Swapping Masks

Swapping Masks
by Lady Vincira</b>

Icy blue eyes delved into Jonathan's soul, reaching deep into his heart and digging cold claws in. He couldn't move - couldn't turn away. No, not now...not when he was being held this way. All he could do was run a dry tongue over parched lips, trying in vain to come up with something - ANYTHING - to spare him.

"...I can't do this." It was barely a whisper.

With a sharp crack, bony knuckles connected with his jaw. He reeled back a step, but a spidery hand shot forward to snatch at his collar.

"Don't be stupid, Ichabod. You know just as well as I do that you WANT to. I'm the only one in this hellhole that gives a damn about you." Those eyes - those wide, mad eyes - they wouldn't look away, burning back into another set of crystal blue irises. In vain, Jonathan tried to look away...but the tormentor grabbed for the man's hair, yanking his head back.

"LOOK AT ME WHEN I SPEAK."

Grudgingly, their eyes met again...hungry blue fire against blue ice, melting away the resolve and the reason. Jonathan tried again.

"...You don't understand, Scarecrow. I...what you're saying - it's...."

"Crazy?" A rough laugh tore from his throat, burning on its way up. "But you ARE crazy, Ichabod! Just like me, however violently you deny it to yourself. You LIKE to frighten people...you LIKE to see them scream and cry. Why are you saying you can't simply take it a step further?"

"Because what you're suggesting is MURDER."

"HAH!" Scarecrow slid a hand downward, pressing on Jonathan's thin ribcage. After a few coughs and sputters, he resumed speaking. "...And you are telling me you've never murdered before? What about that time in high school? At the Prom...?"

"STOP IT! That was...that was an accident." But Scarecrow had him cornered - his resolve was waning, his stamina failing. Every word hissed in his direction was like the sultry whisper of wind over a field.

"...It wasn't an accident, and you know it. You hid...you wore a costume. A Scarecrow. You hid behind MY FACE, Ichabod, and delighted in the car crash as it happened before you!" The hand in his hair pulled harder, coaxing a scream out of his throat.

About then, there were footsteps in the hallway.

"...Let's see how you like it with someone hiding behind YOUR face...."

Jonathan stood still for a moment, wondering if the episode was over...as the uptight, business-suited man sidled into the room.

"...Is everything...all right in here, Doctor...Crane...?"

What the man saw when he entered was Jonathan Crane - his most accomplished psychiatrist - standing in front of a mirror, one hand laced into his hair, the other pressing on his own ribcage. When the Doctor turned around, his glasses were askew. Licking his lips, he dropped one hand to his side, the other darting up to adjust the frames.

"...Ah...yes."

"I heard yelling. Were you...." He paused, fiddling rather uncomfortably with his tie. "...Were you...just...talking to yourself?"

Jonathan chuckled softly. He had gotten rather good at glossing over these episodes...besides, he was feeling cocky after managing to hold Scarecrow back. "...A little role playing, Sir. An attempt to get into the head of one of my more difficult patients...."

He moved to take a step forward - but stopped short at a strange, uncomfortable sensation just underneath his skin. His lips curled into a frown.

"I see." The man was still apprehensive. The last thing he needed was for one of his workers to crack - particularly when the minds of others hung in the balance.

Sadly...his fears were not unfounded. As Jonathan moved to put his hands in his pockets, he figured out what the strange feeling was....

...Burlap.

It felt as if he had a layer of it between his skin and his muscles, rough fibers grating against his insides. For the moment, he tried his best to ignore it...he wouldn't let Scarecrow win this time. He could do this the right way. He could advance without that monster's help.

"...Now...we were...discussing my position here at Arkham?"

The man sat down in one of Jonathan's chairs, crossing his ankle over his knee. "...Yes. Doctor Crane, I just don't know if you're ready to advance. Some of your patients have been...talking."

"'Talking?'"

Jonathan meant to sit down as well...but as he moved, the burlap caught his muscles, scraping them and burning with friction. He bit back a gasp, leaning back in his office chair. "...About what?"

"...Your methods. I understand the patients often lie, Jonathan, but they're all telling similar stories. Something about a...'Scarecrow.' Do you have any ideas?" His pleasant, authoritative voice turned stern.

A sinking feeling gripped Jonathan's gut. There was...no way he could win. He leaned forward, putting his face in his hands, wincing as his muscles screamed. Either he could sit here, resisting, and lose his job...or give in, just like that. The triumph hadn't lasted long.

It never did. Scarecrow always had him in moments. He could never escape.

Slowly...very slowly...he removed his glasses.

"...Fine." The word was scarcely a mumble.

I knew you'd see things my way...you always do....

"What was that, Jonathan?"

"Oh, nothing..." He lifted his head, eyes sparkling with madness he didn't bother to hide.. "...But...there is something I need to show you, if you'll come with me...."