Edward stared at his mug, certain it had been full just a moment ago. The dried coffee residue at the bottom said otherwise, and the mug itself was ice cold. It had probably been drained an hour ago. Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he’d slept. The clock on his desk read 12 in the PM, and he’d sat down with the early edition of the paper…which he’d picked up on his way home from the office that morning.
A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. Throwing his pen down, he stood and moved to the door, muttering under his breath. Throwing the door open, he glared at the man standing there…a postal worker.
“Package for you,” he said. “I ah…need you to sign here.”
Edward took the box, head tilting slightly as he looked over the address. Edward Nigma. Full first name, last spelled with an I instead of a Y. Careful handwriting, evenly spaced, but narrow pen strokes. Only a return address, no name. Baker Street, Gotham. Cute. With a slash of the pen, he signed the postman’s slip, then shut the door in his face.
Other villains might have feared receiving an unmarked package. They might have refused it, or at least opened it at arm’s length. But not him. He was the Riddler, he was smarter than the rest of them. He knew who this was from, and he had no reason to fear him. Though everyone else certainly did. He picked up a knife and slit the end open, tugging the plain brown paper away and brushing off some wayward bits of burlap. Such a messy material.
The box inside was white, simple, unadorned. He slid the lid off and set it aside. Inside was a note, nestled against a single glossy black feather. He smiled as he picked it up.
Edward,
I can take a hint, dear. I will meet you in the lobby two hours before curtain.
-Jon
Tucked in the folded note was a pair of tickets to the Gotham Metropolitan’s performance of Turandot. A box seat, no less. Edward smiled to himself, turning the feather over in his fingertips. These were not cheap seats to get, and if memory served, it was opening night.
“Jonathan…you cad,” he purred affectionately.
----------------------------
Finding a man who was almost six and a half feet tall in a crowd was easy. He stood out and placed himself apart from the throng of people. Everyone who was anyone was there, dressed in their finest. The perfect place to be seen or, if you chose, unseen. Dressed in a plain suit, Edward moved like a ghost through the crowd. Normally this would be a great chance to drum up attention.
But he only wanted attention from one person tonight.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. Jonathan shook his head, offering his arm.
“Hardly matters,” he said. Edward could feel glass blue eyes appraising him, from his dark green suit to his carefully combed hair. “You look nice.”
“As do you,” Edward said. He squeezed the other’s arm, pressing close to his side as they headed into the theater itself. Their closeness drew a few eyes, but no one said anything to them. When there were true socialites to gawk at, why bother with a couple of lanky middle aged no bodies?
The box was a comfortable little alcove, hidden from the lower floors and the seats to either side. Private and secluded..perfect for them. Eddie laid his hat and cane aside, settling in before really taking in the entire theater. There was something about the archaic style that lent the theater an old world beauty all its own. It was golden and glowing and warm, seemingly miles away from the gritty grey streets just outside.
Edward’s gaze finally landed on Jonathan, seated beside him. The chair looked like a throne, and he the too wise advisor to the king. Jon was no king, he wouldn’t want to be. Why would a god stoop to such a lowly aspiration, after all?
Edward got up again, feeling a little fidgety now. He stepped back out into the hall and told the attendant to bring two glasses of wine. The young man did, of course, and while he stood there waiting expectantly for a tip, Eddie pushed the door shut in his face. Tips were for people who did something of merit.
He handed Jon a glass before pushing his own chair closer and sitting down once more. Jonathan angled himself toward Eddie, smiling placidly as the other man settled in.
“Thank you,” Edward said, covering Jon’s hand with his own. “For this.”
Jonathan turned his head and let his forehead rest against Edward’s. It was one of the things he did not for his own enjoyment, but because he knew Eddie liked it.
“To you,” Jon said, extending his glass.
“To us,” Edward said before clinking his own against it. They drank, then kissed just as the lights went down.
Endless experiments, shrieks coming from below the apartment, odd deliveries and foul smells at all hours of the night and day, not to mention the, uh, "bird and cat" problem, namely that his birds would often almost become cat food.
He would constantly do things to get a rise out of her, leaving small notes everywhere about what he needed for his half of the flat and what groceries he'd need, along with some comment scrawled in what looked like dried blood, though Selina couldn't really be bothered to check. He'd set out vials of liquids around the house and offer to cook while holding a bubbling beaker of something that was probably extremely unpleasant.
On top of all that, they already had their...history.
Ad in the Gotham Gazette:"Free to good home: Mad scientist. No lightning, no creatures, just good old-fashioned smoking test tubes. Call for information. No delivery. Pick up the damn loafer yourself.
"You'll do anything for those you love, little birdy."
It was true. Dick would do anything to keep his family from getting hurt, to keep them safe.
And they were safe. He reminded himself of this every time those long, cold hands slid over his skin, every time a new experiment left him huddled and sobbing on the floor, every time he looked at a rooftop and wondered how fast the fall would kill him.
But he couldn't do that. They wouldn't be safe then. They were safe now.
Months of literally living in fear had taken their toll on him, breaking him, emaciating him, turning him into a shadow, a wraith.
A scarecrow.
He had lost his brain. He'd lost his mind, traded it for the promise of security for his beloved family and friends, along with the agreement to never see them again.
He didn't want them to see him like this.
Thin fingers traced his neck and he hissed in a breath, bracing himself for the oncoming needle. Pallid lips pressed against his throat, his jaw, his ear, spiteful ghostly memories of what used to mean love, but now only meant suffering.
"And what will you do for me?"
Dick shivered at the harsh undertone to the words, so frigid, but so sure.
"Anything."
"Good little birdy. My little birdy."
Images of his smiling family flashed through his mind as the syringe released its toxin into his blood.
He would do anything for the ones he loved, even if they destroyed him.
(( I think Talia would attempt to win John's favours with her usual charms, after all he is useful, but be pleasantly surprised knowing any interest in her intellect John had would be platonic. From this, a mutual respect would grow and a strange friendship, naturally neither of them would call it that though.
I think the two characters have more emotional sides too and they would confide in each other as much as pride will allow but would be careful not to appear too mentally weak in front of the other.
