[[*my writing for this kinda sucks but I did the best for what my brain would allow so yea— and no I'm not saying that for compliments... 🥲 /gen /srs*]]
Jonathan must've been doing whatever in his lab, probably working on his toxins or scheming to find new ways to traumatized the city, y'know the useual— but the two vague, mispelled, texts that made their way to his phone only read two things:
"Come niw" "Hrlp" -from Edward, and then he sent the address.
The initial assumption was that he was in some kind of trouble again, as that mouth of his would land him in, time and time again — but one trip to his apartment proved crane to be mistaken.
Edward, a nervous wreck, was making short paces back amd forth in the living room, hyperventilating and running his hands through his hair.
Visibly not okay.
@e-ny9m4-d0t-or9
Edward? Th’ hell’re ya doin’?
He walked up to the pacing man
Ain’t good fer ya, breathin’ like that. Y’ain’t on my toxin, are ya?
He gently grabbed his arm
What’s wrong, Ed? Talk ta me.
