Chapter Text
The safehouse door opened with a groan as a gloved hand pushed against it roughly. Humid air, thick with dust and mildew, spilled into the night at the motion. A sunken couch sat alone in the center of the room, looking out of place. Even from the entryway, the surrounding carpet appeared damp.
Edward gagged the moment he stepped inside. His bruised ribs screamed in protest as he clutched the doorway, wincing. The butterfly bandage that stuck halfheartedly to his temple was stained a deep red.
"Oh, how charming," he choked out, waving his gloved hand in front of his face. “You brought me to a trap house.”
Jonathan didn’t respond right away. Keeping weight off his damaged leg remained his focus as he limped in behind Edward. The man had practically dragged Jonathan here, thrown his arm around his shoulders and used what little strength he had to follow Jon's slurred directions. They made it here, though—which was surprising, given the distance and how much blood they’d both lost along the way.
Jon moved past him, throwing his coat and mask haphazardly on the ruined sofa before hobbling toward the kitchen. Edward followed on his heels, noting the trail of blood he left soaking into the carpet. “Jesus—”
Hearing Edward's quiet expletive reminded Jon that he’d spoken earlier. “S’not a trap house, Ed,” he muttered. “Just ‘aven’t been here in a while.”
Edward noted the exaggeration of Jon's accent. He usually sounded like that when he was drunk, but apparently pain could coax it out, too.
Jon's hands were busy opening cabinets, taking inventory of what remained on the shelves. It wasn’t much. He hadn't been here in years, and it was sparse in its amenities. He did, however, manage to find an unopened bottle of whisky and wasted no time ripping the cork out with his teeth.
“That’s putting it lightly!” Edward stood at the kitchen entrance, swatting at a hanging cobweb with a disgusted flick of his hand. “This place is disgusting! I’m going to inhale black mold and die in this forgotten hellhole! Then who’ll torment Gotham's police force with riddles mocking their inefficiencies?”
Jon brought his hand up to rub his eyes. He wasn't in the mood to put up with the other man's dramatic behavior. “There’s running water, electricity, and lockable doors. It’ll suffice.”
Edward cast him a sidelong look, his eye twitching under the strain of a dull, persistent headache. “Suffice,” Edward repeated bitterly. He shuffled away from the kitchen to grab the duffel bag he'd left by the door, arms held out as if wading through a sewer. “You’re really showing your lack of standards here, Jon.”
Jonathan threw him a glare. “This ain’t a goddamn vacation, Nygma! An’ I ain’t your fucking roommate. We’re hiding, for God’s sake.”
The heist had gone sideways fast.
Batman was waiting for them, because of course he would be. Edward took the worst from him: a punch to the head that knocked him out cold and a boot to the ribs that left him tasting copper. Meanwhile, a strategically flung batarang had clipped Jonathan's belt, shattering a vial of his fear toxin. Thanks to his gas mask, he was spared what little effect it had on him, but their unaccustomed partner, Two-Face, wasn't so fortunate.
In a spectacular display of incompetent panic or rage—Jon wasn't sure which—Harvey had shoved him out of a second-story window. Their own damn getaway van broke his fall, but it was also what snapped his leg.
Even though it wasn’t entirely Harvey’s fault, Jonathan vowed the bastard would pay for it later.
Now they were stuck in one of Crane's old hideouts, both of them injured and stranded.
Edward made a face. “That’s all well and good, but don't come crying to me when you catch some infectious disease—” His voice faltered, causing Jon to glance at him.
He tried to smirk, but it crumbled into a grimace. A hand came up to cradle the side of his head. “I—I think I need to sit down...” He backed out of the doorway and sank onto the lumpy couch, leaning his head back with a sigh.
Jon shook his head. It seemed they were both in awful shape.
He turned from the kitchen and made for the bathroom, clutching the whiskey to his chest. He nearly slipped on a slick patch of tile—his own blood—and cursed, grabbing at the counter to steady himself. The jolt sent needles lancing up his leg, and he let out a quiet hiss, completely incensed.
“Fucks’ake.”
Eventually, he made it to the bathroom. He had to walk slowly, leaning heavily against the wall while leaving a blood smear in his wake, but he made it.
The cabinet above the faucet was ripped open with little care, causing a couple of bottles to tumble out into the grimy sink. They clattered around, alerting Edward to the commotion he was making.
“You okay in there, Jon?” called Edward’s strained voice.
“Fuck off, Nygma.” He rasped back. The pain was growing by the second.
His hands grabbed out instinctively for familiar items. A towel hanging by the door, the first aid kit shoved in the cabinet, and one of the pill bottles that had dropped into the sink: Oxycodone.
Jonathan sank down to the floor with his back against the tub and legs stretched out; everything he’d grabbed was placed on the toilet lid beside him. He took a shaky breath before grabbing at the pill bottle, popping three white tablets that he chased with the whiskey.
Well—time to see the damage.
He pulled his shirt off first, wincing as the motion pulled at cuts he didn't know he had. A piece of glass was stuck in his side, right under his ribs. It must have come from the window when he crashed through it. Smaller scrapes and cuts littered his chest and back, but thankfully most were superficial. He already had enough to worry about with his leg.
His pants came next. His right leg was soaked through with sticky blood that clung to his skin as he peeled at the burlap. He removed it in layers, cutting away at it in pieces with the small scissors from the first aid kit.
He sucked in a gasp at the sight of his bare leg.
Just below his knee, a whitish-pink shard of bone jutted an inch past the skin.
“Shit—”
He knew it was broken; that much had been obvious from the familiar pain, but he hadn’t realized it was this serious. The bleeding from his other wounds masked the severity of the fracture. He’d been running on adrenaline for the last half hour—his injuries had barely registered, his mind focused on escape, not blood loss.
“Ok. Calm down. Think. Stop the bleedin’, reset the leg, sanitize the wounds.”
He fumbled with the towel, bringing it to his bleeding side where he’d gently tugged out the glass shard. The cuts along his back were out of his reach, and he wasn't so sure he could clean them on his own. Setting his leg would be next, but he found himself pausing his ministrations.
He gritted his teeth at the realization that he needed help.
He didn't have anything to tie it with or anything to brace against. Edward would have to pull it…
“Ed?” his voice came out hesitant.
A few moments of silence passed before he heard a shuffle come from the other room.
“What is it, Crane?” came a flat reply. Edward's frame appeared in the doorway, looking paler than before.
His eyes widened at the sight of the other man's leg.
“Christ, Jon. Is that your bone?” His indifference melted into something more akin to concern.
“I need you to pull my leg. Gotta reset it.”
“You know, Jonny, there’s a joke to be made here—maybe if circumstances were a bit less bleak.” He tried to sound lighthearted, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Jon just grunted, clearly unamused but mostly miserable. The meds would kick in soon, though, and he really wanted the worst of it over before he became half delirious. Someone needed to instruct Edward after all.
“Grab my ankle. Pull hard, straight toward you. I’ll hold the tub. Just—God, help me here, Ed!” He moved his arms back into the tub behind him and placed his palms flat against the side, bracing himself.
Edward moved closer to him and tentatively reached out for his ankle. “I don't like this, Jon. I’m not a doctor. You should be at a hospital…”
“You know damn well why we ain’t. Just do it, Eddie. Please.” He tried to sound intimidating at first, but his voice ended up coming out weak. The agony was becoming unbearable, and it showed on his face, which had become deathly pale.
The seriousness of the situation was sinking into the ginger man; Jon never said please. He sucked in a breath to steady himself and gripped firmly at his ankle. Resolute in his mission, he silently prayed he wouldn't screw it up.
"Okay, I'll count to three. One—" Edward yanked with all his strength, catching Jonathan off guard.
“GAHHH” A howl burst from the man's lips and echoed off the tile, accompanied by an audible snapping noise of bone meeting bone. Blood welled up from the wound, but as far as either man could tell, the bone seemed to be back in place. Edward reached for the towel and used it to apply pressure to the laceration. Jon hissed at the action but didn't pull away.
Minutes passed before Jon’s breathing evened out once more.
“Jesus…” he panted a relieved sigh, wiggling his toes. “I hope I never have to do that again.”
His hands came to his face, pushing his damp hair from his forehead, smearing blood in their wake. “I need a fuckin’ cigarette.”
Edward tutted, abandoning the towel to reach over for the alcohol and gauze on the toilet. He soaked a cotton pad for himself for his head wound before passing it back to Jon.
“Will you be needing assistance with this part as well?”
Jon shook his head but paused after remembering his back. He let out a heavy breath. “Yeah, Ed. Just my back... Gimmie a moment.”
He closed his eyes, then poured the alcohol straight onto his leg.
Edward pretended not to hear the agonized cry that followed.
He wasn’t sure why, but the noise made something twist inside him. He'd heard plenty of screams before—it came with the territory—but this was different. Watching Jonathan screaming? Watching him bleed on the floor? Well, it was scaring Edward, though he’d die before he’d ever admit it.
They had been acquainted for years, but they hadn't worked together until recently. In fact, this was their second heist as partners, and Edward was exceptionally pissed at the end results.
They hadn't gotten the money, tech, or chemicals they were after, and on top of it all, they were a bleeding mess. It was simple dumb luck on their end that Batman busied himself with Two-Face long enough for them to escape; otherwise, they’d be sitting spitting in a max security Arkham cell.
Recently, Edward found himself spending more time with Crane. They’d plan heists, build traps, and even exchange ideas for personal projects. If he didn't know any better, Edward would almost call Jonathan a friend. Well, not a friend exactly, but... maybe something close.
Jon didn’t keep friends.
Neither of them did.
The closest they came were occasional allies or people they didn't attempt to kill on sight. Still, Edward couldn't help but light up when they worked together. He wondered if Jonathan felt the same.
He was snapped from his thoughts as Jon made a motion to stand, putting all his weight on his good leg.
He’d wrapped the wound himself while Edward was in thought, but the bandages were already tinted red. It would probably need stitches, but that would have to be addressed in the morning. The bleeding had mostly stopped, and that’s what mattered most.
“You probably shouldn’t be moving so much, Jon.” His voice shook a bit. He hated how horribly he was hiding his concern, but he’d blame it on his concussion later if Crane pried.
The man in question simply turned his back and plopped indelicately onto the rim of the tub. His speech came out slurred, the medicine finally kicking in. “S’okay. Jus’ fix me up and I’m out.”
Edward did as told, cleaning cut after cut and pulling small shards of glass out of his damaged flesh with a pair of tweezers.
The sight of the recent injuries on top of his old scars was doing something to Edward's heart. He was no stranger to scars; he had plenty of his own from similar incidents, but some of Jonathan's were hard to look at.
Long, pale lines ran down the expanse of his back. They looked like scars from a whip or maybe a belt, and they matched the strange arrangement of eclectic scars along his thin arms and shoulders. Some were short, some long, and some resembled puncture wounds. Edward had to restrain himself from lightly tracing some of the longer ones with his fingertips.
“Jon?” Edward's voice was quiet, but it felt loud in the small space.
“Mmm?” Jon's face turned halfway toward him, enough that Edward could see his blurry eyes. The drugs were definitely working their magic.
Edward wanted to ask too many questions at once.
He wanted to ask about the scars. He wanted to know if Jonathan would still work with him after this—or if the fallout had finally outweighed the reward. He wondered if the man resented him for things beyond his control.
But more than anything, he just wanted to know if Jonathan would be okay.
Anxiety wiggled in his gut at the realization that had he fallen just the right way, he could have died.
The Scarecrow, dead. Jonathan, dead.
His heart pounded and his stomach churned at the acknowledgement of fear.
He cared about Jonathan Crane. He cared more than he’d cared about anyone before.
The realization was new and foreign and, above all else, terrifying.
Jon's eye was on him, though glazed and unfocused. Edward couldn't bring himself to voice his thoughts, so instead he just asked. “We’ll need to splint your leg, won’t we?”
“Mm… Mhmm.” He hummed his approval as he turned his face away once more and closed his eyes.
With this breakthrough rattling around his skull, Edward finished his ministrations on Jon's back. He wrapped gauze tightly around his entire torso, covering what he could of the deeper cuts.
It would have to do.
By the time he was done, his own head was pounding worse than before.
“How many pills did you take, Jon?” He eyed the pill bottle with newfound interest.
“Three”
The genius eyed the murmuring man wearily. He’d take one then, lest he turn into a bleary-eyed, slurring mess like Jon.
He popped one dry and stretched out his arms with a wince.
“Alright, Jonnyboy. Let's get you to the couch.”
After several minutes of wrangling the wobbly man to his feet—while carefully minding his injured leg—they reentered the main room and settled him onto the couch.
Edward fought the urge to brush hair from the other’s forehead.
He was already out cold, and Edward was grateful Jon hadn’t seen him hovering.
With him unconscious, Edward finally had a moment to assess his own injuries.
A sharp pain in his chest told him his ribs were likely cracked—if not broken. Every breath came shallow and harsh. It was rivaled only by the pounding at his temple.
He had a concussion. That much was obvious from the way the room swam before his eyes.
So sleep was out of the question.
A shame, really—because the pull of unconsciousness sounded far more appealing than sitting here dealing with the pain.
He hoped the pill would kick in soon—he couldn’t take much more of this.
He needed something to do, so he rummaged through the freezer in search of ice for his ribs. There wasn’t any—no surprise—but he did manage to find a bag of peas shoved behind a freezer-burned pint of ice cream.
It was a store-brand rocky road. Half-eaten.
How long had that been in there?
The ice cream reminded him—unfortunately—that they still had to eat.
Holding the peas against his ribs, he used his free hand to dig deeper into the freezer. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing edible. He tried the fridge next and was met with a wave of something foul. The stench made his nose wrinkle, but he couldn’t pin down the source. He shut the door with a mental note never to open it again.
He turned to the cabinets next, patience wearing thin. But on a lower shelf, he spotted something that made him hum in approval—rows of containers, still sealed. Flour, sugar, spices, and seasonings. All pantry staples, and all mercifully untouched.
“Alright, at least there’s something here I can work with,” he said to himself quietly.
Edward knew his way around a kitchen. He’d been living on his own since he was sixteen; it’d be shameful if he couldn’t at least make the basics, but that mostly applied to cooking. Baking was something else entirely.
He wracked his muddled brain trying to think of something he could make with the ingredients available. There was plenty of sugar and flour, and even some cocoa in the back of the cabinet.
“Maybe a mug cake?” he mumbled to himself.
He looked around the cabinets and found two old mugs. They were chipped with faded patterns, but they would do the trick.
He tested the microwave and found it functional. And oddly spotless, like it had never seen a meal in its life. It probably hadn’t. Edward grinned softly to himself before settling into his task.
It had been a long while since he’d made these little cakes from scratch. The lack of measuring cups and spoons wasn’t helping, but he continued on with what he remembered, using a normal spoon to measure out the ingredients.
Flour, cocoa powder, oil, water, and a pinch of salt later, a goopy mess sat in each mug. Edward stared down at them, blinking fast. His head, while no longer throbbing, was foggy and unclear.
“Did I add sugar? I must’ve...”
Before the timer finished, he pulled the mugs out. They looked normal, so that was a good sign.
One bite in, and he spat it out with a curse—“Ah! Motherfucking—”
Not known for his patience, he took up another piece and blew on it until it no longer resembled scorching lava.
The taste was bland, and the texture gritty. He definitely forgot sugar and huffed at his mistake.
The Riddler, a genius among men and master of puzzles, couldn't make a simple mug cake.
His hands twitched in annoyance. It was obviously because of his head wound in tandem with the medication; at least that's what he told himself. Forgetting ingredients was a simple fix, though, so he resigned himself to another attempt.
The second try was just as bad, possibly worse. It had too much salt and not enough flour, so it didn't solidify in the middle. He thought maybe the third time’s the charm, but no, he’d overshot the flour and needed to add in more of the other ingredients to compensate. This made the cake overflow from the mug, creating a huge mess in the microwave. By the time he’d cleaned it up, he was seething. A fourth attempt wouldn't be made, at least not tonight.
He was exhausted now and covered in flour, but the worst part was that even after all that work, he had nothing to show for it besides a messy kitchen. Hell, he didn't even get to eat anything, and that had been the entire point! He glanced at the bag of frozen peas he'd left on the counter, half-tempted to eat them thawed as they were—but dismissed the idea. He wasn’t that desperate… yet.
His eyes swept over the mess he'd made of the kitchen, and he sighed, resigned to a night without dinner. It wouldn't be the first time nor the last, but annoyance at the situation bloomed within him anyway.
Had this been his own home, he’d have cleaned the space immediately, but his head felt heavy and his movements were sluggish from the drug. He needed to lie down.
“It’s not like it was clean in the first place…”
He barely got the mugs into the sink before the spoon slipped from his fingers, landing with a noisy, echoing clink against the ceramic and then the metal. Apparently, his injuries had turned him into a fumbling klutz.
“Shit. That was loud.” His eyes strayed to the kitchen entryway, where he could just barely see Jonathan’s legs stretched out on the couch.
Hours had slipped by, and a quiet concern settled in his chest. He should check on him—make sure he was still breathing.
Jonathan hadn’t moved from his spot. His chest rose and fell steadily, to Edward’s relief. But when Edward looked at his face, he nearly jumped out of his skin—Jon's wide eyes were boring holes into his face.
“Ah, Jonathan, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” He made an effort to conceal his surprise, with little success.
“I’m feelin’ just peachy, Ed… The hell are you doin’ in there? What was all that noise?”
“I was making mug cakes.”
“... Mug cakes?”
“Yes, Jonathan. Mug cakes. Surely you’ve heard of them?”
He squinted his eyes at Edward, clearly confused. “Why?”
“There’s hardly any food here. I used what was available.”
“Whatever—Jus’ keep it down.”
“Of course, dear.” He said it mockingly, but it held no weight. “But one question before you pass out—”
“What?” His voice came out clipped.
If he had even a shred of strength left, Edward could almost picture him using it to sock the ginger square in the nose. The medication, thankfully, was his saving grace.
“You’ve clearly taken the couch—and believe me, I have no intention of moving you anytime soon—but where does that leave me exactly, Jon? Is there a bed hidden somewhere in this hovel?” He shifted on his feet, looking at the other expectantly. “I just need to sleep…” He couldn't stop the yawn that assaulted his speech, his mouth going wide.
Jonathan’s eyes were drooping again now that the imaginary threat had dissipated. “Try the backroom. You’ll figure somethin’ out.” His eyes fluttered closed once more. Clearly, that's all the hint Edward would get.
The backroom was an old lab space, its desk and chair pushed against the far wall beneath a small window. Through the glass, Edward caught the faintest sounds of the city outside—distant, swallowed mostly by the surrounding forest of trees. Even from here, the city’s life pulsed through the night. It was well past 3 a.m., yet it never truly slept. Edward, on the other hand, desperately needed to.
He searched the room as efficiently as his exhaustion allowed, grumbling at the lack of anything useful. A denim jacket turned up in a corner; he’d use it as a makeshift blanket, but he still needed something to sleep on. He’d be damned if he used the desk, but it was there if he had to.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what looked like a doorframe hidden behind a curtain on the wall. Pulling it back revealed the room's closet.
Despite his declining mental state, a question swam lucidly in his brain. Why the hell was it hidden?
He yanked the doors open and exhaled, actually relieved by what he saw—a battered twin mattress shoved against the back wall.
It looked old and lumpy, but it was an improvement over the solid desk. He nearly tripped over himself in an effort to drag it out into the room.
In his eagerness, he completely missed the shelves lining the sides of the closet, their ominous contents shadowed and strange. They remained undisturbed and unseen.
A large stain covered one side of the mattress—blood, probably, but he didn’t care. He simply flipped the mattress over so its “clean” side was up and threw the curtain he’d pulled down on top of it like a sheet. He kicked it into the middle of the room before collapsing down into the heap impassively.
He could be disgusted by the state of the bed after he got some sleep.