Music prompt ficlets!
Here's the second (third?) batch of music ficlets! It was interesting, writing different pairings and characters and trying to make them fit the songs.. I might try the challenge again later! Many, many thanks to mithen who helped me with the beta and with the actual sittind down to write process :)
For suavebastard and the song 'Viva la Vida' by Coldplay:
Title: The King is dead, long live the King
Rating: PG
Characters: Bruce/Harvey, mentions of Dick and Hush.
Word Count: 600+
Summary: Bruce makes a visit to an old friend after a long absence. Set in the future when Bruce comes back, random references to Tony Daniel's Batman title (I take your Harvey and substitute with my own!).
The room was completely austere. No sheets in the bed, no sharp edges. A basin, a toilet.
On the floor next to the bed, a leather bound volume of Crime and Punishment, the only personal touch in the cell.
With a nod, he dismissed the guard that had walked him in. The other man looked dubious for a moment, but for all the things that had happened in the last year, at least Hush's bad investments had bought Bruce some freedom inside the new Arkham. As the guard left, Bruce looked at the lock. It was nothing he couldn't work with.
A few minutes later he was inside the cell. He walked up to the bed and looked at his old friend.
He wondered if Harvey had realized he was gone, if he had bought Dick's Batman and Tommy's Bruce. Had Tommy ever come to see Harvey? He doubted it.
If he had, there was no way Harvey wouldn't have seen he was an impostor.
Bruce sat down on the bed, and Harvey's body curled around him, shifting to lie on his side. On his bad side. Two Face was partially hidden from view, and Bruce let a sad smile greet Harvey, who was just waking up.
"These drugs are better than I thought," Harvey said lowly, his voice thick with sleep. "It's been a while, stranger."
"It has, Harv. How's my favorite heartbreak doing?"
"You tell me. Are you real?"
"I am," Bruce said simply, still feeling a bit surprised himself. To be home, to have the world make sense. For a long time he thought it would never happen again.
"Then I'm doing great," Harvey said, sighing luxuriously. "That boy of yours. He doesn't know, does he?"
Bruce hummed. So many ways to interpret that question. "He doesn't know many things, I suppose."
"About you and me. He thought he could trick him into thinking that he was... you know. You."
Bruce reached out and stroked Harvey's hair, drinking in the sound of his voice. Harvey had so few good days, and even fewer now than before. Before when there had been more hope, for both of them. "What did you think?"
"He was okay. But... you're an old fox, angel. It's been a long time since he could get you like that."
Bruce's heart ached. He wanted so much to help Harvey. He had tried, he had tried everything. All he got out of it were a few good days. He tried to tell himself that a handful of hours were better than no Harvey at all. "What did he think?" He hated asking about Two Face. He hated Two Face. He loved Harvey. He too was a man broken in two.
"He wanted to believe your boy. It's never easy, to accept that someone we love is gone. So he believed him. It was easier that way."
"But you didn't want to believe...?"
"That you were okay?" Harvey smiled and reached out to take Bruce's hand from his hair, their fingers entwining. "You stopped coming. I could never believe that you were okay but had decided to stop." He tightened his hold on him. "You wouldn't stop."
Bruce nodded, then leaned forward, his lips brushing Harvey's temple. "Not while there's hope." He straightened up and smiled at Harvey, resolute. "And there's always hope."
"You should go."
Bruce nodded, feeling the change of timbre in Harvey's voice, the tension in his body. Two Face was close to the surface now. "Take care, Harv. I'll see you soon."
"Don't let the door hit you in your way out, fag," Two Face snarled.
He locked the door as he left.
For skund and the song 'Jigsaw falling into place' by Radiohead:
Title: Jigsaw falling into place
Rating: PG-15
Characters: Booster/Oracle, mentions of Rip
Word Count: 850+
Summary: Rip is a weird bastard. Anyway, Booster goes clubbing.
Michael looked at the neon light washing over the sidewalk. Rip had insisted he took the night off -whatever went through Rip's head was a mystery, and he was on Michael's case all the time, so it was not like he was going to refuse some time for himself- and he felt wound up. Too much had been happening lately.
Ted. Ted was -maybe- somewhere out there. Alive. Despite having run in into his zombie -he rubbed his forehead at the thought- he knew Ted had to be alive. He just hadn't contacted him for some reason. He was just... hiding. Who knew, maybe he was hiding from his own zombie, at this point Michael really could not make any of it make sense.
So. He was going to relax, have some drinks, meet a pretty girl, maybe, buy her a drink, talk with her about things that were not dead best friends who might be back to life or zombies or time travel or time masters. Just talk. A nice, normal conversation.
If he could remember how to have those.
"Are you going to stand there blocking the entrance all night, hotstuff?"
Booster turned, a smile and an apology ready on his lips, and then he saw the women behind him. Oh. "Ladies, you come here often?" He said, his smile feeling a bit tight. He didn't want to put up a show tonight, being the old dumb pretty Booster who would 'sell his best friend for a toothpaste commercial', to quote a former detractor -turned ally, turned friend, of all things-, but there was something about their familiar faces, about the knowing look in their eyes.
"Only when someone else is babysitting Gotham," Babs said, wheeling past him. "You?"
"This is my first time," Michael said, ushering Helena and Dinah in and walking behind them into the club.
"We'll try to be gentle, then," Dinah said, her voice quickly drowned by the loud music.
---
Later he wouldn't remember what they talked about, but it was funny, he was funny, and she laughed with him, a jubilant sound full of energy and life. The two other women had left for the dance floor at some point, but the table was covered in glasses of all sizes, many of them with ridiculous cocktail stirrers, all of them empty save for the ice. She touched his shoulder, her hair framing her face in a cute disarray of red curls, her green eyes sparkling as she talked and joked, and he leaned forward, straining to hear her voice, and she leaned sideways, falling into place under his arm. She was warm, the skin of her shoulder soft, her muscles well defined. She was strong, she was smart, she was funny -she was a Bat, a daughter of Gotham, she was dangerous, had he met anyone from that city that was not dangerous?- and she had a hand on his thigh, a cheshire grin on her lips.
Later he wouldn't remember who started the kiss, he wouldn't remember if anyone had seen them, wouldn't remember if they had paid for their tab. But he remembers the sound of her voice as she tells him her favorite position, he remembers the softness of her hair as it cascades around her shoulders, as he pulls it back to see her face, the deft touch of her hands, the light in her eyes.
In the morning he half expects her to be gone -he wakes up late and his head is pounding with an epic hungover- but she's laying next to him, her breasts pressing against his arm, one hand holding on to his shoulder. She wakes up with an epic hangover of her own, and she's a bit abrasive but he laughs at her barbed comments because he feels like shit as well and he expected her to be gone but she's here, and it fills him with a slowly spreading warmth to hear her laugh sheepishly and apologize for being catty.
He comes back out of the bathroom and she's made no attempt to get out of bed, and she says hotel rooms are just shitty places to shower when you're in a wheelchair, and he nods, staring at her as she props herself on one elbow, the sheets barely covering her, revealing her in careless folds of white cotton. He smiles, sitting beside her, touching her arm, and maybe they are still a bit drunk because she's laughing at his jokes, he's funny and she likes him, she smiles at him and she's pulling him closer, her lips on his, his hands on her hair, and when he looks back at this memory he will always smile.
Much later, when he holds his son on his arms, red curls framing his face under the yellow knit hat, he will wonder what would had happened if he hadn't met her that night, if that had been the window of opportunity that had led him to fall in love, and he will thank Rip for getting out of his way for once in his life.
For genclay and the song 'White gold' by Metric:
Title: A cat with a toy
Rating: PG
Characters: Superman, Catwoman
Word Count: 680+
Summary: Superman pays a visit to Gotham, not sure of what he's looking for. Set during Bruce's absence due to an acute case of time traveling.
She asked the piss-poor,
"Why you lookin' for that party in the sky?
It's just a movie about a movie too old to die."
"Catwoman," he called after her. She kept walking down the rooftop, ignoring him. What was it about Gotham's children that they would just not listen to him? "Selina. Please," he said softly.
"Don't call me that. I'm working, why does everyone think it's okay to use anything but the name I chose when I'm working? Do you think that makes us friends?" She finally turned around, her jaw set in annoyance, her hands on her hips. "What, Spitcurl? What do you want?"
Clark swallowed. He didn't really know what he wanted. He had been in Gotham because... well, just because. Because he could. These days, no one would kick him out of the city, no one would hound the city limits and that meant that anyone could be there. Gotham had been a beacon for danger, and now... it was only getting harder. It was the right thing to do, to give a friend a hand, and Dick was a friend. So. Here he was. Uninvited. Uninterrupted. Always welcome.
Always alone.
"I'm checking on you," he said, shrugging. And why not? Keeping tabs on the Cat, see if she was a good guy or a bad guy this week. Why not ask? "So... friend or foe, Catwoman?"
Behind her amber goggles, a perfect eyebrow raised. "What is this, do you want an ID? Or would you prefer a business card? 'Catwoman, Professional Thief'? or 'Catwoman, East End Vigilante'? All very clear and neat, so you don't have to worry your pretty little head. Which one do you like better, Superman?" When he didn't reply, she rolled her eyes. He couldn't help to smile. "What. Do. You. Want?"
"I was just in the neighborhood. I saw you, and I thought... I don't know. I just wanted to check on you. See how you were doing," he finished awkwardly. What was it about Gotham's children that they would always make him feel awkward?
"Is this some kind of guy thing? Are you peeing on me?"
Clark startled. "What?"
"Yeah, a guy thing. Marking things and people and places, like dogs," she said, stressing the last word with disdain. "'Here, this is mine', that kind of thing."
"What? How-- no, Catwoman, I am not--"
"Look, I told junior the same thing I'm going to tell you. Just because your male brain can sense his scent on me and you have somehow taken it upon yourselves to take over his turf doesn't mean I'm up for grabs. So. Don't try to pee on me."
Clark blinked once, twice. What--?
"Don't try to play the innocent here. Do you think I don't see what you're doing? Patrolling Gotham, looking over the little birds. Coming to check on me. What's next on your agenda tonight, play chess with Harvey? Have coffee with Gordon?" She took three steps and the sway of her hips made the uncoiled whip dance in the shadows. She smiled at him, like she suddenly found him amusing. A cat with a toy. "Flirt with me?"
"I-- no. No, Selina, I really have not come to-- mark you in any way. I only wanted to-- I don't know. I really don't know. But it was not that."
"Shame. You're rather cute when you're flustered, Spitcurl. I like you off-balance. Much nicer than your 'Mr. Truth and Justice' thing. Though... I suppose that has its charm." She was close now, a clawed finger grabbing the curl on his forehead and twisting it a bit. "I'm doing fine, Superman. If you ever feel the need to feel awkward and stutter your way out of a conversation, you know where you can find me." She let go of his hair and stood on her toes, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. "You're a good friend."
"Now go, boy. Go fetch something else before kitty scratches you, or anything to the same effect."
She stood her ground by the edge of the rooftop, waiting for him to leave -to leave her city, it was silently implied- before she jumped into the night, Gotham's night swallowing her shadow.
For damos and the song 'Cuervos' by Porter:
Title: Unknowable
Rating: G
Characters: Edward Nygma, mentions of Harley
Word Count: 510+
Summary: Eddie has too much time in his hands.
He's alone in his apartment. His office, he knows, will be equally deserted.
He sits down with old files and a glass of red wine. He's not much of a drinker -he values his mind too much for anything as self destructive as that- but he indulges with good cheese and good wine.
He doesn't indulge in much else, except with games. It's too simplistic to call them games, though, but life's not worth much when you take yourself too seriously. So he riddles, he plays games of language and reason. Why not? What is there in life that isn't ambiguous or senseless? At least, this way, he creates chaos out of order -questions out of certainties, confusion out of structures- and then he brings order back, gives solutions, discovers meaning. In the act of playing he becomes creator, the absolute owner of the truth, the bearer of secrets. He becomes the enigma itself.
He puts down his glass, now empty, and looks at the records of closed cases with a disinterested eye. People are riddles that can never be truly known, or at least, some of them are. Some have such basic needs, such basic lives, that they can live all their natural lifespan without ever surprising you. Or at least Eddie guesses as much. He doesn't have any interest in looking at them living their ordinary lives, waiting for them to restore his faith in the species.
But some people... some people are living riddles, creating chaos out of order and order out of chaos within themselves.
He pulls out a picture from the files. He knows he shouldn't have browsed this file, knows he shouldn't pick this photo up. He knows nothing can be achieved by staring at it. This creature is a daughter of chaos, following her path without sense or direction, and yet... he refuses to accept this, he knows somewhere, in all the madness, there's a pattern, an answer.
His apartment grows cold, and he hates the cold. He should get up, turn on the heat. Some questions have no answers, he tells himself. He tries to convince himself of the futility of trying to understand, of trying to procure a correct explanation of her being. He reels at the thought, the aftertaste of wine turning bitter in his mouth. It's not so much the unknown, which can be prodded and thought about, investigated and deduced, the excitement of the hunt in everyclue and every step. It's the unknowable, that which will never make sense, and yet, inevitably, he will face it again and again, unable to understand, bound to bow before it and its unexplainable allure.
He puts down her picture. The apartment is empty and cold, and he's bored -he should be bored, at least- and all that's left is trying to find the logic in his own actions, knowing full well that there is no logic to missing her, no logic to wanting her.
It annoys him to know the chaos that she wears, her unknowable dance, is the key to the mysteries of his own heart.
For suavebastard and the song 'Viva la Vida' by Coldplay:
Title: The King is dead, long live the King
Rating: PG
Characters: Bruce/Harvey, mentions of Dick and Hush.
Word Count: 600+
Summary: Bruce makes a visit to an old friend after a long absence. Set in the future when Bruce comes back, random references to Tony Daniel's Batman title (I take your Harvey and substitute with my own!).
The room was completely austere. No sheets in the bed, no sharp edges. A basin, a toilet.
On the floor next to the bed, a leather bound volume of Crime and Punishment, the only personal touch in the cell.
With a nod, he dismissed the guard that had walked him in. The other man looked dubious for a moment, but for all the things that had happened in the last year, at least Hush's bad investments had bought Bruce some freedom inside the new Arkham. As the guard left, Bruce looked at the lock. It was nothing he couldn't work with.
A few minutes later he was inside the cell. He walked up to the bed and looked at his old friend.
He wondered if Harvey had realized he was gone, if he had bought Dick's Batman and Tommy's Bruce. Had Tommy ever come to see Harvey? He doubted it.
If he had, there was no way Harvey wouldn't have seen he was an impostor.
Bruce sat down on the bed, and Harvey's body curled around him, shifting to lie on his side. On his bad side. Two Face was partially hidden from view, and Bruce let a sad smile greet Harvey, who was just waking up.
"These drugs are better than I thought," Harvey said lowly, his voice thick with sleep. "It's been a while, stranger."
"It has, Harv. How's my favorite heartbreak doing?"
"You tell me. Are you real?"
"I am," Bruce said simply, still feeling a bit surprised himself. To be home, to have the world make sense. For a long time he thought it would never happen again.
"Then I'm doing great," Harvey said, sighing luxuriously. "That boy of yours. He doesn't know, does he?"
Bruce hummed. So many ways to interpret that question. "He doesn't know many things, I suppose."
"About you and me. He thought he could trick him into thinking that he was... you know. You."
Bruce reached out and stroked Harvey's hair, drinking in the sound of his voice. Harvey had so few good days, and even fewer now than before. Before when there had been more hope, for both of them. "What did you think?"
"He was okay. But... you're an old fox, angel. It's been a long time since he could get you like that."
Bruce's heart ached. He wanted so much to help Harvey. He had tried, he had tried everything. All he got out of it were a few good days. He tried to tell himself that a handful of hours were better than no Harvey at all. "What did he think?" He hated asking about Two Face. He hated Two Face. He loved Harvey. He too was a man broken in two.
"He wanted to believe your boy. It's never easy, to accept that someone we love is gone. So he believed him. It was easier that way."
"But you didn't want to believe...?"
"That you were okay?" Harvey smiled and reached out to take Bruce's hand from his hair, their fingers entwining. "You stopped coming. I could never believe that you were okay but had decided to stop." He tightened his hold on him. "You wouldn't stop."
Bruce nodded, then leaned forward, his lips brushing Harvey's temple. "Not while there's hope." He straightened up and smiled at Harvey, resolute. "And there's always hope."
"You should go."
Bruce nodded, feeling the change of timbre in Harvey's voice, the tension in his body. Two Face was close to the surface now. "Take care, Harv. I'll see you soon."
"Don't let the door hit you in your way out, fag," Two Face snarled.
He locked the door as he left.
For skund and the song 'Jigsaw falling into place' by Radiohead:
Title: Jigsaw falling into place
Rating: PG-15
Characters: Booster/Oracle, mentions of Rip
Word Count: 850+
Summary: Rip is a weird bastard. Anyway, Booster goes clubbing.
Michael looked at the neon light washing over the sidewalk. Rip had insisted he took the night off -whatever went through Rip's head was a mystery, and he was on Michael's case all the time, so it was not like he was going to refuse some time for himself- and he felt wound up. Too much had been happening lately.
Ted. Ted was -maybe- somewhere out there. Alive. Despite having run in into his zombie -he rubbed his forehead at the thought- he knew Ted had to be alive. He just hadn't contacted him for some reason. He was just... hiding. Who knew, maybe he was hiding from his own zombie, at this point Michael really could not make any of it make sense.
So. He was going to relax, have some drinks, meet a pretty girl, maybe, buy her a drink, talk with her about things that were not dead best friends who might be back to life or zombies or time travel or time masters. Just talk. A nice, normal conversation.
If he could remember how to have those.
"Are you going to stand there blocking the entrance all night, hotstuff?"
Booster turned, a smile and an apology ready on his lips, and then he saw the women behind him. Oh. "Ladies, you come here often?" He said, his smile feeling a bit tight. He didn't want to put up a show tonight, being the old dumb pretty Booster who would 'sell his best friend for a toothpaste commercial', to quote a former detractor -turned ally, turned friend, of all things-, but there was something about their familiar faces, about the knowing look in their eyes.
"Only when someone else is babysitting Gotham," Babs said, wheeling past him. "You?"
"This is my first time," Michael said, ushering Helena and Dinah in and walking behind them into the club.
"We'll try to be gentle, then," Dinah said, her voice quickly drowned by the loud music.
---
Later he wouldn't remember what they talked about, but it was funny, he was funny, and she laughed with him, a jubilant sound full of energy and life. The two other women had left for the dance floor at some point, but the table was covered in glasses of all sizes, many of them with ridiculous cocktail stirrers, all of them empty save for the ice. She touched his shoulder, her hair framing her face in a cute disarray of red curls, her green eyes sparkling as she talked and joked, and he leaned forward, straining to hear her voice, and she leaned sideways, falling into place under his arm. She was warm, the skin of her shoulder soft, her muscles well defined. She was strong, she was smart, she was funny -she was a Bat, a daughter of Gotham, she was dangerous, had he met anyone from that city that was not dangerous?- and she had a hand on his thigh, a cheshire grin on her lips.
Later he wouldn't remember who started the kiss, he wouldn't remember if anyone had seen them, wouldn't remember if they had paid for their tab. But he remembers the sound of her voice as she tells him her favorite position, he remembers the softness of her hair as it cascades around her shoulders, as he pulls it back to see her face, the deft touch of her hands, the light in her eyes.
In the morning he half expects her to be gone -he wakes up late and his head is pounding with an epic hungover- but she's laying next to him, her breasts pressing against his arm, one hand holding on to his shoulder. She wakes up with an epic hangover of her own, and she's a bit abrasive but he laughs at her barbed comments because he feels like shit as well and he expected her to be gone but she's here, and it fills him with a slowly spreading warmth to hear her laugh sheepishly and apologize for being catty.
He comes back out of the bathroom and she's made no attempt to get out of bed, and she says hotel rooms are just shitty places to shower when you're in a wheelchair, and he nods, staring at her as she props herself on one elbow, the sheets barely covering her, revealing her in careless folds of white cotton. He smiles, sitting beside her, touching her arm, and maybe they are still a bit drunk because she's laughing at his jokes, he's funny and she likes him, she smiles at him and she's pulling him closer, her lips on his, his hands on her hair, and when he looks back at this memory he will always smile.
Much later, when he holds his son on his arms, red curls framing his face under the yellow knit hat, he will wonder what would had happened if he hadn't met her that night, if that had been the window of opportunity that had led him to fall in love, and he will thank Rip for getting out of his way for once in his life.
For genclay and the song 'White gold' by Metric:
Title: A cat with a toy
Rating: PG
Characters: Superman, Catwoman
Word Count: 680+
Summary: Superman pays a visit to Gotham, not sure of what he's looking for. Set during Bruce's absence due to an acute case of time traveling.
She asked the piss-poor,
"Why you lookin' for that party in the sky?
It's just a movie about a movie too old to die."
"Catwoman," he called after her. She kept walking down the rooftop, ignoring him. What was it about Gotham's children that they would just not listen to him? "Selina. Please," he said softly.
"Don't call me that. I'm working, why does everyone think it's okay to use anything but the name I chose when I'm working? Do you think that makes us friends?" She finally turned around, her jaw set in annoyance, her hands on her hips. "What, Spitcurl? What do you want?"
Clark swallowed. He didn't really know what he wanted. He had been in Gotham because... well, just because. Because he could. These days, no one would kick him out of the city, no one would hound the city limits and that meant that anyone could be there. Gotham had been a beacon for danger, and now... it was only getting harder. It was the right thing to do, to give a friend a hand, and Dick was a friend. So. Here he was. Uninvited. Uninterrupted. Always welcome.
Always alone.
"I'm checking on you," he said, shrugging. And why not? Keeping tabs on the Cat, see if she was a good guy or a bad guy this week. Why not ask? "So... friend or foe, Catwoman?"
Behind her amber goggles, a perfect eyebrow raised. "What is this, do you want an ID? Or would you prefer a business card? 'Catwoman, Professional Thief'? or 'Catwoman, East End Vigilante'? All very clear and neat, so you don't have to worry your pretty little head. Which one do you like better, Superman?" When he didn't reply, she rolled her eyes. He couldn't help to smile. "What. Do. You. Want?"
"I was just in the neighborhood. I saw you, and I thought... I don't know. I just wanted to check on you. See how you were doing," he finished awkwardly. What was it about Gotham's children that they would always make him feel awkward?
"Is this some kind of guy thing? Are you peeing on me?"
Clark startled. "What?"
"Yeah, a guy thing. Marking things and people and places, like dogs," she said, stressing the last word with disdain. "'Here, this is mine', that kind of thing."
"What? How-- no, Catwoman, I am not--"
"Look, I told junior the same thing I'm going to tell you. Just because your male brain can sense his scent on me and you have somehow taken it upon yourselves to take over his turf doesn't mean I'm up for grabs. So. Don't try to pee on me."
Clark blinked once, twice. What--?
"Don't try to play the innocent here. Do you think I don't see what you're doing? Patrolling Gotham, looking over the little birds. Coming to check on me. What's next on your agenda tonight, play chess with Harvey? Have coffee with Gordon?" She took three steps and the sway of her hips made the uncoiled whip dance in the shadows. She smiled at him, like she suddenly found him amusing. A cat with a toy. "Flirt with me?"
"I-- no. No, Selina, I really have not come to-- mark you in any way. I only wanted to-- I don't know. I really don't know. But it was not that."
"Shame. You're rather cute when you're flustered, Spitcurl. I like you off-balance. Much nicer than your 'Mr. Truth and Justice' thing. Though... I suppose that has its charm." She was close now, a clawed finger grabbing the curl on his forehead and twisting it a bit. "I'm doing fine, Superman. If you ever feel the need to feel awkward and stutter your way out of a conversation, you know where you can find me." She let go of his hair and stood on her toes, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. "You're a good friend."
"Now go, boy. Go fetch something else before kitty scratches you, or anything to the same effect."
She stood her ground by the edge of the rooftop, waiting for him to leave -to leave her city, it was silently implied- before she jumped into the night, Gotham's night swallowing her shadow.
For damos and the song 'Cuervos' by Porter:
Title: Unknowable
Rating: G
Characters: Edward Nygma, mentions of Harley
Word Count: 510+
Summary: Eddie has too much time in his hands.
He's alone in his apartment. His office, he knows, will be equally deserted.
He sits down with old files and a glass of red wine. He's not much of a drinker -he values his mind too much for anything as self destructive as that- but he indulges with good cheese and good wine.
He doesn't indulge in much else, except with games. It's too simplistic to call them games, though, but life's not worth much when you take yourself too seriously. So he riddles, he plays games of language and reason. Why not? What is there in life that isn't ambiguous or senseless? At least, this way, he creates chaos out of order -questions out of certainties, confusion out of structures- and then he brings order back, gives solutions, discovers meaning. In the act of playing he becomes creator, the absolute owner of the truth, the bearer of secrets. He becomes the enigma itself.
He puts down his glass, now empty, and looks at the records of closed cases with a disinterested eye. People are riddles that can never be truly known, or at least, some of them are. Some have such basic needs, such basic lives, that they can live all their natural lifespan without ever surprising you. Or at least Eddie guesses as much. He doesn't have any interest in looking at them living their ordinary lives, waiting for them to restore his faith in the species.
But some people... some people are living riddles, creating chaos out of order and order out of chaos within themselves.
He pulls out a picture from the files. He knows he shouldn't have browsed this file, knows he shouldn't pick this photo up. He knows nothing can be achieved by staring at it. This creature is a daughter of chaos, following her path without sense or direction, and yet... he refuses to accept this, he knows somewhere, in all the madness, there's a pattern, an answer.
His apartment grows cold, and he hates the cold. He should get up, turn on the heat. Some questions have no answers, he tells himself. He tries to convince himself of the futility of trying to understand, of trying to procure a correct explanation of her being. He reels at the thought, the aftertaste of wine turning bitter in his mouth. It's not so much the unknown, which can be prodded and thought about, investigated and deduced, the excitement of the hunt in everyclue and every step. It's the unknowable, that which will never make sense, and yet, inevitably, he will face it again and again, unable to understand, bound to bow before it and its unexplainable allure.
He puts down her picture. The apartment is empty and cold, and he's bored -he should be bored, at least- and all that's left is trying to find the logic in his own actions, knowing full well that there is no logic to missing her, no logic to wanting her.
It annoys him to know the chaos that she wears, her unknowable dance, is the key to the mysteries of his own heart.