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The rain is so heavy tonight that you can hardly see in front of you. It comes down in cascades, thin translucent needles piercing the ground and your hair, even with your hood up.
You haphazardly navigate through puddles on your rickety bike, splashes only further dampening your socks and shoes, which feel like puddles of their own attached to your feet. Still, it’s one more order and you get to go home, and your phone says the address is just up ahead. You grip the handles a little tighter as you push forward.
The address appears to be a slightly run down building right on the outskirts of town. It’s kind of creepy at this time of night, but the streets are bathed in an intense orange. You’re not sure whether that’s comforting or concerning.
You plant one foot on the ground to break as you remove the takeout from your bag. It’s a little wet from the ride over, but so is everything else. According to “Edward,” you should enter the building and go up the steps to deliver the food directly to his door. The entrance appears to be unlocked.
You curse under your breath as you park your bike under a nearby overhang. If it gets stolen, it’s this guy’s fault.
The apartment building is pretty empty. Or maybe it’s just quiet. Either way, you move up the stairs with a certain annoyance, clothes uncomfortably soaked and weighing you down. Each step makes a gross squelching noise. You’re vaguely aware of the fact that you’re getting a little mud on the carpet, but it’s not your problem.
You’re pretty sure you’re at the right apartment, but it’s hard to tell when all the doors look the same. You check the number plaque on the right of the door before knocking. It yields no answer.
“Hello?” you knock again, lightly. “Edward? Gotham Eats.” Still nothing. There’s some commotion in the apartment, but it’s too far away from the door to be someone coming to the door to retrieve their meal. In fact, it sounds like someone is too caught up in a noisy activity to hear you.
You sigh and brush some water off your jacket. Normally you’d just leave it at the door, regardless of what the special order says, but you really don’t think leaving a wet plastic bag on the dirty carpet is anything close to pleasant.
You knock again, more forcefully. But before you can complete your rapping, the door swings open suddenly with a jitter, as if it wasn’t fully locked. It lets out a soft creak as the door widens, daring you to enter.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s midnight, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re exhausted from biking in the rain. But you push the door open a little wider and step inside.
“Hello?” you call again. “Edward?” Your voice trails off as you tilt your head upward to survey the apartment, and you catch a glimpse of something. Articles, just like the ones on the news, displaying the Batman and politicians are scratched through and cut up. In what seems to be white paint, “THE TRUTH ABOUT GOTHAM” is scrawled.
“Holy shit.”
You’ve had a lot of weirdos in the past, but it didn’t really matter to you. It’s kind of hard to avoid strange people when you live in Gotham, of all places. You’re getting paid, so who cares? But this is a whole other level of strange. Newspapers are strewn about the walls, pictures stuck carefully across. There’s cages stacked over books and binders, rusty filing cabinets and mismatched furniture. Calling it a mess would be an understatement.
You spot a man on the far end of the room- you assume Edward- who jerks back from whatever activity he was doing with a start, scrambling to the window with his back turned to you. The man moves too fast for you to catch a glimpse of his face, but you could have sworn he was sporting a pair of clear glasses.
“I said to leave it at the door.” he says, shoulders tensed and raised. That’s not really the thing you’re worried about at the moment. His voice is strangled, but there’s a certain brittleness to it.
You stare at him wide eyed, slack jawed. It’s not like you’re scared exactly, you’re just not sure what to say. The spray painted wall of newspapers is kind of scary, though. You suppose the fear is taking a little while to kick in.
You’re stuck facing the back of the man’s head, making eye contact with his messy brown hair. You wouldn’t call him unkempt, but you wouldn’t call him made up either. A green curtain with a spray painted question mark flanks him to the right, pulled aside to accommodate him in the window frame.
“You’re that one guy on TV, aren’t you?” you say, without thinking. Your face is twisted into something between surprise and concern, eyebrows tightly pinched.
Edward (?) hesitates. His posture straightens for just a moment. “You’ve heard of me?” his voice almost seems to burst with satisfaction.
“Yeah,” you manage to sputter. “you’re like, all over the news.” You realize too late that maybe telling a famous murderer you know who they are is not the best idea. Right now the best line of action would probably be to drop the food and run. Though, he has been known to track down his targets with terrifying accuracy, so maybe that would be futile.
The man doesn’t seem concerned with that at the moment, though. He seems to puff himself up a little more, hold himself with a self-important air. “My plan is working, then.” he seems to mutter to himself. Still he does not turn. “Tell me, what do you think of me?”
“Right now, or in general?”
“Of my identity. As The Riddler.”
You blink. Since when did this guy have a stage name?
“Uhh.” Real intelligent.
You weigh your options. Maybe playing along would be for the better. After all, all the dudes he’s killed so far have been corrupt, right? You’re just a delivery person. People would come looking for you. Probably. Maybe you should start planting evidence. Your hair? The route on your phone?
He cocks his head. “Well?” he asks, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Shit. You should answer fast.
“Uh, you’re scary as shit.” is the first thing that comes to your mind, and also the first thing out of your mouth. “And you’re...killing a lot of people.”
He seems to laugh at that. “Do you have any actual deep thoughts, or do you only think in surface level assessments?”
Man, this guy’s an asshole. “The people you kill.” you swallow. “They’re part of some sort of set up.”
The man, or “The Riddler,” you guess, lets out another amused chuckle. “That’s right. They’re all part of my grand plan. You’ll see. You’ll all see.”
Your eyes flicker towards the door. Your head too, slightly tilting back. He hasn’t looked at you once. He doesn’t know what you look like. Maybe this is your chance to run.
That is, until he rolls his neck, a small crack audible as he swivels his head to look over his shoulder. The room is dead silent as his dead stare pierces into you. He turns his whole body now, steps forward and lifts his face into the light.
You weren’t sure what you were expecting. His clear-rimmed glasses glint lightly, but do nothing to hide his piercing deep set eyes. The way his hair falls over his forehead reminds you of an awkward teen. Even his posture is just slightly...pubescent. He gives you a clumsy, crooked smile.
“Come here.” he whispers. Your legs betray you as you edge towards him, bag dropping to the ground. Who are you to refuse?
He sizes you up as you draw closer, observing your features from top to bottom. You stand directly opposite him, the two of you mirrors in this moment.
“Look at the two of us.” he says. “Our faces, exposed to the world. It’s so vulnerable, isn’t it?”
He steps a little closer to you. His hand raises, trembling, hovering close to your face. You can’t suppress a flinch as your eyes squeeze shut. The Riddler pauses for just a moment before placing his thumb on your chin, pinching it between his fingers. Surprisingly, his hand is soft and warm to the touch.
“What do you actually think of me?” he asks, lifting your chin. “Now that you’ve seen what I look like?”
Silence. Your eyes meet his, your throat tightening with the weight of a thousand words, none of them coherent.
“Well?” he echoes his previous sentiment.
God, those eyes of his. “I don’t know.”
The Riddler blinks. His lips twitch. “You don’t know?” he repeats.
Your jaw opens and promptly shuts. You swallow. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“Do you pity me?”
“No.”
“No?” he asks, amused. “Not even a little?”
“I don’t...” you shake your head. “You’re just a guy. That’s all.”
The Riddler’s eyes shine with delight. He runs a thumb over your lips, tracing it almost obsessively.
“You must be terrified of me.” his voice is barely a whisper now. “I promise I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk. I want you to understand.”
Your heart sets a vicious beat. “I think you’re trying to do the right thing.” you offered. “You’re scary as hell when you have the mask on. But when I look at you now, I just see...you.”
The Riddler’s eyes flash wildly as he lets out a shaky, excited breath. His neck cranes so close that your faces are practically touching.
“You could help me, you know.” he murmurs. “There are more of us out there. Waiting for the right time to strike.”
Your throat feels uncomfortably dry. “I’ll think about it.” you quip, a nervous smile creeping up your face.
He hums, tilting his head almost playfully. His thumb moves to the right to rub your cheek, his hand rising to cup your face in his palm.
“Is your name really Edward?” you blurt, ignoring the heating of your cheeks.
This seems to amuse him. His lips quirk slightly upwards. “Yes.”
“Oh.” You’re not sure how to feel about the fact that The Riddler uses his real name on food delivery apps. Though he probably doesn’t encounter this problem very often. Edward, though. You’re not really sure what name you expected him to have. Jacob, maybe?
He has the faintest of smiles on his face, eyes not breaking contact for a single second. “Thank you...ah...I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“It should say on the app.” you say without thinking. A few minutes ago you wouldn’t have offered this information up, but his green eyes have captivated you in a way you can’t quite describe.
“Ah.” his eyes still glaze over your face. It’s quite possible that he isn’t even listening to you.
“Hold on.” you say. “What are you thanking me-”
You’re cut off when Edward abruptly pulls you into a kiss, lips pressed to yours almost frantically. For a moment, just an instant, a zap of surprise runs through you, but you quickly melt into the kiss, head tilting to allow him more leverage. He kisses like it’s the last breath he’ll ever get, like he’s got no other choice. He kisses like he’s devouring.
At last he pulls away, hands still planted on your face, eyeing you up and down again and again like he’s studying a work of art.
“Thank you,” he repeats, “for the fascinating insight.”
The two of you stand intertwined, his right hand almost absentmindedly stroking your cheek, backlit by the gentle pattering of the downpour outside. You know he can feel how warm your face is. The glint in his eyes implies he’s amused by it.
“It’s raining.” he says finally, breaking the silence.
“Yes.” you bite back a snarky comment.
“Are you going to make it home all right?” he whispers. Since when was he a gentleman?
“Of course,” you say with a laugh. Something about conversing with him like this is funny to you. It’s strangely casual. “I’ve done it tons of times before.”
He nods understandingly, letting his hand fall away from your cheek. Some part of you thinks about grabbing his hand and placing it back. But you don’t.
“You should go now.” he says, but not with disdain. “It’s getting late.”
He’s letting you go.
You duck your head in acknowledgement, stepping back. He lets you. You take another step back, and then another, the two of you challenging the other to break eye contact. You finally yield once you’ve reached the doorframe, wrapping your hand around the knob and crossing over to the outside.
“Um, bye...Edward.”
“Goodbye.” he says, once you’ve reached the threshold. “I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”
The most you can manage is a nod as you close the door with a slow, heavy creak.
You manage to collect yourself enough to stumble down the stairs. Your face has not cooled down for a minute, but as you descend, the world seems to slow and the beating of your heart in your ears dissipates. By the time you’ve reached the ground level, you’ve managed to diminish your breathing by a decent amount. You allow yourself a deep inhale and exhale before you push the door open to the empty street.
Well, the good news is no one stole your bike. It sits tauntingly untouched, shining slightly under the flickering street lights. You let out an exhale as you mount it, giving the seat a quick once-over with your sleeve to get rid of any residual rainwater.
“What has my life come to?” you murmur to yourself.
As you push your bike out into the rain once more, you fumble with your phone to set a route for home. Just as you’ve made it past the docks, your phone buzzes with a blurry notification at the top of your screen. You can tell from the icon that it’s from Gotham Eats, letting you know that Edward has given you a review. With a spare hand, you brush away the droplets to swipe open the notification.
It’s three stars.
The review is short and snippy, consisting of only one sentence: “The food was cold.”
You laugh and card your hand through your wet hair as you look up at the endless sky, rain still coming down hard.
He really is an asshole.