YOU WON'T BE SOLVING THIS ONE.

As the truth unfolded, she wants to feel some sort of relief that comes with knowing the answers she’d wanted for so long. The questions had all boiled down to those various why’s and he’d finally filled in the blanks. However, a nagging voice in the back of her head began chattering, the one that had known the reasoning all along, at least to one of her questions. It’s your fault he’s dead. Had you just gone along with everything sooner, he’d still be here. He’s dead because of you.  And in many ways, despite not being the one to have pulled the trigger, the voice is right and it cuts at her very core to know that even if Edward Nygma was the one in the wrong, she could have saved her dad’s life so easily. It makes her tense up, it makes her shake and her eyes water more. One less door slammed in his face. One less angry tirade. One less gift sent back.  She could have stopped everything. But that knowledge couldn’t help anyone now.

“So, it was my fault then. All of it.” Unsteady syllables, muttering at not much more than a whisper. Of course, he can hear it but it’s mostly a voicing of her inner monologue–not a question or something meant to be commented upon. “Well, you got what you wanted in the end. You hurt me more than anyone else ever had. It still hurts. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop hurting over what happened. And, well, you don’t have to worry about other men in my life. I haven’t been able to be with anyone since. I can’t bring myself to…” On the verge of crying, she silences herself, taking a few breaths to keep herself from breaking altogether. Again, she finds the strength to look him in the eyes, face devoid of emotion. “Do you feel better now, Edward?”

 “-- No!” He replies harshly, abruptly, eyes shutting tight for a long moment as he shakes his head & edges a little closer to the edge of the bench. “No, no, no. Wrong. Not your fault. Not your fault by a landslide.”  

Eddie’s looking at her. His eyes are full of -- something. His expression, full of something. What is it? Regret? Pity? Horror? Downright and deep sadness? It’s hard to put a finger on it, but he is not a man who looks pleased with his past actions. 

“Jessica Duchamp,” (It’s a name that still bites like poison; maybe if he says it enough, the poison will kill him. Maybe if he’s dead he won’t have to feel like this. Maybe she feels the same way.) “I was the one who stalked you. I was the one who pressured you. I was the one who -- who pulled the trigger and ended your father’s life.” He feels like he’s in a confessional. It’s both cathartic and terrifying. It’s amazing he’s still looking into her eyes -- those beautiful eyes, the eyes he once longed for and cried over. The eyes he very well may cry over later. (Surely those aren’t tears glazing over his brown eyes... are they?) “It is far from your fault. There is... nothing about this situation that wasn’t my doing.” 

Part of him wants to lay a hand on her shoulder by way of comfort. But he feels as though if he touches her, he will burn her-- or very well, be burned--  like a mortal laying a hand on a god. He keeps his hands in his lap. 

(His name on her tongue feels like what being struck by lightning feels like.)

She wrinkles her nose at the word Roseart (really, what self-respecting human being wouldn’t) and sets the toy back on the shelf.

“Benny’s gettin’ into tech stuff,” she says, loud enough for Ed to hear but with an expression that suggests she’s lost in thought. “He likes t’ build stuff, but he’s too old f’r play sets…” It trails off as she starts wandering down the aisle. A couple of kids have passed them by already, towing parents along behind them and pointing and explaining exactly what the want for Christmas; more than a few solo parents have also come by, too engrossed in their shopping to realize that they’re standing right next to a couple of notorious supercriminals. It’s a strange sensation, being nigh-invisible like that. Harley’s fascinated by it.

“– What about Legos? Do kids still like Legos? Or is it more, like.” (She’s staring critically at some rather intricate Harry Potter sets, no doubt wondering if any children in the world actually have the cognitive abilities and attention span to complete them.) “Adult collectors now.”

 An eyebrow quirks at the thought, and arms cross over his chest while his eyes wander as he’s THINKING as well about -- about toys, which is a subject that ironically, he hasn’t thought MUCH of since CHILDHOOD. (Sure, he teased the idea of a toyline not too long ago, but he’d rather not THINK about the times when he was so mentally unhealthy that his actions and thoughts seem literally EMBARRASSING nowadays. Not to mention... Batman. Yeah. No. Not getting started here in a dim Toys R’ Us.) 

“Sure, kids like Legos.” Eddie says, picking up a little yellow man from a demonstrative set nearby and holding up the poor little construction worker between his thumb and index finger for Harley to see. “-- they’re good for a start. But wouldn’t a video game where you build things be a little more helpful if he’s really into building things? All of this,” gesturing vaguely to the Legos part of the aisle, “seems rather... primitive, in the scheme of things.”