Chapter Text
Christmas in the orphanage had been unpredictable.
Some years, there was nothing. But on some years there would be a small present waiting for Edward under the scrawny tree. One year there was a book—The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe—another, all the children received a chocolate angel in a cardboard box with a little cellophane window in front. And then one year, his favorite present: a jigsaw puzzle which, when completed, showed a map of Gotham. There’d been several pieces missing, but he’d put it together and taken it apart over and over, lost in the deep and pleasurable haze that accompanied puzzle-solving, his brain purring in satisfaction at the neat and logical way the edges clicked together, forming streets and intersections that he recognized. A world that made sense, that could be comprehended. It gave him a sense of power. He would put his finger on the spot where he knew the orphanage was located (even though it wasn't marked in the map) and think, Here I am.
At a certain point, though, Edward had soured on the entire concept of the holiday. People were always expected to be cheerful around Christmas, even if they didn’t feel cheerful. Even if they had nothing to celebrate. The jingling bells of mall Santas, the incessant playing of Christmas music on the radio, the slick, expensive toys advertised in every store window, the frenzied rush to buy, buy, buy, the city tarted up in its cheap and gaudy decorations…the contrast between decadence and poverty became all the more glaring.
It was funny. Stories about Christmas often centered around economic hardship. A struggling accountant whose miser of a boss refused to give him time off for the holiday, the loving couple forced to sell their most prized possessions so they could afford gifts for each other, a banker unable to keep his business afloat during the Depression, driven to contemplating suicide so that his family could claim his life insurance policy…
But by the end, no matter the tale, everything was wrapped up with a neat little bow, everyone learned a valuable lesson, and yet nothing really changed. It was all vaguely sickening, the way the central unfairness of the world was repackaged into something palatable and sweet. It made Edward want to run down the street smashing in store-windows with a crowbar.
And now here he was, decorating a Christmas tree.
He knelt in the Wayne Manor living room and opened another box of ornaments. He would’ve expected the Wayne family ornaments to be glittering masterpieces befitting the enormous, stately pine in the corner of the enormous and stately home, but the ornaments were a rather motley assortment. There was a tin angel with flaking paint that looked like a relic from the nineteen-sixties—“My dad had that once ever since he was a kid,” Bruce remarked—a plastic Rudolph with a dopey expression, a Garfield ornament that looked like something out of an ancient Happy Meal. And…
“What is this?” He lifted out an ornament made of red and green construction paper covered in glued-on pieces of macaroni and glitter.
“Oh,” Bruce said. “I made that in second grade. I think it’s supposed to be, uh…a spaceship?”
“A race car,” Alfred said.
“Oh yeah. I was obsessed with cars.”
“‘Was’?”
“I like cars a normal amount now.”
There was another ornament featuring a small photo of the entire Wayne family, Alfred included, in an oval-shaped silver frame with the words CHRISTMAS, 1995 on it. Bruce was maybe eight or nine years old, beaming broadly at the camera. Thomas and Martha radiated warmth and pride. The perfect family.
Of course that perfection was an illusion. All the secrets he’d uncovered about the Waynes’ flitted through his head—Martha’s battles with debilitating depression, Thomas’ desperate attempts to hide it from the world. Even if they’d sheltered Bruce from the worst of it, Bruce had probably noticed when something was wrong. Children were perceptive about such things. It had certainly affected him. Edward wondered suddenly if this was difficult for him, unboxing the past, seeing all these relics of the time before his parents' death. But if it was, Bruce didn't show it.
Boo was batting around a shiny red sphere. Edward rescued the ornament from her and hung it up in a bare-looking patch of the tree. Alfred was hanging up garlands of faux-pine studded with tiny white lights.
Were they going to exchange gifts this year? What would he even get for Bruce? Bruce had everything.
“Anyone want eggnog?” Alfred asked. "I was thinking about whipping some up."
“Still full from dinner,” Bruce said. “But maybe later. Oh, hey.” He lifted out another ornament, a pair of carved wooden birds. "These were my mom's favorite."
"Two turtledoves," Alfred said. "I remember."
Bruce put them back in the box and lowered his head.
"Bruce," Edward said. "Are you..."
"Yeah." He smiled. "Fine."
Should Edward try to comfort him? Or would lingering on the moment just make it worse?
"Oh, hey," Bruce said. "This Garfield ornament. I remember this, too. Let's see if the battery still works." He squeezed it. It wheezed in a faint, crackling, distorted voice: "I loooooove lasagna."
"I'm amazed there's any life in it left at all," Alfred said. "Though it sounds like it needs to be put out of its misery."
Edward picked up a metal cross-shaped ornament and turned it over in his fingers. An entire history, in these boxes. What must it be like, having that history? Memories of family Christmases? He wondered which was worse, having parents and losing them or never having them in the first place. He wondered if a question like that was even answerable. His thumb slid slowly up and down the length of the cross ornament. It was heavy. Real metal.
The Cross, an implement of torture and execution. A curious thing to have as a Christmas ornament. Even if the holiday itself was about birth, about hope, everyone knew where the story was going. The baby in the manger would grow up to receive a death sentence from the corrupt authorities. Even if Edward didn’t believe in any of that, the story had come from somewhere. At some point in history, there had been a real man, one who had died in terror and agony, and who probably hadn’t been lucky enough to awaken three days later.
Edward could feel a dull burn of pain in his stomach. Over the past few days, he’d been halving the dosage of his pain medication, slowly weaning himself off the pills. He didn’t want to become addicted. The pain level was bearable. But it was still a distraction. It made him conscious of the vulnerability of his own body; his mortality. How close he’d come to slipping out of this world altogether. He thought about the slithery coils of his own intestines nestled behind the wall of his abdomen—imagined the gloved, bloodstained fingers of the surgeon probing around in there. He still had to be careful about food. Overtaxing his guts brought bouts of nausea and vomiting.
The surgical staples had been removed not long ago. That had hurt. And he’d found himself thinking, as he often did, about his victims, about how they had begged and pleaded and wept—about the strange intimacy of torture. Destroying their bodies, reducing them to suffering animals, had made him conscious of their humanity. They had not been rich men, in those moments. Just men, composed of the same blood, skin and nerves as Edward himself.
“Edward? You okay?”
He looked up, meeting Bruce’s gaze. “Yes. Why?”
“You’ve been quiet, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Edward looked away. “Just…thinking.”
"About what?"
"Christmas."
* * *
Once they finished decorating the tree, Edward retired to his room, saying he needed to rest. Bruce and Alfred remained.
“I’m worried about him,” Bruce said. “Lately, it feels like he’s not quite…here. I know he tends to disassociate when he’s overwhelmed.”
“He’s been through hell.” Alfred sat in his chair, Boo in his lap. He absently stroked her dark fur. “Healing doesn’t happen overnight. As you know firsthand. Be patient with him.”
Bruce gripped the wooden birds ornament in one hand. “I just wonder if there’s something more I should be doing. I don’t want to push him. But I know he has trouble asking for help, too. Even when he needs it. It’s…frustrating.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I recall a certain moody adolescent who, when he was having a difficult night, liked to barricade himself in his room and turn up his music until the house vibrated.”
Bruce flushed.
The tree glistened with lights and tinsel. The ornaments caught the glint of the firelight. It had been so long since they’d had a tree. It stirred a confusing mixture of feelings in him.
"What about you, Bruce?"
"Me? Oh. I'm doing okay." He'd wondered how it would affect him, taking all this stuff out. And a few times, he'd found himself fighting a lump in his throat. But overall, it'd hurt less than he expected. It was more a relief than anything. Having it all out in the open. Facing the memories, finding he was strong enough now to look them in the eye. Of course, he'd been distracted too, trying to get a bead on Edward's emotional weather.
“If you’re worried,” Alfred said. “Go and talk to him.”
* * *
Edward’s road to recovery had not been smooth. Twice after his release from the hospital, he’d developed an infection and fever—not uncommon after major surgeries—and had to be brought back to Gotham General to spend the night under the watchful eye of the doctors and nurses, hooked up to an IV filled with antibiotics.
Bruce had spent the night with him each time, watching him shiver and sweat and moan in a delirious half-sleep. Edward kept whispering over and over that he was cold, but the nurses had warned Bruce not to put any extra blankets on him.
“His body temperature is already dangerously high,” one had said. “Even if he feels cold, more heat is the last thing he needs.”
“He’s suffering,” Bruce had said through clenched teeth. “You’re telling me to just let him shiver? Aren’t you supposed to keep someone warm during a fever?”
“During a less severe fever, yes, spiking the body’s temperature can be a good thing. It can help kill off harmful microorganisms and stimulate the immune system. But he’s already at one-oh-five now. If his temperature goes up any higher, there’s a real risk of brain damage.”
It had been agonizing, listening to Edward plead for an extra blanket and being unable to give it to him. He knew how much Edward hated the cold. As a child he’d spent so many winters shivering in that poorly insulated, drafty orphanage.
But his fever had finally broken, and he’d come home again. He’d promptly taken a hot bath and then cocooned himself in several layers of blankets.
“I’m not going back to that hospital again,” he’d declared.
“But if you get another infection—”
“I don’t care.”
Fortunately, for the past week, he’d been stable, and every day he seemed stronger. He was able to walk around the house normally now; he fed the cats and scooped out their litter, despite Bruce and Alfred’s insistence that they could handle any and all chores for the foreseeable future. “I don’t like feeling useless,” Edward kept saying.
* * *
Bruce hovered outside the door to Edward’s room. He found himself thinking of the time when Edward was his captive, the mixture of excitement and unease that always swept over Bruce when he went to visit the man he’d then thought of as the Riddler—that sly, playful, unpredictable creature. Manipulative and cruel one moment, childlike and affection-starved the next. Back then, Bruce had feared that his vulnerability was all part of some greater act, a scheme to win Bruce’s trust and escape. He knew better now.
Yet Edward was still an enigma to him in so many ways.
Bruce knocked.
“Come in,” Edward said.
Bruce opened it and peeked in. Edward was sitting up in bed, his back propped against a stack of pillows, his laptop open in his lap. “Just finishing up some work,” he said.
It would be another week or two, at least, before he would be able to return to the office, but at Edward’s request, KTMJ had started sending him documents so he could assist with audits from home. He was working almost fulltime, now.
Bruce approached and sat on the edge of the bed. “They’ve been putting a lot of responsibility on you,” he remarked. “Considering you’re still in recovery.”
“I did ask for it.” His pale, spider-quick fingers darted over the keys.
“You don’t have to keep working for KTMJ, you know.”
A brief pause. “I know.”
"I mean it. If you want to quit—”
“You already have five idle, spoiled cats lounging around the house. You don’t need a sixth.”
“You know I wouldn't mind. If you like being an accountant, obviously you don’t have to give it up, but—” he paused. “Do you?”
Edward stared at the screen, rows of figures reflected in his glasses, flitting downward as he scrolled through them, fingertip stroking the laptop's touchpad. “I don’t know if I enjoy the work, exactly. But I’m good at it. I’m very thorough.” He highlighted a few numbers with taps of the keys. Bruce watched his eyes moving in little flickers, focusing on different points. “I see things that other people don’t. If I gave it up, I think I’d feel like I was missing something.”
Bruce didn’t know much about accounting, but he knew enough to know that Edward’s work was dizzyingly complex. It took not just an obsessive attention to detail, but an encyclopedic knowledge of tax law. He’d always known Edward was smart, of course. But listening to him talk about it made Bruce aware of just how formidably intelligent he was. His brain was a highly specialized computer. A rare, precious jewel.
“You could always work for Wayne Enterprises,” he said. “I could double your salary. Triple it.”
Edward glanced up at him, then slowly closed the laptop. “That would make you my boss, wouldn’t it?”
Bruce paused, then said, “Yeah, I, uh. I guess then I’d be sleeping with a subordinate. That might be an issue.”
Edward pushed his laptop aside, leaned back and folded his arms behind his back, a little smile sitting on his lips. “That does sound thrillingly unethical. I'm almost tempted. Though, of course…I’m already quite dependent on you, aren’t I?” He gazed steadily at Bruce. “I suppose it wouldn’t change things much.”
It was hard to read his tone. Bruce shifted. “Well, whatever they’re paying you at KTMJ, it’s not enough.”
He was wearing one of Bruce’s old Nirvana t-shirts again. Come to think of it, Bruce was wearing one of Edward’s old Radiohead shirts—he’d found it in his closet earlier and put it on without thinking. Their wardrobes had started to blur into each other.
“It’s not like I really need the money, anyway,” Edward said. “I don’t have to worry about rent, now, after all.” Edward’s gaze drifted away. “My coworkers are a lot nicer to me since the incident, though. I’ve had a few work meetings over Zoom. They ask how I’m feeling. They praise me. They smile. Before this…it’s not as though they were cruel. But I could always feel their discomfort with me, the way they were keeping their distance even when they tried to be polite, and now…” He let out a stiff laugh. “It’s uncanny, really. And all I had to do was get stabbed in the gut.”
He said it lightly, but Bruce’s chest tightened at the memory. His hand drifted to Edward’s stomach and touched the spot just beneath and to the left of his scar. “How’s your pain level?”
“It hurts. But that’s to be expected. Nothing I can’t deal with.”
“If it starts to get worse—”
“I know. I’ll tell you.” His voice was a little distant. Detached. “I’ll even go back to the hospital, if I have to. Though I’d really rather not. Last time, I kept hallucinating that I was back in the orphanage.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it. There were so many things they needed to talk about, but whenever they were alone together like this, his mind went blank. And when he did ask a direct question about Edward’s emotional state, Edward would give evasive answers. Even now, a part of him felt inaccessible. Walled off. Maybe this was normal and Bruce just had unreasonable expectations. Even if he’d dated before, in so many ways, this felt like his first real relationship.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said. “How’s the therapy going?”
Edward’s gaze flicked toward him.
“You don’t have to tell me what you’re talking about, obviously,” Bruce said. “Just—is it helping? If not, we can find someone else. I want you to feel comfortable.”
“I’ve only had two sessions so far.”
Bruce nodded. “Too early to say, I guess.”
After another pause, Edward said, “She’s kind. And she humors me when I ask her riddles or play guessing games. It’s easier for me to talk about certain things when I make it into a game. But I don’t dislike it—being examined. I’m vain, you know. I like talking about myself, my thoughts. I like it when people pay attention to my mind and how it works.”
“I don’t think that’s vanity. Everyone wants to be seen and understood. That’s just being human.”
“Maybe.” Still, he didn’t make eye contact. “If you’re wondering what I talk about…I talk about what happened at the fundraiser, of course. About Maria.” After a brief pause, he added, “And you.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Mostly, I talk about you.”
Bruce’s pulse quickened slightly.
“If you must know, she’s the one who recommended that I keep my job at KTMJ. She thinks it’s important that I maintain some sort of identity outside of you.” He smiled again, stiffly. “I guess I come across as a little obsessed. I can only imagine what she’d think if she saw my old apartment. All those pictures of you on my wall with the eyes scratched out.”
“I always wondered. Why did you scratch out the eyes?”
“Part of it was anger. Part of it was self-consciousness. Your eyes made me feel naked.” His face turned aside, toward the wall. "Even before we met, you had such power over me."
“You’re my world, too,” Bruce said quietly. “You know that, right?”
For a moment, Edward was silent. The tip of his tongue crept out, moistening his lower lip. It trembled slightly. “Bruce. Can I sleep in your bed tonight? With you?”
Bruce’s already rapid pulse sped a little more. Was this...were they...? “Sure.” His voice came out a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat. “My bed is a lot bigger than this one.”
“This bed is fine. It’s just…I’ve been having bad dreams.”
“Oh.” Bruce turned his face away. Shame flooded him. His first thought had been of sex.
Edward was healing. But still so fragile. For the past few weeks, Bruce had been afraid to initiate any intimacy beyond kissing or cuddling. Yet his mind kept straying to that conversation they’d had on the night of the fundraiser.
I want to show you what a filthy slut I can be, Edward had whispered into his ear. I want to unlock my mind for you.
But of course Edward wasn’t ready for that. He’d just been through one of the most traumatic experiences of his life. And considering how many traumatic experiences he’d gone through, that was saying something. More than anything, he needed comfort. He needed to know that he was safe.
“Of course you can sleep with me,” Bruce said softly. He touched the back of Edward’s hand, then slowly curled his fingers around it. “That’s always an option.” He leaned down and softly kissed his parted lips. He felt Edward's breath hitch, but his lips remained motionless, passive and yielding under pressure.
* * *
An hour later—after they’d showered, played a few rounds of Tetris and brushed their teeth—they headed into Bruce’s room. They hadn’t shared this bed since before the night at the fundraiser. That felt almost like another lifetime, now.
They slid underneath the covers together. Bruce started to reach for the lamp, but Edward said, “Leave it on. Just for a few minutes.”
Bruce hesitated, then nodded. They looked at each other in the soft amber light. Bruce could spend hours like this—just looking at Edward’s face. He found himself counting Edward’s short, light brown eyelashes, but he quickly lost track.
“Have you talked to Bella Reál lately?” Edward asked.
The question caught Bruce off guard. “Not since the fundraiser. Why?”
“You were planning to work with her. On the Gotham Housing Project. And other things.”
“I haven’t talked to her directly, but I did get a message from her people, asking me if I wanted to schedule a meeting. They made it clear that I could take as long as I needed, though, to be with you during your recovery. But I guess I should get back to them.” After a pause, he asked, “Do you want to be there for that? If we meet?”
“I don’t think I’d be needed.”
“I’d like to have your perspective. And I’m sure she would too.”
Edward made a noncommittal sound.
“We’ll talk about it more tomorrow.”
Edward nodded. He took off his glasses, set them on the nightstand, and rubbed his eyes.
Bruce turned out the light.
After a few seconds, Edward said softly into the darkness, “I keep the time, steady as a rhyme. I can skip, stutter or hop, but god help you if I stop.”
“A heartbeat?”
“Mm.”
Bruce placed his hand on Edward’s chest, feeling the thump-thump-thump under his palm. “It’s very fast.” Worryingly fast. “Is your stomach still hurting?”
“It always hurts.”
“When was the last time you took a painkiller?”
“This morning. Half a pill.”
“You’re supposed to take one every four to six hours. Let me bring you one. It’ll help you sleep. Sleep is important.”
After a moment, Edward nodded. Bruce could just make out the movement in the dimness.
Bruce retrieved the amber pill bottle from Edward’s bedroom. He filled a glass of water in the kitchen and returned with both. He turned the light on again, briefly, to twist off the cap and place one of the pills in Edward’s mouth. Edward took a swig of water, blinking a few times as he swallowed.
Bruce slid back under the covers with him. In the darkness, his eyes glinted, but Bruce couldn't see his expression.
“I’m sorry,” Edward whispered.
“For what?”
“I know you’re frustrated with me. I can tell. You’ve already given me so much, and you’ve been so patient. I know you want me to be okay now. But I don’t know how to be okay.”
“Edward—”
“I f-feel…like there’s a hole inside me. And it’s growing. I keep going numb because I don’t know what else to do.”
Bruce lay a hand on the side of his face. “I want to help you. Tell me how I can help you.”
“I don’t know, Bruce. I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you, too. I—I kn-know that there are things that you need, and—”
“Shh.” Bruce wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer. “It’s okay,” he murmured into his ear. “It’s okay if it takes time.” He rubbed his back slowly, up and down. Gradually, Edward’s heartbeat and breathing slowed. But he was still awake. Bruce could tell. “Edward. These bad dreams you’ve been having—do you want to talk about them?”
He shook his head.
“Okay.”
Edward breathed softly, close to his ear. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too.”
After a few more minutes, he felt Edward drift off. Soft breath feathered against his neck. I love you. They said the words to each other every night now before bed. Saying them had begun to feel easy and natural. Yet there’d been a hint of desperation in Edward’s voice, just now.
He was safe now. The threat was gone. No one suspected Edward of being the Riddler; in fact, he was the darling of the media now. All they had to do was keep moving forward, step by step. Keep healing. Keep doing what they could to help Gotham and its people.
And yet Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere deep inside him, Edward was clinging to the edge of a cliff, a hairsbreadth from plunging into the darkness—that he was in danger, even now. Bruce drifted into a murky half-asleep state. He dreamed he was wandering through vast, dark caverns and curving underground tunnels, holding a flare aloft to light the way, searching for Edward. He could hear his soft cries echoing through the darkness, but he couldn’t see him.