#Nashton | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

adhdnursegoat · 16 days ago

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Episode 8

Word count: 6.8K

Content Warning: mild descriptions and discussions of sexual assault. I want to make clear here and now that Edward does not ever engage in SA in this story, but other characters may (never in graphic detail).

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

Thursday, January 24th, 2013

The next morning found Edward groaning as he rolled over in bed, a familiar ache settling deep in his neck. He felt the crick there, stubborn and sharp, a reminder of the hours he spent hunched over his desk, poring over his work. Despite his age, despite being in his prime—the youthful, strong age of 30—he had noticed the toll: the stiffness creeping up his spine, the subtle pressure building in his neck and shoulders. Maybe I do need to start taking breaks, he thought, reluctant as the idea was. He frowned, thinking of how Romy would likely have told him, “I told you so.” He had spent so long in his routine that he hardly knew what “rest” felt like, but now, he couldn’t ignore the persistent ache.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up, shifting his shoulders before giving his neck a slow roll. A satisfying pop echoed through the quiet room, easing some of the tension, and he sat there for a moment, letting the relief settle. Twisting, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meeting the floor. The wood was cold beneath his skin, a chill that bit just enough to remind him of the season. He had always liked the winter, found a strange comfort in the coolth of it, the way the air had a clarity, a bite that kept him sharp.

If he was being honest with himself, it was more than preference. It was just what he was used to. Memories tugged at the edges of his mind once more—the years he spent with his family, bundled in layers as the cold seeped into their apartment, their power cut off more times than he could count. The electricity bill had always been the last priority—his parents too poor, too careless, always managing to let things fall just out of reach, whether by accident or by sheer idiocy. Back then, he had learned how to build up a tolerance, how to sit through the biting cold of winter and the sweltering heat of summer with little complaint. It was a resilience born of necessity, a quiet survival skill that he barely thought about anymore.

But here he was, on a winter morning, feeling the familiar bite of the cold seep into his bones. This time, though, there was no resentment, no bitterness over the chill that greeted him. Instead, there was something unexpectedly comforting about it.

He lifted his gaze to the window above his desk, where soft snow flurries drifted down, silent and steady against the gray morning. From this angle, he could see out to the bay, the water choppy and dark, capped with thin ice at the edges. The view was striking, even to him—someone who rarely let himself pause long enough to appreciate such things.

His apartment was clean, minimalist to the point of sterility, each item in its place, each surface unadorned and bare. Nothing there held any warmth, no remnants of the past, no hints of sentimentality. His life, he realized, was like this space—carefully curated, almost devoid of personality, as if to remind him that he wasn’t meant to indulge in attachments or comforts. They complicated things, created unnecessary distractions.

He exhaled, the sound breaking the quiet, a mist of his own breath lingering faintly in the cool air of his room. Pushing himself up, he shuffled toward the bathroom, his bare feet padding across the cold wood floor. There was a heaviness to his thoughts that morning, a certain stillness in the quiet apartment that felt thicker than usual. He couldn’t quite shake it—the sensation of something unsettled, a small but growing awareness of the life he had built around him: precise, controlled, solitary.

Reaching the bathroom, he caught sight of his reflection and was struck by the faint lines beginning to form around his eyes, shadows of weariness etched into his face. He stared at himself for a moment, feeling an emptiness echo back at him from the silence surrounding him. This was it. The realization settled heavy and cold in his chest. This was why he kept himself busy, why he constantly occupied his mind, filling every quiet space with puzzles and calculations. It was a distraction, a way to keep the loneliness at bay, to avoid confronting the hollow stillness that sat at the edges of his life.

Edward soon stepped into the shower, turning the knob until the water hit him with a near-scalding heat. The sharp sting was comforting, and he let it burn against his skin, as if the intense warmth could somehow wash away the solitude that lingered beneath the surface, giving him a warm embrace he had so long lacked. But as he stood there, the steam rising around him, he became aware of the strange pattern that had emerged in his life—how everything he surrounded himself with was extreme. It was as though he was perpetually swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other, from searing heat to biting cold, from poverty to relative wealth, from isolation to… well, he was still isolated, wasn’t he?

He let the hot water run over his face and body, eyes closed, as he realized there had never been a middle ground for him. There was no balance, no calm, only these opposites he used to fill the spaces of his life. He lived within these small, intense comforts because they were all he had, all he had ever had.

Stepping out, he dried off with a towel that was as crisp and bare as the white walls of his apartment—blank and unadorned, devoid of any mark of who he was. No pictures on the walls, no memories captured in frames, no face to greet him on his phone’s background, no voice on the other end of a call to look forward to. There was no one to share his thoughts with, no one to even ask how his day was.

And that thought, more than anything, felt like a weight settling into his chest. He took a breath, forcing it down, trying to shake off the feeling as he wrapped himself in his towel and headed to the kitchen to start his coffee. As the machine gurgled, filling the space with the aroma of dark roast, he found a bitter comfort in the routine. This was why he worked so much, why he surrounded himself with tasks. It kept him from facing the reality that his life, for all its complexities and achievements, was an empty one.

He returned to his room to dress while the dark liquid brewed.

Edward Nashton didn’t need anyone—never had. It had always been him against the world, a carefully constructed solitude he had come to rely on. People were distractions, unnecessary variables in his life that only complicated things, that clouded his vision. He had always thrived on his own, depended on his own mind, his own abilities. There was a certain pride in that, a satisfaction in knowing he had kept himself self-contained, untethered by anyone else’s presence.

What about her…?

The thought slipped in uninvited, pulling Edward from his hard-earned sense of control as he made his way to the kitchen to pour himself a cup. With a scowl, he gripped his coffee mug tighter, his fingers digging into the ceramic as he glared at the blank, impersonal wall of his kitchen. The question lingered, taunting him. He didn’t need anyone—he’d made that abundantly clear to himself a thousand times over. But somehow, there Romy was, edging into his mind again, sidling into his stream of consciousness with maddening ease. It was infuriating, the way her face, her voice, the faint scent of her perfume seemed to haunt him, returning in stray, unexpected moments even when she wasn’t present.

Then, completely unbidden, his mind drifted to yesterday… to what he did to thoughts of her... The memory struck him, sharp and electric, leaving a dull, persistent hum in its wake. A stirring began in his pants, unwelcome and maddening, a betrayal of everything he told himself he was. Any other man might revel in the thought, indulging in a moment of foolish, self-serving fantasy. But Edward Nashton was not any other man. His teeth gritted, his jaw tightening as he sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, his expression hardening beneath his glasses.

We’re not doing this again today. His internal voice lashed like a whip, but the command felt weak against the memory that lingered, stubborn and unyielding. He’d addressed it—resolved it yesterday. He’d allowed himself that fleeting lapse in judgment, that indulgence, under the guise of catharsis. But now it was back, vivid and all-consuming, taunting him with its refusal to fade into the recesses of his mind.

If she found out what he did to thoughts of her… He’d die. Edward Nashton would rather die than let her discover the truth.

But the bitter chuckle that echoed in his thoughts felt like mockery. His memory, the one gift he’d always relied on, betrayed him now. It was as if it was laughing at his pathetic attempts to erase her.

Edward gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sharp sigh. The image persisted, dancing at the edge of his thoughts, taunting him with its vividness. And for the first time, he found himself hating the way his mind worked.

Because no matter how much he told himself to forget, he knew this would stay with him.

Forever…

The stirring in his pants intensified for the briefest moment before his disdain overtook it, the anger bubbling up to burn through the unwelcome heat. His lips curled into a sneer, more directed at himself than anything else.

Pathetic.

Edward exhaled sharply, the sound harsh in the quiet room, and adjusted his glasses with a deliberate motion. His hands flexed, clenching and unclenching as if to wring out the irritation coursing through him.

Let it go, he told himself again, though the words felt hollow, insubstantial against the vividness of the memory. He knew better than to dwell. He forced his focus to shift, his eyes narrowing at the off-white wall in front of him. Still, the thought remained, buried but alive, simmering beneath the surface of his mind—a constant, uncomfortable reminder of something he wished he could unsee.

And yet… he knew he wouldn’t forget.

Edward hated it. Hated how the idea of Romy, just the mere presence of her, slipped past his walls, threading itself into his routines, clouding his focus. She was an intruder in his solitude, a disruption he didn’t ask for and didn’t want. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he stared into his coffee, watching the steam rise, willing it to settle his thoughts. She was just another distraction, he insisted, another unnecessary complication in a life he’d already perfected without anyone else’s interference.

Yes, a distraction, with her stupid, pretty face and irritating self-confident indifference, and enchanting essence.

Edward needed to keep Romy at a distance. He needed to ensure the boundaries they had remained opaque and sturdy.

Today, he would make sure she knew her place in his life, knew her place in his world. She was a silly little girl. She really didn’t deserve his attention.

The entire walk to work was a mental exercise in convincing himself that her presence was nothing but an inconvenience. Each step brought a new reminder of the countless ways she had disrupted his life, how she had twisted his once orderly routines into a chaotic mess. How could one person cause so much disorder? he wondered, jaw clenched as he mentally tallied each offense.

She had brought him nothing but complications and distractions—her involvement with the case had likely ruined his chances with Loeb. If only he had handled the data alone without her meddling interference. Yes, this had to be her fault. And now, thanks to her presence, he had even found himself the target of more of Hartley’s crude remarks, lowering him to the level of common gossip, a situation he found downright humiliating.

As he marched up the precinct steps that Thursday morning, a cold resolve settled over him. This is exactly why I work better alone, he reminded himself. His best work, his most brilliant moments, had always come when there was no one to consider but himself—no other human factors to calculate, no voices other than his own to muddle the clarity of his thoughts. He had built a life of control and solitude, and her presence, her opinions, and especially her allure, were an intrusion on that carefully curated existence. He needed no reminders of how much simpler his work became when he was the only one he had to manage.

He threw his office door open, his irritation mounting as he found her already there—early, again—occupying his space like it was her own. It was as if she were completely oblivious to the disruption she caused, sitting there so casually, her presence infiltrating every part of his office. He could barely stomach the sight of his coat hung next to hers on the rack. The scent of her gentle perfume permeated the air, light and alluring, an irritating contrast to the musty calm he once found here. He clenched his teeth as he stepped inside, determined to ignore her.

But as he walked to his desk, Romy leaned back in her chair with that easy, effortless grace, her gaze tracking his every movement with that calm indifference she so coolly exuded. Then she greeted him, her voice smooth and lilting, like she was trying to disarm him.

“Good morning, Mr. Nashton, sir,” she lilted—as if he were Charlie and she his Angel.

Edward frowned.

How could she sit there so easily, as if she were perfectly at home in his office, in his presence, as though none of this was a disruption to her at all? It infuriated him that she was so comfortable here, so at ease, while he was left with nothing but the seething frustration of her intrusion.

Everything about her pissed him off.

And why are her mornings always good?!

Edward dropped his messenger bag to the floor, near tossing it from his hand before setting his coffee tumbler down with a hard clack. He didn’t return her sentiment. Instead, he sat down, his chair squeaking as he adjusted himself and turned his computer on. He didn’t look at her; he didn’t grace her with his attention. She would be blessed to have his acknowledgment. But she wasn’t that blessed.

He told himself he wasn’t going to indulge her with more attention than necessary. She was pretty, yes, but that was about it. Her looks, while perhaps captivating to others, did nothing for him. He told himself they were superficial, inconsequential, and her charm was little more than a facade. So, he remained silent all morning, focused on his work, determined to keep her in her place as an occasional assistant, nothing more.

When she invited him to lunch, he declined without a second thought, his tone clipped. And, in her time gone, she seemed to take the hint, returning from lunch without a word, settling back into her work without further interruptions. He would admit, if only to himself, that she was perceptive; she knew when to stay quiet, when to be unobtrusive.

Maybe she finally knows her place.

“Mr. Nashton, sir…?”

Or perhaps not. He felt the tension creep back into his jaw, a subtle irritation at her voice breaking his carefully built silence. “What?” he snapped.

“Did you talk to Commissioner Loeb yesterday?”

He kept typing, continuing his work in silence, until he finally uttered a tight “Yes.”

There was another pause, and then she pressed on. “Well?”

Edward’s eye twitched. “Well, what?”

“Well… what did he say?”

“He said he would look into it.”

“‘Look into it’?” she repeated, disbelief lacing her tone.

“Yes.”

“Like, what does that mean?”

He gritted his teeth. “‘Like’, it means what I said. He will look into it.”

“And you’re content with that answer?”

His fingers stilled on his keys, his gaze narrowing. Aren’t you? Finally, he glanced at her from the side, catching the determined set of her jaw as she turned in her seat to face him. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and he registered this in his periphery, but he didn’t focus on it. Instead, he tried to hold onto his waning patience.

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe you need to learn some patience.”

“Maybe,” she replied, unperturbed. “But maybe we deserve better. We’ve worked too hard. Built an undeniable case and—”

“We?” He scoffed. “Listen, princess, I won’t deny that you’ve provided some modicum of assistance in menial organization, but there is no ‘we.’” He gestured between the two of them, making his point clear. “‘We’ are not a thing, you stupid girl.”

“Okay—”

“What happened to being quiet?”

“I—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Uh-uh.”

“Sir—”

“Jesus Christ!” Edward gritted his teeth and slapped his hand on the desk. He looked her dead in the eyes. “Shut. Up.”

He took note that she didn’t seem startled by his demeanor or harsh treatment; however, she did quiet down. Silence finally filled the space between them, and he let out a sigh of relief he didn’t realize he was holding.

At last, he thought, some peace.

Edward really couldn’t wait for the end of the semester, and it was only the end of January... This was going to be a long, long semester.

“Mr. Nashton, I’m sorry, but I disagree with all of this. Something isn’t right… Like, I don’t know. I just don’t understand why the Commissioner didn’t accept the case as you presented it. It was airtight.”

His shoulders stiffened. Romy’s words rang in his ears, striking a nerve. “Something isn’t right.” The case was airtight. Every piece of data, every statistic, every trend was undeniable. He knew that—he had checked it himself—and somewhere deep down, he sensed her frustration was valid. But now he couldn’t help but feel like she was questioning him. Questioning his resolve to watch and wait.

He narrowed his gaze, a lick of anger flaring within him. “And who are you to question the situation?”

“Someone who knows what it’s like to have to prove oneself,” Romy snapped, meeting his narrowed gaze with her own.

A sly, calculating expression crossed Edward’s face as he considered her words. “Interesting choice of phrase…. When have you ever had to prove yourself worthy or right of anything?”

She frowned. “…You’ve seen my records.”

Oh. How could he have forgotten?

“Ah yes, those ‘records’ of yours. I’m glad you brought it up.” His mouth curled into a smirk. He turned in his chair, finally facing her with his full attention. “I’m honestly surprised it took us this long to breach your shady academic history.”

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation passing over her face. “Shady?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together on his abdomen. “Well, you can’t expect me not to be curious. I believe any respectable boss would… So tell me, did you cheat? Likely cheated all the way up until that point, and you finally got caught, yes?”

Something unreadable shaded her usually cool gaze. “...I didn’t cheat.”

Edward cocked a brow. “The records say otherwise. D to an A?” He tilted his head, his lips pulling to the side in amusement. “Couldn’t you have chosen something more humble like a B? Maybe then you wouldn’t have gotten caught.” He snapped his fingers, pointing at her with assurance. “That’s it… You got greedy, didn’t you?”

Her nostrils flared with the deep inhale she took. Her tone was calm, but he did not mistake the grit of her teeth and the subtle tightening of her lips and jaw. This was the widest range of emotions he had seen on her yet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“Don’t I?”

“I deserved that grade, asshole.”

“Don’t they all?” His smirk didn’t slip. “I don’t particularly care for cheaters or liars, girl.”

“Liar?” To his surprise, she raised her voice. “For your information, that teacher failed me even after he—” But her mouth snapped shut, and her nose scrunched up in disgust as if the words were sour. She clicked her tongue, blinked, and then relaxed her face into that cool, neutral expression, donning her mask with ease. “You know what? You wanna to know why I changed the grade? Look up case number: GC:08SA207. It will tell you all you need to know and then some.”

Taking him completely by surprise, she stood up suddenly, her chair rocking back, precariously close to tipping over. With more spice than he anticipated, she slammed her laptop shut and shoved it into her bag. Following close behind, and with more force than he had ever seen from her, she shoved that ridiculous fuzzy notebook, her coffee tumbler, and water bottle away.

His brows knitted together. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home.” She didn’t even cast him another glance when she turned on her heel and strode away, her boots clacking against the linoleum.

Edward narrowed his gaze, feeling quite perturbed by the attitude. He glanced at the clock: 12:47 PM. “You won’t get your hours.”

She tore her coat from the old wooden hanger, raking it and his coat to the floor in the process. “I don’t fucking care.”

As a final insult, she slammed the door on her way out.

Honestly, he was surprised by her out-of-character, volatile outburst. But this was the moment he had been waiting for. The moment she would break. The moment she would quit. He had known it was coming. All he needed to do was wait.

But Edward Nashton was not one to let someone have the last word, especially when it was something so disrespectful. He was fine being petty if it meant he won. So, he slammed his hands on the desk and shoved himself to a standing position, quickly making strides to follow her out, to give her a piece of his mind, to put her in her place, and to tell her to never come back. He yanked the door open.

But she was already too far away.

Heat simmered in Edward’s chest as he watched from a distance, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame of his office door. His gaze remained locked on Romy as she stormed out with quick, furious strides, the anger radiating off her in waves. Even in her irritation, there was a grace to the way she moved, each step assertive, her hips swaying just enough to draw the attention of the nearby officers. He frowned, feeling an odd prick of annoyance as a few of them straightened up, sharing amused glances and nudging one another with smirks.

Then, as if on cue, Officer Hartley stepped forward, the same charming, smarmy smile plastered on his face—one that Edward recognized. He narrowed his eyes, watching Hartley intercept Romy, his posture relaxed but his gaze predatory.

Edward’s fingers curled into fists against his tucked arms, the sharpness of his nails digging into his gloves as he watched the exchange unfold. He couldn’t hear the words being spoken, but her body language was clear. Her face was set in a hard line, an annoyed look in her half-lidded gaze as she responded to Hartley, clearly disinterested in whatever he was trying to say. She made a move to walk past him, but Hartley snapped his hand around her wrist to pull her back.

The sight of it—Hartley’s hand gripping her, forcing her to stumble—sent a surge of something volatile rushing through Edward, a dark, hot feeling that bubbled up before he could temper it. His teeth gritted, jaw clenching as he uncrossed his arms, taking a step forward with every intention of intervening and putting Hartley in his place.

Just because he was angry with Romy, irked, irritated, did not mean she deserved to be subjected to Jack Hartley’s idiocy. No one did.

But he stopped as he watched her jerk her hand away, the movement defiant, recoiling to clutch her appendage to her chest.

“Don’t touch me!” Her voice screeched through the bullpen, loud and clear enough for even Edward to hear. The tone was sharp, biting, and left no room for interpretation. She looked at Hartley with wide eyes, her teeth bared in a manner that almost made her look like a caged animal.

Is—is she scared…?

The precinct seemed to freeze, all eyes turning to her. Edward watched as a flush spread across her cheeks, and for a moment, he was taken aback. He had never seen her embarrassed before, never seen that hint of vulnerability in her expression. The sight unsettled him, a pang of unease twisting in his chest as he realized she was genuinely distressed. It was a side of her he hadn’t anticipated.

Maybe she isn’t as Teflon as she presents…

As if sensing his gaze, her eyes met Edward’s, glassy and raw in a way that felt like a punch to the solar plexus. For the briefest moment, she held his stare, and he grimaced, feeling something stir beneath his irritation. There was a shade of shame in her look, something unspoken but undeniably there, and he didn’t like the way it affected him, the tightness that crept into his chest at the sight of her discomfort.

Then, with a final, frustrated shake of her head, Romy turned back to Hartley, glaring with an intensity that Edward recognized as pure, unfiltered disgust. He watched, surprised but grudgingly impressed, as she held her ground, a flicker of admiration stirring within him as she made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t tolerate Hartley’s advances—in fact, she seemed repulsed by them—frightened by them even. She said something, gritting her teeth, jabbing her finger in the officer's chest.

When she shoved past Hartley, heading for the precinct doors with purposeful strides, Edward found himself rooted in place, stalled in the doorway.

The still-silent precinct seemed to crackle with her frustration, her form tense and radiating fury as she shoved through the doors, not sparing anyone a second glance.

Edward’s arms uncurled, the urge to chase after her fading as he watched her storm away. Whatever he’d meant to say, whatever swift reprimand he’d been ready to deliver to her, felt suddenly irrelevant. She had stood her ground with Edward, and only moments later, she had dealt with Hartley’s idiocy on her own terms, and that realization left him feeling… conflicted. His gaze lingered on the door long after it swung shut behind her, a slight tension still knotting in his chest as he replayed the scene in his mind.

He felt a strange pull as he processed what he had just witnessed. Romy, the pretty girl who garnered attention so effortlessly and spared none of it for anyone who didn’t seem to meet her standards. It was a power he’d expected, yes, but her application of it confused him.

On paper, it made so much sense: a meet-cute with a rugged cop, a bit of harmless flirtation, something both parties could laugh about later. But there had been none of that from her—no humor, no flicker of interest, just sheer, unrestrained frustration. She had turned Hartley down with a clarity and force that left no room for doubt, and somehow, the finality of it resonated with him, stirring something he couldn’t quite identify.

Still standing in the doorway to his office, it wasn’t long after she had left that he finally realized what she had said. The case number was stored in his working memory, and having remembered it, he converted it to short-term. Almost instantly, he computed the serial of digits and letters, knowing the code of Gotham City’s case nomenclature by heart.

GC:08SA207.

Gotham City 2008; SA case number 207. The 207th report that year.

SA.

Sexual Assault.

It was a long time before Edward moved, having sat with the information for a minute. He blinked, then his feet shifted, and he turned back to his office. He strode across the small room, stepping over the fallen coat rack. Soon, he was sitting and maneuvering his chair to face the monitor. His hands raised, pausing above the keyboard, thinking hard about his next actions. He wished he could say he was a more honest man—that he curbed the nosy urge to stimulate and satiate his curiosity.

But the mystery of it all, the mystery of Romy, the mystery of what had happened that had her breaking her so-curated contemporary, cool-girl demeanor in front of him, in front of the precinct, was all too much to bear.

After all, she did tell him it would answer his questions…

In a few clicks, Edward had the report pulled up, the case title standing stark on the screen: DOE, JANE vs. CORREN, JAMES, February 23rd, 2008. The words seared into his mind, and, much to his chagrin, he felt a growing sense of dread as he scrolled down, the details unraveling line by line. Very quickly, he realized he didn’t want to take it in, knew that with his memory, every word would be imprinted, unshakeable. But the need to understand—fully, truly understand—kept him reading.

The summary was clinical, blunt: James Corren, a tenured history teacher at Gotham Preparatory, was accused of coercion and sexual assault. Edward’s stomach churned as he read further. Jane Doe, a student, a senior at Gotham Prep, claimed Corren had assaulted her during a private AP practice session. The words were detached, almost cold, but he could see through them to the reality—the afternoon when the teacher had tried to use his power to back a young female student into a corner. Edward’s fingers tightened over the keyboard: Corren cornering her, leveraging his authority, pushing his advances when she couldn’t escape.

His pulse quickened as he skimmed further, his breath hitching when he reached the details that stopped him cold.

“Pinned to the desk.”“Forcefully undressed.”“Vaginal penetration.”“Digital insertion.”

“Penile insertion.”

The words infected his mind, leaving him feeling heavy and nauseated. Edward’s face contorted in disgust, his anger a raw, visceral thing. He pulled back from the monitor for a moment, jaw clenched, feeling the sickening weight of what the girl had endured.

Edward took a deep breath, forcing himself to continue. Against his better judgment and at the behest of his insatiable need to put the pieces together, he pulled up Romy’s juvenile record, matching the dates. And there it was—her arraignment just weeks after the incident. One month of juvenile detention for hacking and grade tampering. The entire last month of her junior year, a time meant for joy and celebration, was spent in juvie. The anger sharpened as he realized the timeline, the painful irony of it all.

She hadn’t hacked the school’s system out of arrogance or entitlement or because she was cheating.

She had been trying to take back control over a situation that had left her utterly powerless.

And then he saw it: a footnote at the bottom of her record, a casual line that most would skim over. Edward’s gaze hardened as he stared at the screen, the words “Evidence from a related case not permitted in court” sinking into him like a knife. That line—so dismissive, so coldly bureaucratic—hid the truth of what had been done to her. His fingers curled tightly on his keyboard as he absorbed the implications. The system had erased the context, taken her desperate act of survival, and twisted it into a simple “offense,” stripping away the pain, the desperation, the sheer injustice that had forced her hand.

It made his blood boil.

He flipped back to the case report, staring once more at the black-and-white text of DOE, JANE vs. CORREN, JAMES. As he read, a thought occurred to him: she had chosen anonymity, hadn’t she? She hadn’t wanted this part of her life to follow her, to haunt every future decision, every opportunity. She was already dealing with the one black mark in her life as it was. Jane Doe—it kept her hidden, allowed her to walk through the world without this hanging over her head. She had wanted to move forward, to keep this from defining her, to prevent people—people like him—from connecting this case to her if it were to come up.

Finally, he read the case conclusion, and something inside him snapped.

Ruled in favor of James Corren on grounds of lack of evidence.

Just her word against his. No definitive DNA proof had been found since it seemed she had reported it days later—days past the time any DNA would have been viable…

Edward felt the bile rise in his throat as he stared at those words, realizing what they meant, what they had cost her. The man who had hurt her, humiliated her, walked away without consequences because the “evidence” wasn’t enough. Just her word against a tenured teacher, her big truth drowned by the voice of a respected adult. He could picture it—the doubt, the way she must have been scrutinized, questioned, blamed, while Corren had left unscathed.

The injustice of it, the cruelty, knotted in his chest, and for a moment, Edward’s vision blurred with anger. The hacking, the grade change—it wasn’t just an act of rebellion; it was a lifeline, Romy’s way of clawing back some small piece of control in a world that had denied her justice. A bitter, helpless anger built inside him as he thought of it—the loneliness, the desperation she must have felt, trapped in a system that failed to protect her.

Edward leaned back in his chair, his hands motionless, the screen still glowing with the damning text. This wasn’t just about Corren, he realized. It was about every institution, every system that turned its back on her. The school system that ignored her, the courts that dismissed her, the system that took one look and chose to see a delinquent rather than a survivor. She had been reduced to a record in a file, a single mistake used to erase her humanity, to ignore the truth.

His chest tightened, a pressure building that he didn’t know how to release. This wasn’t something he could brush off, not now. The realization gnawed at him, a strange, hollow ache that he couldn’t just ignore. He’d always seen Romy as a nuisance, a spoiled, privileged brat who flaunted her looks and effortless charm, someone who breezed through life without much care for the real world. But that picture he’d formed of her, the shallow, one-dimensional judgment he’d held onto, crumbled as he stared at the damning words on the screen.

She was someone who had endured. Someone who had been betrayed by every system that should have protected her, forced to claw her way back from academic hell, to rebuild herself in a world that stripped her of any fair chance. Despite the injustice, the violation, the betrayal—somehow, she had kept going, kept fighting, kept reaching forward to a future that had once seemed inevitable. He realized, with a discomfort that sat heavy in his stomach, that her resilience was something he had never given her credit for.

Romy wasn’t just a pretty face in his office.

And she wasn’t a victim.

She was a survivor.

As Edward sat there, a dark, simmering anger twisted in his gut, churning with a depth he didn’t often allow himself to feel. This wasn’t the kind of anger that came from annoyance or frustration; it was deeper, sharper, almost painful. He could feel it settling into him, demanding that he confront it. He couldn’t just look away. Not from this, not from the truth of what she had gone through, of who she was. For once, his anger wasn’t a selfish response to a perceived slight. It was for her. For everything that had been stolen from her, for the scars she had to carry, for the path she had been forced to walk.

And then, unbidden, his recent conversation with her slipped to the forefront of his mind, like a mocking reminder of his own cruelty. He remembered his words—how he had accused her of cheating, mocked her need to “prove” herself in the face of Loeb’s dismissal, in the face of him dismissing her academic struggle as an act of entitlement.

But now, knowing the truth, his words felt like a slap in the face. She had been smart—honor roll, perfect marks, a near-flawless record before Corren destroyed it. She had built herself up from scratch, achieved everything with grit and intelligence, until that one fateful year. That failure, that stain on her record—it hadn’t been her fault. It wasn’t a reflection of her capabilities. It was a scar left by a system that ignored her, failed her, twisted her trauma into a simple narrative of delinquency.

She had been a smart kid, from a good family with her whole future ahead of her. And it hit him, how deeply unjust it all was. How Corren’s cruelty, his manipulation, had set off a chain reaction that left her struggling to prove herself to people like Edward—people who never bothered to see the person beneath the mistake, the real story behind the choices she had been forced to make.

He could feel the anger building, burning hotter now. It was a righteous anger, a rare thing for him to feel for someone, usually so wrapped up in his own ambitions, his own need to stay one step ahead. But now, this fury was laced with something else, something unfamiliar and uncomfortable, something that was triggered by Romy and Romy alone. She was always so cool, so easygoing, so funny, so smart, so resilient.

Edward exhaled sharply, the sound lost in the din of the precinct outside his door. His office was quiet, insulated from the chaotic hum of ringing phones and hurried footsteps, but the silence offered no solace. He dragged a hand through his hair, the motion rough and impatient, before leaning back in his chair. The frame creaked under his weight, a faint, deafening sound.

His neck craned back, gaze fixed on the cracked tiles of the drop ceiling. The sickly fluorescents buzzed above him. But Edward’s focus wasn’t on the room around him—it was on the storm in his mind, each thought louder, vivid, more insistent than the last.

What do I know about her?

The question looped in his head, a desperate attempt to impose order on the chaos of his thoughts. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair as he forced himself to catalog, analyze, understand.

She was young. The kind of youth that felt untouchable, invincible, alive. It irritated him, the ease with which she carried it, the sharp contrast to the weight he felt in his own years.

She was beautiful. Infuriatingly so. A kind of beauty that turned heads, that lingered in someone’s eye long after they’d looked away.

She was clever. Too clever. Quick-witted, sharp, always a step ahead in conversation. He hated how often she disarmed him, how often she made him falter in ways no one else had.

She had been a cheerleader. His research had uncovered this—it felt insignificant then. But now, it fit neatly into the mosaic of her. Confident. Agile. Poised.

She had gone to juvie. That initial information being the catalyst for why he had chosen her—and something now a jarring contrast to the polished veneer she presented. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more it clicked. There was an edge to her, a hardness beneath the surface that could only come from surviving something brutal.

She was in a sorority. Yet another piece of information uncovered in his late-night background check. Offsetting and emblematic of how effortlessly she embodied the roles she played. Student and sister.

She was a sexual assault survivor. The heaviest truth of all. It loomed over the rest, casting shadows on every other detail. It complicated everything—his thoughts, his feelings, his understanding of her. He didn’t want it to matter, but it did. It did.

Edward’s teeth clenched, his head tilting forward now, his gaze boring into the scratched surface of his desk. He couldn’t ignore the weight of these truths, the dissonance between what he thought he knew about her and the reality that had been thrust upon him.

And then the final, damning thought rose to the surface, unbidden and undeniable:

She was perfect.

His lips parted slightly, his breathing shallow as the thought settled, unwelcome and yet immovable. The contradictions, the flaws, the maddening complexity of her—they all added up to something he couldn’t ignore.

Despite all this, despite all this private information, despite this big picture he was piecing together today, why did he feel like he still had no idea who she was?

The precinct’s muffled noise outside seeped back into his awareness: a ringing phone, the clatter of an archaic typewriter one of the old crones insisted on using, the distant hum of voices. He closed his eyes briefly, willing the thoughts to fade, to dissolve into the cacophony outside his door.

But they didn’t.

Edward exhaled, his breath shaky, his pulse loud in his ears.

“Fuck.”

Ao3 link here!

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adhdnursegoat · 16 days ago

Text

Episode 7

Word count: 7.4K

Content Warning: depictions of violence and masturbation

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2024

The names blurred together on the screen, each one a grim reminder of Gotham’s rot, festering just beneath the surface. Edward scrolled through the database, his sharp eyes darting between columns of information: names, ages, employment histories, and last-known locations. The pattern wasn’t immediately clear, but patterns always revealed themselves to him eventually. They had to.

Marcus Kane.

Javier Moreno.

Luis Dominguez.

DeShawn Green.

Alan Park.

And so many more.

He clicked on Luis Dominguez’s file, his fingers moving with practiced precision. A grainy ID photo filled the screen, showing a man in his early 30s with tired eyes and a forced smile. He’d worked at a warehouse on Gotham’s south side, one of the dozens flagged in the database Romy had compiled last week. The same warehouse where his body had been found two weeks ago—another so-called “accident” in a growing list of suspicious deaths.

Edward’s hand hovered over the mouse as his jaw tightened, his mind racing to piece the puzzle together. Luis wasn’t the first victim connected to the flagged properties. He wouldn’t be the last. These weren’t random deaths, and they certainly weren’t accidents. The connections were there, buried beneath layers of falsified reports and sanitized records. Edward could see the edges of the web, even if the full picture hadn’t yet come into focus.

He clicked into another file: Marcus Kane, 45. The data painted a grimly familiar picture. Marcus had been undocumented, working under the table for a ghost company listed as a subsidiary of Janus Logistics. His death had been ruled a heart attack, but Edward wasn’t buying it. Not with the growing number of cases tied to Janus-owned properties.

A pattern was emerging, one that gnawed at Edward’s mind with infuriating subtlety. These men weren’t just unlucky—they were expendable. Tools discarded when they outlived their usefulness.

He narrowed his eyes, scrolling through more entries, the hum of the computer the only sound in the dimly lit room. His thoughts, however, kept circling back to Romy. Her meticulous attention to detail had been instrumental in compiling these files last week, her ability to sift through mountains of data both impressive and irritating. She’d flagged the initial anomalies, bringing the network into sharper focus.

Too sharp.

Edward frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. He hated admitting that her work had been flawless. It meant she’d seen what he had—the unspoken connections, the chilling efficiency behind the façade of disorder. Romy wasn’t blind to Gotham’s ugliness, and she’d been far too quick to grasp the scope of what they were uncovering. It wasn’t her intelligence that bothered him—it was how unbothered she seemed by it.

His gaze shifted back to the screen, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. This was his case to crack, his puzzle to solve. The work was what mattered, not her involvement, not the way her observations stayed with him longer than they should. And certainly not the way her presence felt, at times, like a disruption he couldn’t ignore.

He exhaled sharply, clicking into another file, the weight of the revelation settling over him. The victims weren’t just numbers. They were part of a system—one designed to exploit, to erase, to ensure that no one looked too closely.

His lip curled. “She’s good,” he muttered in private, the admission slipping out reluctantly.

Edward’s gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, to the empty chair beside him. Romy had claimed that space as her own these past few weeks, invading his world with her presence, her scent, and her maddeningly confident demeanor. Now, even with her gone, the space felt occupied. She lingered, somehow, in the corners of his mind, impossible to dislodge.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as the thought settled. His hand rose to adjust his glasses, the motion deliberate, as if physically realigning his focus. With a sigh, he turned idly in his chair, letting the motion ground him as his gaze drifted to the stack of reports beside him. His lips tightened over his teeth. All this paper. The precinct’s stubborn clinging to outdated media was laughable in a world now dominated by digital precision. He rolled his eyes, his fingers brushing over the stack as though the mere texture of the pages irritated him.

And then his gaze landed on a smaller stack, set apart from the rest. The files Romy had left him last Friday before she left.

He hesitated, his hand hovering above the neatly compiled documents. Finally, he picked them up, flipping idly through the pages. The irritation that had flickered in his chest a moment ago began to dissipate, replaced by something quieter.

Each page was pristine. The data was meticulously compiled, each figure, timestamp, and cross-reference organized with such precision that it felt as if the documents themselves were tailored specifically for him. As he scanned the contents, he realized it wasn’t just well-done; it was exactly how he would have structured it—his preferences mirrored almost perfectly.

A faint sense of admiration stirred in him, unexpected and unwelcome.

Romy had taken almost three times the amount of time it would have taken him to complete this task, of course. He’d noted that last week—her slower, more deliberate pace was impossible to ignore. Yet, the result spoke for itself. The work was impeccable, precise, and thorough.

His smirk faded as he continued to flip through the pages, his brow furrowing slightly. How had she known what he would need? He hadn’t told her how to do anything. He’d just let her work, waiting for her inevitable failure. But she hadn’t failed. She’d anticipated the exact structure he’d find most persuasive, most efficient. He leaned back in his chair, the papers resting lightly in his hands as he considered the question. It wasn’t just competence. It was understanding—an infuriatingly precise grasp of what he valued, what he demanded.

For a moment, Edward allowed himself to sit with the thought, the faint hum of his monitors filling the silence. His admiration, as reluctant as it was, settled somewhere beneath the irritation she so often inspired.

Edward had not met someone like Romy before. It was maddening, this ease with which she had woven herself into his routine, carrying herself with an aura that was part silk, part steel—a contemporary, unapologetic, confident woman who drew him in, even as it irritated him.

She was a vision of modern allure, the kind of woman who knew exactly what power she held and wielded it with precision. Her wardrobe was anything but subdued, each outfit making a statement, often subtle but always intentional: tailored blazers, preppy shirts, chic sweaters, edgy dresses, and skirts that left just enough to the imagination. And those heels… He was ashamed to admit he had spared her calves numerous glances, observing the supple tone of her muscles poised in that unnatural yet oh-so classically alluring way.

There was her hair, cascading down her shoulders in luscious curtains, catching the light and shifting like silk with each movement, sometimes swaying when she walked. It was always luxurious, shimmering under even the poorest of office lights, and he was annoyingly aware of how often he watched it fall over her shoulder, only for her to flick it or brush it back in a way that drew his attention to the delicate arch of her neck.

Her makeup was never the same twice. It always accentuated her features so well, highlighting the line of her cheekbones, the arch of her brow, or the sensual curve of her cupid’s bow, each detail meticulously crafted yet seemingly casual. Some days, it was a timely look—a hint of blush, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, lips painted in a deep red or berry tone that made her look both effortlessly powerful and unattainable. Other days, it was daring, glossy lips and colorful negative space liner or sparse rhinestones decorating her eyes that pushed the boundary of professionalism in a way he couldn’t bring himself to dislike.

And those nails—acrylic, polished to perfection, shaped like little ovals. (Or were they almonds?) Mint green, then nude last week. Part of him wondered what color she had this week. He couldn’t help but notice the way they glinted when she typed or traced them along the edges of a folder. His mind wandered in spite of himself, wondering how her nails would feel on his skin like she’d jokingly suggested weeks ago, wondering what those slender fingers would look like wrapped around his…

No. No. No… No.

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses, squeezing his eyes shut. Feeling an insidious twitch in his loins makes him take a slow steadying breath. Then he drug his hand down his face before letting his hand drop to his lap.

It was infuriating—but he couldn’t deny the effect she had.

He wanted to say it was just a physical attraction, mitigated by baser instincts, hormones like testosterone and estrogen infecting and influencing his mind.

But it wasn’t just the way she looked. Edward had expected that by now, Romy’s focus would have wavered, that maybe the allure of this “work-study” would wear off, leaving her bored and inattentive within the first week. Instead, she had surprised him with a silent, steady concentration that he was hesitant to say matched his own. When he explained something complex, her eyes were on him, keen and attentive, the barest nod to show she was following.

She was generally quiet when she worked, slipping effortlessly into that role—so much so that, despite her brashness, her crudeness at times, he found himself appreciating how well she actually listened when she wanted to, how easily she fell in line with his rhythm when the moment called for it.

Like a good girl, he mused, only catching himself a split second later with a grimace.

This combination of confidence and compliance, of inappropriate, well-timed quips, daring looks, and mindful attention, left Edward increasingly off-balance. Romy was a puzzle, a challenge he never expected to find in a young woman who looked and talked like her. He didn’t intimidate her, and every attempt to rattle her only seemed to draw that maddening, knowing smile to her lips—a smile that seemed to say, I see you, and I’m not backing down, sir…

Each Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Edward steeled himself for her presence, knowing that, despite himself, he was drawn in, captured by the quiet power she wielded so effortlessly. She was a force, he realized, a clever, stylish, glossy-nailed hurricane that had him, against all reason, anticipating the days they’d share the same tiny, musty workspace.

His gaze kept drifting to the empty wooden chair beside him, the one where Romy so often sat. He frowned. (He really needed to get her something more comfortable to work in.) She wasn’t there today—she had an exam, her first of the semester.

At some point, he realized he had forgotten to wish her luck. The thought unnerved him as soon as it surfaced. Why would I want to wish her luck? he thought. He shifted in his seat.

Edward Nashton had never been the type to wish anyone luck or to care about someone else’s success or failure. Normally, he found satisfaction in the inevitable stumbles of others—the way they faltered or fell short of expectations. He even relished it, especially in those who paraded their ambitions with the naïve confidence he so despised.

But with Romy, the thought struck a different chord.

He pictured her on graduation day: a vision of her in that cap and gown, her usual chic style distilled into a single pair of elegant heels and a dress hidden beneath the formless black robe. The idea tugged at him, bringing the faintest curve to his lips. He could practically see it—her triumphant smirk as she stepped across the stage to accept her degree, that self-assured stride carrying her forward. The image made something warm unfurl in his chest, something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

He let the thought settle, that rare lift of the corners of his lips lingering for a moment. Maybe he should have wished her luck. After all, if anyone deserved it, it was her. Romy wasn’t like the others—she was intriguing, somewhat capable, and, against all his instincts, she made him feel… appreciative, somehow, of her presence.

Him, of all people, appreciative of someone else’s existence? Pfft.

In the silence, his eyes drifted to her empty spot again.

Today, in her absence, he decided he’d talk to Loeb.

Romy had been working alongside him for almost three weeks now, mostly assisting with mundane tasks and one-off cases, but she had also contributed to the analysis, organization, and compilation of his off-the-books response time investigation. The weight of it had been building, accumulating with each line of data, each correlation they had carefully drawn out together. Now, with everything laid out in stark, undeniable detail, he felt the pull to present it, to finally confront the decay that had festered in the department for far too long.

This was it. He was prepared, and with the foundation Romy had helped him build, the case was ready. There would be no disputing the corruption, no brushing off the carefully orchestrated negligence—the systemic rot that had turned Gotham’s protectors into something dark, twisted, and morally bankrupt.

As he stacked the pages, lining them up in perfect order, he couldn’t ignore the small, nagging awareness that Romy wouldn’t be there to see it. His grip tightened on the folder as he strode out the door and through the bullpen, every step steady, his pace unwavering. He was thankful no one stopped him, no one blocked his path. For once, his focus was undisturbed.

He climbed the stairs to Loeb’s office with long, deliberate strides, his resolve sharpening with each step. When he reached the mezzanine, he didn’t hesitate, rapping his knuckles against the door with confidence.

The answer was gruff, the Commissioner’s voice muffled but clear: “Come in.”

Edward’s breath remained calm, his nerves steady. The weight of what he was about to do felt right, as if every calculation, every line of data he had poured over—with Romy, his mind added—had brought him to this moment. As he stepped inside, his eyes locked onto Loeb.

The old bulldog sat hunched behind his desk, oversized form crammed into a worn leather chair that groaned under the strain. He was tapping at his phone, his fingers jabbing at the screen with impatient irritation, as though whatever he was doing was a poor distraction from the real issues at hand. Only when Edward stood before the desk, thick folder held firmly in his hands, did Loeb finally look up. The Commissioner’s beady eyes narrowed, a heavy sigh escaping him as he set his phone aside, clearly displeased to be interrupted.

“What is it, Nashton?”

Undeterred by his impatient tone, Edward held his gaze, feeling the weight of the evidence pressing at his fingertips. “I have something you need to see, Commissioner,” he said, his voice steady and low, just on the edge of formality. He slid the folder onto the desk with precision, opening it to reveal the meticulously organized pages. “It’s about a pattern I’ve uncovered in the officer response times. Specifically, certain neighborhoods and particular types of cases.”

The Commissioner’s eyes flickered over the documents. Edward paused, expecting a response, and, after a moment, his lips twitched. He forced down a smirk. The old man didn’t seem to comprehend what he was saying, so he continued, even being so kind as to lower himself closer and point out the data specifically. His actions were more helpful and generous than he had ever been in his life as he tried to make Loeb understand.

“For the last two months, I’ve compiled evidence of consistent delays in high-priority responses—delays that can’t be attributed to chance. The same officers show up in these records, over and over, and the pattern isn’t random.” Edward’s voice sharpened as he gestured to the pages.

He had never been more sure of something in his life. There was a mystery here, and he was smart enough to have uncovered it. The Commissioner should have been patting him on the back by now, but Loeb’s features tightened the longer Edward spoke. Edward laid out the evidence methodically, pointing to the pages, the names—Edison, Curtis, Hartley, and Murphy—and each pattern of delayed response times, tied to specific neighborhoods and incidents. His tone remained steady, but as he continued, he noticed the commissioner’s irritation seething just below the surface—the slight clenching of Loeb’s jaw and the narrowing of his eyes.

“And what exactly are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything.” Edward’s gaze was unyielding as he straightened up from his position of helpfulness. “I’ve discovered facts and brought them to your attention. These officers are deliberately delaying their response times in specific areas, and the data points to a level of coordination that suggests they’re acting under instruction or incentive.”

“You’re throwing accusations around, Nashton.” Loeb’s gaze hardened, his eyes darting from the pages to Edward with an expression that bordered on contempt. “And you’re doing it with a lot of confidence.”

“‘Confidence?’” Edward’s voice remained cool, his posture unfaltering. “No, no. This is pronounced ‘evidence.’” He gestured towards the documents.

Loeb eyed the pages, and, after a moment, his lips pressed and pulled into a tight line. He flicked his beady eyes up to Edward and crossed his thick arms over his barrel chest, his uniform jacket pulling tight.

Edward rolled his eyes. “You can ignore it if you want, Commissioner. But I assure you, the numbers don’t lie.” Against his better judgment, he smirked—a tricky little thing that usually got him in trouble. “But people do…”

The words hit their mark, and he watched with satisfaction as Loeb’s face flushed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The Commissioner unfulred his arms pushed the folder away, slow and deliberate, his fingers clenching slightly on the arm of his chair as he leaned back, studying Edward with an unreadable expression. But Edward didn’t flinch. He knew the strength of what he’d brought, knew the hours poured into each line of data, each name flagged, each statistic meticulously cross-checked.

Then a strange smile curled on Loeb’s thin lips—an unsettling expression that never reached his beady brown eyes. It was the kind of smile Edward recognized, the practiced smile of someone who knew far more than he was letting on.

“I’ll look into it,” Loeb had said finally, his voice oily, almost too smooth.

“‘Look into it’?” Edward’s eyes had narrowed, a spark of frustration flaring in his chest. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tight as he spoke. “What else is there to look into? The work is done.” His voice had sharpened, no longer masking his irritation. “I’d say the evidence is damning as it is.”

Loeb’s smile hadn’t wavered, but there was an unmistakable edge in his gaze now, one that bordered on condescension. “Careful, Nashton…,” he drawled. “You’ve done your job. I’ll take it from here. Now, let the real investigators handle it.”

Edward had opened his mouth, then paused before snapping it shut, biting back the urge to press further, to demand action right then and there, to curse and degrade Loeb’s so-called “investigators.” But as he’d watched the Commissioner casually close the folder, his fingers curling over it as though he’d already dismissed it, Edward had felt a cold realization settle over him. This wasn’t news to Loeb. He could see it in the way the man avoided his gaze, in his dismissive tone, in that unsettling smile.

Without another word, Edward had nodded, maintaining a neutral expression as he stepped back, masking the frustration roiling inside him. He needed to be smart about this. Keep a level head. But as he’d exited the office, shutting the door harder than he’d intended, the weight of the Commissioner’s reaction had pressed heavily on his chest. He had done everything right, laid out the evidence, made the case impossible to dismiss, and yet…

He paused on the landing, staring out over the bullpen, the precinct buzzing with detectives, officers, clerks, and secretaries—each one absorbed in their tasks, oblivious to the poison rotting at the heart of their work. The sight grated at him, a reminder of just how deep the corruption ran, how many people were blissfully unaware of the filth surrounding them. Or worse—they were all filth.

This fucking place… he thought bitterly. It’s an institution built on lies. Liars, thieves, conmen, cheaters—the lot of them.

Long before he descended the stairs, his earlier calm had evaporated. Each step felt heavier, his anger simmering in his blood. He had come to the Commissioner’s office prepared, ready to stand his ground, expecting resistance but hoping that, at the very least, his work would be taken seriously. Instead, he’d been met with that unsettling smile, those dismissive words that stung more than he cared to admit.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, his fists clenched at his sides. His mind raced, cycling through his options. Loeb’s reaction wasn’t just resistance—it had been a warning, a reminder that he, Edward Nashton, was playing in a league where power wasn’t wielded through logic or facts. It was a game played in shadows, where truth was twisted, buried, and left to rot. And yet, he knew he couldn’t walk away from this. Not now. If anything, this only drove him further. He needed a moment to collect himself, to let the red-hot anger settle into something cold and calculating.

With a quiet exhale, he turned toward the break room, a quick, bitter laugh escaping him. Coffee, he thought. It was the last thing he wanted, but somehow the small act of going through the motions, of finding some semblance of normalcy in this mess, felt necessary. He couldn’t let himself spiral. Perhaps a minute to focus on something ordinary would be enough to anchor him, to bring him back from the brink.

The break room was quiet save for the hum of the coffee machine, filling the space with its gentle whirr. He poured a cup methodically, the simple routine almost grounding as he tried to corral his chaotic thoughts. Loeb’s reaction still gnawed at him, festering like a splinter under his skin. The Commissioner’s dismissive smile, the way he’d pushed the folder away without a second glance—it all felt too rehearsed, too controlled.

Something’s not right, Edward thought, his hands tightening around the mug as he leaned against the counter, scowling into the dark liquid. His mind roiled with a thousand plans and counterplans. Strategies bloomed and unfolded, each one bent on taking this fight further, on unearthing the depths of the rot festering within the department. He would let Loeb sit with the evidence, watch for any cracks in the Commissioner’s carefully constructed facade, see if the old man made a move. In the meantime, he would keep digging, keep collecting irrefutable data.

As he leaned against the counter, his mind crystallized around a single thought: I won’t give up. This was no longer about simply amassing evidence; it was a matter of principle now, a puzzle layered with intrigue, a challenge that demanded his skill, his intellect.

There was satisfaction in it, knowing that only he, Edward Nashton, had the insight and tenacity to solve it. Loeb might have tried to dismiss him, but that dismissal only sharpened his resolve, igniting his obsession to piece this mystery together. It was a test of wit, and his pride flared at the thought of proving himself capable—superior, even.

But as he considered the implications of success, a different satisfaction stirred in his chest, one less idealistic and far more self-assured. Not only was this a battle of principles, but it was also an opportunity to solidify his place here, to secure the respect he’d long been denied. If he could expose this corruption, bring the whole, rotten infrastructure to its knees, his career would be not just made—it would be legendary.

A smug satisfaction unfurled within him. The Cybercrime Division, a department once treated as an afterthought, would rise under his direction, shaped into something formidable. He could already envision it: with him at the helm, the division would have the resources, the personnel, and the tools to finally track, trace, and dismantle the criminal networks that infested Gotham. He wouldn’t just be a nameless cog in the GCPD; he’d be its backbone, its mind. People would respect him, perhaps even fear him, for his unrelenting pursuit of truth. He would be the one to cut through the shadows, and his name would carry weight far beyond the precinct walls.

And deeper still, beneath the principles and the professional aspirations, there was a flicker of something darker, a quiet thrill in knowing that he alone had the power to control the narrative. He would have his victory, his influence. The thought settled into a quiet confidence as he took another sip, feeling the weight of his decision settle firmly within him. His legacy would be set in stone.

And so would Romy’s…

The realization sparked a faint, barely noticeable smirk at the corner of his mouth. What would it mean for Romy, still a student, to play a role in a case of this magnitude? To report back on her capstone project and tell them she’d been instrumental in uncovering corruption within the Gotham City Police Department? It would be no small feat. A move like this would cement her place here, secure her future. She wouldn’t be a mere preceptee but a respected part of something larger. He could picture it—the way she would walk through the precinct, head held high, with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen beyond the surface, someone with purpose.

And he felt something strange and unexpected—a sliver of satisfaction, even pride, in the thought. Romy had proven herself worthy of the work, skilled beyond what he’d initially thought. She wasn’t at his level, of course, but good enough to surpass his lowest expectations and, perhaps, even more curiously, someone he was beginning to respect.

The sound of someone entering the breakroom tore him from his thoughts. He looked up and immediately frowned and looked back to his coffee, brows knitted.

Hartley.

The officer swaggered into the room, crony in tow, mid conversation. But the moment they saw him, they grew quiet, however they were undeterred.

He saddled up right next to Edward at the coffee maker and grabbed a cup. Beside him, Edward could see the way Hartley glanced at him, a smirk tugging at his lips. Then he looked back to pouring his cup.

“Naaashton,” Hartley drawled, the grin in his voice palpable. “You’re more doom and gloom today than normal…” He cocked a sandy brow and backed away, casually blowing on his pipping hot joe. “What’s wrong? Missin’ someone?” He settled back beside his partner.

“I’m not sure I want to entertain whatever you are talking about, Hartley.” Edward grimaced, not even sure why he was responding at all. The officer’s statement intrigued him, though.

“C’mon, your girl—the new one?” Hartley smirked, nudging his friend, his voice dripping with mock interest.

“My girl?” Edward cocked a brow, his lips twitching into a sneer.

“Yeah, the babe strolling to and from your dungeon,” the officer drawled. He looked at Edward over the rim of his mug, taking a languid sip before continuing. “Please tell me you’re fuckin’ her in there.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” With an almost incredulous look, Hartley set his mug beside him on the counter. “Nashton… She’s super, super fu—super fuckin’ hot, bro.” He gestured to his partner—Curtis Murphy. “He’s seen her. We all have. That tight little ass, mmm, fuck, I bet everything about her is tight.” Those greasy eyes slipped back to Edward, a challenge almost in his gaze. “Is it?”

Edward’s eye twitched.

“Also, does she spit or swallow? Murph wanted to know.” Hartley gestured to his partner with a casual toss of his head, to which Murphy only smirked and crossed his arms over his chest.

How crude. Vile.

A blaze of irritation ignited in Edward’s chest. He fought to keep his face neutral, barely lifting his eyes to acknowledge Hartley. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not,” he replied coolly, his voice even but with an edge that could cut glass.

“Sooo, she’s available, then?” Hartley smirked, his eyes glinting with that same crude confidence, as though he’d won some imaginary contest.

A dark wave of something rolled over Edward, something deeper and more visceral than he was used to—something he had not felt before. It made his grip tighten on his coffee.

Edward wrenched forward, the mug flying from his fingers and smashing into Hartley’s smug, unguarded face. The ceramic shattered against his nose, hot liquid splashing across his skin, searing it. Blood spurted, crimson against the pale breakroom tile, as Hartley recoiled, shock and pain twisting his features. But Edward didn’t stop there; he leaped at the man, his hands gripping his neck, feeling the resistance of muscle and sinew as he drove him to the floor. His shoes skidded against the tile, slipping before he found his balance, pouring his weight down onto Hartley’s trachea, feeling the pulse of his screaming carotids under his fingers slow, then weaken, until those greasy eyes, filled with cruelty, began to dull. There was something intoxicating about watching the smug light fade, about knowing it was at his hands, his doing. Beneath him, Hartley’s body kicked, scrabbling for purchase, desperate for air, clawing at Edward’s arms in a final, useless attempt at survival. His grip tightened, his lip curling in savage satisfaction as he bore down, watching as the vessels burst in Hartley’s scleras, muddling those blue eyes of his.

Then he blinked.

Officer Jack Hartley was still standing before him, unblemished, alive, leaning casually against the counter, his short but stout crony beside him snickering along with his crude jabs about Romy. Edward stared, feeling the blood drain from his face as the real world settled back in around him, the brutal fantasy fading but leaving a charged, dangerous energy coursing through him. His fingers were fisted around his coffee mug, and he was acutely aware of the tension in his arms and shoulders, the clenched muscles that had been ready to spring into action. The urge to throw the mug, to silence that smug look, was a raw, simmering instinct, something almost frightening in its intensity.

The thought of Hartley even thinking about Romy, let alone considering the possibility of approaching her, disgusted him in a way he couldn’t fully explain. It was the way Hartley’s words slipped so easily, so carelessly, as if Romy were just another conquest, just another prize for him to leer at and pick apart. It was the blatant disrespect, the dismissive way he talked about her as though she were an object, something shiny to be coveted.

Edward took a measured breath, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto Hartley’s gaze. “Someone who has the good taste and sense to work with me, Hartley, wouldn’t stoop to… lower standards,” he said, his voice dripping with cold disdain, every word pointed. He took a slow sip of his coffee, savoring the flash of annoyance that flickered across Hartley’s face.

“Hey, easy there, Nashton,” Hartley sneered, recovering quickly, his smile twisting into something uglier. “No need to get all possessive…”

He met Hartley’s gaze with an unflinching stare, his eyes icy and sharp, cutting through the officer’s smug confidence. “Possessiveness requires actual interest,” he drolled, his voice low and laced with contempt. “To which I have none.” Liar. He leaned in, his words clipped and direct as he narrowed his gaze. “No—what bothers me is the way you talk about people as if they’re here merely to stimulate that worn-out pleasure center of your puny brain. Not that I care, really. It’s just disconcerting to know you truly lack the executive functions to think with anything else but your dick.”

Hartley’s grin faltered, caught off guard by the blunt dismissal, but Edward didn’t linger long enough for him to respond. He kicked off the counter with a calm, deliberate stride, and as he passed the fuming officer and his dullard friend, he paused just long enough to let a cutting look settle between them. “So, go ahead, bro. Take your best shot.”

Without waiting for a response, Edward strode out of the breakroom, each step laced with the simmering anger he was barely keeping in check. But as soon as he was alone, the composure he had clung to in Hartley’s presence began to fracture. His brow furrowed, his jaw tight, and he picked up his pace, shoulders hunched with barely contained irritation as he stormed toward his office. The door swung open with more force than necessary, and he slammed it shut behind him, the sound stunted and sharp in the small space.

Inside, Edward sat, slumped in his chair, his gaze hard and unfocused, his mind still tangled in the aftermath of that encounter. Hartley’s words echoed relentlessly, the crude insinuations churning his thoughts with a bitterness he couldn’t seem to shake. Moron, he thought, his jaw clenching. Someone as mindless as him even thinking he had a chance with his student?

The thought alone felt like an insult.

But why?

Why was he so certain that Romy would turn someone like Hartley down?

When he examined it more closely, it almost seemed irrational—uncharacteristically emotional. After all, she was the type, wasn’t she? She was beautiful—effortlessly so. A former cheerleader. Sorority girl. Confident in ways he’d never been, with that easy demeanor of hers, and a social prowess that seemed second nature. Surely, he told himself, she’d been with someone like Hartley before. Hell, maybe she even belonged with someone like Hartley—someone who fit the part, who shared her seeming ease in the world. Someone easy to look at, easy to be with, and, more likely than not, someone who had never questioned his place in life.

The thought twisted his stomach in a way he didn’t understand. It grated against him, like sandpaper on raw skin. He’d always prided himself on his independence, on his unwillingness to conform or to care what people thought. But when he pictured Romy with someone like Hartley—a brute with no sense of subtlety, no spark of intellect, no intrigue beyond what he could bully or seize—it felt… cheap. Like she’d be wasting something; as if choosing someone like Hartley would somehow diminish the sharp wit and depth Edward had begun to glimpse in her.

And that, he realized with a pang, was what was eating at him. There was something in Romy that was different. Something he couldn’t name or fully understand but that he recognized, just beneath the surface, with every sly smile and barbed quip. She wasn’t what he had assumed, not another vapid pretty face that she presented herself to be.

Edward’s fingers stilled against the desk, and he inhaled, fighting to steady the unsettling rush within him. But his resolve wavered as his gaze drifted, almost instinctively, to the workspace she had set up beside his own.

The space felt strangely alive, as if it still held her presence, each detail carrying an imprint of her—the faint scent of her enticing perfume, the memory of her acrylic nails tapping against the keyboard, a sound he had come to find oddly comforting. In his mind, he could almost see the subtle arch of her spine leading up to that delicate curve of her neck. And there it was again: that teasing smirk that seemed to hover on her lips, one he had come to anticipate.

A smirk tugged at his own lips, and his gaze softened, his body losing some of the tension it had held only moments before. If he was honest with himself—something he rarely allowed in matters of this nature—there was a part of him that could, reluctantly, agree with Officer Hartley on one thing: Romy was, indeed, gorgeous. Beautiful in a way that was more than superficial, more than just a passing attraction. From the very first moment he’d seen her, he knew there was something about her that demanded attention, that drew his gaze with a power he couldn’t ignore. And in the privacy of his thoughts, he allowed himself to study the memory of her, her details vivid in his mind’s eye.

Her silken hair, the way it fell in such deliberate elegance around her face, and her alluring lips that he’d noticed moved with practiced charm, always careful, always in control. His mind traced over her—the shapely swell of her chest, her torso dipping into curving hips that seemed almost grippable. His breath caught, lingering on the image, following the memory of her form down to her thighs and calves. He had spent more than a few moments catching himself watching her cross her legs with that easy elegance, the subtle rise of her skirt when she shifted.

Then, Edward realized, with a pang of something between shame and excitement, that he had thought about the details of her existence more than he cared to admit. There was something fascinating in the way she carried herself… it was as if she were caught in a perfect balance between poised elegance and calculated seduction. She was fully aware of the effect she had, that much was clear, yet there was a restraint in the way she wielded it—enough to spark intrigue, but always keeping her allure just out of reach. It was maddening. That understated power she held, the way she navigated through spaces with that cool demeanor, the confidence that lingered around her like a cloud—it stirred something within him he was almost embarrassed to acknowledge.

But what was most confounding, what gnawed at him as he tried to dissect it, was that indifference. That fronted, artfully worn disinterest, as if she was completely unbothered by the world’s attention. But he wasn’t fooled, not entirely. He could see the hints, the subtle ways she showed she did care, that she was keenly aware of the impression she made. The way she smoothed down the fabric of her skirt, the deliberate flick of her hair, the glance in a pocket mirror when she thought he wasn’t looking. It was controlled, honed, a display of ease that felt intentional.

And, God, was it all effective.

Edward groaned, leaning forward, his elbows digging into his knees as his hands raked through his hair. His fingers gripped tightly at the roots, as if the pressure might somehow quiet his thoughts. His teeth grit, his brows pulling together into a sharp line as his eyes focused on the gritty black-and-white linoleum beneath him.

It didn’t help.

To his chagrin, Edward felt a tug of arousal pooling low in his belly, his body betraying him with a telltale twitch he wished he could ignore. He clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze back to his desk, willing the vision to fade. Yet it lingered, leaving him with a sense of helplessness he despised. He had never let anyone make him feel this off-kilter, this irrational, and yet here he was, caught up in thoughts he knew better than to entertain.

The repulsion he felt with himself caused his stomach to churn. He should not be feeling this way about her; should not be thinking like this. She was his student. But he could not help it. The dam in his mind had been broken, and now he could not stop himself from imagining what it would be like to have her.

Edward sat with his head in his hands, thinking hard about what to do. He reasoned with himself. Maybe if he were to release the pressure, he would feel better and be able to put the temptation behind him? Maybe then he would feel better?

Sitting at his desk, alone in the dusty, old file room converted to his workspace, Edward reached a hand down to grip himself through his pants. It had been so long since he allowed himself to indulge such primal desires. Normally, he did not need such baser pleasures, but he suddenly felt desperate. It was a disgusting desperation that he hoped the end would justify. Hand trembling, his fingers brushed against the top of his trousers and boxers. He undid the fly and button, trying his best not to think about it. Throat bobbing tight, he dipped his hand into his boxers to find and tentatively wrap his hand around his cock. A sigh of relief escaped him as he relaxed back into his seat, eyes slipping closed.

He, lips parted and brows knitted together, touched himself. He could already feel the uncomfortable stress leaving his body as a new pleasurable tension replaced it. Attempting to clear his mind, he tried to focus merely on the sensation of his fingers squeezing gently at the head before stroking down to the base of his member. Edward wanted to think about anything else but Romy. However, there was no use in thought-stopping because it only made the thoughts more persistent.

A desperate mewl left his lips as he imagined her—her body, her hands, her nails, her lips wrapped around him instead of his fingers. He could practically feel that pink tongue of hers on the tip of his cock, licking up the pre-cum that dripped and spreading it down his shaft. Edward couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have her pretty face staring up at him, her knees red and bruised from kneeling. Hand moving faster, his breath came in short gasps as he chased his climax. He wanted this to be over with, and yet…

The image of Romy now sitting in his lap enveloped his mind in a searing grasp. She straddled his hips as she bounced eagerly on him. The thought of her warm, wet cunt squeezing him nearly made him cum alone. His ears tingled as he practically heard her moaning his name, squealing as he filled her to the brim.

“Mr. Nashton! Yes, please fuck me, sir. You’re so good. The fucking best!”

Feeling his body nearing his climax, he pictured her riding him, her delicate fingers gripping his shoulders as she continued bouncing up and down on his hard cock, her skirt bunched around her hips and panties shoved to the side. The sound of her voice, hoarse and mewling as she begged him to fuck her good, echoed in his now burning ears.

“So close... I’m so close. K-keep going.”

Edward’s hand picked up the pace; desperation in his movements made the gestures jerky and short.

“Yes, that’s it! You’re so good, Edward. So fucking good to me. I want you to cum for me. That’s it, Edward, cum for me, baby!”

The groan that tore its way from his throat was stunted in the small room, his body trembling and shaking as he felt himself spurt into his hand.

“You did so well...”

Edward slumped back in his chair, his chest heaving. The silence that followed was deafening, the hum of the computer the only sound cutting through the thick, suffocating quiet. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling slightly as the intensity of his climax faded, leaving him adrift in the stark reality of what he’d just done. He blinked, the gravity of it all pressing heavily on his chest, the remnants of Romy’s vivid tableau lingering in his mind like an afterimage burned into his vision.

The memory was both deeply embarrassing and—he hated to admit—sickeningly satisfying.

His gaze flickered around the dim office, the quiet air feeling heavier now. His hand, sticky with evidence of his indulgence, curled into a loose fist before he sighed sharply, reaching for the box of tissues on his desk. A grumble rumbled low in his throat, a mix of frustration and quiet shame.

As he wiped himself clean, the hazy satisfaction began to fade, replaced by the creeping, familiar irritation that so often shadowed his thoughts. His gloves were a mess, and with a grimace, he tore them off, tossing them carelessly into the wastebasket. The action felt small, but it was a release—a way to discard the moment, as if ridding himself of the gloves might cleanse him of the lapse in his usually rigid self-control.

Edward muttered to himself as he finished cleaning up, the words lost in the low hum of the room but tinged with unmistakable annoyance.

Then he caught his reflection in one of the darkened monitors, a fleeting glimpse of himself—his slightly tousled hair, the vulnerability etched into the sharp lines of his features. The image was almost jarring, his own gaze looking back at him with a rawness he didn’t want to acknowledge. He looked away quickly, wadding the tissues and tossing them into the trash, his movements brisk and methodical.

The shame burned, but his walls were already rebuilding themselves, his detachment slotting back into place like armor he couldn’t live without. He adjusted his glasses, straightened his posture, and leaned forward again, his hands already reaching for the keyboard.

“Ridiculous.”

Ao3 link here!

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