Batman: Love Story

by iammemyself

He had been worth the wait since the beginning.

'Love Story'

By Indiana

Characters: Edward Nygma, Jonathan Crane [Scriddler]

Synopsis: He had been worth the wait since the beginning.

He was the most beautiful creature Jonathan had ever seen.

He was sitting at the bar, his lips scowling around a cigarette as he regarded the stout man standing in front of him. His eyes were sharp, holding their own separate conversation with the world as he spoke. Jonathan no longer remembered why he'd entered the establishment in the first place. His entire existence was now directed towards that man sitting at the bar. His new mission in life was to speak with him.

But not yet.

After asking the nearest barmaid whom the man was and how often he stopped by, Jonathan began to formulate his plan.

He settled in to make his observations: a dark table in the corner, within view of that man's habitual barstool. It was always left empty for him. He always arrived exactly at seven pm. He would remove his outer jacket, lay it out carefully along the edge of the bar next to him, and then sit down on the stool and place his hat on top of the jacket. Afterward he would lean forward on the bar and within five minutes a woman would bring him his drink. Always the same woman, always the same drink. Half an hour later she would return with a second drink and some sort of appetizer involving shrimp – and always seven, which Jonathan knew because he always counted them before he ate them - and he would nod and thank her and resume what he'd been doing. Sometimes it was talking to someone next to him. Sometimes it was watching whatever entertainment was gracing the stage that night. Sometimes he spent the entire time there looking pensively into his drink. Jonathan wanted to know what he was thinking about. He always left by nine pm. Jonathan never had a reason to stay much longer than that.

It had already been made clear that Jonathan, who did not spend much nor add much to the atmosphere, was unwelcome. In Gotham, however, anyone could be anyone. And so as not to potentially insult anyone of significant power, no one was removed from the club unless particularly disturbing. So he was allowed to remain in his corner with his one drink, and anyone who tried to claim a seat there was met with such a look that they backed away and stammered an apology. He was unsure who these people believed he was, but if he was left alone he did not care. And he watched the man at the bar. Noted who he spoke to. Who he smiled at. How often he laughed because he was genuinely amused, and how often he did so just for show. The kinds of women his eyes lingered over and the types of men he allowed to take the empty seat on his left. Over the weeks Jonathan built up an extensive mental catalogue of his behaviours, a guidebook to how he thought. Friday nights were the highlight of his week. He thought of the man constantly. He found himself trailing off during lectures, wondering what he would think if he were in attendance. If he would be able to converse intelligently about Jonathan's work. If he would be willing to give Jonathan the time of day at all.

There arrived a night where seven pm came and went, and the place at the bar remained empty. Jonathan's hand tightened around his glass. It was irrational. He knew that. But his mind leapt immediately to the thought that something had happened to him. It was possible. It was equally likely that he was a busy man, a powerful man, and this week it so happened that his two hours at the bar could not be spent.

"Looking for someone?" a voice behind him said. Jonathan's face settled into his habitual scowl.

"That's hardly your – "

It was him.

He was even more beautiful up close. He had a strong nose. Naturally visible cheekbones. His auburn hair looked soft beneath the hat. There were grooves of age just beginning to set on either side of his mouth. And his eyes were… dazzling. Jonathan was dazzled. He had no other word, no other description for it. They were cold, displeased. But they knew how to find things. They were looking to find something now.

He sat down.

"It's been three and a half months," he said. "Three and a half months of you coming in here and watching me. If you are under someone's employ you are doing a terrible job. I was onto you on the second week."

"No one sent me," Jonathan said. The other folded his hands together atop the table.

"Then what do you want?"

"You know the owner. Quite well, it seems."

"I do." He tilted back his hat slightly. "And that has what bearing here?"

"If you knew what I was doing fourteen weeks ago, why then did you not have him ask me to leave?"

He rubbed his thumbs together. "You should never answer a question with a question."

"Your answer will determine mine."

He sat back in the chair. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"None at all." Jonathan was not much for either the news or the nightlife.

"Then I'll tell you." He leaned forward again, his glasses lowered enough that they were clearly visible between them and the rim of his bowler. "I am not someone you can negotiate with arbitrarily. This is not a repartee. This is me asking you a question."

His voice had acquired a hard edge. Jonathan had already summarised that he was of some import; there would be no other way for him to be treated as he was at the club otherwise. It did seem, however, that he was more powerful than Jonathan had anticipated. Someone in the upper echelon of criminality that could bring his life to the ground with one indicative finger. He didn't seem the type to allow Jonathan much time to manipulate the conversation to his advantage, either.

The thought was… thrilling.

"Very well." He folded his hands upon the table. A deal-making gesture. "I've been watching you because you make me quite curious."

"Is that so." His eyes never wavered. Jonathan didn't want them to. He decided to be a little unconventional. It would likely pay off, if his observations were correct.

"I find you quite attractive," he said. The other man's expression flickered.

"That's… very candid."

"That is my answer. And if I am recalling correctly, you implied you would offer yours in return."

The man took a long breath, noticeable only because Jonathan was watching for the smallest details. Finally, he said, "I was also curious."

"I know everyone of import in this city. You are not one of them. We do not occupy near the same strata. You are, according to my cursory search, a nobody from nowhere." His eyes had hardened again. "What, exactly, does someone like you hope to achieve with me?"

His argument made some kind of sense. It was also the first thing he'd said or done all of this time that gave Jonathan pause. He did not move. "You would dismiss a man based on perceived social class? I daresay that seems shortsighted. There are simply things of more import to me than money. If you do not understand that, then perhaps I was wrong about you."

The man's lips parted for a moment before he asked, "Wrong about what?"

Jonathan leaned forward, lowering his voice. The club was loud enough that the other would have to pay attention to hear him. Would have to focus on his words. "You would not dismiss a man out of hand without giving him a chance to prove himself, would you? That seems indicative of a great many lost opportunities, and you take significant pride in your intelligence."

The other sat back in his chair, folding his arms. Jonathan had gotten to him. He took a breath to calm himself and remained sitting patiently, hands folded atop the table.

"I don't know what your game is," the man said suddenly, "but rest assured I am going to find out." And with that he stood and crossed the floor to his usual seat. Jonathan's face settled into a mild frown. That hadn't been the reaction he had expected. Had been designing. This man was smart enough to know when he was being manipulated, but not quite emotionally mature to prevent it from working. Completely, that was. He had walked away on his own terms, after all.

Very well. The game, as it had been named, would continue.

/

Jonathan continued to watch him on Friday nights and he continued to pretend Jonathan wasn't there. Jonathan was not deterred. If anything, his resolve had strengthened. He had not succeeded in convincing him on the first meeting. That was fine. Jonathan was still honing his skills on that front and he had clearly planted some seed in the other's mind. His behaviour was… muted. He had confronted being watched, and now he was watching himself. He did not want to give Jonathan any more information.

He was receiving plenty.

It was both fascinating and amusing, really. The simplest solution would be for him to cease his two hours on Fridays altogether. But he was, apparently, too stubborn to do that. He preferred to wait Jonathan out instead. Little did he know that was nigh impossible. Jonathan was very, very patient. Far more patient than this fellow.

There came a night about four weeks after their little discussion when Jonathan was the last to use his particular lecture hall at the university, and he was supposed to do a myriad of things he usually chose not to do. He did, out of habit, turn off the lights, and when he reached for the handle of the door across from the hall's desk, he heard a noise that bade him look in the direction of the other set of doors.

Someone was standing there. His brows lowered in annoyance before he realised this silhouette, sketched out by the hall lights coming through the window of the door behind it, seemed reminiscent of a bowler hat. He had to catch his sudden breath. How exciting. How long had he been watching Jonathan for?

"Good evening," he called. Jonathan was clearly meant to notice him at this point. It was possibly a test. "I'm afraid this room is closed for the night."

"So it seems, doctor," the man said. His voice was commanding, even when his physical presence was not quite there to back it up. "Off to indulge in your… extracurriculars?"

That did give Jonathan pause. And an unpleasant one. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The man's laugh seemed to abrade the darkness. "You should probably find a different basement. You should never do your work where… well, where you work. It's a beginner's mistake, so I quite understand. A little pointer for you."

He knew about that. Jonathan's eyes cast to the darkness in search of answers. What else did he know?

"Oh, don't be like that," the other chided. "If I had aims to turn you in I would have done so already. Discovering your true vocation was but a step in my evaluations. My suggestion is a small gesture of grace from myself to you."

"And what might these… evaluations… have told you?" He didn't doubt the man would decline to give him an answer, but he had locked himself into this farce and he couldn't withdraw now that he had lost the upper hand. In some damnably infuriating way, it only made the man more alluring. He had a powerful mind. Jonathan had a need to know it.

"You're from Georgia. Abandoned on a doorstep and shuffled from hand to reluctant hand. Poor marks in school until your senior year, until you realised your only way out of that hellhole was a scholarship – any scholarship, in fact. The only one you got you took. It wasn't the school you wanted but it was either that or perish of mediocrity. You found your goal at the age of eighteen. You have headed on single-mindedly ever since."

Jonathan bit his tongue. Much of that information was difficult to find. This man was very, very dangerous.

It did not deter him a whit.

"Kudos," he said, evenly. "Unfortunately I am not as learned about you."

His second laugh here was considerably warmer. "If the government can't uncover my origins, you certainly can't." Jonathan could hear him advancing down the stairs. "But I would be willing to provide you with some insight."

"Perhaps I have some business to attend to."

He could barely see him, given the darkness, but he had stopped about three feet from Jonathan. He seemed to incline his head. "I won't offer again," he said, and held something up in front of him. Jonathan took it; it was a business card of some kind. "I don't like to be kept waiting," the man told him, and left without another word.

Jonathan did not intend for him to do so.

/

The first few meetings were superficial, and Jonathan learned almost nothing. He did not care about this until after the man had left, however, because he was so enjoyable to talk to. He had something of an ego, and though having one was not unfounded for a man in his position he either did not care or took it in stride when Jonathan remarked upon it. Jonathan was discomfited by how much he knew about Jonathan's… projects, but the questions he had about them were genuine and thoughtful. And he was very good at asking questions. He was very pleasant to talk to when he dialled back the haughtiness, but as that befitted his status Jonathan did not criticise him overmuch for it. After every meeting, each in a different location, he would be given a card that signified the next date and time and locale, and Jonathan anticipated them like he had nothing else.

After five or so of these, Jonathan knew little still about the other. His name, Edward Nygma, was false. It led nowhere. No work history, no school records, no places of residency that Jonathan could find. All of his assets seemed to be owned under equally fake names. And he seemed to have a great deal of assets. His money was largely endless: on top of being an unrivalled software engineer, he also had a tremendous network of informants through a list of places so vast even the highlights were many. He listened to everything and sold the best to the highest bidder, that was, when he did not keep it for himself. He had fingers in everything, and if ever he wanted to know all he had to do was ask.

None of this put Jonathan off at all. It was, contradictorily, quite telling. Edward felt the need to hide from something while knowing everything. 'The government' was the easy answer, but not the correct one. He was hiding from a person. He held relationships with few beyond the professional. Something had happened to him that had sharpened his intelligence and ambitions to a knife's edge, and that same something caused him to hold people at the end of that point. But Jonathan was getting closer. And the closer he got, the more the man grew on him. He was a little surprised. He had half expected the thrill to pale once he had gotten within sight of his goal, but no. Edward was as close to a friend as Jonathan had ever had, and he found himself… desiring that. Wanting such a thing. It was odd. A little disconcerting, that he did not know what he wanted as well as he thought he had. But if Edward were to be the exception to that rule, so be it. He did not plan on ending this any time soon.

/

"We can't be seen together," Edward had said.

Jonathan had, at first, thought it the usual reasons: he was unattractive, unpleasant, and unwelcoming. Not a good right hand for a man in Edward's position. He had not taken offense. His behaviour was his own decision and he would accept the consequences. But when he had mentioned it, Edward had laughed in such a way that Jonathan felt he were being ridiculed.

"Those are good excuses," Edward had remarked. "No, my friend, but thank you for taking my reputation into account. The fact is, this city adores the thought of two scantily-clad, seemingly ageless ladies sneaking a kiss in the dark and holding hands on a park bench beneath a tree dripping with pink flowers. Two middle-aged men… not quite so alluring. Particularly not with your special brand of facial features. We would both be run out of town. I'm all for it, but not before we've seen the breadth of our careers."

Jonathan had gotten caught up on 'my friend' and it had taken him a moment to parse the remainder of what had been said. It made good sense. About half of Edward's decisions did.

Edward had provided him the address and key to one of what he said was multiple safehouses. He'd mentioned it was not his best, but Jonathan begged to differ when he saw it. It was aggressively modern and minimalist, everything standing in its place so firmly Jonathan was sure that if he dared move a single piece of furniture he would find behind it an outline of the object itself, like the tools upon the wall in an enthusiast's garage. Jonathan spent a good amount of time looking over it all. He had never seen such a thing in his life. Everything in the apartment had as clear a place as though it had been labelled. There were some minor oddities – what Edward did not have three of, he had five – but it would be the most pleasant place Jonathan had ever been. He returned shortly after to his formerly abandoned warehouse, and he had never noticed before now how cold it was. How drafty. How nice it might be to have electricity and running water. His luxuries were Edward's necessities.

Edward stole a kiss from him behind the crumbling storefront that hid the bar that night, long and sweet. He had been smoking beforehand. If he had not been there at the time, Jonathan would not have noticed. Edward walked away from this with a pretense of a smile gracing one side of his mouth and held his palm up in farewell, calling, "I'll meet you tomorrow." Jonathan walked home, his body acting largely autonomously, and did not notice it had been raining until his heel lost traction in some of the mud he had tracked over his threshold. The taste of Edward's lips – apple, smoke, and liquor – lingered on his own for a long time after.

When Edward kissed him the following night, it was mint and apple. Jonathan had no thoughts of resisting him. If he observed Edward, he would learn what to do. It was better than forcing Edward to endure his ineptitude at such things. Edward was showing to him, too, things about himself he had no knowledge of. He had never had kisses trailed down his neck. He had never had hands gripping his waist. The first few nights this happened, occurring a few weeks apart, he had been unable to sleep. In part because it was difficult, at his age, to accept that he still had things to know about himself, and in part because Edward was beside him. They both took up space in beds to begin with, given their height, but Edward's body seemed to have the sleep-induced need to encroach upon Jonathan's.

He discovered he didn't mind.

Edward slept long and deeply; many of his positions looked uncomfortable and quite often he ended up with his face entrenched in the mattress. Sometimes he snored and sometimes he spoke words that could have been made up for all Jonathan knew. If Jonathan pressed his fingers into Edward's scalp he would still. That was the only place he touched, save for when his tired hand needed to rest in Edward's. Sometimes he was tempted to do otherwise, but he knew if Edward had done the same to him he would not have liked it.

The first time they made love, Jonathan had not even intended for it to happen. He had not even realised what was happening until Edward put a hand against his shoulder to abort the fumblings of Jonathan's lips against his, his eyes straying. Jonathan bit his tongue upon realising what he was looking at, and he had meant to excuse himself and get rid of this sudden awkwardness. But Edward had decided otherwise, sliding his hand around the suddenly distracting ache between Jonathan's thighs. He knew where to put his hand. He knew what to do with it. Jonathan buried his face in Edward's neck then, clumsily caressing it with his lips. He didn't know where to go from here. He didn't know what to do. His hands wanted nothing more than to memorise the uncharted ground of Edward's unseen body. He wanted to caress the breadth of it, to know every inch of his exquisite existence. He could do nothing but sit back, unknowing as to where he should even begin.

Edward guided him. Not a single word between them passed, but somehow Edward guided him. He silently directed Jonathan's clumsy hands, the mouth he didn't know where to press. He guided Jonathan inside of him, and Jonathan did not last long in his inexperience but Edward still said nothing. Jonathan lay upon him then, his face against the warmth of Edward's chest. He breathed in the sweat clinging to Edward's skin, and he cherished it. Edward's strong hand was curled into his tangled hair. Edward's body was soft and warm. Edward's existence was soft and warm. The silence between them was the most comforting thing Jonathan had ever known.

Their trysts were few, by necessity. There was never really a plan as to what they were going to do when they met: Jonathan often had intentions just to talk to him, but upon seeing him was overtaken by the need to press his thumbs into the soft flesh between Edward's legs. To be inside and around him at the same time. Sometimes the thought alone left him breathless. What a beautiful thing it was, when he phrased it like that. He learned, quickly despite the gaps between their meetings, what Edward liked for him to do. Where he liked to be kissed, and how hard, and what whisperings would leave him desperately seeking Jonathan's mouth. The less he needed to show Jonathan, the more aggressive he got. Sometimes Jonathan had done no more than close the door to their chosen place for the night when he would turn to find Edward's fingers tangled against the back of his head as he hungrily applied kisses to Jonathan's neck. It took only a few moments of this, as Edward's body ground his against the wall, before anything Jonathan had meant to say completely evaporated from his tongue and his hands slid themselves down Edward's waist and beyond his hips. Their height difference was not great and Jonathan was glad.

It was after one of these nights that Edward was lying on top of him, both of them on a cool wood floor with the bed standing above them. Jonathan was concentrated entirely on breathing in his scent: some mixture of sweat and pleasure and Old Spice. It was dizzying. It was beautiful.

"What are we?" Edward asked, softly. Jonathan's thumb caressed his shoulder.

"Does it matter?" was his answer.

"I wish it didn't," Edward said. Jonathan swallowed, allowing himself a moment to think.

"Why should it?"

Edward's right hand was cupped around the base of Jonathan's neck. He traced out an aborted path along Jonathan's collarbone. "I don't want it to end," he answered. "If it has a name, maybe it won't."

"I believe the opposite," Jonathan told him. "It is simple to rid oneself of that which he can put a name to. Once he has a name, he constructs a face. A voice. A presence. The nightmare which lasts longest is the one that contains the horror you cannot name."

He saw Edward's smile, just barely. He often wished his sight were better in these moments. "Do dreams last longer on those principles as well?" he asked.

"I don't know much of dreams," Jonathan said. He pressed a kiss to Edward's hair. "Help me to learn of them."

/

As they grew more used to each other the physical intimacy became less desperate. They savoured it. It came to them that they had time. There was no need to rush. They spent more time talking, but most often they opted to enjoy the other's silence. Jonathan would oftentimes just watch Edward work without saying anything at all: the way his glasses slid down his nose if he kept it tilted too long, the precise movements of his fingers across his keyboard, the slow unravelling of the hair that never seemed to want to stay where he'd positioned it. If it was late enough Jonathan would abandon his own work altogether and press a kiss behind Edward's ear. He would glance over at Jonathan then, his eyes moving to the clock on his computer screen, and more often than not he would stand as well. Jonathan had never looked forward to sleeping so much in his life. It was not really the fact that sleep seemed better when Edward was there, but his trusting proximity. Edward always positioned himself to be draped across Jonathan, and though it took some getting used to it was one of the things Jonathan enjoyed most.

Edward was methodically running his thumb up Jonathan's ribs. Counting them. When he reached the top Jonathan asked, teasingly, "Are they all there?"

Edward laughed. Jonathan adored it. It was so carefree, so unrestrained; he allowed himself to be amused so much more easily than Jonathan did. To make him laugh Jonathan had to modify his own mindset. To look for opportunities to create joy. It was… odd. It wasn't something he knew how to do. But Edward almost always laughed when Jonathan tried. Edward was teaching Jonathan so many things he never otherwise would have known.

"Yes," Edward answered, and he yawned. His breath was a warm mist against Jonathan's skin. Jonathan quieted so that he would sleep and spent a long time in the dark listening to him breathe.

/

Not all of it was easy. Much of it was. They got along well and their rapport was comfortable even when one or the both of them were not having the best day. But they argued often. It was usually meaningless, a way of dispelling the tension of their respective lives and of acknowledging that neither of them were faultless. Some of the arguments were bad. Enough to make Jonathan want to storm out in anger, and Edward came very close. If they did that, however, they were wasting their moments together. They wasted them the longer being angry. They would sort it out, if with reluctance, and by the time one joined the other in bed Jonathan would still welcome Edward's head to his shoulder and Edward would still have the need to put it there.

Jonathan had no real idea how the most recent fight originated. The farthest back he could remember was Edward making some comment about Jonathan's lack of hygiene, which Jonathan could acknowledge but had taken affront to, considering it was nothing Edward had not known when this had all begun. He had said something about Edward's unnatural order being equally unhealthy, and Edward had made a remark about where Jonathan lived the other significant percentage of the time, and Jonathan had made the mistake of saying, "At least I have normal amounts of things in my so-called rejected pigsty."

Edward had frozen up entirely. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jonathan had waved a hand towards the kitchen. "You know what I mean! You have three of everything! Three cups, three bowls, three plates. I suppose you don't have three beds, but you seem to have solved that with the three pillows and the three sheets you've so meticulously applied to the one you have! You cannot seriously say to my face that I have issues when you get rid of perfectly good objects just because they don't fit neatly into your trice-sorted home. How many more of these places do you own? No need to answer, I already know: you have three."

Throughout this tirade he had watched Edward's face grow steadily paler, and by the time he finished all of the fight had left Edward entirely. It was then Jonathan began to realise he'd said too much. When Edward turned away from him he began to realise he needed to follow that up with something, something… helpful, but when Edward left Jonathan realised it was too late.

He did not hear from Edward again.

Jonathan had no means of contacting him, or knowing where he spent any of his time. Other than the safehouse, of course, but he wasn't going to go there. He had abused that privilege. He became distracted from his own projects in his ponderings as to what he should do. That couldn't be how it ended, could it? A mistaken thrust landed in a series of ripostes? There were several occasions Jonathan became angered over it. How had he been to know that subject was especially sensitive? It was not fair to punish him for something he had not been informed about. Fine, Edward could take his leave, and good riddance. Jonathan had things of more importance to address.

The indignity worked until he found himself thinking about how much he would like to hear Edward's voice again. About how soft his skin was. About whether or not some other was now the recipient of the affectionate glint in his eye. He couldn't keep waiting to see if Edward decided to come back. Edward was not that kind of man. If Jonathan did not find a solution, they would be ended then and there.

One night at the end of the week, he had an idea. He debated whether or not it was smart to act upon it, but came to the result that he had no other choice. He entered the bar at seven-thirty.

He was there. Jonathan's heart leapt into his throat and he forced it back down. Now was not the time for that. He moved quickly across the room to the empty stool once the barmaid had left. He stood behind Edward until he had finished his counting, then slid onto the vacant stool.

"You know we can't be seen together," Edward said, his lowered voice ripe with condescension. But he wasn't looking at Jonathan.

"There seems to be no other way to speak with you."

"There seems to be no desire from me for you to do such a thing."

He was childish. Immature, antagonistic, rude. Jonathan's leg positioned itself far enough back for him to stand up and leave. It took him a moment of carefully entwining his fingers to calm his mind again. Yes. He was those things. But there was a cause, and that cause was Jonathan. He could not walk away from this without knowing that he'd tried.

"I'm sorry," Jonathan said. No lead-in, no distractions. No procrastination. Just a clean and simple apology. Easy for Edward to process.

He slowly laid his fork down parallel to the right side of his plate. Jonathan could see only half of his face, directed towards the food as it was, but he appeared troubled. He had not expected this.

Jonathan did stand then, and Edward looked around at him. Before his opening lips could pronounce a sound Jonathan shook his head once.

"I'll be there tonight," was all he said, and then he left.

/

He was up late into the night, ostensibly reading. The reality of it was that he had not turned a single page. His mind was held captive by his ears, straining for the sound of someone at the door. He stared at the glare against the page created by the lamp over his shoulder. It was beginning to hurt his eyes.

When he did, finally, hear the sound of a key sliding into the lock and the low creak of the handle turning, he remained still. He did not look up until all sounds of movement ceased. Edward was seated in front of him on the coffee table, bent over, hands pressed together above his knees. Jonathan closed the book. He had long since memorised his place.

"Do you want out?" Jonathan asked after a moment. Edward didn't move.

"If you do, merely tell me. I will not hunt you down again."

It was clear from Edward's expression that he did not know what he wanted, other than to forget what Jonathan had said. Jonathan was still unsure as to why it had bothered him so much. But there was a reason he was able to connect it to.

"You realised you gave someone the power to hurt you. But I did not do so with intent, and I have no plans to. It was a mistake. But if you cannot trust in that, there is nothing more I can say. And there is nothing more I can do except to walk away."

"I don't want that," Edward said, nearly inaudible. Jonathan slid the book between his leg and the arm of the chair and leaned forward. "But I promised myself I wouldn't let it happen again."

"Allow someone to hurt you?"

His nod was barely visible. Now that Jonathan understood the problem, the solution was not far off. "It is the intent that matters. Not the act itself."

Edward rubbed his thumbs together. "That's something I have to think about."

Jonathan stood up. His knees attempted to force him back down again. "Whatever you need."

Jonathan wasn't looking at him and so when Edward was suddenly wrapped around him, arms pressed into his back and nose digging into Jonathan's shoulder, he did not immediately react. Once he had assessed this sudden situational change he too put his arms around the other. His fingers had missed the gentle texture of his hair. The scent of him was more comforting than he could have articulated, had he been asked.

"You mean a great deal to me," Jonathan told him, hushed, directly into his ear. "Don't allow any one thing to take that away from you."

/

They dared to meet more frequently. One such place was too public and they were seen, but neither of them were able to take it very seriously. The thrill of discovery held too much excitement. Things were not perfect after: they still fought and Jonathan was often tempted to take it too far. Such was his nature. But if the requirement was that he remove himself from the engagement altogether lest he take advantage of Edward's trust, he would do it.

As happened in the city from time to time, the need for the criminal element to take sides arose. Jonathan, not quite prolific but useful to those who paid attention, had been approached early on with a prospect which he had accepted. It had been somewhat lucrative, and the more money Jonathan had the less time he had to spend looking for some. The thought came to him that he should tell Edward what he had done, so he could make his own choice accordingly. He was not supposed to enter Edward's primary safehouse, but he thought this qualified as an emergency. He stepped inside to find Edward carefully folding shirts into a suitcase.

"What's this?" he asked, something unpleasant churning his stomach. Edward looked up.

"I don't want any part of it. I'm leaving."

Jonathan swallowed. He already knew that accompanying him was out of the question. He would have preferred to have discussed this beforehand. But Edward was his own man before he was Jonathan's. A sentiment Jonathan would have wanted to be respected were their decisions reversed.

"You're leaving now, then?"

Edward paused before nodding. "The only other thing I had to do was let you know. And you have taken care of that." He crossed over to his desk and removed a file from one of the drawers. He rifled through it and then zipped it into the front of his laptop bag. He thinned his lips as he looked at Jonathan again.

"I know it's abrupt. But I want to leave before any of this gets going. Before anyone tries to recruit me. It's safer than merely refusing." He put the laptop bag next to the suitcase. "I would have waited."

His reasoning was simple. And smart. Jonathan wished he had had such an option. But Edward's goals did not require the same things that Jonathan's did. Jonathan needed money, and unwilling participants, and fields on which to apply his work. Edward slipped his hands into his pockets.

"Stay safe out there. Don't make me bail you out when I get back."

"May I say one thing before you go?"

Edward nodded. "Go ahead."

Jonathan took a moment to decide exactly what he was going to say before he realised that was not how he should go about it. Simple, as always, was best. "I love you," he said, plainly. Edward stepped back, his lips parting to aid him in his next breath. So as not to make Edward feel as though he were forced to reciprocate, Jonathan put a hand on his shoulder briefly and then turned around.

"You're not going to hug me goodbye?"

The hint of a waver in Edward's voice silenced any thoughts Jonathan had about making light of that statement. He just took Edward in his arms again, for the last time in who knew how long, and he held him there until Edward stopped trembling. Jonathan understood now. He was trying to make all of this easy on himself. Well, Jonathan would not argue with that.

His exit from the safehouse was slow. He was listening for the sound of Edward's expensive shoes on the pavement, signalling to him that Edward had changed his mind. That he was going to stay. But though Jonathan went back to the place they shared so many nights in and waited, he did not come. He stayed there a few days for reasons he did not want to admit to himself. He regretted ever sharing that last sentence. He had given a piece of himself to another man and that man had walked away with it. He might never get it back. If he'd known how much he needed it, he would never have given it up.

He did not lack for things to do, engagements with which to occupy his time. But he could feel something coming over him. A coldness. He recognised it; he'd had it for most of his life. It had disappeared when Edward had become a part of his life and he had not even noticed. It made it difficult to care whether or not Edward did return, but for the nights when he lay awake because his bed seemed so vacant. So unwelcome.

The split of the city's underworld lasted one month, and for two after Edward had still not returned. He tried not to think about why. He tried to convince himself it was possible he had not heard, but that seemed unlikely. It made more sense that he knew something Jonathan did not, and sure enough a few days later there came news of a killing done from one side to the other, and it began over again. Jonathan had tired of the mess some time ago but could not quite keep from being dragged back in again. What he would have done to have chosen neither side, and instead left with Edward. He would not have been able to carry on his work, that was true, but he was unsure it had all been worth it.

He found himself thinking of Edward at the strangest moments. When he was making coffee. When he was turning his clothes right side out. When a rock made its way into his shoe. He had played his part in the schism, he had gotten what he wanted, and yet…

He had underestimated how enjoyable it was to have someone to share things with. To talk to, even. He had thought he cherished silence, but now… it seemed to press physically upon his ears. It had been nice – and that was the only word for it he had, nice – to know someone who had been willing to listen to his somewhat obscure brand of knowledge. No, he hadn't just been willing to listen. He'd been happy.

Jonathan no longer knew which of them he was thinking about.

/

It was the scent of him Jonathan recognised first.

He had gone to bed late the night before. He'd thought of not going to bed at all. But it would have been the next in a long line of such decisions, so he had lain down. He was awake now, staring at the dark ceiling. He hadn't slept long. He waited until he was confident he was awake enough to know he was not imagining it, and then he turned his head.

His breath shortened. He was there! He was there, laid out on top of the blanket, entirely clothed in a green suit Jonathan had never seen before. Whether it was because he had wanted to avoid waking Jonathan or because he had not meant to stay, Jonathan didn't know. But there he was, on his side, one of his hands tucked beneath his neck and the other held out in front of him, curled fingers up. Jonathan slipped his hand inside Edward's. He wouldn't wake from that. The man had once slept through three hours of demolition across the street from his safehouse. If the room itself had been collapsing around his ears, he would not have noticed.

Just the warm hand in his made him feel better. He hadn't even realised he had been feeling badly.

Jonathan slept no more that night. He watched Edward instead: watched his eyes twitch beneath the lids, watched the soundless motions of his lips. The sudden jerkings of his fingers and that part of the night where he abruptly sank his face into his arm and Jonathan could then hear the air whistling through his nose for the rest of the night. There was no place else he wanted to be, nothing else he wanted to do. Edward was home.

In a few hours Edward lifted his head back again; his lips were wet but he didn't seem to hold much more than a cursory notice, judging by the minimal use of his free hand. When Edward saw him, he smiled. It was small, and unfinished, and Jonathan was unsure his bleary eyes were actually looking at him at all. But it warmed him still.

"Missed you," Edward said, the rough hoarseness of his voice the most beautiful sound Jonathan had ever heard. He moved onto one elbow without releasing Edward's hand and leaned forward, brushing his lips against his brow. He used the other hand to take some of the soft hair to the back of his fingers, brushing it aside. Edward's eyes slowly followed the movement, as though he'd never seen it before and didn't quite know what was happening. Jonathan smiled. Here was a dream, with a name. And instead of using it as a means of banishment, he used it to call someone back. He'd been wrong, but that was all right.

"Welcome home, Edward," he whispered.

Author's note

My Edward has an obsession with prime numbers as part of his OCD. One and two technically are primes but he doesn't feel comfortable until the number three and he doesn't like even numbers. I did look into this to see if the prime numbers thing was a thing and it appears to be, if uncommon, but for Edward's OCD to fit into canon it would have to be atypical and fairly mild anyway. Side note for that: seven o'clock is prime both in 12- and 24-hour time.

Jonathan didn't ask about it because it was his first relationship and he didn't want to question Edward too much lest that ruin things. In my stories in general Jonathan is also a little absent-minded, due to the fact he's usually thinking about his work and stuff rather than paying attention to lesser things, and so he often doesn't see things he isn't looking for. Hence, he was not looking for OCD and therefore he didn't find it. Edward also tends to avoid the subject when it's even close to being brought up.

I work in a bar and for some reason I could not think of an appetizer that Riddler would eat if he were to go there so I just said 'appetizer involving shrimp' and then the next day I remembered shrimp cocktails exist. So that's what he has when he goes to the bar. He is drinking Sambuca, which is an alcohol that tastes like licorice. Doesn't taste that much like alcohol either, at least the one I had.

I know this fic is really cheesy and I apologise.