#dano!riddler fluff

You frown slightly, glancing at the clock. It's late, really late, for anyone to be calling for you. You're not expecting anyone, and you're used to the trouble that comes with living in the middle of Gotham City, giving you every reason not to answer the door and stay quiet until whoever it is gets bored and goes away.

Another knock, sounding a little desperate, five soft bangs on the door's study steel, echoing through your small stretch of hallway and to the main room, where you sit on the sofa, laptop on your lap, scrolling boredly. You stare at the door warily, as if you could somehow see through to whatever drophead was trying to get your attention, before hesitantly raising your voice in answer.

"Who is it?"

Silence again.

You roll your eyes and sigh after a beat of nothing, pushing your laptop off you and onto the sofa, quietly approaching the door and taking a sceptical look through the peephole. Nothing. No one. Just the hard bright light of the dirty stairway and landing of the floor in the apartment block you live in, which snaps off after no motion to keep it alive, and the door opposite you, shut and locked, no sound coming from anywhere except muffled music and arguing from somewhere downstairs, as per normal here.

You go to open the door, but then pause, cautious enough to wait it out for a while, five minutes, ten minutes, before letting yourself open it and look outside. You don't want to be the next poor person who gets robbed or jumped or whatever rank thing you could expect from living down in Gotham, but there's still no one to greet you when your door squeaks faintly as you pull it open, black bristles dragging across the floor from beneath it. You wince slightly as the harsh light blinks back on, revealing an empty landing, empty staircase, nothing but your breaths echoing in the space...

And an envelope at your feet.

Your frown deepens when you go to close the door again and notice it, lying there outside the door, a medium white envelope inked with a messy green symbol of some kind. A question mark, with dashes at its sides, top and bottom, scratching into the paper boldly, no name or address or postmark anywhere, nothing to indicate where it came from or who it's for. But it's at your door, and after a few seconds' inspection and another look down the landing and the stairs, you sigh and pick it up, your thumb sliding under the triangular fold as you close the door with your body whilst opening it.

There are two things sealed in this envelope.

A Polaroid picture... and a card.

You sit down with your eyes fixed on the envelope's contents, laptop ignored at your side, as you take out the card first. It's like some kind of vintage cartoon, a little beaming squirrel holding one nut in its paws, a few others at its feet, a heart around its body. Above it, bold calligraphic text says:

I'm NUTS about you!

Your face screws up in bewilderment and amusement, your eyes flitting over the cheesy sentiment and picture, before you open it up to see contrasting, messy handwriting, gone over a few times to make it readable enough. It almost looks childish.

The rich people want it, wise people know it, the poor people need it, and kind people show it. What am I?

You blink, confused at the sudden question. A riddle? You glance at the question symbol on the opened envelope, before returning your attention to the card.

"Rich people want it..." you mutter under your breath in thought, "kind people- what, love?"

You read the last bit of writing under the riddle, then read it again. And again.

I see you work with the rats, but you don't become one. I see you give the homeless something warm when the city is cold, cold, COLD. I see you trying to tell the police the bad things you know, but no one can hear us. You are an angel in a cesspool of a city... And I will make a heaven for you.

You let out a long, shaky breath, finally looking up from the card in a whirl of confusion, fear and curiosity. Your eyes instinctively glance to the windows, the curtains open a little to show the dreary, dark nightlife of Gotham below, dully glowing streetlamps, some lightbulbs dead or smashed, interrupting the neat lines guiding drivers. You almost expect to see a pair of eyes staring at you, watching you from somewhere.

Who the hell is this person? This was the way they showed their 'love'? A sixties-styled valentines card, with a riddle and a baffling message?

"Working with rats?" You question aloud.

If by rats, they meant the jerks and businessmen who came to the Iceberg Lounge to find clients and friends every other evening, then... well, they weren't wrong. You have to work there to earn enough to pay rent and everything else to make some kind of a life for yourself in Gotham. Not that you wanted to, but it was a last resort, and you steered clear of the infamous Penguin, and that horrible Falcone character, whenever you were there. But you can't help overhearing things to the grabby, drunken, smug people you waitress to there, but at this point, you'd learnt that half the GCPD weren't nearly as credible as they acted, a handful of them involved in the scandals they were brewing at the nightclub, and who else was there to tell without them telling the wrong guy and ending with you being silenced at gunpoint?

As for the homeless, believe it or not, they weren't all off their heads with drops. Some of them were just people trying to survive out on the streets of a broken-down town, young and older people cowering on street corners, some beaten by gangs, others jumpy and aware, ready to run at the smallest hint of danger. It was the ones who were simply too tired to do anything that made you stop in your tracks every now and then, as you walked home from work, before you gave in to your impulses, told them to give you a minute, and dashed into the nearest diner, grabbing something small to eat, or a hot drink to-go, the waiter bored and friendly enough to give you a smile and a nod as you went, the young man who often stayed there scribbling in a little book or typing up work-related things too shy to meet your eye, which was kind of cute, sandy-brown hair barely hiding the flush of his round cheeks, murky green eyes forced to focus on his book instead of looking up.

Was that enough to make you an angel? Really?

A few acts of kindness usually earned you a judgemental scoff, or suspicions of intentions, as no one's were really ever pure. But apparently, it's earned you an admirer, and from the looks of things, one who's more than a little unhinged.

You pick up the Polaroid last of all, and then your breath catches in shock as you stare at it, barely blinking.

It's a guy who's been making moves on you for a good few weeks now, more than double your age, packets of drops making his pockets rustle with thin plastic and his eyes unfocused. A frequent visitor to the Iceberg Lounge, who wouldn't leave you alone after you gave him his first drink of the first night, running drunkenly outside to offer you a lift when you put your arm out for a cab, trying to hold onto some part of the uncomfortably tight clothing you were expected to wear working in a place like the Iceberg Lounge.

He's slumped against a wall covered with some kind of fabric spray painted with the same question mark symbol on the envelope, though the green is blemished with crimson spatter, a rat running across his leg, blurred slightly in the shot. A laptop is in the background, where the ordeal is actually being filmed or streamed somewhere, names and comments too small in the picture to make out, though several unfocused red shapes that are most likely hearts streak up the laptop screen from its viewers. Your stomach twists and untwists into a knot, repulsed and shocked.

They killed some stupid guy... for you?

They killed a person, on a livestream... for you.

The Polaroid slips from your loosened grip, fluttering in the air for a split second before it lands beside your laptop. It makes you blink back into awareness, and you eye the card and Polaroid as if they might jump up at you.

Do you call the police? The GCPD won't ignore you, surely, if it's this level of harassment? If a person has died?

The thought of someone watching you, trying to understand you, almost worshipping you in some twisted way, brings so many thoughts and feelings up that it makes you dizzy, not knowing what to pin down as your reaction to it. Scared? Disgusted? Flattered? Curious?

What if they've been in your apartment? If they know where you live... and with Gotham's measly security, someone like this person could have found a way to break in, pick the lock or something. Is anything out of place? Hidden cameras anywhere?

Paranoia makes a shiver snake down your spine, and you sigh heavily, fingers threading through and out of your hair as you run your hands up your face and past your head.

First, check for cameras. Then, call the police. Right?

Right...

You pick up the Polaroid from beside your laptop, and your eyes flick up to the darkened screen, the small black circle of a camera at its top. Should you put some tape over it or something? Do a deep scan to check for viruses or any weird apps?

Suddenly, the screen flashes brighter, back to life, though you never touched the mousepad, and you flinch. Your eyes widen as the screen glitches and goes black, and you press down on several keys, trying to escape from whatever page it's gone on, power it off, restart.

The screen glitches for a few more moments, and then a green, pixelated question mark between some pointers slides across the screen.

Figured it out yet?

⭒❃.✮:▹ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ◃:✮.❃⭒ (message me know if you want to be removed. ghost blogs/dead accs have been removed.)

Physical affection is foreign to Edward. He craves it more than anything else; desires to be known so deeply that when you finally try to give him just that, it freezes him up almost entirely.

It starts innocently enough.

You're watching television with him, only partially paying attention to the game show. It's far more engaging to watch Edward watch the show anyways.

His expression quirks every so slightly with each question. Head tilted, you can tell that he's deep in contemplation. Completely fixated on the screen. Barely blinking.

And you're so lost that you lean into him. You keep telling yourself that it's unintentional as your head rests carefully on his shoulder. 

Edward almost doesn't notice you at first. It isn't until your arms curl around his soft midsection that he realizes how close you'd gotten.

He lets out a nearly inaudible, "Oh," as you snuggle into his side. Brain going blank, he stays still for a few seconds.

He's struck by the warmth of your body. How your hands caress him over the fabric of his shirt. He feels each one of your fingers gently pressing into his skin. In that way, you play with the ripped seams of his soul. Your softness has a way of untangling the frayed threads, leaving them open to being weaved into some new design.

There are a few things he does when he finally comes back to his body. He closes his eyes and hopes that the moment etches itself on the back of his eyelids. Then his lean arms offer their own form of kindness as he awkwardly pulls you closer, almost into his lap.

Like a decades old couch in your grandmother's living room, you sink into Edward's body and he groans softly as he lets part of your weight anchor him to the earth.

A chuckle from deep in your throat escapes you. "Mmm, you're comfortable."

You mean I'm not repulsive? Edward wants to ask. But he doesn't.

He tries not to let that worried little voice take form in his head, but his own voice still cracks when he says, "Thank you." To which you laugh one more time.

Edward can be so terribly nervous sometimes over the most normal things. Your amusement quickly turns once you remember that it's probably because of his past; probably because he hadn't really known this simple, sweet sort of solitude. But you flip that thought again and resolve, then I'll make this normal for him.

You were only four or five when you were dumped in Gotham's orphanage, clutching onto your soft toy as an only source of comfort and some kind of stability in a terrifying world, and an even worse city. You were quiet, barely spoke, and when you did, it was in whispers, all wide, innocent eyes and secretive, the hood up on your little hoodie as you tried your best to hide yourself from everything and everyone. Just a toddler, with a sweet life twisted by death and misfortune that you barely understood as a toddler. You had shuffled meekly behind a carer who led you into the orphanage, a cold and cruel building that they expected you to call home.

The other kids there seemed so much bigger, loud and dominating and aggressive, half of them on drops, only around twelve years old. Others were plain bullies with filthy mouths and hateful glares, children's eyes glancing at you, assessing your small, shy form, before they carried on with what they were doing in disinterest.

You had buried your face in your toy and pulled the fabric of your hood up past your hair and head, over your forehead, shadowing your face, trying to disappear in it. You pulled your legs up to your chest and watched everything happen behind your toy, its fur pressed up against your face. A group of kids watched TV and fought over the remote, others played nearby outside, but from your spot hunched in a corner, opposite you, sat a boy almost as quiet as you. You gazed at him in silence for a few long minutes, absorbed in his puzzle book, and only when he looked up to get a fresh pencil did he notice your young, curious eyes fixed on him.

He was a few years older than you, with glasses pushed up his nose, making his murky green eyes twinkle as they looked back at you nervously. He gave you a small smile, the first genuine smile you'd received in maybe your whole life, awkward and hesitant. You blinked back at him timidly, hugging your toy closer with little hands, returning his smile bashfully. The boy seemed taken aback by the action, and beamed at you, a beat of hesitance passing before he offered you a pen. You stared at it, then at him, and wandered over, sitting beside him and accepting his offer. You barely knew how to read or write, and so you watched him instead, the quiet boy with a nice smile and lots of books, day after day.

And as the days went by, both of you becoming closer and more comfortable together, Edward would start talking to you in his small, sweet voice, writing answers to riddles with a hand over yours, pulling your littler form into his lap after a couple of weeks and reading to you, then helping you read, helping you speak up a little. He'd even speak for you with others, managing to push past his own shyness every so often to help you, to repeat your whispered, lispy voice to those who couldn't catch it. You'd trail after him throughout the day when you could, before you were taken back to the girls' dorm, and you'd linger in the separating corridor, afraid of the idea of you two parting and him never coming back out of his long, shared boys' room.

"I'll see you in the morning," He'd always say soothingly, giving you a warm hug, bending down slightly so you could return it properly. "I'll never leave you. You know that."

And you'd nod, because you knew Edward was telling the truth by the way he said it and looked at you with earnest, young eyes, letting you borrow a book to amuse yourself with if the nights got too long,

But then foster families and adoptees started popping up. And you, being a young, sweet-looking child, albeit a little shy, are swept up into the grips of a random 'family,' and the quickness of how your name's signed away to people you don't even know and have no say over makes your head spin. The orphanage was overcrowded anyway, and one less mouth to feed in exchange for money made all the difference.

Edward, on the other hand, was beside himself.

Newspapers and library books on adoption and rules and any ways to prevent what was happening piled up beside his bed, to the dorm he'd been disciplined to stay in for his shocking outbursts of frustration and hatred and upset. Thomas Wayne's renewal plan could help him, he thought. He'd already assured him that he could get to a special school to study and learn and have a brighter future.

So on the last night you could spend together, sneaking out of the corridor of a room you slept in with the other girls, Edward filled out the form in his shaky, uneven writing, stating on one line that he wanted to go to the school he'd talked about, and on the other, 'I want to stay with my best friend and stop them from being taken away by bad people.'

REJECTED.

The word stamped in bold, horrid red print was the response he got, the word that bled into his mind as you were made to pack a bag and wave goodbye and go, handing your young life over to strangers, and Edward couldn't do a thing about it. You were carted off out of Gotham to go to school and expected to become a whole new person.

But you couldn't.

The years went by agonisingly slowly, and with every one that passed, you thought about him, your friend, Edward. Did he get adopted too? Did he manage to find some source of happiness and hope afterwards? Would he even remember you if you went back?

Eventually, you save up enough money and have enough time to go back to where it all started, in the unfeeling streets of Gotham City. You had no idea where to look, and after hearing from someone that the orphanage had been burned down ages ago, your last resort was to ask at the GCPD.

"Sorry to bother you," you say with an awkward smile, as a detective greets you and asks if he can be any help; 'Lieutenant James Gordon,' his name tag reads, "I'm looking for someone who I think still lives here? We were friends a while ago, and... I'm sorry, you look busy."

"We are quite busy, Miss," Gordon tells you, looking a little overwhelmed. "We've just managed to catch some crazy psycho who's been letting hell loose recently."

Your eyes widen in confusion and interest. "Wow... that's... yeah, I'm sorry, it's okay."

"No, go on," Gordon nods, letting you into his office, "have you got a name, address or anything?"

"I don't know his address," you say in uncertainty. "We were friends as kids. His name's Edward. Edward Nashton?"

Jams Gordon stops abruptly, whirling around to face you with demanding, bewildered eyes.

"Excuse me?"

You frown. "What?"

"Are you trying to be funny?" Gordon says in shock. "Edward Nashton? That's who you're looking for?"

You nod slowly, and Gordon sighs, taking off his glasses and hiding his face in a hand.

"Look, Miss, I don't know how new you are to Gotham, but Edward Nashton has just been arrested and sent to Arkham Asylum for the crimes committed under the name of The Riddler. He was only just apprehended a few hours ago."

Your breath catches in your throat in disbelief, as Gordon's eyes narrow suspiciously, looking you up and down.

"And you really knew nothing about this? You aren't an accessory?"

"I- no," you shake your head, "I only just made it to Gotham this evening."

Gordon nods slowly, though he still doesn't seem convinced. He suddenly grabs his jacket and opens the office door, glancing back at you.

"Come with me."

You follow him meekly, as he leads you out of the building and into a police car. Are you going to be arrested? Could your Eddie really have done this? Why?

Gordon stops outside Arkham, opening the car door for you to step out, and leads you inside, showing his badge to the guards, who let you proceed. The walls are strong and metallic and thick, and the cells are sealed with heavy iron doors with a small, barred rectangular window at their tops. You try not to let your attention wander, sticking close to Gordon, until he reaches an interrogation room. A mad dressed in a jet-black bat suit already stands there with a frustrated look in his dark eyes, and Gordon signals for you to wait as he goes over to the Batman and whispers something you can't quite make out in his ear. The Batman looks over at you quickly, his expression unreadable, and then he approaches you.

"You know Nashton?" his deep, whispery voice states more than asks, and you nod.

Batman stares at you for another moment before marching back into the interrogation room, nodding at you impatiently to come in. You do, blinking at the hard lights and the security cameras glaring at you from the corners of the room. And, behind the strong, glass partition and metal desk, a young man sits staring at you in disbelief.

Clear, dorky glasses. Murky green eyes. Soft, sandy brown hair. It's definitely him.

"Edward?" you say breathlessly, going to step closer, but the Batman gives you a wary look. "Ed, is that really you?"

He nods wordlessly, his eyes wide and stunned. But beneath that familiar, comforting look he's always had, there's a layer you can only just make out, like a hidden spark of insanity, one that's made the whole city go into a frenzy and even The Batman apprehensive. Edward whispers your name like a prayer, his hands pressed up against the protective glass.

"You came back," he says in wonder, as Gordon and Batman glance between the two of you in uncertainty, but you're not focused on them at all, like the whole world is disappearing around you. "I- I knew you would..."

"What happened?" you say, overwhelmed by the whole scenario, staring in wonder at the now grown-up orphan labelled a criminal in front of you. "What did you do?"

"What I had to do," he smiles brightly, adoringly at you, that glimmer of insanity coming to the surface. "What they made me do. And I did it for you, too."

"Me?"

"Who else?" Edward giggles, standing up and moving closer to the glass, his hands cuffed and chained. "They tried to break us apart. But you came back. I've been waiting for so long..."

"What does she know about this?" The Batman slices through the moment, and Edward glances at him distractedly. "Have you been doing this together?"

"Of course not," Edward breathes, turning his attention back to you with a sweet smile. "She's too pure for that. Too shy, and lovely... it was me. But you inspired me," he insists, looking straight at you, "to make a clean slate, and clean it all up, so that it'd be perfect for us. And it will be, angel. You coming back was the last piece of the puzzle." Edward suddenly gives you that all-too familiar soft, loving look you'd seen back in the orphanage, and you have to fight to compose yourself, wanting so badly to run to him like you did so many times before. "You look so beautiful. You haven't changed a bit..."

You feel like crying, stunned by the casualness of what he's saying and admitting to. "I... oh Edward..." you shake your head, giving him a desperate look. "You're in Arkham."

"That's right," Batman interjects again, "you can't be together. You're a psychopath, Nashton. You're not getting out. I'm sending her back home."

"No, wait," you cut in desperately, still feeling just as drawn to the genius madman even after the dark truths, "please, I don't want to leave him, I can help..."

A guard interrupts, bursting into the interrogation room, and you all turn to him.

"There's been explosions," the guard announces, "the city walls have collapsed and the main road's flooded."

As he speaks, Edward giggles to himself, giving the masked vigilante a dark, unhinged look that makes your heart jump in your chest.

"She's not going anywhere," he says excitedly, grinning at you. "You're right where you need to be. We can watch the whole thing together."

The Batman dithers between leaving and staying, eventually rushing out of the room, along with Gordon, to deal with the flooding crisis, and a guard hustles you out of the room as Edward's voice calls out your name from behind you.

"You'll never leave me again! We were meant to be! You know it's true, darling! You know!"

You manage to glance back at him as you leave, studying his crazed, ecstatic look, that same softness in his eyes as the day you had to leave, but tainted with madness. But as you look, you can't help but smile back at him slightly, because you know it's true.

As the waters invade the city and the building erupts into panic along with the rest of Gotham, you know it's true. And maybe that'll make this all worth it.

⭒❃.✮:▹ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ◃:✮.❃⭒ (message me know if you want to be removed. ghost blogs/dead accs have been removed.)

Truthfully, Edward falls in love too easily. Well, it's not exactly love. More like infatuation. Or...obsession. Edward falls into obsession very quickly.

Because as soon as he gets his eye on you, he can't help but fixate. Every move, every breath, every word, every bit and piece of you that he can get his hands on, he sinks his teeth in like a feral dog, fighting for scraps.

He memorizes your schedule, makes sure you're safe, and takes note of all the little things that are important to you. I just can't help it, he tells himself. See, in Edward's mind, he can never be too careful.

Besides, it's not like you made it difficult for him to keep tabs. You should be grateful that it's him looking after you and not some other weirdo. Yes, you really are so very lucky to have him in your life.

And you'll never get a hint of any of it unless Edward wants you to. The glimpses you get of the man behind the curtain are all highly curated.

You'll run into him at the coffee shop where you get your morning drink. And he'll offer to pay for your drink and watch you smile in delight. Then he snatches the stick you'd used to stir your coffee with from the trash after you leave.

A few weeks later, you'll find yourself holding the elevator door open for him in your apartment complex. You recognize him, of course; how could you not? The kind eyed man who'd paid for your coffee on a whim had lived in the back of your mind for a while now; small acts of kindness like that were rare in Gotham.

And he acts pleasantly surprised to see you again and explains that he's just moved in. As if all of this was some happy little accident.

Edward has to tone down his excitement when you offer him a helping hand whenever he needs it. You say something about how sometimes the ceilings leak and the occasional rat scampers through. But he can handle both of those things. The thing he must prepare for is getting ready to see you almost every day.

Every single day will be a brand new chance to impress you with his stunning database knowledge about you. And he can't wait to watch you fall in love with him too. Because you will love him. He'll make sure of it.

Kissing is overrated, Edward concluded long ago. Maybe he saw one too many romance movies. Maybe he got sick of watching the couples around him locking lips at practically every turn. Whatever it was that broke him, he wasn't expecting for anything to miraculously fix him.

This was once again, just another thing that the universe seemed to think he wasn't good enough for. How the universe decided these things, he had no clue. All he knew was that no matter how hard he tried, he wasn't meant for that kind of attention.

Guys like him lurked in tiny cubicles, watching their glorified excuses for managers get dates that were way too good for them. Guys like him are invisible.

Which is why he's shocked when you actually see him.

Not only do you see him, but you embrace him. You show him that the universe had mercifully carved a path for him. And as long as that path leads to you, he's happy with this bit.

But his happiness is almost completely overshadowed by his anxiety. It's an ever present gnawing in his chest that completely takes over whenever you try to go further than holding hands or hugs and cuddles.

Knowing how nerve-wracking and overwhelming affection can be for him sometimes, you take each bit of progression slowly.

As you lay with him on the couch in his apartment, your attention shifts from the show playing on TV to Edward's face above you. From your spot on his chest, you watch him squint at the television. He scrunches his nose to push his glasses back up the bridge.

Edward may not have found himself to be anything special. But from this angle, he's perfect to you. He's an arrangement of soft curves, flushed skin, and inexperience.

That last part conflicts you. On one hand, it breaks your heart knowing that no one else managed to see him the way you do. On the other, you're glad that he'd somehow blended so deeply into the background that you were the only one who got him like this.

Because you like how deeply you affect him. How just a little stare has him fumbling for the words to ask why you're looking at him like that.

And you love the way that his whole demeanor crumbles entirely when you ask him confidently, "Can I kiss you?"

And who is he to deny such a straightforward request? Edward nods 

His hands are clammy and he has no idea where to put them. This whole act seems like a play that he hadn't learned his lines for.

What is he supposed to do? When is his tongue supposed to enter the scene? Did his tongue even get the part to begin with? So many questions flooded his mind in the few seconds it took for you to lean up to him.

He feels stupid...so very stupid when you pull him down the rest of the way by his collar. But when your lips finally meet his...he feels like he's in heaven. For about three seconds, he saw everything before him. Beyond all the fear and the worries that usually plague him...he has you. In your soft lips, he finds hope. And somehow, that's better than any drawn out and overdramatized movie kiss he's ever seen.

As quickly as it starts, the kiss ends. You dutifully make sure to keep things slow for him. And for a moment, Edward is grateful for it. Because he knows that the second he gets going, he will hardly be able to stop himself. He's inclined to take and take all that you can give him at once, afraid that if he doesn't, this opportunity will be snatched away from him.

"Is that good enough for now?" you ask.

Part of him says that if this is all real, there's no need to rush things. He doesn't need to succumb to the fear of scarcity. But he He can savor this. But he aches for more. He wants to suck the marrow out of every glance, every touch, every part of you that becomes a part of him and vice versa. He'll never get a moment like this again. And he wants to live in it for as long as he possibly can.

The day was supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to be a chocolate filled, candy coated, heart shaped, ribbon wrapped day of romance. That's how these sorts of holidays worked, right? Edward expected that he'd be planning so much that he'd barely get to feel the gratification of any of his efforts. Your adoring expression when you saw how devoted he was to making everything special would be his reward.

But with the way things were looking, he was losing it. Edward took a shallow breath and closed his eyes, going over the mental checklist for all of the things that had gone wrong that day.

He hadn't gotten the day off even though he'd requested it nearly a month in advance. Edward wouldn't forget the sneer on Zach's face as he chuckled and said, "Don't you need a date in order for that to work, Eddie boy?" Never mind his protest that he did have a date, which was precisely why he needed the day off in the first place. Zach didn't care. It had taken everything in Edward not to tear him to pieces in his stupid corporate office.

He figured he'd deal with it. That just meant his day was going to be a bit busier. At least the restaurant he wanted to take you out to was all set.

At least until he got home from work, flower bouquet in hand and called the restaurant for the fourth time that day, learned that their computer system had crashed, and wiped most of their reservation roster for the night. 

As much as Edward pitied the poor, panicked employee on the other end and the kind of night they were going to face, he had his own worries. He hung up quickly and leaned back against the kitchen wall, making a mental note to call later and see if the issue was fixed.

Alright, Edward. You're already lucky that you got this chance in the first place. And you're screwing it up. Just breathe. And do something.

So he did something. He found a vase in one of the cupboards for the flowers; a nice crystal one that would look perfect displayed on the coffee table, waiting for you when you got back to your apartment as well.

All his life he'd had butterfingers. And once more, they struck at the worst possible moment. As he carried the crystal vase to the coffee table in the living room, before he could quite process it, the vase was slipping from his hands and falling to the floor with a heart shattering crash.

Now he was on the ground, hurriedly sweeping the pieces of broken glass with his bare hands. Among the shards were flowers, now all scattered and already starting to look disheveled. The water was soaking into the knees of his slacks.

And the icing on the cake? Of course he had to slice his finger on a shard of glass when he wasn't paying attention. Without hesitation, he attempted to stop the blood flow...using the sleeve of his white button up. But he was already too far gone. 

You're screwing it up. You can't do anything right, can you? You're going to end up alo–

He clamped his hands around his ears, trying to block out the voice, trying to catch his breath, trying to hold onto something; anything. But it was like he was drowning. Going further and further down, the water clogged all of his senses.

Edward? Eddie? Eddie!

Finally, he felt a hand on his shoulder. And it all stopped. Edward opened his eyes and blinked heavily, catching your scared expression for only a few seconds before you replaced it with a tentative smile.

"Hey, are you with me?"

Edward nodded slowly, only just beginning to feel the waves of hot tears that had started rolling down his cheeks. This wasn't the first meltdown you'd witnessed from him. But it was the first one he'd had on a holiday. As much as they intimidated him, he'd managed to keep it together. Something about this one though pressed him so thin that he felt like he could shatter at any minute. 

And you already seemed so aware of it as you helped him get up and said, "You're home, you're with me."

You caught sight of the bright red blood on his shirt cuff and took his hand in yours tenderly, examining the small cut on the side of his index finger. "Let's take care of this first, alright?”

You took him into your little bathroom and carefully cleaned the wound before rubbing in a small dot of antibiotic ointment and sending him in your room to pick out a set of pajamas from your dresser. Normally, Edward would feel embarrassed, having sets of pajamas at your apartment for all the times he stayed over; he hated being alone at night. But now, he was grateful to get out of the damp slacks and bloodstained button up.

By the time he finished getting dressed, you'd picked the remaining pieces of glass, sopped up the water, and placed all the flowers on paper towels in your kitchen. And when he'd looked at them shamefully, you came up behind him, wrapping your arms around his midsection. Then you spoke, "They're beautiful flowers, Edward. Thank you. Maybe I could press them and use them in a project. That way I can keep them forever."

Edward hummed lightly, "That sounds lovely." You are lovely, he wanted to say. But somehow, he could tell that you already knew it as you walked him out to the living room, a massive box of chocolates and a small bottle of red wine on the coffee table.

"It's not much, but I didn't know if you'd have anything planned. So I figured we could spend the night in," you explained.

Edward didn't have the energy to scold himself for forgetting to tell you about his plan for the evening. None of that mattered anymore. He was tired. Exhausted, actually. But more than that, he was in love. In love with you and your gentle touch and your hopeful eyes as you waited for his reply. Like if the chocolate and the wine wasn't there, you'd probably still be content anyways. Content with him.