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When Edward Nigma comes to, he’s only slightly surprised to find himself zip-tied to a chair. The cuffs are tight enough that they’re starting to make the tips of his fingers tingle in an unpleasant way, and there’s a fogginess in his head that makes him quite certain there was some chemical assistance involved in his unconsciousness.
He wonders idly for a moment, perhaps much less concerned than he should be, about where he is.
Then something long, sharp, and cold is dragged slowly down the back of his neck, making him shudder involuntarily, and he doesn’t even have to try and look over his shoulder to know who’s standing behind him.
“Hello, Jonathan. You know, if you wanted to see me so badly, a phone call works just as well.”
Jonathan does a very good job of ignoring him being a smartass, and it’s a testament to how long they’ve known each other that he doesn’t even feel insulted by that. Instead he’s too busy focusing on not moving as Jonathan drags microscopically sharpened needles across his skin. One wrong move could have them slipping in, and Edward has a feeling he’ll have enough injection sites to deal with by the time this evening is through without giving himself any by accident.
When Jonathan puts his arms around him from behind, it seems oddly tender considering the circumstances— but instead of embracing him, he just puts his glasses on his face, which it’s taken until now for him to notice are even missing.
With his glasses now graciously returned to him by his captor, Edward can actually see his surroundings— although, unsurprisingly, there isn’t much to look at. A small room with a single entrance— probably a basement of some sort, deep enough underground and soundproofed enough that no one will be able to hear his test subjects’ screams— the sort of place you would expect to be a grimy tetanus trap, except while Jonathan isn’t picky about many things, he is particular about his work space being sterile. It minimizes variables and makes sure his experiments are legitimate— or as legitimate as they can be, considering the circumstances.
If Edward were a less intelligent man, this might be the moment where he would start to realize why he’s here— but he’s a genius, so he’s known why he’s here from the beginning, even through the haze of whatever Jonathan used to drug him.
“You made yourself very hard to find this time, Edward.” Jonathan drums those sharpened needles against his chest, alarmingly close to important organs even if there’s a shirt between them— not that Edward thinks that would be much of a deterrent. But at the same time, the way he leans in close and practically whispers directly into Edward’s ear sends shivers down his spine— and not the sort that Jonathan Crane usually inspires in people.
Except for Edward.
“But.” Jonathan gives his shoulder a squeeze with the hand that isn’t wearing a murder glove filled with a horrific toxin of his own design. “I know if you hadn’t wanted me to find you, I wouldn’t have been able to.”
Edward isn’t sure whether that’s meant as a compliment or not, but he takes it as one anyway.
It’s also true.
But Jonathan isn’t interested in a conversation; he doesn’t wait for whatever Edward might have to say, he just walks away and disappears somewhere outside of Edward’s range of vision.
After a moment he can hear shuffling noises, like papers and chemical equipment being moved around. It’s a sound he’s familiar enough with, and even though there’s the first tickles of concern, he instead turns his focus to the room he’s in.
The whole place feels very much like a hospital… Or a morgue. It’s set up to be able to clean easily, with sterile-looking stainless steel islands and counters on which Jonathan’s chemistry equipment is set up, and matching cabinets in which his chemicals and other materials are being stored.
All in all, very utilitarian— very Jonathan.
“Can’t we go somewhere nice for a change?” Edward sighs dramatically, letting his head fall back so he can roll his neck. He’s not sure how long he’s been left sitting zip tied to a chair in Jonathan’s strange murder basement, but based on his sore and stiff he feels, he’s guessing it’s been a while. And even though he’s not… Opposed to whatever game Jonathan wants to play, the grogginess and the soreness is making him pissy.
Briefly, he thinks,
Why couldn’t I just get involved with someone normal for once?
He almost vocalizes that thought before he realizes that’s just going to get him hit or psychoanalyzed— neither of which sounds especially fun, given his current circumstances.
Besides, it’s an uncharacteristically stupid question for him to ask anyway— the reason he never gets ‘involved’ with normal people is because they can’t appreciate him.
Genius and madness are two sides of the same coin, after all.
Jonathan doesn’t answer him— just continues to ignore him as he goes about whatever mysterious business he has just out of view, although he does start humming, giving Edward a better idea of exactly where he is.
The humming is off putting for two reasons: one, because it means Jonathan, one of the crabbiest people he knows, is in an uncharacteristically good mood. And two, because he’s humming ‘Hush Little Baby’.
But Jonathan isn’t menaced by Jonathan the way most people are— and some would call that foolish of him, but he knows Jonathan wouldn’t hurt him.
Well.
He’s mostly certain.
Eighty percent.
The hand suddenly on his shoulder nearly— nearly— startles him, because Jonathan has this way of moving completely silently and Edward’s mind is running at a mile a minute trying to think of what Jonathan might be planning for him this time.
When he rounds the chair to stand in front of him, Edward notices two things right away: the first is that he’s not wearing the glove anymore, and the second is that he’s wearing a new Scarecrow outfit.
A second later he notices a third thing: the needle that Jonathan is holding.
Instead of thinking too much about that, he decides to focus on the new outfit. It’s an improvement from his last one, but that’s not saying much, since his last outfit was just the tattered remains of an Arkham uniform and a burlap sack.
He’s kept a few aspects of his temporary outfit— the noose around his neck being one— but he’s back to favouring the trench coat. Even though the thing looks old and tattered— kind of a Scarecrow signature— it’s much more flattering on him.
Jonathan just looks good in leather; Edward is happy to admit it.
“Very nice,” he says, training his voice into a purr that Catwoman would be proud of when it’s obvious that Jonathan is looking for some kind of commentary.
As much as he mocks him for being vain, he can’t help but notice the way Jonathan stands a bit straighter at his compliment.
“You didn’t bring me all the way here just for a private fashion show though, did you?”
“Oh, Edward, certainly you know me better than that.”
Jonathan takes a step forward and cups his chin in his hand, at first gently, then digging his nails in until it’s just on the edge of painful— and then a bit more so it tips juuuuust over that edge.
Edward breathes in through his nose, but it’s not because he doesn’t like it— just the opposite, in fact.
The first stirrings of a smirk twitch at the corners of Jonathan’s lips, but he composes himself into his usual blank slate as he pulls his hand away— much to Edward’s chagrin— and reaches up to adjust his own glasses.
“How are you feeling, Edward?” He slips into psychiatric mode like a well-worn shirt, but his soothing tone strikes a stark contrast to the rough way he rolls up Edward’s left sleeve.
“Aside from the stiff neck and the grogginess and the fact that I can’t feel my fingertips? Just peachy, Dr. Crane.”
He means it to sound sarcastic, expecting a reprimand, but the use of his professional title makes Jonathan pause. He walks slowly around Edward, pushing his fingers into his hair just on the pleasant side of rough.
Edward tilts his head into the touch, but it doesn’t stay for long. Jonathan finishes the circle, now on his left side.
“It’s been too long.” Jonathan’s voice is more breath than words, barely audible over the electrical hum of the overhead lights.
The syringe in his hand is a sickly yellow-green.
Edward’s stomach sinks, but he doesn’t know whether that’s from fear or anticipation.
The bite and pinch of the needle comes without any warning, though that’s hardly a surprise. His veins feel like they’re on fire for a moment and he hisses through it.
That spindly hand returns to his hair and tugs slightly, tipping his head back as Jonathan leans in very close to the shell of his ear and breathes,
“Sweet dreams, Edward…”
just before the world melts around him.
He has to give it to Jonathan; he’s really outdone himself this time.
Normally, Jonathan’s fear toxin quickly reduces his test subjects to blathering messes unable to cope with the raw animal fear coursing through them. This, as Jonathan has helpfully told him (at length— it’s rare that Scarecrow can outtalk Riddler, but when it comes to the subject of fear, everything is on the table), is because he can’t admire fear in its purest form if the repressing brain is in the way.
“If I just wanted to hear people babble about their phobias and anxieties all day, I would have just stayed a psychiatrist.”
Lucidity, thus, isn’t normally a contributing factor to his plan when he’s coming up with a new formula. Most subjects’ lucid fears aren’t very interesting to him.
But Edward isn’t just another test subject.
Jonathan likes to tell him that it takes a true expert in the field of fear (like him) to twist the break of a genius (like Edward) without breaking it completely. To expose the raw, soft underbelly without digging too deep.
He never shares the same formulas with Jonathan’s other test subjects, and he knows that because he’s had them chemically tested— just to be sure.
Lucidity isn’t the point for most subjects, but it must be for him, because he’s never been so completely aware before.
The hallucinations are still there, of course, because what would Scarecrow’s fear toxin be without them? But he’s not a sobbing wreck who can barely form a coherent sentence, begging for his father not to hurt him— all of that stays in his head and he gets to sit there and shudder as he waits for the next round to hit.
And each time it does, it’s what he knows Jonathan would call ‘gorgeously brutal’, if he happened to be in one of his poetic moods. He’s been doing good so far, all things considered; his throat is starting to hurt but he hasn’t screamed himself completely raw, and he hasn’t absolutely destroyed his wrists on the too-tight zip ties, and he hasn’t bitten off his own tongue in spite of Jonathan’s very rude neglect to give him a mouth guard.
(The last strikes him as somewhat odd, in the moments where his mind is clear enough to let him think thoughts like that; Jonathan might tease him about shutting him up permanently, but he would miss their intellectual conversations if he did something like that. He’s the only person in Gotham smart enough to keep up with Jonathan, after all— not to mention willing to put up with him.
The fact that he’s here and not even trying to escape is proof enough of that.)
This time, when he comes back to himself from the latest round of hallucinations so vivid he can still feel them like ants on his skin, he’s crying. The sobs make his raw throat burn, and the streaks of his tears are practically burning on his face.
It’s hard to see anything through those tears, but it would be impossible for him to miss those sharp blue eyes staring him down, locked on him, unblinking as if he’s going to disappear the moment Jonathan ceases to observe him.
Edward has never felt more like a rare butterfly being pinned.
Even if his eyes were gouged out, he’s sure he would still be able to feel Jonathan’s heated gaze on him— not that Jonathan would ever do something like that. He likes Edward knowing he’s looking at him… Likes knowing that Edward feels like his prey.
Jonathan is sitting in a chair across from him and watching, with a clipboard perched in his lap to take notes, but he looks like he’s too distracted by just watching him to actually write anything. And if this were any other situation that would have Edward preening, but right now he’s just physically and mentally exhausted and he knows he looks an absolute mess covered in sweat and drool and tears…
Jonathan drums his fingers in a steady rhythm on his clipboard. Edward focuses on them just to give himself anything to focus on other than falling back into the abyss of his own mind— even though he knows that’s what he’s supposed to do, because that’s the entire point of this.
One, two. One, two. It’s a steady rhythm like the drip of water from a leaky faucet. One, two. One, two.
Buckle my shoe.
He almost giggles to himself at that, which is sign enough that the drug, as much as it’s keeping him aware, has broken down his mental faculties enough to have him spouting off nursery rhymes like a child— or like the man sitting across from him.
Jonathan rises slowly from his chair, walking towards him. One, two. Now it’s not finger beats that he’s counting but footsteps. Three, four.
Jonathan has long legs and it would be easy for him to cover the distance in just a stride or two, but he takes his sweet time and saunters up to him. He’s expecting the rough hand pushing through his hair in a soothing gesture; it’s the way Jonathan uses his knee to maneuver his legs closer together so he can rest it on the chair that surprises him.
He climbs into Edward’s lap like he owns the place, resting his other foot on the floor for balance. Edward spreads his legs just a little when he’s reasonably sure it won’t send Jonathan sprawling.
The look in Jonathan’s eyes can only be described as… Hungry. He licks his dried, cracked lips and watches Edward like a shark eyeing an injured seal— or a vulture circling a lone wanderer in the desert.
He reaches up to guide Edward’s eyes shut with the pads of his thumbs; Edward complies without hesitation, his breath hitching when Jonathan leans in to, with an almost mocking sense of tenderness, press a kiss to each of them in turn.
“Jon—” Edward chokes on a desperate plea, even though he doesn’t know what he’s begging for. Jonathan hums his approval; Edward can feel it in his skin, wouldn’t dare open his eyes because disobeying a madman sitting in your lap who has just dosed you with an intense hallucinogenic drug is close to a death sentence even if that madman is your boyfriend… Sort of.
Edward doesn’t have a death wish, and he’s too smart to think that even he is an exception to everything.
“Shh,” his sometimes-lover directs. Before he can protest or say anything more, Jonathan slips something in his mouth and presses at his lower jaw to guide him to bite down. His teeth slide perfectly into whatever plastic thing is being presented to him.
His drug-addled brain stumbles for a moment before he realizes it’s the mouth guard he was complaining about not being given earlier. The fact that Jonathan thinks to give him one now is concerning, but he bites down on it anyway, knowing he wouldn’t be given it if he didn’t need it.
Jonathan is always practical that way.
“It would be such a shame for you to lose that silver tongue of yours,” he almost coos. Coming from most people, it would have sounded like a threat; Jonathan manages to make it sound even more terrifying as a compliment.
“Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetops…” The lyrics taper off to humming just as Edward feels the next jolt shooting its way through his veins, and then Jon’s voice fades off into nothing as his brain and the toxin took complete control of his senses once more.
Edward isn’t sure how someone as smart as him took as long as he did to realize Jonathan’s biggest turn-on is fear. It seems almost hilariously obvious, but some part of him had always thought Jonathan was just too stuff to have kinks; too professional, as he was always sure he would say with a sneer on his face. He’d pictured Jonathan as the kind of guy who would have to reboot his brain completely every time a woman let him put his hands up her shirt.
It still manages to surprise him when he comes out of his toxin-induced haze, dry tear trails on his face and throat burning, to the feeling of Jonathan’s rough lips on his neck and calloused fingers dancing across his stomach. He swallows hard, feeling dehydrated and heavy and not at all sexy in any way. Those same fingers are pushed through his hair again, and his sweat is enough to keep it pushed back and away from his face.
“You did so well this time,” he murmurs soothingly, one hand gently stroking Edward’s face as he reaches into his mouth with the other to take the mouth guard out.
His mouth is terribly dry, but he manages a wobbling grin.
“Were you expecting anything else?” He wants that to come across confident, but he’s mostly lost his voice and what little still manages to come through sounds wavering and tearful, like a child trying to pretend he hasn’t been crying.
One of Jon’s rough hands cups the back of his neck, equally rough nails scratching at the spot where his hair ends. His other hand slips lower from the spot on his stomach, fiddling with his belt.
Edward swallows hard and winces at the pain it brings.
This isn’t the first time they’ve done this, but it’s the first time where he’s been so completely and utterly put under. Jonathan has definitely outdone himself on the formula this time, and he simultaneously feels very aware of what’s going on around him and not the least bit aware of anything else except the fog of fear lingering in the back of his brain.
“How do you feel, Edward?” It’s the stereotypical psychiatrist question, but the fact that Jonathan is in his lap leaning in to practically whisper it seductively in his ear as he reaches down to massage him through his pants makes it so much more than that.
He also doesn’t know the answer to that question; this is such a completely new sensation, being this totally and completely aware of what Jonathan’s toxin is doing to him. In the back of his mind he’s always known, but to actually be able to experience it even if his brain is rather hazy…
He does know that it surprises him that his body responds so immediately. Edward feels physically awful, with his throat utterly raw and his eyes dry and swollen and his wrists utterly wrecked by the zip ties…
And yet Jonathan also knows exactly what to do with him— to him— to bypass that entirely.
Jonathan’s teeth sink into the soft part of his earlobe, and he’s not even trying to be gentle— not that he would be expecting anything soft from Jonathan Crane. Jonathan is all harsh angles and sharp teeth and rough nails digging into his soft skin, the hard jut of his knees in the softest parts of him, everything on just the right side of painful and the right side of pleasurable.
“You’re always so intriguing to watch,” Jonathan practically purrs, and the compliment washes over him like a balm to his pain.
Edward wants to relax into the chair, his mind starting to drift just out of pure physical exhaustion, but Jonathan’s nails dig into his skin to keep his attention focused on him.
When Jonathan reaches down to undo his belt, in spite of everything, Edward is already half-hard.
He knows Jonathan notices it, but he plays it off like he doesn’t even though that’s obviously his goal, instead slowly pulling his belt free and casually wrapping and buckling it around his own neck like that’s a totally normal thing for him to do.
Edward swallows and winces again.
He hyper focuses on the sound of his zipper being pulled down, to the point that even the pounding of his heartbeat in his own ears seems to fade into the background.
It’s at that moment that he realizes that the fear toxin hasn’t finished having its way with him, and he wonders if Jonathan has baked that directly into the formula: feeling like you’ve finally gotten through the worst of it only to have it pull you back under.
But either it’s starting to wear off or once again it’s something Jonathan has managed to make an intrinsic part of the serum, because he doesn’t fall back into the grip of blackness and his own mind; instead, Jonathan just seems a bit more far away, like he’s experiencing everything with a very high fever.
Jonathan doesn’t really bother with the logistics of trying to undress him; he just pushes his jeans and boxers far enough out of the way that he can pull his cock out and stroke him.
Edward is caught between the intensity of the sensations he’s feeling and the fog settling in his brain that’s making his heart race with anxiety, but he knows it doesn’t take long for Jonathan to get him fully hard. He lets out a sound suspiciously like a whimper, but of course it couldn’t be a whimper, because that would just be pathetic!
“You’ve always been a pathetic little faggot though, haven’t you, Eddie?”
The sound that rips out of him as that voice rings through his head isn’t a whimper, either; it’s something more animal than that, and he can taste the blood in the back of his throat as he reopens the rawness he’s left from his screaming and crying, and Jonathan just continues to touch him as he leans in to kiss his neck and suck a bruise into his skin.
He doesn’t know when Jonathan has gone from wearing his new full Scarecrow getup to wearing nothing at all, other than Edward’s belt still fixed around his throat and his glasses sliding down his nose, but where he normally would take a chance to sit back and enjoy the view, he can barely focus on what he looks like— just how he’s touching him and how his brain is full of memories and voices that he’s tried to bury for a very long time.
His father never knew about this part of him— he didn’t need to know in order to hate him and consider him a waste of space. But Edward knows that the voice in his head is exactly what his father would say and it actually hurts more than the memories do, because he’s risen above what happened to him in his past to show that he’s the smartest man in Gotham if not the world, but the only thing he can’t escape because of that is his own mind.
And that is why Jonathan keeps coming back to him like this— why the two of them are here like this, right now.
If Edward were more able to form coherent thoughts, he might actually be flattered by the fact that Jonathan is legitimately attracted to him for his mind— but right now all he can think about is how hard his father would have beaten him if he had known that this is how his son would ‘choose’ to spend his time in the future.
No daddy please don’t I didn’t cheat I didn’t mean to I don’t want to do this I’ll do better I promise I promise I promise
“Are you still afraid of your father, Edward?” Jonathan coos in fake sympathy, and Edward realizes at that moment that he must have been saying all of that out loud and can’t stop himself from whining. “Even after he’s been dead for so many years, to still be affecting you like this…”
It sounds like exactly the sort of thing Jonathan might have said if he had first met him when he was still a practicing psychiatrist, either while lying on an uncomfortable couch or while in handcuffs and prison orange while Jonathan adjusted his glasses at him and took notes.
But instead Jon is saying it while almost completely naked, straddling his lap and looking at him like he’s the most delicious ten course meal he’s ever seen— not because of his looks (because Edward knows he looks absolutely awful in that moment, completely worked over by the fear toxin) but because of his fear.
Jonathan’s biggest turn on is fear, because why wouldn’t it be? Fear is everything to him. Fear is what his entire life has revolved around since the day he became Scarecrow. Why would it not be involved here, too?
Edward doesn’t like being Jonathan’s guinea pig, no matter how much he compliments him or makes him feel special with his own unique formulae. Who would be crazy enough— except Jon himself— to want to be subjected to his own deepest fears and horrific anxieties? To relive all of the most terrifying memories of his entire life?
But in spite of everything, Edward likes Jonathan Crane. He’s never been quite sure why. Is it just because he’s intelligent enough to keep up with him, without being enough of a jack of all trades when it comes to his intellect to make him feel threatened and competitive? Is it because they consistently work well together in spite of their personalities clashing?
No… It’s more than all of that, and Jonathan knows it, and that’s why he puts him in these situations. Because Edward’s discomfort is not as delicious as his fear, but he still revels in it and knows he can get away with it.
He doesn’t know when Jonathan had a chance to prep himself, whether it was before he even kidnapped him or whether he did it in the same nebulous stretch of time where he also undressed himself without Edward even realizing he did it because the toxin has his awareness fading in and out like he’s caught up in a fever dream. But with absolutely no help from him (because he’s not even aware enough to do anything to help even if he was in a helping mood, which he so rarely is when Jonathan wants to have his way with him like this) he lines the head of Edward’s cock up with his hole and sinks down onto him in one smooth motion.
There are so many things happening that Edward doesn’t even know what’s really happening and what’s only going on inside his own head, but the sensation of being buried inside of a soft, tight heat is very real and a broken noise forces itself out of him. He would almost call it grounding— except for the fact that the whispers and voices in his head are still very much there, if not louder, with Jonathan’s breathy noises of pleasure blending right in where they’re not drowned out.
His father’s voice calls him pathetic. Edward is starting to lose his grip on the reality not in front of him but inside of his head; he’s so out of it that the mockery and memories can’t even form full sentences at him anymore, they just throw insults at him like rocks, but he still can’t help but sob his way through them.
Jonathan fucks himself on his cock while he can barely see him through the tears that make his already dry and exhausted eyes sting fiercely. He takes it slow, and thorough, but the physical sensations combined with the absolute mire of his brain is more than enough to make Edward feel overstimulated. It makes him want to cry even more, but he’s not sure that’s even possible. He must be terribly dehydrated by now.
“Your father never appreciated your true talents, did he, Edward?” Jonathan reaches up to cup his face in his hands as he rocks his hips back and forth, clearly in no rush.
Edward doesn’t even know what he says to that, if anything. All he knows is that Jonathan is digging his nails into his skin again. When he drags them, he knows the marks are going to be red and swollen and show on his skin long enough for him to be able to properly admire them when he comes back to himself— but instead of continuing to mark him up the way he usually does, Jonathan pulls away from him again (fucking himself on his cock a few more times for good measure) and reaches up to undo his belt from around his neck.
The aware part of Edward’s brain knows exactly what he’s planning to do with that belt, and feels in equal parts scared and aroused. The rest of him just blearily lets Jonathan manhandle him, lost in the physical sensations of being inside of him and the mental mire that the fear toxin has him caught in.
Jonathan loops the belt around Edward’s neck and fastens it just like he did to himself— but instead of leaving it at the right size to just hang around his neck like a strange sort of necklace, he keeps pulling the belt through the loop until it’s tight.
Is this how you’re gonna die, Eddie? What a complete waste of space.
He doesn’t even know if that’s his father’s voice or his own. Does it even matter anymore?
By the time he realizes Jonathan is tightening the belt enough to cut off his air, he already can’t breathe.
That’s when Jon starts riding him for real; with one hand on Edward’s shoulder and the other keeping the belt pulled tight, he throws his head back and pants with pleasure as he uses Edward as a glorified dildo.
Edward’s vision is starting to go blurry at the edges, but with his hands fixed to the chair, his brain off in la-la-land, and his airways cut off, he can’t fight back or even protest; all he can do is sit there and take it.
None of that stops him from being close to cumming.
There’s a part of him, deep inside that he refuses to acknowledge, that loves being Jonathan’s toy. That feels a sick sense of satisfaction out of letting him do anything he wants to him. For every bit that he hates being made a guinea pig, for every bit that he hates knowing Jonathan has all of the power and he has none— there’s a part of him that loves it and just wants Jonathan to drag him along in his sick fantasies forever.
That’s the part of him that is bucking his hips up even as his entire body screams in pain and he starts to black out from a lack of oxygen, and he doesn’t have to be able to see Jon’s face clearly through the haze of tears and oxygen deprivation to know that he’s smiling like the cat who just got the canary.
Jonathan slams his hips down at the exact moment that he releases his tight hold on the belt, allowing Edward to take a full, deep breath, and without any warning or build-up that’s the moment he cums harder than he’s ever cum in his life.
Edward nearly passes out after that— his vision definitely goes dark for a few moments, and even the voices that have been plaguing him since Jonathan injected him with his toxin just turn into background static.
When he comes back to awareness, Jonathan is grinding himself down desperately on Edward’s half-hard cock— the overstimulation being what drags him back to wakefulness as he lets out another pathetic whimper— as he jerks himself off, until with a shudder and a shaky exhale, Jon streaks his clothes with his cum.
They stay like that for a few moments as Jonathan catches his breath— but never one to bask in the afterglow, he gets to his feet quickly.
Even though he’s fully naked with cum dripping between his legs, Edward knows he looks more well put together than he does right now, and he doesn’t even have to be able to see himself to know that— he can feel how disgusting and exposed and exhausted and vulnerable he is.
“Well, Edward,” Jonathan breathes, not bothering to put his clothes back on as he walks around behind him just the way he did when all of this began; this time Edward doesn’t even have the energy to try to follow him.
At least the inside of his head is getting quieter— and when he opens his eyes all he can see is the blurriness from the tears obscuring the dingy surroundings.
There was an irrational part of him that was worried that this time? This time Jonathan would trap him in his own mind permanently.
“This was a fun distraction,” Jonathan says, so casually that Edward can almost dredge up enough energy to scoff. “And I got a lot of really incredible data on the new formula, so thank you for that. But I really should be getting back to work, and I’m sure you have plenty of work to get back to yourself.”
Not that you cared about that when you literally kidnapped me, Edward thinks, which is how he knows his faculties are starting to return to him, slowly and sluggishly with the exhaustion weighing him down. But he keeps that thought to himself as Jonathan walks back around to the front of his chair.
The deja vu hits him hard when he sees the needle in Jonathan’s hand— although this one isn’t faintly glowing like a radioactive cocktail.
“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Edward,” Jon all but coos as he slides the needle home. With his other hand he takes hold of Edward’s chin and jaw, pinching his cheeks as he comes in close to look him directly in the eye as he says, “Sweet dreams…”
And, for the third time that day, Edward’s world goes dark.
When Edward wakes up, he’s on his filthy mattress in his dingy hideout, the one he’s been forced to hide in ever since his latest breakout.
For a moment, he almost thinks he’s woken up from a very vivid dream about being kidnapped and drugged— until he realizes just how sore he is.
With a groan, Edward rolls over in his shitty bed and debates just going right back to sleep.
It’s not like he didn’t enjoy their little romp… Certain parts of it, at least. But Jonathan always goes too far and this time is no exception.
He flashes back momentarily to all of the things he heard and saw while under the effects of the fear toxin…
But very quickly he decides that there’s no point in dwelling on any of that, so he doesn’t.
As much as he wants to just go back to sleep, he feels gross and desperately needs a shitty lukewarm low pressure shower to at least feel human again. So he forces himself to sit up, wincing at the way his body screams at him—
And he spots something on the upturned crate he’s using as a nightstand.
He reaches out to grab it, and it’s a baseball with a little note card that says, Thanks for being such a good sport!
Edward grips the ball in a white-knuckled grip and he suddenly feels motivated enough to get out of bed— so he can cross the room to force the painted-over window open and throw the baseball as hard and as far as he can.
He doesn’t remember telling Jonathan about his father’s fixation with making him play sports, or that vile nickname, but he also doesn’t remember much of anything that he said or did or saw while under the effects of the toxin— which is probably for the best.
He looks back at the card that came with the “gift”. Thinks for a moment about the fact that he’s just been kidnapped and tortured, essentially, and yet he for some reason not only lets Jonathan get away with this time and time again but encourages it.
What is it about someone who gets his kicks out of tormenting him that keeps him coming back? It’s not like Jonathan is exactly appreciative of the fact that he lets him do these things to him; he might be one of the few people in Gotham who is intelligent enough to understand how intelligent Edward is, but does he ever show it? Of course not! Instead he uses that against him to make him feel ‘special’ for letting him drug him and see how far he can push him before he breaks!
If Edward were as smart as he thinks he is, he would just… Stop this. Stop validating Jon, stop seeking out his attention, stop letting him get away with treating him like his own personal toy. Stop letting his emotions get the better of him and blowing up at him when he upsets him only to forgive him the moment he gets even the tiniest crumb of validation for himself.
Edward walks over to the makeshift nightstand, picks up the card, and goes to rip it in half—
Only to stop, pause for a moment, and set it back down as he walks away to get back to the very important business Jonathan had in fact interrupted when he had whisked him away to be his semi-willing guinea pig.
There’s always another day to worry about unhealthy relationship dynamics, after all… And, if he’s being honest with himself, probably many days in the future to worry about it.
Right now, he has better things to do.
And he is a good fucking sport.