#req tag

You beckon him with a wave of the hand and he follows you, some nameless nobody, to the room you’d just come out of. You pull back the curtain and reveal rows and rows of samples and plants, all lined up neatly on the shelves. Ivy’s been up to no good recently judging by the various substances.

He reaches into his front pocket and feels the rigid line of cool metal.

“Let’s see… compound 34A…” you wander the aisles, snaking through them while occasionally checking over a few plants along the way with a thoughtful hum.

If only you would hurry up. Ivy could be back any moment and he would like to witness your fear himself for as long as possible. And it would be more beneficial to him if he got Ivy’s pheromone before he injects you. Ivy might not take well to his playing with you, if you really mean anything to her, her revenge would be swift. He taps his foot when you spend a little longer on an out of control plant. You don’t even acknowledge him or his impatience, you just pull out a little notepad from your pocket and start taking notes.

He can’t help the sharp tone in his voice, he doesn’t want to spend a second longer here than he has to. He has big plans and so little time to fulfill them. “Do you enjoy wasting my time?”

“Hmm?” you don’t even spare him a look, focused on examining the wilted leaves of a plant that looks like it's on the verge of dying.

“Who are you? I thought Ivy worked alone.”

“Well, you can’t let plants run amok like that. Fungi will spread, infect other plants, poison the fruit. Diseases run rampant. Ivy believes in the green but it still needs to be maintained and cared for. That’s why I’m here. I care for the green.” You put your notepad in the front pocket of your overalls, “You know, I was very impressed by your work on that last release of fear toxin. It was incredible.”

“Of course it was.” He doesn’t need praise. Doesn’t want it from someone as low as you on the food chain. Jonathan knows how well it went, how seamless his plans went. Even the Batman himself couldn’t stop him and that there is a badge of honor around this city. So, no, he will glaze over the compliment from the girl playing farmer’s daughter, as pretty as you might be.

He presses the latch on the case to open it.

“Self assured, huh? I like that.” You take the compound from the test tube rack and turn to him. You step into his space, close enough for him to feel your breath against the sliver of skin that shows on his neck. He’s glad for the mask, you won’t be able to see the blood rush to his cheeks and ears. Your hand slides up his chest, test tube caught between your index and middle finger, and back down to his front pocket to carefully slip the test tube there, right next to his case of syringes. “I hope this works for you, Mr. Scarecrow.”

He hopes you don't notice the shiver that runs through him.

---

As with most nights, he works late, scribbling notes on his subjects. His current ones are a man and a woman, a couple he'd picked up somewhere in the East End, are a particularly good pair of subjects. He wrote down five pages worth of notes in the three hours he had them naked and writing around on the floor. The man had beaten the woman to death in the throes of ecstasy and then slammed his head against the wall.

Cockroaches, he screamed out, had been crawling over the woman's body and his own.

They expired quicker than he thought they would. He will have to adjust the ratio of Ivy's pheromone to fear toxin.

He places his notepad down and reaches for one of the dozen others that he keeps on his desk. He needs a clean slate. Jonathan works dutifully on correcting the dosage, the chemical makeup of the sample. And his mind can't help but wander. He thinks of the gardener.

The pure pheromone sits still on the rack.

You would make a wonderful test subject.

---

He stands in a familiar corn field. Yes, he remembers it well-- the grueling summer afternoons spent tending to the field under his great grandmother's eye while he swung the scythe to cut down the dead corn stalks. Even during autumn and winter he was not granted reprieve from punishment out in the fields. Yes, this corn field is familiar.

He stands above the field, watching carefully over his crop. He cannot move. His limbs made of straw and sticks. He is wearing his burlap sack. Jonathan has become a real scarecrow.

It's peaceful.

Content with the sounds of birds and the soft beating of the sun against him, he relaxes into his post. Even if his body is strung up like he's Christ on the cross.

The stalks before him rustle. The breeze stops and the birds quiet. Not a dream then, but a nightmare, some terror just on the horizon. It’s safer than a dream. He waits, tied up on his post, and watches the slithering path of the creature in the field. It waits at the edge of the clearing.

It’s no creature full of teeth and venom ready to consume him, just you, the gardener. You emerge from between the green stalks, wearing your silly overalls and a big smile like you're happy to see him. You do not falter. You step to his post and climb up the ladder. Face to face, you stare at him curiously as your hand hovers along the side of his masked face, and he waits with bated breath for your next move.

"Hello, Mr. Scarecrow," you whisper, leaning close to his ear, "won't you join me?"

You untie the ropes around his ankles and wrists, catching him against your chest when he falls forward. It's an awkward dance down his post, your hand gripping onto the tattered burlap of his shirt and your stilted steps as you stop on each rung of the ladder, checking that he is still safe in your grasp.

A crow caws.

Finally, he is down on the ground, placed gently on his back by you.

He wants to feel you on him, even the press of your hand against the burlap would be enough. Never in his life had he wanted so badly to feel the skin of another against his. Jonathan is used to it, but it's all he thinks about, your hands, your lips, your teeth on him, anywhere so long as you touch him. All you do is hover over him, straddling his waist and watching with a gentle stare.

The sky behind you has turned dark and the crows flock to his post. A thousand eyes stare down at him.

You lean closer to his face. He wishes to hold your shoulders and drag you down to him but his body is made of straw. Your hands wander over burlap and straw and rough plaid. If he had a heart, it would be stuttering in his chest.

Mercifully, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your face falls. No longer is the kind, warm gleam in your eyes and a smile of a love-struck fool. There's no burlap. He can feel the air on his skin. His face revealed to you. No longer is he Scarecrow, but plain old lanky Jonathan Crane. He reaches for you, limbs again made of skin and bone and tissue.

You wrench yourself from him in disgust and run back towards the corn.

The crows caw in unison.

---

If he didn't have to, he wouldn't be back here. He wouldn't be storming through Ivy's lair where you play gardener in your overalls and gloves, with your little trowel and watering can. But he needs more of Ivy's compound. Weeks he spent fantasizing and dreaming that same dream of you and now, confronted with the idea that he will see you in the flesh once more makes his stomach turn with fear and embarrassment and that infuriates him. He, the master of fear, should not be so scared of a silly, little girl who wears overalls embroidered with bright flowers. He pushes at the branches a little harder, digs his feet in a little deeper into the mushrooms he steps on, tears the flowers from the bushes as he shoulders his way through the thicket.

As he inflicts his damage, the forest grows crueler, springing thicker walls of branches and makes the mud thicker to trap him. Ivy's children go to work on making it harder for him and it only angers him more and makes him more violent to the green. A vicious cycle, all because of you.

You barrel out from the bushes and shoulder him down onto the ground. He lands hard, knocks the breath right out of him, while you land softly on him, legs splayed around his waist with that same look of disgust he dreamed up.

"What are you doing!"

You hit his chest with the sides of your fists and it hurts, but it feels good, makes him feel alive, and he knows this is not just another dream. His heart beats and his lungs suck in air, and his limbs are flesh and bone. And he grabs you with one hand, just the way he wanted to in his dream, and with the other hand, he rips off his mask. He is the master of fear and he will not let some lackey scare him into submission.

The both of you are covered in mud, and his hands smear it across your face as he brings you down to a kiss.

You shake in his hold and beat your fists along his sides and his chest. He savors each second of blazing contact. In the struggle, you wrap your hands around his throat, pressing down on his windpipe. Who will be the first to break?

His lungs burn and wreak havoc in his chest as they try to pull in as much air through his nose. He holds you tighter to him and you bite his lip hard and draw blood. He lets you go. You whip away from him, leaning back on your haunches. You lick his blood from your lips and spit it back at him.

“Don’t ever touch the green like that again.”