Man-Made Horrors
By Indiana
Characters: Edward Nygma, Riddlerbots (Alan, Ada)
Synopsis: Edward finally begins to realise just what it is he's done. Also known as 'The Morality of Supervillains and their Sheltered Robot Children: A Discussion'.
Note: this fic contains plot points for the next fic in the series, 'Exit Strategy'. Most of my fics are designed to be coherent in a series but also standalone, but this one is suggested reading for the next.
It was already one of those days.
When he woke up, his left arm was numb. It took a minute or so for his foggy brain to figure out why: his hand had been pinned beneath his ribs and the mattress all night. He grunted and rolled onto his back, wincing as the feeling began to return to his arm. He didn't want to get up. He really, really did not want to get up. He felt around on the nightstand next to him without looking in an attempt to find his phone; he did, only he accidentally sent it over the edge of the wood and it clattered onto the floor. He sighed and waved a half-hearted goodbye to it. Fine. He didn't need to know what time it was. He would just stay here.
He couldn't stay there, though. There were things that needed doing. Not least of which was that he needed a shower. He knew his standards of hygiene had dwindled far below a place he would have been willing to admit to anyone, but in his defense it was very easy to forget how much time had gone by since he had done any laundry when it all seemed to be an eternal day that never ended. The sun never really seemed to move in this city, and he spent much of his time crawling around below the surface anyway. He slept more often during the day than he ended up doing at night. His hand reached for his phone a second time before he remembered where it was now. The floor. He was going to have to sit up.
It was increasingly difficult to do this in the morning; age, poor diet, and excessive physical work all contributed to the degradation of his musculature and joints. He wasn't looking forward to going through that again, and he was tired. Sleeping sounded like a better idea.
But his scalp was beginning to itch and he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the realisation he had no idea when he'd last washed his hair, or even really combed it properly, for that matter, so he did force himself to sit and his back was not entirely pleased about this decision. He sat there for a moment and tried not to rub his eyes. They felt dry and the lids heavy. His mouth was dry. His hands were. What a mess.
He reached down to the floor to find his phone and pressed the power button. Two in the morning. Definitely not a time a rational man would get out of bed, if he didn't have to.
He did have to, he reminded himself.
The rough and splintered floor had been somewhat bothersome the first while he'd been here, but now that the soles of his feet had been weathered by the amount of work he'd been doing, he barely felt it. He looked at them against the floor for a minute, trying to decide if they were beyond hope. No. He was almost through with this mess. He'd right things soon enough, before any permanent damage was done.
He picked up his glasses from the nightstand but did not put them on. He was only going as far as the bathroom and he didn't terribly need them for that. He stood up slowly, trying to ignore the spike of irritation in his throat, but couldn't and had to sit back down again as he was overtaken by one of his increasingly frequent coughing fits. He knew full well what that was a consequence of, and every day he promised himself he would quit was a day he couldn't resist. When he could breathe again, albeit not all that comfortably, he reached into the bedside table drawer and removed a kerchief. He wiped his mouth and nose with it and folded it three times. He put it on the table and stood up again, this time successfully, and walked out of the room and down the hall to the far end.
It wasn't in the best state of existence; this entire building was somewhat deteriorated. He had the passing thought he'd had higher standards, once. That he never would have stood for this sink of cracked porcelain and rusted iron. The mirror… that told him a story he didn't like thinking about. He uncapped the toothpaste next to the sink and picked up his toothbrush. He used it mechanically, not wanting to think too hard about the pattern. He had to think about it, to ensure he did it properly, but if he got lost in it and paid too much attention it would feel wrong and he would have to start over again. He did not want this to be one of those days.
He concluded that business successfully and without any hitches, though he had almost lost count for a moment there, and he used the somewhat smudged glass next to the sink to thoroughly rinse out his mouth. He was very, very tempted to fill the glass and down it entirely, but he had a policy to never drink water from this city. One never knew just what was in it. He could be pushing his luck just by –
No, if he started to think that way he was going to have one of those days, and he had not in long enough he didn't care to break the trend.
He had put his underclothes on the countertop and was looking somewhat distantly at the yellowing shower tiles and the black-spotted curtain, waiting for the water to approach something other than arctic, when he heard a noise behind him which was promptly accompanied by, Hi Dad!
He closed his eyes in exasperation. He knew Alan had his best interests at heart, perhaps too often, but it was still frustrating at times to know he was not going to be left alone even if he was in the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower, son," he said, trying to pretend he wasn't irritated. He could not confidently say it had worked.
I think it's a weird time to take a shower.
"It is," Edward said, having even more difficulty controlling his voice. "But it's the time I've chosen. Don't you have anything to be doing?" Anything else. Anything. He stepped into the shower and wrinkled his nose when the water proved to be lukewarm still.
I just wanted to see how you were doing.
Alan was very, very good at making him feel guilty. There was no one else on the entirety of the planet who had ever managed that feat, but Alan. He was unreasonably skilled at doing it just about every single day. He looked through the shower curtain, where he could just see Alan's luminescence. "I'm fine, Alan, thank you."
Alan, of course, did not go anywhere, merely climbed onto the countertop to wait. For what, Edward didn't know. He had never managed to figure it out.
The first application of shampoo was unsuccessful, and the second was not that great either. The third, though, he was able to work up a good lather, and he spent a good amount of time pressing his fingers into his scalp not because he thought it would get his hair any cleaner, but because it had been a while since he had allowed himself to enjoy something simple like that. This was followed up with the thought that personal enjoyment had been something he had been engaging in less and less, and what was the point of living like that?, but he quashed that as quickly as it had arrived. He would continue his patience and it would all come back to him in spades. He was due. He really was.
The remaining duration of the shower was not as enjoyable, because when he opened his eyes again after rinsing his hair out thoroughly he was faced with the fact that this shower was one that belonged in a shoddy downtown YMCA and should never have been graced with the Riddler's presence, and he unfortunately had to fall into another mechanical pattern to distract himself from that fact. When his skin started crawling, things were getting bad, and when things were getting bad he needed to change situations as quickly as possible. This spoiled the enjoyable setup washing his hair had created, which he could not say wasn't disappointing. But that was another thing he couldn't think about too hard.
When he stepped out Alan, of course, had not moved, and Edward decided just to briskly dry his hair with the towel whilst ignoring him. The whole time he did it he was well aware that was not helpful to his undoubtedly already abused locks, but it was an attempt at recreating the simple enjoyment of shampooing it and it almost worked. He wrapped the towel around his waist, though he didn't really need to at this point, and looked at the underclothes he'd taken off. Why hadn't he brought any fresh ones with him?
Are you going back to bed?
"No," Edward said. "I'm up."
Alan jumped off the counter. I'll make you tea, then. And he left, presumably to do that, while Edward stood there and tried to stop bitterly grinding his teeth. His ire was directed towards himself. He never treated Alan as he deserved, and the boy always just took it.
He wasn't really able to see himself through the fog on the mirror, but he was now too annoyed with himself to shave and so decided it could wait until the next day. Now he had to guess what Alan was going to do with the tea. Take it down to the kitchen, probably. Where he should probably eat. Just thinking about making breakfast made him tired. He rubbed his eyes, afterward sliding on his glasses and gathering his dirty clothes in one hand. It was going to be a long, hard day.
Alan had not left the bedroom yet with the drink, so Edward just accepted it from him with murmured thanks after he put on his clothes. Before attempting to swallow any of it he went into the dresser drawer below the one Alan was using and removed the revolver from the back of it, underneath a quantity of tightly rolled socks. He knew it was loaded and that there were five rounds only, the first chamber empty both because that was what Jonathan had taught him and because it felt right that way. But he still checked it three times to be absolutely certain. He slid it into the inside of his suit jacket and sat down on the bed, picking up the tea.
What was that? Alan asked. Edward had to think for a moment before he realised what he wanted to know.
"A revolver," he said. He pulled it out again and handed it to Alan so he could look at it. "Don't move anything." That would keep him from accidentally pulling the trigger or the safety.
What is it for?
Edward took a sip. Every tea Alan made was perfect because he was automatically able to calculate the exact peak times and temperatures in a way no one else ever could. Edward wondered if he did it on purpose, or if it was innate. "Hurting people."
Alan looked at him sharply.
"I am very well known, but not very well liked," Edward elaborated. "There are many who would like to see me dead. I would be a fool to leave this place without a means of defense." Or punishment, if necessary.
Why don't people like you?
Edward shrugged. "I have no idea."
Alan handed him the gun back and he replaced it in his pocket. "It's Jonathan's," he said conversationally. "He showed me how to use it a great many years ago. Where I come from… they are not quite so common."
Alan tilted his head. What do you mean, 'where you come from'?
He found himself sighing unintentionally. Good God, there were a lot of things Alan didn't know. But what use was it to tell him that there were other cities, countries, continents out there that he would never really be able to understand? Alan barely understood there was more than one building in Gotham – not that he knew what Gotham was – because all of Edward's properties were interconnected. To his mind he lived in some very large, very disjointed house. Which was fair. But wrong.
"It's a big world, Alan," was all he said. "Some people come a long way from where they were born."
Why did you come here and not stay there?
Now that was a long story.
"I wanted to start over." A summary, but a massively understated one.
Was it hard?
"Everything's hard. The trick is doing it anyway." He stood up. "I need licorice. Do you want to tag along?"
Sure, Alan said, and he followed closely, as usual. Edward was a little conflicted. He had half hoped Alan would say no, because he also needed to buy cigarettes, but he had resolved to stop doing that with his son around. When he weighed which he'd rather have at any given notice, his son was the obvious answer without any hesitation. But he still had the almost irrepressible urge to take the pack out and count how many he had left, even though he already knew it was five. He focused on remembering there were five so that he wouldn't have to look. There were five. He knew that. He had made sure there were five. Five would last him two days if nothing happened.
Something was going to happen, though. He didn't know what, but something. Something always came along to corrupt the perfection of his plans. He almost needed a cigarette right now just thinking about all of this. But he wasn't going to have one. They were supposed to last two more days.
"All right," was all he said, and he directed his feet into the first pair of shoes he found. They were his steel-toed ones, which did not go with his outfit at all. Oh well. He returned to the drawer and removed an appropriate amount of cash from the back of it. When he exited the room and made his way downstairs, Alan followed in silence.
It was a little odd, Edward thought as he walked, that Alan always came with him on these errands and not Nikola. That was what Nikola was for. A six-foot robot was bound to be somewhat of a deterrent, and Alan was strong. But he was a pacifist. And he had no software that told him what to do in an antagonistic situation anyway. No man would dare try to cross Nikola's path, and despite that Edward had never brought him anywhere. Well. Nikola did not have much of an attention span, nor any real regard for his own existence, let alone Edward's. He had turned the idea over a few times of improving upon Nikola's AI, but he seemed content as he was and Edward did not really have the time anyway.
"Hey, freak!"
He preferred not to be called that but it wasn't the first time he'd been addressed as such and so he blinked out of his thoughts to direct his attention to the speaker, whomever and wherever they were. He never saw them.
There was an iron hand on his left shoulder suddenly, and before he could remove the infernally disrespectful thing there was a hard fist deep in his gut and he couldn't breathe. The excruciating pain drove him to his knees and his vision blackened.
"My brother says hello," a distant voice above him said, and it was almost a mercy he'd been hit in the stomach first because he never felt the impact of the boot against his ribs; he only even knew it had happened because when he opened his eyes again he was lying on the ground and his glasses some few inches away. He knew far, far too well where this was going and fought to right himself, but there was still no air in his lungs and all he managed was to push himself about a foot off the dirt. He forced himself to focus on it.
You're going to die here, you know.
He concentrated on taking a breath. He managed to snatch a piece of one and it helped.
The Riddler, beaten to death in the dirt of an alley by a petty thug. How dignified.
He almost took a whole breath that time. No no no, he was not going to meet his end here. That was ridiculous. He just had to gather himself, and then -
He suddenly had the intense need to vomit, and he shook his head in frustration but his bronchitis came back in full force, now that he could almost breathe again, and in the midst of the coughing his stomach brought up the tea he'd had earlier. He struggled to stop the fit, knowing the man was still somewhere behind him and -
Wait. How had he had so much time to catch his breath? He retched a final time and managed to look behind him.
The world seemed to slow, and the air took on a chill that went beyond physical notice. His fresh inability to breathe had nothing to do with having the air knocked out of him. Before he had even truly registered what was going on he knew he had to stop it.
Alan had his arm pressed into the man's neck. Alan had forced the man to his knees, and Alan was carefully leaning over him, and as the man was bloodying his fingernails uselessly against something that would never, ever give, Alan was very calmly waiting for the moment the man stopped moving.
Edward thought, for a hopeful second in his dizzy haze brought on by pain and breathlessness, that he was imagining it. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. If someone had come up to him and told him this was happening, he would not have believed it. But here it was. In front of him. His kind, thoughtful, empathetic boy was choking the life out of a man without a second thought.
This was what he had turned Alan into.
"No," he gasped. He barely even heard himself. Alan looked up.
No? he said.
"No," Edward managed. He still could only take a fraction of a breath at a time. "Let him go. Let him go, son."
Alan looked back at the man for a moment and then released his arm with an offhand nonchalance that froze Edward to the core. That was exactly what Edward would have done. He had noticed, of course, Alan picking up on his gestures quite on purpose, but that... that didn't look like Alan. It couldn't be Alan.
Alan stood up as the other slumped over the ground, one hand pressed to his throat as he choked in air. Edward forced himself to stand. It hurt. A lot. His ribs burned and his hand twitched almost of its own will towards his stomach. He nearly stumbled as he closed the distance between himself and his son.
Dad?
Edward stopped in front of him and looked down at the man below them. He had a few seconds at least before he tried to escape. Edward pointed behind him, in the direction of the store just visible in the distance. He clenched his hand at his side when he realised how badly it was shaking. "You know what I… what we were here for," he said. When would he be able to take a full breath? "Go and… please. I'll be there in a minute."
Okay, Alan said, and Edward watched him to make sure he left. He was suddenly, acutely aware of how little he knew about raising children, even children that largely raised themselves. But he did know he could not allow his son to see this.
He took a minute to catch his breath with more focus as he looked around for his gun. It must have slipped out of his pocket as he fell. Where had he dropped it? His glasses were God knew where. He squinted into the darkness for the barest glint of the metal. There! He almost fell over when he bent for it. He managed to keep it to a gasp of pain and a hand around his waist in a futile attempt to stem the damage done, picking up the gun after his fumbling fingers managed to do so.
"Wait," the man said, his own voice restricted. "Wait, man. Wait."
Edward stood straight and brought the gun into his left hand, looking down over that shoulder towards the man there. "This is not a negotiation," he said. His voice, somehow, was clear.
"You don't need to kill me," the man protested. He was on his back, holding his hands out in front of him. "Look. I'm sorry. I made a mistake. You can let me go and you'll never hear from me again."
Edward shook his head slowly. "That's not how this works. You knew that."
"Please," the man started, but was interrupted when Edward raised the gun.
"Shut up," Edward said. He felt dizzy. He needed to sit down. "If this were some other circumstance, I would be thanking you. Your actions showed to me something I needed to see. But as it is, I see no need. That revelation will die with you."
"No!" The man attempted escape by scrabbling backwards on his knees and elbows, but Edward turned, took one step forward and fired the gun three times. The first shot landed in the hollow of his cheek; the second shattered the top of his lip. The third entered his skull just to the left of his nose and he fell silent and still. Edward turned towards the store. God, it seemed so far away. There was something trickling into his brain that gave him the impression his leg hurt. It was likely it had been bruised and he wouldn't be able to see it anyway but to get the feeling to go away he leaned over pulled at the cuff of his pants. His clouded brain was unable to make sense of why he could not move it any farther than his shin when his forearm connected with something sharp. He grasped it a little more tightly than he should have, but his glove prevented anything other than a dull pain.
There was a piece of glass in his leg.
Of all the… he sighed in exhausted resignation and just pulled it out, throwing it away without much effort. Great. Great. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to bend over. Now walking was going to hurt. He was too old for this.
He made his way over to the store. He only managed it because he stopped paying attention to anything at all. When he had the dull sensation that there was some light hurting his eyes he returned to himself and looked around to see that he was about ten feet from the side wall, where Alan was sitting. He realised he still had the gun in his hand and returned it to its place beneath his jacket.
He sat down next to his son, leaning tiredly against the wall. For once he didn't care about the illicitness that happened against the brick of convenience stores. Alan handed him a bottle of water, slick with condensation, which Edward pressed against his budding headache. The nausea was determined to return as well, bolstered by his sudden, acute notice of the crust in his nose and the sourness clinging to the inside of his mouth. He reached into the side of his jacket that did not contain the gun for a handkerchief and held it against his nose. The mint lotion on it helped settle his stomach.
Where are your glasses, Dad?
Tabarnac.
He looked around for them before remembering they'd fallen off his face a ways from here. He stared fruitlessly into the darkness ahead of him. "I… dropped them."
I'll find them, Alan said, standing up and putting a hand on his shoulder. Before Edward could think to say otherwise he had already left.
He might as well take the opportunity to rinse his mouth out. He used some of the water to do that and then blew his nose. When he went to put the folded cloth back into his jacket his fingers brushed the box of cigarettes there. Damn. He wouldn't have time to get more before Alan came back, even if he had felt able to stand just then. But now he knew they were there, he needed one. He had some instinct it would help him feel better. He knew that was an illusion, and any relief was temporary only. But there he was doing it anyway. The larger temptation he truly did need to avoid was the desire to count the remaining ones in the box as though he could not see clearly in his mind how many he had left. Three, he had three. Three was enough until the day after tomorrow. The cigarette had finished calming his stomach but was worsening his headache.
Here, Alan said, and when Edward looked up he found Alan there, holding out his glasses. He dropped the cigarette and accepted them. He had no handkerchiefs left so the corner of his jacket had to do for a quick cleaning, and when he did slide them onto his face it was very helpful to be able to see clearly again.
Alan sat back down and folded his hands together. That usually meant he wanted to say something he knew Edward didn't want to talk about. Edward took a steadying breath.
"What?"
I could have done it for you, Alan said. Edward looked at him sharply.
Damn. Alan had tricked him! The glasses had been an excuse to see what the gunshots had meant!
"No. You couldn't have." His voice was too harsh, and he knew that, but he couldn't be bothered to change it.
I could have. I just needed –
"Alan," Edward interrupted, wishing he hadn't dropped the cigarette. He could really have used the other half. "Do you remember when I told you what a parent is supposed to want?"
I do, Alan said. Edward trapped the water bottle beneath his knees and focused on the crunching noise it made. Alan didn't understand. Getting angry with him was… wrong. You said it was to ensure their children achieved greater things than they ever could.
Had he said that? He had said that. It sounded like a good answer. Was that the right answer? Was that the aim of parenting? Was that what he thought it was? Was he right?
"If I allowed you to kill a man in front of me," Edward continued, "it would have crossed that line. And I cannot let you cross a line you have no knowledge of."
Alan leaned forward. What's the line, then?
Edward rubbed his thumb against the side of the bottle cap for a moment.
"The line," Edward told him, "is morality."
A man without morals was about to explain them to a son who knew nothing and had to take everything he said as the truth. What a mess. What did he even care if his son became immoral?
You're about to explain to him why you care, some voice in the back of his head told him, and he frowned at it. His headache was worsening.
"You know only what I've taught you, directly or indirectly," he continued. "I never taught you morals, and so to allow you to make such a decision without your being able to weight one side against the other would be negligent. I'm not going to pretend to be the most upstanding or attentive parent. But I do know killing is something you need to be able to make an informed decision about before you do it. And thus far your only concept of right and wrong pertains to what is right and wrong towards me. Do you even know what death is, Alan?"
It's being asleep for a really long time.
"Forever," Edward corrected. "It is forever. And the process of killing someone hurts not only that person, but everyone close to them. Removing the life from a man creates an outward ripple that touches many who knew him. And for many of those, it negatively affects their own lives for a long time thereafter."
So what you're saying, Alan said, leaning back against the wall, is that killing is wrong.
"In any circumstance where there are alternate solutions, yes."
Why is it wrong?
Edward had to think about that one for a moment. He had the feeling he knew the answer, but had put it aside many years ago. He decided on, "Hurting others for your own gain is wrong."
You killed that man when you didn't need to? Is that what you mean?
"For that specific situation, yes."
And he hurt you when he didn't need to? And that was wrong?
He had certainly thought he needed to. "Yes."
Alan went quiet, which was a mercy in all honesty. His head hurt and Alan's questions never helped. He always asked so many things Edward didn't know how to answer, and didn't want to answer. If he were a mite more ignorant, this would all have been so much easier.
You've killed a lot of people. And hurt them. For your own gain.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know where this was going. "I have."
Alan was pulling on one of his thumbs. Dad?
"Yes, son."
Does it make me a bad person if I love a bad person?
Alan may as well have just stabbed him in the chest, rather than said that. He swallowed and wiped some of the water off the side of the bottle.
He didn't have an answer. He especially didn't have the right answer. But he couldn't say that, couldn't just say I don't know and leave Alan to work it out for himself. This was his job, this was what he'd signed up for. Not on purpose, but here he was. He had to face it. He had to give his son the answer to his question, and the right answer, no matter what that meant. He didn't want to, because all he really wanted to do was stand up and yell, I don't know! and then walk away with manufactured anger attempting to hide his discontent. But Edward had contrived a world in which he was the only place for answers to be found, and so he had to provide one.
His mouth had suddenly become very dry, which gave him an excuse to delay talking. Once he'd drank a little he said, "It doesn't."
He didn't know if that was the right answer. All he knew was that Alan was a good person, a better person than he would ever be, and he had not allowed him to kill that man – the consequence of Edward's actions – because he had wanted him to stay that way. Now Alan was learning what he was, what Edward had always known he was, and he was actively deciding for himself what he wanted to be. Edward didn't know if his answer was honest or merely a reflection of what he wanted. But it was the only answer he had.
"It's not their actions that matter. It's yours."
Alan nodded slowly to himself. Then he said, in earnest, I'll help you be a good person too, Dad.
Unmitigated rage burned in his chest suddenly, and somehow he stood without too much trouble. He knew, on some level, this reaction was unfounded, but the implications brought to mind so many years of so many doctors, and when he realised he had crushed the water bottle in one hand he threw it down. "Are you trying to fix me now? Is that it?"
No, Dad, Alan said, and for some reason he seemed surprised. I don't think being a good person would fix you.
Even this was offensive, somehow. Anger paralysed his tongue and he couldn't seem to release his fists. But I think it would make you happier, Alan continued, seemingly oblivious. I want you to do what you want, if that makes you happy. But from what I've seen, you do a lot of bad things that you seem to want to do, but they don't make you very happy at all. Being a bad person seems to mean you can do whatever you want, but if you aren't happy doing that why don't you try something different?
"Morality," Edward spat. "What good has that ever done me? I'll tell you what being morally upstanding means, Alan. It means people taking from you. They take and they take and they take, and when you have nothing left to give they condemn you for not having given more. You receive nothing in return. If you're lucky, some measure of personal satisfaction will come to you, but you dare not voice it else people tell you the true reason for your actions is accolade, and so you are not a good person at all. The difference between doing right and wrong is letting people destroy you or having the freedom to destroy yourself."
He turned around then, not knowing or caring if Alan intended to answer. But Dad, Alan said, why did you explain it in terms of what others think of you?
"What?" Edward snapped, looking behind him. Alan stood up.
Others being wrong about your intentions doesn't change the kind of person you are. That's a reflection of them, not you. It's like you just told me. It's your actions that matter, no one else's. He tapped his thumbs together pensively. If you know what you are, you don't have to let other people tell you.
"It's not that simple," Edward protested. But how could he possibly explain it to him? How could he tell Alan of the overwhelming need to please everyone at all times, the desire for complete and total approval, the pressure to be everything anyone could ever want? And the mentality of people to take the lowest common denominator of a man and hold it up as the very essence of his being? Alan did not understand that anyone could be as good of a person as they had the ability to be, and it still would not be good enough. It would still not be worth it, when a world hungering for the smallest of threads to unravel could bring a lifetime of selfless efforts down upon one's head.
But no. All of that was exactly Alan's criticism of his first explanation. The ill-desire of others said nothing about a person as a whole, especially when all they were willing to consider was the smallest mistake one had made. He had nothing further to say. Alan was not wrong.
And therefore Edward had snapped on him for nothing. Alan did not need to know why it mattered to Edward. He did not want him to know. It was selfish to have his son's world built around himself. But at least he would never have to know the need to garner everyone's approval, everyone's respect. He had one person to look up to, as opposed to many who would fail him again and again.
This implied Edward had not failed him already, and nothing today indicated he hadn't. God save the real children he doubtless had out there in the multiverse.
He didn't want to talk about this anymore. He didn't want to think about it anymore, either, but he was going to. Ohhhh was he going to. He made the decision to head back to the Orphanage now, before he was able to feel his body again. If Alan had anything further to say about this – and Edward fervently hoped he did not – he could do so later.
He had not been ready to have children. Nor, the suspicion came upon him, would he ever have been. His every action, his every thought, now carried a weight he could not endure.
If he had known someone to give them away to, he would have done it then and there.
/
As soon as he returned to the Orphanage, Edward had mechanically begun to clean himself up. It had taken far too long and he had brushed his teeth far too many times, and by the time he'd finished that business he was very, very tired. But he already knew going to bed would be stupid, because then he would be able to think, and he didn't want that. So he instead went down to the factory floor and sat down in front of the computer there. He had debugging to do, which was a boring and minimally engaging task that would both enable him to be productive and yet not have to actually use his brain that much. His headache had faded, but breathing was distractingly painful and he had to take a moment just to try and process it so he could ignore it. God, how inconvenient that had been! He rested his head in one of his hands and closed his eyes for a minute.
Hi Dad.
Oh, no.
Edward sat back slowly in the chair and looked behind him. "What is it," he said, trying not to sound too flat.
Your glasses came. I brought them for you. He came forward and put them on the desk. And… Ada was looking for you. I told her you weren't feeling well so she got you these.
'These' were a handful of somewhat wilted flowers, pansies mostly because those were her favourite. There was a flower shop she liked to take them from when no one was looking. He looked at his desk even though he already knew he had nothing to put them in. "Thank you."
Alan stepped back, twisting his foot to leave, when he seemed to think better of it and asked, Why are you sad?
Edward frowned, wondering where he'd gotten that from, before he realised Alan was misreading the situation. "I'm not sad, Alan. I'm… it's just like you said. I'm not feeling well."
Are you sick again?
"No." He didn't think he was, anyway. "I was injured. You know that."
Alan tilted his head. But that was a while ago.
He tried not to become irritated. "It was two hours ago."
Alan looked at the floor for a moment. Yes. It was. So why are you still not feeling well?
"An injury doesn't last one day," Edward told him, believing he'd figured out where Alan was getting stuck. "It lasts several. The worse it is, the more painful it is, and for longer. It doesn't just hurt once and then it goes away." He knew Alan wouldn't understand this next part, but he said it anyway. "Sometimes it never does."
That's terrible, Alan said. Edward grimaced a little.
"It's life."
Can I see it?
"Maybe," Edward said. "I don't know if the bruising has started yet." He hadn't wanted to look. But if it helped Alan understand, he'd show him what was there, if anything.
When he'd taken his shirts off he was aghast to see there was indeed bruising, and a great deal of it too: the left side of his stomach and the right side of his ribs were both already mottled severely with blue and purple. He had to look away from it, but Alan touched it, very softly. Edward always forgot that his hands were going to be cold.
Dad, Alan said, taking his hand back very slowly and curling it into a fist.
"What." He put his undershirt back on and looked back at the other one, trying to decide if it would be worth the pain in his ribs to put that one on too.
Looking at that makes me angry.
It was not the time to be thinking about his clothes. He turned the chair around all the way to face Alan, draping one arm on the desktop. "You've never been angry before."
Alan shook his head. Edward considered the floorboards. They were torn up a little from the chair wheels. He should have known that would happen.
What do I do? Alan asked, with just enough desperation that it tightened Edward's chest. His poor son. Stuck with a father who didn't know what to say or had any idea of where to find the words from.
What would he have wanted his father to say, all those years ago? What was a person supposed to do with their anger, rather than allow it to dictate and consume their entire life? He didn't want Alan to do that. He didn't want him to know what that was like.
Maybe he was thinking about it too broadly. It wasn't merely about anger here. He couldn't tell him to disregard all forms of it; that was foolish. But when you felt angry about something you couldn't change, that you never could have changed and you never could change in the future… what should you do with it?
"Nothing," Edward said finally, looking up at him. "There's nothing you can do. It's over. Let it go, son. It won't do anything for you now."
Unsatisfied he'd given the right answer, he turned back to the monitor, looking dully at his keyboard. He again wished he knew another man he could give Alan to. A better man. One who already had a son or two so he already knew exactly what to do. This was one of the long list of reasons why he'd never wanted a son in the first place. "It wasn't like I didn't deserve it anyway," he said, mostly to himself. Alan heard him, of course, and invited himself onto the desktop.
You did?
Edward looked up at him tiredly. "Do you understand who that man was?"
He was… the brother of the person who wouldn't listen to you a few days ago.
"And whom I killed. He was angry over the loss of his brother."
But why did you deserve it?
Edward sighed through his nose and sat back in the chair again. "How would you feel if someone killed Ada?"
Alan folded his hands together. Sad. I would want to do something about it, maybe.
"That's what he did. I was the reason his brother was dead and so he wanted to kill me as revenge."
Alan's tone turned solemn. You must be very brave.
He frowned. "Brave?"
Alan nodded. You do lots of things to people all the time that they maybe don't like. Lots of them probably want to hurt you. But you keep doing it anyway.
Edward shrugged, resting his arms on either side of the chair. "I could hurt myself walking up the stairs. That doesn't mean I'm never going to use stairs again. That would be utterly ridiculous."
Alan laughed, and he had to smile at that. He still was unsure he'd said the right things, but Alan seemed calm and to have accepted it. He would have to wait to know. No need to worry about that now, however.
Can I hug you, Dad? It looks like it might hurt if I do.
"Go ahead." It was going to hurt, and it did a great deal even though he could tell Alan was being careful, but he wasn't going to refuse his son such a thing.
Alan jumped off the desk after this and twisted one of his thumbs in his hand for a moment. I hope you feel better, Dad.
Truthfully, he did.