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How does a man like Edward Nygma end up in a place like this?
That question could have a dozen answers, really. It’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it? ‘Where did it all go wrong?’, right? But these things are subjective. You can’t look at an entire life and pinpoint the exact moment, the true catalyst that leads to one fighting a man dressed as an oversized bat. But what did it matter at the end of it all? This is it. End of the road. His base is gone, having crumbled to the ground before his very own eyes. Who allows Batman to freely throw explosives around, anyway? He’s going to get someone killed.
But it’s Edward who finds himself trapped amongst the rubble, the Bat nowhere to be seen. Finally, he dares to open his eyes, scanning his surroundings to the best of his ability. It’s hard to see through all of that smoke.
Gloved hands are set down on the ground, causing him to inhale sharply when he nicks his palm on a piece of scrap metal. Mustering up as much strength as he can manage, he pulls himself up, dragging himself a little further out of the debris. Something’s keeping him in place, though. Something heavy.
He doesn’t even feel it at first. Barely notices it until he swings his head around to lay eyes on the collapsed support beam, trapping his bloodied leg beneath it. Panic surges through him, and he finds himself desperately clawing at the ground, feebly attempting to free himself. Each movement sends another shockwave of agony through his muscles, but for once in his life, The Riddler isn’t thinking. The only thing cutting through the thick silence in the air is his own ragged breathing, quickening with each moment. This can’t be it. It can’t be. It’s such a pathetic way to go. So sad and pitiful. This isn’t the ending he deserves...Is it?
“Careful,” A gruff voice, tinged with the slightest hint of concern, is enough to break him out of his spiraling thoughts. “You’ll dislocate it.”
Edward hates to admit when Batman’s right, so he doesn’t, silently giving up on his attempt at freedom. Prepared to simply let the earth take him. Misty eyes follow the vigilante as he steps gingerly over scraps of metal and charred hunks of hardwood. With a visible struggle, he manages to lift the beam, tossing it aside with a grunt. He’s not really saving him, is he?
Before he can even process the situation, Batman’s knelt at his side, grabbing Edward’s arm and slinging it around his shoulders. The touch is foreign and unwanted, it feels deeply and truly wrong. If he had the strength to fight it, surely he would have. With little effort on the Bat’s end, he’s lifted off of the ground, onto his feet. Immediately, he stumbles, clutching feebly at the fabric of the other’s costume for support.
“I’ve got you.” Is all the vigilante says, and for some twisted reason, it’s comforting.
“This is...All your fault, you know.” Edward spits, a desperate ploy for control. To feel less stupid. Batman doesn’t even dignify the remark with a response, however, guiding him a few feet away, to what is unmistakably the Batmobile. All this effort, just to get hauled off to Arkham. But every step feels like walking on broken glass, and it’s such a struggle that he’s almost relieved when Batman carefully helps him into the car like a petulant child. A heavy sigh escapes him, then, sitting back as he desperately attempts to regain his breath. He can’t even begin to put on a brave face when Batman gets into his seat. The car doesn’t start, though, not yet. A brief moment passes before either of them speak.
“I need to take you to a hospital.”
“World’s Greatest Detective,” Edward sneers, clutching feebly at his side. He can’t even work up the energy to finish his insult, tired, pleading eyes flickering in the other’s direction. “And then it’s...Back to Arkham for me, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t I suffered enough?” God, it hurts to speak.
“We both know that’s not how this works.” Batman says simply, finally starting the car. “You’re sick, Riddler…You need —”
“ Don’t call me that.” Edward hisses, a moment too late.
“You’re sick, and you need proper care .” Batman doesn’t even glance in the other’s direction, gaze fixed on the road. After a long, tense moment, he sighs. “You need to get better. I want you to get better.”
“Oh, I get it, Batman. Don’t play coy. One less criminal on the streets. One less problem for you to deal with.” He feels like he’s on fire.
“That’s not what this is about and you know it.” Batman sighs, grip tightening ever-so-slightly on the steering wheel. “I’m not in your head, Edward. I don’t know why you think you need this, who you’re trying to impress. What you’re compensating for.”
“ Compensating? Would you quit patronising me?”
“Everyone knows how smart you are, Edward. What are you trying to prove?”
“I…” Edward starts, but the words die in his throat. Swallowing thickly, his voice breaks. “I don’t know. I don’t.” A shaky sigh escapes him, and he finds himself wiping away stray tears with a trembling hand. “You have to understand, I can’t help myself. It’s…It’s…”
“Compulsive.”
“Oh, God,” Edward says, voice barely higher than a whisper. “You’re not…Am I…” Pleading eyes fix on Batman’s stone cold expression. “Am I crazy?”
It’s hard to tell, it always is with Batman, but he swears he sees his expression soften, if only slightly.
“...No. But you’re not well, either. And the only way you can get better is to let me take you to Arkham. Willingly. Take control, Edward. Prove to yourself, prove to me that you can rise above this. That will be the sweetest victory you could possibly claim.”
Edward ponders it for a moment, sitting back against the now bloodstained seats and letting the idea truly sink in.
“What I’m doing now doesn’t seem to be working out.” he finally admits, voice low.
“It’s going to get you killed.”
“You wouldn’t do that…”
“No, I wouldn’t. But someone else might. Someone who wakes up one morning and suddenly decides they’re sick of your games.”
Some may say it’s the cape, or the cowl, or his lumbering physique that makes The Batman so terrifying, but perhaps it’s the fact that when you really talk to him, the life you’ve been pursuing, that you’ve devoted yourself to…It all stops making sense. You feel small, irrational, like a child looking to justify their misbehaviour.
“You know, Batman, I despise when you’re right.”
A small silence stretches over the car, before the vigilante begins laughing. It’s small, little more than a chuckle, but it’s enough to get under Edward’s skin. Viscerally discomforting.
“What? What’s so funny?” Edward snaps, jaw slightly agape, marveling at the sheer horror at all.
“Don’t take it so personally, Nygma. We all like winning sometimes.”