Logic was an important variable in all of Edward Nygma's endeavors. This wasn't a statement, but a fact.
The only person exempt from this fact was Jonathan Crane.
The details of their encounter almost escaped Edward amidst the growing tension, and only just sluggishly dribbled out as he forced himself to recall the conversation prior to their fight, bring it bubbling to the surface.
An argument. Information. Edward's information. Information that Jon had sought him out for.
After making an offer, it had become abundantly clear that bargaining wasn't Jon's forte. The man was all one-sided requests, no rewards, and so disillusioned by his own plans of grander that he honestly believed Edward would dispel information without reward. Quid pro quo. Obviously Jon had missed the memo.
With Edward's vast intellect, the following argument hadn't lasted more than a few sentences. He often managed to talk or otherwise worm his way into victory with this same amount of effort, and he treated Jon no differently than he would one of the usual chumps. After all, Jon was a kooky, sadistic professor who could no longer feel the very emotion that outlined his whole modus operandi; a victor had been chosen before they had even begun.
But then again, it had never been a race, or a game, or a puzzle -
It was a fight between villains.
Crane, legs bent like a grasshopper, lashed out immediately after Edward showed signs of departing. He hadn't anticipated a physical battle and it wouldn't be a long jump to say he was almost completely useless in hand to hand combat. Luckily, Crane didn't appear to be all that much better. His fighting style hadn't been developed for people like Edward, who were slippery and less inconspicuous then men clad in a bat suits, and as the Scarecrow was resorting to a fist fight, he obviously didn't have the advantage of fear toxin.
The latter thought sent relief flooding through Edward. He hadn't yet experienced the negative effects of the fear toxin and preferred to keep it that way.
However, soon after dodging a gazette-like leap, a swift strike to the head rendered him vulnerable. When Jon took advantage of the opening by wrapping his thin, spindly fingers into the lapels of his green jacket, pulling him in for a clearly inexperienced kiss, the shock overwhelmed him to the point of speechlessness, the Scarecrows tongue, oddly enough, being the thing to snap him out of his daze.
Had he said something to initiate this? Most likely. Edward said a lot of things that prompted unusual responses.
The kiss went unrecuperated, and lurching back, he managed to catch Jon's jaw with the side of his fist, scratching the mans chin with his knuckles hard enough to push off his mask. It was the first uncalculated, purposely violent move he had made all evening, and from the feel of the hands on his hips, this wasn't deterring Jon any. Again those spindly fingers found his bright green jacket, pulled him in, all teeth and gum because Edward wouldn't open his mouth.
It was Jonathan's turn to breathe out a gasp as Edward suddenly bent forward and began peeling away his thick brown trench coat, mattered with dirt, sweat and tears, most of which weren't his own. He tried not to imagine the thick layers of grime on it as he caught a clump between his clenched teeth and pulled hard enough to dislodge the fabric.
Catching on to Edward's chicken tactics, Jonathan let the jacket fall away, pushing Edward's searching hands aside so he could casually begin popping out the other mans buttons, just to watch him squirm.
He managed to get off the jacket, hat and suspenders, but dignity didn't allow Edward to have his pants removed while Jonathan intended to continue wearing his own.
Edward's back met the wall with a wet thump. The plaster cracked under the weight of his body, weather worn and wind beaten to the point of vulnerability.
His pants were hastily shoved down his thighs, followed by his question mark adorned boxers. Wasting no time with pleasantries or preparation, the Scarecrow feverishly lathered himself up with what looked like some sort mild concoction - hopefully a non-lethal one - and while holding a restless Edward against the wall with his lanky form, mercilessly worked his hips against Edward's cock until it was firm against his belly, and then hooked his arms under Edward's legs and pushed in with two solid jerks, both of which shook Edward to the core.
"Oh, god," Edward hissed, pained, but he shifted closer to Jon and draped his arms over the other man back tight enough to pull them chest to chest.
Maintaining eye contact became harder with each uneven jerk of their bodies. He hadn't even adjusted yet, and already Jon was settling into a rhythm.
Scarecrow attempted with little avail to re-pocket his flask, but soon abandoned the task in favor of smoothing Edward's shirt back over his thin chest, forefingers peeling back fabric as thumbs stroked across the ridges of ribs.
Making no attempt to stifle his groans, Edward shifted until one leg was resting on the small of Jon's back, the other claiming a bit of support under his forearm. He shuddered, pushed and ground back, completely losing himself to the tendrils of pleasure that accompanied the pain.
Friction showed it's beautiful, warm, silky head and struggled its way to Edward's consciousness when the discomfort finally ebbed away. He groaned, and as if on queue, Jon stopped moving.
Edward tried to encourage Jon to continue by fastening his mouth to the underside of Jon's jaw, sucking obscenely loud. When Jon refused to budge, Edward scowled, frustrated, and pushed down, only to have Jon retaliate by pinning him back against the wall with his weight.
"Enlighten me," the doctor rasped. Edward, too dazed to properly translate these words into anything but harmless teasing, blinked. "…The information, Edward."
That bastard, was the first thing to come to mind. That smart bastard, was the second thing. Edward's gaze traveled downward, then up again when Crane's breath wisped against his cheek.
"All good things in life must be earnt," he retorted breathlessly, enjoying the power he still held over Jon, even in a situation such as this.
Jon chuckled in response. "Unless there is an alternate way of obtaining them." That dangerous glint, the one reserved for patients caught Edward's eye. He swallowed. That could mean anything from good to bad.
He opened his mouth to protest, but Jon sufficiently silenced him by covering it with his own. The rhythm eventually started up again, much harder and deeper than before, leaving Edward barely coherent enough to latch onto Jon for support. He couldn't help the maddening shivers that began wracking his entire body, try as he might to stifle them.
Instinctively, he moved in for a kiss, running his tongue along the roof of Jon mouth, letting out a muffled complaint when teeth clamped down hard enough to scrape and cut his tongue (if Jon thought Edward would compliment the doctors big, pointed teeth coupled with his unattractive grunting later, he was sorely mistaken).
Twisting his body down sent a shudder through him, and he couldn't bring himself to care about his throbbing tongue as the friction began to build. He felt like butter in the other mans nimble hands. Hot butter, he mused as he dragged his nails down Jon's back, enjoying the shudder he received in response. The smile on his lips returned for no longer than a few minutes before Jon had wiped it off with a particularly hard thrust. He didn't just moan, he screamed like one of the lost. The whole goddamn neighborhood probably knew what he was doing now.
Jonathan breathed out a sound that Edward assumed was a terrible attempt at laughter. Again, they had stopped. It was no wonder he was laughing; Edward was twitching, shifting his hips restlessly.
"Information?" he choked out, knowing full well Jon wouldn't start moving again until he spilled the beans, so to speak.
Jon pressed his damp forehead against Edward's collarbone and focused on moving out inch by agonizing inch.
"Jon," Edward whined, frustration evident in his voice. "At least...give uh...damn it, damn it, alright," he breathed in unsteadily before continuing. "Cat woman robbed a museum previously owned by Jack Georgeson, I have a great pun f-for - stop t-that! Alright!" He struggled with his composure when Jon suddenly pulled him down. Any attempts of conversation would probably be thwarted in the same manner. Edward couldn't decide if this was a good or bad thing. "Another…another time then. She's the one responsible for your predicament. The museum owner thinks it was you."
Jon arched an eyebrow. Strain was winding its way through every single muscle in his body, yet he still managed to express his utter condensation. "They mistook cat woman for me?"
"You two are quite similar. Tall, slim," Edward retorted, smug. That earnt him the loss of one leg for balance, leaving him with nothing but his hands and his other leg to keep him upright, and even that didn't last more than a couple of thrusts as before long he was on the ground with his thighs pressed up against his stomach and legs over Jon's quaking shoulders.
The friction was magnificent and burning right through Edward, leaving him boneless one second, and tense the next. Jon bit and Edward bit back. He clawed and Edward keened. He rolled his pelvis and coaxed another dry scream from Edward's lips, like music to his ears, and it was all Edward could do not to push Jon back and take over.
Hips arched up as Jon suddenly stiffened, filling him with silky warmth. His own cock was rock hard from neglect, pressing firmly into his stomach. A shaky hand ventured down to stroke it but Jon stopped him and pinned the hand palm up on the dirty floor boards, forcing him to reach climax with only blessed words and friction as stimulation. It was more than enough. Edward hadn't been this turned on since the prospect of receiving a blowjob from his pretty blond math's teacher during his teenage years.
Later they lay a tangle of limbs in a mattress poorly disguised as a bed, completely sated of any will for further argument. Edward snored gently in his sleep, arms and legs curled in, and Jon lay with his arms covering the younger mans stomach, legs this way and that.
Morning came in the form of quiet rustling. Exhaustion had seeped deep into Edward's bones overnight, but that didn't stop him from leaping up out of bed when he realized what was happening. A heavy grimace contorted his features with each step he took towards an idly dressing Scarecrow. "You're just going to leave?"
"I have the information I need," Jon replied casually, unconcerned. He didn't even spare Edward a glance.
"And something else you needed too, apparently," Edward muttered scornfully.
He made no attempt to follow the man out. Flopping down on the settee - or what could just barely scrape past as a settee anyway - was far more appealing to his aching bones, and they were first to decide what happened in his life.
'I have the information I need.'
Dammit.
Dammit.
Why hadn't he thought of that first?