Want p2

I mildly wanted to write a second part of "Want" but didn't really have any ideas. When one finally came I was surprised how much of an interruption it was to the other things I was working on at the time.

After this I have a bunch of little ideas that I'm going to try and put together in a collection of these two. Don't know how many there will be in the end but I'm already working on some.

Want.

It was a word he was more then familiar with. Want of attention, knowledge, acclamation, it drove his every choice and action, he was well aware of the fact. He didn't consider it a weakness, far from it. It was encouragement and excuse to play out his skills. Whether with word or invention, by achievement, or cheating, it didn't matter.

Edward Nygma got what he wanted.

The world was full of challenges to him and he was determined to take the prize one way or another. Still there was one trophy that alluded him, so far at least. Every time the Bat threw him into the hell hole where lesser idiots came to die he would be reminded. Across the mess hall or in the yards he would watch his target, one of the few bright spots of interest in the darkness. He had not failed to take his claim, no, opportunity had yet to present itself. He wasn't a patient man but for this he would wait, rushing through such a complicated maze would lead to dead ends. No this process required a delicate hand and the time for action would come.

It seemed this incarceration would be his lucky one. As he was forcibly thrown into another cookie cutter cell at Arkham he met the eyes of his room mate and couldn't stop the smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.

Jonathan Crane had no idea what he had in store for him.

He'd been watching the Scarecrow for some time now, one of the few in Arkham to warrant his attention. Always alone, always quiet, a ominous shadow lurking in the corner of the mess hall or the library. It was hard to catch but Edward knew he wasn't simply being antisocial, no, those sharp eyes were watching, learning, documenting the riff raff that surrounded them and filing the information away to use when the time was right. He was more then just intelligent, he knew how to use what he was given... not as well as Edward himself of course but it was admirable.

The plan was simple, he'd done it a dozen times. Every man had his weakness, money, notoriety even more baser needs. He would find them, manipulate them, then with a perfect plan crafted by his own hand, he would be out of Arkham by the end of the month with a new minion, or someone to distract the guards if they got into trouble. The stone hell hole of Arkham was not a one man job. This time however was different, this time he might have found a partner in crime, and steps had to be taken with care.

It was a pleasant surprise when the isolated professor responded to him, he had planned to endure a few weeks of talking to himself in their shared cell. Though their exchange held more then its share of sarcasm and back handed insults, Edward found himself becoming blissfully lost in some of the first few stimulating conversations he'd enjoyed in a long time. Jon could even manage to answer the occasional riddle.

It was expected that the professor would be closed off but of course the Riddler began to spot cracks in the walls he'd built up around him. Surely he could have pried at these seams and reeled in his catch but he soon found it was far more amusing to string him along.

For one Jonathan had a wide area of personal space, he'd never stolen anything as priceless as the look of barely restrained fury on his cell mates face as slug his arms around his bony shoulders. And though he was thankful to have someone he could carry on a conversation with, Jon's patience was short lived. Sometimes Edward would just keep talking, long after the other had stopped listening, watching the irritated twitch at the edge of his mouth, waiting to see when he'd finally reach the end of his rope.

It was a strange compulsion, to irritate the man he'd had his sights on, but he couldn't resist. When the serious cold, collected exterior cracked with frustration it was fascinating, a side he had yet to experience. Perhaps it was the fact that he could warrant such attention that no one else was receiving from the far off professor. As the days together waned on he began to notice that he was speaking of things he'd never told anyone before, not even the therapists he was forced to tolerate every week, each word he said collected behind those sharp yellow eyes.

It wasn't right, he was the Riddler, he should be the one manipulating the situation. At some point when he touched him his hands began to shake, when he spoke to him his voice began to crack. He put off the answer as long as he could, but the evidence hit hard when he began to have the dreams. Horrid things they were, causing him to toss and turn through out the night. The morning only came with flashes, intimate scenes of sweat and heat, twisted sheets and a flush of shame that lingered over his face the rest of the day. He couldn't tell Jonathan, he could never tell him, so he claimed they were nightmares, gave the former psychology professor all the info he could ever mull over under the guise of hysteria, as long as he didn't know the truth.

But as the weeks turned into months and many a night was wasted staring at the plaster ceiling, desperately trying to keep back the dreams that came when he closed his eyes, he began to wonder... what if Jon would understand? He'd told him things he wouldn't tell his lackeys, his therapist, even under threat of the Bat, and despite the bitter layer of cynicism Jonathan didn't laugh, didn't mock, didn't critique, he just listened and analyzed silently.

He didn't need this awkwardness to be shared, and with Jon he didn't expect it to be, but keeping quiet was becoming to difficult to stand. No one should be forced to spend twenty-four hours with an unrequited interest, too many intimate things on show, too many words barely unsaid.

So that night, Edward Nygma decided was going to end it, he would trust Jonathan with the thing most precious too him, his dignity, and hope he treated it with care.

Of course he had to get him to pay attention first.

"Jon, are you listening to me?"

He managed to get those eyes out of whatever space they were staring off into. God, they seemed to glow in the dark, a nocturnal predator in the grass, they gave him shivers, some of them in the wrong places.

"Of course, Edward." now he was under those eyes, analyzing every move he made. A small part of him felt nervous, but in his own guilty pleasure he reveled in the attention.

What if he could be under those eyes all the time?

"Jonathan..." But how to tell him, for the first time he could recall he couldn't think of a single word to say. It was stupid, speechlessness was something that plagued lesser men, not the Riddler...

Of course, he WAS the Riddler! how else would possibly do this?

"Riddle me this, Spooky, I am of use to no one, yet bliss to two. A boy gets me for nothing, a young man has to lie for me and an old man has to buy me. I am a baby's right, a lover's privilege, and a hypocrite's mask. To a young girl I am faith, to a married women, hope, and to an old maid, charity. What am I?"

Silence, he had been so confident with his riddle, now it felt as though the words were stuck to his throat. Jon knew the answer, he always seemed to know the answer. Could he have actually stumped him? What was he going to do then?

…shit...

"Jon!" the name came out without a thought, sounding a little too desperate to his ears then he would have preferred

On cue the professor nodded, Edward hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he let it out. Yes, he agreed to it. He not only figured out the riddle but he said yes.

A kiss, yes to a kiss.

He would have found it disgustingly sentimental if he wasn't so ecstatic.

Before either of them could have a chance to regain their senses Edward leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the "God of Fear" with a smile on his face. His lips were dry and ill kept, they responded with awkwardness of chess club teenager, and he wouldn't have expected or wanted anything else with him.

In the silent darkness of night in Arkham, the sounds of mouths moving against each other and the soft shuffle of fabric and sheets were all that they could hear. Soon even that was drowned out by the beating of his own heart in his ears and in other places.

That was perhaps why he couldn't make sense of what Jonathan had said under his breath, something rhythmic, a nursery rhythm no doubt.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

And when he pressed him down against the sheets it didn't matter.