Little Moments That Became A Fic

Chapter 19: The Day The Dormouse Came A'Knockin'

"Haigha."

Jonathan groaned, turning his face into his pillow and away from the hand nudging him.

"Haigha..."

"Go away," Jonathan muttered, pushing the soft face that was breathing too close to his own away. "Ah'm sleepin', Hatta."

"There's someone at the door," Jervis whispered.

Jonathan sat up. While it wasn't exactly unusual for someone to visit them late at night (which the alarm clock on his nightstand confirmed it was), there was something unusual about them knocking on the door. Harley tended to pound on the door, and he couldn't hear anything of the sort, while most of the others would try to find another way in or would be shouting for their attention by now.

"Stay here," Jonathan told Jervis quietly, grabbing the scythe he kept under the bed before creeping out of the room. Technically, Jervis could handle whatever this was as easily as he could — but the Hatter disliked the violent side of himself, so Jonathan did what he could to make sure he didn't have to draw on it.

Jonathan was one of the few who could sneak up on the Bat himself if he really tried to, and he put those skills to use in approaching the front door of their apartment. He paused as a rapid but quiet knock, almost hesitant despite the speed, sounded on the door.

He craned (ha!) his neck low to see through the peephole — Jervis was too short to reach it without dragging a chair over — and felt his eyebrows shoot into his hairline. Immediately, he undid the latch and pulled open the door.

"Prove tha' y'ain't Clayface," Jonathan grumbled, pushing worry and other such inconvenient feelings to the back of his mind in favor of security.

"I let everyone believe I use a cane because I was hurt fighting Batman, but really it's because of an accident from when I worked in the carnival," Edward said flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion. He was slumped against the doorframe, his normally impeccable posture terrible, with faint green marks on his cheeks that suggested his mascara was running under his mask.

"Get in here," Jonathan ordered, standing back so the other could enter. He looked around outside for a minute, making sure no-one else was around, before he closed the door. A supervillain could never be too careful. He turned to his friend, appraising him with a trained eye. He didn't like what he saw. "Th' Hell were yah knockin' fer, Ed? Yah've got a key. Yah scared Jervis half tah death, we thought yah was cops 'r somethin'."

"Would cops knock?" Edward asked, smiling. It wasn't a true smile, it was too small and sad for that. He was leaning against the arm of the apartment's beaten-up couch, playing with his cane — one of his simpler ones, though still question-mark-shaped — absentmindedly, as if he didn't fully realize he was doing it.

"Y'know wha' I meant, Ed," Jonathan sighed, shaking his head. Then, remembering something important, he cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled, "Hatter, it's fine! Dormouse jus' came a'knockin'!"

"Have I ever told you that your accent really comes out when you're tired?" Edward asked. Jonathan glared at him. "Oh, don't be like that, you know I like it." The Riddler smirked. "I like anything that makes someone sound dumber than me."

Before Jonathan could throttle one of his dearest friends in the world, Jervis came bounding into the room. "Oh, Dormouse, what a pleasant surprise! I do so enjoy your tales, but it's a bit late for a story, isn't it?"

"I actually do have a story to tell you this time," Edward mumbled. He looked and sounded completely worn out, mentally as well as physically. "It's not a very pleasant one, I'm afraid, but I promise the ending will surprise you. All the best stories have surprising endings, don't you think?"

"Well, in that case, I think I shall put on a pot of tea," Jervis said, visibly growing concerned. "An unpleasant story must always be accompanied by tea, you know!"

"I thought you said that it was happy stories that needed tea," Edward complained half-heartedly, but Jervis had already disappeared into the kitchen. He smiled again, still small and sad but this time with a tinge of something fond and familiar.

//Edward tells a story of recent events, where his compulsions got the better of him despite him actually trying to ignore them this time. Maybe drawing on that one canon plotline where he thought he'd bested his compulsions only to find out that he'd been blacking out and leaving clues anyways. Or maybe he almost led the cops to someone he had meant to protect. Or something like that. Point is, it was bad, he actively tried to not do it but failed, and it shook him to his core.

"I think I might actually be crazy," Edward said tearily, staring at his lap. He chuckled, a humorless sound, and looked back up at them, "and I think I actually need help. P-professional help."

Their eyes went wide, both able to guess what he meant by that.

"I'm turning myself in," Edward took in a deep, shaky breath. "I'm going to Arkham."