Who Cares?

Jonathan Crane stumbled through the blinding snow, clutching his side. A dark warm liquid seeped between his fingers, turning the snow at his feet a deep crimson and leaving a scarlet trail behind him. The Scarecrow struggled to remember where he was, but the swirling white-out combined with the desperate sounding  beating of his own heart seemd to drown out all thought.

He tripped over something in his path and sank to his knees for a few moments before painfully regaining his footing. The wind lashed him cruelly, as if to punish him for his insolence.

Jonathan tripped again and fell, face first, into the snow.

This time, he didn't get up.

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Edward Nygma paced back and forth in the lair, trying not to let worry set in.

Once more, the Riddler debated with himself whether or not he should go look for the Scarecrow.

Making his decision, the Prince of Puzzles headed for the door.

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Even though it must have been several degrees below freezing, the Master of Fear felt curiously warm.

A slow, molasses-like instinct deep inside his brain told him sleepily that he should fight it. But he didn't want to…

Dimly, he became aware of something…poking him?

It wasn't a hard edge, more…stiff, like a thick piece of paper.

Either way, it was…annoying somehow. Like that one sensation was the only thing keeping him from sinking into a sweet oblivion.

With frozen fingers, he fumbled for the source of the feeling.

It was…on the inside of his jacket.

He prodded at the thin material before clumsily working his fingers beneath it. His questing fingertips found and inside pocket…and the sharp object.

Or rather, the corner of it.

With a supreme effort, Jonathan pulled it out and held it in from of his shattered, snow-spattered glasses.

He stared at the object dumbly for a long moment.

It was a picture.

And even with broken glasses and howling snow, he could recognize that smile anywhere.

"Eddie…" he murmured through frozen lips. Numb fingertips stroked the photograph as a slow thought formed in Jonathan's mind.

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"Jon?" Eddie called, creeping into the warehouse. "Jonathan? Where are you? Jon?"

Running a hand through his hair, the Riddler stopped in the middle of the building.

All was silent.

"He probably left already…" he muttered to himself. "…probably home and wondering where I am…"

And then he saw something that chilled him to the bone.

Blood.

Not just a few drops, either.

A veritable trail of crimson droplets stretched towards the doorway. A slant of moonlight slid in through a window and suddenly lit up a scene of utter destruction.

Beakers and shattered glass were scattered every which way and Eddie saw that the blood wasn't just confined to one spot.

Swallowing hard, the Riddler ran for the door, following the thread of scarlet.

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Jonathan had no idea how long he'd been out in the snow. Somewhere along the line, he'd managed to sit up, and now, he sat in the freezing whiteness, rocking back and forth slowly as he gazed at the picture clutched in his frost-bitten fingers.

It…helped somehow. Deadened the pain. Or maybe the snow was doing that.

A gust of wind swept over him, howling through the gaps in his clothing and tearing the photograph suddenly from his weakened grip.

He watched it flutter in the wind for a few moments, flying away from him.

His last comfort.

And then he felt it.

A flicker, like a spark in his chest.

Jonathan let it grow, cultivating it, feeling it swell and fuel him.

And then he pushed himself up, howling wordlessly at the wind in a fit of animal rage.

How dare the wind take steal his last scrap of encouragement?!

How dare the snow try to lull him to sleep and suffocate him?!

Jonathan stumbled forward with a somewhat desperate desire to win, to fight against the elements and come out on top.

He staggered and fell, swore and pushed himself up again, fell once more. But still, he kept moving, drawing strength from the last reserves of energy he'd somehow found within himself.

The picture fluttered, pushed just out of reach by the wind and renewing his focus. It almost seemed to be calling to him: his name snatched away by the wind. But that had to be just his muddled imagination.

Reaching out with shaking hands and ignoring the fiery pain in his side, the Master of Fear snatched at the photograph.

And then, several things happened at once:

Jonathan caught the picture, slipping on a patch of ice as he did so.

He fell forward, feeling his energy drop even as his body did the same. Dimly, he heard a shout, but assumed it was his own, or even another trick of the wind.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed the photograph against his chest…and landed on something…warm?

Snow wasn't warm…

The warmth embraced him, pulling him close.

And it all happened in the space of a few seconds.

"Jonathan…oh, Jon…what happened?!"

The Scarecrow opened his eyes slightly and looked into his rescuer's face: the worried version of the picture he now grasped so tightly against himself.

"Ed…die…" he whispered through ice-stiffened lips. "You…care…"

And with that, the Master of Fear laid his head against Eddie's shoulder, and fainted.