#dano riddler

Edward's head rests atop your pillows, the crease between his brows eased by the merciful lull of sleep. Your heart swells as you hover your hand just above his cheek where the mottled, red flecks which have adorned them the previous night are slowly giving way.

He opens his eyes, then, his startled gasp causing you to withdraw as he makes an agitated, unsteady attempt to sit up before you reach out once more, placing your fingertips on his shoulder. Your touch is light, but enough for his muscles to seize up before he begins to come to his senses, reminding himself that, oh, oh, it is you, you, who does not mean violence.

You mean peace, gentleness, the absolute opposite, and, oh, he will learn to remember, he promises, he is good at that, learning, that is, but there is so, so much of it to do when it comes to you.

"You're in my bed, Edward," you say, keeping your voice quiet and light, yet not without the sting of worry around the edges of your words, while you watch Edward's muscles gradually ease as he cautiously allows himself to lean back against the pillow. "Last night, you said you were..."

You reach towards your bedside table, reaching for Edward's glasses, placed atop a haphazard stack of books, and passing them over to him. Sifting through your mind to locate the right words, you watch him put them on, pleased that the tremors from the night before appear to have passed.

The messages which you have received from him spoke of his nerves coming ablaze, of feeling ensnared within the enclosure of his own flesh, and being enmeshed in filth. You harbour no desire to remind him, his words of the deep torrents of memory still novel in your mind. You remind silent, watching Edward blink slowly, gradually becoming accustomed to the surroundings. So very different from his own apartment, so very different from all that he knows; a large room bathed in the warmth of light and colour, and the smell of sandalwood incense drifting down from the holder on your windowsill.

"I asked you if you wanted to get a taxi here," you continue, "And you... Eventually fell asleep... Well, here."

"I-I see," he murmurs, straining to process the information which you have just given; you asked him, you have given him a choice, you have allowed him here, and let him sleep so very, very close to you.

Realising that he ought to make himself remember just how he has found himself here, in such divine proximity, he begins to recall the kindling of anguish rousing into a purgatory of sorrow, and you cool, cool hands, reaching, guiding him through a labyrinth of flames, the departure from which has left him depleted, descending into inviolable sleep.

You watch the crease form between his brows once more as you reach out to trace the soft curve of his cheek with your knuckles.

His pupils widen, then, as you are so, so gentle with him, as if you knew that he was made of glass, some sub-standard kind, as if you knew just how close he was to shattering into a thousand shrewd, incisive pieces.

There is an ache which unspools itself within you at the sight of him, there, half-buried beneath your bedcovers, his body softened by the remnants of sleep which still cling to him. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologise, that you have had to witness him in such a disarray, vile, and sickening, and-

"Yes, you can see," you say, "You are so very observant, Edward."

There is nothing more than a soft exhale coming from his lips.

"And, you cannot stop seeing, can you?" you ask, and despite hearing just how delicate your voice is when you say it, he cannot stop himself from questioning, does this mean that he could stop? Does this mean that it is something wicked to you?

There is something in his eyes which tells you that he would, if only this was a possibility. He would stop, if only there was some kind of a switch, he would make it all stop.

The ache within yourself wrenches itself, and you find yourself leaning closer to him, closer, until your lips are brushing his forehead, cool, cool, again, pacifying in their tenderness.

You place a kiss there, before withdrawing just enough to be able to speak.

"Do you realise just how powerful of a gift that is?" your voice drops to a whisper, "To be able to see beyond the mist of the ordinary?"

Edward lets out nothing more but a quiet, choking sound.

"There is so much strength in that," you continue, "To be able to carry the weight of all that knowledge, all that awareness, within yourself..."

Edward closes his eyes, threatened by tears of gratitude which border precariously on the very edges of reverence, tainted by a sear of disbelief as your lips ghost across his forehead, finding a resting place on his temple.

Edward gasps, audibly, eyelids fluttering open as you press your lips against it, burning, throbbing just enough for you to discern the tell-tale signs of a migraine; the very thought enlivens something almost cardinal in you.

You wish to take that torment, tear it out if it needs to be. You are kissing it better, kissing the pain away, which is such a ludicrous contemplation on his behalf. Please, forgive him the audacity of his thoughts.

"Why are you saying this?" Edward asks, his voice stilted and yet holding an undercurrent of urgency. "Why are you-?"

Why?

"Because the truth deserves to be spoken out loud," you trail your lips down the side of his face, his cheeks and jaw, before resting them briefly on his neck. "It deserves to be heard, Edward."

You can feel his pulse, then, akin to a frantic creature intent on thrashing against the bars of a self-imposed cage, again pressing your lips just a fraction harder against his flesh. The noise which rips itself out of Edward's throat makes you cease for a moment, however.

"Does this hurt?" you ask, cautious, but he shakes his head. "I don't want to cause any... Pain, ever, this City has..."

His thoughts swallow the remainder of your sentence, as no, it does not hurt, and you, only you can override this innate instinct to fear all that is good. How can you so freely touch a body which has been corrupted by the caustic fevers of vehemence and rottenness? How can you remain this compassionate?

"I can stop-" you begin, but stop as soon as you feel his hand constricting around your wrist.

"No, no," he shakes his head again, the act clearly showing desperation this time, "You can... You can continue, can you-"

-can you continue? Please? None of this pain of mine is of your doing, and he should not be this bold, but if you could... If it hurts everywhere, could you do it everywhere?

You hum, lips trailing downwards towards the faint curvature of his collarbone, the soft flesh adorned by a smattering of freckles.

"Like constellations," you murmur, aware of the banality of the thought, and yet adding, "Like bright, bright ciphers piercing through the darkness of the skies above."

Bright, bright.

"Ciphers," he echoes your words, voice faint, perplexed and adoring all at once.

Such kindness, such heart for this disconsolate mind and the devastated vessel which he calls his body. He wants to tell you, then, that you are an angel, the purest of heart, but his voice gets caught in his throat. He is sorry, so very sorry, promising himself that he will learn how to show you how much you mean to him, too.

The grip around your wrist loosens, just enough for you to be able to adjust yourself, lower, lower.

You trace a faultless, reverent line from Edward's chest down to his stomach, resolving to take in each part of his frame with an unhurried tenderness, briefly pressing closer to his warmth, comforted by how pleasant it feels now in contrast against the feverishness of the previous night, before lifting your head again.

Everywhere.

The sound which leaves Edward's lips as you move below the soft curve of his abdomen is akin to a whimper, followed by a slightly, barely-noticeable jut of his hips as your lips drift lower, following the subtle line of flaxen hair which leads beneath the waistband of his boxers, your bedcovers gathered below.