Part the Twelfth

Getting Jonathan to sleep was the easiest.

Jonathan didn't mind putting the work aside so that he could lie down next to Edward and pull him close. Jonathan would get him to remove his shirt, though he preferred to wear that and pajama pants to bed. He had said that he enjoyed seeing Edward sprawled across the bed in his underwear, which Edward understood, but he liked to sleep how he liked to sleep! How, though, could he argue when Jonathan so carefully pressed those calloused fingers into his skin, whispering in his ear about the benefits of skin-to-skin contact even though Jonathan was still wearing his shirt? But Jonathan also had some fascination with the hair on Edward's chest, which he apparently did not have – Edward had yet to see for himself - and Edward had to admit he really didn't mind when Jonathan did that. Jonathan could put his hands wherever he pleased and Edward wouldn't do a thing about it, though he liked it less when Jonathan's fingers pressed into his stomach or traced the scars marring his back and arms. Besides the immense satisfaction of their closeness, Jonathan also slept better when Edward was there, which boosted his ego immensely. When Edward asked why he thought that was, Jonathan's lips had only quirked mischievously and he'd said he need to do more research to work that out.

Edward could hardly argue with that.

Sometimes, when Edward was not as tired, he would help Jonathan out a little. He would get Jonathan to remove his shirt and then he would press his fingers into Jonathan's spine, from the base of his skill to his waist. The task required great care, as Jonathan's thin skin was almost always bruised someplace and his scarring was worse than Edward's, but he tried to be forceful yet delicate where required. After a while Jonathan would sit, shifting his shoulders, and his spine would crackle powerfully, in what sounded like an incredibly painful process. But Jonathan would only moan in satisfied relief and turn lazily onto his stomach. Edward was understandably concerned the first time this happened – it sounded like his back was breaking –but Jonathan had only shaken his head.

"Tall people often have back problems," he'd murmured. "You have to stretch yourself out to do certain things; I have to compress myself. You may develop issues, but considering the fact that you are, in certain ways, more cunning than I, you probably won't. I hope not, in any case. They're not all that fun."

And then he had turned over long enough to grasp Edward's forearm and pull it across his back, and Edward had laughed and pressed his body into Jonathan's.

Something he continued there from their time in the Asylum was taking care of Jonathan's feet. Jonathan was a physical mess overall, but Jonathan hated shoes and refused to wear them if at all possible. His soles were a roughened, calloused mess and there was always some amount of dirt clinging to his skin. Edward actually didn't mind doing it at all; he more minded the fact that Jonathan had let it get so bad. But as for attempting to fix the damage, Edward actually found it somewhat relaxing and soothing, much the way the counting was. He enjoyed the process of taking damaged things and making them new again, though he never quite got there because Jonathan would have needed much more extensive help than he would allow Edward to give. But he would sit quietly and watch as Edward tried to remove some of the stubbornly clinging dead skin and to repair that which was reversibly damaged. When he finished he would sit next to Jonathan, who would put an arm around his shoulders. The first time, Edward asked, "Doesn't that feel better?"

"It does," Jonathan had agreed. "It stings a little."

"That happens," Edward had said, and he'd taken the free hand Jonathan had left in his lap in his own. He wished often that he could do something about Jonathan's hands as well, but they were marred so badly with callouses and scarring that Edward didn't believe there was a whole lot he could do. Jonathan had noticed the way he looked at the hand he had just taken, and he had smiled and kissed the top of Edward's head and told him, "What you have done is enough."

The bigger problem, however, was eating. Jonathan had an unusual dislike for it, balking at more than one simple meal a day, though he drank black coffee as though it were water. He claimed it calmed him down, instead of made him anxious, and after watching him carefully Edward came to believe him. Whenever Edward pressed the issue, which he did more often than he should have if he was being quite honest, Jonathan would shut down on him. And not just for a little while, either. At one point he refused to say a word for an entire two days. That was torture of an inhumane kind. He wasn't entirely able to stop himself from continuing to badger Jonathan about it a little – all right, more than a little – but he decided there was also action to be taken that would perhaps move things along a little faster: if he made himself something, and left a portion for Jonathan, perhaps when Jonathan got up for coffee or ventured to look inside the refrigerator he would chance upon it and decide to take it back to his table.

To Edward's delight… he did!

Not every time. Sometimes he left it, or perhaps didn't notice it at all. He never talked about it, and it was one of the most difficult things he'd had to do in a while but Edward managed not to talk about it either. If he said a single word about this, Jonathan would step back entirely and Edward would be back at zero, no doubt about that. He had to instead focus on the victory he'd achieved: that of getting Jonathan to do something he needed to do, but had no desire to. It was immensely satisfying to return from his own errands to find that the only trace that Jonathan had gotten up, other than to leave that was, was the container on the table which Edward had left for him.

He doubted he had ever been so thrilled to see dirty dishes before.

It didn't seem he was going to be able to reduce Jonathan's coffee intake any, but since he couldn't tell whether or not it made him less or more irritated it was unclear at this point if he even needed to. So he was going to have to count that one as a loss. Still. He was getting places with this! Jonathan seemed content to allow Edward to do these things, as long as he was somewhat discreet. He had to remind himself now and again that Jonathan wasn't used to this and was probably being difficult out of sheer habit. Though probably with equal parts calculated stubbornness. He wasn't going to let Edward have what he wanted without a fight, ohhhh no.

It was a good thing Edward liked the sound of that.

Edward couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Jonathan was sitting calmly at one of his tables, which was covered in all manners of lab equipment, paper, writing instruments, and cups long since drained of coffee. And he had rolled up the sleeve of one bony arm and was carefully filling a small needle with translucent orange fluid. As Edward watched he injected the contents into his arm, without flinching, and after closing his eyes for a long moment he actually seemed... relieved. He replaced the needle in his hand with a pen and started writing something down.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Edward asked incredulously, and Jonathan snapped around to look at him. "That wasn't a drug, was it?"

"No! Don't be ridiculous. A toxin and a stimulant are two completely different things and I would expect you to know that."

"That's sure what it looked like."

Jonathan inhaled sharply. "That's what it looked like, but that's not what it is. Look. I have to test my toxins somehow. And since I have been using myself as my initial test subject for years, it's easier to gauge them myself than to run trials. Kidnapping people is bothersome and not worth my time if I can help it."

Edward stepped closer, an idea coming to life in his brain. "But if you did have another test subject, and dosed them as small as that... you could use it for other things, couldn't you?"

Jonathan looked very tired. "What are you really after," he said finally.

Edward placed his palms on the table and leaned forward. "I want you to use that on me so that I can lose my fear of my father."

Jonathan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, elbows on the tabletop. "That's not going to work."

"No, listen. It's like what you do for phobias. Repeated exposure kills the fear. Desensitisation."

"No. It's not going to work like that.

"Jonathan, listen. I -"

"You listen!" Jonathan shouted, and Edward jumped. The toxin seemed to be doing something, if only heightening Jonathan's emotions. "Who is the doctor here?"

"You are, but -"

"But nothing! It won't work. I'm not doing it."

"You don't know it won't work. You were only a psychiatrist shortly, and not a very good one."

Jonathan's eyes were so sharp and his face so outraged that Edward thought Jonathan was going to slap him. He flinched, but it didn't come.

"I suppose I deserved that," Jonathan said in a low voice, through his teeth. "But my success rate and my knowledge on this matter are two entirely different things. I'm not doing it."

"You said you would help me with this!" Edward shouted.

"And I will. But that won't work."

"And what will?" he demanded. "You have no plan, you have no method to help me. You don't know how."

"Edward, you are a very special case and I don't think you appreciate just how complex it is. I could work with you for years and see no result. I'm not holding out on you. I just haven't thought of a solution yet."

"Why won't you let me try this, then? It's my decision and I bear the consequences."

"Fine! Fine. If it will get you to shut up, I will do it." And he reached across the table and picked up a fresh needle, which he filled partway with the toxin, and held his hand out for Edward's arm without looking at him. Edward gave Jonathan his wrist and the long fingers gripped it, Jonathan's cracked fingertips touching the back of Edward's elbow. Jonathan turned his attention then to Edward's arm, but other than poising the needle somewhere over Edward's wrist he didn't move.

"What?"

Jonathan sighed and looked up at him. "I don't want to do this."

"You just said that you would!"

"I am supposed to do no harm, and this is only going to hurt you. That is not something I want to do."

"Now's not the time to uphold the Hippocratic Oath, Jon. I've asked you enough times."

Jonathan would not meet his eyes.

The chemical burned as soon as it was injected, as it had the first time, but the dose was so much smaller that it didn't overwhelm him. He didn't feel that much different. He was about to ask if Jonathan had dosed him properly when it seemed to him that the room had darkened. As though some fog had settled into the walls. He frowned. If Jonathan had worsened his eyesight, he was going to –

Where was Jonathan? He had been right there, and now…

"Edward."

He gasped and went to move backwards, falling over the chair beside him and colliding with the floor. Not here! How had he been found? It was impossible!

Not only that, but he was bigger than Edward remembered, he was both taller and wider and his eyes, his eyes seemed to glow even in the dimness! Edward fought to take a breath as he sought the wall. He didn't feel any safer once it was against his back.

His father leaned over him, impossibly large, and he put his hand on Edward's shoulder. Edward jerked away, folding himself as small as possible. "No," he whispered, unable to make any sound louder. "No, please, I haven't done anything – "

"Edward. It's me. Jonathan."

Who the hell was Jonathan, and what would he have to do with this anyway? Edward shook his head and tried to move further, but he was pinned up against some object unknown.

"Please, I left, I left the country and you didn't want me around anyway so why do you keep following me?! Leave me alone, father, please!"

"I'm not your father."

"I know you wish you weren't! You've told me enough!" He pressed his forehead into the object he'd collided with, his glasses cutting into the bridge of his nose. Why had his father followed him here? Where was he, anyway? This wasn't the Asylum, nor the GCPD, nor his home! Had his father gone so far as to kidnap him this time?

"I'm walking away. I'm not having any part of this. I knew it was a stupid idea."

His work was done nonetheless, because Edward had already closed his eyes.

Over the next several days Edward convinced Jonathan to continue with the experiment, and each time Jonathan expressed his disagreement with the whole thing and his reluctance to do it. But Edward would harangue Jonathan until he got fed up enough to follow through, and then Edward would fall into the hallucination over again. It wasn't even the illusion that got to him, it was the memories it pulled into the forefront of his mind. Jonathan stepped away within a minute or so of the toxin's run, but it didn't matter. His looming shadow was all that Edward's intoxicated mind needed to transform the illusion into the past.

It didn't even end there, with the course of the toxin finished; at night Edward was gripped with terrible nightmares and woke up short of breath and drenched in sweat. He would go upstairs and press his forehead into the bathroom mirror, and he would wash his shaking hands and tell himself this would fix everything, that if he did this he would be able to fight it next time. To stand up for himself against the shadow that lived mostly in his own mind. While he was doing it he believed what he told himself, but afterward was different. Afterward, he went outside and sat on the steps to berate himself for acting so stupidly – the ritual only brought imagined solutions, not literal ones, and he knew that! – but what was done was done and he did his best to talk himself out of the self-flagellation. Once he felt calm enough he would go back to bed, but ignore Jonathan still. He would lie on his side with his back to the other, and he would feel Jonathan's eyes on him but he would not speak.

The treatment really wasn't working. Edward not only did not feel better, he felt worse. Sick and jittery, nervous, as though what he was actually doing was conditioning himself to see his father in every shadow and every sliver of light below the doors. On the sixth day something snapped in the back of Edward's head as the fog dissipated, and he stood up with his heart clenched in his throat.

"Jonathan!"

Jonathan appeared from in front of one of the bookshelves, holding a stack in one arm that he may or may not have been reshelving. "Yes?"

"This isn't working. This is making me feel worse!"

"I know."

There was something helpless in Edward's chest. He didn't know quite what it was, so he decided it was anger and stalked towards Jonathan, fists clenched. "What are you doing wrong, then?"

Jonathan put the stack on the shelf, where it perched precariously. "I don't believe this is the right treatment for you. You need something else, something I haven't figured out yet. I'm working on it."

"You're lying," Edward said behind clenched teeth, and before his mind had time to register the decision he had pinned Jonathan against the bookshelf, the black and blue plaid bunched beneath his fingers. "You're enjoying this. Aren't you."

"No," Jonathan protested, his own hands gaining purchase on some lower shelf. "No, of course not. I -"

"You wanted this to happen!" Edward shouted, pressing harder, and he could feel Jonathan's pulse against his forearms. Good. He deserved it, after what he had pulled. "You want me to see my father in every corner, don't you? It's so much easier to control your toadies when you make them fear everything they see. Isn't that right, Professor?"

"No," Jonathan said, making no attempt to remove Edward, not that he likely had the strength to. He may have been taller, but Edward outweighed him in both gross and muscle mass by quite a bit. "That's not true."

"You tricked me!" His fists were clenched at his sides now, though he didn't remember doing so. "You used reverse psychology to trick me into doing this!"

"That is not at all what happened," Jonathan said, frowning. "I only provide you the injections because you insist on pestering me to do so."

"That's what you want me to think!" Edward snapped, stepping forward. "You're enjoying this, aren't you! A free and willing participant for one of your little experiments."

"You are aware that you are making absolutely no sense right now, I hope." Jonathan's gaze was infuriatingly level. "That solution isn't even new. It's hardly an experiment if I already know what it does. Perhaps you can take this as a sign that we should try some other means of solving your problem."

"You said you would fix me."

"I said I would help you and I fully intend to. You need to understand that – "

"You did this on purpose!" Edward interrupted, and with a sudden strength he threw Jonathan to the floor. Jonathan took a steadying breath but did not rise farther than his elbows would support him. "You did this to hold power over me!"

"We did this," Jonathan said, "because you wanted to help yourself. No, I should not have allowed it, but the blame here does not solely lie with me."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Edward demanded, and he was breathing far too hard but what was he to do with all this sudden aggressive energy? Jonathan was already on the floor. Jonathan was also refusing to react to his anger and it was only infuriating him further. "Why haven't you done it yet?"

"Because I don't know how," Jonathan told him. "You were right to believe that the exposure therapy could have worked. What you fail to understand, however, is that describing your relationship with your father as a fear is reducing it to one element, and that is not enough. It's far more complicated than that."

Dammit, why did Jonathan have to be so calm and rational about this? That was not the projected reaction! He was supposed to be angry, he was supposed to be threatening Edward so he had reason to continue to exercise his own frustrations! But he was just down there calmly staring up!

Jonathan was still offering to help. And Jonathan had left a question at the end of his statement, which Edward needed to know the answer to. He did not want to ask, but he had to know. "What are you talking about."

Jonathan sat slowly, pressing his fingers into the opposite shoulder for a long second. "You need to understand something before you can get anywhere with this: you have spent your entire life trying to prove your father wrong."

"I have not!" Edward protested, and Jonathan looked away, seemingly in exasperation, and held up one hand to stop him.

"You have. Your entire concept of self revolves around what you believe would finally allow him to care about you. You didn't plan to become a criminal when you came to Gotham. You came to Gotham to find some work that would lead into your dream career at the FBI, and once you had that success in hand you would have found some beautiful, intelligent woman at the Bureau and you would have married her and had a beautiful, intelligent son. And you would have returned to – "

"Daughter," Edward said, without meaning to.

"Daughter?"

"I wanted – " Why did he feel so close to tears now? He pressed a fist over his mouth.

"A daughter, then," Jonathan said kindly. "Your spoiled little princess, no doubt. And your plan was to bring her and your wife back to Canada to show your father. To show him he was wrong. That you were smart, and you were worth it. That you could make it. But even if you had done that, it would not have been enough. It would not have been enough to change his mind, because he does not want it to be changed. And that is why a few days of toxin was not enough to help you. Because you're not afraid of him. You're afraid of failure, and your concept of success hinges on what your father would say of you. It doesn't matter what you do with your life, nor whom you become. He is never going to approve of you. He is never going to be proud of you. He is never going to love you."

"But that's not fair," Edward whispered, and his knees hurt because his legs had given out and slammed them into the floor. "That's not fair."

None of it. None of it was! That wasn't really how he was acting, was it? He wasn't really living his life in a vain effort to impress a man who had despised him the moment he'd laid eyes on him?

But why else did he insist on dressing well always? Why were his standards for himself and everyone he interacted with in depth so high? Why else with the pursuit of perfection? He didn't have anything to prove to himself...

... but that was half of Jonathan's point, wasn't it? That he did have something to prove to himself, and that he was trying to go about it by attempting to become something he could never be. Even if he turned everything around and picked back up on his original plans, he could never be the son his father wanted because his father did not want a son at all.

"That's not fair," Edward whispered, and he realised his cheeks were wet. "That's not fair!"

"It isn't," Jonathan agreed. "That's why you have to make it fair. Show him you're not afraid. Show him he doesn't matter. Think of him the same way he thinks of you. Only then will you be able to realise who you are truly supposed to be."

"I can't!" He pressed his forehead into the bookshelf so that Jonathan wouldn't see his face. "I can't do that!"

"Why."

He didn't even have a reason. "I can't!"

"You owe him nothing. You have nothing to prove to him. You will never be good enough not because you aren't, but because he never wanted you to begin with."

"Stop!" He had his hands pressed to his ears but they weren't keeping Jonathan's voice out at all. He had to be wrong. His father would come around one day, he knew it. He would do something incredible, something his father could not ignore. And it would fix everything. It would make everything right. Jonathan was wrong.

It wasn't true. He had not wasted the last ten-odd years striving for the impossible. It wasn't true.

"Eddie," Jonathan said softly. "You know I understand, don't you? I know how you feel. I have been there. My history is much the same as yours. I too have parents who removed me from their existence and moved on. And so must you. I can help you. But you have to let go of him. He has already done so with you, and any interaction beyond that is merely some sort of game on his part. You do not have to play."

"No," Edward whispered, because his throat was almost closed. "That's not true." That wasn't fair. It wasn't. Jonathan was... Edward didn't know what he was trying to do, but he was wrong. He had to be.

Jonathan sighed and pressed a hand to one of his shoulders, and then he left.

Author's note

The beginning of this part… I think Ed would love to take care of someone, once they were his someone that is, just as much as he wants to be taken care of himself. So we start with Edward taking care of Jonathan physically, and then go back to Jonathan taking care of Edward's mind. Or trying to. Like Edward, he knows what the issues that need to be fixed are, but unlike Edward, he hasn't decided yet on what to do about them. Thing is, there's a difference between having a doctorate and being a doctor, and since the DCU doesn't seem to care about the difference I just said 'to hell with it' and made him a psychiatrist even though he isn't qualified to be one in this verse. So he doesn't really know what to do about Edward's pile of issues because he's not actually certified to be a psychiatrist. He knows OF what to do, but has no practical experience with applying any treatment whatsoever.