Title: Endings
Rating: T
Warnings: implied character death, slash
Disclaimer: Batman, Gotham City, and all other recognizable characters/places belong to DC. I just like to play around.
Jack would laugh at him now, Eddie was sure of it. 'Lina only raised an eyebrow, Roxy snorted up her morning cup of water, but Jack would have laughed. Eddie swears he can hear him still, that mocking laughter brushing sensually on his ears. Eddie ran his hands over his smooth, bare head one more time, squinting at his reflection in the mirror. It felt weird. He'd been balding for years now, his hairline slowly marching farther and farther back with every damn birthday. Eddie had never cared too much about it, not when Jack was still alive. He had known no matter what, he would always be attractive to Jack.
He dreamed last night- or maybe remembered through a dream- about running from Batman, stumbling down an alley, Jack close behind him. Breathless giggles washed over him in spurts, pauses to catch breath. Sirens ahead, cop car searching, he'd stepped back and into his partner. The contact was brief, but with his body flush against Jack's, he could hear the sharp intake of breath. He turned, to see green eyes darkened by more than adrenaline and fear. Typical. Trust Jack to think- in the middle of flight- Batman had caught them, of course.
On the drive to Arkham, Eddie fingered his hairline, earning a strange look from Jack.
"What are you doing?"
"Does it show?"
"Does what show?"
"My hair."
"You have hair, yes. And yes, it shows."
"Not what I meant."
He could tell from Jack's look that the other man was completely clueless about what was really bothering him. He couldn't explain it himself. Vanity, perhaps. A worry that yes, Jack wanted him now, but what about when he had no more HAIR?
In solitary, he'd received a visit from Jack. A very passionate visit, during which he was showered with compliments and assurances that he would always be wanted. The other word was never mentioned.
Now, years later, Edward Nigma woke up, glared at his reflection, and thought about those men who tried to pretend they weren't balding by combing a few strands over the bald spot. He decided to screw that plan, beat nature and destiny and whatnot to the punch, and shave it all off. In a few hours he would wonder why he did that, his housemate would snort her morning glass of water out her nose and 'Lina would visit and be greeted by a rather embarrassed, hat-wearing, and bald Riddler.
(Jack would have laughed.)
?J?
'Lina visits more often than she used to. Eddie thinks she is lonely. Roxy theorizes that she'd always believed Batman would take her up on her brazen offers and was disappointed when he'd disappeared without ever saying yes. Eddie says that leads back to Catwoman being lonely. There's a new Batman, probably a former Robin. Regardless, he's not the old Batman and not 'Lina's Batman, so she visits more often.
She curls up on the couch with Eddie and they pointedly do not talk about the past. Roxy talks about going out on her rocket one last time, to which 'Lina, with poisoned sweetness, reminds her to watch her blood pressure.
(Roxy is younger than any of them by at least a decade.)
"It's finally happened," 'Lina announces one day. "I've officially become a crazy old cat lady."
"What makes you say that?" Eddie asks.
"I got a visit from PETA. They told me I own more cats per square foot of property than is legal."
"How many do you have?"
"Pffft."
Eddie smiles. That sound means she hasn't counted, she doesn't know, she couldn't care less. The food bowls are always full, the litter boxes are regularly cleaned, and the house is frequently purged of stray cat hair, and that's the extent of her knowledge.
"We knew it was happening any day," Roxy chirped from the kitchen, over the sounds of the running faucet.
"Drink your prune juice," 'Lina replies.
"I hate prune juice!"
Eddie doesn't think they will every get along, not since their argument (one could almost say catfight, but only if one doesn't mind having his eyes scratched out) about Batman, years ago. Still, he likes 'Lina's company. He feels they can relate. About being left behind. About this niggling idea that, really, they shouldn't have been allowed to live for so long.
?J?
Eddie keeps his mind sharp. Everything has its place in the house. Organization is the key. Roxy mutters that a sterile, uncluttered home doesn't necessarily indicate a sterile, uncluttered mind. Eddie tells her that wit was never her strong suit.
He keeps the house clean, but more importantly, he keeps his brain active. Gotham Times crossword every morning, completed in under ten minutes. Glass of water, take his pills. Quick sweep of the house, is the kitchen clean, is that picture dead center on the wall, are the beds made, sharp corners, tucked sheets? Did Roxy take her medicine? It's in the pill box, labelled 'ROXY ROCKET,' can't be missed, third shelf in the third cabinet above the kitchen counter, don't forget, 8:00 in the morning, 8:00 at night, exactly those times every day. His is on the second shelf, because he's taller and can reach higher. (Jack was even taller.)
He even has their daily schedules on the refrigerator, right under the calender. Every detail about their day is planned down to the last minute because Eddie believes having a routine and following it is crucial to maintaining a keen mind, even through old age. Jack would not have tolerated this. He would have found a way to sabotage every plan. Sometimes, Eddie wishes he could walk by the refrigerator door and see his careful, flawless instructions defaced by lavender smiley faces.
?J?
There was a time when the Iceberg Lounge hadn't been bought by Wayne Enterprises, of all things, when the Rogues were still young(er) and fierce(r) and could visit the Lounge freely (and Penguin hadn't yet died from blood clots). Eddie and Jack had their own table and occasionally Jervis could badger Jonathan into consenting to join them. The four could then sit and talk or play cards, ignoring all the talk and smirks from practically every other person in the room. It might have been the "double date" jokes which first prompted Two-Face to join them on these nights. (Or maybe it was just Harvey, still a good man, despite the acid and his darker half, who was sick of hearing whispers and casual, cruel comments only spoken when it was absolutely guaranteed that those four couldn't overhear. Joker was fanatic about "defending his Eddie," and nobody wanted the Scarecrow to suddenly decide they were homophobic, phobias already being of such an interest to him.)
Whatever the reason, Harvey Dent started sitting with them on most nights, sharing that table with them and drinking with them.
"Does it ever bother you?" Eddie asked one night. They're sitting, idly watching a barfight raging below them. Someone was tossed into Oswald Cobblepot's large, showy fountain, the water splashing out over the edges and half-flooding the surrounding area.
"What? The talk?" Harvey snorted. "Let them talk. If those idiots can't believe we're still seeing Ivy..."
Eddie felt for him, he really did, because 'Bad Harvey' is one of those who talks. At least Eddie can walk away from such prejudice. Harvey had to live with it, coming from inside his own head.
"Besides," Harvey continued. "The only thing at this table that might be contagious is that cold Jonathan has."
"It's not a cold," Jonathan protested, stubborn as ever, in direct contrast to the hoarseness of his voice and the coughs he can barely suppress.
"Fine, fine. We can see you don't want to stay home and be coddled and fed soup. What a terrible fate," Harvey sneered.
"I don't need to be-"
Jervis interrupted now, nodding his head vigorously in agreement with what Harvey said. "I don't understand. I offer soup, blankets, tea, AND a massage, all he has to do is sit there, but noooo..."
"Jervis..."
Jervis plowed on, undeterred by Jonathan's darkening glower. He was, to the amusement of all but Jonathan Crane, in full mother hen mode and nothing would stop him now. "He won't admit he's sick! He won't let me help him! It's not even like I'm buying the soup at the store- I make it all myself! There's a box of tissues and cold medicine sitting very pointedly on his work desk which he won't even touch. I just want to know why..."
Jonathan scowled, Harvey laughed, and Jervis sighed. Jack caught Eddie's eyes and it's now that he has to stop remembering, because in that moment he saw in Jack's eyes that other word that neither of them ever said.
Eddie misses Harvey. Ivy won't let anyone leave flowers on his grave. Still, two-toned roses manage to grow all around the headstone.
?J?
Eddie visits Jonathan and Jervis later that day. He does not come as often as he probably should, but when he does, it is always very painful. He expects to see Jonathan in his usual spot, on the porch in the rocking chair, cigarette in hand, and is surprised when Jonathan isn't there. He enters the house anyway and finds Jervis bustling about the kitchen.
"Evening, Jervis!" Eddie calls cheerfully. Jervis glances up, face brightening.
"Edward!" he exclaims joyfully. "How absolutely frabjous to see you! Come in, come in! Oh what am I saying, you're already in! Well, then sit down!"
"You're looking rather good today," Eddie says smoothly, no trace of hesitation in his voice.
"Am I? I am feeling rather good." Jervis beams with all the good-natured delight of a man at peace with the world. Eddie smiles in return, smiles with all the secret relief of a man just happy his friend can recognize him- for the moment. Then, his happiness his shattered by Jervis's next question. "Where's Jack?"
"At home," Eddie lies, sinking into the couch.
"Next time you ought to bring him with you."
"I'll remember that."
Ping!
"Is that the stove? Oh my, I really... I... forgot I had anything in there. I don't know where my mind goes, sometimes." Jervis's voice trembles and there is a haunted look in his eyes.
Though it kills him to say it, even though it is a lie, Eddie has to console him. "Don't worry about it. We all get busy and lose track of all that we're doing." He quickly invents a story, as Jervis starts to relax. "I can remember planning for one heist and almost forgetting to take my clothes out of the wash."
"That would be dreadful!" Jervis agrees, bustling into the kitchen. After a few minutes, Eddie follows him. Jervis is leaning over a whistling tea pot, the water boiling and steam pouring out the spout.
"Edward! How absolutely frabjous to see you!"
"Nice to see you too, Jervis. You are looking rather good today."
"Why thank you. Where's Jack?"
"He's at home. I'll bring him next time. Eh, speaking of looking good, those scones...?"
"Oh yes, would you like one?"
"Yes, please."
Eddie watches Jervis set out plates and cups.
"I'm making tea, as well. We can have a mad, mad, mad, mad tea party, Doormouse." There is a sly, furtive Hatter grin, straight from better days, to accompany the old pet name.
"Question: what's a tea party without the March Hare? Where is he?" Eddie asks, playing along and summoning his best Riddle Me smirk.
"At Kittlemeier's, I think," Jervis replies. Eddie says nothing. (Kittlemeier has been dead for twelve years.)
Eddie waits a few moments while Jervis fusses with the teapot. "So... is that darjeeling?" he guesses, sniffing experimentally.
"Right you are, Edward," Jervis affirms. "Oh look, scones! Would you like one?"
"Maybe later," Eddie says, because he has just seen a flash of movement on the back porch. "Excuse me."
When he steps out of the house, he finds Jonathan sitting on the steps, staring gloomily into space.
"So you're really here," Jonathan says. "I wasn't sure. I can't ever tell if he's really talking to a guest or just the goddamn air again."
"It's been a few weeks since I've seen you," Eddie says, pretending he hasn't heard that bitter comment. (Although he has; all Jonathan ever is these days is bitter. He has never been a very joyful man, but things have been worse since he started smoking, and he started smoking the day Jervis was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.)
"Yeah," Jonathan says, taking another long, slow drag from his cigarette. "So why are you here?"
"I must have missed your radiant personality."
Jonathan scoffs. "What has he fed you?"
"Nothing yet. I almost had a scone, though," Eddie replies, uncomfortable with the subject.
"Selina was here earlier this week. In two hours he managed to feed her five progressively smaller slices of cake. He kept 'discovering' the cake, and of course every time that happened he had to eat some. And no proper host would allow his guest to go hungry while he ate..." Another puff of the cigarette. Jonathan smokes aggressively, sucking in a lungful quickly and holding it for a few moments, before expelling it forcefully, hissing past his clenched teeth.
"Those will kill you one day," Eddie says as the smoke dissipates.
"I'm already dying. We all are."
"Do you really need to rush it along?"
"If anyone would want to 'rush' death along," Jonathan begins, looking directly at Edward for the first time. It occurs to Eddie, once again, that perhaps Jonathan holds his loss against him, like a grudge. Like he was angry that Jack was the one who died and Jervis was the one who became senile. Eddie wonders if it is better to lose a close friend, or to watch a close friend be slowly replaced by a fragile shell of what he once was. These days, when he talks to Jonathan, all he can do is ask himself if he should feel guilty that he didn't have to live with Jack as a crazy old fool.
There is a clatter from the kitchen and they both stand, but they only have to look through the glass door to see that Jervis only dropped a handful of teaspoons. What he was doing with a handful of teaspoons is anyone's guess, but the accident was harmless.
"He doesn't seem too bad today," Eddie says helplessly.
"You're bald," Jonathan comments, as he finally noticed.
"I'm wearing a hat."
"And you're still bald."
"Unless it's possible to be afraid of bald people-"
"Peladophobia."
"Which of course it is, I don't see how it concerns you."
"It doesn't."
More awkward silence. Eddie half-wishes Jervis would interrupt again.
"He is. Having a good day," Jonathan adds falteringly, an offering to break the silence.
Eddie realizes he'd jumped back to Jervis, and nods his head. "He knew who I was, which is better than my last visit. Although he didn't remember about Jack..." He immediately wishes he could retract those words, as they cause Jonathan to retreat to his grudge.
"Be grateful," Jonathan tells him, in a voice low and dark with so many, complicated, bewildering emotions. Edward doesn't know if it means he should be grateful Jervis doesn't remember or be grateful Jack- (would not have tolerated Crane's attitude, and depending on his mood, would have opted to 'lighten' him up or 'teach' him a lesson).
He chose to pretend it meant the former. "I suppose. No sense in hurting him with painful news every time he forgets."
"What would any of us be without our pain? Isn't it what drives us?"
"Fine. Tell him yourself. He and Harley- at the funeral- he and Harley were the only two who cried at the funeral. I don't want to see that again," Edward says calmly. He thinks Jervis only cried out of sympathy for Harley, out of sympathy for him, and it's strange how much empathy Jervis could have for those he had deemed family. It may be the only reason he could have lived with Jonathan Crane for so long.
Jonathan was suddenly, aggressively close, crowding Eddie with his greater height. He leans forward and- it's not quite a kiss, not what Eddie would call a kiss (only who could kiss like Jack, who could make the world spin around his head like Jack?), but their mouths were meshing together and Jonathan breathes smoke into his lungs. Eddie staggers back, coughing as Jonathan straightens. On Jonathan's face is satisfaction mingled with disgust mingled with desperation. These choppy, confused expressions only last for a moment before they are replaced by a blank mask and Eddie misses them entirely, concerned as he is with breathing. As for Eddie, he doesn't believe he can breathe anymore. The smoke is brutal and unfamiliar in his lungs, hot and heavy and scratchy.
Jonathan leaves Eddie to recover on the porch and enters his home. There are still several teaspoons on the kitchen floor which Jervis had forgotten to pick up.
After a few minutes, Eddie follows him in. Jervis grins at him excitedly and Eddie braces himself for another repeat.
"Edward! How absolutely frabjous to see you!"
"Glad to see you too, Jervis. You're looking good today."
"Am I? Why thank you! Where's Jack?"
"He's at home today. He's not feeling well. I'll bring him next time. Those scones look delicious."
"Scones? Oh my! So you're right! I hadn't noticed them. Would you like one?"
"Yes, please."
"Delighted as I am to see you, this may not be the best time for you to visit, m'dear fellow."
"Why not?"
"Jonathan isn't feeling so well."
"I'm feeling fi-" Jonathan begins, stopping when he realizes that Jervis isn't addressing him, exactly. Jervis has laid out three places at the table, two set up for tea and scones, one with a bowl of soup added. The bowl is set in front of an empty chair, the back of which Jervis pats fondly as he speaks. He smiles, a little sadly, at the vacant air.
"You really ought to stop going out in cold weather without the proper attire, Jonathan," Jervis admonishes lovingly.
Eddie's eyes turn, almost unwillingly, to Jonathan, but the other man has already left the room. Eddie wonders how much time he actually spends in Jervis's company.
?J?
Eddie asks himself if Batman ever had to worry about balding. Did he have hair under that cowl of his? Just another in a long string of Bat-related questions which could be debated among the Rogues. (Jack's favorite question, disturbingly, was always boxers, briefs, or commando? And the addendum, In Case of Underwear, were there little bat-symbols all over?) He sits with 'Lina at a little cafe they both enjoy and thinks about asking her if she knew. That is, assuming she'd seen under the cowl... well, he decides not to ask, not wanting to bring up any painful subjects for her.
"I think Jonathan does better when it's just him and Jervis," 'Lina theorizes. "He's always defensive around company, so it makes sense that he'd take all those little... moments... harder, when there's someone else to see."
"Perhaps," Eddie murmurs, in between sips of coffee. The table is decorated with a tall, slender vase full of water and flowers, which he keeps adjusting. He turns it around again, shifts it to the left a few degrees, then back, trying to hit dead center.
'Lina ignores the fidgets and peers nearsightedly into her cup. "I think they gave me decaf."
"Tell them to fix it," Eddie suggests, thinking the vase might look better if the flowers were better arranged
"Bleh. And have that brat behind the counter act all snotty again?"
"Then drink it decaf."
"Eddie, stop venting your crazy on the flowers. They've done nothing to deserve that."
"'Lina, stop venting your crazy on the decaf, it's not that bad."
?J?
Eddie finally returns home to find the house is freezing and Roxy is sweating on the couch. "It's hot," she complains.
"Is not," he counters, rubbing his arms briskly. "I thought you had a date. Why aren't you out with- what's his name- Frank?"
"Frank was three potential-boyfriends ago. And I say 'potential' for the same reason that I'm not out on a date right now, and that reason is that it's hard to get a guy when I'm already living with one."
"Tell them I'm gay."
"I do, they don't believe me. You don't have a boyfriend."
"Tell them he's gone." (The word is still difficult to say.)
"I do, they still don't believe me. I'm going to start telling them you're my brother. That okay?"
"It's fine. But they still won't believe you."
"Actually, they'll believe that over the other thing. Weird, huh? Hey, can you turn up the air?"
"No."
Eddie adjusts the cushions and then checks the kitchen, since Roxy always disrupts the order in the refrigerator. Even after he LABELLED the different sections with which food group they should contain, she still manages to mix them. He half-suspects she does it on purpose, though he has yet to ascertain what she would gain from such mischief.
A brief perusal of the pantries reveals that once again, he'd accidentally bought Cocoa Pebbles. Roxy would happily eat them, of course, but the real reason Eddie kept buying them was that some part of his kept forgetting, just like Jervis. There was no need for him to continually stock up on Cocoa Pebbles, fruit roll-ups, gushers, mac'n'cheese, skittles, bagel bites, Eggo waffles, goldfish, and...
He turns away, glares at the dripping faucet, twists it all the way off, muttering under his breath about why Roxy always leaves it dripping just so, wasting so much water. Eddie unconsciously fingers his bald head, then his mouth quirks in a vague grin. It hadn't yet occurred to him that tomorrow is the first year in a long time he won't have to worry about how much hair he has lost since last year.
?J?
The day after Eddie's spontaneous new hairstyle, he sits on his bedroom floor wishing, for once, he could stop thinking. It is on this day, every year since Jack left (it sounds sortofmaybe better than saying 'since he died,' but only barely), that he pulls that package out of its hiding place.
The ritual, for the last twenty years (it makes him sick, it really does, to think that it's been so long), has been to hold it in his hands for most of the day, turning it around and around, sometimes reaching for the edge like he'll open it, but never going so far. His hands will begin to tremble, so he will set it down. Pick it up. Set it down. Pick it up. He rarely eats, rarely sleeps, for twenty-four hours- the countdown- the world has been narrowed into a package so small he can cup it in one hand. Then, at the end of the countdown, he staggers from his room, bleary-eyed and grief-shaken, down the hall past Roxy (looking down with mute tongue and wet eyes, refusing to see him like this), to his car. He drives to the private cemetery, the one they, the Rogues, keep away from public knowledge (because they are not popular with everyone, and vandals have been known to disturb the resting place of mass-murderers), and stays by that grave for a while. Occasionally, he considers leaving the package on the grave, but he never does.
Once it rained, in a drizzly, uncertain way. A few minutes of light mist, then a few minutes of clear skies, then the rain returned, like it couldn't make up its mind that day. It was fine with Eddie, he hardly noticed the weather, but apparently it did make him sick, which upset Roxy and 'Lina. Now he has to remember to bring an umbrella with him, just in case. Only, now, he doesn't make it to the end of the countdown.
A wild thought comes to Eddie. Twenty years (is a long time as he has spent longer with Jack gone than with Jack as his lover) is a landmark for any anniversary, and he may not live to thirty. What if he opened the package? The temptation is stronger than ever. He is half-tempted to blame it on his missing hair. What has kept him from opening it for so long? At first it was grief. It was the last thing Jack had given him, a birthday present (twenty years ago, exactly, the day he died, and the minute Harvey broke the news to Eddie, he'd exclaimed, partially in disbelief, partially in denial, partially in jest, "What sort of birthday present is that?"). He couldn't bear the reminder. Then, it was fear. What would he find, what would he think? Finally, habit. Twenty years is more than enough time to establish a habit of not doing something.
He decides what he may find can't possibly hurt any worse than this anniversary already did, every year. Slowly, the ribbons are slid off, followed by the wrapping paper, then the lid, eased away and set to the side before he even looked at the contents. The bottom of the box was lined with fuzzy cotton, and on top sat a folded slip of paper. Having gone this far, Eddie has no choice but to continue, but he really doesn't want to, as simply seeing the paper has made his ears ring and his head spin. This much tension cannot be good for a man of- Christ, 68- for a man his age.
The box falls from his fingers as he withdraws the paper. He unfolds it once, twice, three times, to get to the message. It was written in green ink, scrawling across the paper in Jack's childish hand.
BEautIful, tonIght wiLl Be a gOod nIght for a StroLl.
He blinks, and reads it again. And again. And again. Clearly, there was a hidden message of some kind. Jack was always leaving him little riddles and puzzles, since he knew how much Eddie loved riddles and puzzles. However, the capitalized words didn't make any sense. 'Bei il boisl?" There weren't many good anagrams to make out of those letters, too. Although... each of these letters, read upside down, could also be taken as numbers. If they were meant to be upside down, could they also be read backwards? That would leave him with 7510871138.
Eddie has to suppress a pained laugh. He is sharply reminded of his first meeting with Jack. An accidental simultaneous theft at the same location, and the clue Eddie had used was similar to the note. The numbers had been different, and referred to both a precinct in Gotham and map coordinates... The agony of holding back his laughter is killing him, each hiccup passing through his body like a shudder. It hurts, it really does. He was wrong. It could hurt worse than the anniversary already did.
He calms himself down, forcing him to look at the words and the numbers hidden in them. Could he assume Jack had meant Precinct 7, at 8:00 PM, and that the numbers in between were coordinates on a map of Precinct 7?
?J?
He leaves the house earlier than usual, catching Roxy by surprise. She is tiptoeing around him, as she always does on this day. He does not offer an explanation. Instead, he is at the right place in Precinct 7, at the right time, if he has interpreted the note correctly. Eddie really isn't sure why he is here, twenty years too late. It is not as though whatever surprise Jack had planned is still around. It is not as though Jack even had the time to set up that surprise, whatever it may have been.
Eddie has found himself walking along a rooftop, near the harbour, with a breathtaking view of the ocean. The sea is warship gray, with cloudy skies and frothing waves, bumping all the little boats back and forth, back and forth. He wonders what Jack's intention had been. He could have planned anything, really.
Might have been a shared crime. They had done that, sometimes. Sometimes they had taunted the Bat together, sometimes they had shared thrilling getaways, stolen goods, sometimes they had watched the world burn, together. These had always been special occasions, since mostly, they operated solo. Their business styles simply clashed too much for them to work together often. Jack could devise truly ingenious plans, but was prone to changing them at the last minute (or during the job), and even making things up as he went along. Eddie was not as flexible. Still, he imagines some great caper, a devilishly tricky crime which reaped great rewards (and great frustrations for the Bat).
Of course, it might not have been anything criminal. Shared crimes were like dates for them, but since they rarely dated, actual dinner-movie-walk in the park-watch the sun set-date, it probably wasn't meant to be a crime.
There might have been fireworks and some serious discussion. Eddie wonders what Jack would have wanted to say to him, but he thinks it would have been said under a sky of dazzling, flashing, crackling colors spraying across the stars and splashing their faces with vibrant reds and blues and greens. Fireworks were about as romantic as Jack could get, which was fine since they were about as romantic as Eddie would let him get. Now, Eddie still wishes they had said something. He wishes he had some word, some phrase, to hold onto, whenever he was alone with his thoughts before the mirror, his doubts. That way he could brush away all these little insecurities with a smug, "Ah, but he loves me, he said so." But he never said so. He never said that and he never sealed his words with some sweeping, sweet kiss.
Eddie feels a little silly for letting his imagination stray so far. He's old. Maybe he really is losing his mind. He had never wanted any such pointless gestures when Jack was alive. Now that he was dead Eddie wants everything
He thinks he would once have been satisfied with nothing, nothing at all. Just standing near Jack, head on his shoulder, hand holding hand and eyes staring at the restless, thoughtless sea. Eddie strays closer to the edge, as close as he dares to, because that's where Jack would have been. No, Jack would have actually been on the edge, his toes stretching past the roof and hovering over the water far below, because that's how Jack was. Eddie adjust his position accordingly and can almost pretend he's standing with Jack, standing just as he wants to, just as he might have, once.
But no, dammit. His mind's not so far gone. The curse of rationality is an inability to ignore reality. There is nothing. There is no romantic gesture, there is no grand kiss, no holding hands or holding close. There is only an old man, alone and broken, standing on the ledge. A few pebbles under his feet slip away and splash into the raging water, far below.