i_fear in we_coexist
Ichabod's Ride (Narrative)
Scarecrow was hurting.
Jonathan tried, he truly did, but there was only so much could do to soothe his other, and he knew of only one true release to the figment’s pain.
He just didn’t want to allow it. Jonathan was desperately trying to keep things in check, to keep his life in check. He liked having Arkham and being in control, he liked being free. Yes, Blackgate was a joke and he could get out easily, but in doing so he would lose everything else he had.
But Scarecrow was still hurting and he was going to explode if Jonathan didn’t do something soon.
--
Scarecrow stood in front of the mannequin that held his costume, running a hand lovingly over the worn, oiled leather, before he started stripping, shedding the outer illusion of a good doctor, carefully pulling on the padded shorts that were required for a life such as his, before stripping the mannequin, slowly, as carefully as one would a lover, wiggling into the outfit that felt like his true skin.
He latched the last golden frog on his doublet, gently tugging it down before grinning, the smell of the leather, the oils...the hayseed scent that still clung to the fabric...all of it was home to him.
( Ichabod's Ride )
Jonathan tried, he truly did, but there was only so much could do to soothe his other, and he knew of only one true release to the figment’s pain.
He just didn’t want to allow it. Jonathan was desperately trying to keep things in check, to keep his life in check. He liked having Arkham and being in control, he liked being free. Yes, Blackgate was a joke and he could get out easily, but in doing so he would lose everything else he had.
But Scarecrow was still hurting and he was going to explode if Jonathan didn’t do something soon.
--
Scarecrow stood in front of the mannequin that held his costume, running a hand lovingly over the worn, oiled leather, before he started stripping, shedding the outer illusion of a good doctor, carefully pulling on the padded shorts that were required for a life such as his, before stripping the mannequin, slowly, as carefully as one would a lover, wiggling into the outfit that felt like his true skin.
He latched the last golden frog on his doublet, gently tugging it down before grinning, the smell of the leather, the oils...the hayseed scent that still clung to the fabric...all of it was home to him.
( Ichabod's Ride )