#bashful eddie

“Dammit.”

It came out quieter than it felt. Soft, almost polite, like the word had tripped over his teeth on its way out. He wasn’t angry, not really—just tired. Tired of circling the same anxious drain. Tired of knowing exactly how to solve a thousand unsolvable problems, but not this. 

Not you.

Someone might’ve heard him, had anyone else lingered. But mercifully, he was alone. Had been for the better part of an hour, haunting the lounge like a nervous ghost. He’d half-registered the shifting people, the casual comings and goings of Injustice League members grabbing coffee, making personal calls, or just plain needing a moment. But they'd all filtered out eventually, and Edward... Edward stayed.

First, he sat. Then slouched. Then paced. At one point he’d laid on the couch like a tragic Victorian figure, forearm flung over his eyes, until the automatic lights dimmed and shamed him back to verticality.

Now, he was just standing. Rooted. Heart rabbiting beneath his ribs. He stood in front of the coffee bar—an unremarkable stretch of metal and glass—and stared at the faint outline of himself in the backsplash. The reflection wasn’t sharp, not like a mirror, but he could make out just enough to scrutinize. The stiff line of his shoulders. The twitchy motion of his hands as they tapped a rhythm against the counter—Morse code for I'm losing it, send help.

This was it. The final boss. Not a mission. Not a trap. Not even Batman. 

Just... feelings.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he muttered, squaring his stance like he was prepping for a debate. “Just say it like a normal person. Not like you’re delivering a riddle. Not like you're... trying to recite a dissertation."

He took a breath. Then another. Then your name slipped from his lips, shaped with hesitant reverence. A pause. Then—

 “I like you.”

He winced. A slow, full-bodied grimace like he'd just witnessed himself fall down the stairs on security footage.

“No, no—too simple. Uggghhh.” He slapped a hand against the counter and dropped his head. “They deserve better than this. They deserve a confession with gravitas. Drama. Maybe a sonnet.”

Edward sighed. Then straightened, like he was trying to make his spine remember it belonged to a man and not a melted question mark. His eyes flicked back to the backsplash—his warped reflection staring back like a rival, or maybe a lifeline. He squared his shoulders again, poking a finger at the glass like it was both a chalkboard and a confessional.

“Try again, dumbass,” he muttered, barely above a breath as he pointed at his reflection, coach and player in the world’s most pathetic halftime pep talk. "I like you. Like, like-like you. As in—I think about you when I shouldn’t." He huffed, shaking his head. "During briefings, when you’re asking smart questions. During missions, when you move like you were built for this and I have to remind myself to look away before I forget how to walk. And lunch—don’t even get me started on lunch. Watching you eat fries has done irreversible damage to my brain chemistry."

Feeling a little hopeless, he laughed at himself, the sound dry but fond. His fingers slid back through his hair, tousling it into an auburn crown of frustration.

"And I know you’re probably into someone cooler. Someone who doesn’t speak like their mouth is hardwired to an encyclopedia. Someone charming. Charismatic. The kind of person who knows how to make a move without having to rehearse it like a courtroom deposition…" 

He swallowed. Then, softer, "But I’m trying. God, I’m trying. Because if I don’t tell you soon, I’m going to short-circuit every time you so much as breathe near me. I already stammer, fidget, knock things over—I’m practically an animated error message when you’re in the room. And that is not a sustainable lifestyle. So—" Your name caught on the edge of his tongue. He hesitated, like saying it aloud might make it all too real— "...I-I like you… And... and I’m trying so hard not to ruin it by telling you in the most Edward Nygma way possible. Which is to say—badly. With poor pacing. And analogies. And at least three footnotes. Or, godforbid, a riddle…"

He leaned forward, pressing both palms flat on the counter, eyes locking with his reflection like he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t the stupidest thing he’d ever done.

“Okay—that wasn’t bad. Now. One more time. With feeling. Maybe less rambling. Maybe…” He took a breath. Let it out. “Maybe like you believe it—”

“You could just say it to me.”

Edward jolted. His head snapped up with such force he nearly unbalanced himself, whipping toward the doorway like someone had rewound reality and hit play too fast. For a heartbeat, he just blinked, staring at you as if you’d stepped out of a hallucination.

You were there. Not in his head. Not in the glass. Real. Leaning against the frame with your arms crossed, casual in that devastating way you had. Like you weren’t aware of the hurricane you’d just walked into. Like your smile wasn’t already unraveling him at the seams.

His brain stalled. Froze. Rebooted somewhere between panic and prayer.

"...How long were you standing there?" His voice had shrunk to something small and embarrassed, like it was trying to hide behind his teeth.

You tilted your head. “Long enough to hear the part about fries.”

He winced, visibly. A hand scrubbed over his mouth like he might erase the last five minutes from existence.

“And I’d really like to hear it again,” you added, stepping forward. “You know—said to me.”

There was no teasing in your tone, not really. Just a kind of quiet sincerity, soft as velvet and twice as dangerous. An open door he wasn’t sure he deserved to walk through.

Edward blinked. Once. Twice. As if your presence needed time to process, buffer, and load in full HD. Then he straightened up fast—like someone about to stand trial—and tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves with quick, fidgety precision, as if dignity could be tailored back into him with fabric and focus.

"R-right. Yes. Of course. To you. I can... do that." A beat. It took effort not to get locked on the glimmer in your eyes. That soft glimmer, that gentle curiosity—it disarmed him more effectively than any superpowered threat he’d ever faced. He actually had to shake his head, then take a deep breath. His chin lifted, his eyes narrowed. Then, firmly: "I like you."

The corner of your mouth tipped up before stepping forward just enough to enter his space—just enough for him to feel your warmth.

“Better,” you murmured. “Now try it again… without looking like you're preparing for an oral exam.”

He laughed—a breathy, uneven sound, like the release valve on a too-full heart. “Okay. One more time.”

Edward ran a hand over the back of his neck, expression sheepish, posture softening as the tension gave way to something quieter. Something real. His shoulders dropped slightly, and he looked at you from the corner of his eye—like the full force of his feelings might be too much if aimed directly.

“I like you,” he stated again, gentler now. “And I think I’ve been trying to say it in riddles...”

You tilted your head. “And now?”

His gaze didn’t leave yours this time. When he spoke, his voice was low, vulnerable, steady. “Now I’m just hoping you’ll say it back.”

After that, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. A laugh, maybe. A grimace or nervous look. The quiet shuffle of your feet as you backed away. Some kind of mercy.

But instead, you just smiled softly.

Not a grin. Not a smirk. Not one of the carefully curated expressions he’d imagined in every hypothetical. It was smaller than all of that. Unhurried. Like you weren’t shocked or even surprised—just there, with him, steady as gravity.

“You’re lucky I like the weird ones.” 

It wasn’t said cruelly. You didn’t weaponize it. No sarcasm, no scoffing. Just the faintest lilt of playfulness, the kind that slipped under his skin and warmed everything it touched.

Edward blinked. His chest thudded in his ears. His mouth twitched like it wanted to smile, but forgot how.

You took a half-step closer. Not enough to crowd him—just enough to prove you weren’t afraid. To make it even worse, or better—the jury was still very much deliberating—your hand reached up, slow and intentional, until your fingers brushed his tie. And stayed there. You didn’t yank or pull or do anything remotely scandalous. You just toyed with the fabric—soft little tugs, like you were adjusting it, straightening it, claiming it. Your knuckles grazed his chest, and Edward thought he might actually combust.

“And for the record,” you murmured, eyes finding his—half-lidded, sharp, unreadable in the most intoxicating way, “I’ve known for a while.” Your lips twitched. A smile barely contained. “You weren’t exactly subtle. But I was waiting to see how long it would take for you to implode.”

Oh.

Oh god.

The bloom of heat on his cheeks was so fast it should’ve had its own weather forecast. His hand shot up, uselessly scrubbing along his jaw, like that might do something about the heat scalding through him. But it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Not when you were still standing there like it was nothing—like you hadn’t just unraveled him with your fingers and a single, stupid sentence.

And worse—worse—you didn’t look away. You didn’t mock. You didn’t vanish like some hallucination conjured by emotional exhaustion. You stayed. Still smiling. Still close. Still casually holding his heart between your fingertips and treating it like something worth being gentle with. You knew. You liked him. You’d waited.

Edward swallowed hard. Tried to assemble words that made sense. Came up with gibberish. Tried again.

“I—I’m not always this bad,” he mumbled, which was objectively false, and judging by your raised brow, you both knew it.

You tilted your head, amused. “You’re worse, usually.” Then your voice softened, that teasing gleam still dancing in your eyes. “But it’s cute.”

Cute.

He was going to die. Right here. In front of the coffee bar. Cause of death: you. Yet—when he looked at you again, really looked—something inside him, something that had been shaking since the moment you walked in, finally went still.

Because you weren’t laughing. You weren’t walking away. You were smiling at him like he’d done something brave. Like this wasn’t a catastrophe—it was a beginning.

Maybe not the one he’d rehearsed. But maybe the one he actually needed.

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