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This kind of the weather would usually bring fond memories to Jonathan Crane.
Not nice ones, other than perhaps the glimpse of a moment, a younger version of himself taking in a particularly pristine sight. A vision that appealed to his eyes alone, frozen in time, seemingly unseen by all who lacked an eye for details.
They never lasted, of course. Gone in a blink, ruined by a shout, renewed dread crawling up his spine in a visceral grip. Bitter reminders that he would never have the luxury to forget who he was.
Which, ironically, he had come to be thankful for. Thankful, but not forgiving. And that trail of thoughts would usually lead to a set of grim yet pleasant recollections of his past retaliations.
... But every now and then, neither his diligent work nor his methodical scheming were enough to give a positive spin on his restless ghosts. Every now and then, a familiar voice across the street would remind him of someone long dead and gone. Sometimes, the sound of rain clattering against his window would rouse imagines of flying terrors. An ageless angst scratching at the edge of his consciousness, settling into his bones where it made itself a niche a long, long time ago.
It was with great distaste that he had come to recognize this affected side of his psyche. And with great zealousness that he delved into the science of the human mind. To find a cure, to find an explanation. For himself, for others. Because understanding was the first step in healing. Because understanding was a weapon few had the chance to yield, and he proved to be extremely good at it.
However, understanding one-self didn’t erase the vestigial imprints of a past upbringing, particularly in environments that would shame an individual for showing vulnerability of any kind. You could distance yourself from the past, but the past remained. And hence it made sense that someone who had fought and survived on their own, for the most of their life, would inherently feel a crippling sense of weakness toward showing this side of themselves, as they had been raised to lick their wounds in silence, or denied any veracity from their anguish.
Jonathan could recognize the logic of his anxiety, for example, and he knew it was not to be seen as a weakness, neither was seeking help to alleviate its effects. Those were truths he had come to repeat to his patients, to his (former)students, to his questionable friends. But he was nowhere near happy about it when he happened to be the one in that position
And it was with that conflicted irrationality of thoughts that he left his office, his legs leading him inexorably toward the riddling mastermind he shared his current lair with.
The man was found in one of their common rooms.... sketching. He seemed to be scribbling notes and mechanical designs for future projects, with a few stray question marks decorating the margins. There was an array of laptops surrounding him, warming the room unpleasantly. Well. Three laptops was still far too many, which Jon would normally dispute, should be kept in Edward’s own workshop. To which Edward would retort that working in a different environment helped freshen up his ideas and hence they would normally bicker until one of them rolled their eyes and ignore the argument altogether In favor of something of equal bantering but-...
But, not tonight. And as he stepped into the room quietly, Edward raised a brow at his unusual lack of snark. Jon simply went to sit on the remaining side of the couch.
“I would move that one away, if I were you.” Jon said, pointing at the laptop sitting between them.
“And what if I don’t?”
“Well, I’m lying down whether it’s there or not so, there’s always the risk that I might ‘accidentally’ throw one of your gadget on the ground in the process.”
The Riddler seemed intrigued, and gave a rich laugh. “Oh, trust me, Jonathan. My ‘gadgets’ are more likely to maim you than you are to damage them.”
“Oh, well then don’t mind if I-”
“No-, you.” He snatched the device away, giving him a particularly nasty glare. Jonathan almost chuckled. Almost. Edward positively sneered.
Jon somehow shifted his elongated frame to lay beside the redhead, who begrudgingly offered a wayward pillow for his head.
“I recall you saying my laps were quite comfortable,” he offered with faux triviality.
“They surely cannot be compared to mine, or so I’ve heard.”
“A mystery to none. However?”
“I’m going to be there for a while. I though I could be considerate of your thighs.”
“Oh how very thoughtful of you,” he offered sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
But he was smiling, actually putting his work aside (for now) to lean over him, one arm pressed against the back of the couch, the other twirling a strand of dark peppered hair. “But enlighten me, my friend. What can I do for you on this fine stormy evening?”
Jon took a moment to consider his reasons, and went on to a whole new topic. “I’m actually quite impressed you haven’t turned on that ridiculous electrical fireplace of yours.”
“Well-... There’s no need for a fire, Jon. Anyone with an ounce of logic would understand that, what with all of this equipment running at once...” He trailed off, but added dramatically. “Although, with a bit of warning I could prepared a thematic scenery to exasperate you further, Lenore.”
“And come to find you draping the furnitures? How dreadful.”
Edward laughed delightfully. “Now now, we both know you love it.”
The tall man didn’t answer at that but chuckled deeply, closing his eyes. After a moment, he quietly fetched the hand above him, keeping it close to his chest. This had the simultaneous reaction of silencing the man in green. Jon felt the other freckled hand combing through his wiry scalp soothingly.
“I need to know what I’m working with, if you don’t mind.” Edward’s voice was soft, but with an unmistakable purpose.
Edward Nygma was a man of many talents. Many one could ponder over on a daily basis. His life and personal knack for trouble had led him to hone a remarkable set of skills, and personality traits, that proved themselves immeasurably useful-
Well, not all of them useful. Inconvenient at best, but that was for a different rant.
There was the undeniable fact that the man bolstered about himself a great deal, but only a fool would think he was not paying attention, not using the exact tone, with the exact tilt, for his exact goal. To you, the exact person he knew you were when you entered the room. Said fool(you) would found themselves led astray under his persuasive words faster than one could possibly conceive.
It was an ability that Jon had refined as well, for his own nefarious deeds. He could recognize the cleverness with which the freckled man earned the reputation of an efficient silver-tongued businessman over the years. For better or for worse, depending where his interests laid.
And sometimes, his interests laid with Jonathan’s.
Jon rested still for a moment, focusing on feeling the fading scratches on the palm resting underneath his own calloused grip. The hand in his hair softly tracing the outline of his ear.
“Bad night, perhaps?” he inquired, although he knew the answer already.
“Something like that.” Jonathan drawled, bracing himself despite any rational reasoning. Bickering was a lot more familiar than asking for his assistance.
A moment of calm settled. Jon found a haven in the tactile familiarity between them. When at last Jonathan spoke, his tone was shaped with stoical clarity, as he preferred to view his state in a clinical light.
“Perhaps you could indulge me in any remote subject until this storm passes.”
He did not try to see the reaction on his partner’s face, as he had very little care in it at the moment. He presumed the man considered his request from the thoughtful thumb was drawing half circles against his skin.
“Perhaps I could,” he said, his voice the same calming quality as earlier. “Although, the weatherman claimed it would be thundering all night. Do you have any strong arguments as to make it worth my time?” he asked in jest, effortlessly pleased with the idea.
“Aside retrieving the use of your hands?”
“Oh now it’s a hostage situation, I see how it is.”
Jonathan smirked, amused by the thought. He shifted the caged arm so as to run his nose against the sensitive skin, following the junctions of palpitating veins threateningly. He knew Edward was holding his breath as a shiver ran past the limb in his grasp.
Only then did he crane his head to look back at the riddle mastermind. Jonathan’s pale gaze bored into emeralds as he ran his own calloused thumb over the tender flesh of his forearm.
“Edward,” he began softly. “Your voice would be a most welcomed indulgence for me tonight, if you could oblige,” he finally asked, remaining as matter-of-factly as possible.
Jonathan then released him at last, folded his hands over his gaunt middle and sighed deeply, closing his eyes once more.
Edward had yet to move, reclaimed freedom be damned, his freed fingers softly drumming with irritation, as if to match the rhythm of his own beating heart.
After a silence, Jon could hear him settle more comfortably, seemingly resolved on keeping his hand where it was resting for a while longer.
They fell back into the familiar setting they’ve come to adopt every now and then, when Jonathan would come to seek for his assistance. Edward reciting the flow of his latest interests with a voice meant to soothe an interlocutor, and Jonathan listening intently, letting the sound cover the clattering windows, the vague echos of chatters bordering his consciousness, the shrieks of the winds...
Jon knew he must had fallen asleep after a while. He could briefly recall the faint sound of scribbling. A soothing on-and-off-toned tenor humming the lullaby he had taught him a long, long time ago. One dark and stormy night.