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Eddie’s been in the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane a grand total of three days when the men’s ward explodes into a flurry of gossip, rumours and screams, both panicked and excited, sometimes all at once. It’s the most it’s felt like prison so far. Or, at least, the kind of prison Eddie has been led to picture from various, and undoubtedly less than accurate, media portrayals. He hasn’t spent a great deal of time thinking about that in particular.
Something’s coming, though. Something big.
Where exactly the general population of an institution like Arkham gets its news, Eddie -- who’d rather not think of himself as more criminally insane than the average genius -- can’t tell but he doesn’t mind admitting it’d caused a short burst of very familiar excitement. There’s still a novelty to it, here and now.
It’s quite an upgrade, really. From mentions of Batman printed on the backs of newspaper crosswords to a not-so-gracious defeat at the hands of the man himself. Sure, Eddie still doesn’t know how to take a punch (and what would dear old dad say?) but it’s been fun, the thrill of the chase, the inevitable realisation that the only way to go from here is up.
No, Batman doesn’t know him too well just yet but he will. Eddie’s confident his intellect has been recognised. In fact, he’s waiting for the Bat to prove himself worthy. There are tests to come, puzzles to be conceived.
Gotham isn’t the sleepy town in the middle of nowhere he’d left behind at eighteen. Eddie can make it in Gotham, he’s sure of it. He’s just--
He just has to live through Arkham Asylum.
That had never been part of the plan.
---
None of the asylum’s current residents are what one might classify as big names. Sure, there’s the Ventriloquist but a certain instinctual, perhaps even primal, need not to approach old men with a tendency to talk to themselves keeps Eddie away, not that he’s much for conversation as it is.
Oh, he’s a talker, always has been, but conversation is a different matter altogether. Eddie’s a little too much for the general public but that’s why he’s come to Gotham, that’s why he’s going to be lit up by every single light in the Dark Knight’s city. So, hopes and aspirations aside, the very first sight of one of the greats renders Eddie breathless for the longest minute of his life. Then, consequently, a little perplexed.
It’s the Joker, right here in this drab, half-abandoned rec room, with its collection of ancient board games and couches that might have seen better days if they’d taken a left turn some time in the 1920s. Eddie’s been allowed a calendar, maybe the only one in the asylum, and it occurs to him it’s a Thursday, late afternoon and, most importantly, his fourth day locked up in Arkham.
And the Joker is here.
This is not just an acknowledgement of a fact but a dawning awareness, escalating by degrees. Eddie’s only ever seen the Joker in pictures, the odd candid in newspapers or spread across image-boards and other dubious forums, the names of which he’d rather not speak out loud.
Even then, he’d been quite a sight to behold, caught up in one of those nightly encounters with the Bat, sharp and proud and clever and just about everything Eddie has always wanted to be.
That’s not the man currently hugging his knees to his chest and staring into space.
He’s heard no particular tales of horror about the dangers of staring at the Joker for too long but it does abruptly strike Eddie as terribly rude. Lacking the makings of a great conversationalist or not, he takes a seat next to Joker, an entirely respectable distance stretching infinitely between them. Here’s the unshakeable feeling that there are rules he doesn’t yet know and which he will break, as he’s so often done, clumsy and striving for nothing more than acceptance.
“Hi,” Eddie says, mostly because it seems like the kind of thing people often just-- say, if a hint more effortlessly than his own attempt. In all fairness, he’s in the presence of one of Gotham’s most prolific mass-murderers.
Joker’s name tag says J. Doe and it’s hard to imagine a name as harmlessly insignificant as that being attached to him, just like it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that the Joker appears to be somewhere in his thirties, about ten to fifteen years older than Eddie, which makes the whole thing even stranger.
It is, indeed, what the Mad Hatter might deem curiouser and curiouser.
Several moments pass them by in silence. Joker’s yet to say a word, though his grip on himself seems to have tightened. He’s not the kind of person to ever be confined to age, certainly he’s got no right to look quite so exhausted. From where Eddie’s sitting, now closer than intended, he can see the yellowing edges of a black eye and a busted lip, which Joker’s tongue darts out to lick at every now and again. That’s the one sign of life here.
“Uh, hello?” Eddie tries again, seemingly dead set on digging his own grave.
He wonders, absurdly, if anyone uses the name scrawled on Joker’s name tag. Eddie’s more than happy with his own -- E. Nygma is miles above a nobody like Edward Nashton and as far as the GCPD goes, or, he guesses, the asylum’s own investigation, no one’s figured out Eddie’s chosen his name for himself.
It could be that there’d been no investigation in the first place, he knows, but that’s ridiculous.
The Riddler’s left some kind of mark on Gotham.
He must have.
On the subject of memorable names, Joker, who wears one mostly reserved for unidentified corpses, is certainly starting to resemble his namesake. Eddie wonders whether he should be worried. The logical part of him doubts there’s much of a chance he’s brutally murdered the Joker through conversation. Hopefully, he hasn’t.
Somewhere in the city there’s a tiny apartment filled to the brim with files on everything and everyone Gotham could’ve thrown at him, research and flawless plans that had failed to account for this one minor detail. Fact of the matter is Eddie knows these people and he knows, as a rule, that the Joker is never silent.
Wisely, Eddie gets up and effectuates a quick exit. He’s still got thirty minutes left of his hour in the rec room.
---
It’s the meds, he tells himself later. Eddie doesn’t know what kind of medication they’ve got Joker on. Sedatives, maybe. Yeah, side-effects of sedatives mixed with whatever else he’s taking. That sounds reasonable. Big fan of logical explanations over here.
Eddie’s sitting by himself in the cafeteria, which isn’t new or rare, still pondering yesterday’s potential disappointment. He doesn’t, in all honesty, know if he’s disappointed. It’s the kind of thing that requires further research. All the same, life at Arkham trudges on unperturbed and though Kite Man had waved him over on his way to an empty table, anyone of note is yet to be sighted. The Riddler’s not about to sink low enough to sit with Kite Man. He wants a reputation, not a death sentence.
That’s almost definitely the sole reason Eddie lets out a very dignified yelp as the Joker sits down next to him.
“You’re the new kid,” Joker says, much too close and much too loud. He throws an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and smells so strongly of rubbing alcohol that Eddie nearly wonders whether he’s just unexpectedly emerged from a nearby operating room.
That might not be too far off the mark, there’s a bandage going across the length of Joker’s forearm, bloodied in places.
But the smell clings to the entirety of the Joker's lanky and skeletal form, all the more unnerving now that it’s pressed up against Eddie, cold through layers and layers. Unnerving is right. Joker looks as out of place in action as he had on the brink of-- what the other day had been all about.
A half-hearted I’m not a kid is as far as Eddie gets before Joker’s pushing on, still pressed up close, “Mind if I sit here? This is a very special occassion, I think, ‘cause I haven’t been allowed in here in years.” A glance is spared for the four security guards manning the entrance. “And I love seeing new faces in the ol’ asylum! What do they call you, kiddo?”
Eddie glances down at his name tag, back at Joker and then blinks a couple of times in a row. The distinct impression of having landed in some sort of bizarro universe aside, this is his chance. His one chance.
“Riddler! The Riddler, I mean.” Eddie coughs, red all over at his own enthusiasm. “Maybe you’ve heard of me…? I, uh, fought Batman a couple of days ago!”
What a way to put it.
It’s sheer force of will that keeps him from cringing. Freckles and an insistent blush mix terribly, Eddie can tell from experience. Joker’s just staring blankly at him, more absent than unimpressed, as his elbow catches on the edge of Eddie’s tray and sends it hurling to the ground. He does cringe at that. “You got a first name?” Joker asks, frowning down at the tray before he shrugs and rubs his cheek against Eddie’s, unexpectedly feline. If that’s--
He doesn’t know what that is. In fact, all he’s gotten out of this so-called singular chance is another dose of not knowing where he stands and a whole lot of stares.
“Yeah, it’s Edward,” he mumbles as he executes a perfectly unsuccessful manoeuvre of extracting himself from Joker’s grasp. More than unsuccessful, really, when it only serves to inexplicably bring the two of them even closer.
So, maybe, the Joker’s nothing like he’s imagined. That’s not such a bad thing, is it? It doesn’t have to be a bad thing, after all it’s still the same Joker who’d brought Gotham to its knees more time than anyone would care to count, that spark must still be there. Somewhere. Eddie’s not disappointed. He’s not.
“Eddie!” Joker exclaims as Eddie grits his teeth against what can only be an oncoming headache.
“I prefer the Riddler, if that’s all the same--”
“So, Eddie, did Bats say anything about his favourite partner in crime?” Joker’s smiling wide but it’s not the sharp edge of a knife, it’s nothing like the pictures. “Me, obviously. Not the tyke.”
Okay.
Eddie is disappointed.
---
As it turns out, there are no legends.
Just people.
No, it’s worse than that, just people Eddie doesn’t, for all intents and purposes, want to find himself among. That’s why he does it. He just needs a break from the screams. He’s not like them. So, when the walls in the east wing crumble away to nothing -- someone’s more explosive idea of an escape, Eddie walks out along half a dozen other inmates and doesn’t look back.
His ears are ringing as he runs and runs and the shadow of the Bat behind him never gets any more real.
It’s in that thin place between the woods and the highway, the city mirage-like in the distance, that Eddie realises there’s nothing at all chasing him. No flashlights, no dogs, no guards. It stings, distantly. An acute taste of freedom overshadows the rest.
Maybe he’s outsmarted them. That’s what he keeps telling himself on the long walk to the apartment just behind Robinson Park, tired and soaking wet from the rain. Eddie’s relieved once he collapses on his own bed and basks in the silence. No more guards, orderlies or oh-so-concerned therapists poking and prodding at him, no more waking up to someone else’s panic attacks. Best of all, no more of Joker’s peculiar brand of touchy-feeliness. He laughs and he’s free.
And no one’s looking for the Riddler.
Eddie considers that carefully. No, he doesn’t belong in Arkham but he knows what he’s meant to do now. The asylum has taught him one thing and one thing only: these so-called super-villains can hardly rank above the common crook. If Batman wants a new class of criminals, the Riddler can show him how it’s done.
---
That’s how Eddie falls into a routine of plans, schemes and more plans, interrupted only by discreet ventures into the outside world to scour for the parts required by yet another deadly puzzle. That month in Arkham Asylum fades politely into the backdrop.
He gets comfortable in this self-imposed solitary confinement, which is rarely advised and never clever. Confidence has often been Eddie’s downfall, convinced that he’s untraceable, that because no one’s found him yet then it’s gotta mean nobody’s looking. It’s getting bad again without his medication, he can feel it, and pretends this single-minded pursuit is for the best.
The irony of it all is that he’d slept better in Arkham.
It’s the third night Eddie’s been plagued by insomnia this week. That’s the only reason he hears the tapping. He sits up, heart hammering in his chest, and squints at the window. In an untimely act of desperation, Eddie reaches for his cane -- it’s had no real purpose since before his brief institutionalisation but it’s the closest thing he’s got to a weapon on hand -- and hopes for the best.
So, Eddie’s just sitting there, practicing this deer-in-headlights impression, when a brick crashes through his window. He doesn’t scream, per se. It’s more of a--
He’s still screaming.
Okay, sudden bout of visceral fear aside, there’s no real way that’s Batman. Or, for that matter, Robin. Eddie is almost certain destruction of private property isn’t their expertise. He’s still frozen.
“Eddie!”
Oh, god. He knows that voice. No, no, no, no, not him--
“Eddie, ol’ pal, you in there?”
The cane tumbles to the floor as Eddie rushes to the window, he doesn’t, thankfully, trip over the stray brick laying on his carpet. “You can come in! Just don’t--” and Eddie’s ducking as another brick shatters what’s left of his window.
“Sorry!” Joker shouts up and makes a run for the door.
In the couple of minutes it takes him to make it to the fourth floor, Eddie occupies himself with hoping against hope that none of his neighbours have found it necessary to call the cops. A visit from the Bat before his planned debut is the last thing he needs, he’s been too careful for too long to give up on it now.
And speaking of careful, he’s spent weeks meticulously combing through every bit of news mentioning anything even remotely related to Arkham Asylum, there’d been nothing about any recent escapes beyond the obvious, definitely nothing about the Joker. Except, well, Joker’s wearing just that off-white jumpsuit, with added bloodstains, and socks when the door’s flung open so there goes one mystery.
Others do, however, remain.
“Boy, you’re a hard guy to find!” Joker says as he steps inside, hurriedly closes the door behind him.
There’s now a whole bloody handprint on Eddie’s front door, like something out of a particularly cheesy horror film. His stomach does a funny -- read: uncomfortable -- little somersault at that. The apartment tends to stay on the verge of pristine, if Eddie can help it.
“Yes, that’s… obviously intentional?” It’s not really a question, just like Eddie’s not really sure this isn’t a particularly vivid dream. No, he can’t have possibly wished this on himself. He shakes his head, feeling oddly exposed despite his satin pyjamas, green and buttoned all the way up. Then again, when it comes to the Joker, he always does.
He sighs.
This is about to be a very long night.
“Look, why are you here?” Eddie asks and then, compelled by the tragedy that’s become his sanctum sanctorum, “Actually, forget that. Why were you throwing bricks at my window?”
Joker has the gall to look downright offended as he stops in his tracks, caught in the middle of attempting to clamber into bed. More handprints. “Um, you know the thing people do in the movies?” he says, like it’s obvious, swinging his legs back and forth once he settles down.
“Pebbles!” Eddie throws his hands up, exasperated beyond reason. “Those are pebbles!”
“Well, excuse me, it’s not like they show movies in--”
This would-be shouting match dissolves as a window, the very same one targeted by a certain clown, bursts into a thousand pieces. Eddie drops to the ground. None other than the Batman emerges from the rubble.
It’s quickly becoming apparent Eddie’s life is a tragedy of the highest calibre. He finds himself mumbling something about his poor, poor window.
He’s going back to Arkham, isn’t he? It’d been all in vain. Weeks spent on a meaningless plan, night after night after night of trying to figure out the timing of the pendulum, the riddles written and rewritten endlessly and he’s just… going back to Arkham because a Bat’s decided to crash an already disastrous evening.
And in the midst of this ever-rising fit, Eddie realises Joker’s been very effectively handcuffed and thrown over Batman’s shoulder.
“I suggest you reconsider the company you keep, Mr. Nashton,” Batman says, deeper than Eddie remembers, and grapples away through what’s now a little more than a literal hole in the wall.
For the longest time, Eddie gapes at the night sky.