A Letter Signed '?'

Alright... now.

No... Now.

No - damn it, where'd she come from?

Edward Nigma stared across the room, his eyes darting from the chess table to the man sitting at it - Doctor Jonathan Crane - to the young woman who'd just taken a seat across from the former psychiatrist.

"Hiya, Professah Crane!"

"Ah, good afternoon, Harley. How are you today?"

"Great! I got flowahs this mornin' in my cell!"

"Fake ones?"

"That squirted watah!" Harley Quinn laughed at her memory.

Edward sat still, half-listening, half-trying to think of one hundred one ways to kill Harley in that very moment. How dare she steal his chance? It'd taken Edward months to muster the courage to approach the Scarecrow! And, now, in the absolute perfect moment, she had run in and ruined things!

Granted, Edward had already had several absolutely 'perfect' moments, and he'd talked himself out of each and every one of them. About five of those moments had been in the last hour, and never once had he managed to actually stand up and walk over to Jonathan Crane...

As soon as Harley's finished. Then.

"How 'bout you, Professah? Did ya get any gifts?"

"No, child, I can't say I did."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Doctah Crane! I didn't mean to bring it up like that!"

"It's quite alright, dear one. I've never celebrated Valentine's Day."

"Ya mean it's against ya religion?"

"Not exactly. It simply isn't interesting to me, like, say, Halloween."

"Oh, I get it! Ya mean it ain't scary enough for ya! Well, I bet ya could make it scary if ya tried! Like, those anonymanous love letters - those can be pretty scary! Ya don't know who's sendin' 'em, so it makes for pretty creepy gifts!"

The Scarecrow paused for a moment. "A letter counts as a gift?"

"On Valentine's Day, sure!" Harley leaned forward across the chess table. "Why, didja get one? Who's it from? Lemme see, lemme see!"

Edward leaned back against the wall, trying his best to look casual and not at all like the eavesdropper he was being. He wished he had a better angle of Crane's face so he could see the expression that was there. That would have been so much more interesting than the view he had of Harley's face. Much, much too expressive. Distance, Eddie. Distance is good. No one needs to get suspicious; no one even knows you're back here...

"It isn't signed. It isn't handwritten, either, so there's no telling off that." The Scarecrow reached into his pocket, taking out a folded sheet of paper.

A tiny flicker of interest flashed across Edward's face before he banished it away, forcing himself to breathe steadily, ignoring those pathetic little cries of "He kept it"s and "He actually kept it"s that were drifting through his mind, endangering his whole operation. An operation? Was this an operation? Yes, of course, an operation. The most elaborate, thought-out operation he'd done in so very long - and, this time, he wasn't facing the Bat! This time, things would go according to plan, and, this time, he, Edward Nigma, The Riddler, would get just exactly what he was after.

"Ooh, ooh, read it! I wanna hear it!"

"Here, then, Harley. You read it."

She grabbed for the paper quickly but didn't so much as bend a corner of it. "It's on pretty paper, too! Look, Professah, it's all fancy! Gold an' white... Ah-ha-hem...

'Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

But that's too cliché,

And it doesn't fit you.

And, sometimes when

Ivy makes roses, they're green;

Violets aren't really blue,

And so it would seem

That rhymes don't make sense

Unless they're from you.

But, who might I be?

I'll give you a clue:

A mark of great power

With the knowledge I bring,

And without my being,

You won't learn a thing.

So, think on it, dear,

That I'm watching you,

And, that scaring isn't the only thing

To someone that you do.'"

Jonathan Crane made no visible motion other than a curt nod when Harley had finished, and the tiny motion suited her just fine.

"It's beautiful, Professah Crane!" Her eyes twinkled with a dreamy look. "Just think! Somebody sat down an' wrote this for you! A secret admirah! It's so romantic!"

"Wasn't the conversation a moment ago about how 'creepy' this sort of thing is?"

Edward flinched.

"But, Professah-!"

Harley was mustering an argument when Edward felt the bench he was on move ever-so-slightly. He glanced fleetingly to his right to see Poison Ivy take a seat next to him. Just out of the sheer whim of courtesy, he greeted her, "'Afternoon, Pamela."

"Eddie."

The Riddler's eyes returned to the center of the room, even though his voice continued, "How are you today?" After all, what better way to avoid suspicion than to keep up a mock conversation?

"Miserable. As if Christmas and Halloween weren't bad enough, some fool had to come up with the idea of Valentine's Day! A third holiday in which a mass genocide of plants is not only condoned, but expected - encouraged! Not only our gourds and our trees; no, let's kill all the flowers who've done nothing at all to us but give us something pretty to look at it when the rest of the world is in turmoil!"

Edward frowned. Ivy's voice was getting unforgivably loud. He couldn't hear the other conversation he was trying to listen to - the one he actually wanted to hear. "Then you didn't get any valentines?"

"Of course I did! Plenty!"

"It was a harmless question, Pamela. No reason to get angry." Edward unconsciously leaned forward to get to a better listening position.

Ivy shook her head, eyeing him. Her face was passive for a moment, but then she turned to study the window. "You write awful poetry, by the way."

"I do not!," Edward shouted, turning toward the plant-woman. He ignored the stares from some of the less-notable inmates he got for his sudden outburst.

"'And, sometimes when Ivy makes roses, they're green.' Oh, yes. We have a poetic genius right here in Arkham."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Edward turned away from her adamantly.

"Really? Something you don't know, and you're willing to admit it?"

"Yes."

Pamela Isley studied her fingernails. "Hah. Well, sorry, then, Eddie. I thought it sounded a bit like you, but, then, it would make so much more sense for Selina to write the note."

"Apology accep - wait, what?" Edward's head swung straight back to face Ivy. "Why would that make more sense?"

"Don't you remember? Oh, that's right; perhaps, it was one of those nights after you and Harley had already fallen asleep..."

"What? What is it?"

"Selina likes Crane. Don't ask me why - can't stand the man, personally. But, she's all about him..."

"You're lying."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because I know you are."

"Is there a reason for me to lie to you? What would I gain from it?"

"Satisfaction, of course."

"What sort of satisfaction?"

"...I know what you're doing, Pamela. And, it won't work. You won't get me to say anything or admit to anything. You may be smart, but you're dealing with me - the most genius man to have ever walked the face of this planet -, and I'm unbreakable!"

"They had hot, kinky make-up sex in the backseat of a tour bus in Italy once."

Edward jumped to his feet in an instant and marched straight over to the chess table. "Jonathan Crane! Tell Pamela that you and Selina Kyle do not and have never had any form of sexual relationship!"

The Scarecrow turned his head to give The Riddler a strange, curious look. "I beg your pardon?"

Edward shot a glare to Ivy. "Tell Pamela that you're a virgin and that no one - especially not Ms. Kyle - has ever threatened that."

"...I don't believe that my... sexual history is any of Miss Isley's business."

"Uh...Bye, Professah Crane!" Harley stood to leave, and Edward took her place at the table.

"But, you haven't, have you?" Edward insisted.

"Haven't?"

"Had sex," Edward said impatiently.

"With Catwoman?"

"With anyone. Just answer the question. You aren't afraid of something, are you, Doctor?"

"Of course not."

"To being afraid or to having sex?"

"Both."

"Good." The word escaped without Edward's permission; he'd never authorized it to leave his brain. But, he continued, unfazed, almost as if he hadn't heard the word himself. "Care for a game?"

"Of chess? No, Jervis and I played twelve games today already. Everything does get boring eventually."

"Except for fear, yes, Professor? Happy anniversary, by the way. Today's the day you brewed your first working toxin however many years ago, correct?"

"Yes," Jonathan answered after a moment. "It is. Thank you."

"No problem. How's your day been?"

"Decent. Your's?"

"I'm hoping it will get better." Edward waited for a good three seconds before he decided that Jonathan wasn't going to bring up the right subject on his own. So, Edward had no choice but to do it for him, of course. "Any Valentine's Day things for you? Chocolate hearts or flowers or stuffed bears and bunnies?"

"No. You?"

Edward growled inwardly; the Scarecrow was obviously not keen on playing along. "You know, the usual. Some chocolates and a letter from Echo and Query. Did you get any letters?"

"Nothing of particular significance."

The hand Edward had rested on the tabletop curled agonizingly slowly into a fist. "Nothing of significance?"

"That is what I said, yes."

"No... notes? From any... anonymous sources?" Edward caught Jonathan Crane's level stare. His far too level, far too calm stare. "You're toying with me!"

"I don't 'toy' with anyone, Edward."

"What do you prefer to call it, then? I know you wouldn't want me to say you're 'joking'."

"Testing you. I must say I'm disappointed in how long it took you to realize..."

"How did you know? How did you find out? Did someone tell you? Did Echo leave a note on the envelope? Note to self, murder Echo next time you see her..."

"Ah, so you had your henchgirls send it... That was the only part I hadn't quite figured out. How you sent something from inside Arkham."

"What gave it away, then? If it wasn't Echo?"

"You did give me a clue in your... poem."

"You actually solved that?"

"Easily. A question mark. Granted, I didn't need the clue..."

"I'm never figured out so easily!"

"First of all, Edward, no sane person would send a letter like that. And, I further knew it had to be from an inmate of Arkham by the casual reference to 'Ivy'. No one casually refers to someone like that if he or she isn't personally familiar with that someone. Another, though perhaps faulty train of thought goes to the casual reference as a sign of someone who is fairly close to Miss Isley, which would bring to mind Harley and Miss Kyle. Extended out one more circle of her acquaintances, that would include you, though still perhaps no one else. Obviously, it wouldn't be Harley, and Selina doesn't play with word games or poetry or any sort of rhyme like that in general. Pamela would have no reason to send such a letter, and it was too much of a gimmick for her, anyway. Harley is perfectly happy in her current situation, and that leaves only you, Edward."

"...You did say that train of thought could be faulty, though, Professor."

"Yes, which is why it must be tested against others. There was also the uncanny resemblance of the note to a much shorter one I received on Christmas Eve, and the fact that you've been staring at me every day basically without blinking for the past two and a half months."

"Three, actually. You must not have noticed those first two weeks." The Riddler drummed his fingers against the table idly. "Well, congratulations, Doctor. You've figured that much out. But, tell me - just what does this not-so-secret admirer of yours want?"

"You tell me, Edward."

"Why? Can't figure it out?"

"If it's anything that isn't business you're after, then it does you no good for me to further prove my intellect to you. It doesn't have to matter to me what exactly you want, you know. Tread cautiously and watch where you step."

"Fine. You, then."

"Hm?"

"I want you." Edward hissed, not meeting Jonathan Crane's eyes. "As if that wasn't obvious."

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?"

"You can't look at me and honestly say that I'm attractive whatsoever to you. So, why?"

Edward shook his head, rubbing his thumb against the inside of his fingers. "You're wrong there. I can. I can say you're attractive. I cannot tell you that you have the best skin or the nicest body or the softest hair I've ever seen, but your mind... It's gorgeous. The way you think is just..." Edward paused, chewing on his lip. "Breathtaking...," he muttered - almost incoherently.

"'Breathtaking'?... Really, Edward - flattery?"

"It isn't flattery. I've never met someone quite as... genius. Not as genius as myself, of course, but you... You're a solid second place. Maybe third if you count the Bat, but there's something in you that... I don't think you're third. No. Definitely second."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything."

"Aren't you? Then what makes you think I'd have any motive to spend any time whatsoever near you? My life is fear."

"What do you want from me, Jonathan?"

"That's the issue, isn't it? There is absolutely nothing I want from you."

Edward's voice raised in pitch, and his hand was a fist again; he was shaking, just enough to be noticed, when he answered, "You've never been with anyone. The idea interests you. You want to know what it's like, and I'm going to show you."

"Really? So, now, you're going to force yourself on me?" Odd, wasn't it, how very calm the Scarecrow's voice was even when assessing a threat to himself?

"If I have to."

"And, what good would that bring you, Edward?"

"You're going to like it."

"Bold statement. I wouldn't be so sure."

"Yes, you would be!," Edward screeched, slamming his fist against the table. "You're always sure about everything! Everything! How is it that you always know? Why is that? It isn't fair!"

Jonathan stayed perfectly still as Edward lunged across the small table to grab him by the neck. Just one hand. One hand could almost fit all the way around Jonathan's neck. And, Edward had two. "What are you angry about, Edward?"

"You!"

"You do know what breeds anger? Fear? Are you afraid of me, Edward?"

"No!" Edward squeezed his hands, effectively drawing a wracked cough - one that the doctor couldn't prevent - from the Scarecrow's throat.

"...Not me in myself, then. Just the power you've... given me."

A guard shouted, and Edward automatically released his hold on Jonathan's neck. He rested the hands on the former professor's bony shoulders instead: that was a less-threatening position for them. "I've given you no power."

Jonathan spoke only in that cold, rasping tone, still. "You've given me every power. The power to dictate your life. Your state of mind... By ever taking a curious interest, by writing that note, by approaching me, you've given me the power of rejection. That's what you're afraid of, isn't it, little Eddie? Rejection. Failure..."

Edward's hands curled into fists for a third time, but it was the first time that it wasn't an angry gesture. Just helpless. Helpless, and he needed something to hold onto, so he was grasping at air because he couldn't dare grasp at the skin and bones of the man he hadn't meant to give any power at all - and had in the process given the power of a god. "...Please. Please, Jonathan."

"Please what? Spare you? You claim to have all the power to hold yourself over me, you say you can force yourself on me, but, dear little Eddie Nashton is so, so weak, isn't he? So very afraid and..."

"I'm begging you. Please. Stop..."

"There is no mercy. The God of Fear spares nothing and no one."

"I don't want you to spare me," Edward murmured.

His response generated a heavy pause from the thin doctor.

"I don't... I want you to treat me."

The same pause. And, when Jonathan spoke again, it was the calm voice, "You know what happens to all of my patients."

"There's only one certainty in life, Jonathan - death. That's right: we all die eventually."

"You aren't afraid of death?"

"As long as it's a timely one... no. Today's not my day to die, though. And, tomorrow's not looking good, either. I've got a while left."

"You can't choose the day you die."

"But, you can."

"Yes."

"You won't kill me until you understand me entirely, though. Until you can read my mind so well that your mind just blends in with it, and you won't even kill me, then. You'll climb inside my head and have me kill myself. I've heard all those things about you. I know how you work."

"You've done your research."

"Everything I could find. I'm your match, Doctor. The one you can't and won't ever be able to understand, like you understand everyone else."

"Oh, Edward, you're so very easy to understand. Textbook case if I've ever seen one. So afraid of failure, with a desperate, childish need for everything you do to be recognized and praised. Sick with obsessions with riddles and puzzles and games. You hate the idea of normalcy, even though all you ever wanted was a normal childhood with normal parents who actually cared for you. To graduate school and get a job like a normal person and live a normal life. But, you don't do anything halfway. Nothing; that's the OCD. You couldn't have normal parents, so you didn't do anything else normally. You made yourself hate the concept so that you wouldn't have to suffer for the lack of normal things in your life. For instance, your hair right now. You hate it. Because it's faded back to brown. The most common hair color in all of America. Doesn't it make you feel dreadfully normal?"

"Basic stuff, Professor. Any good psychiatrist could tell me that. Not to doubt your ability - I'm sure there is... so much more you have figured out. But, tell me, do you really believe you understand me that well?"

"For a man so obsessed with puzzles, you're astoundingly simple."

"Then why does it confuse you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why. Does this. Confuse you? That I'm here right now. Actually talking to you, saying that I want to be your 'patient'. That I have... an interest in you."

"I am not confused. Actually, I'm well-aware that a great level of arrogance has filled your head up with hot air so full that there isn't a bit of humility left; you actually believe you can outdo me at what I do."

"You telling yourself that makes you think you understand the 'patient' part. But, what about the other? Your mind can't process something you've never understood. You can capture all those negative feelings like that, but you have no idea why it is I'm attracted to you. You even asked me; you thought I was lying. But, I'm not, and as much as you want to believe I am, so that everything in your head makes sense again, deep down in the tiny, innermost region of your amygdala... Something makes you wonder if I'm not."

The thick sound of a door opening preceded a shout from one of the Arkham guards. The words weren't particularly intelligible, but they didn't have to be. Everyone already knew what they meant.

"Will you join me for dinner tonight, Jonathan?," Edward asked, removing his hands from the Scarecrow and standing up. He brushed himself off before turning to offer Jonathan a hand.

Jonathan Crane watched The Riddler with steady eyes, calculating. No trace of emotion seeped through into his face, but slowly he reached for Edward's hand and stood, as well.

"May I take that as a 'yes'?"

"No," Jonathan said, almost boredly.

Edward tilted his head, frowning. "No, I can't take that as a 'yes', or no-..." He stopped mid-question. After all, it was rather difficult to focus on forming words when someone else's tongue was trying its hardest to push right through his teeth. He opened his mouth just a bit, not really anticipating the little helpless sound that escaped when he did so. He reached up to touch Jonathan's hair, but the moment ended far too soon.

"You can take that as an 'I'll consider it'."