ONE: 'SCARS'
There was solace in darkness, comfort to be had in shadows. Eddie would be the first to admit it-second to embrace it, if the Batman counted for anything.
However, it was rather satisfying when one's first sight upon waking was proof of one's prowess.
Eddie couldn't help the grin that tugged at his mouth when, upon trying to rise, two voices mumbled in sleepy dissent and arms from two different directions attempted to pull him back down. He could just make them out in the dim light of morning, nearsighted as he was.
The woman was still dead to the world, just clingy in sleep. Her tousled mop of dark hair obscured her face almost entirely. Eddie gently lifted her scarlet-nailed hand from his arm, her many bangles jingling softly.
He sat up properly, wincing as the raw skin of his neck throbbed. He touched it cautiously, curiously, as a deep grumble issued from somewhere to his left.
"Sorry," he murmured, drawing the sheets back far enough to free his legs. His eyes lingered for a moment on the sprawled blond, on the intricate dragon tattoo that covered most of his back-blurry, at the moment, but no less impressive. The man-Nate, was it?-groaned again and shifted, but didn't get up. Nor did he move when Eddie climbed over him, off the bed, in search of his glasses-and perhaps his pants.
The first garment he picked up was a t-shirt; large, black, and torn rather badly. Oops. Well, that explained the scraps of black under a few of his nails.
The jeans that lay a little closer were dark green, definitely his. Eddie pulled them on gratefully. It just wouldn't do for the Riddler to be seen in a state of undress, the previous night's events notwithstanding.
Those two might not even remember anyway, he mused, shuffling into the adjoined bathroom. He couldn't remember how much they'd had to drink, even though he'd had none himself. He had been focusing on other things.
He sighed, leaning on the counter, scrutinizing his reflection in the cracked mirror.
Eddie cringed inwardly. Bed-head and sex-hair had combined and formed a humiliating sort of tribute to Johnny Rotten. But it seemed that the previous night's activities had left him otherwise unblemished. This was fortunate; hair he could fix, even scrapes and bruises he could explain, but it was very hard to use the 'run-in-with-Batman' excuse in regards to bite marks.
He attempted to flatten the nest atop his head and winced in pain as his fingers brushed against the back of his neck.
Curious, he picked up the hand mirror that lay beside the sink, held it up behind his head to bounce the reflection back off the larger mirror.
The skin around the tattoo was still raw and red, hugging the smooth, elegant curves of the question mark. Eddie allowed himself a satisfied smile. To think, he had worried that he might regret the decision. Instead he mentally congratulated himself for good judgement.
He'd always rejected the idea of tattoos and other radical modifications, but perhaps that had been because he feared the pain necessary to the process.
And he knew pain. Oh yes. His fingers wandered absently to his left thigh, finding the precise spot even through dark denim. The scar.
He had many scars, he mused, both literal and figurative. They were scattered over every part of him; clean slices from countless blades, tears across his back and shoulders from his father's belt, jagged marks over his arms from years of glass and machinery, cigarette burns for 'lying'...
But this one, this relatively small, clean cut, outshone them all. The injury itself had been from a batarang, a mundane incident in his line of work. The pain had been excruciating, but the treatment expeditious and skilled. The stitches had been flawless and there had been no infection at all.
But his skin still crawled at the thought of those helping hands. Long, bony, cold.
Eddie shuddered, closing his eyes against the memory of Crane's horsey, freckled face, his ice-blue eyes, the high laugh. The dull, orange glow of a syringe.
He smiled bitterly. Perhaps he should thank the professor-his pain tolerance had rather increased since he had been made so aware of how many different kinds of pain there were. Physical pain hurt, but the agony inflicted by the Scarecrow lingered. It grew. If allowed, it consumed.
Eddie opened the tap, cold water rushing out over his hands, into the battered sink. He carded dripping fingers through his hair (the only way to make it behave), smiling as he remembered something a woman had once said about water taming fire. He hadn't bothered to commit her name to memory but he was fairly certain that it had been 'artistically' spelled and ended in '-ee.'
Hair thus tamed, he wandered back into the small bedroom, where Nate and his girlfriend (Drew, he remembered suddenly) were collecting their various scattered garments. Very scattered, in fact.
Gold stars all around for enthusiasm, Eddie thought, grinning, allowing the rush of images from the previous night to scrub his mind's eye clean of Crane. For a given value of 'clean.'
They both grinned when they saw him, clearly remembering as well.
"Sleep well?" The woman purred, her playfully seductive tone only slightly spoiled by the following grunt of effort as the brunette fished one of her bright red pumps from under the bed.
"Very," Eddie lied. He hadn't slept well in months, though admittedly the presence of two friendly bodies, neither of whom were at all opposed to what he could only describe as 'snuggling', had managed to ease him a little.
Large, warm fingers prodded the back of his neck. He winced, attempting to turn his head, but the other hand came to rest on his shoulder, holding him gently.
"Just looking," Nate's voice spoke from behind him. "Looks good."
"You do good work."
The tattoo artist made a soft noise of agreement.
Eddie sighed, brushing off the black-nailed hands. And now, back to work. One of hands took his arm, turning him around. Or not.
Concern marred the blond's otherwise handsome face.
"You okay?"
No. Not for a long time and for a long time yet.
"Yeah. Fine."
Nate's eyes were kind. He looked away, pulling himself free, doing his best not to appear as unsettled as he actually was.
His gaze instead met Drew's. Mussed from sleep, her dark hair fell into her eyes in exactly the wrong way. Eyes that were exactly the wrong shade of blue.
He suppressed a shiver, Crane's face drifting once again across his mind's eye. He turned away, sat heavily on the bed, raking a hand through his hair.
"Ed-"
"You should go now." He knew he'd been abrupt. He expected that too-familiar chill to fall into his spurned bedmates' voices as they took their leave.
Instead, Nate's deep voice was quiet and level.
"Okay."
He looked up, surprised. The man's smile was a little too understanding for his liking. It wasn't as though the artist actually knew anything, but to Eddie's experience body artists, cab drivers, and bartenders all seemed to have an uncanny knack for reading emotions.
"Okay. You have my number, call me. I want to see you in a couple days, make sure it's healing okay. Cool?"
"Fine."
As they left, the woman's bag snagged on something on a dresser, knocking it to the floor.
"Oh, sorry," she muttered, tossing it to Eddie, who caught it deftly without thinking. He nodded in thanks, not even noticing what it was until the two had disappeared.
Cyrano.
He flipped through it hastily, realizing suddenly that he'd already come to a decision. He'd known the moment he woke up that today was the day.
He huffed impatiently, abandoning his search in favor of simply overturning the book and shaking it until the note fell out.
The sight of it still made him scowl. The nerve, the audacity, the arrogance of it.
'Pots and kettles, Edward.' Purred a voice in his head, an echo of conversations long passed. Shut up, he thought back at it.
" 'Thank you for your business...' " He scoffed, "Asshole."
But he leaned over to the nightstand anyway, grabbed up his current phone.
"Riddle me this," he sighed to no-one in particular, "What is it that asks no questions but always needs an answer?"
He half hoped that the number wouldn't work, that five months had been too long to wait. But he'd already invested so much into the hope that Crane was patient.
He punched in the last number, waiting, praying conflicting prayers, fingering the scar on his leg even though he couldn't see it.
Ringing.
Don't you dare pick up.
Ringing.
..I swear to god if you don't pick up I will kill you.
Ringing.
...Please don't pick up.
Ring-CLICK.
A distorted chuckle.
"Hello, Clarice."
