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riddlesandqueries · 4 years

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Confrontation

Tracking down a secret admirer is no easy feat, but any reward worth having is a reward worth working for, even if it takes a few months: sometimes, you just have to gamble on it.

An interaction between Mr Edward Nygma, and Mr James Craddock, for your reading pleasure, between two scoundrels in search of life’s delights.

The Ghost was a hard man to pin down.

By his nature, he was a wanderlust. He moved where the money was; flitting between cities, countries, and continents, never content to stagnate. There were a few things he was guaranteed to materialize for, though: horse races, expensive antiques, and important news. He was a habitual horse better who had scarcely missed an important race in the continental United States, and had a mysterious fixer he’d mentioned once or twice by the name of Squire Shade.

And, as it so happened… Just a few miles south of Gotham, on a bright and unusually warm February morning, a derby was taking place. It’d been greatly publicized the past few weeks, as it was an annual and highly contested event, and would make prime bait for anyone who happened to know Craddock’s gambling habits.

And there were some quite clever men out there who would hold an interest in that sort of thing…

The air was clear, the wind was a little chilly this early in the morning, and the sun cheerfully shone, promising to warm up the stands; the crowd of a few thousand tramped through the dirt, milling around with one another whilst the racers readied themselves and the stands were slowly opened to spectators. It seemed almost like a festival; a little snapshot of a traditional spring carnival. Vendors sold merchandise, food, and drinks to patrons, and, of course, the stadium doled betting slips for the gambling patron. The air buzzed with electric interest; anticipation sparked off of everyone’s lips.

No sign of the Gentleman Ghost for the moment… but that was the thing about ghosts, wasn’t it? They didn’t show themselves unless they wanted to.

If you wait in the right place, they’ll come.

Edward eyed the odds sheets with a wry smile, nostalgic. How his father loved listening to him prattle as a child, looking over the betting forms and picking his dear Pop a winner just about every time. It was a fun experience for them both: a few hours together, a few thrown races to sweeten the pot, and then a jackpot here and there just to even things out...and a very fair cut for young Edward’s good work, as a simple sno-cone wouldn’t suffice.

Calmly, he glanced over his betting slips: broad coverage, but he’d put his money on a mid-range racer. Mint julep in hand, he meandered off to find a good seat with some elbow room.

The ambient anxiety of the crowd was only growing; people with prying eyes looking towards the starting gates, craning their necks to see even though there was nothing yet to even look at.

The crowd was thick, but not so thick as to swallow up every seat. Edward had arrived early enough to get a spot that wasn’t too far, wasn’t too close, and where he wouldn’t be browbeaten by the sun that was steadily rising.

About five minutes before the start of the race, there was just the smallest glimpse— something that could be ignored if a person wasn’t looking for it. A shimmer in the air, above the stands— that looked, for just a moment, like a billowing cloak, before winking out.

He was here, it seemed, cutting it close… But didn’t see fit to grace the populace with his signature, ghostly physique.

Ah. There he was: and who needed a seat when the air itself was at your command?

Edward watched him for a moment, sighing inwardly. Was it nice, he wondered, to fly? Was it relaxing, tiring, how did it feel to place your body in any relation with the world you wanted? Perhaps it was different when one was non-corporeal, but was it like zero-gravity? Something else, more elusive and yet even more wonderous?

Something as simple as existing in one’s own capacity was beautiful, really, when in the right eyes. It was something he might know someday, but for now, he could dream freely about how much magic there was yet to be found.

Smiling, he stuck his forefingers in his mouth and gave a whistle.

It drew looks from people who were close by, made curious by the sound, but they quickly disregarded it as the horses and jockeys began to get to their positions.

He had gotten someone’s attention, though. A moment later, there was a soft voice in Edward’s right ear, disembodied but familiar; “Why, I didn’t know you liked the races, Mr. Nygma. Fancy seeing you here…”

“Are you kidding?” he smiled. “My father and I had some of our best times at the races: I was his best bookie. Join me, James? There’s plenty of seats.”

“Is that right…?”

Craddock seemed to consider the offer for a moment. Then, to Edward’s right, the empty seat became suddenly occupied with the familiar attire of the Gentleman Ghost. He fidgeted in his opacity, seeming a little uncertain whether he really wanted to be opaque, but settled.

“You’ll excuse my rudeness in having been hidden,” Craddock murmured. “I get looks, you know. I’m a little overdressed in some areas, and underdressed in others.”

“That happens to me sometimes. When it does, I just ask why they decided not to look good today, and it usually gets them to back off.” he chuckled, fiddling with his cuffs. “It’s a mark of your caliber as a person, James: no need to hide your class.”

Underneath the thick veneer of charm, Edward fidgeted, excited. By all accounts, James had to be the secret admirer. He had to be. Was he? No doubt about it but maybe? Had to be, and how exciting: one ought to flirt a little and be sure.

With another sip of his julep, he gestured toward the starting gates. “Have you got a favourite? I’ve put the bulk of my faith in 1,000 Deaths.”

“I appreciate the words, but no matter how nice my garments or how upright I carry myself, the average mortal tends to be put off by…” he gestured vaguely to his face. “Ah, well.”

He seemed to think for a minute, but it had always been hard to read James’s thoughts with no visible face.

“Most of my stake is on Whetstone,” Craddock obliged. “Handsome thing. A very strong lineage, though quite young… not the favored to win, but still with a chance.”

The announcer began speaking; the stadium chatter dampened, just for the moment. The tension was palpable, and James leaned forward, knee starting to bounce in impatience.

“Whetstone, hm? I put a smaller bet on him, just to keep my options broad.”

I wonder if he’s watched the lineage line of all of these horses. He’s been around long enough, he could easily trace which racer’s from which stock. My word, he probably knows these horses’ family trees for winning pedigrees…

He settled back, brows raised as his mind bussed off merrily about horse family trees, but tuned back in at the opening trumpet. Setting aside his drink, Edward braced his elbows on his knees, rapt.

“Good luck.”

The race was exceptionally quick— as derbies are supposed to be. Craddock kept the bench beneath him in a death grip, and he leaned so far forward that he might’ve toppled over.

His form was jittering— the material of his clothes starting to turn sludgy as his concentration waned. Had Edward’s attention been turned off the race and to his companion, he would’ve seen the featureless head of the Ghost flicker in-and-out of transparency; not long enough or solid enough to catch a good glimpse, but enough to signal his mind was elsewhere.

“Damnation!” was the Ghost’s hailing cry when Whetstone finished third, behind 1,000 Deaths and a hereto unmentioned horse called Brushed Gold.

Tsking, Edward rolled his eyes and frowned at his betting slips. “So much for that…”

Loathe as he was to admit it, it was something he rather liked about the derby: there was always a chance he could be wrong, and that kept life fresh.

“That wasn’t even one of my picks. Luck certainly isn’t on my side here, hm?”

He had not, in fact, noticed the loosened grip on James’ form, eyes trained on the horses. With a scowl, he sipped his julep.

“...Sorry for third place, chum.”

James gave a short, agitated sigh. “Shade will have staked everything on Brushed Gold. Mark my words. That bastard—”

He stopped short, and tilted his head in interest. Intrigue in anything other than the horses and their riders was a rare thing for him on a racetrack, but the julep had caught his eye. He hadn’t taken much notice of the concessions at these sorts of things before, a little preoccupied by more pressing matters— like whether Squire Shade had fixed this race, too.

“... Oh, what do you have there?”

“Oh, this?” he asked, lifting up his drink. “Mint julep, a derby tradition in the south. Of course, it’s out of place during April in the north, but why not have fun with the occasion? If I’m going to lose, at least I can enjoy my drink.”

He grinned a bit. “Want a sip?”

Can I contract illnesses from ghosts? Time to find out.

“... A little,” Craddock confessed. Again, he knew the sweet siren song of food and drink, and that it would never taste nearly as good as some corner of his mind remembered— but there was no harm in it. “I, too, would wish to dull the sting of my loss…”

He would be having words with Shade soon, hopefully sometime before the bastard pinched every penny from his pocketbook…

“... if you don’t mind?”

“It’d be odd to ask and then not offer. Here.” he said, holding the glass over, straw presented. Ghosts were fascinating, really. Where did the drink go? He knew he didn’t really taste it well, but if the spirit was willing enough, would it compensate for the missing flesh?

Was this what people considered an indirect kiss?

...Be quiet, brain, don’t get all excited over inconclusive information.

“Have all you like.”

With a grateful nod, Craddock takes the glass. He takes a modest sip, the liquid suspended humorously in the air for a moment before it travels down an invisible windpipe and out of sight.

“Oh,” he says, and he sounds strangely delighted. “Oh, I actually…”

The taste was more striking than he had suspected (which was not saying much— a mouthful was still no better than what he suspected a droplet or two would be) and it proved an unexpected pleasure.

“So interesting, on the tongue…”

“You like that? It’s a very summery drink, always drunk at the Kentucky Derby.”

But I’m sure you knew that much.

“...I’m sorry, I have to ask...have you been following Whetstone’s family line through the racehorse generations?” Always with the questions: he even annoyed himself, now, with how he blurted them out. “Or any or all of them?”

He brightened.

His hat, of its own accord, lifted itself off his head and placed itself in his lap; he removed, from within it, a bleached-white pen and a colorless scratchpad.

“As a matter of fact,” he said. “I have. I don’t have my completed ancestry chart in front of me, but I still remember…”

He began drawing little boxes and lines, filling in a dizzying amount of names. The family tree branched into a maniacal, tangled root system.

“As you can see, there’s a few important derby wins by his ancestry… The earliest I can recall is 1897…” he paused, and started highlighting names.

“It’s a hobby of mine, tracing these. I did try ever so hard to get my horse’s lineage, to see if he had any interesting ancestry, but that never truly went anywhere…”

Edward perked up in turn, in twinned delight of being on the mark with his suspicion and well-received in his query. Watching James draw out a lineage chart from memory was dazzling: his heart did a little leap to see his penmanship. Every detail was as enchanting as another, and he remembered so much so well..!

“What’s your horse’s name?”

He paused. The pad and pen returned themselves to his hat, which he placed on his head.

“When I first realized I had the beast,” he admitted, “I was not feeling particularly… creative. I referred to it as ‘the Horse’ for some time…” He gave a slight laugh. “After calling it all sorts of things. Damnable creature. Demon from hell. Wicked beast from the underworld. After a while, just ‘my Steed’, and that stayed. I suppose I should get around to a proper name some day.”

“...That does beg the question: was it always a skeleton, or was it a living horse at some point?” Edward wondered aloud, muttering into his glass. “And if it was a living horse, what compelled it to become a ghost..?”

After a moment, he shuddered. “I’m going to assume it’s just a necromancer’s experiment.” Much kinder to the mind than the notion of a vengeful horse, knowing the nature of such beasts. “M-moreover, horses don’t need names, strictly speaking, so long as they know who you’re talking to.”

James had opened his mouth to correct— but stopped just short of it.

He knew very well where Steed had come from— well, that wasn’t strictly true, but he knew why the beast came forth at his beckoning.

But he got the feeling this was one thing that Edward would be happier not knowing. James was loathe to ruin that handsome look of interest etched on his face with an honest answer.

As he stared a moment at Mr. Nygma’s face, James realized there would be an expectation to respond, and he mentally backpedaled to where the conversation had been.

O, Lord, let me keep my wits for just a moment longer… Don’t stare at his beguiling smile, Craddock.

“Ah, yes, that’s reasonable. I have no other beast of burden, so Steed won’t be puzzled by the name.”

“It’s very cool that you can summon a horse, mind you.” Edward grinned, glancing up to look James in the monocle. “You’re...hah, well.”

He turned to his julep again, hiding his smile. “...quite the interesting character, James. I appreciate your patience with all of my questions.”

“Ah, I am happy to answer them.”

He had asked for payment for such queries before— but it seemed a little ungentlemanly to ask now. Besides… this rather public place was not the kind of area to indulge… in that sort of payment.

Scandalous. Imagine if Shade were watching…

He had started tinging that strange, mother-of-pearl pink for a short time again, before settling back to his normal coloration. There was a slight, almost unconscious tug at his collar.

“You’re one of very few whom I would share secrets and knowledge of this kind with— I consider you a valued friend, Mr. Nygma.”

As out of his depth in the realms of romance as Edward tended to be, even he could parse out a blush when he saw one.

He hummed, inspecting the ghost for a moment before his lips curled into a broad, knowing smile. Smug as anything, detestable, and easily recognized as a magnet for many a fist.

“Something on your mind~?”

Oh, he did not like that facial expression. It made him think Edward knew something horrible and secret that he didn’t— James instinctively brought his hand to his face on the off-chance that he’d let his countenance run around unchecked.

No, that wasn’t it…

“Ah, no, I… was just wondering when the next race would…” he petered out, very well knowing that this lie was not going to get better the longer it went.

“...”

“Ah, right. Time to go place some fresh bets, is it?” he asked, duly ‘distracted’ from his line of query. Let it simmer a bit, and it’ll all come to a head.

“I’m going to try out a few I’ve never heard of...call it an inspiration, given the last race. If some nobody’s going to win a surefire race like that, then it’s time to start paying more attention to the nobodies.”

Craddock nodded.

“Mine have been placed well in advance,” he murmured. “I’ll keep your place safe for you… ah, and perhaps get something for you to eat…?”

He seemed a little more subdued than usual— warily waiting for the bar of the Riddler’s suspected trap to spring. There was some small amount of dogged wariness and suspicion that’s readable just from his posture, even if his face gives nothing away.

“You’re right, I should.” said Edward, rising and stretching with a quiet grunt in his nose, a few joints popping. “If you don’t mind keeping the seat?”

“Of course,” he had no earthly idea what compelled him to add, in this non-violent crowd on a lovely, non-violent day— “Return safely…”

People had already mostly drained out of the stadium, moving for snacks, souvenirs, collections of winnings, talk amongst themselves, or a bathroom trip.

What does he know that I don’t…?

“With any luck.”

Edward gave a little wave as he meandered off, pondering his next bets as he walked, as well as whatever nightmares the concession stand might offer that resembled sustenance. A hot dog? Technically food, good enough. Nachos?

You should ask him, honestly. But is this the place and time?

...Truly, is there a better one? We’re face to face, so to speak, and it’s always better etiquette to ask in person rather than across the internet, especially with matters of the heart.

And he’s so...cute, really, when he’s flustered.

Just don’t scare him off by being a bastard, Edward, of all the things you could do…

He sighed, placing a few bets at random, as well as one on Whetstone, and then wandered back to his seat with his assortment of edibles.

Craddock was not alone on his arrival. As a matter of fact, it almost looked like seeing double.

Two men in mantled white coats and tall hats, sporting a signature eyepiece and no face… the differences were small, and only noticeable if searching.

The second wore a bow-tie instead of a cravat, wore glasses instead of a monocle, and was slightly bigger around the waistband than Craddock.

They seemed to be arguing. They had very similar voices and accents, too— though the double’s seems to be slightly richer, more aristocratic.

“I can’t give that to you,” Craddock was saying.

“You staked—”

“I know what I staked. Just take whatever you want from the mausoleum.”

“But it’s a pain to go all the way out there…”

“A walk would do you some good, Shade—”

Shade, who had been occupying Edward’s seat, seemed to notice him coming.

“Later, then. Let’s hope Whetstone does better, mmm?”

The second ghost took his leave, sinking back through the bleachers as if swallowed by quicksand.

Craddock turned, brightening noticeably on spotting Edward. “Mr. Nygma! You’ve returned— burdened with food.”

His voice implied a smile.

“If that’s what it can be considered.” he replied genially, inspecting his seat for ectoplasmic residue before taking his seat. “Associate of yours, James?”

Heaven forbid he call anyone a ‘friend’ offhandedly: that’d be presumptuous.

“Or just a copycat for fashion?”

James grimaced; not that Edward could tell.

“Associate is a good word for him… That was Squire Shade— I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before.”

He was concerned Shade’s presence might’ve bothered the mortal, and he carried on: “His was just a temporary darkening of my doorstep. He’ll collect his earnings and go back to Europe. It’s nothing to be concerned with…”

It occurs to him now to fish for whatever had Edward in such good spirits a moment ago. He’ll have to be subtle.

“... Especially not at the moment. Trustworthy company makes ugly company look all the worse, don’t you agree…?”

“Nothing makes me appreciate a good cup of coffee like drinking a very bad one.” he agreed, settling back with his snacks. “Take what passes for my lunch today: eating this will make even the ordinary meal I’m having later taste even better than it already would.”

Truly, he didn’t mind Squire Shade as a concept, but there was something irksome about someone being in his seat, talking to his colleague (who sounded annoyed about it) that ruffled his feathers just a touch.

“Care for a nacho?”

“Oooh, yes. I’ve seen them before, but not tried one.”

He took a chip, and in exchange returned the julep, which was looking a little less full than Edward remembered.

“Oh, it crunches.” Ghost murmured, as if to himself. “Interesting…”

Edward, noting the state of his julep, couldn't help but smile a bit as he nibbled his own chip.

"You know, I could buy you a julep, if you would like one." Or does this one taste better because it's mine?

“I would,” he hazarded. “It’s rare I find something that I can taste and find worth tasting… I’d pay you for it, of course.”

There was the loveliest little smile playing over Edward’s lips, and it made the Ghost’s stomach feel strangely warm. This was the kind of thing he would’ve taken a beau out for— a lovely warm spring day at the racetrack… James had courted many a lady in such a place, though never a gentleman overtly.

Change subjects, James.

“... I’ll confess I have not kept in touch as well as I should have,” the Ghost began. “How have things been in Gotham, lately?”

The proverbial trap twitched, as James asked just the right question. Edward's expression became downright sunny.

"It's been a very interesting few months, actually. I've been receiving these charming little notes from a secret admirer, and it's just been delightful for me. The mystery, the eloquence in wording, it's all been just so exciting! I've never had one before, have you?"

Oh no.

The Ghost could feel the bar of Edward’s trap moving to snap his neck, not unlike the noose that’d taken his life. His hands itched to touch his throat.

“Oh, have you?” James mirrored the other man’s cheery disposition, seemingly unfazed. “That must be quite exciting. I do so love the intrigue, the romance of an unknown suitor— I received letters like that in my life, but not during my death.”

"It's been absolutely compelling.” Edward agreed cheerily. “Of course, the one downside to the entire situation is not being able to know how to reciprocate, or whether I’d like to at all. It’s a good thing that this admirer’s classy, with a certain je ne sais quoi, otherwise I’d toss their work out along with all of the weird fan letters I used to get in Arkham.”

He sighed (if a pinch dramatically) and sipped his julep. “How can I ever respond to the anonymous? It’s like whistling into the wind.”

If you’re going to fess up, now’s your chance.

The wire creaked, threatening.

Confess.

Do ghosts sweat?

Well, they don’t, but Craddock definitely felt like he was. He knew he should say something— seize the opportunity now, while it was convenient… Edward had proved receptive, open—

But would it be the same if he knew it came from a ghastly spectre like myself?

“They haven’t left so much as a clue to their identity? How agonising…”

Damnation, Craddock— the deeper you dig, the more difficult it will be to get out of…!

“They have. A few, actually.” he replied easily, listing on his fingers. “Familiar tone of address, so it’s someone I know. Recently discovered the anonymous feature, and their first instinct is to go send mischief to someone who’ll appreciate it. The real smoking gun, though, is the language choice. Antiquated, lyrical, boldly professing, dramatic...and not just anyone would lean on sending someone a flirty note a ‘ghastly’ action.”

Edward looked to James with a small yet infuriatingly knowing grin. “Sound familiar, James Craddock?”

Each word was like the footstep up to the noose, each one more damning than the last. James did start sweating about mid-way in, his form starting to wobble and bubble in a rather curious way. The unintentional salmon sheen his body took on only damned him more.

“I,” he said, unintelligently. “I- It sounds… good sir… quite like you are… accusing me of… indecent behavior…”

It’s as flimsy an excuse as any that can be raised, but his instincts tell him to stall as long as possible.

The problem was he couldn’t just escape this as he might a persistent lawman…

“An accusation would imply that it’s a bad thing.” said Edward, tone silky. “But, not to put too fine a point on things: if you have something to say, you’re allowed to say it to my face.”

The highwayman’s instinct was to escape and regroup when better prepared. Craddock’s not a coward, per se, but he knew how to preserve his own life— oh, hmm, poor metaphor, he supposed. He had self-respect enough to not partake in a losing battle.

But he knew that wouldn’t win him any favors.

This was his stage— and he must perform.

“You are… interesting to me,” Craddock said, carefully. “In a way that few people were when I was alive… and even fewer now that I am deceased. Perhaps I might’ve… expressed unsolicited fondness— I have made mention before, mark you, that ghosts are prone to fits of melancholy… They swing to the other side of the pendulum, quite often, as well… and I was in a… joyous mood, a jocular type of…”

He spared a fleeting wish that the next race would begin already.

“... I meant nothing untoward by it.”

“...That is, perhaps, the most roundabout ‘yes’ I’ve heard in some time.” Edward murmured fondly. “But, ah...here’s some reassurance, as the recipient.”

Gently, he took Jame’s hand into his own, and kissed the top of his knuckles. Just so, just lightly, just enough.

“I like it, and I’m glad I was right to suspect you.” he said, patting James’ hand genially. “Feel free to continue, it makes my heart go pitter-pat.”

The rush of affection James felt was absurd.

First, like a fist to the stomach— then cloying and heady, sticking in his lungs and his brain. He received it well… he’s open to it… he...

Suspicion was there, but as an afterthought to the hope fluttering in his breast.

It’d been a long time since he’d had something like this, and as much as he liked to deny it, now that he was no longer flesh, the spirit grew strong— and it hungered for contact with the living, with the desperate ache of a lover separated from their beau.

Before Edward’s eyes, the ghost seemed to melt— metaphorically, yes, and literally, as his body forgot its shape and began to run like syrup.

Just as quick, the ghost’s ectoplasm churned and retook its shape.

“My apologies, my apologies, ahh— if I had, known the reception would be— I never would have— So childishly...” He shied his head to the side. “Give me a moment, to— collect myself…”

“Take your time.” said Edward, preoccupying himself with his lunch, hand still atop Jame’s.

He’s worried about seeming childish when I’m the one who makes games and puzzles and toys...who has the right to be so adorable?

Moreover, he gelled, which was fascinating to ponder. Ghosts blush. Ghosts have physical reactions to being embarrassed: bodywide, presumably because all they had was a manifestation of themselves, rather than a body to pilot from the heart and soul.

No wonder he hid his face: it took away the unspoken expressions that his own form could betray under duress.

“I find it charming, personally.”

==.

“Falling apart at the seams is not charming,” James muttered, insistently. “This is unbecoming for one such as I.”

After a moment, he straightened, smoothing away a glob of ectoplasm back into his shoulder. He regained his composure.

“... I’m… happy you like it,” James admitted. “I haven’t courted— in quite some time, and it was jesting, partially— I didn’t think you would take it seriously.”

“Well~. Do you want to make it more serious, or shall we have flirting? I’m content either way.”

I’d rather be serious, but no pressure. He knew he’d already had James raked across the coals today, no need to be overly pushy now that it’s in the open.

“I confess, I do admire you quite a bit myself! I hadn’t said much on it because, well... I always got caught up in the excitement of knowing you at all.”

He fidgeted a bit at that, quieting down: all the smug bravado in the world can’t make up for a weak and ill-timed admission.

“...If, that helps to know, any.”

“Not to put you on the spot… but does your admiration fall with me, or the nature of my person?” James asked, gently.

“...Hm.”

Edward sat back, sipping his julep as he gave this some thorough consideration.

There was, without a doubt, a large fascination at play with the supernatural. Pretending it wasn’t would just be insulting to both parties, so nevermind to that: it’s given. But what is there besides that, to their dynamic?

Edward considered, eyes shut, on feelings. This was very different than his arrangement with Bruce, for the simple fact that there was no sense of tension or panic. This wasn’t the horrific grips of a crush, literally crushing his mind, this was...light, airy, cheerful, exciting. All of the good things they talk about with these sorts of situations. James was nice. James was fun, sneaky, pesky, patient, kind without sacrificing the fact that he was a bastard. It was comforting, really, to spend time with someone who kept himself to a certain standard even as a crook. It was...warm.

“...both, but there’s...warmth, here. Not like when I’ve got a new subject to study, of a new game to try out, or a new language to learn. This is excitement, but it’s...comfortable, too, if that makes sense. You’re good to me, and I like being around you.” he said, after a long pause. Brows furrowed, he added: “I have to admit...I don’t have much experience in affairs of the heart, so I don’t know if I’m making sense...but there’s more there than just discovery, even if I can’t name it.”

The Ghost nodded, as if Edward had relayed a truth he was already well aware of.

“Your candor is…. Relieving,” he sighed. “I was not sure if you could feel that way for a spirit— or, if you did, it was only because of that.”

There was a small pause.

“In honesty, part of my attraction to you is how… alive you are.”

“How alive I am?” he asked curiously, offering the remains of the julep. There’s enough to be worth taking. “Is that why you keep taking my pulse?”

He drank.

“You have no idea how absolutely beautiful it is to be alive,” Craddock said, dreamily. He seemed a little faraway. “The smallest breath to me is the most wondrous thing. Your pulse… so sweet, Edward. So lovely.”

Edward watched him, gaze softening from bright curiousity to tender affection. No matter how a busy mind could scream and over-analyze, there was little anyone could do about the honesty in their face.

Ah. That was it, wasn’t it? There was something, right there, that he adored. So many people he knew treated life like a calloused and dull affair to be tolerated, but James, just like Edward...James cherished life, its splendors, its opportunities. There was so much to enjoy about existing...was that what kept him all along? A love for life so strong that death couldn’t claim his heart?

“Mhm~?”

He seemed to shake himself out of it.

“It’s… I’m uncertain if this peculiar love is a common condition among ghosts, or just I that feels it. But it is… strong, and oh-so thrilling…”

There was the slight, pearly blush again. “I am sorry if I concealed part of the truth from you when asking for the payment I did, those months ago. It was… a lapse in judgement. Selfishness.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s common among ghosts: it’s something I really like about you.” said Edward fondly.

...is the pulse thing sexual, though? No, don’t ask him that. There’s more important questions, and those can wait too.

“I don’t mind the delay: being selfish is fun sometimes, isn’t it? I like that you’re a scallywag, too.”

He laughed.

“One of the finest. You’re lucky.”

His pride seemed to have recovered, twice-over; puffing like a particularly cocky rooster, primping himself now that Edward’s affections had been secured.

“I most certainly am~” he smiled, awfully proud himself. There was the small issue of his other boyfriend, but there’s surely time enough to negotiate that after the glow’s settled out a bit. Either it will be or it won’t, but hopefully, since Selina’s in the picture for Bruce, perhaps Edward can have his cake and eat it too, just as well.

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Edward rubbed a thumb over James’ knuckles. “...I really did like those notes, you know. Made me feel special.”

“Well, you are,” James murmured. He lifted Edward’s hand, and with a moment of hesitation, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. The contact of his lips was as cold as the grave— and leathery as an old boot.

“I could keep sending them, if you like it.”

He shuddered, as he always did at contact, but chuckled as well. Ah! He has lips! They’re freezing and tough: this is filed away immediately in his mind among other tidbits of interest.

“You should, especially since I would have little recourse but to send a few back myself.” assured Edward. “As I said before, it’s hard to reciprocate without an address to send notes to...and I’ve had time aplenty to accrue my compliments.”

“Ah, yes,” Craddock murmured to himself. “I… I should make a permanent residence in Gotham, shouldn’t I? There will be more reasons to visit now... more reasons to stay.” He seemed to be convincing himself into it, and with a determined lift of his chin, declared: “I’ll… make an effort to get a haunt of my own. I’m sure Shade knows mortals who handle that kind of thing…”

His purse is curling up and dying at the thought— but he’d had a few lifetimes to get enough money for a proper home in Gotham.

“Only if you want it in writing...and even then I could send it to wherever you want it to be sent.” said Edward calmly. “After all, if you’re visiting Gotham, there’s no need to go through all of the trouble of getting a place when you could just...visit mine.”

Again, that foul, smug smile of his has crept deep into his cheeks.

That did not seem to have occurred to him, busy grandly dreaming of a Gatsby-esque existence of quiet solitude and pining. It takes him a moment to recover.

“... you seem like you’re suggesting something rather… crude, Mr. Nygma…” the smile bled through his voice.

“I’m simply pointing out that I have a spare bedroom that is no longer occupied by a massive computer array.” he said primly, eating a nacho before continuing. “And that it’s pragmatic to offer it as space, in the event that you’d rather not go through real estate paperwork.”

“Mmm, a massive computer array,” Craddock seemed quite merry. “So I’m not the first love you’ve invited there.”

He had a small mouthful of julep. He couldn’t tell if it actually made his hunger for taste any better or worse. He had another mouthful.

“The proposition is interesting, anyway. I’m sure the arrangement would be beneficial to both of us.”

He’s outright teasing now.

“Computers aren’t my first love, and that one, well...came with a rather long story attached, that’s for another time, where I’m less sober and more irate.”

It did, however, seem to be the time to mention…

“There might be a hiccup, mind you, in this cozy little affair here...you see, I was asked out by another suitor on Valentine’s day, days after you sent your first messages.” Edward admitted, if a bit grimly. “Mind you, he himself has another he sees, so naturally I’ll have to ask him if an arrangement between you and I would offend...I don’t see why he’d decline it, but it’s only respectful to ask first.”

He mulled over a nacho, frowning slightly. “And if he says no, I have a lot of thinking to do...and for once, I’d really rather not.”

Ah, was any giddy leap complete without a plummeting fall?

Was he disappointed? Yes.

Was he crushed? Not quite.

“Hnnm,” he said, the extent of his verbal acknowledgement. “Oh, look. The next race is about to start.”

Ah. There it was, the rare and unmistakable sensation of guilt, settling thickly into the pit of his stomach.

“So it is. Have you got any new bets?”

At least that was a nice five minutes...and, as always, at least we have the now.

“I sunk a fairly consistent amount into Whetstone,” James’s fingers rolled an interesting tattoo across his knee.

James wasn’t unfamiliar with the idea of polyamory. He knew the women he saw during his life had an endless string of boyfriends, and he was only one of the mob. He knew the men he’d courted, so carefully and privately, had their heart’s desire elsewhere. It was not new to him.

But he had thought that maybe…

...

He didn’t feel much like watching the race anymore. Losing to Squire Shade would be grating, and Edward…

Stick it out, James. This is far from the worst outcome of today.

“I gave him a fresh bet for this race, myself.”

Damn it. Damn it all to absolute Hell, in what world was it fair to spend 37 years in ambivalence only to come around and find any affections at last split between two? And now, lurching around in him, was the maelstrom of doubt and humiliation, the latter ten times worse than the former in any capacity. The silence was deafening, the mood wrecked: he’d ruined everything as usual by saying too much.

Let go of his hand and stop disappointing people, Edward.

Ghost, meanwhile, is silently rationalizing a mile a minute.

Who is this other? How do I compare? Is he Edward’s first choice?

Then, a small, unusual part of his psyche chimed in with his criminally underdeveloped sense of empathy:

Does choosing hurt him?

That was a disturbing thought.

He ought to withdraw, kindly, as a gentleman. This other, whomever they might be, would be the ideal choice— mortals are better paired with mortals.

A thought occurred to him— solace, comforting as a frostbitten man seeking fire, or the heat-scorched for shade. James let out a small, kindly little laugh. It rings, clear and gleeful, like a bell.

The laugh snapped Edward out of his spiral of self-loathing, frown lifting from explicit discomfort to bemusement.

“...um...yes?” he offered, curious. “What is it?”

“That doesn’t matter,” James said, swallowing the last of his laughter. “Oh, God, it doesn’t matter at all to me.”

He took Edward’s hands in his, stared at him directly— there was a flicker of something there for a fraction of a second, like a reflection in a mirror passing by. Dark, intent eyes, haunting for just a moment…

“You’re speaking to one of the most selfish, stingy men on the planet, Edward— did you think jealousy would seize me so hard that I’d be struck stupid? I’d be a fool to lose this—” he gestures between the two of them, “—over something so small. I don’t care who they are, I don’t care that you love them— it’s enough that you love me.”

Edward’s eyes were open, jaw slacked and mouth agape in wonder of what he’d just been told, as the trumpets sounded to queue the racers to their starting gates. A flush crept easily across his nose and cheeks as he began to smile once more.

“Really?! You mean it?”

“Yes, really. Who would say something like that and then recant it?” Perhaps a bit harsh, but the Ghost was buzzing with nervous energy. “I’ll accept whatever you give me, Edward. It’s enough that it’s anything at all.”

“You’d be amazed by how many people tend to say things without thinking them through.” he breathed, cheeks pink and eyes bright in excitement. “I, I have to admit, I thought you were about to drop the whole thing then and there.”

I was, he almost said, but that would win him no favors.

“I am cognizant of my faults,” Craddock said, instead. “I’m far, far too selfish for that.”

“Aren’t I lucky, then, that you are.” he chuckled, utterly relieved. “And people talk like it’s a bad thing, to want and keep things.”

There is a sneaking feeling in the back of his mind that James is putting on a brave front, but then, so is Edward: there’s an open end that cannot be resolved immediately, therefore it’s best not picked at, so much as treated and patched until real answers can be gotten.

“I don’t think it’s a fault, when it’s honest.” BANG, and the horses are off.

=end=

#askgentlemanghost #narrative #long post #btas askblog #dcau askblog #interactions #off-camera #plot #the riddler #Gentleman Ghost #edward nygma #james craddock

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