Work Text:
Edward let out a heavy sigh, the sound a tumultuous mix of frustration and contempt as he absentmindedly tinkered with one of his many robots. His fingers—a dark brown from all the oil and grime he regularly works with—intricately twist any loose bolt and adjust any panel he deems to be out of place. The monotony of it all was maddening, and he nearly found himself dissociating. This wasn’t stimulating in the slightest. He knew he was capable of so much more, but he found himself stuck in the same rut he had been in since his days as a forensic scientist.
He taps his foot against the floor of the sewers, the sound making a slight slosh beneath his sole. He quickly stops the gesture, finding disgust in such a noise. Feeling the need for a break and a bit of humor at another’s belittlement, he swiveled his chair to face one of his henchmen nearby. He never liked to keep anyone within arms reach of his work, but her qualifications were nothing to scoff at. He’d have no less working so closely with him and his inventions. A deep part of him—a part that knows what he’s doing is unideal—seems to pity her choice of work. He didn’t have a good disposition, and he certainly wasn’t the kind of man to pay his workers handsomely. Many of the absentminded men who worked for him only did so out of the belief that his genius would lead him—and by proxy, them—to victory.
He taps his fingers together, his brows furrowed in discontent as he reaches up to remove the goggles from his eyes. They’re a dark brown from all the accumulated soot and dirt, but a quick wipe against the glass from his finger made them manageable.
You’re currently cleaning, a task that any other henchman, assistant, and/or thug would hate to do. Edward used to have a specific way of retaining his things—but as he began to focus more and more on The Dark Knight, he found himself caring less and less for the general tidiness of his surroundings. As long as he was being productive in his own eyes, his mess was deemed necessary. It seemed that, no matter how hard you scrubbed, you couldn’t diminish the odor that emitted from his table and supplies. At times, his workspace was put together slovenly, but he didn’t seem to notice such a thing. He takes a moment of true pause to look you over, nearly scoffing at how attentive you seemed to be at one specific stain atop his table. It almost reminded him of a caged rodent—doing tasks in the hopes of some reward based on conditioning, only in your situation you were doing this for nothing in return.
He clears his throat, not bothering to address her by name. He didn’t take the time to remember the names of any of his henchmen, though he would admit that her name never seemed to go forgotten. When her gaze turns to meet his, he nearly finds himself pausing once more. She seemed, annoyingly so, passive about his gesture.
“Once more, you are performing just below my predicted expectations. If I was tasked with your job, my sanctuary would be glistening.” He speaks his tone nothing short of condescending. He awaits a reply, only to find that his assistant maintains the same tiredness painted across her features. His injunctions—which had once struck anxiety in her—did little to sway her activity.
“I do not pay you to be effront with me. My patience is not something to toy with.” He continues, his tone contentious. You move to stand properly, tossing the already soiled rag to the side.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Nygma, sir.” You reply, looking him over anxiously. He was, surprisingly so, more calm this evening. His usual temperament would be sporadically angry, but it almost felt as if you were holding a regular conversation with him. It surely must be a front for him to mock you, but the way his lips momentarily part into another quiet sigh conveys that he’s particularly exhausted himself.
“I suppose—even though I’ve given you a task a child could complete quicker and with more ease—you must be bored scrubbing at the same stain. Even men of my caliber must pity the occasional fool.”
In his way, he’s trying to convey that he wishes to spend time with you. Connecting with another wasn’t something he ever focused on, but you might give him the stimulation he’s looking for. Even he can’t deny that he’s been feeling lonely, no matter how hard he tries to suffocate the feeling with his Riddlerbot's unbridled attention.
“I—I’ve just been…” You trail off, unable to think of a proper excuse that wouldn’t further his sour mood. To contest that you were tired would be an easy way to spark his anger—after all, is he not enough to inspire you to work harder?
“Excuses won’t earn you my good graces.” He replies, leaving no room for you to continue yourself. Despite the harshness of his voice, his expression conveys no real anger or hatred toward you.
“I can never expect much from you, but I assume you know how to play chess?” He queries, trying to maintain an air that he doesn’t truly care as to what your response will be.
“Not exactly—I’ve played it maybe… god—once or twice, but I never remembered how to play.” You reply truthfully, eliciting a small hum to emit from his lips.
“I have no choice but to teach you, then. What a distraction you are.”