The Universe's Mixer

Jonathan stared out over Arkham Asylum’s graveyard, staring at the centuries of Arkham’s that laid in the plots...the madmen..and even some of the staff who were unfortunate enough to be stuck eternally in the hellhole. One day Jonathan’s own name would grace the grounds, though he doubted there would be anyone around who would care enough to give him more than a small, weather beaten paper grave marker.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep, heavy breath, before Scarecrow knelt down next to the fresh, white marble gravestone that had been inserted into Arkham Asylum’s graveyard, raising a trembling hand to trace the still sharp words.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter, beloved friend and companion

Yes, they claimed the man was still alive, but Scarecrow never believed what people said and Jonathan had heard that too many times before..had said it too many times before to trust it.

Instead, Scarecrow wept at an empty grave, a hand covering his mouth to keep his cries silent, tears rolling down his cheeks freely. It should have been him...he was supposed to die before Hannibal, just as Edward was to die before him. That was the order of things, of their reality.

“Hanni...you asshole,” Scarecrow whispered, once more tracing his best friend’s name. “You always had to have more attention, you egotistical bastard.” His shoulders shook, a soft, keening cry escaping his lips before he clamped them shut again, gasping softly. The attempts were for nothing though, and Scarecrow fell forward, full, rich sobs spilling from his throat as he cried, feeling a pain he hadn’t in so very long.

It hurt to be without Hannibal, to know he would never see him again...never talk, never flirt, never laugh...never anything...again.

“Why…” he whispered, his voice soft, broken and child-like. Scarecrow understood death, the mechanics, the fine details...he specialized in how far a body could go before expiring.

But he had no idea how to deal with losing someone like this. He didn’t understand it...didn’t want to accept it. He knew the stages of grief and loss, each moment and layer of them, but none of that helped him when it felt like his heart was torn out of his chest.

“Come back…please...I need you to save us.” He begged the tombstone, clutching at headstone, scratching at it, long nails breaking off with the force, leaving bloody smears. “Please come back to me...I’ll do anything..please…”

He slowed, his whole body hanging like a broken marionette, shuddering every soft often from the sobs that still escaped him. His eyes burned, unable to produce any more tears, but still he cried, torn hands burying into the earth that no body lay beneath, clinging to it as if it would keep him from falling completely into despair

--

Jonathan groaned, shifting, wincing as he sat up, rubbing his neck. Scarecrow had passed out, collapsed against the headstone and the angel’s wing had dug into Jonathan’s neck, leaving a crippling pain and bruise against the flesh. He shivered in the cold, pushing himself to his feet, body shaking from the abuse Scarecrow’s grief had given him.

He wrapped his arms around his thin chest as he started back for the asylum, his own tears slipping down his cheeks, stinging his burning eyes. He paused, turning back to the grave, tilting his head. “Good bye, Hannibal. I will miss you.”

Jonathan turned his face, watching the moon for a long moment before heading into the Asylum..

Restlessness had ridden her for most of the night. It was a strange feeling, especially since she'd been curled in the place where she was most content - the privacy and glory of her own tower library at the back of her cottage. But it didn't seem to matter what book she tried to settle into, and tea only made that restlessness worse.

Finally, Beauty gave up the library for the night and headed to her bedroom. There was an outfit waiting at the foot of her bed, and the cottage whispers urged her gently into the task of changing. The clothing and the jewelry veritably flew onto her, with hardly any effort on her part. It was often that unseen helpers dressed her in her cottage, as if the cottage itself remembered the young lady from Paris with her attendants.

The shoes weren't to her liking, but they still settled on her feet. She'd learned long ago that fighting only resulted in delaying the inevitable. Once she was dressed, the next step seemed to be leaving -- but she had no idea where she was to go. It was late, far later than she usually would venture out, but there she was, walking carefully down the path leading from her cottage in the park to the City streets themselves.

A winding walk didn't ease the restlessness -- nothing seemed to. She was frustrated and baffled and ready to walk back home again, when the light of a corner tavern caught her eye. It drew her close, and before she knew it, her hand was on the door. She never frequented places such as this, but yet she found herself pressing into the dim light of the establishment.

The hum of the tavern quieted when she walked in, and she felt the heaviness of eyes on her. With a lift of her chin, she tried very hard to look unfazed, then found a seat as quickly as she could. No place seemed open, except for a stool at the far end of the bar. She took it, then, and smiled at the man who came up to ask her what she wanted.

She really didn't know.