Work Text:
He’s home late from work, again. It’s a combination of things—Bruce’s return to Gotham signalled a complete reshuffling of the company, and there’d been months spent preparing for it. Now, four months later, it was still hectic, and though Lucius was eager to help, he could admit it was taxing. Not even to mention his role in Bruce’s other activities.
The chaos, the falling asleep at his desk, swamped with work—it’s not unlike the period after Thomas and Martha’s deaths. A period he would really rather not relive. So, he set a hard limit, going home at 9PM no matter what. When it came to actually repairing his sleep schedule, it remains a futile effort. In the years after reunification, Lucius had invested in moving into the closer suburbs, neat and sprawling. It took longer to get to and from work—but the extra space was enough, valuable when Gotham City itself often felt suffocating.
His watch reads 9:46 when he finally pulls into his driveway. He stands on his doorstep for a few seconds, taking in the silence, cold air pressing down on his skin. Slowly, he brings out his keys—only to realize they’re unnecessary.
His front door is unlocked, and Lucius pauses in place. He mentally retraces his steps throughout the day, and, no, he definitely remembers locking his door this morning, and each morning before. It’s not something he would openly brag about, but Lucius is well aware of the near-perfection of his memory, usually as helpful as anything can be, but doing absolutely nothing to soothe his worries at the moment.
He steels himself, and, gaze flitting around his surroundings, enters the foyer, whispering something akin to a prayer under his breath.
***
Whether his prayer worked is questionable, as Lucius realizes the source of his worries almost immediately after entering the house, manifesting in the form of Edward Nygma waiting for him. Really, seeing Ed isn’t anything unexpected. If anything, Lucius is just surprised it took this long for their paths to cross again.
There are unexpected factors at play here, though—one, the fact Ed is currently fast asleep on his couch, seemingly contorted into the most uncomfortable position possible. He’s in his full Riddler outfit, a full Riddler outfit, as he’s branched out from the signature green suit lately, and is almost put-together, except for his unkempt hair, longer than it had been hanging from that lamppost. It’s almost endearing how peaceful he looks in sleep. Almost, Lucius emphasizes. Two, the fact Lucius can’t bring himself to engage, instead hanging up his unused keys and turning to enter the kitchen, only looking over his shoulder a few times. He flicks on the coffee pot.
Halfway through ripping open a packet of sugar, he hears shuffling from a few feet away. He doesn’t turn around.
“You’re late,” Ed says, voice carefully monotone to stamp out grogginess. “Tremendously rude.”
“I’m allowed to be late to my own home, Ed.” Lucius says, sparing one glance at Ed, met with a blank gaze. He realizes his mistake a second too late, expecting the almost-familiar growl of I’m the Riddler—but nothing comes.
And the Riddler certainly has made a name for himself in the months since Lucius saw him hanging from that lamppost. Lucius isn’t exactly sure how Ed had managed to stay out of Arkham after his escape, though a voice at the back of his head tells him it probably had something to do with Penguin, which—he doesn’t know how to feel about that. But he’d taken advantage of the opportunity. The papers report the Riddler’s romps through museums and banks and the occasional jewelry store, empty threats to the GCPD and fights with Bruce that were a bit too publicized for anyone’s liking. Anyone but Ed, probably. Lucius reads every article, disconcerted. He spins a spoon around in his coffee.
“Ever the workaholic,” Ed says, suppressing a yawn, and suddenly moves to Lucius’ side, invading his personal space in a way that’s familiar. Lucius doesn’t know how to feel about the familiarity, or the way it makes him feel vaguely warm. “I apologize, Foxy.”
Distracted by the long unused nickname, Lucius pauses mid-sip. “You—apologize for what?” He gets the sudden worry that it’ll be something related to the rather nasty spat Bruce had gotten into the past week with Ed and Ivy Pepper (someone whose existence serves as perpetually humiliating for Lucius), and that Ed has made the connection between him and Bruce’s nocturnal persona, but, no, he couldn’t have.
Couldn’t he?
“I was neglecting our connection,” Ed says, faux-melancholic, and adjusts his green-tinted glasses. “Ignoring your existence. Not on purpose, I promise.” He waves a gloved hand through the air, reverting to his normal mannerisms as the sleep wears off. Lucius hides his exhale. “And really, I did want to see you, but,” he trails off.
“Well,” Lucius pauses, “that’s quite alright.”
Ed is oddly calm, and Lucius doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what the game is, or how to begin playing it. He doesn’t know how to navigate a conversation with a man he hasn’t talked to in years, or what he’s about to get involved in. He’s tired.
“Sure,” Ed mutters, suspicious, and leans in until their faces are close—Lucius fights the urge to lean away. It’d probably be taken as an insult. “Whatever you say.”
“Ed,” Lucius sighs, “what are you doing here?”
“Hm?” Ed says, looking up from where he’d been staring down at the mug in Lucius’ hands. The GCPD emblem is printed against the side, dark blue, a parting gift from Harvey when he’d left the precinct to return to Wayne Enterprises—suddenly, Lucius wants to cover it with something, a napkin, or his hands. “Oh, yes,” Ed says, as something dawns on his face, lighting a spark behind his eyes. “I have a mission, top secret, in fact.” He grins, and it’s one of those full, so very Ed grins, wide enough it cracks through his face, opens another side of the many-faced man. Lucius wants to look away. “You’ll be let in on the secret soon enough, though. Don’t worry.”
“And I take it that being late interfered with this mission?”
“No,” Ed looks off to the side, pondering. “Not really.” Then the smile returns. “You see, Foxy, I’m very flexible.”
“I see.” Lucius turns to look at him now, “and who exactly gave you this mission?” He tries to remain neutral. He doesn’t think Ed would do anything to him, but he had gotten pistol-whipped in that car, something he shouldn’t forget—even if Edward Nygma always has a way of lowering his defenses.
“Well, myself, of course,” Ed laughs, then squints. “Or, technically, they did.”
“They,” Lucius starts, bracing himself, close to gritting his teeth, “as in?”
“Oh,” Ed says, “my dutiful captors at the asylum. Obviously.” He smiles, and it’s very different from its predecessors.
Lucius forces himself to keep Ed’s gaze, not making the effort to hide his exhale. “Ed,” he repeats, more of a sigh than a statement.
It had to come up, he knows. Ten years, ten, hard to ignore, harder to forget. Reunification was messy, and Jim was on the warpath rebuilding his torn down city, and—Lucius was not involved. He wasn’t, and by the time the joint arrests had been finalized, nothing could be done.
He doesn't want to think about it, shouldn’t, really—Ed in Arkham. The place anyone who knew anything knew was just a place to put whatever, whoever, you didn’t want to deal with, rehabilitation as a cover—cut out the unsightly parts of Gotham, and deposit them on the steps of Arkham Asylum for safekeeping.
A memory resurfaces, uninvited. A get-together at the manor; him, Lee, and Alfred. Lee, laughing about something or other, a newspaper on the counter in front of her. Lucius behind her, absentmindedly reading it over her shoulder, a headline catching his eye. ARKHAM RIOT, 4 Inmates Dead—Warden Holds Press Conference to Address Concerns. Lee had looked up at him, then down to where he was staring. Her laughter had died at once, and by the time Alfred came back from answering the phone, she’d turned the newspaper over, headline pressed against the counter. That was three years in.
“What?” Ed says, gesturing to Lucius’ face, where he’s undoubtedly betraying something. “I’m not upset,” he laughs, breathy, rising up from the bottom of his throat to envelop Lucius’ senses. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just saying—I had many, many things to catch up on, so I couldn’t dedicate that much time to this particular mission. Just a few months, but I’m here now.”
There was a time, after the Riddler’s debut, where Lucius had developed some—complex. That he, born out of the affinity between them, would be the one to help Ed. He’d witnessed the killing spree, a cry for help seen by all but acknowledged by few, then everything had gone by too fast. Frozen, dead, and then used as a puppet. Lucius felt like they were always almost forming a connection, but at no point did he feel comfortable treating Ed like some sort of pet project of salvation. He didn’t want to view Ed as a project, anyway; it stewed a disconnect that was unwise for Lucius to engage in. No, it wasn’t a project, or an experiment—Ed was a person (and a criminal, a voice, sounding like an amalgam of Jim and Harvey and the more logical side of Lucius’ own mind, adds) and despite everything, Lucius had felt like he could save him, as cliché as that was.
Now, when Ed has settled so smoothly into the persona Lucius dreaded, standing right across from him but feeling a hundred miles away, Lucius gets the sinking feeling that his window of opportunity is decidedly up on that front.
Because Lucius has always thought he had a specific talent at getting through to Ed, but what could he even say anymore? Sorry you spent a quarter of your life rotting in an asylum and nobody cared?
“Yes,” Lucius responds, belated. “You are.”
“It was an incentive,” Ed continues, talking over him. “To, like, get better or whatever.” He makes a brief, childish gagging sound, and Lucius frowns. “Make a list of things you’d like to do if you ever got out.” He pauses, considering. “Things to strive towards—I actually did make one, because what else was I supposed to do? Anyway, it’s your lucky day, Mr. Fox,” he grins. “Number three.”
“Number thr—”
Ed kisses him. Or, he comes close to kissing him. It’s chaste, enough that it’s closer to a performance of a kiss than anything else, and Lucius realizes after a moment that he’s waiting. Ed, who had been overflowing with energy, goes completely still and is about to break away, when—
One half of Lucius asks a very reasonable question here. Namely, what the hell are you doing?
I’ve had a long day, the other half reasons, and kisses back.
Ed gives a quiet gasp against Lucius’ lips, and his kiss still isn't as … forceful as Lucius would expect, but it’s real. His arms grasp Lucius’ shoulders, and he presses his lips harder against his, tongue sliding into Lucius’ mouth. After a few moments—forever, not long enough—Ed breaks the kiss, letting a small sound that’s close to a—whimper? escape his mouth, a choking sound from the back of Ed’s throat succeeding it.
Ed immediately rips his gaze from Lucius, looking shell-shocked for a second before breaking into a full grin, an exaggeration of the ones he’d been slipping in and out of all night.
Lucius stares at him, eyes wide, taken aback in a way he hasn’t been in years. Which means something, considering he’s spent the past few months getting oddly specific requests to design grappling hooks that can resist freeze rays.
“Ed,” Lucius breathes, and he doesn’t know what else to say. What was that? We’re doing this, now? What does this have to do with—
“Number three,” Ed says, nods, then makes a motion with his pointer finger like he’s checking a box. “Kiss Lucius Fox.” He giggles, high and giddy, and Lucius’ tries to keep his own mouth from hanging open as realization dawns. Ed’s whole demeanor has shifted, something close to how he’d been the day they investigated Haven together, alight with joy at the idea of being told he did a good job.
Lucius thinks, and he’ll probably regret this very notion, that this is a version of Ed he can work with.
Ed looks at him once and then walks forward, green pant leg brushing against Lucius. He grabs Lucius’ mug, now abandoned on the counter, and lifts it to his mouth. Lucius opens his mouth to reprimand him, but doesn’t.
“I hate coffee,” Ed says, smiling, and then takes a sip, one finger tracing the GCPD’s logo. He waves his free arm upwards, and something falls from his sleeve—then, there’s a sudden, almost gentle pop sound.
The room fills with smoke immediately, white and blinding. It dispels fairly quickly, but Lucius leans on the counter for support, eyes burning. He blinks away the sting, watching everything come into focus slowly. Ed’s absence is clear from the minute he opens his eyes.
The first thing he sees is the shattered mug on his floor, surrounded by an ocean of green glitter. Lucius sighs.
Mission accomplished, apparently.
***
Lucius goes to work early, and is less than surprised to find a green and purple envelope on his desk. He slowly opens it, bracing himself for being sprayed with something that would probably be harmless, but definitely irritating. Instead, he finds a simple note.
Sorry about the mug — R.