinging towards the spindly man’s face and Harley couldn’t bring herself to care, was only aware of her own voice, yelling:
“Don’t you talk that way about me and my Puddin’!! You don’t know anythin’ about us! He loves me and I love ‘im and we’re gonna—settle down and be together forever, you’ll see! You’ll all see! I ain’t some—dumb broad, you good-for-nothin’—“
And that would, approximately, be when the guards decided to intervene.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-25 09:21 pm (UTC)It was rather silly that he thought it would, just because of an incident so insignificant. No real news of the Joker, or anyone else. Not Isley, Quinn, even Nygma. It was getting too droll for his tastes in this place, and so he found himself returning to the dilapidated couch in the recreation room, taking down several of the worn books. It was almost therapeutic--moreso than his actual therapy--to read these texts. Like he back in high school.
Then again, he hated high school. He also hated the asylum that he helped shape. Had he known he would be having an "extended stay" at some point, he would've left better policies in place. Whatever. Past in the past, Jonny-boy. It wasn't all too bad. He got singular shower privileges (halfway, he suspected, because the other inmates were afraid of him) and decent hours out of the claustrophobic (padded!) cell. For a major criminal, he was living a relatively cozy life. Key word: relatively.
His head hurt like hellfire for days, and the black eye stung for longer--but, hey. He acknowledged it to be in the order of things, and moved on. His glasses were useless, at this point, thus causing him to forgo them. They were mostly for image, anyways--he could see fine, for the most part, and he took them off regularly for the Scarecrow persona.
(Better not to dwell on the mask, now. The persona would return in good time.)
And so he found himself curled up on the pathetic sofa, reading one of the multiple outdated chemistry books. Child's play, really and truly.