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A single gunshot pierces through the darkened warehouse.
It takes a moment to recover from the initial shock—from the noise, from being discovered. The Riddler’s plans to recover territory in West Gotham die in his throat as the gunshot rings in his ears. Across from him, the Dark Knight prepares for battle. Everything moves too fast and too slow all at once; Batman’s thoughts race through his mind so quickly that he cannot grasp them, and yet he moves too slowly to catch your body as it falls forward with a strained cry.
The Riddler surges forward. He calls out a name—your name , Batman realizes—as you crash into his arms. He staggers back at the impact, maintaining a tight grip around your waist. Spinning on his heels, he turns so his back faces outward, shielding you. The gesture reveals a connection far too intimate to have with a mere henchman.
The metal track above the trio rattles from the pounding of footsteps. Batman cranes his neck, using his night vision to spot a green silhouette racing towards his escape.
“Go!” shouts the Riddler.
Batman’s grappling hook attaches to the track’s railing, sending him into the air. He lands in front of the gunman, who nearly collides into Batman’s chest. The silhouette trembles, aiming his pistol, but his fingers never make it to the trigger. Batman lunges for his wrist, twisting it until it snaps in his hand. With a wail, the gunman drops his pistol. It flies off the track with a single kick.
The man chokes on his pleas as Batman hoists him into the air, dangling him over the track’s railing by his shirt. The gunman’s feet kick wildly in the air.
Questions begin to form. Who did the man work for? Batman suspects the Joker, given his role in the war, but that did not explain how he knew of the Riddler’s whereabouts. Plus, out of everyone present, why did the gunman shoot you ? Batman opens his mouth to ask.
“Batman!”
With a frustrated grunt, Batman drops the gunman over the railing. Rotting crates cushioned his fall. The wailing stops.
When he jumps off the track, Batman finds the Riddler sitting on his knees, an arm wrapped around your waist and a hand pressing against your back with his jacket wadded into a ball. Your blood stains his jacket, as well as his hands. Your shallow breaths fan against the crook of his neck.
The Riddler appears nothing like the criminal Batman has come to know, holding you and whispering comforting words into your ear. Panic replaces his usual bravado. His lips form a tight grimace. As he looks down at you, he does so with care; many families possess that same care as they bury victims caught in the recent crossfire. Batman has no sympathy for the man behind their losses.
The Riddler’s head snaps up to look at him. He tucks away his compassion, and his panic molds into a murderous snarl with eyes that burn with rage.
“Don’t just stand there!” he barks, the veins on his neck pulsing. “Help them!”
Batman hesitates. Even the Batmobile has its limits, and with the nearest hospital being across the city, Batman wonders if he could make it in time.
“You left me,” the Riddler hisses. “You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Batman retorts. The Riddler must understand his low rank when it comes to Batman’s list of priorities; choosing to chase the Joker over saving the Riddler ultimately saved Gotham, which ranked the highest, even above his own livelihood. In the end, the Riddler survived without Batman’s assistance-- from a mess he got himself into, Batman thinks--and that should have been enough.
If the Riddler survived a bullet to the stomach, then perhaps not all hope was lost.
Batman crouches, staring at the Riddler beneath his cowl. His eyes glance at you as you whimper into the crook of the Riddler’s neck, shivering against his chest.
“You owe me,” Batman says.
The Riddler glares. “Fine.”
Batman’s hands stretch towards you to pluck you from his arms. On instinct, the Riddler wants to swat him away. Every muscle in his body demands that he takes the opportunity to catch Batman off guard, but a feeling that coils around his heart drowns out the other thoughts. It leaves him with reassurance. There would always be another opportunity to catch Batman, but there could only be one of you.
The Riddler presses a firm kiss atop your head. He could trust Batman, if only for the night.
Batman pictures Selina in a situation similar to your own, with his arms wrapped around her and the light in her eyes fading. The thought leaves his chest painfully tight.
The Riddler lifts you into Batman’s arms, angling you in a way that allows his jacket to snugly press against your wound. Batman cradles you, careful to avoid your back as you wince from the change in positions. As the two men stand, the Riddler fixes his gaze on your face.
“Eddie,” you gasp, your hand falling when you reach out to touch him. The Riddler tucks it back against your chest, but not before kissing your knuckles.
“Everything will be alright,” he promises.
“We have to go,” says Batman. “They’re running out of time.”
The Riddler’s face smooths into a stony expression as he takes a step back. The Batmobile only seats two. He must stay behind, even if his senses scream otherwise.
As the Batmobile skids past the warehouse, the Riddler finally allows himself to crumble.
Batman meets the Riddler on the rooftop of a building adjacent to Gotham Mercy Hospital just before sunrise. Though shorter than the hospital, the building offers a clear view of the hospital’s entrance. The Riddler presses his lips into a thin line as a gurney with one of Two-Face’s henchmen appears from the back of an ambulance. The minor victory offers little comfort.
Between your hospitalization and now, the Riddler changed into fresh clothing identical to his old ones and restyled his hair. Eye bags underline his eyes. When the Riddler folds his arms, Batman spies purple bruises on the Riddler’s knuckles, but he ignores them.
Since Batman’s arrival, the Riddler remained unusually quiet, not even greeting him with a riddle or a witty remark. Instead, he observes the hospital with a wistful look. His eyes scan each window, as though one of them belongs to your room.
As orange and pink bleed into the dark sky, Batman breaks the silence.
“They were treated right away,” he says. “The bullet was removed successfully.”
He spares the Riddler from the doctor’s analysis. According to her, had the bullet gone any lower, you would be paralyzed. She called you lucky.
“And after?” The Riddler shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Are they stable?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” The Riddler’s eyes brighten at the news. It breathes new vigor into him, one that allows him to return to his usual self. He stands taller, chest puffed out like a peacock showing off its feathers. He looks at Batman with a smirk. “I imagine officers are waiting to begin questioning.”
“They’ve been handcuffed to their bed.”
The Riddler chuckles. “I figured as much. How long until their discharge?”
“A week. Maybe a little longer.”
The Riddler hums. Plans for your daring escape begin to form. Some involve explosives, though that’s a little showy for a hospital. “Plenty of time to plot, then.”
When he turns his head, he finds the spot next to him suddenly empty. He shakes his head, turning his gaze back to the hospital, his smirk never wavering. How typical of Batman to leave without saying goodbye! However, the Riddler remains, if only to stay near you for a moment longer.
He lets out a sigh, rolling the tension off his shoulders.
A whole week without you.
A whole week to plan his revenge against the Joker.