I wish for horrible things since I met him.
Not that I wasn't familiar with wishing for horrible things before. My childhood gave more than just the right amount of sorrowful experciences to exhilarate my imagination with fantasies, built upon horror and cruelty. Nevertheless, this here is different. It's far more… concerning.
It might be the way he crawles upon my chest - cheek pressed into skin, eyes shut and mouth hanging loose. It is illogical how he dares to cling tight onto someone who would break his rips open just to see the quivering heartbeat underneath. There are safer individuals to tend to. Yet he chose me. He chooses me for months.
We know each other. Maybe we know too well. He knows what I'm capable of, or, at least, might be. I know he talks in his sleep and when he mumbles 'Fuck off' and lashes out, it's not me he curses, not me he aims at. His nails dig deep enough in my waist to betray his tongue.
I lift my arm, touch his hair deliberately slow, pull my fingers through it while my thoughts wander, take long, hunched walks in the darkness shifting around us. It's soft and warm, as everything is while he's asleep and unaware of the shadows dancing beyond his eyelids. My forehead rests on his, his mind and my mind connected and yet worlds apart. Circles under his eyes tell of exhaustion, something the days take and night eases.
I don't need much rest, never did. Sometimes I just go to bed to find him there, curled into a ball, arms firmly tied around himself, lips pressed into a grumbling crescent. I slip under the blankets as quietly as possible and then I watch, I watch and breathe and wait till his subconscious perceives me and rolls over. I don't know why, but it amuses me. His unspoken welcome of tangled limbs and messed up hair. It's like coming home.
When was the last time I thought of home? I can't remember.
The strands are auburn in the dim moonlight filtering through. Soon the sun will rise and shine through the shutters in red spirals, carrying pictures, a display of Salem's witches burning in the same fire that adornes his head. I'm looking forward to it. It's a habit I've grown fond of, like a memory. Sometimes a routine can be very appealing for people like me.
What comes now, is part of the routine too.
It begins when his body stiffens, when his breath turns hasty. I sense it in the atmosphere and the way his condition becomes erratic. Words grow louder, his face contorts in pain. Drops of sweat clamp his temples and his nails cut sharp curves in my side. It doesn't matter, I have enough scars to adjust and pain has different meaning when he's with me. I hold him close to prevent him from falling off the bed as he did a few times before. He's never pleasant to talk to when he's got a headache and talk, he will.
As he snaps out of his hell minutes later, he shudders under my touch as if he'd miss the heat back there. This is how it should be, right? He, shuddering, wailing, screaming by the mere idea of me being this close to him, wrapped like a shield. A net. It's my purpose in life, I guess. To evoke fear and be feared. That's how I made me.
I hold my breath when he leans in then, a hint of surrender in his drifting eyes. Orbs of blue focuse on my form, recognize me. A ragged motion cracks through the thin ends of his mouth. He smiles at me, tired and battered and broken. Tears start to brim. Why? Because I'm the first thing he acknowledges, a nightmare in a nightmare? He hates tears, but I can't bring myself up to reach out and wipe them away. I don't want to. What can I say to defend myself? Easy; I won't. He is beautiful when he cries. There is a rawness I admire.
Has anyone seen him in this state before? I belittle myself for hoping it's only me to demand this privilege. After all, I'm not a fan of sharing. Speaking of share.
"Him again?" I ask, not that I'd have to. I'm highly acquainted with this expression of his, the fading lines of shame and fear graved into his skin like bruises and cuts of past years. The tears rain down and draw pearls on his cheeks. He nods. He's deliciously bare in moments like this, nothing left of his narcism and sneaky replies. They're rare, these moments, but always worth the wait.
I ask myself why I haven't killed him yet, driven to madness and left in the gutter. Usually I name them as my answer. The moments. I feel him blindly searching for my hand, my chin, something to grab, hold onto. A need to skim my features, detect my mood. He's never been fond of stumbling in unknown field. I stop his hand with my own, catching his wrist. I hear his gasp, soft, defeated. A sound I love.
'I wished I could keep him.' I realize and the words echo in my mind like laughter, gloating and cheering. Frantic splinters, scratching my skull.
And then I think with blood running cold : 'What a horrifying wish that is. To be with your kind till he falls apart in dust.'
But he doesn't fall apart now. He falls right into me. And I can do no more than fall with him.
Seconds gone I breathe him in, all heat and flesh and sour sweetness. His lips are in the crook of my neck, his face hiding from the world as the marked child he was and is. His pulse shatters against mine, a clockwork wired wrong. I let him hold me while he thinks I do the same. Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. His skin is feverish under my hands, alive and radiating in its panic. I drown in my territory.
Who holds the devil let him hold him well, the poet said. But if two devils are claiming each other, then which one is taking, which one giving? Who fights who and what are we fighting for? It's a riddle. I've come to the conclusion that's why Edward stays. What we have or seem to have is a riddle unsolved, a challenge his allegedly brilliant brain is unable to drop yet. Why else should he endure me and my habits? My relentless research, my toxin, indulging my every whim and flaw? I'm Scarecrow, I'm fear, an agony cloaked in straw, studies and misery. Not desirable as partner, as lover. As a person.
It's strange to think he needs me. It's strange to be actually needed.
And it's utterly ridiculous to think he'd miss me when I'd close the door and never come back.
Still, his dry sobs and hiccups ring in my ears like some sort of natural agreement, as it's meant to be. I'm not here to mute them, I'm just here to listen and take note. To be. His cheap cologne hangs in the air, mixed with salt and self-pity. The bouquet drapes over my senses like silk and ash, luring me in.
'You're safe, child.' I'd like to say, words that cross my mind more often the more time we spent in company. But I can't. As said, we know too well. There's no need to whitewash the obvious. But there are some other things I can do. Actions which suit my nature at best.
(Tell me, why do I even bother to stay?)
„You know I could find him." I say, as the tremble has settled and his breaths are steady again. Melded in a cocoon of warmth and unspoken lies, I rock him back and forth, just slightly initiating a rhythm. It helps, I know it does. I did it myself through the years and in prison.
„It wouldn't end my dreams." he croaks, holding back a sniffle. How brave and redundant my Edward is when he disagrees.
„It would end your fear of seeing him again. Hearing his words. Bearing the litany of your worthlessness."
„He's my problem, Crane. Don't dare to interfere.". Sudden aggressiveness toughens his tone and his tears are not dried up yet. It doesn't matter, I'm used to this. I lift my head, he follows, two parts of the same puzzle. The night illuminates his gaze.
„It's not wise to confine me on last-name basis while we're in bed." I chide.
Pupils widen in frustration. He tries to escape my grip, muscles strain under skin. My arms are iron when I want them to. His mouth hovers over mine.
„Hush. I'm not the enemy here." A pause as I consider the possibilities. „If it calms you… you're not worthless to me.". He snorts.
„Well, ain't I lucky?"
„You should be."
„No, I think you should be lucky to be next to me and bathe in my glorious presence."
„Actually you're the one clinging to me like your life depends on it."
„I'm not!"
„You're doing it right now."
„I- ! Oh." His cheeks flush crimson. He grits his teeth. „Then let go, you're choking me!" I'm not, but I won't say I'm not tempted to paint this red flesh violet.
„Interesting choice of words." I whisper instead. „Are you afraid of being choked? Care to elaborate how it makes you feel?"
„For fuck's sake Jon, get off me you scrawny-!"
„Play nice or I'll put my theory into action."
Quietness. Lips curl into a pout, sore loser he is.
„I'm not scared of you." he grumbles. Ah, as if it hurts me.
„Not the way you should be, no. Your father defends this podium till he dies." I hum. An idea crosses me. A bitter one. „Should I be jealous of the power he has?" He raises a brow.
„He has no power over me."
„Your dreams tell otherwise."
„Dreams don't dictate reality."
„Nightmares do."
Silence. Closing the Riddler's mouth has become my favourite distraction to do. Not that I would favor distractions in general.
"I just want clarity. Do you fear once I kill your father, I'll come and take his place?"
„No! That's not what I meant… it's really not." He turns his face aside. I reach out and force him to look at me. My fingertips combust under his chin. I don't mind. It feels like they belong there.
„You still love him."
He doesn't reply to that. Swallows. My thumb swipes across his bottom lip. Plush and easily bitten open. I should know.
„I killed my grandmother. Do you think I loved her?"
„No. You couldn't… I couldn't. After everything she'd done to you."
„Then why would your father deserve your compassion? Your protection? He's not less of a tormentor than she was."
„Shut up." He averts me, his mouth closing. „I wanna go back to sleep."
„I see no difference. One word and -"
„Leave it!" He's serious, dragging his wrist from me and I leave him, watching. „If you want to see me cry - use your toxin next time."
That being said, he turns around, leaving me with the sight of his back, trembling as ever. I lay next to him, head propped up on my palm. When I close my eyes, I see his bones. Their texture under my hands. A scalpel of glistening silver gracing the hollow between his thighs, his vulnerability fresh as fruit on my tongue. Utter fright on his face, blood on my hands. The movement of his Adam's apple bouncing up. I breathe in, deep and quick. I come back, eyes open. The room takes shape again and so does he.
„Do you hate me? I'm actually curious how long it takes till you do. It's been four months." I ask and I do not lie. No reply for me. Time goes by. I wait.
„Riddle me this :" he says after a while when I thought he'd fallen asleep already., "He does not ask for he's never right. He leaves the house with his key inside. What is he?"
I admit, this is one of the lamest riddles I've ever had the misfortune to hear.
„An idiot." I sigh, rolling my eyes. A man, but a child all the same.
„Correct." he says, and turns around, facing me. "And it's four months and one week. Idiot." Then, he kisses me, softly, his arms round my neck, his hands in my hair. I don't pull back. Everything becomes a blur, except him. Except him.
That's how it goes, with the night closing around us, smothering what is left of moon and sound.
Truth is, I already know where his father resides. It wasn't much of a challenge anyway. Nashton senior lives in a flat on the third floor of some cheap tower building. He drinks beer, two cans in the morning, three in the evening. I check on him from time to time. He does not share any resemblance with Edward except his eyes, the same expression of arrogance lurking in them, but no game beneath. If I had no self-restraint like Joker, I might have killed him for that alone. His stature is bulky, his walk monotone, face unshaved and wary. Abundantly normal. How could a man like him have a child like Edward? And how could he break something so unmeant to be broken in the first place? The irony in this is crucial for every rogue living in this town, I guess. It's even for me.
He's a roach fouling this earth like most people do. Like my grandmother. But I haven't done anything to him. Yet.
Why the wait? Perhaps I'm just hoping for the perfect opportunity, but then again, when is there no perfect opportunity for a murder in Gotham?
And soon as his son sleeps again, crawled upon my chest, cheek pressed into skin, eyes shut and mouth hanging loose, I think about how I'd do it. What his greatest fear could be. My part of the routine. My time to have nightmares.
I wish for horrible things since I met him. Well, I think most people would consider it horrible to wish for trading someone's death against the simplicity of a decent sleep. They'd call my thoughts an abortion, my yearning a monster.
Yet still, I ask, don't we all wish for horrible things… when we're in love?
Hello :). This is my first Scriddler fanfic ever. I hope you liked it and if you'd like, please share your opinion - as every writer I'm in love with comments and feedback '3.
Also I hope there are no grammatical mistakes in here, English is not my first language soo,... well, hope it doesn't sound off.
Greetings and have a good day/night,
RoB