#puzzleborn

The way old Jon sees it, the only thing a person can give another that’s worse than the plague is a gift. Especially a Christmas one. First of all, it’s been proven historically that Jesus was, in fact, born in the summertime and that it was lied about as a means to assimilate resistant pagans local to recently imperialized European areas. If anything, calling the traditional pagan Yule the birth of Christ is somewhat akin to overlooking the genocide of pre-Christian Europeans from East to West.

All that said, however, he’s not about to spit in Edward’s eye and tell him he can’t have a merry wintertime reprieve from brooding and puzzling. Just look at this dork. Dazzling presence indeed. Jon’s never seen him so smiley. Adorable Deplorable.

So, more for Ed than for himself, he awkwardly pulls the wrapping paper away and reveals the shoes and trench inside. Is this a subtle remark on his state of dilapidation? Probably. Eddie does love to feel fancy by comparison. But this is sweet of him, regardless. Better than the year he got old Jon a gift certificate for a soup kitchen in lowtown.

“I, ah – “ God, he hasn’t gotten gifts for anyone – what does he look like, Saint Nick? He’s the goddamn Scarecrow – “I got you, uh – “

A quick look around his living room is fruitless for the most part. But his hands shoot for the first thing on the nearest shelf: a taxidermy raven, beak open as if to squawk Nevermore! Even as he’s handing the thing over to Edward, he’s thinking what even is this – he’s not going to like this.

But now, slow motion suspended, there he is.

“-- That’s just ridiculous,” Harley’s saying to the barista as she whips up a toffee nut latte. “That’s ridiculous, you shouldn’t have to work on Christmas. I mean, I know I’m not gonna be here, an’ I know nobody else is gonna be here-- y’know what? Y’know what? Jus’ don’t come in. No, I mean it, jus’ don’t come in on Christmas, I don’t care what th’ manager says. I’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t know,” the barista responds slowly, sounding less like she’s trying to be a good employee and more like this is just too good to be true. “I don’t know, I mean, I could get fired for--”

“Stevie.” Harley’s got her drink, now, and she catches the girl’s hand before she retreats back behind the counter. Stevie doesn’t mind; there are only two customers in right now, Harley included.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harley insists. “I’ll take care of it.”

Stevie cracks a smile. Harley cracks a smile back.

“I feel like this is how people get roped into being henchmen.”

Harley chuffs a laugh and picks up her two drinks. “You’re too smart t’ be a henchman.”

See, the Starbucks on Fifth never complains about supervillains as long as they’re civil. Many of its employees have received hefty tips after serving a weary criminal just looking for some peace and quiet and overpriced coffee. Harley herself has personally seen that one of the baristas got into a good culinary school. Because of this arrangement, as one might imagine, there is a regular criminal clientele. Right now, an hour before closing time, the only customers in are Harley Quinn and the Riddler. They’ve just finished Christmas shopping.

Edward, bless his heart, has been texting or Tweeting or doing whatever on his phone the whole time that Harley’s been talking with Stevie. He doesn’t even look up until Harley nudges his phone with the hot paper cup. He blinks, pockets his phone, thanks her, takes a drink.

“You can’t come here on Christmas,” Harley tells him matter-of-factly.

“And why not?”

“Nobody’s comin’ t’ work. I told ‘em I’d take care of it.”

“Ah.”

“Mhm.”

They lapse into intermittent silence and idle chatter. Half an hour later, they’re ready to go. Edward stands, puts his scarf and hat on, pulls on his coat; Harley follows suit. He starts to go around the table to leave but she stops him.

“Hold on, you forgot something.”

He holds his hands up and starts looking around. “No I--?”

“Look behind you.”

“... It’s... a bulletin board.”

“With mistletoe on it.”

“... Oh, Harley, come on--”

“I can’t, Eddie, it’s tradition, I have to--”

She’s giggling when she moves around the table. He tries half-heartedly to dodge, but of course she catches him; she holds onto his coat with one hand and pulls a chair out with the other, and then she stands on it in order to reach.

“Merry Christmas, Eddie.” She puts her hands on his shoulders and plants a kiss (mmmmmmmwah!) on his cheek.

He huffs a little, blushes a little, says a quiet Merry Christmas back to her and helps her down from the chair. He keeps a careful watch all the way out the door for any other mistletoe.

She’s got some bright, newfangled toy in her hands-- you know the kind: they light up, they make noise, they walk and talk, they cost a fortune. She’s been examining a few others like it for the past five minutes. She squints, fiddles with the packaging a little to try and get a better look at the toy itself, and then holds it out for Ed to look at.

Fingerguns. Good lord, she’s incorrigible. She’s been looking over some diagram or blueprints or something she found lying around-- maybe a new plan, maybe an old one, maybe nothing at all-- and once she’s got his focus, she taps her index finger at one of the labels.

tHAT REMINDS me we should do a youtubers au where ed and jon do let’s plays because CAN YOU IMAGINE

jon knows nothing of videogames whatsoever. he can’t operate a bricked is the Guru. the Master. his entire childhood was spent on the PS2 playing shitty JRPGs and devouring final fantasy clones like a black hole. he spent all his lunch money on trade-ins at Gamestop. the local nerds knew him as The Game Master not only because of his status in D&D but also because he knew every fuckin solution imaginable (because he stole the guidebooks)

BUT FUCKINRIGHT BACK AT U FOOL

IM LAUGHGN