Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Edward had a habit of watching people through their cameras when he felt stressed. And, fuck, was he stressed today. He liked to watch others go through their day—oblivious to the vigilante who watched them. He typed out the familiar website and scrolled through the channels of unsuspecting people. Hacked front door cameras, baby cams, security cameras, and, of course, webcams.

His eyes found interest in someone whose face was rather close to their screen. Your hair splaying in different directions, your brows twitched as they furrowed, and your nose scrunching in concentration. Oh, weren’t you cute?

For some reason, you had piqued Edward's interest. You seemed like you were typing away on your keyboard with a flurry, the only sources of light being a small lamp in the corner of the room and your bright screen. Every other detail in your room was hidden in harsh shadows.

He clicked on the channel almost immediately. Nobody else was in here, he noted as he saw the little person icon go from zero to one. He tilted his head and leaned back slightly and waited for the audio to load in. He jumped as your music blared through his speakers. He scrambled to mute the channel, regulating his breathing when he did.

With a deep inhalation, he cautiously raised the volume to one that wouldn't cause his ears to bleed. He listened closely to the lyrics and melody to find some familiarity. He couldn't recognize the jumpy, dark tune, but he noted how danceable it seemed to be for you. You seemed to sway deliciously to it as you wrote. Sometimes stopping to dance in your chair and mouth along to the words, just to go back to writing furiously.

His eyes were trained on your concentrated ones. It was as if he thought looking hard enough would allow him to see what you were writing. He huffed through his nostrils when he found his attempt was unsuccessful. Yet, he was too intrigued to let this go. Just as he was going to open up the proper tools to get to the screen your attention was on, he paused.

You had stopped writing and reached for something not in the camera's view. Your pretty little hand was holding the neck of a wine bottle. Throwing your head back as you took quick gulps. You put the bottle down and gasped for air, wiping your mouth with the palm of your hand. You smiled, the swaying of your shoulders becoming more expressive.

Edward watched on, perplexed, as you stood from your swivel chair and began to sway and mouth the words, wine bottle still in hand. Your hands raised upwards, only one of them stopping midway to press the bottle to your lips. Something about this made his lips twitch into a crooked smile. And itchy. Very itchy. Had he always been sweating?

He blinked rapidly and grunted, pressing down the commands on his keyboard to open the program that would allow access to your computer. He continued to type as more windows kept popping up, momentarily glancing up to watch you dance. The palm of his right hand pressing into the crotch area of his jeans had simply found itself there on its own.

Chapter Text

Edward spent most of his nights watching you since he found your webcam feed. You had quickly become the best part of his day over the following weeks. You were there for him when he was at his lowest, and he found comfort in you. Not that you knew, of course. Edward would rather wring his own neck before he let you find out that he was watching you. You’d hate him for sure – call him a creep and alert the authorities. Even though the thought of being berated by you was just as tantalizing as the ones of you fully accepting and praising his depravity. But he couldn’t let himself destroy one of the most significant things of his life. And in the short amount of time that he’d “known” you, you were quickly climbing your way up to the top of his priorities. You have to pace yourself, he would remind himself, printing out yet another picture of you to keep safely in a box. That was yet another thing that filled Edward both peace and shame.

It hadn’t taken him long to find all the public information he needed to know about you. He had found a social media account of yours and he had to remind himself not to keep his jaw unhinged for too long. He already thought you were so beautiful – so perfect – naturally, but seeing you dolled up was doing devastating work to his self-control.

But Edward was a good boy - he would reassure you of that in his head every time he watched you. He fought to steer clear of anything that would scandalize you – you were too pure, too good for him to succumb to the temptations of his flesh. He kept his interactions and intentions as innocent as he could. I mean, could you really blame him though? He couldn’t exactly control it when your pretty face would flash in his mind at the wrong moment. Or if one of your pictures just happened to be close enough for him to see. But he would never choose to simply use you to pleasure himself – again.

Oh, how he hated himself on those nights. He’d be curled up in his bed afterward, kissing and crying over your stained picture until it tore apart in his trembling hands. He lovingly, reverently held it as a holy relic, his lips pressing to the image with desperate, silent apologies. Ink wasn’t too cheap – he’d have to be more careful with tainting your pretty pictures. At least he was grateful for having enough space on his computer to store hundreds more.

The chilly evening air had Edward tugging his worn jacket tighter around him. He had only moments ago clocked out of his dreary day job, the fluorescent lights burned yet in the back of his mind. His shoes splash through puddles as he passes the dingy rain-splattered windows. He urges his mind to stay confined to one thing while he passes people on the streets of Gotham: his next project.

The city was alive and less than welcoming, a breathing beast in all its grimy facades. A sheet of charcoal hung above, and only a few embers of dying sunlight were allowed to peak in. The sound of his breaths were swallowed by the persistent hum of the city – the distant wailing of a police sirens, the roaring traffic, and the murmurs of people with their heads hung low. His mind was a narrow tunnel, leading him to a local bookstore.

Focus, focus, focus, he reminds himself, trying desperately to shove away the image of your smile. The infectious kindness that shot like an electric current through the pixelated screen of your webcam feed. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to dwell on you for too long; he had to get back to being serious – to be serious about his work as the Riddler. His life’s work would be at the forefront of his priorities, he hoped you didn’t take offense.

The bell above the door jingled as he steps inside and removes his glasses. Wiping them with his sleeve, he blindly made his way to the aisles containing books on poisonous plants. His pulse quickens as his eyes scan the shelves, not noting anything to be amiss. He was too engrossed in his search for texts that would aid in his obsessive need for justice – the kind only his attacks and puzzles could solve. But, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement behind a counter.

Edward’s chest tightens, each breath coming out shallow and strained. He was sure all the blood in his body rushed to his head, making it feel inflated and light. The frantic drumming of the blood pumping through his veins seemed to drown out the quiet tune playing from a dingy speaker overhead. A wave of nausea cruelly rolls through him as he takes in the sight of someone manning the cash register. You.

You, in your work uniform – a black blouse branded with the bookstore’s name and dark jeans. You, with your smile – one he thought he’d only ever see behind a screen. You, kindly helping an elderly woman in all your pure benevolence. His heart practically beats out of his chest when you lift your head, and that’s when he gets a harsh wake up call.

Panicking, Edward ducks behind a shelf, almost sending a pile of books to the ground before grabbing and steadying the rack. That was sure to get your attention, he knew it. You would walk over any second now and kick him out of the store.

“No, no, no,” he mumbles silently, a high-pitched whimper slipping through. “Not now, please.”

He fights the urge to flee, telling himself that it would look like he had stolen something – probably making him something unforgivable in your eyes. He silently prays until he realizes that… you don’t know who he is. You don’t know that he’s been watching you for some time. He sighs, a small, relieved smile spreading on his face. A sudden giddiness makes him almost dizzy. He was originally here for two books, but he thinks that he would only get a one-minute interaction at most. He wanted more of that – more of you.

Finally setting his eyes on the books he needed; Edward rushes to grab an unused basket on the floor. His hands shook, none of the titles were even registering in his mind, but he wasn’t in a state to be selective. He begins to stack a couple of books that he believes would help his research. Fingers twitched against the spines while he grabs at whatever is in front of him. He was blind, lovesick man in your presence – even if you were merely in the same building. The simple fact is that in just a few moments, he would make himself a part of your life beyond a screen. You didn’t know him, but he swore on all the goodness that he ever had in his miserable life that he loved you.

He cringes when he finally looks down at the basket and feels the heavy weight of it. It was a chaotic mountain that had him worrying about the cost of it all. He promises himself that, if he can’t find use for them, he could return them. His smile stretches at the thought of seeing you again. He was getting ahead of himself; he had to get through meeting you now.

He approaches the counter with jerky steps, his knuckles turning white as he clutches the basket’s handle. He is too focused on your face to even notice – or care – about the way the plastic pinches the skin of his palm. His nerves were killing him, every step felt like he was dragging closer to the edge of a cliff. He swallows and it feels like sandpaper, so he turns his focus to the counter.

Your soft eyes and welcoming smile overwhelm him; he couldn’t face you. For a moment, he just stands there, clutching the handle of his basket. Finally, he awkwardly shoves the basket onto the counter, causing one of the books to fall. You catch it just in time with a small laugh.

“I’m s-sorry,” he mumbles, letting his eyes bravely dart between you and the haphazard mountain of books. “I-um.. just these… please.”

“You sure this is all?” you say playfully. It takes him a foolishly long time to realize that you just talked to him – joked with him. All he could manage was a pathetic, breathy giggle. His mind had, unfortunately, been elsewhere, preventing him from fully appreciate your charm. He would need to move some money around in his bank account later.

He keeps his head down as you scan each book, a blush creeping up his neck. He prays silently that you don’t see his trembling hands before he shoves them in his pockets.

You smile warmly at him as you announce the cost of his order, and Edward gives you a shaky grin in return. He pulls out his wallet, pays, and stumbles away from the counter with two heavy bags in each hand.

“Have a wonderful day,” you chirp behind him.

He’s barely holding himself together, his obsession deepening with each step he takes. He feels as though he’s floating back to his apartment, no longer caring about the hunger he felt earlier. No senses mattered in that moment, only the way your words repeat melodiously in his mind.

Edward, in his obsessive reverie, wouldn’t allow himself to sleep until he saw you again. He sat in his dimly lit apartment, only the soft hum of his computer breaking the silence. Rain taps against the window in a steady rhythm, trying to break his concentration on his thoughts of you. It wouldn’t work, he wouldn’t let it. He wanted his mind to be consumed by you.

The encounter at the bookstore was stuck in his head like a film on a loop. He kept every vivid detail in check, occasionally allowing some self-indulgent particulars to bleed in. You’d bat your eyelashes at him, touch his hand like you knew what you were doing to him. When he stammered, you had slightly tilted your head. He grunts, not wanting his fantasies to fully taint his very real memory of your interaction. He wanted to cling to each moment, analyze every word, replay it, dissect every nuance. Piece it all together until he thought it was tangible. But that notion had only come from the way his cock pulsed uncomfortably in his pants. He ignores it tonight. Greed was a sin, and he wouldn’t let it consume him. Finding your webcam in a sea of all others was a delicious divine punishment – one he had abused with muffled moans and tearful apologies. But finally seeing your blessed flesh in life, breathing the same air as you, and resisting the urge of satisfying himself…that was his penance.
Your smile… it wasn’t just out of practiced kindness. It was meant for me, he thought. That thought sent a shiver through him as his hands grip the arms of his chair. He felt exhilarated and terrified.

“It had to be fate.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Out of all the bookstores in Gotham… you were… You were there.”

The emotions were so overwhelming that he had to lean back and rub his hands over his face. The image of you persists, much to his dismay and yet to his delight. It couldn’t just be a coincidence. It couldn’t be. You two were meant to meet today. The universe had set it into motion.

Edward rolls his chair closer to his computer with a shaking breath. His fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating for only a moment before gaining access to your webcam. You had just turned your computer on, the grainy light from your screen lit up your tired face. Seeing you again eased some of the tension in his body slowly. His lips curl into a gentle smile and he wants desperately to congratulate you on surviving your job. Watching felt like communion, his own sacred and intimate practice.

He whispers under his breath, words meant only for you. But he knows you can’t hear him. “You look so tired today. I hope I made a good impression on you.”

He traces a finger over the screen, as if by some miracle he would be able to touch the glow of your face and feel your warmth. He was a little disappointed that you were only going to check a few emails before retreating to your bed, but he understood why you only graced him with a few minutes. You were tired and he would respect that – respect you. You deserve to rest.

Before standing up from his desk, he reaches for a picture of you he had printed out earlier. He holds it close to his chest, settling onto the worn mattress on the floor. He rolls over on his side and closes his eyes, imagining your voice bidding him goodnight.

“Soon,” he murmurs into the dark of his room. “We’ll meet again soon.”

Chapter Text

Edward had forced himself to stop watching you every night, and it was agony.

He sits hunched over his cluttered desk, pushing aside the left-over container of takeout from last night. Or is it from the day before then? He can’t remember. His brain felt more jumbled than usual, much like his apartment. Papers were strewn in an organized chaos, books he had bought stacked in front of him, and a desk lamp casting a pale halo over the whole mess. He stares at the black void of his monitor, fingers steepled under his chin as though in prayer. But the object of is devotion wasn’t something traditionally divine. It was you.

He closes his eyes, letting the memory wash over him, just as it had for days now. It still haunted him, wracking him with humiliation – how he hadn’t reacted more to your joke. He had been too worried about his financial situation to notice the way your voice had risen in soft amusement as you made that small joke – "You sure this is all?” You weren’t making fun of him. You were too kind to do that. You wanted to engage in a lighthearted exchange. At least he hoped this was the case. He should’ve said something clever – wittier. Banter – that’s what people liked, right? Instead, he giggled pathetically, like a nervous schoolgirl. How mortifying.

How did I not find out that you worked there? he thinks. It wasn’t a coincidence, no. Coincidence was too random, too cold for something as perfect as this. This was fate. It was a deliberate act of providence pulling him into your orbit. How could he have been so blind? All these weeks of watching, observing, and protecting you, but he never thought fate would intervene so directly. You, his angel, his penance and salvation, worked in the very bookstore he had visited for his plans without any prior knowledge of this.

Edward shifts in his chair, picking up one of the books from the pile on his desk. He thumbs through its pages, inhaling deeply to pick up any remnant of the bookstore. The words swam meaninglessly in his head – he wasn’t even sure he needed this book for his research. Only a few that he bought were helpful, the rest…had been props that gave him more time with you and not between monitors. The guilt began to claw at him, then, sharper than it had been in days.

That thought burned in him, a smoldering ember of shame. He wasn’t supposed to be monitoring you. He wasn’t supposed to follow your life like this. It was wrong for him to do this – he knew that. Edward swallowed hard and lowered his head. I am more than unworthy. He watched you in secret, through the forbidden lens of your webcam. He worshipped you like a sinner who itched to dare touch the divine. It was maddening torture. He was holding back as much as he could.

He glances at your crumpled photograph on his desk, a grainy printout he’d taken from a frozen frame of the feed. Your eyes were wide – unaware – staring back at him. And, for a moment, he hated himself. He hates how much he grew to need you, how much he craves the heat of your gaze to leave scorch marks all over his body. He wanted you to see him – to see him for who he truly was. He knew you could since you had such a kind soul. Edward presses his palms against his eyes, the edges of his vision turning red.

“Forgive me,” he whispers. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to you, to God, or to the hollow space inside himself.

But Edward had always struggled with the line between right and wrong, hadn’t he? Especially when it was down to something as overwhelming and consuming as you. He clenches his fists, shaking his head violently as if it would get rid of the thought.

But, as he often does, he found a way to justify it. You had come into his life for a reason. He didn’t seek out your hacked webcam – it just happened to be there. He didn’t seek out where you worked – he was only there for his research. He stumbled into the store, nothing more than another nameless customer to you. But he knew there was something more. Surely, there was a purpose behind this. His breath hitches as he remembers your face, the way the overhead lights and fell across your features. Divine. Just… divine. He was, honest to God, grateful that he had bought so many books; his plan for just a few seconds more with you worked somewhat. He only wishes he paid more attention to what he picked up. Some of these were of no use to him whatsoever.

The receipt.

Edward, suddenly frantic, begins digging through the piles of trash on his desk. The thin slip of paper was slightly crumpled, the ink faintly legible. He smooths it carefully over a clean spot on his desk.

He couldn’t go back to that bookstore, right? Could he? What if you realized what he was this time. What if you looked right through him and witnessed the depravity in the recesses of his mind? But what if he couldn’t bring himself to ever go back? The that of letting this chance – this miracle - slip away made his chest tighten almost painfully.

His thin lips twist into a nervous, trembling smile. The books he didn’t need anymore – they were his excuse. The reason he gave himself to go back. How had he forgotten? But it wasn’t just an excuse – it was an offering. He would place himself before you again, risking rejection, risking everything, because that is what you deserved.

With unsteady hands, Edward begins to sort through the books on his desk. He would stand before you, hoping you would see him as him. Not as a stranger, but as someone meant to be there.

Because he was meant to be there.

Fate had made that so.

The soft humming coming from the computer was the only sound in the room, steady and swallowing the silence. Edward sits before the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard in hesitancy. He doesn’t know if he should proceed. He swore to himself – swore – that he wouldn’t do this anymore. No, not after seeing you. Not after speaking to you. That encounter should have been enough to quench any thirst of watching you without your knowledge. It should have been sacred.

But he was weak. Weak and pathetic.

“It’s not wrong,” he murmurs, his voice cracking under the weight of his lie. “It’s not… I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

The mouse moves under his trembling hand, navigating through various folders and encrypted paths until a hacked feed blinks to life. It flickers for a moment before stabilizing, revealing the small, intimate view of your world. The camera is angled to show just enough of this corner of your apartment – your couch, a bookshelf, and part of your kitchen.

God, there you were.

Edward’s breath catches in his throat as he leans closer to the screen, glasses slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose. You are in the kitchen, back turned to the camera as you reach for something in a cupboard. The nature of the mundane scene was supposed to have reassured him. It should have been proof that you are safe, and that you didn’t need him hovering over you like this. But he can’t look away.

You move with an unconscious grace that he finds absolutely mesmerizing. Every gesture of yours was imbued with meaning. The way you tilt your head as you pour water into a mug, the soft sigh that escapes your lips are you settle on the couch with your tea. You look so cozy; he almost wants to get up and make himself a cup of tea.

“I’m not doing anything bad. This isn’t wrong,” he whispers, brows pinching together. He presses a hand to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater to quiet the rapid pounding of his heart. “It’s not. I missed you. I just wanted to see you.”

The guilt was there, he could feel it, but he pushes it aside. He can’t stop now. You were just too precious, sitting there in the comfort of your apartment. The world was filled with many dangers you couldn’t possibly anticipate. Edward wanted to shield you from them.

His chair creaks as he leans back, tearing his gaze from the screen for only a moment. He taps his fingers on the desk with a relentless rhythm. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. He’s not strong enough to let you go – not yet. A soft sound from the feed draws his attention back to the screen. You had pulled out a book and were now reading, tucking your legs under you. His mouth went dry. This was almost too much for him. His lips part in a quiet gasp as he tries to keep himself from letting his eyes stare greedily at your bare legs.

In a sort of distraction, Edward reaches for the black notebook on his desk. He flips to the page where he had written your name. He adds another line beneath the things he already scrawled:
• Reads in the evening. Looks peaceful. Like a saint in quiet contemplation.

The words blur as his eyes fill with unshed tears. He quickly closes the notebook with shaking hands. He didn’t dare look back at the screen.

“Enough,” he mutters pathetically. “That’s enough.”

He minimizes the feed but doesn’t close it, the tiny icon blinks at the bottom of the screen like a beacon. His resolve wavers for only a brief moment before he turns his attention to another task. Pulling up the bookstore’s system, he had found this to be quite easy. He hacked the website shortly after learning you worked there. He navigates through the interface with a practiced ease, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he looks for a schedule. When he sees your name appear, his heart skips a beat.

“Tomorrow?” he whispers, lips curling into a smile. “You’ll be there tomorrow.”

He sits back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing. What he was doing wasn’t wrong. He was just preparing – it was part of his mission. He had to know and make sure that you would be there when he returned the books. Edward glances at the icon where your feed was, hand over the mouse. Just one more look - just to make sure you were still safe.

Instead, and with all the strength he could muster, he closes it and stands up, the wheels of his chair scraping against the floor. He turns away from the computer, closing his eyes and clenching his fists at his sides.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “Forgive me for what I am.”

The words hang heavy and low in the air as he moves to his bed. The screen behind him glows on, casting long shadows across the room.

Tomorrow. He just had to wait for tomorrow, and then he would see you again. Patience was a virtue.

Edward stands in front of the glass door of the bookstore, the strap of his canvas bag digging into his shoulder as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His pulse is erratic, the beats thundering in his ears like a drum signaling an impending reckoning. Edward had timed his arrival perfectly. He couldn’t be too early because returning books wouldn’t take too long, and he wanted to see you. He couldn’t arrive the second you got there because you wouldn’t have settled in immediately. He came just in time, assuming you’d be behind the counter or doing some other tasks around the store.

He adjusts his glasses with shaky hands and pauses momentarily to mumble a small prayer. He lets his arm fall back to his side and grips the door handle. Stepping inside, the small bell above the entrance chimes. The sound reverberates through him like a church bell, calling the faithful to worship. The bookstore was warm and inviting, the scent of paper and wood polish attacking his senses. He stores every detail – the layout of the shelves, awkwardly placed stacks of books, the other customers browsing the aisles, and the distant singing of a playlist drifting through the air.

You are crouched near one of the lower shelves next to the counter, sliding a book into place with careful precision. Edward’s breath falters, body tensing as though struck by a divine force. You’re entirely unaware of him as you focus on your task. But, to Edward, you are the center of the universe and the axis upon which everything turns. He clutches the strap of the bag tighter, knuckles whitening as a thousand thoughts race through his mind. Should I approach you now? Would that seem strange? What if he says something wrong, something that shatters the fragile connection he believes you share?

For a moment, he considers turning around and leaving – never to return. But the thought of wasting this chance – this gift – was unbearable. He forces his legs to move before the instinct to run away fully takes over. The sounds of his shoes against the wooden floor must have caught your attention because you stand and turn toward him. When your eyes meet his, Edward’s stomach twists violently, a heady mix of elation and terror floods his senses.

“Hi there,” you say sweetly and softly. Recognition lights up your expression, and you offer him a small smile. “Back so soon?”

Edward freezes, his tongue suddenly feeling too large for his mouth. The logical part of his mind screams at him to say something - anything – but the words are tangled in his throat.

“I… uh…” He shifts the bag on his shoulder and awkwardly fumbles with the strap. “I… bought too many. I mean-I don’t need all of them. I thought, thought I did, but…”

His voice trails off and he averts his gaze, rounded cheeks flushing a deep red. You tilt your head slightly, your smile growing a fraction wider. Edward swears he could see some type of glow in your eyes – like a little switch went off. Was it kindness? Patience?

“Hey, it happens,” you shrug and gesture toward the counter. “Go ahead and set them down. I can take care of the return for you.”

Edward moves closer to the counter; his movements were stiff and mechanical as though he were a puppet on strings. He pulls the books from his bag and stacks them as neatly as he can, careful not to let them tumble. You glance at the titles as you begin processing the return, fingers moving deftly over the register.

“Guess you had an ambitious reading list, huh?” Your eyes flick up to his, a playful smile on your lips.

Edward blinks, stunned by the sound of your voice addressing him directly. He nods – too quickly – and clutches the edge of the counter to ground himself.

“Yeah,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whistle.

You chuckle softly, the sound light and airy and perfect. Edward’s chest tightens. That noise had just carved itself into his memory. He watches as you start the return process, using the receipt and credit card he fumbled to place on the counter.

“Well,” you say, sliding the receipt closer to him. “If you decide you need them after all, you know where to find us.”

Edward stares at the receipt for a moment, willing himself to respond, to say something witty or memorable. Instead, all he manages is a mumbled “Thank you.”

As he tucks the receipt into his bag, you give him one last smile. A simple, fleeting thing that leaves him both ecstatic and hollow.

“Have a great day.” You give a small wave before turning your attention back to the register.

Edward lingers for a moment longer, feet rooted to the spot. He wants to say more and extend the moment, but the heavy weight of his nerves presses him back. He turns and walks to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last.

After stepping outside, the cold hair hits him like a slap, shocking him out of his haze. He seizes the strap of his bag tightly, heart still pounding. You spoke to him more than he thought you would. You even smiled at him. And though the interaction was short-lived, it felt monumental.

This wasn’t the end, he tells himself. It can’t be. This was only the beginning.

The walk home was a blur for Edward. The world had reduced itself to muted colors and distant sounds as his mind churns in relentless turmoil. His hand clutches the receipt in his pocket, the thin paper crumpling from the force of his grip. He replays the encounter over in his mind, each iteration punctured by a fresh wave of self-recrimination.

“Idiot,” he mutters under his breath as he climbs the stairs to his apartment. “Why didn’t I say something normal? Anything?”

He fumbles with his keys, the jangling sound sharp against the oppressive silence of the hallway. He finally manages to shove the door open, and slam it shut behind him. He turns around and leans against it, chest heaving as though he ran a marathon. His eyes flutter closed and he presses his forehead against the cool wood. Your face lingers in his mind like an afterimage burning into his vision.

Edward’s heart clenches painfully, the memory of it both calming and tormenting. You smiled at him—four times. Not only out of obligation or politeness, but with a genuine warmth. The kind of warmth that someone like him doesn’t deserve. He pulls the receipt from his pocket, uncrumpling it. This – it wasn’t just a piece of paper anymore; it was proof. Proof that you saw him, spoke to him, shared the smallest moment with him. This was sacred, a tangible fragment of your interaction. He crosses the room with hurried movements. He pulls open a drawer, retrieving a small, unassuming box. He stares at the pictures he has of you in there before gingerly and reverently placing the receipt inside. He stares at everything in the box again, his breathing shallow. It was all wrong, all of it. And, he knew that. But even as shame courses through him, so does something else. Something that’s deeper, darker, and more powerful.

“I can’t help it,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “You’re… you’re my everything.”

He shuts the box quickly and pushes it aside, making his way to his desk. The computer was waiting for him – as if expecting what he was going to do. He hesitates even letting his hands go near the keyboard.

“I just want to make sure you got home safe,” he murmurs as he searches for your webcam.

The soft flow of a nearby lamp shines a light on your figure. You are seated at a table, a pen in hand, scribbling something in a notebook. You bite your bottom lip in concentration, briefly glancing up at your laptop to see whatever you were writing notes for. Edward pretends that he’s sitting across from you – admiring you. He rests his chin on his hands, eyes fixing on you.

But beneath all that adoration, a storm rages. His thoughts spiral into darker places, every moment of calm shattering by the fresh surge of self-loathing. What was he doing? Watching you like this – hoarding every moment like you were lovers. Pretending to be in the same room as you. How could he claim to care for you when his actions were so disgustingly invasive, so wrong?

“I’m protecting you. I’m doing this for you.” But the words sound hollow in his own ears.

The lie is becoming harder to sustain. He knows that. He can feel it in the way his chest aches. His fingers itch to reach out through the screen and finally bridge the impossible distance between you.

Edward pushes back from the desk and stands abruptly. He begins to pace in the claustrophobic confines of his apartment, his hands gripping his hair as he struggles to contain the chaos within him. And yet, he knows he can’t stop.

He can’t walk away. He can’t let you go. The thought of removing himself from your life – even in this unseen way – was too painful. You were a light in his darkness and the only thing that made the endless nights worth enduring. He sinks to his knees, hands clasped together, pressing his chest against his thighs as though in full supplication.

“I swear,” he whispers, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I swear I’ll protect you. From everything. From everyone.”

He whines as the final vow slips from his lips:

“Even from myself.”

But, deep down, Edward knows that it was a promise he was too weak to keep.

Chapter Text

Just as if Edward had never stopped, watching you once again became part of his evening ritual– his unspoken liturgy. And after a few nights, he thought it had been foolish to have stopped in the first place. With a near-religious fervor, he paid devout attention to your movements and the tasks he’d found you doing again. His cheeks would feel sore by the end of your “sessions” from all the smiles that lit up his face. He was entranced by all of it. The way your hands moved as you tidied up your desk, the soft concentration etched into your brow as you stared at your laptop screen – he absorbed it all like a sponge. He would absentmindedly circle one of the keys on his keyboard—not typing, not working—simply resting as he watched you.

Everything was perfect. Your unawareness made the connection so pure. If you knew, it would ruin everything – turn his devotion into something you might reject.

But tonight, the feed flickered.

It was a subtle thing at first, the kind of anomaly that Edward might have brushed off on another night. A momentary glitch, a lag in the stream – that was normal. But when it dared to happen again – this time accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible pop-op in the corner of the screen – his focused sharpened. And so did rage. The muscles in his jaw tighten as a cold prickle of unease crawls up his spine.

“What the hell…” he murmurs, leaning closer to the screen. His fingers dance across the keyboard precision born of obsession. He pulls up the backend of the hacked website, bypassing its layers with a practiced ease. The usual thrill of discovery that accompanies his hacking was absent, now replaced by a gnawing anxiety.

The truth hits him like a physical blow. Someone else was accessing the feed.

Edward freezes, his breath suddenly catching in his throat and refusing to return to normal. The very idea was an affront, a desecration of something sacred. Who would dare? Who would dare intrude on you – and him – like this?

His mind races, paranoia sharpening into anger. His hands tremble as he navigates through the data logs, tracing the IP addresses of recent visitors. There were multiple intrusions, but one stood out. Most of the other ones have only been there for a minute or two – seemingly getting bored and moving onto the next webcam. But a single, persistent user has been accessing your webcam feed almost as consistently as Edward has. The thought of it made Edward’s stomach churn. Someone else was watching you, seeing what he saw. The idea was unbearable – sickening. They wouldn’t respect you like he would, they were monsters. It was as though someone had entered a confessional and stolen his absolution, twisting his holy act of devotion into something profane.

They don’t deserve you.

His vision blurs as a flood of possessiveness surges through him, dark and unrelenting. The sacred connection he has cultivated, the bond he believes fate has bestowed upon him, was being violated. This is wrong. This isn’t fair.

But then, a darker thought starts to take root. What if they hurt you?

His pulse quickens. Of course, that had to be it. He wasn’t the only one capable of hacking into a camera, but most people don’t do it for the same reasons he does. He wasn’t like them. He wasn’t some predator – he was different. He is different. He was meant to protect you, and he has finally been given his chance to.

“Yes.” His hands tighten into fists. “I’m protecting you. I’m going to.”

He repeats the words like a mantra, each syllable solidifying his resolve. This isn’t about jealousy – not entirely. It’s about your safety. If someone else was watching you, it is his duty to stop them. They don’t see you the way he does – they don’t understand how special you are. They won’t respect you, or your privacy. They won’t, they won’t, they won’t. Not like he did.

Edward’s anger crystallizes into a cold, calculating determination. He is going to find this intruder, and he will eliminate the threat.

Leaning back in his chair, he adjusts his glasses and stretches his neck. His fingers move with mechanical precision as he begins the hunt. IP logs, data packets, shared streams – Edward dissects them all, his mind working faster than it ever has before. Each clue brings him closer and closer to his target. The rage simmering beneath his skin makes it harder to think clearly. He pauses for a moment, running a hand through his hair. He huffs, hoping that he would release some of the steam. He needs to focus. This isn’t about rage; it was about justice. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, imagining your face as he had seen it earlier this evening. The calm the image brought him was fleeting, but it was enough.

Edward’s hands resume their work, the faint clicks of the keyboard punctuating the silence. Time is of the essence.

And Edward knows one thing with absolute certainty: by the end of the night, you would be his to guard – completely.

He knew he shouldn’t, but Edward was starting to look at this like a game. A game where he could prove to himself how devoted he was to you. A part of him felt the thrill of a challenge, the rush of problem-solving. But it was all muted beneath the weight of his purpose.

He wasn’t breaking into your computer for fun. This isn’t just another project – another puzzle to solve. It was for you.

“Almost there,” he mutters under his breath. He had spent hours piecing together fragments of your life in his journal, studying the details you had unknowingly offered him: the name of your childhood pet (gleamed from an old blog post), your favorite numbers (a recurring theme on your profiles), and the song lists you’d referenced in passing on your social media. Each clue led him closer, narrowing down the possibilities until he eventually found the key.

Edward is all smiles when he finally gains access. With a triumphant click, your computer’s desktop blinks into view on his screen. The modest, organized space is filled with folders and icons that felt distinctly, intimately you. His heart races as he leans closer, his glasses catching the light. He begins to hesitate. This was a threshold, a boundary he hasn’t yet crossed – though he’s gotten close before. But something always held him back, something he was feeling now. He told himself that this was for your own good, but deep down, he knew this was about making you his.

I’m not like them, he assures you in his head.

His fortitude hardens as he navigates through your system. It didn’t take him too long to find the exploit – a vulnerability that had allowed someone else to access your webcam feed. Edward’s lips press into a thin line as he disables it, erasing the traces of intrusion with ruthless efficiency.

There. No one else will see you now. Only me.

But… this isn’t enough. Edward needs more than just the satisfaction of locking others out. He needs to make sure he can always watch over you somehow. His fingers move swiftly as he sets up a secure backdoor, embedding himself into the heart of your system. The code he is writing is elegant, seamless—a private key that only he can use.

He pauses to stare at the lines of code on his screen. This was his signature, his mark upon your world. It was as if he was carving his name into the edges of your existence – claiming a piece of you for himself. And you would be protected because of it. The tension in his shoulders eases as a wave of pride washes over him. He did it – he protected you, just as he vowed to do.

Still, Edward wasn’t finished. His fingers start to move again, installing anti-malware software onto your system and setting up subtle security measures to keep your webcam undetected for good. He adjusts your settings so that no one—not even you—would notice anything out of the ordinary. When he’s done, Edward sits back to stare at the screen. The webcam feed is still there – still live – but now it feels different. It is not just a window into your life anymore; it is a fortress, a sanctuary that only he can enter.

You’re safe now.

There was something deific about you in this unguarded state. The flicker of your laptop screen against your skin, the way you rub your neck absentmindedly as you work – it all struck him with the force of revelation. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way – it wasn’t right to claim you, not like this. But wasn’t it inevitable? Wasn’t it fate that had drawn him to you? He had been chosen – guided by something greater than himself – to find you and watch over you. This world was undeserving of you, and he would make sure you knew your importance as much as he could. Even if you weren’t aware of his efforts.

Edward’s gaze lingers on the feed as he watches you type on your laptop, blissfully unaware of the lengths he has gone for you. And he knows in his heart, you would be proud of him if you knew. You’d thank him – maybe even kiss him. The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

He stayed there – watching you – for hours, eyes never leaving the screen. He barely moved; his breath shallow as he watched you go through your nightly schedule. The intensity of his focus was almost meditative, a sacred act that left no room for distraction. By the time you had turned off your laptop and left the room, Edward felt the strangest mixture of satisfaction and longing. The feed was dark now, but that didn’t matter much. He could still see you – still feel you in his mind’s eye.

Edward’s heart is still buzzing with the afterglow of victory – but now he couldn’t sleep. You had long since gone to bed, and nothing but darkness appears from your webcam feed. His glasses sit crooked on his face, pushed askew during the hours of relentless focus. He didn’t fix them like he usually would. Instead, his mind wanders, unraveling a thousand threads of thought that all began and ended with you. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how natural this all felt. Protecting you wasn’t just an impulse; it was his duty, his purpose.

His fingers drum lightly on the desk as ideas begin to take shape in his mind – the online world isn’t enough anymore. He had secured your digital existence, locked down your safety where others couldn’t reach, but what about the rest of your life? What about the people you interacted with every day, the places you went, the dangers you didn’t even see while walking through Gotham?

Edward sits up straighter in his chair, his gaze sharpening. He could just imagine how many people had lingered for too long at your counter. How their eyes looked over you as though they had the right to admire you. Maybe a coworker of yours would laugh a little too hard at your jokes, as though he could ever understand the complexity of your mind the way Edward did. It appalls him.

They don’t deserve to be near you.

It wasn’t just unbridled possessiveness, it was love – pure, selfless love. He is the only one who truly understands you, and he would go mad for you if he had to.

His imagination wanders further, unfurling visions of the ways he can guard you more closely. He pictures himself trailing behind you on your walk home, staying far enough away that you wouldn’t notice but close enough to intervene if some animal approached. He imagines slipping into the bookstore unnoticed, keeping an eye out if your coworker or a customer smiled at you, ready to step in if it ever went too far.

Edward’s breath quickens as the fantasies grow darker, more vivid. He imagines greedy hands snatching you into the shadows of grimy alleys, someone sneaking into your home. The thought has him clenching his teeth. But the anger melts into something softer and sweeter: the vision of him stepping in to save you. You’d look up at him with gratitude, maybe even love.

The rational part of his mind—the part that had once questioned the morality of his actions—was now silent. It was drowned out by the growing tide of his obsession. This wasn’t about morality anymore – it was about what was right. And what was right was ensuring was your safety. He could almost feel your presence as he closes his eyes, letting a shiver run through him. He can hear your sweet voice in the back of his mind. If protecting you meant crossing more lines, pushing further into the shadows, then so be it. He was going to do whatever it took.

Edward opens his eyes, his gaze fixed on the dark screen in front of him. His reflection stared back—calm, composed, and unwavering. He feels no doubt, no hesitation. The boundaries he once tiptoed around now vanished almost entirely.

Chapter Text

For a moment, Edward feels as though he is floating. He is suspended in a massive plane of darkness, unable to move. He doesn’t remember the last time his mind was so quiet, so peaceful. It was as if he was in a realm between time and space – until he finally opens his eyes.

He was in the bookstore – your bookstore – standing in front of two bookshelves. You were there, standing in between them, shelving books. The sight of you surrounds him with a warmth that emitted from where you stand, ethereal and glowing. You were something angelic, and yet undeniably human. Edward could feel the weight of your presence settle in his chest like a blessing. You were an impossible vision, a being neither entirely of earth nor heaven, a force that demanded worship and devotion. The shelves around you seem to bend toward you, as though bowing in reverence.

The room stretches upward, spiraling to an unseen paradise. The air feels thick, and his view of the world is heavy. The shelves move never-endingly; they were no longer neat rows of books but towering spirals getting sucked into a luminous void behind your figure.

His breath catches as you finally turn to look at him, a kind smile on your face. You approach him with the grace of someone who already knew his every thought, every longing—someone who had chosen him. Your steps are soundless on the polished floors, and he feels an impossible pull to be closer to you, as though his soul is tethered to yours. He can almost not feel the pain in his chest. A throbbing, pulsing hurt that recedes once you get close enough. Or maybe it was that the pain had consumed him enough that he grew numb to it. It doesn’t matter in the end, you’re here now. You are warm, kind, and comforting – a stark contrast to the strange, twisted cathedral around you.

Your hands are soft, the kind of touch that felt both maternal and intimate. You cup his face like you were cradling something precious. Your thumbs graze over his cheeks in a way that makes his eyes sting. He is too afraid of you disappearing if he blinks. Your face tilts, studying him like he has any worth. He is fragile and tender, so tender. Edward feels cherished – safe. His knees shake slightly under the weight of this moment, but he fights it. He should be on his knees before you, but he wanted to stay between the warmth of your hands. As he gazes up at you, he can’t help but tremble.

For a moment, there is only peace – a powerful, sacred peace.

A whimper escapes him as you apply pressure to his face, fingers digging into his skin. Your nails sting while you grip him tightly, the smile on your face unwavering. Your fingers press harder, squeezing so hard that his mouth falls open with a sharp cry. And just as the pain started to become overwhelming, your grip loosens.

One of your hands slides down, dragging your nails over the curve of his neck, down his chest, and it burns. Edward shudders under your touch, the sensation not entirely painful, not entirely comforting – just too much. He swallows hard. The heat of desire and shame tangle together in a painful knot.

Then, the words came. Soft, lilting, but slicing through him.

“You’re disgusting.”

The words – so cruel – come from a place where malice and sweetness are one and the same. Your smile, still welcoming and pleasant, belies the puncture of your statement. His confusion makes him dizzy. There is nothing that feels right about the words, nothing logical about them, and yet… they are the only thing that make sense. They are what he needs to hear. He flinches, his body responding involuntarily.

His heart hammers in his chest as you tilt his chin up, your thumb pressing into his skin in a way that makes him ache. He feels small and insignificant under your gaze. The hand that wasn’t on his face travels lower, palming and pressing against his groin with deliberate force. His mind screams at him to reject the sensation, but his body betrays him. He jerks, hips twitching into your palm – seeking more of that sinful pressure. He can’t breathe, can’t think as his chest heaves. The shame twists inside him as his eyes widen.

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice cracking as the smallest shift in your hold on him causes him to moan.

You lean in, your face hovering just inches from his. Your beath was warm on his trembling lips.

“Filthy, filthy thing,” you whisper, the words ghosting against his skin.

The bookstore around you both begins to collapse, the arches crumbling into darkness. The shelves twist, warp, bend in on themselves. The golden light dims to an abyssal void – yet you remain bathed in a holy light. He is consumed by you – by your presence, by your touch, by the haunting words. You hold him in place, your smile syrupy and mocking as you get closer to him. He reaches for you just as your lips brush his.

Edward wakes up with a strangled cry, drenched in sweat. He bolts upright, wide eyes attempting to make out anything in the darkness of his apartment. His heart pounds like a drum, and painfully. The sensation of your touch still scorches his skin as his mind races. He touches his face where your hands had been.

There is a purpose to that dream, he rationalizes, you’re calling to me – touching me beyond this plane of reality.

Edward sits at the edge of his bed, staring at the empty coffee mug on his desk. The remnants of the dream still cling to him like a phantom touch. He’s spent the better part of an hour replaying it in his head. The way your voice had curled around that single phrase – “You’re disgusting” – makes him shiver even now. He is repulsed by the fact his body seems to enjoy how you insulted him with such a loving tone.

He needs to get out of his apartment.

It was suffocating him now. It was logical to get out, wasn’t it? He has been cooped up here for too long, buried in the glow of his monitors and the labyrinth of code he’s been pouring over for weeks. Normal people went out to public places. They sat in cafes, walked in parks, and – yes – they read in bookstores. It wasn’t suspicious for him to do so. It wasn’t strange.

I need to take care of myself.

The thin veneer of his words failed to hide the truth he is unwilling to admit. His attention drifts to the books relevant to his research on his desk. And now, here he is, preparing to go back to the same bookstore under the flimsiest of excuses.

Edward stands and moves to his closet, fingers brushing over the very few neatly hung shirts as he tries to decide what to wear. It wasn’t like this was a date – it wasn’t – but he can’t help the flutter of nerves in his chest as he debates between the gray sweater that makes him look softer or the green button-up that matches his eyes.

He settles on the sweater. Soft was better. Non-threatening. Approachable.

Next comes his hair. He stands in front of the cracked mirror, meticulously combing it into place only to muss it up again. He runs his fingers through it over and over, muttering under his breath how it refused to cooperate. Finally, he gives up and leaves it as it is. He wipes his glasses clean on the corner of his sweater, holding them up to the light to check for smudges. He can’t help but picture you noticing them, leaning in close with a teasing smirk to point out a speck he’d missed. The thought makes his cheeks flush, and he shoves the glasses back onto his face almost frantically.

“Okay,” he whispers, taking a deep breath and facing his mirror again. He attempts at practicing a warm, friendly smile – but it seems too unnatural on his face. He raises a hand and waves, practicing what he’d do if he saw you. “Hello. How, how are you today?”

It was completely normal for me to rehearse like this. I’ve seen it in movies.

Doubt creeps in as he assures himself.

He sits back down on his mattress, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Was this really okay? As self-reproach gnaws at him, he replays the dream – your voice just as sharp and cutting as you call him disgusting.

Edward’s stomach churns. Maybe he is disgusting. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to block out the image of your kindhearted, smiling face from the dream. The image of your hands had roamed over him, one of them traveling lower and lower until—

“No,” he snaps, standing abruptly. He can’t let his mind go there; he can’t let his body failing him again before he stepped out the door. He doesn’t have time to touch himself – to relieve himself – again.

He paces the room, his steps uneven and hurried. He mutters to himself that it’s fine to go to your bookstore with no other reason than to just be there.

With a determined breath, he grabs his coat and slings it over his shoulders. He hesitates only once more at the door. His hand stills over the knob as your voice echoes in his mind again, soft and cruel all at once. “Filthy, filthy thing.”

His grip tightens, his knuckles whitening around the doorknob as he shoves the memory aside. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of your touch – the comfort he felt as you held his face in your hands.

Edward steps out into the deafening silence of the hallway, the door closing behind him with a resolute click. He tells himself that he isn’t walking toward you. He isn’t trying to chase the fleeting connection he felt in the dream. He is only going to read.

And that isn’t a lie. Not entirely.

Edward pauses in the doorway of the bookstore for a moment, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of paper. There were a decent amount of patrons this evening, the distant hum of conversation creating a low symphony of activity. Edward’s gaze sweeps the room until he catches sight of you. You stand behind the counter, your back to him as you help someone. Even from this distance, you are magnetic. Your presence commands his focus with the same intensity as the figure in his dream—

His heart beats so fast it feels like it might bruise his ribs. The dream! It was vivid and consuming, filling his chest with reverence, dread, and arousal.

“Just… sit,” he tells himself, forcing his legs to move away from you.

He wanders through the aisles, feigning interest in the messily arranged books but barely registers the titles. His sole focus was finding the perfect vantage point. At last, he finds it – a small table tucked into a corner with a direct line of sight to the counter.

He sinks into the chair with a small smile, placing the book he’d grabbed at random on the table in front of him. His fingers fidget with the edges of the pages. His eyes flick up to you every few seconds despite his best efforts to focus on the text.

Stop staring, he berates himself. You’re making it obvious.

But your pull is too strong. Each glance was a sin, a stolen moment of connection.

Edward’s mind begins to betray him as the dream bleeds into reality. In the dim bookstore light, your form seems to glow faintly. The edges of your silhouette blur and he blinks hard, trying to dispel the illusion.

“You’re disgusting.”

He whips his head to the right, a soft gasp on his lips. You were not there – nobody was. The words echo in his mind and his stomach twists. He snaps his attention back to his book, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on him. You didn’t say that. You wouldn’t – not to me..

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he feels your hands snake all over his body. He was starting to feel remorseful again, but it isn’t enough to make him leave.

Then it happens.

You turn, making eye contact with him almost immediately, as if you had felt his presence. For a moment, your eyes meet, and you smile. A smile that was merely a polite gesture to others, but to him, it was as inconsequential as it was devastating.

Edward’s heart hammers so loudly that he is certain you are able to hear it. His face flushes, and he quickly looks back down to read the words swimming before his eyes in a meaningless blur.

You saw me.

The thought reverberates in his mind, equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. He clings to the image of your smile. It is everything to him. A slow smile spreads across his face, eyes wild and glued to a single word on the page. “Passion.” It is almost fitting – actually, it is perfectly fitting.

The minutes tick by, stretching into an eternity as he sits there and sneaks glances when he thinks you won’t notice. He can’t stop – not even when each look feels like a delicious risk.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a darker thought begins to spread. This isn’t enough. Sitting here, watching you from afar. It is a poor substitute for what he truly wants. What he truly needs.

Edward swallows dryly, his hands gripping the book as his imagination runs wild. He pictures you looking at him the way you had in the dream – not with polite indifference. But with a look of intensity of someone who wanted him.

You’re touching yourself – or touching him, he can’t tell from the proximity – breathing heavily and looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Neither of you are wearing any clothes. He can feel your skin, but his mind refuses to conjure up what your body might look like even as he desperately tries to look down at you. You both moan, sweat covering both of your bodies in a sticky tangle of limbs. The fantasy spirals, painting an intense picture of you closing the distance between you. What he believes is your perfect, naked body on top of his – thighs caging his hips and grinding sensually as you throw your head back in pleasure. He's embarrassingly loud, sputtering and panting like a dog while you’re mewling softly and elegantly.

He grunts in frustration, trying to squint and make out your peaked nipples or how your heat rides his length in vain. His hands grab onto your hips to bring you impossibly closer to his stuttering hips – he was so close. You look down at him to smile sweetly. It softens into something fond as you lean down to whisper in his ear. He can almost feel your breath on him, hear the saccharine venom of your words—

“Stop it,” he says under his breath, shaking his head to dislodge the fantasy.

He needs to leave. He’s throbbing with a discomfort that borders on pain.

Edward stands, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushes it back. He grabs the book and returns it to the nearest shelf, his movements clumsy. As he makes his way to the door, he can’t resist stealing one last glance at you. You are busy again, helping yet another customer with the same warm grin that had shattered his composure moments before.

The bell chimes violently as he steps outside, the cold evening air hitting him like a splash of cold water. That’s what he needs – a cold shower. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his mind buzzing with visions of him and you. He was disgusting.

The water steams down Edward’s back in scalding rivulets, but it does little to wash away the lingering sensations of the day. His shower was supposed to be freezing – a penance to purge himself of the memory of your smile and the fantasy that followed. Yet, it hadn’t taken long for his resolve to crumble.

Edward had given in – his mind stuck on every detail of your fleeting glance at the bookstore, every imagined touch from the dream and fantasy. He’d cursed himself through gritted teeth even as his body betrayed him, chasing an unbearable high that left him slumped against the shower wall. He felt ashamed and hollow.

Steam fills the small bathroom, the heat now oppressive as his mind begins to clear. Edward slides down on the wet tiles, burying his face in his hands. The sound of water drowns out his sobs.

The words from his dream ricochet through him, cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. He winces, stomach feeling like it’s coiling at the memory – no longer making him feel aroused.

No, you’re wrong, he protests pathetically. I’m not disgusting. This isn’t disgusting.

He clings to the threadbare justification like a lifeline, dragging himself back to his feet as the water cools to a lukewarm drizzle. Edward shuts off the shower, the sudden silence amplifies the turmoil in his mind.

He dries himself and avoids his reflection in the mirror, unable to face the pale figure staring back at him. Instead, he focuses on his hands – hands that had sinned against you. The same hands that would someday cradle your face like you had done his. If only he could make you understand.

Back in his room, Edward plops down into the creaky chair at his desk. Like a robot, he searches for your computer. The webcam feed blinks at him, and there you are again. At the sight of you, he almost wants to cry once more. The smile from the bookstore lingers in his mind. His eyes drank in the soft curve of your lips, the way your hands moved as you organized something on your desk. The image of your hands from his fantasies resurfaces, making his heart ache.

“Thank you.” Edward wets his lips, his voice a dry whisper in the quiet room. “For bringing this angel into my life.”

He clasps his hands together, fingers interlocking tightly in prayer. He isn’t sure who he was thanking – a god he’d long since abandoned, fate, or perhaps the dream itself. All he knows is that he feels chosen, as though your existence is a message meant solely for him.

The fantasy builds again as he stares at you, unbidden and unstoppable. In his mind, he sees you smiling at him the way you had in the dream – soft and cruel all at once, yet impossibly kind.

Chapter Text

Driven by a new and unexpected mix of habit and anticipation, Edward finds himself under the droning hum lights of your bookstore. He’s claimed a spot here – a table with a clear view of you – one where your cash register is framed by two bookshelves. For its placement in Gotham, it’s charming. And, surprisingly, it’s clean. You always look happy to help, your face lighting up when someone walks over to you. But Edward knows how you really feel about working here, even without talking to you.

For example, your boss – Jerry – is a terrible boss; he’d seen you complain about him to your friends online. He’d make you uncomfortable, ask you to come in when it wasn’t necessary, and Edward so very close to doing something about it. Someone who would disrupt his sacred time with you was bound to meet a terrible fate – he’d make sure of it.

But, for now, he was fine with just watching over you from afar. He could still care for you from this distance – he could still learn about you from this distance. The book in his hands is just another front, just as it had been before.

Edward tries not to fall out of his seat when you walk over with a cart full of books to put away. Much to his dismay – and his quiet relief – you don’t notice him. He isn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, he would’ve been able to have your attention on him. On the other hand… he knew he would do or say something that would ruin whatever impression you have of him.

His skin prickles when you’re approached by a coworker, and he concentrates to pick up on your conversation. Your coworker – a man, roughly your age – is leaning a little too casually on a bookshelf near you. The grin plastered across his face makes Edward instantly decide that he loathes it.

Edward looks down at his book, overcome with emotion. His fingers brush over the page he isn’t even reading, his head tilting just enough to catch snippets of your conversation. His heart beats faster as your voice drifts over to him – familiar, musical.

“So, are you going to the festival this weekend?” the man asks. His tone is light, playful, but Edward hears the underlying intention in it. His hands clench into fists against the table.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” you reply cheerfully. “I’m meeting someone after work, and we’re heading there together.”

Edward freezes, his breathing suddenly becoming shallow. Someone? His stomach churns, bile rising in the back of his throat. He has memorized so many details about your life, piecing them together like an intricate mosaic, but this – this is new. He swallows hard, willing himself to keep listening.

“Nice.” He can hear your coworker’s interest in you depleting as he leans closer. “Like a date?”

You laugh softly, the sound a melody Edward has played on repeat in his mind during long nights alone. “Kind of, yeah.”

It’s a direct blow to the chest – his grip tightens on the edges of the table, and he barely registers the splinter digging into his palm.

A date? His mind races, searching for an explanation. In all the hours he’s spent watching you through your webcam, you’ve never mentioned anyone. No social media posts, no messages, no emails, no late-night phone calls he could overhear. The possibility of you being with someone else feels like a betrayal, though he knows it is irrational.

Who could it be? What could that person possibly offer you that I cannot?

The coworker’s voice pulls him back to the present. “Well, have fun. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Edward’s teeth grind together, but he honestly felt like he was drowning. The idea of this man – this smug, self-assured boy – or any other worthless being ever thinking about you made his blood boil. He – and whoever it is that you’re going to see – doesn’t deserve to speak to you, let alone share a festival with you.

Like a flame catching on dry tinder, his anger shifts into something more insidious. Whoever this “date” is, they can’t know you the way Edward does. They couldn’t have seen the quiet moments you share with yourself when you think no one is watching. They don’t know the way your brow furrows in concentration when you read, or the little sigh you make before falling asleep.

This person – whoever they are – is irrelevant. They are temporary. Edward can still have you.

The thought roots itself into his mind, a twisted kind of reassurance. He forces himself to calm down, to release the edge of the table. He was shaking, how mortifying.

You’re mine, he thinks, the words echoing

He continues to stare, unblinking, at the book before him as the conversation with the coworker ended. You disappear into the back of the store, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

In his mind, the fragments of your life he’s collected begin to shift and rearrange themselves. He imagines you at the festival, laughing and smiling, but this time – it isn’t some faceless stranger. It was with him – you’re with him. He pictures himself at your side, his hand brushing yours as you stroll through colorful booths. He’d buy you something – cotton candy, perhaps, or one of those little trinkets they sold at stalls. He pictures the way your eyes would light up when you looked at him, your eyes full of warmth. He imagines you pulling him close, your laugh filling the air as you teased him for being awkward.

You’d drag him through the featureless crowd, in search of somewhere private and quiet. Edward pleads for you to slow down, a big grin spreading across his face, making his already round cheeks appear fuller and redder. He towers over you; he knows he can stop and pull you to him. But he loves the look on your face when you glance at him over your shoulder – determined, excited. So, he would let you drag him behind a booth to wrap his arms around your body, to invite your tongue into his mouth. He would let you take him wherever your beautiful heart desired.

Edward’s chest tightens, the fantasy so vivid that he could practically taste you. But a dark cloud creeps over the bright sky in his mind, doubt seeping in.

What if you don’t want me? What if you only look at me the way you look at that coworker – like a stranger?

The thought is agonizing. He has to prove to you that he is more than a stranger – that he is someone you can trust, someone who understands you better than anyone else ever can.

As he sits there, lost in his thoughts, the anger and jealousy that burned in him earlier begins to fade, replacing with something colder. He isn’t just upset about the idea of you being with someone else – he is terrified of losing you before he ever truly had you.

Edward exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair. He can’t let that happen – he wouldn’t.

You deserve better than the faceless someone you are meeting. You deserve someone who can see you, truly see you, for everything you are.

And Edward? Edward deserves you.

It pains him that he can’t see you tonight. His chest ached, nausea had settled in his throat, and no matter how close his fan was – he was still a sweaty mess. He doesn’t even know if you went out because he couldn’t even bring himself to check. He felt terrible about not seeing you off, for not making sure you would be safe. But the thought of you dressing yourself up to be in someone else’s arms? He was almost to the point of gagging at the thought. It was almost nine, he was sure you would have already been out by now. Edward knows that if he checks your footage, he’d feel lonelier than he already does.

And yet, his finger hovers over the keyboard, trembling with anticipation.

For hours, he’s been staring at his monitor – at nothing. When he’d get tired of that, he would pace around, muttering half-formed reassurances to himself.

“You wouldn’t do that to me,” he’d whisper, his voice cracking. “You wouldn’t leave me for…”

The thought of your date burns like acid in his chest. He clenches his fists so tightly his nails leave crescents in his palms. He wipes the sweat pooling above his lip with a shaky fist. He shouldn’t look – he promised himself he wouldn’t check the webcam tonight. He wants to believe in you, to trust you, even if you didn’t know he was watching.

He drops into his chair with a frustrated groan, burying his face in his hands.

“I can’t do this.” His voice is barely audible, muffled by his palms. “I just…”

The temptation wins. It always does.

With a shaky breath, he presses the power button, and it feels like an eternity before the feed loads. The buffer symbol spins, mocking and taunting him. His breath comes in gasps as he leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of his desk. He can hear his own pulse in his ears, a frantic rhythm that seems to grow louder with every passing second.

And then—

There you are.

The feed stabilizes, and your apartment materializes before him. It’s quiet, calm – bathed in the warm, amber light of your lamp. His vision narrows, tunneling to focus on you, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

You’re there. You’re there.

His chest tightens, not with relief, but with something raw and unbearable – an overwhelming surge of emotions that threatens to tear him apart. You’re sitting on your couch, your legs tucked beneath you, a blanket draping over your lap. You’re reading, the soft glow of the lamping casting a halo of light around you.

Edward exhales, his breath trembling as it escapes his lips. The sound catches in his throat, almost a sob. His eyes sting, and he blinks rapidly to clear out his blurring vision.

I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t go. I knew you wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t leave me.

He’s still tense, though. Even now, as he watches you, his mind races with questions and doubts. His gaze flits over the screen, searching for any signs that someone else could be there – another coat hanging on your couch, an extra glass on the table, a shadow that doesn’t belong.

But there’s nothing. Just you.

For a long moment, he simply stares at the screen. He drinks in every detail of this scene, finding the beauty in it. A faint smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as something in the book amuses you, and he can’t help smiling back. Edward’s heart swells, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs. “You don’t even realize it, do you? How perfect you are?”

He imagines himself there with you, sitting on that couch. You’d be curled up against his side, your head resting on his shoulder. He’d hold you close, his fingers brushing against your soft skin. You’d laugh at something he said, and the sound would fill the room and chase away the silence that so often haunted him.

This is right. Everything about this scene is right.

Edward sits stiffly on a weathered park bench, his mind racing. As a failed attempt to clear his mind, he decided that a day spent out of his apartment would do him some good. But his fingers twitched, and he would check his watch every few seconds. He hadn’t checked in on you all day, and it was your day off. He should be at his desk, watching over you. But this was good for him – good for the both of you. People that loved each other needed breaks to refresh the relationship, he read that somewhere.

He tells himself that this is progress. Getting outside, breathing fresh air, and trying to disentangle himself from the growing knot of obsession in his mind. But even as he watches the distant chatter of families and the soft sway of trees, his thoughts circle back to you. Always to you.

He’s staring down at his shoes, the uneven laces, when something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. It’s the kind of movement that feels significant, like the universe aligning in some inexplicable way. Slowly – almost fearfully – Edward lifts his gaze.

And there you are.

You’re walking along the park’s winding path, walking with an ease to your movements that he’s never seen before. This isn’t the you from the bookstore, hunched over a register or pushing a cart of books. This is something new – untethered and radiant.

Edward’s breath catches in his throat as his mind struggles to reconcile the version of you he’s constructed with the tangible presence of you here – now, within his reach. His heart pounds violently, a drumbeat of disbelieving exhilaration.

Then – impossibly – you glance his way.

Your steps falter, and for a brief moment, your brow furrows in thought. You almost pass him before recognition sparks across your features. And then there is your glorious smile.

“Oh, hey,” you greet casually, stopping just four feet in front from him. “Edward, right? Thought I recognized you.”

The sound of your voice – directed at him, speaking his name – almost has him choking on the air struggling to fill his lungs. His stomach lurches, his carefully curated sense of control crumbling in an instant. You’re not supposed to see him, not like this. Not when he’s unprepared, vulnerable.

“Yeah,” he manages to stammer, his voice unsteady. “Uh, it’s me.” He forces a weak smile, his lips feeling like an alien on his face. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You smile lightly, closing the gap between you as you approach the bench.

“Small world, huh?” You fold your arms across your chest. “I’m just taking a walk on my day off. What about you? Just enjoying the abnormally good weather?”

Edward’s mind races, searching desperately for a response that won’t betray the storm inside him. You said that lightly – you made a joke – so, he should respond with the same tone.

“Yeah,” he says, but the word feels hollow and flat. “Trying to get out more. You know, clear my head.”

His hands twitch in his lap, and his blood runs cold. He forces them to stop and prays you don’t look down and notice the tent in his pants. For God’s sake, all you did was say my name.

You nod, your eyes scanning the park. Good - he has time to slowly cover his lap with his bag.

“It’s a nice day for it.” You sigh, looking back down at him. “I love this spot – feels like a little escape from the city.”

He clings to your words, filing them away as though they’re pieces of a puzzle he’s desperate to complete.

“Yeah,” he says again, cursing himself for the repetition. “It’s, uh, peaceful. Clean.”

There’s a pause, and Edward’s pulse quickens. He’s hyperaware of everything – the rustle of the leaves, the loud clash of traffic, the way the sun is hitting you. It’s overwhelming – a sensory overload that he both craves and dreads. Edward quickly thinks of anything that could ground his mind back down to earth and not how he wishes you would put your hands between his knees—

“So, how’s work been?” you ask, breaking the silence. “I’ve seen you at the bookstore a few times. Are you a big reader?”

He swallows hard, his throat dry. “Uh, yeah. I’ve been reading a lot lately. Keeps me busy.”

It’s a half-truth, but he’s not sure how to navigate this conversation without unraveling completely at your feet.

You smile again, and it’s almost too much for him to bear. “That’s great. Reading’s such a good escape, isn’t it? I’ve been looking for something fresh to read – something completely new for me.”

He’s about to respond, to offer a suggestion, when you glance at your phone and let out a small sigh.

“I should get going. Meeting a friend for lunch.”

The words knock the wind out of him. A friend. Of course. The rational part of him knows it’s nothing, but the darker corners on his mind churn with unease.

“Oh, right,” he says, forcing a tight smile. “Well, it was nice seeing you.”

“You too, Edward,” you say warmly. “Take care, okay?”

And then you’re walking way from him, your figure retreating down the path. Edward watches you go, a resonating ache spreading through his chest. The encounter was brief, fleeting, but it leaves an undeniable mark on him. You’ve crossed a boundary in his mind, stepping out of the realm of fantasy once again and becoming something else entirely.

As he sits there, the world blurs around him, Edward’s thoughts spiral. The thrill of hearing his name on your lips – and the physical evidence of its effects on his body – is tainted by the fear of what it means to be seen. He’s spent so long observing, cataloging, being overlooked, controlling the narrative in his head. This – you – are unpredictable.

And yet, there’s something almost divine about the moment. The sunlight had wrapped around you like something heavenly, and for an instant, Edward felt the weight of his devotion crystalize. It was as though God Himself has placed you in his path today – a reminder that Edward’s reverence isn’t misplaced. How silly of him to believe that it was for a second. You are the altar at which he worships, and this meeting – this chance – was another sign for him to wake up. Another sign that he should believe and be forever grateful for you and what you have blessed his life with – your presence, your existence.

He just hoped his jacket covered his erection on his walk back home.

Edward sat on the park bench long after you’d disappeared from view. His shoulders remained hunched, his hands gripping the strap of his bag. The word around him moved on – the sky bled crimson, dogs barked – but Edward remained motionless.

You’d said his name so normally – his name. You’d said it twice, hadn’t you? Each time, it had felt like a jolt of electricity through his veins, a confirmation of your acknowledgment.

Oh, hey, Edward. Thought I recognized you.

You recognized him, you’ve thought of him. The words were simple – ordinary – but to him, they were profound. You had noticed him. You had spoken to him. Even now, as his chest tightens at the memory, his pulse quickens as he lets the moment expand in his mind.

Edward’s grip on his bag tightens. He glances down, ashamed to realize that his physical reaction to your presence still hasn’t entirely subsided. He feels filthy for it, disgusted by his lack of control. But isn’t this proof of how deeply you affect him? How utterly and completely you have him in your grasp without even trying?

He draws an unsteady breath, forcing himself to stand. He can’t stay here forever. Not when there are things to do – plans to make. He needs to make sure you arrived home safely.

But even as he sits at his desk and prepares to tune into your feed, he’s back to doubting.

What did you really think of me?

Sure, you’d smiled and spoken kindly, but you were nice to everyone. That’s just who you are. What did he do to stand out? To make you see him as anything more than a customer or a fleeting acquaintance? He needs to do more – to be more.

Edward stares at the cluttered desk in front of him. His gaze lands on a photo he’d printed of you weeks ago, one that he’s taken from your webcam feed. He picks it up carefully and smiles at it – at you.

I’ll make you see me, he thinks to himself as he smooths a finger over your face. Not just as… this. But as someone you can trust. Someone who can make you happy.

He traces the edge of the photo with his thumb, his mind already racing with possibilities. What would it take? Flowers? Gifts? Or something simpler – something more intimate? He would offer to you whatever you would want. He thinks of the way your eyes softened when you spoke to him, the way you lingered for just a moment before saying goodbye.

The next time Edward stepped into the bookstore, his heart almost leaped out of his mouth. The bell above the door chimes, and you are standing behind the counter, sorting through a stack of books. You glance up, and your face lights up again.

“Oh, hey, Edward!” you greeted.

His chest swells with something close to pride as he hears his name on your lips again.

“Hi.” He tries to keep his voice steady. “Good, good to see you again.”

You laugh softly. “Twice in one week. Nice habit we got going here.”

He clings to your words, twisting them into something deeper. A habit – you want this to become a habit.

“So.” You lean closer against the counter. “Nice bumping into you at the park.”

“Yeah,” Edward replies, tucking his hands in his pockets. “It was… nice. Seeing you outside of here.”

You smile, nodding. “It’s good to change up routines, right?”

Edward hesitates, unsure of how to respond. He wants to say something clever and make you laugh or think of him later. But all he can succeed in is mumbling another, “Yeah.”

You don’t seem to mind. You continue chatting, asking him about his recent reads and sharing a few of your own – ones he already knew you were reading. Edward soaks in every word, every gesture, storing away the treasure you were handing to him.

And then, all too soon, the conversation was over. Another customer had approached the counter, and you’d turned your attention to them with that same kind smile. Edward lingered for a moment to watch you, before finally tearing himself away.

As the weeks passed, these encounters became more frequent. Edward was visiting the bookstore more often, always timing his visits to align with your shifts. Each interaction felt like a step closer to something. Hopefully – he prayed – he was getting closer to his goal of having you. But with every smile, every shared laugh, every unintended touch of your hand as you handed him a receipt, Edward can feel the lines between his fantasy and reality blur further. He needed to tread carefully.

He imagined a future where these moments weren’t fleeting, where he wasn’t just the stranger that you’d see but something more. Talking to you would be a casual thing, maybe you’d even reach the point where you’d both let a comfortable silence hang over when you’d be together. You’d be content with just his presence, just as he was with you. You’d hold his hands, pepper his face with kisses, tell him your every thought because you knew he would listen. He was here for you, if you’d have him. He wanted you to know that he saw you – for who you really were. That he could be someone who saw you as you could see him – fully, deeply, and irrevocably.

In the quiet of his apartment, Edward stares at the photos and notes he’s collected over the weeks. He’s traced your name on a piece of paper about a hundred times, his mind swirling with thoughts he can’t quite articulate.

Edward would do whatever it took to make you see his devotion to you. He only needed time.

Chapter Text

Last week, Edward had picked up on one of your most endearing habits. The moment you had brought a book home, you could hardly contain yourself – you dove straight into its pages. He loved watching you read – not just the expressions you made, or how you’d try the dialogue in your own voice. No, what captivated him most of all was the bothersome realization that you had to put your book down. He would watch your head tilt back in frustration, then reach for just about anything to mark the page. Why, he’d ask himself, don’t you of all people have a bookmark? But truthfully, he loved the improvisation. It was more than entertaining watching you rip part of an envelope, or fishing for a receipt in your pocket. And when nothing was within reach, Edward would join your hunt. He’d scan the edges of his screen for anything – anything at all – that might serve as your savior. All within the narrow window of his stolen view.

That was why he was practically skipping to your bookstore today. Edward had bought you a gift. Something small, really, but the second he laid his eyes on the intricately patterned bookmark (bonus points for having it in a favorite color of yours), it was imperative that he present it to you.

His whole body vibrates with elation, weaving through the crowds of bowed heads. Some dare to look up, their pitiful jealousy souring their expressions because how dare he find some light in the dreariest of cities. Oh, how miserable it must be to not have someone like you in life.

He berates himself, quickly stopping his clammy hand from fidgeting with the plastic that protected the polished metal. In this moment, some part of him really believes that he would be the one to offer this gift to you directly. His shoulders sink, his steps faltering. He is foolish enough to believe he can face you.

Can he really look you in the eye and offer you this token without trembling? He stops just a few blocks from the building.

Does he – in good conscience – believe that he wouldn’t be sick with fear at the implications of giving you gifts? He thought of himself as a very stupid man in that moment.

The wind scrapes against his face as he stands motionless outside the bookstore. The thought of handing it to you – watching your fingers brush his as you took it, hearing your voice wrap around a thank you – was intoxicating enough to tip him over. But fantasy was safe. Real life was brutal. It would strip hope raw and bled it out under fluorescents and security cameras. So, instead, Edward does what he knows he does best. He observed. Adapted. Became invisible.

A very stupid man – yes – but one who will find a way.

He didn’t exactly need to give it to you directly. No, no – of course not. That was madness. He had no business being that close to you. He could barely even breathe in your presence.

He watches the doors, or rather, the faint outline of himself reflected in their glass. All he had to do was place the bookmark near the register. Not on it, but just beside the tray where people left receipts or coupons. The register would be momentarily unattended at opening. You’d arrive shortfly after. You would see it. You always place a novel there when you are reading between customers. Edward’s legs carry him forward before his mind catches up.

The air inside feels feverish against his skin and faintly smells cleaner than usual. He keeps his head down, letting his eyes adjust. There is a customer near the horror section and your coworker – the one who always lingered too close to you – has his back turned to Edward. Edward avoids eye contact. His heart nearly ripping through his ribs, sweat prickling behind his ears.

Now.

He moves slowly, casually, up to the register, and thumbs through the flyer rack beside it. He slips his hand in his pocket, letting the bookmark slide into his palm. He pictures your fingers on it – touching it. It would brush your lips as you absentmindedly held it while reading, and his stomach twists violently with pleasure and shame. It would touch you before he could, he realizes.

Just the faintest sound of plastic can be heard; it had made contact.

Gently… gentl–

“Can I help you with something, man?” your coworker snaps, suspicious from the jump.

Edward jerks his hand back like something had burned it. He isn’t even sure if he still held the bookmark as he stumbles and swirls to face the magazine rack beside him.

“No, he mumbles. “Just browsing.”

The man says nothing. Edward feels eyes on him still. His face flushes a terrible, blotchy red.

He flips through a gardening magazine he doesn’t even register. Sweat gathers on his upper lip. A full-body shiver overtakes him; goosebumps rise in its wake.

You were here.

He doesn’t need to see you, He feels you. The air shifts charged and warm. Your scent wafts toward him, and his ears ring with the effort not to look. He wants so badly to drink you with these starving eyes of his.

His body betrays him anyway.

He angles himself just enough to catch a flash of your hair. But your voice, like a magnet, turns his head all the way just to glance over his shoulder. The sound of you greeting your coworker folds him in half inside. Edward watches as your mouth curves, and the part of him that has been burning in anxiety just seconds before throbs with something else entirely.

Your eyes flick to him – a second, maybe less. You give him that smile.

And of course, that prick had to notice it.

“Can I show you something in the back aisle?” he asks you, loud enough for Edward to just barely hear.

Something coils in his chest. He watches, helplessly, as you follow him.

Edward drifts too – just a good few seconds after – toward the adjacent aisle. Close enough to hear but hidden enough. He strains to listen.

“Hey,” your coworker’s voice drops. “I don’t want to freak you out, but… I never see that guy outside your shifts. Like… ever. I’m sure you’ve noticed, and I-I could say something—"

Edward’s throat tightens so hard he nearly chokes.

His vision swims, an angry red seeping into the corners. He was sure his mind was fracturing – here, now, in the middle of the store.

The idea of you looking at him with revulsion – of you agreeing – of you going to some flat-faced Gotham police officer with trembling hands and a photograph of his face. Your coworker’s skull against the pavement, again and again and again.

Your voice.

“That’s sweet of you, but I think you’re overthinking it.” Soft. Dismissive.

Edward’s stomach drops in disbelief.

You laugh a little, almost embarrassed. “He seems harmless.”

The coworker seems to hesitate. “Still. If he’s making you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable.” You sound almost firm now. Not annoyed, but… resolute. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

If anything else is being said, Edward can’t register it.

You defended him. You defended him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but they water anyway. A flush of ecstasy and confusion shoots through him. You can… you can understand him. You know he’s not like everyone else – that he’s not a threat. That he’s harmless, that he was—

Yours.

But—

No.

No, no, no. This isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right.

Because if your coworker had noticed how he lingered around you, that meant others could too. Maybe he’d point it out next time. His gift.

Oh God, the gift.

You’d find it. Your coworker would be right there.

”Didn’t I tell you?” he’d sneer, gesturing toward the bookmark. “Creepy little freak.”

And you… you would turn.

You would turn toward Edward with those eyes – those divine, hallowed, heaven-crafted eyes warped with fear. Revulsion.

The moment would stretch into something surreal, time crawling sluggishly. You’d stare at him; your hand clutched around the polished edge of the bookmark he chose so carefully.

Your face would contort, slowly – the muscles tightening, your lips parting in the shape of a scream he hadn’t even heard yet. And yet, he could already feel it tearing through his skull. His gift, meant as an offering, would fall from your hands and hit the floor with a clink that would echo in his ears forever. Your face – your beautiful, untouchable face – twisted in horror.

You’ve worked through this before, he reminds himself. Stop and breathe. Stop. Breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

And in the present, Edward is already halfway down the block. His feet move on instinct, his coat whipping around his legs as ge barrels through the crowd. He doesn’t care who stares, who he bumps into. His skin is crawling. The inside of his skull felt too hot. He was speedwalking like he could outrun the humiliation before it could catch up to him.

His legs burn, his vision blurring.

Edward doesn’t stop moving until the bookstore is miles behind him, and he is back in the dark stillness of his apartment. He is breathless and vibrating.

He slams the door and locks it three times.

His gift was supposed to make you smile. Instead, it might have destroyed him.

After drowning in his own thoughts, Edward peels himself away from his door. He makes it to the far corner, where he paces back and forth so furiously it makes his floorboards cry out. He’s crying – in waves, in jagged bursts of sound that catch his throat and sputter out. His hands won’t stop trembling. At one point, he grips the edge of his kitchen counter and almost wretches over the sink. He claws at his hair, arms trembling. His glasses hang crooked on the bridge of his nose.

He wraps his arms tightly around himself and whimpers softly, head dropping with the weight of self-hatred. He doesn’t think to take his coat off or his shoes. He just walks in uneven circles, his palms slapping the sides of his head one after the other. He stops short as his foot clips the wheel of his desk chair.

It sists waits innocently for him in front of his monitor. He knows that it’s still open to the window, still showing the last frozen frame of your apartment from when he’d checked earlier that morning. All he has to do is bring it to life – to bring your space to life. He stares at it. He sways on his feet. He’s spent hours in that chair watching you. Breathing to your rhythm; reading when you read, living when you lived.

Edward grips the back of it, jaw trembling.

It sails backward as he throws it violently across the room. It hits a wall with a dull smack and topples onto its side. One of the wheels must have cracked, but he doesn’t even flinch. He only stares at the darkened screen instead.

His hands twitch, as if heading toward the mouse, but he retreats. The proximity burns him more than the cries from his throat. Like his own desire is made of acid.

“No,” he weakly says aloud, shaking his head.

He can’t watch. Not tonight – you weren’t even home yet. Not after your coworker opened your mind to his behavior. You would find the gift, and you’d know. You’d hate it.

Don’t look at the computer.

Don’t check the time.

Don’t even touch the box.

The box.

Edward’s entire frame jolts violently at the reminder. His box of mementos hidden behind a second cardboard box, next to his mattress, and beneath stacks of useless tax papers. He itched to touch it. He wanted so desperately to lay everything out and just look.

His hands continue to claw at his scalp. He drags his fingers down his face, leaving hot smears of moisture down his neck. He can’t tell if it’s tears or sweat or both.

His body can’t hold the tremor anymore. His shoulders collapsed inward as he stumbled toward the mattress like he was drunk. He can’t even make it.

He tries to sit on the floor, only to end up collapsing instead. His knees hit the wood hard first. He clutches the hem of his coat, mouth open and gasping. His forehead drags forward until it bumps against the floor. He’s on his side, knees pulled in, fists jammed against his lips. His sobs go muffled in his palms.

The crying didn’t even sound like him anymore. It came out ugly and desperate – a choked keening. It mixed with the shaking apologies under his breath, over and over, to no one. His voice is thick with snot, the whole front of his face wet.

I just wanted to give you something, just something nice, I’m sorry.

He rocked back and forth, pressing his forehead into the cold floor. His ribs cramped with the force of the crying, his back heaving. It had never been this bad. It had never hurt like this.

He’d panicked before – sweating through shirts, shaken all night at the thought of you catching him on the feed. But this… this was something worse. He was mourning you – someone still alive and breathing. He wasn’t sure what he was weeping for – the possibility of his dying fantasy, or the punishment.

He hated himself.

He hated that he couldn’t just stop this, and his lack of control. That even now, even as he curled into a pile of his own tears and mucus, he wanted – needed – to see you.

He needed you at home. He needed you to be here and telling him it was okay. That he wasn’t a monster, and not as disgusting or useless as even he believed himself to be.

So, he stays, knees folded up to his chest, snot dripping from his nose. He doesn’t move even as his face is raw, and his voice is down to a rasp. Time to him became meaningless. Outside, the sounds of Gotham leak in – sirens, the low bass from a passing car, someone screaming a name in the street. The sky outside has long since blackened. The city hums through the walls, and Edward lies in the center of it all like a dying thing.

But, from the floor – barely able to lift his head – Edward’s eyes drag toward the blank screen. He can feel it calling to him, he really can. Like a hook, dragging through his ribs.

His palms slap the floor as he drags himself on all fours. Every breath comes out as pants, his knees scraping the floor. He doesn’t spare a glance toward his chair – he doesn’t deserve the luxury. His fingers scratch against the floor like he was trying to pull himself through a war zone. He knocks his knee against something hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t feel it.

He slaps a trembling hand against the keyboard until the light from his screen nearly blinds him. Sitting back on his legs, he types out the commands to your feed. His hair sticks to his forehead, and he quickly wipes away the drool escaping the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t know what he expects.

Maybe nothing. Maybe you hadn’t bothered to read tonight. Or maybe you were reading, just somewhere out of sight. He could view that as a mercy, or maybe it would kill him.

But when the feed boots up, every pixel seemed to move into place slowly. Pixelated black, then movement. Your movement.

Edward’s breath catches in his throat so fast it cuts off a noise that had started to crawl up from his chest. He jolts like he’s been shocked, his pupils flood with black, his lashes wet and clumped together. He crawls closer to the monitor, still on his knees.

You’ve changed into your sleep clothes – making you look soft and warm. Like you’ve been kissed by the golden light of your lamp. Then he sees it, tucked neatly seemingly a chapter away (which he assumes must be your reading goal for the night). It gleams in the yellow lighting – silver filigree, and the small silk ribbon trailing from its top.

Edward’s hand flies to his mouth and clamps over it as a sob yanks out of his chest. He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling, and he doesn’t think he ever could. He’s past knowing what his body is doing anymore. But the bookmark is there – and you’re using it. You’re using it.

His knees spread further on the on the hardwood as he gets as close to the monitor as he physically can. His eyes are wide and soaked, breathing so fast it could kill him. He pants against his own palm, and when his hand drops, it leaves behind a streak of spit and tears across his chin.

You shift a little to scratch your knee, and the book rustles. The bookmark slips out just slightly and you reach for it, your fingers pinching the top edge to tuck it back in.

He lets out a shuddering noise, his eyes flutter like it pains him to even see you. His fingers tremble as they press against the desk in an attempt to steady himself. His whole body has gone hot, not from shame, but from something so full of pressure and longing he feels like it might burst straight from his skin.

You touch it. You touched it. You held it. It touched you. You accepted it.

His chest swells with something far too big for one man to hold. He’s sobbing again, mouth hanging open like he’s never seen something so divine.

His hands move fast as his shaky fingers pull the zipper down to free himself. His cock is already half-hard and aching, but there’s nothing sweet or erotic in the way he handles it. It was purely compulsive – so clumsy. His eyes never leave the screen, and fresh tears slid down his cheeks.

He wraps his hand around himself with a broken noise in his throat. “Oh—God—”

The first stroke is so desperate it nearly hurts.

The monitor glows white-blue across his skin – illuminating every fragile, pitiful inch of him as he jerks himself with wet, frantic movements. His breath hitches so high it sounds like a whimper, and in all but name, it is. His pale belly trembles with every shaky breath.

He watches you intently, keening. You’re mouthing something to yourself, acting out like he’s seen you do a hundred times – and his hand starts to move faster. Each time your lips form new shapes he can’t hear, his hips buck. His body jerks in pitiful little thrusts against his own hand, a grotesque parody of connection.

“I’m sorry—” he chokes.

And he is – he is.

But your fingers brush the bookmark again, and his mouth trembles to let out a soft moan. His hand moves faster, frantic and ugly. He’d never done this – gotten himself off to your feed like you were some cam girl.

“I’m sorry—I’m so—sorry—” he sobs, the words hitching and falling from his mouth.

He catches his bottom lip in his teeth, like he’s scared someone might hear him. Not that it mattered, his mouth fell open again when he saw you playing with the ribbon.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean—I just wanted to—I just wanted you to touch it—I just—"

He weeps harder every second, but your skin just looked so soft. His body shudders, thighs trembling beneath him. You have no idea how close you are to being worshipped at this moment.

He tips forward, his free hand catching on the edge of the desk to brace himself. His body curls tighter, his knees pressing onto the floor hard enough to hurt. He watches the monitor like it’s the face of God – and in that moment, you are. Your very presence absolves and damns him at once.

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. Have mercy.

The sound of skin against his palm fills the room – a slick, fast rhythm accompanied by sniffling and the occasional whimpering of your name. He can feel it building in his stomach already – shameful. Edward moans when you almost reach the bookmarked page, shaking so badly he nearly topples over. He strokes harder, every muscle in his body working against him.

He doesn’t dare whisper your name now – not when he’s turned the sacred into something so vile. His ears are ringing from shame, and his knees burn from the floor. His chin trembles violently for the apologies he can’t even bring himself to make.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

It was miserable. It was like his body had purged it, right on his floor. Some of the warmth had hit his stomach and cooled in seconds. His body spasms as his hand keeps pumping long past the point of sensation, like he doesn’t know how to stop.

Edward feels just as hollow as he has been for the past few hours, if not worse. His hand drops limply from his lap. He looks down at himself, disgust curling in his gut. He stills with his seed cooling on his skin. He can’t breathe – not from exertion, but from how heavy the silence hangs over his desecration of you.

Edward doesn’t know how he can bring himself here after his atrocities the other night. The thought alone makes his gut twist. He shouldn’t be here, at his table with his view of you. He told himself that before he even got off the train, again when he climbs the steps to the street level, and a third time when he catches sight of the faded green awning across the street. It pained him, greatly, to be in your presence. If he could apologize without the embarrassment of explaining, he would. His face burns when he remembers the feel of his cock in his hand – how quickly he’d unraveled at just the sight of you using the gift he left behind. After what he’d done, and what he’d said – murmuring to himself like a deranged priest in a perverse confessional. After he came with his face lit by the glow of your lamp through his screen. He hadn’t even bothered to clean the mess off his floor until the morning sun had begun bleeding through his blinds, making the dried stickiness on his skin feel even more grotesque. He had wept again as he wiped it up.

But he had thought, If I can just see you again and not give in, then I’m not a monster.

Because he had restraint before, he had shown you and himself that – more or less.

So here he was, returning to his shrine. He had arrived with hand buried in his pockets, eyes downcast, like a coward’s pilgrimage.

That’s why he hadn’t heard you approaching.

“Hey, you,” you say.

Edward startles hard enough to drop his book, and he immediately hates himself for it. So weak. His mouth goes dry, his throat locks. He slowly raises his head, already feeling the heat crawl up his neck.

There you are standing beside him. Close enough that he can see the stitching on your name tag. Your eyes are as kind as usual. Pitying, maybe? Did you see him freeze? Did you know?

Your hands are empty, like you came here just to speak to him.

His breath goes shallow, his brain feels like it will melt at any second. You shouldn’t be here, and you shouldn’t be talking to him. This is a trap, it has to be. It’s a test, a punishment. You know. You have to know. Why else would you come up to him?

He wants to disappear; he wants to rewind time and never set foot here again. He wants to look at you forever.

“Hi?” He cringes as it comes out.

You just smile like you’re trying not to laugh, and that’s when he notices the bags under your eyes. We seem to be matching, he wants to say about how sleepless you both look, but he’s not sure it’ll make much sense.

“What’s gotten your attention today?” You tilt closer to inspect the book he was gripping tightly.

“Um, it’s not—I just picked it up—”

“‘Plants That Kill.’” Your eyes gleam with something as you peer up at him. He’d never been this close to you. “Hm. Who are you killing?”

You smelled like nothing he’d ever had the pleasure of smelling before. His head feels as though it would swell if he truly realized how close he was to you at this moment. He could see every detail, each one fueling his heart to stutter. Since when had you worn that flower pendant? The chain wrapped around your neck, the petals glinting faintly under the lights. Your brow twitches, and he realizes—

Edward begins to sputter out, his eyes widening. “Kill? No—no! I’m not—not killing anyone. No, I’m just—it—work research! I swear. It’s just for, just for work—”

Your laughter stops him immediately. You take a step back, needing to brace yourself on a book rack beside you.

“I’m sorry,” you exhale, laughter still lingering as you rest a hand over your heart. “The question was a joke, but I think I’m now complicit in something.”

“No! Never! I wouldn’t—” His snaps his jaw shut, letting you laugh and praying you didn’t catch on to what he was saying. “No, of course… I knew you were, uh, joking.”

He forces a chuckle for good measure.

“So, it’s for work?” you ask after your laughter dies down. “That sounds really interesting.”

“Yes. Work.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a forensic accountant.”

You blink.

Oh.

Edward realizes his mistake a second too late, and he hopes all the color didn’t drain from his face. That wasn’t his job’s research – it was his research. The other work, the real work.

He spits out the first lie he can think of. “Money laundering flower shop. Research for it. Money laundering… it’s what I do—uh, what look into.”

He tries to laugh again, but it comes out thin and strangled.

You smile anyway, mercifully, and his stomach knots at the way you tilt your head. It’s not condescending, and it’s not even confusion – just amusement. As if you were already used to his weirdness, and maybe a little fond of it.

“Well,” you say stepping back, “I guess I’ll steer clear of any flower shops with suspicious plants.”

He forces another laugh. “Yeah. Probably wise.”

You glance back toward the front desk, maybe to the pile of books you still need to work on. You let out a soft sigh. And then, you yawn. He sees the way you try to stifle it into the crook in your arm, how your eyes water just a little. Your shoulders curl inward, and his heart clenches. First the shadows under your eyes, now this?

“Rough night?” he asks, voice low and his brows knitting.

“Rough week, actually.” You give a soft laugh, rubbing a hand over your temple.

Something about the way you say it hits him directly in the chest; the honesty of it, the exhaustion. You’re always so patient with customers. You’re always smiling, always attentive. But you’re just a person, aren’t you? You get tired, you get overwhelmed. You come to work despite it all.

Just like me, he thinks, wildly.

“But,” you continue, waving a hand vaguely toward the scattered carts and stacks. “Still gotta keep going. Justice doesn’t take a day off, right?”

You laugh again, like you know it’s a silly thing to say. But to Edward – it sticks in his head like a knife in wood.

Justice doesn’t take a day off.

His breath catches in his throat. You hadn’t said it with any kind of seriousness. It was just meant to be tossed off, something people say when they’re running o caffeine and muscle memory. But it doesn’t feel like that to him.

To him, it feels pointed. It was something divine filtering through your mouth without you even realizing it. It was meant for him.

You begin to walk away, but you give one last comment over your shoulder.

“Anyway, let me know if you take down that flower shop. I’d like to read your expose – preferably before I accidently buy any deadly daisies.”

He can’t speak, only nod. A faint smile twitches on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

His body feels like it’s locked itself here, your words echoing through him with a strange kind of weight.

Justice doesn’t take a day off.

He came here to prove something to himself – that he could see you and not give in, watch you and not want your hands on him. But here he is, already unraveling from the smallest kindness.

And worse than that – he’s wasting time.

There’s work to do. Real work. He has names, faces, and systems to dismantle. He has messages to craft. The city still festers with filth and rot, and he’s been holed up in his apartment, mourning his own depravity like a fucking child.

What good is guilt if it only paralyzes?

What good is remorse if it doesn’t become something useful?

His leg begins to bounce, adrenaline kicking up behind his knees. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You believe in justice; he had heard it in your voice. Even if you didn’t act like someone like him, even if you think you were just being funny. You believe. That means something, it has to.

He needs to feel it again.

Not you – not your lamp-glow, your sighs, or the silver glint of that bookmark. He needs the mission. He needs the cold thrill of a new target, a new puzzle, a new thread to pull until it all comes crashing.

He presses the book shut, rising stiffly to his feet.

Edward blinks rapidly, swallowing the last of his cold cup of coffee. The blinds stay drawn, his lamp the only light. The pages bloom across the table like fungal growth. Scribbled notes on ledger paper, blueprints with no real scale. Headlines clippings. Threads connecting threads with slashes of green ink. Something ugly has begun to take its shape.

He circles a name, then a number, then a date. “False charitable write-offs,” he circles that too.

A page crumples.
Another gets pinned to a wall.
Red pen. Green pen. Circle. Arrows. Numbers.
He scrawls it across – big, messy, centered:

JUSTICE DOESN’T TAKE A DAY OFF

He maps a route through the building. He redraws it. The again, shorter this time – cleaner. He starts diagraming light fixtures.
A sticky note with “left elevator = slower”
A second note with “Janitor ID?”
A third with a doodle – an abstract bloom – petals shaped like razors.

He stops and stares at it. His hand trembles, his breath hitching.

He draws it again, this time a little neater. Silver pendant – exactly like the one on your throat.

He shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

Chapter Text

Edward tried not to squirm, even as he felt his legs start to numb uncomfortably. The dark oak pew had been one of those objects in his life burned into his subconscious, and showing up in dreams. The varnish was fresh, he could tell. The sweet toxicity sprung memory after memory of crawling under them. Even now he had the urge to poke his head under, and, if he was lucky, he would find carvings left behind. What would little Edward have left behind for him? He liked pretending he couldn’t remember every single one.

It had been years since he’d stepped foot into a church – especially this one. Not that he’d had any plans of visiting after he’d left the orphanage. He could do without the reminders of the sisters’ bony hands on his shoulders, or the reminder of…

He knew he was going to be doing better now. He had recently graduated, the barista had smiled at him, he had a decent job he was recommended for, and an apartment all to himself. The job and apartment were temporary things to get him closer to what he knows he’s destined for. Being here… choosing to come here was on principle. The church had marked his youth, and he had just concluded a big chapter of his life. It didn’t matter that his stomach twisted painfully or that it was traveling up his throat as he sat there. Edward was learning to face things. Edward had a plan, a plan that mattered.

So why couldn’t he look into the face of the man reaching for him with open arms? That’s what the gesture was for, wasn’t it? He’d seen others on campus beckoning friends into the warmth of their body. Never mind his crucified state – he had a friend in Jesus. He had a friend in Jesus. Edward had a friend in Jesus. Edward had a friend. He had a friend. He had a friend.

He needed to stop rocking back and forth.

Edward smiled, for he had gotten better at calming himself. Breathing helped a lot.

He thought back to the shiny smile from the man who handed him his coffee.