Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.
A/N: A couple of years ago, I wrote a fic exploring how Crane would celebrate Christmas. This year, I decided to give Thanksgiving a turn. I hope you enjoy!
Dr. Jonathan Crane has never been one to indulge in holiday festivities; to him, Thanksgiving merely meant spending an hour or two at the Arkham Asylum staff's annual, mind-numbingly boring potluck dinner and sitting in the inevitable, painfully slow crawl of Gotham traffic before arriving at his apartment to spend his four-day-weekend with his nose buried in his research. Every year, his contribution to the dinner is the same: a pie purchased from the frozen foods section of the grocery store next to his apartment building, selected quickly and tossed into his shopping cart with little thought or care. If any of his coworkers have ever noticed that the desert is store-bought rather than homemade, they are too polite to say anything.
But this year will be different.
Granny Keeny had possessed a penchant for baking, a trait which she had not passed down onto her grandson. She collected recipes that had been in the Keeny family for generations, filling a now yellow-paged notebook with her scrawling handwriting. The faded ink thoroughly details how to prepare a variety of dishes and treats, from roast beef with potatoes to fruit tarts with heavy cream.
He has one particular recipe in mind for this dinner—Granny Keeny's pecan pie. He had eaten the dish at every Thanksgiving as a child, chewing slowly as Granny Keeney watched him with hard eyes. As he grew older, he became increasingly concerned that she would poison the pie and finally make good on her numerous threats ; every bite filled him with dread, and when he would awake the next day in good health his relief was immeasurable.
Although in the end Granny Keeny had never added a malicious surprise to her desert, she had inspired Crane all the same. As he carefully pours the pie's ingredients into the mixing bowl—flour, eggs, brown sugar and butter—he reflects on past staff dinners; pushing food around on his plate, struggling to mask his distaste as the other doctors would prattle on about visiting family members and football.
He remembers Dr. Joan Leland giving him one of her sugary-sweet smiles, asking him how he plans to celebrate the holiday, and fixing him with that familiar look of pity that filled him with rage when he replied that the dinner was the extent of his celebration. He remembers lying through his teeth when asked if he was enjoying the meal, and he remembers seething when a particularly loathsome psychiatrist asked him what his favorite football team was, snickering when Crane admitted that he knew little about the sport.
As he empties a vial of his fear toxin into the pie filling, he imagines all of their faces twisted in horror, dropping their forks as screams ripped through their bodies. Crane smiles, allowing himself to feel excitement over the night's upcoming events, and gently places the pie in the oven.
Perhaps he has a knack for baking after all.