Chapter Text
The first time Edward sees him, it’s on a sweltering Gotham Tuesday afternoon in early August.
Despite all its faults, summer has always been his favorite season in Gotham. He could almost forgive the stench of heat baking the trashbags lining the streets, the crowds of tourists walking at a snail’s pace, and the humidity sticking under his shirt, to see the mid-day sun blindingly shine off the skyscrapers, to feel the sea breeze off the pier, to feel warmth on his skin.
In the summer, Edward opts to bike, grounded by the feeling of hard plastic pedals through the worn soles of his converse sneakers. Weaving through traffic and avoiding potholes as he passes under the cement snake overpasses that cocoon his own neighborhood, into the glimmering highrises of downtown Gotham; Guided by the mental map of the 40-or-so square mile island that he knows by heart, the only place he’s ever been able to call home.
But not this summer. A few months ago, he met the fate seemingly destined to befall all city cyclists: a BMW clipped him from the side as he was delivering a sushi party tray, resulting in a trip to the ER and seventy-five pieces of nigiri roasting on the rock-hot asphalt on the intersection of 40th and Rockwell. This summer, he scavenges for subway fare, then walks six blocks from the Green Line Station to his new job near one of the nation’s most prestigious universities. While the privileged minds of his generation are leisurely strolling through campus on their way to Western Civilization Since 1500, Edward is clocking in and buttoning up a shitty polyester polo embroidered with the logo of Gotham Corner Stores - a brand hellbent on replacing every fruit vendor and corner shop that makes Gotham feel like, well, Gotham. Oh well, a paycheck is a paycheck.
And so, Edward is leaning at the register, slacking, when he sees him - him - at first a brief flash of movement that distracts from his crossword puzzle. He’s standing in the snacks aisle right in Edward’s line of sight, examining a slim box of protein bars, as if reading the ingredients line by line. He’s tall, slim but not skinny, wearing a loose black t-shirt that nonetheless tightens around his biceps, and a baseball cap. Strands of dark hair peek out and brush his cheekbones. The row of refrigerators in the background hums.
He glances at Edward briefly out of the corner of his eye, like he can feel him staring. He’s got a face Edward feels he’s known all his life: angular, cheeks sloped and elegant. There’s something regal about him, the sort of face you’d see in an aristocrat’s portrait, poised chin out and framed with a lacy white cravat - the duke of something or other. Entirely unlike himself, Edward thinks, not with his own formless face and mousy features. Edward tries to place where he’s seen him before, trying to trace the fluttering feeling in his chest to a memory, but he turns up blank.
“Hey.” The stranger says, putting the protein bars down on the counter. They’re high protein, high fiber, dark chocolate coated. He probably works out.
“Just this, please.” The stranger reiterates. Wordlessly, Edward rings up the item and wordlessly gives him back the change - staring at his long, slender hands. Their fingers touch. They’re both sweaty. It’s 90 degrees, humid. Edward thinks, I’d like to lick the sweat off his palms.
“It’s ice age.” The stranger says, finally making eye contact. His eyes are blue.
“What?” Edwards says. His voice comes out strained.
“On your crossword. Cold that lasts a long time.” He points to the crossword, nearly finished other than a few blank spaces.
“Oh. I would have gotten that.” Edward frowns.
As he gathers his item and leaves, the stranger looks back over his shoulder at him as the sliding automatic doors brush past him. Edward feels his cheeks flush and the axis of his world tilt; He is utterly besotted.
*
It never gets that dark in the city - not really. After sunset, the world outside becomes a sickly yellow as the streetlights bounce off the sidewalk. The city never sleeps either: it’s almost midnight, yet there’s still a trickling trail of people in pressed suits leaving post-work galas, gruff men in coveralls going to work, college students in form-fitting dresses and Dollar Store feather boas on their way to the first parties of the year passing by the window.
Edward watches them as he sweeps the aisles at closing time, running a hand over the shelves where his handsome customer stood earlier that day. He imagines coming up behind him, running a palm over his slender knuckles. He’s always been like this - at risk for fantasizing and creating delusions. When he was a child, growing up in the orphanage, he’d lie in his bunk late at night and dream up the parents who would come to collect him one day: impossibly perfect mother with golden hair like a halo, impossibly perfect father who worked a fancy job at a bank. At mass twice a week, he’d pray with his hands clasped together until they sweat: Oh please, God, send a family for me. Pleasepleaseplease. Amen. But they never came.
There was a plaque in the main hall of the orphanage, right at the entrance - smiling mother, father and son, all in formal dress, along with the inscription in tight cursive font: Gotham Children’s Home is possible through the Renewal Fund and the generous endowment of the Wayne Foundation.
As a kid he’d stand against the wall for night-time roll call and fantasize about the Wayne family adopting him; Daydream about playing with Bruce Wayne - they could share bunk beds even. He’d let him have the top bunk, because he’d be so grateful to be adopted. He’d behave, and he’d do all his school work, and he’d stop doing all the things the nuns didn’t like him to do, like biting his nails and hiding and fighting.
As it so happened, the Waynes were killed in a random act of street violence, and Bruce was left an orphan. Edward knew about it, because it was on the news all of the time. Secretly, he hoped that Bruce would get sent to his orphanage, so they could still be roommates. But he didn’t get sent to an orphanage - that was for poor boys like himself.
*
Over the course of the next month, the stranger becomes an important part of Edwards weekly routine. On an average day, he rolls out of his twin-size bed at four-thirty, showers once and brushes his teeth twice, makes some instant oatmeal and shovels it in his mouth over the sink, then takes the subway forty-five minutes into Midtown, hunched over a crossword if there’s sitting room. At six in the morning, he opens up Gotham Corner Store, and waits. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to see his beautiful, unsmiling face around nineish, when he stops in once in a while for a morning coffee (large, two sugar packets, no cream). Otherwise, he comes in three to four times a week and skulks through the aisles, as Edward watches him intently from behind the register. At least once, their eyes have locked, after which his crush dropped a microwavable yakisoba on the faux-wood linoleum.
He must live, or work, or go to school nearby. Or, Edward thinks stupidly, he just likes me.
On a daily basis, Edward finds himself cycling between fantasies of a love he’s not sure he deserves, and delusional scenarios while going through the daily drivel of customer service: Hi, how are you? Find everything okay? Change? Oh, Christ, you’ve got a knife and you’ll stab me?
He stands at the register, leaning on the ball of his hand, stalking his prey through the canned goods aisle. All his grocery purchases are like that - ravioli, ramen, a rogues gallery of energy drinks. He must live off of takeout and pantry items.
The phone rings and he answers. Some dumb schmuck asking about store hours. When he turns back around, his favorite customer is standing in front of him. He’s dressed in a black hoodie despite the heat, and the ever-present baseball cap. He’s tightly gripping a raspberry-flavored energy drink and a can of clam chowder.
“Hey.” He says in a low register that sends a zap of something up Edward’s spine.
“Hi.” He breathes out in reply.
“No puzzles today?” The stranger asks. Edwards shakes his head no. “Too bad.”
Reaching over to scan the item, their eyes meet again. It’s the smallest thing - his lips curl in slightly, and he bites his lower lip, just a little, but it gives Edward a boost of confidence.
“I can tell you a riddle if you want.” He says, and regrets it immediately.
“A riddle?”
“Yeah. If you want. Since there’s no crossword or sudoku for you to butt into.” Edwards says, looking at the ground as he rings up the purchase. The customer pays, sliding his credit card into the reader.
“What can fill a room but takes up no space?” He says, cheeks flushing.
The stranger thinks for a second, brow knotting.
“That’s easy. Air.” He says smugly.
“Wrong! Well -” Edward feels his teeth clench, his face turning redder. “Well, no, the answer is love.”
“I think air works too.” The stranger says, gathering his items into his arms. “Thanks for the riddle, though.”
He thinks about his humiliating social blunder though the rest of his shift, he thinks about it as he clocks out in the afternoon, he thinks about it on his way to class, he thinks about it in class - ignoring something or other about tax codes, he thinks about it on the way home, crossing through the living room and avoiding his Craigslist roommates like the plague, he thinks about it as he’s slipping under the covers, curling up against the wall like a grub.
How could he be so stupid? How could he ruin - Oh, Please. As if he ever had a shot to begin with.
*
As the month draws to a close and rent draws near, Edward sits at home on a Friday evening in his bedroom with the blinds drawn closed. His room is small - only big enough for a twin sized bed squeezed into one corner, and a desk that serves as both a workspace and a bedside table - but it’s his sanctuary. Light shifts under the doorway, his roommates making dinner, their laughter and conversation drowned out by Edward’s bulky headphones. He’s cycling through the numbers in his bank account, trying to figure out where the extra hundred he needs to pay bills went. It’s all those bus tickets, he concludes, glancing at his busted bike, still tucked in between the wall and his desk, waiting to be repaired.
He leans back in his chair and sighs. He turns his music up a notch.
All things considered, he's doing ok for himself. He's in school, even if it’s taken him five years to get to senior year. He has his own room. He's safe. He tries to remember this as his roommates howling from the other room makes his blood boil.
He begins pilfering through his room for something he can pawn for a hundred bucks or so. Rosary - wooden, not worth shit. Laptop, nope, can’t live without it. Shoes, too worn in. Finally, he finds an Econ textbook from last year, still in perfect condition, shoved in between a pile of sweatshirts and a shoebox (full of random screws, cords and nails that he can’t bring himself to get rid of despite having no use for them).
He snaps a picture of it with his phone and uploads it to Facebook Marketplace.
A few hours later, as he’s playing a puzzle game dead-eyed nearing midnight, his laptop pings.
The message reads: Hey, is this still available?
He replies: It is.
The potential buyer responds: Can I get it from you tomorrow? At Gotham Corner Store.
Edwards stares at the screen, panic building in his chest.
He clicks on the person’s profile, cursor shaking. Bruce Warren - Him. He clicks through the profile - no original posts, a few tagged photos, at formal events, college parties, He isn’t smiling in a single one.
Bruce says: Sorry, I recognized you from your profile photo. I come in often.
Edwards own profile photo is a scanned-in image of the same photo on his ID. He's never had a lot of photos of himself. He just has Facebook to keep tabs on some of the kids he grew up with at the orphanage.
Edward replies: Sure.
Next time he’ll see him, he will no longer be a stranger, his favorite customer - he’s Bruce, Bruce Warren.
*
That morning, he makes sure he’s showered and brushed his hair. His heart pounds as he unlocks the store’s security grate. Every time the door opens, he whips around to check if it’s Bruce.
A little bit after lunch, he finally shows, strolling in with a casual wave, oblivious to Edwards affliction. He gets in line behind a teenager buying an assortment of candy, eyeing Edward as he does his job.
“Hey.” He says, stepping up when it's his turn.
“Hi.” Edward squeaks out. He reaches for the textbook stashed under the counter and slides it over to Bruce.
“Sorry if I freaked you out yesterday.” Bruce says.
“It's fine.” Edward replies, fingertips still feeling the ever-so-slightly fraying edges of the only textbooks he ever bought new.
Bruce lays his hand on the other end. They're holding onto the same object. The air feels electric.
“You've got a memorable face.” Bruce says.
“Not really.” Edward grumbles, but somehow his hand wanders up and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. Why don't you bat your eyelashes at him too, Eddie? He thinks. Moron.
Bruce slides him a hundred dollar bill across the counter. It’s crisp and entirely unfolded, except for the thin crease in the middle from when it probably rode in Bruce's back pocket straight from the ATM.
Edward shoves it in his cargo pants.
“Did you take a data analytics course last year?” Bruce asks, looking up from beneath a curtain of dark, shiny hair as he gathers the textbook in his arms.
“Statistics.” Edward replies. “I don't go to Gotham University. I assume that's where you go.”
“Yeah. I graduate next year. Where are you?”
“Just City College.” He shrugs. “Most of my classes are in the Midtown building.”
“Cool. What are you majoring in?”
“Accounting.” Edward says. A customer standing beside him clears his throat. Bruce gets the hints and leaves.
“See you.” He says. The rest of the day, Edward plays it over and over again in his mind.
*
Later that week, Edward sits hunched over in his chair, one of the many students in Financial Accounting: Advanced Topics tapping away on their phone. He’s making his once-in-a-blue-moon tentative plans to meet up with “Dan”, a faceless man off of a chat app. Usually how these things go is: he shows up to a one-bedroom apartment in a residential neighborhood and sits on a peeling faux-leather couch for ten to fifteen minutes before “Dan” or “Jim” or “Rick” or whomever anxiously places a sun-damaged hand on his thigh. He never knows who they are, and it doesn’t matter. He wants the feeling of hands on his hips, and someone who absolutely does not care to ask him: “Is that good, baby?”
Then he wants to leave and never think about it again.
His professor drones on, clicking through slides as the sun sets out the window.
I could meet you tomorrow . Edward types out, but before he can send it, a bubble pops up from Facebook Messenger. Bruce.
Hey. You guys still have those chocolate flavored protein bars? You’ve been out for a few weeks.
Yeah, they’re back in. Edward types, shifting in his chair.
I stopped by today but you weren’t in either, haha. See you soon. Bruce says, ending the message with a thumb emoji.
Edward leans on his palm to cover a smile sneaking across his lips. He feels giddy. Childlike. Stupid. If Bruce had no interest in him at all - if he was just a stranger working the counter at a gentro convenience store - would he say that last part? Would he compare him to an out-of-stock chocolate protein bar?
If there is a God, maybe he’ll let him have this one thing, after all.
He closes out the chat app without responding, leaving Dan on read.
*
On the first Friday of September, Bruce Warren enters Gotham Corner Mart, and comes up to the counter with a six-pack of beer.
“Party today?” Edward asks.
“I’m just going over to a friend's.” Bruce says. Something in Edward’s chest stings, like he hadn’t considered the possibility that other people get to see and spend time with his crush.
“Well, I have to see an ID.” He pouts.
“Really?” Bruce says, stone-faced.
“That’s the rules.”
Bruce fishes it out from his wallet and slides it on the counter. Edward takes a look, and suddenly feels his heart sink, deep into a horrible peat-filled bog that exists somewhere in his psyche, as he matches the face on the ID to the one in front of him. The name on the ID says: Bruce Wayne.
Bruce Wayne, the lone heir to a fortune of billions, who’s charming cherubic mug stared down at him throughout his entire childhood at the orphanage.
“Wait.” Edwards stammers out, his ears burning with an ice-cold anxiety. “Bruce Wayne?”
“Yeah.”
“I-It’s Warren online.”
“I know.” Bruce looks down at the floor. “You don’t use your real name online either. Edward Nygma? That’s not real.”
“Well, yeah. But -”
“If you have a certain public profile you’re supposed to keep it low key.” Bruce says.
Edward searches for a flicker of some emotions - anything - across his face. But it remains cold, impenetrable.
Bruce puts his ID back in his wallet and pays for the beer with a ten dollar bill. Edward snatches it out of his hands and taps it into the register’s digital screen with shaking fingers.
“I should upcharge you on everything.” Edward mumbles. “Bye.”
Bruce opens and closes his mouth as if to say something, but turns and walks out of the store.
Edward inhales deeply through his nostrils. His jaw feels like it’s wired shut. The ball of light in his chest, the high he’s been riding for a month or so, turns to dust and crumbles. He pockets Bruce’s change.