Additional Tags: Psychiatrist Jonathan Crane, Southern Jonathan Crane, Medical Experimentation
Summary: Ed is supposed to have therapy with Dr. Jonathan Crane on Fridays. But when he is taken away for an experimental treatment, his mind goes a little haywire. Leading of course to a vulnerability that is entirely unlike him.
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Ed’s latest stay in Arkham was particularly nightmarish.
Wayne Enterprises had invested a great deal of money into Arkham Asylum in order to replace the entire staff a few months prior. This included bringing back on a handful of former staff. This was apparently part of an initiative to improve standards at the psychiatric institution for violent and high profile offenders.
However, it was never so simple. Despite their claims that the new psychological evaluations and security procedures at staff disposal would remedy the issues of the past, the new system quickly became the old.
One comfort to him was a familiar face.
Ed would take the dubious medication they forced on him, no disclosure of what he was being dosed with or why. He would endure the experimental “therapies” that were more like torture, using him as a lab rat. He ate the awful food so he would not starve, he haggled and schemed with other inpatients to get the occasional resource in high demand. He was very good at surviving Arkham. He had practice.
It never became less miserable.
But he found comfort in that one familiar face.
Ironic.
The Scarecrow.
Jonathan Crane was allegedly “reformed.” Despite his crimes, Jon had returned to his job at Arkham almost immediately after release. Clearly, being in a position of power where he could continue his research made Arkham much more tolerable. He almost seemed giddy to come into work each day. Well, as giddy as one can be when they are typically morose or unattached.
Dr. Crane lived and breathed fear. It fascinated him. Thrilled him. He considered himself its master. Because of this, he typically used various versions of his toxin on patients, recording its effects in the controlled environment. But to his credit, what he did for the patients as penance for this, paid off sometimes. He provided… decent therapy.
He didn’t have the most excellent bedside manner at all times, but he had a more empathetic and reasonable understanding of modern care and practices than most of the quacks employed at Arkham previously. With Jon’s smooth, buttery voice and rich accent. Country grown, yes, but distinctly sophisticated in a way that must be learned or intentional. A manner of speaking more likely to be from his grandfather’s generation than his own.
Jonathan could be frightening, yes. But he could also be soothing to a restless soul. It wasn’t always just talk therapy. It was guided care on a case-by-case basis. Jon had a variety of tools in his arsenal for providing tailor-made care. When he could be bothered.
When he was aggravated, which was often, he deprived the inmates of any comfort. But for many of them, a conversation with Doctor Crane once a fortnight, once a week, was the most sane and safe interaction they had access to.
A haven.
Ed abused this. They had been collaborators once. Maybe not friends at the time, but they could have been as much. Ed admired the man, in a good many ways, not that he was prepared to admit it. And living like this… without dignity or entertainment. Even for a mind like Eddie’s it became dull and miserable. Lonesome.
Fridays were the days that Jon usually met with him in his office. He was allowed to get comfortable, torture the good Doctor for as long as he could stand, then go back to his cell.
Today was Friday.
But… they came too early. Two guards arrived at his cell door, ready to dress him in the full body shackles they frequently employed for any movement these days. The new system. Before, they only employed them when a patient had to go outside, leave the grounds, or if the patient was particularly large built. Physically imposing, violent criminals. Ed reluctantly adjusted to this new normal. If anything these made him more dangerous, he reasoned in his mind. What if he were to strangle someone with them? Or bash someone over the head? He’d seen it done many times.
The guards weren’t taking him towards Jonathan’s office. They were into the other wing, the opposite direction. Lovely. Ed felt panic begin to rise in his chest, threatening to suffocate him. His heart physically hurt in his chest like it wanted to burst. Still he breathed in his nose, thinking of simpler times in simpler places than this, safer places. Until he was in control again.
The room smelled like burnt hair. Lovely. He had only ever been subjected to electroshock therapy once before. After that he had pleaded and begged for anything else, rather than risk brain damage. He was lucky that day, Batman came to Arkham to personally interrogate an inmate and when he saw his chance, Ed yelled for him, relaying his fears.
It had been enough for a while. Apparently not anymore.
An inmate in Arkham had no representation. No anchor, no one to trust. The Doctors were madder than the patients, the guards were all power-stricken jackals; and anyone with money in politics or on the shareholder’s board either didn’t give a damn or were paid not to.
He was alone.
But instead of being led to the table with the leather bindings and the electrode helmet, he was taken through another door within the room. Here the guards left him with two orderlies who instructed him to sit down on a chair in the middle of the room.
There was a strange device he had never seen before on the table beside, which had cables running to a computer monitor turned to face the corner. One of the orderlies sat there to observe… whatever it was they would be recording or scanning. The other guided him to sit up straight and slipped the device over his head. Two metal parts rest against his temples, cold.
“We are going to be observing your brain patterns today, Mr. Nygma. Take this.”
The orderly beside him held out a small paper cup with a single unassuming pill in it.
“Pills?” Ed asked, wary.
“Just one tablet. Then we will observe you for an hour or two, and return you to your room.”
It certainly sounded preferable to the electric shock. Not that he had any choice. Struggling never went well, here.
“Very well.”
He raised his hand to take it, chains clanking together. He knocked it back and struggled to dry swallow the little thing as they had provided no water to wash it down with.
“Now sit back,” the orderly said. “And breathe deeply for a moment. The effects will be instantaneous.”
That didn’t sound right. For a substance to be absorbed and cause effect so quickly, it would have to begin being absorbed as soon as it went down his esophagus. As soon as it touched his tongue, even. Such as Lysergic acid Diethylamide. It would- Oh. Oh no.
His head began to feel full of cotton, and the room spun. His eyes went out of focus, so he shut them. Then it faded and he was left feeling… warm.
“We will be asking you questions and exposing you to a variety of stimuli. You don’t need to answer any of the questions, just you sit there and let us work, Mr. Nygma.”
“Jon… Come here.”
Before they could get through much, maybe 8 minutes into showing him photos he could hardly comprehend, the door to the room opened.
“Ah. There you are. So I see you’ve abducted my patient.”
“We were instructed to begin-”
“Fascinating. I don’t give a damn. I have a carefully arranged schedule. If you need to book in a treatment with any of my patients, I need to consult my schedule. You don’t get to just grab them out of their cells whenever you feel like it. If you screw me over, I will make certain you regret it. Understood?”
Jonathan.
Oh thank the stars. Bless him. A familiar face.
Ed didn’t feel entirely unpleasant on this trip, but he was certain that he would rather be in therapy right now. Which he never would have said before this moment.
He felt he couldn’t speak just yet, still processing the world around him.
Before he knew it, he was being moved. Dr. Crane had a hand under his arm, at the elbow and was pulling him to his feet.
“Come on, Ed. Let’s get you to my office. This session may yet be salvaged.”
His hand was warm. Why didn’t Ed expect him to be warm. From the look of his tall stature and long fingers, Ed always assumed he was cold. Like those metal pieces in the device. Like his cell. Like the dead.
But Jon was warm and his grip was firm and he smelled like… smoke. Not cigarette smoke, but inexplicably familiar. Almost like he had been sitting by a fire. Which was impossible.
Ed could also detect a faint cedarwood, probably his shampoo or his aftershave. There was a less pleasant scent underneath these as well, sterile, like chemical sanitizing fluid. It was probably under his fingernails and baked into his coat from a day in the lab.
All of Ed’s senses were pitchy and softened all at once. Every bit of input was unusually intense and commanded focus, but it did not overwhelm him. He felt a forced calm instead. The marked difference from his usual here was the departure from the neurotic. He wasn’t particularly concerned about whatever he’d been thinking this morning. He was more focused on the feeling of wool. The wool in Jonathan’s coat.
When did they arrive in Jonathan’s office? He couldn’t remember how he ended up in the chair. It was comfortable. But Jonathan wasn’t touching him anymore, he was across his desk, watching him curiously.
Ed mourned the loss.
“How do you feel?” Jon asked, a dark curiosity in his eyes, instead of concern. He didn’t look amused at Ed’s expense at least.
“I feel… good. Fine. I don’t know. Has your hair always been… curly in the front like that? It must have grown. It looks good.” Ed’s words were slower than usual, sleepy almost, as if he was drunk.
He was much more intoxicated at the moment than he had ever been from drinking.
Jonathan was almost alarmed, he smoothed it over easily and shook his head, then turned it slightly.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He sighed and did as Ed asked, coming to stand beside Ed. Ed grabbed at his sleeve, his wrist, resting his head against it.
“You know… I wish you knew me better.”
“I’m your therapist, Ed. I probably know you better than anyone.”
Ed laughed lightly at this, almost a giggle.
“No… No…” His voice deepened as he relaxed, a seriousness seeping in. “No. You really don’t. No one knows me, Jon.”
“This is the most you’ve shared in a session to date and I haven’t even asked you to. It’s a shame it took intoxication to get you there.
“That is unethical.” Ed stated, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“So it is.” Jon said, voice softer than usual. Or was it in Ed’s head. He tilted his head back to try and look up at him. He almost thought Jon was smiling. Well, as close to smiling as he could be.
“Don’t you… I thought you hated me.” Ed said, frowning.
“Why the hell did you assume that?”
“You act like it.”
Jon considered this, amused.
“You must know how insufferable you are. Here I was wondering when you’d get tired of trying to rile me up enough to put your head through the wall. A professional time-waster.”
But Ed didn’t laugh. He was watching Jon, fascinated by his eyelashes, how they looked from this angle, eyes peering through them.
“I wanted to prolong it.”
“Prolong what?” Jon asked.
Ed didn’t answer yet. Still admiring him. He’d never looked at him this long. This close. It was a revelation. Drugs cannot account for changing his tastes, and Ed was realizing that Jonathan Crane was a beautiful man. Plain, in many ways, yes. But when he took care to look professional, when Ed looked at him close like this. He was very handsome.
The complete lack of any inhibitions kept him from feeling remotely embarrassed by these thoughts.
“Ed?” Jon’s voice stirred him from his thoughts.
“Prolong what? The sessions?”
Ed tried to think back, it was difficult but he managed. He nodded. He pressed his face into Jon’s abdomen and wrapped his arms around his middle.
“You are… intellectual. And reasonable. Everyone here is dull or… dangerous. Or both. I feel normal here, with you. Empowered.”
“You feel a kinship between us, Ed?”
“In a way I guess.” He was rubbing his face back and forth against Jonathan’s shirt. He wasn’t sure why, it just felt nice. He didn’t even mind the buttons.
Jon stopped him, pushing his head back a bit.
“Well… If you start making an effort in therapy, maybe I can help improve your conditions here until your release. Would that help you feel… normal? Empowered?”
Ed only half understood, but he got the gist.
“You’re being so nice. Why?”
Jon didn’t answer. It was impossible to read his expression. But what happened next was much more concrete. It would keep Ed up at night for weeks to come, unsure if it had really happened or if the drugs had caused him to hallucinate it entirely.
Ed had reached up, grabbed Jon’s collar, pulled him down, and kissed him.
Warnings: Allusions to suicidal thoughts, panic and dissociation (not graphically described).
Rating: Teen & Up
Characters: Edward Nygma, Batman
Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: Ed struggles to solve a riddle and the ensuing personal crisis swings him to dark places. Batman keeps tabs on his rogues and takes notice. Can be read as riddlebat if you'd like it that way! It's up to interpretation.
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The one thing Ed Nygma valued more than anything else was intellect. His brain was his greatest asset and the weight of his ego balanced on top of it. It identified him. Comforted him. He felt most nourished and fulfilled when he flexed his mental abilities.
He first noticed the change when taking a caller for his independent podcast radio programme. A young person asked him to recall one of his capers wherein he successfully fooled and escaped the Batman. They praised him for his elusiveness and he gratefully accepted the praise.
However, as he tried to recall for them how the situation resolved, he found he couldn’t quite remember. It was unlike him, and upsetting to struggle. He was forced to redirect the topic, feigning that a mystery encourages investigation on the part of the curious.
A sense of unease lingered that day, but he ultimately assumed he must be sleep deprived. He went to bed earlier than usual.
One week later, lingering changes had become more noticeable. Little slip ups from time to time. Ed was easily distracted, forgot unimportant details, and took generally a little longer to follow a train of thought to the end. He was getting headaches every morning when he woke, as if he had been drinking.
Denial was more comfortable than considering the worst. Seeking help meant admitting he had a problem. Mind over matter had gotten him through most difficulty in his life. But what was he to do when his mind was the problem presented.
One month later, Riddler was hosting a call in Trivia show, Gotham-wide. No secret traps or negative consequences were rigged in, just good old fashioned fun. First, it stood to make him a good amount of money back if the ratings were good, and he had to pay his bills somehow.
Cybercrime paid for his daily expenses easily, but he had debt racked up from laying low previously after a tussle with the Maronis and any money that went towards that was under close watch by the authorities. So honest pay was useful. And entertainment was his strength.
Gothamites ate up the absurd and especially jumped at any chance to win money. The winner out of the contestants would receive increasing cash rewards with each advancing round up to a reasonable maximum.
At the end of the night, the lead contestant could wager to double their takings if they could pitch a riddle or problem to Ed that took him longer than 3 minutes to solve. It should have been impossible.
When Ed froze on live television, considering the question posed to him, unexpressive, the crowd went deafeningly silent. Clearly they had expected him to mock the winner and relay the answer instantaneously. Perhaps a few of them thought that he was stretching the moment to build anticipation. Fooling the riddler on live television was prize alone.
In reality, Ed felt as if his mind was grinding to a halt. It wasn’t that he couldn’t solve the riddle so much as he couldn’t even consider it. All ability to envision the logic of the premise was hidden beneath a layer of fog. If he hadn’t been under a time constraint, he would have asked them to repeat the question, feign a bad connection.
He was aware that it was unlikely to be entirely original and complex enough to fool him at once. To feed the ego of the winner and grant them generosity would be taken as ungenuine. It risked making him look like an idiot.
He didn’t know what to do.
He felt the weight of the world crushing down on him in the watchful eyes of the audience. Panic gripped him and before he realized what he was doing, he lashed out instinctively.
“Waste of time! Insulting! You call that a challenge? I am the best mind you will have ever encountered. I- I- You will have your reward and no bonus.”
He had to get out of there. Out from under the lights and watchful eyes. He fled, pacing to the backstage exit. The last thing he said before ripping off his microphone was a petulant.
“Goodnight Gotham.”
He couldn’t imagine it getting worse. He didn’t want to consider it. Flailing in the dark, his thoughts swung deep into deeper and deeper places, considering the frightening and the final.
The end of the Riddler.
The next night he had an unexpected visitor.
Batman appeared as he usually did, a shadowed visage appearing in the window.
“Here to gloat?” Ed asked, miserable. He’d hardly slept and his head was pounding.
“I felt obligated to look in on you, Riddler. You aren’t feeling like yourself, are you?”
Ed turned to look at him as he drew closer into the lamplight. His concern felt too much like pity.
“I am nothing without my mind. If I’m losing it then… Why are you here?” Ed sat forward and chucked an empty glass at him. Batman caught it and set it down, stubborn to the end, he remained unmoving. “Let me rot. It isn’t as if there is anyone who will miss me. Honestly what is the point… I can’t divine the cause. I’m not sick, or I shouldn’t be. No fever or poison. It doesn't make any sense.”
“I was worried about this.” The Bat said. “You don’t remember. I left it too long.”
He moved to Ed’s side, peering down at him. As he stepped over his cape swept just over the floor, the sheer weight of the material making wind.
“You hate me Eddie. The past doesn’t stay dead for you, you ruminate. I understand that. It is because of this that I didn’t approach you sooner, allowed you time. I hoped you would care for yourself appropriately, but I didn’t account for the amnesia.”
“What are you getting at?” Ed asked, irritated. The Bat had an infuriating habit of long silences broken only by unnecessarily obscured sentiment.
“You fell. I hit you, you fell, and you didn’t get up.”
Eddie’s ears began to ring. He breathed in sharp and held it. Trying to steady himself.
“So what… I was concussed?”
“I’m afraid so. I considered it, but when you woke you were in no logical state. You refused a hospital, cried, shouted, fought. You would not let me examine you. I… take full responsibility. Can you… describe your symptoms?”
Ed swallowed, feeling sick and heavy.
“I’d rather not. It is… humiliating.”
For a long while they stayed like this, in silence. Batman didn’t pressure him or leave him. He simply waited, unknowingly providing a certain familiar comfort. Eddie surprised himself, realizing that he didn’t want to be alone. The thought terrified him. What he might do.
Eventually he broke the silence, voice unsettled, lacking its usual confidence. He spoke low and carefully.
“What do I… do?”
Batman kneeled, meeting his eyes.
“You will recover, Nygma.”
“You don’t know that.”
A pause.
“I cannot promise you will recover completely, or if you will ever know for certain you have. But I know you will recover. Have you been vomiting? Had vertigo?”
Ed shook his head.
“There you are. Not as severe as I thought. You aren’t rendered incapable of thinking or functioning, Edward. You aren’t losing your independence. You are… normal. Possibly for the first time in your life, you will hesitate. You will doubt yourself. You will make mistakes. This does not mean your life is over.”
Ed had long since shut his eyes, listening with an intense focus so as not to descend into a blabbering mess. He would not cry for an audience. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, then breathed in slowly again.
“Normal…” He chuckled under his breath in disdain. But somehow, Batman’s reliable insistence on the logic of the situation, on likelihood and regularities… helped. It grounded Ed in reality. Even if the reality felt unmanageable.
“Would you… stay awhile?” Ed finally asked. “I don’t think I should be alone… yet.”
Batman considered this, looking out the window, then nodded. He placed a gloved hand light on Ed’s shoulder. Like old friends.
Summary: Riddler hasn't checked his calendar. Someone reminds him.
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The sound of a car horn blaring was as good an alarm as any. Typical of downtown Gotham. Ed had a decent sized apartment, nicely decorated. It suited him well enough. But unfortunately for Ed, wherever he lived in Gotham, was still in Gotham. For some idiotic reason he couldn’t seem to break free of the place. Like a persistent headache.
He’d been on his best behavior since his parole ended. Sure he committed a little bit of white collar crime from time to time, to keep the lights on, but he’d been effectively rebranding the Riddler persona in order to keep his compulsions in check.
Oh yes, he was aware of those. One benefit of Ed’s genius intellect and an insatiable ego, was that he intimately knew all of his strengths and weaknesses. He was beyond the need for denial, that was a weaker man’s excuse.
He wasn’t fond of calling them flaws.
Rebranding.
Shortly after his parole ended he received an offer to guest host for a late night comedy game show, run locally. He would host trivia, puzzles, and build challenges for guests. The contract gave him great leniency over the creative vision, but they wanted the suit to play a role in some part.
He agreed he would wear his best tailored suits for the audience forward and trivia portions, but for games and challenges meant to be humorous, putting the competitors on edge, he would wear the suit. Costume changes were arranged already, involving stepping into a great big box and re-emerging having shed his outer layers and donned the mask.
All things considered, he was very excited. Especially because this was an endeavor that Batman could not meddle with. It was all above board and all his own.
Last night he had bought the necessary materials for a new suit. The stretch cotton material was white and ready for the dye to make his signature shade of green. He dyed the black question marks ahead and threw them in the cold wash to avoid the dark color bleeding later.
Accepting that he was not going to successfully fall back asleep, Eddie yawned and stretched and climbed out of his bed. He dressed and combed his hair first, shaving his face and then naturally being drawn towards the kitchenette in need of caffeine.
Ed made his way to the washer first, still half asleep, he reached in with one arm and pulled the damp clothing out. When he looked down to assess the quality of the question mark details, he was puzzled by what he saw. His mouth was left slightly ajar, brows pinched together.
How… on Earth… could this possibly occur.
He was certain he hadn’t added anything additional when he’d put the costume in for a wash. He bent down to look inside the washer, reaching inside again and searching. Nothing. There was no rational explanation.
Instead of holding a white stretch cotton full bodysuit with black question marks. Ed held in his hands a vibrant pink stretch cotton full bodysuit with black question marks.
The color was so assaulting that it could only have been achieved with a generous amount of dye. Sure enough, in his kitchen trash, there was a near empty bottle of magenta fabric dye. He was flabbergasted. Was he losing his mind? He was beyond certain he couldn’t have done this. What kind of sick joke was this? A comfortable stretch cotton full bodysuit that wasn’t suffocating wasn’t cheap.
Fine, it was fine. He had to pick up his suits from the dry cleaner and had an afternoon meeting with the producer of his TV segment. His sleep-addled brain could leave this for now, but it had thrown off his usual routine. He made himself a cup of coffee with his stovetop percolator.
He drank it in the kitchen, leant against the counter and reading yesterday’s paper. He could pick up today’s mail on his way back in. The paper was left open midway through, folded on itself. He didn’t pay any attention to the articles at this moment, opting to look through the classifieds for a chuckle. And people called him odd. The puzzles were, of course, trivial. But Ed solved them anyway.
When he made for the door, keys in hand, he opened it up to find a box in his way. Odd. He wasn’t expecting a package. He carried it in and decided to open it. Curiosity getting the better of him.
He sliced the top open and the sides fell, which had him brace a bit, instinctively. But nothing happened. All there was in the box was what looked like a pecan pie. He glared at it. A kind enough gesture, but why go to the trouble. He couldn't think of a single person who would send him a pie. And for what occasion in any case?
He tried to pick it up to put it on the other counter and it promptly exploded in his face. He shrieked despite himself and then groaned. Sticky, gooey mess everywhere. In his hair and his shirt. Not to mention the mess it had made of his kitchen. All that was left of the pie was a small device at the bottom of the box, which creaked to life with a prerecorded voice he didn’t recognize. Sounded like a generic tv entertainer.
“Curiousity killed the cat. Soot in the chimney dyed it black. Now it’s your face, covered in shmutz. We haven’t forgotten you’re still nuts!”
It hardly rhymed. It certainly wasn’t a passable riddle. There was nothing secret to divine from it but the motive. Pure nonsense and insult.
Joker.
Ed grumbled and tried to scrape some of the mess to the side. He’d deal with this later. He had to clean up and start over again. He showered, got into a change of clothes, drew the blinds, and went to the door again. Luckily, he made it to his car without any more unpleasant surprises waiting around the corner.
He pulled out into the street and started towards the dry cleaners. The weather was pleasant enough for Gotham, chilly, but a bit of sun for a change. Spring in Gotham was never particularly surprising. He turned on the radio for a bit more stimulation. Surely that would improve his morning. The familiar voice of the morning radio host buzzed to life, finishing up a weather report for the region.
Then, Ed heard something unusual.
“Before we get into our next segment, we’ve had a special request for a Mr. Puzzler. So listen up!”
‘ God no. What is he playing at? What did I do to deserve this? Is it the anniversary of something awful? Does he think I'll upstage him?’ Ed turned the volume up a bit, only to jump out of his skin and turn it down again when two pitchy voices came through at an earsplitting volume. It was clear as day, Harley and Joker, chiming in together and failing to harmonize.
”Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Eddieeee… Happy birthday to you!"
Joker had the final word with an ominous message that could easily mean nothing, delivered in that same cheery tone.
“Don’t fall down a well, Eddie! This day's for fools and tools. Your mother must have had it out for you, yeesh. Hope you liked the pie.” Joker descended into laughter. Finding his own pranks hysterical.
Pairings: Edward Nygma/Oswald Cobblepot (mentioned)
Additional Tags: Riddlebird are Exes, Bisexual Edward Nygma, Alcohol and Cigarettes
Summary: The Penguin invites Riddler on an island getaway to have a break from Gotham's smog. All expenses paid.
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The journey to Nassau wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
The Penguin had arranged passage on a private steamship line from Miami to Nassau. Citing Riddler’s most recent erratic behaviour in ramping up his absurd capers as evidence that he was in need of time away.
Time away from Gotham.
Where the madman could be blissfully untempted by compulsions to bewilder and taunt The Batman and his “snot-nosed cohort” as Ed loved to say.
Now Edward wouldn’t really call Penguin a friend. Not in the traditional sense. But they had no shortage of history. They knew one another better than most other’s could claim. They had been bound since their early days, striking out into a world of their own as criminal masterminds.
In those years, things got muddy between them. Times were had, both good and bad. An intense affair where intimacy and competition wrestled with each other. Passion? Sure. And resentment. There was no solace to be found in their like-mindedness. Words were said. And it ended.
Only it didn’t end. It devolved.
Eddie had long accepted he would never be entirely rid of Oswald until one or both of them died. The two men respect each other’s intellect enough to collaborate and call when the going gets tough. But there was no trust between them. Not for a long time since.
Ed imagined that Oswald invited him for this trip because he wanted someone he already knew well to keep him company and most people were unbearable for long stretches of time. A week away on an island was best suited for close friends or significant others, of which he had neither.
Ed couldn’t claim he took pity on him and that’s why he said yes. One thing Oswald always had going for him was a flourishing social life, always a full agenda. He liked fine drinks, fine food, fine clothes, and fine people.
Not that Ed was dissimilar. He had become adapted to the finer things in life, and enjoyed finding ingenious ways to bankroll such a life. Better than hiding away in some damp hole with the River Rat gang.
Mousey begged to come along with them. Ed didn’t feel the least bit guilty for leaving her behind. Despite being unreliable, which he attributed to her youth, she had her uses, that girl. Not entirely unintelligent, relatively loyal, etc..
But Mousey was more of an employed companion for the Riddler rather than a friend and confidant for Edward Nygma.
The idea of a beach holiday with Mousey was not his idea of a good time. Too much like babysitting, bless the poor kid.
The steamship took an overnight route, leaving Miami mid afternoon. Oswald slept most of the journey, lulled to sleep by the sea. Unlucky Eddie was left to cope with deafening snores.
He accepted his fate when he was woken up for the fourth time and stared up at the ceiling of their small cabin, finding other ways to occupy his mind. Numbers and figures, then recalling his favourite passages of the latest Charles Portis novel, Norwood.
When he tired of this, Ed drifted into mentally reviewing recent journals and studies within Cognitive Psychology. Sperling in particular interested him. Memory, learning, and behaviour. Fitting that he could recall it perfectly after reading the findings. Easily boosted his ego and occupied him at once.
So lost in his thoughts was he, that they had arrived before he knew it. There was a courtesy knock on their door to wake them an hour out from arrival. He dressed, shaved, and went to the upper deck to survey the weather while he waited for Oswald. He didn’t bother to eat any of the toast and coffee they offered passengers, preferring to wait for a more enjoyable breakfast once ashore.
Oswald found him easily enough. He lit up a cigarette in his holder, taking in the view.
“Missing Gotham yet?” Oswald asked, laughing under his breath with a puff of smoke.
There was sarcasm there. Ed’s bottom lip rest at a bit of an outward angle. Not a pout, but a thoughtful expression, brows furrowed. He let it fall from his face and breathed in sharply, replacing it with a charming smile.
“While you’re paying, I intend to make the best of this, you know. A young man told me we ought to hire a porter to take our luggage to the hotel room. I only have the one suitcase, but I’m not carrying yours.”
Oswald grunted and waved a hand dismissively.
The location was truly beautiful. Wide sunny beaches, not over-crowded, with shade structures and free standing umbrellas. As the followed the path to the front of the hotel, the passed an outdoor beachfront bar and a lush garden, as well as several pools.
The Sheraton British Colonial Resort was a lovely environment to find oneself in. Penguin had shelled out for a lovely suite between the two of them, and the entry hall was glorious. High ceiling, shining floors with elaborate tiling beneath clear varnish, and indoor trees. A beautiful staircase ascended to the lounge, dining hall, and up the floors to rooms. There were elevators as well; which, after walking the beach and dancing, Ed was sure many patrons were grateful for.
Seeing as their bags would be held until check in, the two of them went to brunch first. It wasn't entirely unprecedented for colleagues or friends to travel together like this, but Ed did notice a good number of other vacationers enthusiastically paired off with each other.
Holiday flings were always in fashion, he supposed. And while he didn’t consider any woman - or man - an intellectual equal suitable for partnership, he could appreciate good looks the same as any other red blooded man. He considered approaching a few individuals who made eye contact, but he found he wasn’t over eager. There were plenty of activities he would rather enjoy alone over the course of his vacation. The last thing he needed was someone clingy to catch onto him.
The first day they talked a little, ate a lot, and enjoyed fine live music.
Ed spent most of his time on the beach, by the pool, or reading in the suite. This getaway must be doing him some good, because he hardly thought of Batman or of their city. But, extended leisure was weighing on him.
He began to wish they had gone somewhere in the mountains, where at least he could get his excitement skiing. Ed hadn't the first idea what the equivalent was here, but he knew that was not the point of an island getaway. There was no shortage of luxury. Oswald was noticeably more outgoing, turning every social situation into an opportunity to network. Mixing business and pleasure.
After dinner on the third day, Penguin went to the executive lounge to further socialize. He preferred to drink in company, have some laughs, and play games. The Riddler, on the other hand, retired early. He had a bath, watched the sunset from the balcony, and had settled down with a book of crosswords when it struck him.
The creeping agony of idleness. Not boredom, not really. Almost dread. He was writhing in his skin, half expecting an unseen beast to pounce.
Right.
He stood up with purpose and went to his travel bag, retrieving a fine cotton shirt, wide vertical stripes of various shades of blue and green. A pair of green paisley pants, a matching belt, and dark brown Florsheim Imperial wingtip Oxfords. The shoes were still classy, while comfortable for a casual environment. He didn’t plan on going down to the beach this time of night, only the executive lounge.
As soon as he entered, he was offered a drink by waitstaff. The room was full of smoke, but an open window kept the air just circulated enough you could see whoever was beside you. The socializing patrons were loud, but not too rowdy. Intoxicated enough to laugh raucously and to garner a few women sitting on men’s laps. The din was just that, but not entirely unpleasant or overwhelming.
Accoutrements were laid on platters. Fresh crusty bread with shaved pear and brie, chilled fruit salad, boards of olives and smoked meats, cakes and more. A limited drinks menu was provided, which Ed curiously looked over until he was called to by Oswald, who was in an engaging debate with a well dressed Englishman.
As he approached, Ed caught the eye of a particularly elegant blonde woman, who introduced herself as Iris and looked him up and down appreciatively. Ed initially mistook the Englishman’s nervous gaze as jealousy, but quickly determined it to be of equal attraction to him. Two interested parties already. ‘How lucky.’ He thought to himself.
Characters: Edward Nygma, Harvey Dent, Oswald Cobblepot (mentioned)
Additional Tags: Miscommunication, Humor
Summary: Ed is hired by The Penguin to organize a heist in the Gotham Heights. The problem? He's currently incarcerated at Arkham Asylum. To make matters worse, he's working with useless idiots.
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Arranging the opportunity to make a phone call was crucial. Ed’s letters to The Penguin at the start of this whole process were a limited success. Despite his efforts to simplify the hidden messages within, responses were slow to arrive and it was clear that his colleague was uninvested in communicating.
He’d requested an in person visit of course, but the date was continuously pushed back, low priority on Cobblepot’s agenda. It didn’t bother him at first. He often gloated that if he ever wanted to leave his stint at Arkham prematurely, he could. He usually chose to play nice and sit quietly so as to not lengthen his stay.
But, he had a particularly exciting personal project on hold, barring funds. And Oswald Cobblepot had requested his services for a job he could organize from behind bars. If he could wrangle Oswald’s particularly useless staff. Reasonably intelligent goons were hard to come by, and shortly after hiring Ed to pull this off, Oswald had gone radio silent except for responding to mail when he got round to it.
The rotten cherry on top of a stale cake was the disrespect that the man didn’t write his own responses. A secretary delivered all incoming mail and Oswald dictated the response for them to forward. This lengthened the entire process and increased the frequency of miscommunication.
The only reason Ed didn’t bother to take any of it personally was that this behaviour was entirely expected from the man. Oswald was not one for efficiency unless it benefited him. He was happy to string others along, tank inconvenient investments, and leave a collaborator high and dry. But, he was shockingly, a man of his word. If you took him very literally and held him to it.
Ed needed that money. Not out of vanity, but for personal endeavors. He wasn’t about to lose it because of other people’s stupidity. He’d follow this line of bullshit and ‘organize’ as instructed, up to a point. But he was quickly approaching the end of his rope.
So, a phone call.
It was difficult to swing the first time. Despite how at home he managed to feel in this rotten hell hole, Arkham guards were still a particular breed of imbecile. Cruel for cruelty’s sake and standard procedure was depriving all inmates of outside contact, regardless of offense. Still, he managed to swing it.
It was a Tuesday morning and he arranged for ten minutes under watch of the head of security, Bolton himself. Great big ignoramus that he was.
The line rang three times before a gruff man answered.
“What?”
Lovely start.
“Nygma. I’m organizing the…” He sighed, knowing he must stick to the parameters Oswald originally put in place or god forbid he’d confuse the goon. “The staff party? I’m predisposed in Arkham, but your number was included in my last correspondence from your employer.”
“Oh yeah you’re the uh… The Riddle man… Puzzle guy… that you?”
Glorious.
“That’s me. Now, what has been prepared thus far, nothing?”
“Sorry you’re breaking up let me uh… Oh goddamn it.”
There was a great big rustling sound, sharp on his ears and Ed winced, holding the wired phone further from his ear. He could now hear music in the background, a radio? A car door shut and the radio cut off.
“Got one of those radio phones in the car. Wonders of technology ay? Forgot I can’t go far with it. What were you saying uh… say what you say your name was?”
“Edward Nygma. Now listen, I only have 9 minutes 30. If you’re my contact I seriously doubt anything has been arranged. Do you have a good memory?”
“I-”
“No what am I saying- Do you have a pen?”
More rustling. No answer. There was a thunk and Ed assumed the phone had been set on the dash. He leant his shoulder against the wall, eyeing Bolton, who eyed him right back with distrust.
He couldn’t afford to speak too clearly, or the best case scenario, Bolton caught wise to something illegal and Ed wouldn’t be able to call a second time. There was the distinct sound of a glove box being pressed shut and the goon returned.
“Yeah I got a pen. You there, Nygma?”
“Yes. Now, I want this arranged before 4. That’s Thursday night. That’s when the party is. Do you understand? Don’t answer, just write this down. It will be hosted at Oswald’s favourite spot in the Heights. Arrivals begin at 4. In the morning you’ll need to retrieve all concessions from Finger Memorial Park. Entertainment is to be handled by our best Slugger, you know he may be roided up but he used to play ball. Broke his bat last season.”
“Uh.”
“Do you follow?”
“Sure uh, I’ve got down the park, 4, and er, juiced up dirtbag-”
“Four what?” Ed asked through his teeth.
“Um… What?”
“Christ’s sake. Arrivals begin at 4. Before Friday.”
“Before Friday.”
“Yes!”
“There’s a game Wednesday I think. In the Stadium my uh my niece wants to go that night. You want me working at the game? Let me see if Theo is free instead, you’d better talk to him.”
“No, No! No game! The game isn’t important.”
“Then why’d you mention it?”
“I didn’t! You- Ugh… The man doesn’t play anymore; he just… never mind. Oswald will know what it means alright?”
“Alright… I’m still not sure about Wednesday.”
“Nobody said anything about Wednesday. Focus.”
“Alright alright, don’t get your panties in a twist Mr. Riddle, I’m writing it down. Don’t a party need like uh… guests?”
“Do we pay you to think? Christ. Just get the Slugger for entertainment next week. Fireworks. He’s a big guy, you’ll know him.”
Bolton seemed to be listening closer, arms crossed. Ed turned his back on him.
“What’s your name?” He asked the goon.
“I’m Bill. Hey uh… I don’t know any Batters. I don’t know anybody plays ball. I just watch it.”
“Bill?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ask questions. That’s my job.”
“Okay. Listen, I don’t got long. But I got it. What else you need for the eh… party?”
Three minutes or so left. Ed cleared his throat and organized his thoughts.
He heard the call disconnect. He turned to see Bolton had hit the button from the front desk that disconnected the phone lines from a distance. He looked far too pleased with himself.
“Let’s go, Nygma.”
The next day Ed skipped his meal to slip into the phone hall, paying off the guard he favored who was running security cameras for the day. He dialed the same number as before, waiting impatiently as it rang. He looked up at the corner of the room at the camera.
Just when he thought it would disconnect and the operator would chime in, someone answered. It wasn’t Bill.
“Where’s Bill?” Ed asked.
“Fuck if I know, we got shifts. What you want?”
“It’s Edward Nygma. I’m meant to organize the party for Oswald. Which means you work for me, or, Bill does.”
“Good for Bill.”
“What’s your name? Is this Theo?”
The goon on the other line hesitated, as if discomforted by Edward guessing who he was. Good.
“What’s it to you?”
“Just the man I needed to speak to, that’s all. Have you lot spoken to our er… entertainer for the evening?”
“Who?”
Great. Back to square one. He lowered his voice as much as he could, hissing into the receiver.
“Bane, you fatuous moron. We need him by next week. Have you spoken to the man?”
“Hey what’s your problem, Nygma?”
“You! You are! Now listen- What about this week’s pickup?”
“What pickup?”
“For the love of- Is there anyone else I can talk to? Preferably someone who has a handful of functioning brain cells and can do his damn job?”
“I’ll get the Boss."
Blessed relief. Finally. Two minutes with Oswald on the phone and all would be in order. At least he had half a brain dedicated to these delicate sorts of operation. Working with Charles Baxter making children’s toys had been less dull and irritating than this, and that was saying a lot.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice carried over. Rough. But almost certainly not The Penguin. Another setback. Ed evidently didn’t answer quickly enough, because the man tried again. And this time, Ed recognized his voice. Their voice. Wonderful.
“Who is this?”
“Oh for fucks sake, Harvey? I thought they’d give me to Oswald. Since when are you working with The Penguin?”
The last thing he needed was to work through the plan with the predictably unpredictable Twoface.
“That you, Nygma? Since when are you?” Harvey barked a laugh, then his voice grew colder, bored. “Oz is busy. Fuck off.”
The call disconnected.
This couldn’t possibly be worth the effort.
He'd given up on it for the time being. He didn't worry all week, tried to prioritize his sanity in this horrid place. Arkham was no walk in the park on a good day, even for someone like him. He managed to keep to himself most days, keep to his cell as often as possible.
With minimal effort to fool the doctors and little regard for their attempts at “treatment” that were certainly illegal, he got along just fine.
Then there was the matter of professional pride.
The money was unimportant. He could wait until he was up for parole and wire himself a few million from some dirty politician's offshore account.
But his word was worth something because he kept it.
By the time Thursday came around he was agonized. Penguin still wasn't taking his calls and even less luck with Twoface.
Damn them all to hell.
He resolved to break out of Arkham that night. In theory, leaving after sundown should give him enough time to get to the Heights and get the job done personally. Nothing like a good old fashioned heist, without any of the dramatics.
Tasteless, sure. But that couldn't be avoided! It was hardly his fault that it was impossible to find good help these days.
One sentiment circled his psyche as he climbed into the underground tunnels beneath Arkham, heading down a metaphorical and literal drain.
