Chapter Text
Edgar found that his feelings about and toward Jonathan Reid had become increasingly complex as time went on. By now, it had escalated to the point that considering the man for the briefest of moments sent him into a muddle of thoughts and emotions that, despite his best efforts, he could not puzzle out.
The first time he’d become aware of Dr. Reid, it had been simple: a purely intellectual admiration. The potentials of blood transfusion fascinated Edgar. He paid sharp attention to any new research on the subject, devouring information and ideas as quickly as he could get his hands on them. Out of all the studies he’d pored over, Dr. Reid’s work had impressed him so much he’d had his entire staff read it, and enthused about the man for a long while. Though Dorothy, being a professional, never complained, it had become evident after some time that Edgar’s showering praise upon Dr. Reid was wearing on her patience. She must have heard the same information paraphrased a hundred times by the time Edgar learned the doctor was hosting a seminar. Of course, Edgar leapt at the opportunity to attend.
It was seeing Dr. Reid in person that added the first complication in Edgar’s feelings towards him. The cause was simple. All Edgar had known of the doctor before attending the seminar was his work, which showcased his intelligence and ability as a doctor. When Dr. Reid stepped onto the podium, Edgar realized quite suddenly that the object of his admiration was a man—a handsome, charismatic man with a dry wit and piercing eyes, a living, breathing man.
Edgar had been aware for quite some time that he was a... confirmed bachelor, so to speak, but he’d never become so easily infatuated with a man in such a short time. It was, of course, ridiculous, but nonetheless he rushed to try and introduce himself the moment the opportunity arose. Dr. Reid greeted him warmly enough, responding humbly to his compliments, but soon Edgar found himself lost among the crowd of other enthusiastic scientists. He left the seminar certain he’d made no lasting impression, and quickly became irritated at the fact that it mattered so much to him.
This did not dissuade him from attending two more seminars hosted by Dr. Reid; infatuation aside, the doctor’s work was groundbreaking, and Edgar learned a great deal that he could put into practice at Pembroke. To try and dissuade himself from anything other than an intellectual interest, Edgar did not attempt another conversation with Dr. Reid. A part of him, one he refused to acknowledge, wanted desperately to know if Edgar would be recognized; another part worried just as desperately that he would have been forgotten. Edgar, with all his conscious mind, could not understand why he cared so much.
Then came the war, and the flu, and there was much else to think of other than handsome, intelligent doctors. And then came Jonathan, stumbling into Edgar’s room one fateful night—covered in blood and unrecognizable, past a dim sense that Edgar might have seen the strange vampire somewhere before. After Jonathan had left and Edgar had time to wonder about him further, the sense became a suspicion, which solidified the moment he saw Jonathan extract a sample of blood from the corpse of William Bishop with surgical precision.
Edgar could not say exactly what he felt realizing that the doctor he’d so admired had become a vampire. He made light of it, in part hoping to assuage Jonathan’s doubts and fears about the situation, in part to try and alleviate his own. Jonathan referred to his new state as an 'affliction’—Edgar, though wise enough to distrust vampires, did not have as strongly negative a view. He’d seen himself that Jonathan had saved Sean Hampton. Many men succumbed to the thirst for blood and became monsters after being turned, but Jonathan had been—was—a renowned doctor. Edgar couldn’t say how much of his reasoning was entirely logical, but he was sure that the impulse to save lives, to heal and not harm, remained intact.
And of course, there was the matter of his… attraction to Dr. Reid. Though he’d endeavored to bury it, though time had passed and so much had happened, Edgar found himself becoming aware of it once again on that boat ride, and couldn’t help himself as that old enthusiasm bubbled up. There were even more reasons that the feeling was ridiculous, now that it had resurfaced. Still, it persisted. Once Jonathan had changed into clean clothes and his initial shock and confusion had left him, he proved as handsome as ever, his sense of humor was still intact. Edgar couldn’t help but wonder what effect being turned had had on Dr. Reid's charisma. Really, he couldn’t help but think about everything he knew about vampires in the new context of Jonathan. Edgar’s interest in vampires had been perhaps strong, already, before meeting Jonathan as one. He had wondered, before, if being 'embraced’—an elegant term for such a horrific act—hurt. He’d been fascinated by the idea of being turned. But it had never passed over into the realm of something other than intellectual.
It seemed that when it came to Jonathan that line was inevitably crossed. The less said about Edgar’s dreams, the better. He found himself awakening in a cold sweat, choking with fear, alarmingly frequently—though perhaps worse were the instances he awoke conflicted about the appropriate response to the images his mind had conjured up while sleeping, and continued to conjure once awake.
Edgar’s new proximity to Jonathan both made him more determined to quash his inconvenient emotions and made the task impossible. He was constantly aware of Jonathan’s presence: of the finer details of his face, of his interactions with the patients and staff at Pembroke, of being watched with those piercing eyes. It was impossible that Jonathan hadn’t noticed something, but Edgar hoped madly anyway. Surely most of it could be explained away, and people were eager to turn a blind eye, consciously or subconsciously, to people like Edgar. Of course it was too much to think that Jonathan could reciprocate that awful, confusing infatuation. It was already a stretch to call him a friend, though Edgar did so regardless. Idiocy, nothing less.
And yet. Too often to be waved off as paranoia, Edgar could feel that he was being watched, sending shivers down his spine. He could imagine clearly those eyes, but he could never tell what it was he felt. Jonathan talked to him, openly, honestly. After all, Edgar was one of few people who knew what was now Jonathan’s greatest secret, and perhaps the only one who could be relied upon as a friend. Lady Ashbury, of course, was no less trustworthy than Edgar and had more experience, but she could prove—elusive. Edgar could always be found.
Something was troubling Jonathan. It was both obvious and a mystery as to what it was. Of course it was some aspect of vampirism, but what exactly? Was he troubled by the implications of immortality? Was he remembering the experience of his rising from the dead? Was he struggling with that base urge that defined all vampires, the eternal thirst, the hunger?
“Why do you trust me?” Jonathan asked one night in Edgar’s office, apropos of nothing.
Edgar did not look up from the research paper he was reading. “Pardon?”
Jonathan’s agitation began to seep into his voice. He stepped forward as he spoke, leading Edgar to look up in concern. “You gave me a position as a physician, in a hospital full of easy prey—”
As Jonathan spoke, Edgar rested his elbows on his desk, straightening in his seat before interrupting. “You’ve done nothing but your job, Jonathan. More than that, even.”
“So far.” Those two words carried—a threat? Certainly something, judging by the way Jonathan glanced briefly to the floor before returning his gaze to Edgar. “But you know what I am,” he all but snarled.
“You’re a doctor, renowned throughout the country for your work.”
“Others may think that. You know better, Edgar.” Jonathan stepped towards Edgar’s desk once again before placing one hand upon it, leaning forward so he and Edgar were mere inches apart. “I am a monster. Until now, I may have behaved myself. Hidden my true nature. But sooner or later—”
“You’re a good man, Jonathan, but even if you weren’t, I’m no fool. There’s always people around, in a hospital, and I keep track of you and what you’re doing.” Edgar spoke calmly, though he found himself becoming uncomfortably aware of his heartbeat with Jonathan so agitated and so near to him.
Jonathan drew back briefly and chuckled, a joyless sound. “You keep track of me,” he repeated, as if it were a poor joke. The next thing Edgar knew Jonathan’s hands were gripping his collar, drawing him even closer than before, forcing him to stand. He could feel the puff of Jonathan’s breath on his skin, could see clearly the points of his teeth as he bared them in a mockery of a smile. His eyes widened, realizing their proximity. “And what could you do, if I succumbed to temptation? You forget your place, mortal. I can hear your heart. I can see it beat—so fast, like a frightened rabbit. I could tear your throat out with my teeth and be far from this place before anyone would realize.”
Hesitant, knowing the situation was volatile, hyper aware of their nearness to each other, Edgar brought his hands up and placed them slowly on top of Jonathan’s. “I don’t fear you, Jonathan.” As he spoke it, slow and clear, he knew it was true, despite the hammering of his heart. Jonathan’s grip loosened. “You may doubt yourself,” Edgar continued, when no response seemed forthcoming. “You may struggle. That is the true indication of a good man—I know you would not hurt a soul without good reason. It would kill you.”
An unidentifiable emotion flashed briefly across Jonathan’s face before his eyes narrowed with determination. “If you really don’t fear me,” he asked, his doubt palpable, “why does your heart race? You can lie to me readily, doctor; your body cannot.”
Edgar tried desperately not to consider any unintentional implications of Jonathan’s choice of words and failed miserably, suddenly glad Jonathan could only really sense his heart and that there was a desk between them. He could hardly confess his… feelings, not in this situation—not ever, preferably—and he hardly knew how to, so he had to somehow divert Jonathan’s attention. “You’ve given me a turn, Jonathan, I must admit.” As gently as he could, Edgar tried to pry Jonathan’s hands from his collar and met no resistance, bringing them down to the desk. “It’s a morbid matter you’ve decided to make conversation about, tonight, and you sprung it on me suddenly. What brought this on?”
Jonathan turned his gaze downwards, and Edgar realized abruptly that he hadn’t let go of Jonathan’s hands. He was about to apologize before it also dawned on him that Jonathan was not moving away, only staring. Fortunate, then, that Jonathan wasn’t looking at his face; he was certain he was becoming flushed, not entirely due to his agitation.
Edgar couldn't say how long they remained in that position, couldn't identify the emotions on Jonathan's face or the ones he himself was feeling. He felt certain that if he moved a muscle whatever kept them there would shatter. He felt like an idiot for it, but he didn't want that to happen.
Finally, Jonathan said, “It’s not your concern, my apologies for startling you,” and moved away, freeing his hands. Edgar felt his fingers twitch briefly at the resulting absence and gulped nervously.
“As your friend, it is my concern. You’re clearly very distressed. You can’t just brush it off and ignore your emotions, it will only get worse.” Edgar was terribly aware of his own hypocrisy as he spoke. “I won’t force you to speak of anything you don’t wish to, but you must know I am willing to listen.”
Jonathan seemed to look right through him, seemed to want desperately to say something for what felt like an eternity, a weighty moment that made Edgar hold his breath, kept him from looking away. Jonathan took one small step towards Edgar’s desk and stopped.
A decision was made in that moment, as Jonathan broke his stare and looked to the window. “It will be dawn soon, doctor.” The usage of the title rather than Edgar’s name cemented the rejection. “You ought to sleep." He turned back to face Edgar with a sense of finality. "We will not speak more of this tonight.” The implication, of course, being that they could talk another night, an unspoken promise Edgar knew would not prove true. Jonathan left his office, slipping through the doorway without a sound.
In the resulting silence, Edgar sighed and slumped into his seat, one hand rising to cover his forehead. His heart was still racing, he could feel its beat throughout his entire body. He felt—though he searched for the words, he couldn’t find them. Over and over, he replayed in his mind those few breathless seconds when he was sure Jonathan was on the cusp of true, vulnerable honesty. What would he have said, had he not hesitated at the last moment? Could Edgar have done something to make a change?
It took him a long time to find sleep, that night, and it was restless. He awoke again and again, different versions of that scene unfolding in his head. They had been so close to each other. A matter of centimeters and their faces would have touched. His hands had been on Jonathan’s for… how long? Jonathan hadn’t moved away, once he’d noticed. If Edgar had moved closer—if the desk had not been between them, if it had been truly, only them—
Each time he awoke, he was sweating. It was not because of fear.