riddle me this (hiatus)

It has been two years. I didn't want to do this because I have always, always wanted to keep things just lowkey. Painless. I'm here to enjoy myself and that is all. I didn't want to deal with the inevitable retaliation from this group seeing as how they all already so obsessively stalk and send grotesque anons. I didn't want to have to share my story and have it put under a microscope. I didn't want to go back to my chats and relive all that Q did to me and how I felt through that entire ordeal, but here I am forced by their hand because of Q's absolutely reprehensible lies. So be it.

Triggers include (pulled straight from my document): extreme emotional manipulation, manufacturing of events to isolate, love bombing, gaslighting, vaguing, guilt tripping, fabricated lies about being sexually assaulted, my reckless driving driven out of suicidal thoughts as a consequence of the abuse, and the genuine engineering of situations to turn my friends against me. There is mention of racism, primarily Southeast and East Asian racism, and talking in an exceedingly terrible light about Turkish people and Q mocking/denying SA stories of those they have hurt. There is ample amount of just straight bullying. There is slut shaming. There is also mention of Attack on Titan, which I do not engage with anymore and haven’t for years, but had been a huge source of our fights toward the tail end of our relationship. There is a conversation about rape as well with my being pressured into sex/having my boundaries and vocal discomfort dismissed. Explicit details of my rape are provided at Point #3.

His heart starts. He was somewhere else before this. Maybe a minute ago. Maybe an hour. The room warping, floor tilting sideways, and Edward steps back until he almost falls, staggering, then up. The wall behind him has broken apart, now swirling in the infinite black; he stands on a crumbling floor floating in nothing. A shadow sits curled at the other end.

     he’s tired. eddie seems to sense it when he stops by, lacking his usual flair for the dramatic. when theo asks him to stay, he expects an outright no at best. at worst, he expects eddie to disappear from his life for weeks this time – maybe forever, if he’s particularly unlucky.

     somehow, they’d convinced him to stay the night only by asking. just one night out of dozens, curled up in theo’s bed, genuine rest lightening the dark shadows beneath his eyes. he’d let theo hold him and tuck his face into their neck, warm and comfortable and caring. at some point, he’d even wrapped an arm around theo’s middle, splayed a hand at where their back just started to widen above their waist. he’d slept more peacefully than theo had thought he would, breathing evenly, only the random twitch of his brow and the flex of his fingers lending itself to him dreaming. they’d barely slept a wink, too eager to revel in this moment of eddie finally lowering some of his defenses, at theo managing to climb just a little further up those walls he kept firmly erected between them.

     they have responsibilities they can’t ignore, though. they slide out from the cradle of eddie’s arms, trying not to wake him. it doesn’t entirely work; eddie shifts just as theo is leaving the room, blearily blinking at them, hair flattened on one side. theo tells him to go back to sleep, but eddie yawns wide, scrubs a hand over his eyes before teetering to a stand. he starts in the vague direction of the bathroom, and theo takes the lead. without much thought, they strip off their shirt, eddie doing the same in their peripheral, and they kick off their pants, scrubbing a hand through their hair. they lean over to turn on the shower, testing the temperature with a hand. they don’t see eddie continue stripping – in fact, in the very edge of the mirror, they’re able to see that eddie has stopped moving completely. his hands hold his own shirt down near his hips, like an afterthought.

     they feel eddie’s eyes on them, just as their thumbs dip into the waistband of their boxers, and theo pauses. when they glance at him, his eyes are somewhere around their navel, and theo clears their throat. eddie’s gaze snaps up meeting theo’s, and theo tilts their head – removes their hands, placing them back on the countertop behind them. it’s an invitation.

     eddie takes it. he paces forward, like a tiger in a cage, and his hands come up to frame theo’s face, fingers dragging over two days’ worth of stubble before they settle at their sideburns. eddie’s mouth meets his hot, DESPERATION burned into the seam of their lips, and theo hums low in their throat, almost guttural thinks finally, finally. they rest a hand heavy on the jut of his hip, eddie’s stubble scraping against their mouth, and when they nip at eddie’s lower lip, he makes a dark, eager noise against theo’s tongue. theo swallows it down, eager, slides his hand around to grip full flesh, and it’s then that eddie breaks away, hands landing firm at theo’s chest, shoulders flexing as he pushes. theo drops their hands immediately, palms up, and eddie nearly jumps across the bathroom, chest heaving. theo watches as he presses two fingers to his mouth, then drops his hand, never looking at him as he tugs his shirt back on, as he rakes a hand through the tufts of his hair. theo wants to ask why?, wants to say, it doesn’t have to mean anything, wants to rewind time back to when this never happened. eddie shifts, and they move out of the way completely, allowing him the space to get to the exit.

     eddie opens the door, steam curling out from the crack between it and the frame, and says over his shoulder, i’ll be back later. he doesn’t meet theo’s eyes, and his knuckles are white around the handle, gripped so tight the color has drained from his skin. if he’d been anything like theo, he would have dented the metal, warping it into a study of shame. a failure of restraint.

               theo knows it’s a lie.

     they pretend they don’t when they nod, when eddie slips out of view and they hear their front door close with finality.

❝ I TOLD YOU THAT YOU MAY CALL ME MADELINE. ❞ would prefer it, in fact. treating edward had always been a matter of dropping formalities, erasing the boundaries of a doctor - patient relationship in favour of attempting companionship. he didn't want to talk to a doctor, he believed earnestly that he didn't require it. that much was apparent even before she had sat down with him for the first time, enough information gleamed from her initial research in his previous doctors' notes to know she wanted to tackle this differently.

he didn't want to talk to a doctor, but maybe he'd talk to a friend.

his pieces are moved when instructed, her own after a period of deliberation. she plays as if she's more invested in the game itself than a mandatory evaluation. brows furrowed in contemplation, expression always softening into something more light - hearted when she looks back up. too sweet for this place, the kind of look one would share with a familiar face after awkwardly idling in a new crowd.

his breakout wasn't as long ago as it might have felt. they offered her paid leave ( -- she rejected ), scheduled her time with a therapist of her own ( -- she accepted, it was the stipulation for her staying on ).

she wasn't the first doctor to be taken hostage in an escape attempt. likely wouldn't be the last. many in the past left arkham entirely due to the ptsd, but she was given the green light. they're still watching her, though. she can feel their eyes burning into her spine, even through the cameras situated around the room. her own behaviour is being scrutinized as heavily as his.

it would've been easier to let the board take her off his case, she wouldn't feel them breathing down her neck -- waiting for her to fail. expecting it. prepared to lock her up down the hall, just as nygma said, almost like a preemptive measure.

but she was making progress. she knew she was, and that someone barging in with a doctor's ego and new rules would only set back all of it. one incident wasn't going to scare her away, he needed someone who wouldn't give up on him. she didn't want to give up on him.

a soft hum, tapping at her jaw with a single nail as she reaches for her next piece. ❝ i do not think i do know, i do not see jonathan often. are you two close? ❞ were you trying to scare me? is laced through her words, sitting just under her question.

laughter, light but not mocking. ❝ you know you do not scare me, edward. i actually thought about you plenty while you were gone. good things, to be sure. like i said, i missed our games and our chats. the days were awful dull without them. ❞

there's a wrinkle across the top of her nose, evidence of her focus: she finally places the piece she picked up. back to him, kind eyes once more. ❝ your move. ❞

There are cameras set around this room. They both know it. 

What did they think, anyway? The psychiatrists and her colleagues. They probably told her to take time off and to see someone; a doctor for the doctor, make sure she's in one piece. They probably stared at her, unblinking and bug-eyed, when she wanted to stay. Maybe they thought she was desperate for normalcy at best. Another Harleen at Quinzel worst.

It's better this way.

edward pushes him back, presses against him warm and finds him in sweet, shy kisses. there's a breath between them, and nour searches for every kiss, tastes his scotch, tangles fingers in his red hair.

nour is asked what he wants. and there's a thought, a voice a little thinner than his that tells him to wake up. that belonged once to a practical man, with a mind clear like crystals and worked, scarred hands. grounded. reality, nour, stern and kind and present.

but nour likes his little daydreams and his long stories and all the songs that remind of him of romance. dreams that taste like smoke in his mouth or feel like an arm around his shoulders. reveries that shelter him, keep him lost and happy and absent.

"I get the feeling I already do.” Have him, he means; Nour tucked close between him and the couch, Edward thumbing circles over his thigh. He falls for these things easily. So unashamed. Edward hums a laugh, incredulous, and anchors him deeper. “Well” —he smiles, coming back in— “you'll just have to watch your step.”

SHE HASN'T SIT DOWN YET. a frown has etched its way across freckled countenance, but it has nothing to do with his comments. it's the sympathetic sort, the shape of which is rarely seen within these walls. he looks like hell. a few steps closer, around the side of the table -- she wasn't supposed to go farther than her side, but she wasn't supposed to stay on as his primary either. she observes, but does not touch. people in here are herded and shoved around enough against their will for her to feel right adding prodding swollen bruises without asking to the mix.

❝ that looks painful. ❞ once she has a sufficient look, she moves back to her place and finally takes a seat. elbow propped up onto the table, palm acting as a cradle for her jaw to rest in as she starts organizing all of the pieces into place across the board. a casual posture, a matching tone: she speaks to him like an old friend that showed up late for brunch due to an accident. ❝ do you want me to have some ice brought in? it will help with the inflammation. ❞

just because she's choosing to brush off his words, does not mean she isn't keenly aware of them. harleen quinzel was a name passed around in warning, infamous enough to be like arkham's own icarus. what happened to her was long before madeline had been hired on, but she still felt the burning in her spine as superiors watched her with the same expectation. she's too nice. they think she'll be the next one throwing herself into the arms of a patient, they forget -- or don't care -- that dr. quinzel was a victim first. it didn't matter to them now, she was a criminal, and that's why they wanted her off edward's case.

but madeline had firmly stood her ground, reminded them that her name carries a bit more weight than most know. it's the only time she's used her family's name like that.

❝ i have been watching championship games. i think i have learned a few moves that may actually help me win this time. ❞ she plays white, she gets the first move. a pawn is moved forward, then she looks up at him for the first time since beginning setup. a smile, warm. ❝ i missed our games. ❞ it's the only answer he'll get to the joker - related conversation.

"Doctor. Are you worried?" Edward croons, laying his weight onto his elbows. He watches her face. "I won't be the one to put Victor out of a job."

He could have just said 'no, thank you,' but Nygma has never been capable of it: giving a straight, genuine answer even if it kills him. She should be tired. Doctor Young would have fixed a face at him, her hand balling into a fist… 

…and Madeline sits back down, unfettered, because of course she is. 

She isn't Penelope Young, is she. She doesn't sigh then force a smile, the same smile a teacher gives when they hate the kids but need the pension. Madeline does not point a finger. She did not take any of Edward's bait, not like Young always did, and she does not scream or yell or throw accusations, whirling around and calling for the guards, unafraid. She's not afraid, now, finally taking her seat across from Edward, a then-hostage in his escape.

"Why, doctor, I highly doubt you can beat me," he brags, bright and starry. He rolls his hand, blasé, and the chains rattle. "I'll even let you have the first move." Smug even with a split lip. He watches her set the chessboard one piece at a time, black for him and white for her, and doesn't waver when she looks back up. She smiles, freckles bright, and says she misses their games.

Edward tells her which piece of his to move. Something inside him is floaty.

"Oh, real-ly. Did you tell them you came back to play with me?" he starts, innocent and cloying. It's a question all its own—why did she come back? Not for this—and his voice drips sly, croaking. "I think you're in the wrong chair." Meaning she'd have to be insane coming back after everything. That, maybe, she should be the patient, not him.

Chess pieces clicking, Edward crossing his ankles under the table. He never stops eyeing her, and he peps up. "I hope I didn't scare you too much. You know how Jonathan would get if he knew."

     theo thinks him clever, thinks him dangerous, too smart and too careless with how he moves. his fingers are graceful on the record player, his smile curled with mischief, and theo feels a peculiar sort of swooping in their stomach, like they’re standing at the edge of a cliff and have decided to let themselves fall to the glistening water below. there’s a thrill to him that they won’t find anywhere else.

     this should worry theo. it does, in some way - but in another, it does the opposite. like the whirlwind of their first meeting, theo’s head is left spinning; this time, however, he can’t blame it on eddie rushing by, or on security chasing his tail.

     instead, it’s eddie’s hand holding theirs.

     instead, it’s eddie’s palm at the dip of their lower back, burning through the thin layer of their shirt.

     “ no, ” they confess, and it’s too honest, spoken without an ounce of hesitation. eddie’s hand is confident over his own, and he’s close enough that theo scents aftershave, ink, an undercurrent of sweat. he’s been somewhere else, up to something; theo almost doesn’t want to know what. “ you’ve done that on more than on occasion. i don’t think i can keep up, ” they continue, hushed as eddie steps, guides, leads. theo does their best to match, looks down as eddie peers up at them through his lashes.

     they huff a laugh. eddie and his guessing games, lips and teeth asking a question he doesn’t seem to need theo to answer. they like that laugh - the one that sounds like the low drum of church bells, deep and resonant where it curls up like a cat on their own chest.

Edward likes it, the games and the dancing. This: the way Theo looks at him like he’s the only person in the entirety of the world. As if Edward were the center of theirs.

“What can I say,” he starts, a sparkling in his chest. “I always expect the unexpected.”

He doesn't, though, because he never expected seeing Theo here. He never expected running into Theo anywhere, and Edward leans in.

“I thought it was obvious. The art. The flowers. The music.” He meant the museum and the look on Theo’s face after being given marigolds. Here: music in the record shop. Edward smiles, minkish, and turns with another spontaneous spin. “Even sweeping you off your feet,” he says, mischievous. “Aren’t you a romantic.”

Clearly. Obviously. It’s as obvious as the sky is blue and water is wet. It’s like 2+2=4 even if it isn’t, and even if Theo isn’t a romantic, they’re here, now, dancing with the Riddler over broken ceramic and scattered papers, gliding towards the entrance.  

Theo isn't easily scared, and Edward likes that. 

“Everyone ran away, and don’t think I haven’t noticed." Everyone except you. Theo huffs a laugh and their teeth gleam gold, just barely. Nygma stops moving and they're chest-to-chest. "Not afraid?" he plays, asking and dangerously curious. Edward suddenly dips them, his face close, and twinkles. "I wouldn't want you falling for me."

Implying that there's something here and that Theo wants to. Maybe he does, too. Edward straightens back up, reaches for the sign at the door, and flips it to 'Closed'.