Edward wakes to the hiss of rain against the sidewalks, sibilant under the growl of traffic. It batters hard on the window, the air in his room feels charged and clammy, unmistakable presages of a thunderstorm to come.

As he pushes back the covers and reaches for his glasses on the nightstand, the first crack of thunder confirms his deduction. Too warm to bother with a shirt, he pushes open the door of his room, pads silently down the hallway to the other bedroom. Pushing open the door, the room and its occupant flickers momentarily blue in a flash of lightning. He counts a minute and a half before the thunder answers.

He will always go to Jonathan's room when a thunderstorm settles over Gotham City at night. He will intimate with wide, hazel-green eyes that the revolt of the skies makes him nervous, wordlessly climb into the bed. Listen with his face beneath the covers whilst the doctor scolds him for being afraid of a natural phenomenon. Tells him how safe city buildings are. Pours scorn on his pathetic little bout of terror.

Jonathan would always be awake when he pushes open the door. Sitting up in bed with his arms clamped around his knees. Edward will feel the slight tremor in his body as he climbs into the bed. Jonathan will sleep again only once he has convinced Edward that there is nothing to be afraid of.

Edward loves thunderstorms. If he had his way, he would go outside and watch it, revel in the pelting of icy rain on his upturned face and thrill to the rolling majesty of light and sound. Instead, he goes to Jonathan's room, and pushes open the door.

Another strobing burst of light reveals that Jonathan is sprawled across the bed, soundly asleep. One long arm flung across his face, the other has pulled his shirt up above his navel to reveal the lacework of red weals over his hollow stomach. The spill of streetlights is just sufficient for Edward to see that they have begun to harden and pull into scar tissue, showing up a dead, flat pink against his pale skin. Edward hasn't seen the wounds since the night Jonathan had got here, and it heartens him a little to see that they are healing.

This time the answering thunder comes before a minute has gone. The crack echoes around the nearby inlet of Gotham Bay, and booms around the apartment blocks and warehouses. Edward moves closer as Jonathan shifts in his sleep, settling onto his side with a little groan.

Edward didn't know how thunder echoed from the mountains in Georgia, rushing down through the cornfields with the force of a living thing. How the sound battered against the walls of the house. The rain came in through the window, and made freezing wet patches in the bed. Jonathan moves restlessly with the remembered dread that he will be made to change the sheets and punished for his imagined error.

Neither does he know how Jonathan had come by the vicious overlay of healing wounds which he had borne when he turned up at the door, lips and fingers blue from the cold. This time he had come back from his spell in Arkham almost 20lbs lighter, exhausted and nauseous for days on end with withdrawl from the drugs they had him on.

It had thundered that night too. Edward was glad that he had not gone outside to watch it, and intstead been home when Jonathan came to the door. He doesn't know what has brought him to the state he showed up in, or how long it will take before he's back on his feet again. For now, all he knows is that Jonathan is sleeping through a thunderstorm. He counts that as a victory for them both.

The rain has cleared the air, bringing with it a chill that makes the shirtless Edward shiver. Gently, he climbs into the bed. He pulls Jonathan's shirt down to cover the wounds before turning over, and listening to the thunder with a contented smile.