Disclaimer: I do not own the rights "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: This was inspired by a prompt I received on Tumblr from M. Michele: "Scarecrow and Two-Face walk into a bar..." I usually only write Nolanverse Batman fic, so it was very fun and very different to dip into the comic world. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
Of Duality and Fear
Crane was never one to indulge in vices, especially those that affected his brain chemistry—he much preferred to explore the mind than to numb it—but on occasion he would allow Gotham City's former DA to drag him to a hole-in-the-wall bar for a drink. He found the seedy atmosphere distasteful and the clientele vulgar, but more often than not these little ventures resulted in transactions that involved the fattening of his wallet and an expanding list of useful connections. And so he tolerated the smoky stench and spitting profanities—but not for a second longer than necessary.
He wasn't exactly sure why Two-Face desired his companionship, although he suspected that what little remained of Harvey's humanity became lonely at times. Every one of their meetings entailed a different performance from Dent, from the amount of drinks he'd have to the number of cigars he'd smoke to the hair color of the women that would inevitably adorn each arm. The only constant in Dent's life was his coin; Crane would watch, mystified, as Dent would flip the coin through the air over and over again on a seemingly endless loop, pausing only to slap it against the back of his hand when it came time to make a decision. A smooth face meant a calm, almost cordial Dent, while the reveal of a scratched surface was enough to make Crane's stomach clench with anxiety.
Not that Crane would ever admit to that, of course. Not in a million years.
Sometimes he would entertain the notion of slipping a few drops of fear toxin into Dent's drink; he imagined Two-Face ripping himself apart in terror, his dual personalities at war with each other even as they plunged deep into a chemical horror. He'd almost gone through with it once, on a night when the coin tosses had resulted in a very drunk Dent. He had gone so far as to uncork a small vial underneath the table and offer to buy Dent another drink—a coin toss worked in his favor, and in the darkness of the bar his hand had hovered over Dent's glass.
Ultimately he decided against it, and placed the vial back into his pocket. Dent was currently more useful to him as an ally than an enemy, and essentially poisoning him would only serve to effectively destroy their partnership. He handed Dent his drink, and Dent raised the glass to indicate a toast.
Soon, Crane promised himself, and smiled as their glasses clinked together.