Work Text:
People could barely tell that he was who he was, but if you looked close enough, there was that silver of odd insanity in his green eyes, hidden behind his glasses.
You, for one, adored it. Others shuddered and side-glanced at him fearfully, but you couldn't help loving it, as you did everything about him.
And it'd be stupid for anyone to say that he didn't look at you in the same way. Because Edward Nashton, The Riddler, felt the emotion that'd left an emptiness in him crash over and fill his thoughts and feelings in one staggering blow when he first caught sight of you.
It was in Arkham. You'd killed before, obviously, and for good reason. You didn't feel sorry, not one bit, so off to Arkham it was for you. Maybe you were crazy. So? All the best people are.
All the hottest people a-
You were there for a week or so longer than him, waking up in the middle of the night in the confines of your cell to hear muttered rambling, pacing and glaring out the small window that gave him a glimpse of freedom and unfinished business that he was locked away from. You were in the cell next to him, and scowled at the noise interrupting your sleep, craning your neck to catch sight of the new arrival.
His brows were furrowed, face creased into desperation, almost looking like an innocent, nerdy young man, if it wasn't for the eyes hidden behind his glasses, the fleck of madness and murder mixed with the greens.
You sighed, brushing your hair away from your face and sat up, watching his whisper angrily to himself for another minute or so, misplaced giggles lacing the words.
"Who are you talking to?"
He jumped, startled by the new voice, and swivelled around to face you. Your breath caught in your throat when you made out his face in the darkness of the night, and his eyes widened, shifting from your face to your body, then to your face again, his cheeks flushed.
"I... I-"
You blinked out of your daze, feeling your own cheeks smudge with pink.
"Sorry. It's... not great here, but you'll get used to it. Until you manage to get out."
He nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on your face. "Get out... yeah..."
"What are you here for?" you asked in curiosity, and a slight smile played at his lips.
"You tell me," he murmured, another small giggle escaping him. You raised a brow in amusement, smiling too.
"Will you tell me who you are?"
"Edward," he said after a moment of thought. "Nashton. But... I'm also a riddler. The Riddler."
You nodded in interest, shifting somewhat nervously in your seat as his expression never faltered, eyes a fraction wider than usual, lips parted, emotions you couldn't quite read passing through it. It was almost as if he'd seen something ethereal, someone, ethereal.
You told him your name, and he whispered it to himself, memorising it in a thoughtful trance.
The days locked up in the asylum were a lot easier, and a lot more interesting, with Edward around. Sure, what he said was weird and random, and his staring in wonder only stopped when you brought it up playfully, to which he blushed deeply and looked down at the ground bashfully. He even told you little things about his past, his childhood, sometimes in riddles and sometimes straight out, about the orphanage and the unfeeling city that gave no chances, no mercy.
He often asked you riddles, and it was very rare that you didn't know the answers. The first of three personal riddles was slipped into a conversation one afternoon, almost hesitantly, as he messed with his fingers and looked anywhere but you.
"I can make people happy, I can make people cry. I can make people want me, and I can drive people crazy. What am I?"
Your brows twitched in confusion, before you answered.
"Uh... love, right?"
Instead of smiling approvingly as he usually did when you answered riddles correctly, he smiled softly, distractedly, looking up from the ground to meet your gaze.
"Right... love."
You nodded, smiling back, refusing to let yourself look away too quickly. His hand pressed at the separation between you, the heavy iron door stopping him from seeing you properly, touching you, being just that little bit closer.
So, when it was time to escape, you escaped together, running off; not to hide, but to come back stronger, a power couple comeback. He was shy, but you'd seen him kill, you'd seen his hysterical laughter and screaming at annoyances, most of the time joining in. One day, out of the blue, the tension snapped, and after a particularly challenging day, he grabbed your arm, pulling you into him. You looked up at him with round, questioning eyes, as he asks the second riddle.
"It is mine, but you can only keep it. What is it?" he whispered.
"Your heart-"
The answer was cut short when he smashed his lips onto yours, and that was all it took, hands going into each other's hair and eyes fluttering shut. When the ages long moment was over, he let out a large, shuddering breath, his eyes staring into yours with the same lovestruck look he'd had in the asylum. You matched it with a smile, hugging him tightly, and he froze and the sudden affection he'd never really experienced before returning it just as tightly, burying his face in your neck.
That's how it's been ever since. Every riddle and rhyme is done with you standing beside him or in front, his arms wrapped protectively around your waist, chin resting on yours, admiration and adoration swimming in his eyes after every kill and success you made.
It took him a short while to get used to the affection, since it was something he hadn't experienced in all those years at the orphanage, alone in the cold streets of Gotham, but once he was given it, he couldn't get enough.
Someone attempts to capture you? He won't rest until he finds you, jaw clenched, the murder brutal and bloody, and he'll be clingy for the rest of the day, fingers laced with yours, hugs and making out all day. No joke.
Kill someone for him? This Riddler's a simp, and he'll swoon and obsess over the action for the rest of his life. Don't think he won't do the same for you. He'll do anything for you.
Crying? So is he.
Problem? It's his now, too.
He smiles contentedly as you look out of the window of your hidden home in Gotham at a night just like the ones in the asylum, and his arms instinctively wrap around your waist, pressing his head into the crook of your neck and breathing in your intoxicating scent, butterfly kisses peppering your skin.
"Made by God in pairs, separated at birth on Earth, found after years of search, inseparable for the rest of the time. What are we?" he asks quietly, the last riddle of the three he'll always associate with you, can always be your name instead of the word as an answer.
You smile, leaning back into his embrace.
"Soulmates."
