#t;interactions

Halloween, though? It goes without saying that his spirits are highest in the spookiest of months. In fact, he’s arriving at Edward’s abode with gifts!

Knock knock-knock-knock-knock! Shave and a haircut. Knock-knock! Two bits.

In his arms, Jonathan carries a massive pumpkin of at least forty pounds. It’s actually a wonder that he’s managed to carry it this far.

But never has he seen the phenomenon of biological resistance to fear. His hypothesis immediately forms: she must have neurotransmitters like his own, fried and twisted from years of abuse. Numbed to the adrenaline and other such chemicals which elicit the fight or flight response, she must have some natural immunity to toxin.

“Fascinating. Have you considered donating your body to science? Prior to death, of course.” 

And out comes the next needle. This time, a sedative. If he can manage to prick her with it.

“ -- Sing for me, my angel of music.”

“The rats are gone. All of them.”

And he knows precisely who let them out and why...

Arkham Asylum. It’s probably their thousandth stay, thanks to the Bat. Call it a short stint of time off from work.

“That’s my doughnut, Edward.” Slap on the wrist! He usually doesn’t care. But today, they’re pumpkin doughnuts. So, naturally, the old man is possessive.

Maybe this is why Jonathan feels a kinship with the fellow.

Making his way across the Arkham Asylum cafeteria, avoiding the lesser crazies who bob and weave and strike, Crane approaches the spot Jervis tends to inhabit during their time in the common-space. Tucked under his arm is a parcel wrapped in brown postal paper and tied with beige twine.

“I got this for you.” Jonathan’s voice is low, like a dealer exchanging drugs for cash. “Keep it under wraps, hm?”

Within the parcel is a book. A picture-book, to be precise. One filled with knights that talk backwards and queens that behead, and a certain looking glass featured on the cover.

Jonathan hands it over with a wink.

“I know this place can... be depressing.”

So, it’s somewhat of a role reversal when she arrives with groceries in her arms, bruises on her throat, and one eye swollen shut. At first, Jonathan doesn’t notice.

“Thank you, dear. Perishables in the fridge, please.” A beat of silence, and then he looks up at her with his usual scrutinizing glare. Although this time, it falters. Once it registers in his mind that Lindsay has suffered some manner of violence, his expression shifts to rage. He rises from his writing desk and promptly snatches one of her wrists.

“Who is responsible for this? I’ll have their skull for a salad bowl.”

“You’re going to wear that? ...Okay. Your choice, I guess.”