riddlethat

[riddlethat]

The Riddler laughs, the sound a faint roll in his chest. He stops tapping his cane. "A little bird let the cat out of the bag," he starts, resting his jaw against his knuckle and glancing up, roguish, at Deidre. "Oz might have slipped news about a safe tonight—rare gems and jewels for an auction, down in a house on the corner of 5th. And I don't need to tell you it's bait."  

Word on the street is she stabbed Oz in the back some time ago. Played Edward, too. Oz waited for his revenge, is letting them in on it—or Edward thinks he's lending help—and now there's rumors of an auction for next month sponsored by a certain Cobblepot, jewelry stored in a safe in the basement of a gallery on the corner of 5th and Hammington. None of it is true. 

Not that Selina knows. She shouldn't. And she'll sneak in like she always does, and instead of a safe and jewels she'll find question marks and green and a trap.

"Girls," he croons, Diedre still perched in his lap. He smiles. "Does curiosity kill the cat?"

[riddlethat]

i have nothing 2 offer right now except part of a commission of some gay people (@riddlethat) including a human nour vunderful

[riddlethat]

going on a hiatus. hope to be back again soon.

[riddlethat]

@masquenoire asked: “when was the last time we had a real conversation.” more random dialogue prompts (accepting)

They rarely cross paths. It isn't every day Edward stays in the company of the False Facers. It isn't every day Roman tolerates the Riddler. Good.

The space around them buzzes with chugging air units and cheap light bulbs, the other inmates warbling on about nothing and everything all at once, the words smearing into indecipherable goo. It wasn't long ago when it happened: Roman taking control of the other rogues and blowing up a ward of the asylum. Roman trying to take down Harvey and Oswald, become the undisputed leader of the criminal underworld. Now he's back in Arkham. Now everyone hates him. Or they should.

"We can talk until you're black in the face," he says instead of blue. Like he's so clever. Edward lowers his book down and wedges his finger in to hold his page, the look on his face like a cat, playing and needling. His mouth tugs. "Did you ruffle someone's feathers?" he pries, playing it like a game. He means Oswald. "Or maybe you got on Harvey's bad side?"

Roman still has friends here, but maybe more enemies. Edward doubts Roman wants to be his bedfellow, and he crosses his legs, ankle to knee.

[riddlethat]

@arcticrime asked: “why do you have that look on your face?” more random dialogue prompts (accepting)

Edward rests jaw to knuckle, elbow to chair. He smiles, crossing his legs. “What face?” 

Nygma, all games. He knows full-well the look he’s giving Os. Delights in the furrowed brow Oswald gives back.

There’s something happening tonight at the Iceberg Lounge, some special hour for the Penguin, something big and spectacular and once-in-a-lifetime important, although Edward presumes everything’s important. Oswald had just stepped out of the dressing room donning a new three-piece suit—perfectly tailored, fur trim and midnight black, the kind where the thread count is higher than anyone can guess. Edward likes the hat, too. Larger than life.

Rising from his seat, languid and long-limbed, spinning something in his hand. “Ozz,” he croons, sweet and taffy-stretchy. “I hope you’re not forgetting something.” Not his cane, but an umbrella. He’d held onto it while Oswald dressed, and now he stops straight behind, looks at the old bird through the mirror up front.

Oswald: tending to fat around the middle. A glass, milky eye and graying hair, getting grayer. Edward hands the umbrella over and pinches the edge of Oswald's hat, setting it down imperceptibly lower.

"You could at least smile on your big night," he plays, the look on his face never dropping even as he catches the look on Oswald's: the could-be scowl, a sign of Cobblepot affection. The pointed teeth.

The Riddler laughs, swiping his shoulder. "I think that’s what they call sharply-dressed."

[riddlethat]

@shepurrs asked: “i do blame you.” more random dialogue prompts (accepting)

Edward fixes the hat on his head. The night had been a near disaster. The GCPD got a beat on them, police pouring into the museum, Edward in control of the security systems and bringing it down before Selina could make a clean, easy escape. Lasers flared on. Doors shut. Police stampeded, wild-eyed, guns drawn. 

Selina made it out like she always does. And now, near midnight and tucked in an old brownstone somewhere in Miagani Island, Edward shuts the door closed with his cane, blinds drawn and slanted. He walks up to a desk.

“Oh, do you." The chime belies his annoyance. Edward pushes aside Italian from hours before, sitting against the table. "I didn't do anything I didn't think you couldn't handle," he points out too matter-of-factly, crossing his ankles. He smiles, a second between them. "Feeling catty?" he drawls. "You still have nine lives left."

That, and the prize. 

[riddlethat]

Everything is black. Silence steeps slow in his ears. He was somewhere else before this... Maybe a minute ago... Maybe an hour... Suddenly, a flash of blinding light, and Edward unsticks his eyes to a room with padded, squared walls, tiles cracked and brown and uprooted, the dirt frantically scratched from underneath. He knows where this is.

His heart starts. He was somewhere else before this. Maybe a minute ago. Maybe an hour. The room warping, floor tilting sideways, and Edward steps back until he almost falls, staggering, then up. The wall behind him has broken apart, now swirling in the infinite black; he stands on a crumbling floor floating in nothing. A shadow sits curled at the other end.

His brain scrabbling and frenzied. Edward remembers yelling. Jonathan. Fear toxin.

The shadow uncurls from its slouch, unfolding itself until it stretches, coming closer, longer and longer, bleeding into the pitchless black until its infinite and boundless and hanging over him. Edward can't step back. It’s here.

“No...” Under his breath. Edward mutters, craning his head up. “This - can’t - be happening.”

Two pointed ears. Two frayed, tatty wings. White eyes beating down at him. It reaches out a massive, swollen arm. Lightning cracks.

“No... How did you do it, how did you find me?" The fist coils into his shirt. His feet lift off the floor, kicking, rain pelting. “Don't you-!" He struggles, squirming. "I know what you're doing! Tricking me. Playing games. You couldn't have-!” Edward scratches its wrists for nothing. Rain hits his face and his chest lurches. His cane falls. “You can't beat me," he yells, kicking. "Don't you touch me!”

The shadow inching into his face, heart stammering, and it has green eyes, red hair. Father—

Lightning cracks. The van jumps. Edward stares, disoriented, and he slowly notices. Query watches, face frozen, from the passenger seat. Echo's eyes are plastered onto him from the rearview. Jonathan.

Edward shoves himself back and bars his teeth, jaw tight. "Ha," he tosses out, raw and throaty. "Where were you." They escaped. He remembers clearly now: Arkham and the guards and inhaling toxin. The way they all stared at him—they saw. And nothing, not even praise and you're brilliant and you did it can console his haphazardly put-together ego. "I should've known you'd take your time," he accuses, snatching up his cane. His smile is bitter. "I hope you enjoyed the show."

His hand half-shakes.

The van makes a sharp turn and he tightens up, humiliated, proud, and sulking.

Jonathan could already see it now. The halls of Arkham, running red, stained with the blood of anyone who dared stand in the way of Crane and Eddie. Not that many folks were stupid enough to try it, but they were still in a complex designed to house many notoriously deranged criminals. Not him. No, derangement implied abnormal behavior. No, no he was simply acting out his own part. Besides, if he were mentally ill, he would have been able to recognize it - or at the very least, another doctor would have been able to, right? Kellerman insisted that Crane was "sane and evil”, so that’s what he would be.

They step out of the cell, and immediately a man is jumping at them. He is scrawny, doesn’t even come up to Crane’s stomach (not that Crane was particularly short by any stretch), and Crane easily twists, reaching for the man’s throat, using the momentum of his leap to throw him further down the hall - straight into a wall. Blood spilled from the man’s skull, but Crane could still see shallow breathing.

As he turned to see the dozen or so inmates filing out of their cells to confront The Scarecrow and The Riddler, Crane could only muse that these ones would not be as lucky.

Later.

Jonathan Crane did not believe in coincidence, or luck, or fate. It was superstition. Pre-determined fatalism was easy to fall back onto as an excuse, as well, and those who left everything in their lives up to chance would probably be better off dunking their head into a vat of acid… assuming half their face hadn’t already gotten that treatment.

They’re careening down the hallways, and Crane is howling with laughter. Perhaps that is why they were located so quickly. He can apologize to Eddie later, when they aren’t in immediate danger of being attacked by Arkham’s filth.

Crane has his gas mask on, even though it’s hardly needed by this point in his life, and he’s just finished pulling the rest of his costume together, when he hears the sound of footsteps, boots against metal in sync. Ducking into the shadows, Crane reaches into one of the many different pouches in the many different holsters and belts beneath his oversized poncho.

Edward’s riddle is, admittedly, a good one, and Crane can’t help the sinister laughter that leaves his diseased lungs as he pulls the pin on the canister of toxin and lets it roll across the floor.

“IT’S A REAL NIGHTMARE.”

His voice no doubt carries, deep into the subconscious of those laying paralyzed on the ground, and those convulsing in shock. He wouldn’t be blamed, for claiming a subject. Would he? It was all for science. He’s crouching down to tear the (ineffective) riot helmet from a potential experiment, when he hears a clash.

His head snaps back at superhuman speeds, and a growl leaves his lips. Some prick brought a gas mask, and now Edward was unconscious. The cuffs around Eddie’s hands are enough to tell Crane he needs to end this now.

“You think yourself clever, guard? You’re trembling in fear.” He stands, about to reach into his pocket for Iaepetus when the guard recovers, shooting to his feet and drawing his firearm.

“Prisoner 0821!” His muffled voice was impressively even, but the crack towards the end tells Crane all he needs to know. “You are being ordered to comply peacefully, or I WILL use deadly force! Get back in your cell! Do you hear me? I am ordering you-”

He doesn’t need to let the man finish. In a blink, Crane has surged forth like a specter in a nightmare, a solid punch breaking the man’s visor and sending him down to the floor. His wheezing breaths confirm that the mask is broken, and he’ll soon be under the thrall of the gas. Still, Crane pockets the man’s firearm and turns to Eddie.

This would be a bitch and a half.

Outside Arkham.

He had hoped Eddie would remain unconscious and sane, but unfortunately no plan always survives first contact. Query and Echo were marvelous helpers, of course, apart from their constant hounding and questioning of what happened to their boss. It was almost as if they didn’t trust him.

The conditions of the van didn’t matter much to him. He had already cut Eddie’s cuffs apart with Iaepetus, leaving them as little more than decorative bracelets to clash with his green suit. His chemistry equipment was amongst the things recovered, and Crane is already working overtime on an antidote to the toxin when he hears Eddie awaken. The way he hit his head, it’s marvelous that he even has enough left in him to scream the way he does - but he still screams.

He’s just finished with the syringe, when a surprisingly muscled frame rams into him, sending him barreling to the side of the van’s chamber, and making it rock to and fro. He looks down at his fear-seized friend, and puts a calming hand up, even through the excruciating pain.

“I am sorry, Edward. This is for your own good.” With no time to spare, he jabs the syringe into the man’s arm and injects the antidote as quickly as possible.

Now, all he could do was wait and hope it took effect.

“Edward Nygma, you are a brilliant man. You have gotten us out of Arkham. Remember Arkham? Your partners are here. Query and Echo. We’re on the way to safety. You have done it Edward.” Hopefully a reminder of where he was would help.

[riddlethat]

if you are so smart why aren't you rich? – Riddler

[riddlethat]

@riddlethat. — sender kisses receiver in a bathroom.

     he’s tired. eddie seems to sense it when he stops by, lacking his usual flair for the dramatic. when theo asks him to stay, he expects an outright no at best. at worst, he expects eddie to disappear from his life for weeks this time – maybe forever, if he’s particularly unlucky.

     somehow, they’d convinced him to stay the night only by asking. just one night out of dozens, curled up in theo’s bed, genuine rest lightening the dark shadows beneath his eyes. he’d let theo hold him and tuck his face into their neck, warm and comfortable and caring. at some point, he’d even wrapped an arm around theo’s middle, splayed a hand at where their back just started to widen above their waist. he’d slept more peacefully than theo had thought he would, breathing evenly, only the random twitch of his brow and the flex of his fingers lending itself to him dreaming. they’d barely slept a wink, too eager to revel in this moment of eddie finally lowering some of his defenses, at theo managing to climb just a little further up those walls he kept firmly erected between them.

     they have responsibilities they can’t ignore, though. they slide out from the cradle of eddie’s arms, trying not to wake him. it doesn’t entirely work; eddie shifts just as theo is leaving the room, blearily blinking at them, hair flattened on one side. theo tells him to go back to sleep, but eddie yawns wide, scrubs a hand over his eyes before teetering to a stand. he starts in the vague direction of the bathroom, and theo takes the lead. without much thought, they strip off their shirt, eddie doing the same in their peripheral, and they kick off their pants, scrubbing a hand through their hair. they lean over to turn on the shower, testing the temperature with a hand. they don’t see eddie continue stripping – in fact, in the very edge of the mirror, they’re able to see that eddie has stopped moving completely. his hands hold his own shirt down near his hips, like an afterthought.

     they feel eddie’s eyes on them, just as their thumbs dip into the waistband of their boxers, and theo pauses. when they glance at him, his eyes are somewhere around their navel, and theo clears their throat. eddie’s gaze snaps up meeting theo’s, and theo tilts their head – removes their hands, placing them back on the countertop behind them. it’s an invitation.

     eddie takes it. he paces forward, like a tiger in a cage, and his hands come up to frame theo’s face, fingers dragging over two days’ worth of stubble before they settle at their sideburns. eddie’s mouth meets his hot, DESPERATION burned into the seam of their lips, and theo hums low in their throat, almost guttural thinks finally, finally. they rest a hand heavy on the jut of his hip, eddie’s stubble scraping against their mouth, and when they nip at eddie’s lower lip, he makes a dark, eager noise against theo’s tongue. theo swallows it down, eager, slides his hand around to grip full flesh, and it’s then that eddie breaks away, hands landing firm at theo’s chest, shoulders flexing as he pushes. theo drops their hands immediately, palms up, and eddie nearly jumps across the bathroom, chest heaving. theo watches as he presses two fingers to his mouth, then drops his hand, never looking at him as he tugs his shirt back on, as he rakes a hand through the tufts of his hair. theo wants to ask why?, wants to say, it doesn’t have to mean anything, wants to rewind time back to when this never happened. eddie shifts, and they move out of the way completely, allowing him the space to get to the exit.

     eddie opens the door, steam curling out from the crack between it and the frame, and says over his shoulder, i’ll be back later. he doesn’t meet theo’s eyes, and his knuckles are white around the handle, gripped so tight the color has drained from his skin. if he’d been anything like theo, he would have dented the metal, warping it into a study of shame. a failure of restraint.

               theo knows it’s a lie.

     they pretend they don’t when they nod, when eddie slips out of view and they hear their front door close with finality.

varying kiss prompts / accepting

[riddlethat]

"Madeline." He humors her, sweet and toffee sticky. He looks up, cattish. "I didn't want to give them the wrong idea."

There are cameras set around this room. They both know it. 

What did they think, anyway? The psychiatrists and her colleagues. They probably told her to take time off and to see someone; a doctor for the doctor, make sure she's in one piece. They probably stared at her, unblinking and bug-eyed, when she wanted to stay. Maybe they thought she was desperate for normalcy at best. Another Harleen at Quinzel worst.

It's better this way.

Edward turns from the camera. Everyone will be watching both him and her. Madeline doesn't pick his brain. No and how does that make you feels with glassy eyes and a coffee-stained checklist as if he were like everyone else. Something damaged and nobody special. Edward isn't damaged. Edward is special. 

"I can only handle so much doom and gloom for one day," Nygma starts, glinting and smug. He leans forward on his elbows, then, like a cemetery mink unfurling from the leaves. "I'll tell you what Jonathan is like."

Madeline has dark eyes and her earrings catch the light. He splays his long fingers wide over the table, ankles still crossed.  

“I can be found in the dark and I’m seen without eyes. I’m a night without armor,” he prods, smooth and sly. He smiles. “Will they hear your cries?”

A nightmare. Jonathan Crane is like a nightmare. He laughs, more a rolling sound deep in his throat than a laugh. "Don't tell Jonathan I told you," he chimes, unconcerned. He'd sit back, too causal, his wrist rolling if he could; Edward's natural inclination for smug insufferability. He stays on his elbows, looking at her through his lashes. "You can't live with him." And you can't live without. 

Jonathan isn't so bad. They sit together all the time. Nygma's throaty laugh has finally faded to ear-static silence, the only sound now the slight squeak of hospital slippers against linoleum. He breathes, the whistle of it filling his chest, and looks at her. It's sugary. 

"Madeline," he plays, using her name again, slow as honey. "Am I the light of your life?"

She said the days were dull without their chats and their games. Him. Edward feels closer to the stratosphere, the wind in his sails. He was only half-teasing. "I knew I wouldn't scare you," he shimmers, answering the question she never asked. His voice suddenly drops, crawling. "Why do you think I wanted you?"

The red needle of the clock ticks. His chair whines. Edward sparkles again, never looking away. "I always knew you'd come back to me," he answers, too rosy. "No family? ...How about a special someone?"

If she had a family or partner, they'd beg her not to go back. She has no ring. Unmarried.

She has no one to go home to, Edward thinks, and he points out a piece for her to move.

❝ I TOLD YOU THAT YOU MAY CALL ME MADELINE. ❞ would prefer it, in fact. treating edward had always been a matter of dropping formalities, erasing the boundaries of a doctor - patient relationship in favour of attempting companionship. he didn't want to talk to a doctor, he believed earnestly that he didn't require it. that much was apparent even before she had sat down with him for the first time, enough information gleamed from her initial research in his previous doctors' notes to know she wanted to tackle this differently.

he didn't want to talk to a doctor, but maybe he'd talk to a friend.

his pieces are moved when instructed, her own after a period of deliberation. she plays as if she's more invested in the game itself than a mandatory evaluation. brows furrowed in contemplation, expression always softening into something more light - hearted when she looks back up. too sweet for this place, the kind of look one would share with a familiar face after awkwardly idling in a new crowd.

his breakout wasn't as long ago as it might have felt. they offered her paid leave ( -- she rejected ), scheduled her time with a therapist of her own ( -- she accepted, it was the stipulation for her staying on ).

she wasn't the first doctor to be taken hostage in an escape attempt. likely wouldn't be the last. many in the past left arkham entirely due to the ptsd, but she was given the green light. they're still watching her, though. she can feel their eyes burning into her spine, even through the cameras situated around the room. her own behaviour is being scrutinized as heavily as his.

it would've been easier to let the board take her off his case, she wouldn't feel them breathing down her neck -- waiting for her to fail. expecting it. prepared to lock her up down the hall, just as nygma said, almost like a preemptive measure.

but she was making progress. she knew she was, and that someone barging in with a doctor's ego and new rules would only set back all of it. one incident wasn't going to scare her away, he needed someone who wouldn't give up on him. she didn't want to give up on him.

a soft hum, tapping at her jaw with a single nail as she reaches for her next piece. ❝ i do not think i do know, i do not see jonathan often. are you two close? ❞ were you trying to scare me? is laced through her words, sitting just under her question.

laughter, light but not mocking. ❝ you know you do not scare me, edward. i actually thought about you plenty while you were gone. good things, to be sure. like i said, i missed our games and our chats. the days were awful dull without them. ❞

there's a wrinkle across the top of her nose, evidence of her focus: she finally places the piece she picked up. back to him, kind eyes once more. ❝ your move. ❞

[riddlethat]

Edward kisses him into the couch. It's easy getting lost in this: the feeling of Nour's fingers in his hair. Nour kissing back. 

"I get the feeling I already do.” Have him, he means; Nour tucked close between him and the couch, Edward thumbing circles over his thigh. He falls for these things easily. So unashamed. Edward hums a laugh, incredulous, and anchors him deeper. “Well” —he smiles, coming back in— “you'll just have to watch your step.”

...

That night, they make their way into Nour's room. It's unfamiliar. There are photos on the tables and hanging over walls—the face of a man that used to live here—and Edward climbs into bed with this willing stranger, traces kisses along his hips. The bedsheets aren’t his. It smells of a different softener. Feels different when he grasps onto it and wants to press Nour's cock when he lies on top. He's already leaking precome, messy.

Nour moans softly, he learns. At the start, it's not what Edward wants; he likes the way she used to be louder. Fervent, needy. But by the end, they make Edward’s toes curl, and the soft gasps that unspool from Nour's throat make Edward fond and delirious and hazy. He arches his back and spends loudly, mouth falling open.

Near eleven. Now: the damp and boneless aftermath.

He can't pretend. He wants to. Edward can imagine, with his eyes closed, that this curtain of hair is light instead of black; that he's lying in their bed at home somewhere in the heart of Gotham, not in someone else's. His phone vibrates with a text message and a second drags. The illusion's broken. He forces a smile.

"I hate to go so early," he starts, rolling over onto his shoulder. There's a but in there somewhere. He doesn't get to it.

@riddlethat. ( continued. )

edward pushes him back, presses against him warm and finds him in sweet, shy kisses. there's a breath between them, and nour searches for every kiss, tastes his scotch, tangles fingers in his red hair.

nour is asked what he wants. and there's a thought, a voice a little thinner than his that tells him to wake up. that belonged once to a practical man, with a mind clear like crystals and worked, scarred hands. grounded. reality, nour, stern and kind and present.

but nour likes his little daydreams and his long stories and all the songs that remind of him of romance. dreams that taste like smoke in his mouth or feel like an arm around his shoulders. reveries that shelter him, keep him lost and happy and absent.

" if i like playing shy, it's only because i like that you chase, " he admits easily, readily. " that i am something you have to have. i fall for these things easily, you know. " that nour might be, for a heartbeat, is the centre of his obsession. that nour is the little thing that fits in his hands to dote and take and admire.

[riddlethat]

@queryxecho asked: you weren't using your lap for anything anyway, right? too bad. It's occupied by a pouty blonde now. "Eddie, we're bored. Are you done planning yet?" (umprompted)

Edward stews and plans in his seat. The workshop is silent save for the whirring hum of the computer towers and the dripping of a far-off pipe, his finger tapping periodically against the armrest of his chair. A riddle, a puzzle, a death trap or three—

Diedere drops unceremoniously into his lap and Edward straightens up. He makes a sound, windy.

"It isn't just Harvey who comes in twos," he says, fingers forming an irreverent V. Nygma points out to the only other person here, Nina perched over the couch, and half-smiles. "You don't need me to play with each other."

Diedere pouts. He knows the act—innocent but devilish. Sweet and not. The kind of look that makes other people stupid—and hums a laugh, perching jaw to knuckle. "Besides," Edward shimmers, chin tilting down. He turns mischievous. "Doesn't trouble... come in threes?"

And that's what the girls want, don't they?

[riddlethat]

@bellecosebabe asked: it’s just my opinion. which is, you know, correct. (unprompted)

He leans back. Papers lie scattered off his desk and on the floors, half-hanging out of drawers and pinned to walls—‘BAT OR MAN’. ‘WHO IS THE BAT?’ ‘I WILL KNOW’—tens of them plastered everywhere with scribbled-on question marks, some blueprints of traps. Verin thinks his plan is hopeless. Edward crosses his ankles over the table, perking up.

“I come like a dream, but not when you sleep,” he begins, wagging a finger. “Come day and night, the sheep never leap. I am seen and felt, a thing you can’t share... but tell the others— and I’m nowhere.”

Edward spins around in his chair, both hands on either end of his cane. The computers bleach Verin’s hair green, and he’s sugary.

“Delusional?” he answers, long and stringy, more like mocking. Edward shimmers, spinning his cane. “I know a place called Arkham.”

[riddlethat]

A perpetual buzz hums through the room, the bone-white drone of cheap, incandescent lights. Shoes click; Madeline stopping by the side of the table. Something rustles; the fabric of her clothes. 

"Doctor. Are you worried?" Edward croons, laying his weight onto his elbows. He watches her face. "I won't be the one to put Victor out of a job."

He could have just said 'no, thank you,' but Nygma has never been capable of it: giving a straight, genuine answer even if it kills him. She should be tired. Doctor Young would have fixed a face at him, her hand balling into a fist… 

…and Madeline sits back down, unfettered, because of course she is. 

She isn't Penelope Young, is she. She doesn't sigh then force a smile, the same smile a teacher gives when they hate the kids but need the pension. Madeline does not point a finger. She did not take any of Edward's bait, not like Young always did, and she does not scream or yell or throw accusations, whirling around and calling for the guards, unafraid. She's not afraid, now, finally taking her seat across from Edward, a then-hostage in his escape.

"Why, doctor, I highly doubt you can beat me," he brags, bright and starry. He rolls his hand, blasé, and the chains rattle. "I'll even let you have the first move." Smug even with a split lip. He watches her set the chessboard one piece at a time, black for him and white for her, and doesn't waver when she looks back up. She smiles, freckles bright, and says she misses their games.

Edward tells her which piece of his to move. Something inside him is floaty.

"Oh, real-ly. Did you tell them you came back to play with me?" he starts, innocent and cloying. It's a question all its own—why did she come back? Not for this—and his voice drips sly, croaking. "I think you're in the wrong chair." Meaning she'd have to be insane coming back after everything. That, maybe, she should be the patient, not him.

Chess pieces clicking, Edward crossing his ankles under the table. He never stops eyeing her, and he peps up. "I hope I didn't scare you too much. You know how Jonathan would get if he knew."

Jonathan would have a field day psych-dissecting it, fear and everything. Nygma points to another piece.

SHE HASN'T SIT DOWN YET. a frown has etched its way across freckled countenance, but it has nothing to do with his comments. it's the sympathetic sort, the shape of which is rarely seen within these walls. he looks like hell. a few steps closer, around the side of the table -- she wasn't supposed to go farther than her side, but she wasn't supposed to stay on as his primary either. she observes, but does not touch. people in here are herded and shoved around enough against their will for her to feel right adding prodding swollen bruises without asking to the mix.

❝ that looks painful. ❞ once she has a sufficient look, she moves back to her place and finally takes a seat. elbow propped up onto the table, palm acting as a cradle for her jaw to rest in as she starts organizing all of the pieces into place across the board. a casual posture, a matching tone: she speaks to him like an old friend that showed up late for brunch due to an accident. ❝ do you want me to have some ice brought in? it will help with the inflammation. ❞

just because she's choosing to brush off his words, does not mean she isn't keenly aware of them. harleen quinzel was a name passed around in warning, infamous enough to be like arkham's own icarus. what happened to her was long before madeline had been hired on, but she still felt the burning in her spine as superiors watched her with the same expectation. she's too nice. they think she'll be the next one throwing herself into the arms of a patient, they forget -- or don't care -- that dr. quinzel was a victim first. it didn't matter to them now, she was a criminal, and that's why they wanted her off edward's case.

but madeline had firmly stood her ground, reminded them that her name carries a bit more weight than most know. it's the only time she's used her family's name like that.

❝ i have been watching championship games. i think i have learned a few moves that may actually help me win this time. ❞ she plays white, she gets the first move. a pawn is moved forward, then she looks up at him for the first time since beginning setup. a smile, warm. ❝ i missed our games. ❞ it's the only answer he'll get to the joker - related conversation.

[riddlethat]

The music drones. It crawls through the cracks of the floorboards and slithers through the gaps between vinyls. It sweeps over dusty lampshades and the wedges between each CD. It drapes drowsily over record players, weaving around their ankles, and at last it settles over the edge of a ticking wall clock, the time set to 6:54.

Edward likes it, the games and the dancing. This: the way Theo looks at him like he’s the only person in the entirety of the world. As if Edward were the center of theirs.

“What can I say,” he starts, a sparkling in his chest. “I always expect the unexpected.”

He doesn't, though, because he never expected seeing Theo here. He never expected running into Theo anywhere, and Edward leans in.

“I thought it was obvious. The art. The flowers. The music.” He meant the museum and the look on Theo’s face after being given marigolds. Here: music in the record shop. Edward smiles, minkish, and turns with another spontaneous spin. “Even sweeping you off your feet,” he says, mischievous. “Aren’t you a romantic.”

Clearly. Obviously. It’s as obvious as the sky is blue and water is wet. It’s like 2+2=4 even if it isn’t, and even if Theo isn’t a romantic, they’re here, now, dancing with the Riddler over broken ceramic and scattered papers, gliding towards the entrance.  

Theo isn't easily scared, and Edward likes that. 

“Everyone ran away, and don’t think I haven’t noticed." Everyone except you. Theo huffs a laugh and their teeth gleam gold, just barely. Nygma stops moving and they're chest-to-chest. "Not afraid?" he plays, asking and dangerously curious. Edward suddenly dips them, his face close, and twinkles. "I wouldn't want you falling for me."

Implying that there's something here and that Theo wants to. Maybe he does, too. Edward straightens back up, reaches for the sign at the door, and flips it to 'Closed'.

The dance starts again.

     theo thinks him clever, thinks him dangerous, too smart and too careless with how he moves. his fingers are graceful on the record player, his smile curled with mischief, and theo feels a peculiar sort of swooping in their stomach, like they’re standing at the edge of a cliff and have decided to let themselves fall to the glistening water below. there’s a thrill to him that they won’t find anywhere else.

     this should worry theo. it does, in some way - but in another, it does the opposite. like the whirlwind of their first meeting, theo’s head is left spinning; this time, however, he can’t blame it on eddie rushing by, or on security chasing his tail.

     instead, it’s eddie’s hand holding theirs.

     instead, it’s eddie’s palm at the dip of their lower back, burning through the thin layer of their shirt.

     “ no, ” they confess, and it’s too honest, spoken without an ounce of hesitation. eddie’s hand is confident over his own, and he’s close enough that theo scents aftershave, ink, an undercurrent of sweat. he’s been somewhere else, up to something; theo almost doesn’t want to know what. “ you’ve done that on more than on occasion. i don’t think i can keep up, ” they continue, hushed as eddie steps, guides, leads. theo does their best to match, looks down as eddie peers up at them through his lashes.

     they huff a laugh. eddie and his guessing games, lips and teeth asking a question he doesn’t seem to need theo to answer. they like that laugh - the one that sounds like the low drum of church bells, deep and resonant where it curls up like a cat on their own chest.

     “ is anything ever unexpected for you? ” theo asks, careful on ceramic shards, papers scattered to the floor. “ i could say you’re following me, couldn’t i? ” theo tilts their head, feels the light catch their jaw. they can’t quite take their eyes off him. “ i was here first. you came in after. ” his smile is contagious; theo’s lips twitch against the pull to return it. “ what do you know about me? ”

[riddlethat]

You asked me how Roman would be, so now I'm asking how Edward would handle being a father if you're okay answering that? Would he be very involved in his child's life or would he take on a more distant, disinterested position for whatever reason?

in my canon, edward is already a father, but he's absolutely uninvolved in his daughter's life, who in my world is named emma. he doesn't see her and, for all intents and purposes, she doesn't exist. 

it's a multi-pronged issue. the most obvious reason is that he's not in any fit state to be a father. he's a career criminal, he's dangerous to himself—he's liable to sinking into his obsessions far enough to turn to skin and bones like in arkham knight—and he's clearly dangerous to other people. unfortunately, edward is not self-aware enough or accepting enough of his own mental health to even make it a reason why he isn't a dad. instead, edward cares more about his ambitions of proving his own intelligence, in beating batman, and in proving everyone intellectually inferior. it's the only thing he cares about, and having to take care of a child needing him and, in his eyes, being useless or dumb or annoying, is just a hindrance.

the second issue, though to a much lesser degree that grows over time, is similar to how you feel roman would be as a father, too! edward grew up severely abused and was relentlessly mocked for his "stupidity". he was beaten for it. unfortunately, edward isn't much different from his father. in his crusade of trying to best batman throughout his criminal career, we see edward continuously and relentlessly doing the same thing to everyone else: he calls them stupid. he hurts them for it. edward's already his dad. he doesn't see it that way, and he always makes excuses for himself, but if faced with a situation where he were to be a present dad, i think edward would find it very hard not to lash out or get frustrated, and he would explosively demean his own child the way his own father did him; how he does everyone else. he might be able to catch himself or bitterly realize it in hindsight, even actually hate what he did to her, but i don't think this is something he can overcome without help. edward can only be a dad after reform. he'd hate to be his dad.

that said, edward is a father in some comics (i think she's just called the riddler’s daughter or enigma iirc) but i really, really hate it. i hate how they portray him and i hate how he treats her and i hate what he does to her, so i'm ignoring it. he's a present, loving father in catwoman: lonely city, though, and it makes me melt 💛 in my world, he does want to see her when healthier, but he doesn't know how to. he's apprehensive and afraid of rejection.

[riddlethat]

king-crane​:

”Thank you, Edward Nygma, you absolutely infuriating bastard.“

Crane removes himself from the gurney they had strapped him to, setting his feet on solid ground with a groan of relief. He questioned the logic behind placing him on a gurney suspended in the air - if he were truly psychotic (WHICH HE WAS NOT), would the ground not be far more effective at keeping him… well, grounded? At the very least, he would be less likely to drift if he had a solid point to focus on.

Clearing his throat, Crane spat at the wall. He had been saving that spit for Officer Kim, but the man was probably dead by now, or would end up dead soon.

Sore hands move to massage even more sore wrists, and the tired, disheveled Crane looks to the bright and energetic Nygma. "I suppose this opportunity has lit a fire under your ass.”

He is thankful for the respirator he’s been kept with, but if he wants an escape, he’ll have to retrieve his things. Even with the lights out, he knows Arkham like the back of his hand.

“Armory isn’t too far away. I guarantee that’s where they’re keeping our equipment - I broke in one time and saw a section completely devoted to ‘evidence’.”

He wasn’t sure about Eddie, but Crane wanted his shit back. His sickle, his mask, his costume, his claws. His toxin canister.

“After we get there, tell me what you need me to do.”

Taking orders wasn’t usually his style, but in moments like this, he preferred to be standing beside the man with the plan.

"Was that so haard?" Edward teased, long and syrupy. He smiled. "You're welcome."

Jonathan touched the ground. He unfolded himself. The emergency lights barely flashed on, bathing the halls in a dim cherry red, and Scarecrow stood like a tree, gnarled and thin and twisting. He looked like he never saw the sun. As if he’d crawled on his belly, limbs infinite, through the forest.

Tell me what you need me to do. Edward’s face was smug, visible even in the dark. 

"I thought I’d never see the day," he gloated, waving his hand the way a matador does. Nygma turned, grabbing the door to the cell, and looked over. His face was shrouded red. "Don’t hang too long. I wonder if you have it in you to even keep up." 

Voices echoed through the walls, confused and raving. The inmates began stirring, and Edward dared one step out. 

Where would you be without me?

Later

It went brilliantly. It was chaos. 

Edward sprinted, shoes smacking the ground, his head flashing and remembering instantaneously every winding corridor of the asylum. People screamed. Patients thrashed-rattled their doors. He calculated the time it’d take for them to switch the alarms back on—a good fifteen minutes. He kept track when he last escaped. 

Down another ward. Security dashed and spilled into every winding hallway, but Edward and Jonathan knew this place better, knew it for more than its hallways and its rooms and its corners, knew it like the back of their hands. Edward ducked gracelessly into shadows. He sprawled sloppily away from flashlights.

Near midnight, careening into the armory. Everything was filed by surname. Jonathan found his clothes and Edward snatched his suit and cane before the sound of slapping boots crashed into the room. Guns clicked.

"Hands up where we can see them,” a man ordered.

The Riddler did, slow and heart rattling, before turning around. Lasers pointed at them.  

“I can be found in the dark and I’m seen without eyes. I’m a night without armor,” he spun, pointing out his finger. His smile was sly. “Will they hear your cries?”

In the time it takes for a car to crash, a hissing sound filled the room. Then: unmistakable panic. Fear toxin leaked through the air and men flailed desperately for their gas masks, hopelessly too late. Someone fired at the ceiling. Another crashed to the floor, scraping his armor and face. Another set of doors behind them, just the other side of the room. Edward whirled around, quick, and suddenly flew backwards.

A man tackled him hard to the floor. Edward’s head smacked the tiles. 

Edward’s vision swirled, spinning and black and nauseous. He inhaled toxin, and a shadow loomed over him.

Outside Arkham

The van rips down a vacant road and runs a pothole, the radio crackling fuzzy.

“Breaking news, this is Vicki Vale reporting to you live from Arkham Island. It appears that there has been yet another breakout, and we have just been told that an inmate...” Sirens wail in the feed. A man babbles, something squeaking in the background: a gurney. Police chatter. “I’m sorry... I mean two, two inmates, now iden...fied as Jonathan Crane, better known as the Scarecrow, and Ed...ard Nyg–”

They hit a dead zone and a sea of static crashes over them. Echo smacks the console, twisting the dial, and whips around.

She shouts at Jonathan to do something. Anything. Now.

Edward tries shoving him against the wall, wild-eyed and shoes scraping. "No... Don't you–" His knuckles go white around his cane, something in him coiling and reacting. He pounces, throwing it forward. "Cheater. Liar!” he yells. “Don’t touch me–”