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Bruce was decently sure he was forgetting something.
Everything pointed toward it being a regular Tuesday, as nothing was particularly out of the ordinary (or as ordinary as it could be in the last few months) - he was finally caught up on most of his business meetings and paperwork, he’d helped Dick study for his final exams, all his scheduled phone calls were more or less over or in place… and yet, he felt like there was something he was missing, but for the life of him he could not put a finger on it.
It was hardly surprising if he had forgotten something, to be fair, what with how much had been going on since January. Things had been moving considerably slowly, all things considered, so Bruce had thought it high time he got a little more active in the redemption project he worked so hard to set up and fund. The criminals of Gotham City were dangerous people at their worst, and misunderstood at what he’d seen of their best, and from that he just knew that there had to be redeeming qualities inside them somewhere - no-one was born evil, in his eyes, so theoretically with the right circumstances, his goal could easily be a success.
He’d tried before with Catwoman, offering to be her parole officer, but before he knew it, she was back to her old tricks, somehow even more diabolical than before. Crime never paid, and Bruce truely couldn’t fathom just why she’d thrown her chance at an honest life out the window for the sake of whatever it was she was after. Did she like Batman? Didn’t she? It was a game of cat and mouse, ironically enough, and frankly after a more recent encounter, Bruce had begun to understand that whilst in costume, he really needed to stop being attracted to the temptress if he actually wanted to live.
Upon being “contacted” by Commissioner Gordon on Catwoman’s choice to bolt down the path of villainy, he - or, more accurately, Alfred controlling a response machine - had apologised for not being a better parole officer.
That had stuck with him, got him thinking.
Naturally, a majority of the process of restitution and choosing to live a normal life was up to the criminal themselves, and their willingness to change. As Catwoman had proven, you could give someone that chance, a good education, a world outside of prison, their freedom back, but if they didn’t want to put in the effort, they were always destined to wind up right back at square one.
Which was exactly what had popped the thought into his head. If some criminals had the capability of improving themselves after repaying their debt to society, but they had run into a snag along the way, maybe he - or anyone - did need to be a better parole officer. What the reforming person needed was support.
Possessing firm belief and trust in his ideas as always, Bruce had brought the notion of parole officers having a more active role in their set offender’s development up to the warden and a group of other officials in a meeting, only to get turned down. After a good hour of bartering reasons it may be beneficial, though, they’d agreed on one condition. Bruce was to try out his little stay-in plan with one of their current convicts, and should it work, they’d look into hiring the right people to make his idea a reality. Should it fail miserably? That would be the end of it.
Looking back, they probably hadn’t expected him to agree to those terms - it was far too daunting and threatening a task, surely? But to Bruce? A walk in the park.
Or so he’d thought.
Picking out someone to guide was far more daunting a task than Bruce had anticipated. He knew for sure that he wasn’t going to fall for Catwoman’s schemes once again, not so quickly after she’d been put away, except not a lot of the other options were looking too friendly, either. He recognised almost every single one of them, what with his putting them behind those bars himself, under the guise of Batman, and even though they didn’t know, the looks some of the people shot him were almost that of beyond hatred. Bruce didn’t understand why. Perhaps because he was rich, because they believed he was born into the lap of luxury that they’d always wanted and had been foiled from having, so it was just a shame they let their bitterness drive them away from Bruce selecting one to be given that for a short time.
Still, he wanted no common criminal, this wasn’t meant to be an easy task. No - if he could reform none other than an arch-villain, it would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that any one of them could do the same, thus helping to make Gotham City a far safer place. What he needed was someone to work at.
He’d not expected to choose The Riddler.
At the same time, he’d not exactly not expected it, leading him to believe it was more so a realisation of the plan actually coming into action after rushing into it, rather than the subject himself. Interviewing the others told him enough from their expressions alone that trialing this method with them would just end up a way for them to launch a new scheme, and talking to the Riddler just felt like it had the highest chance of success. He clearly had no interest in trying anything without the perfect riddles under his belt - corset? - nor in listening to what Bruce was saying, but the millionaire just saw that as another worthy challenge. An obstacle to overcome definitely, but for the results, it would be worth it.
He probably should have run the idea past Aunt Harriet before launching into anything, as his neglecting to do as such had caused quite the disagreement (much to the Riddler’s amusement), and left Bruce admonished (even more to the Riddler’s amusement). Yet despite it all, Riddler was in the end allowed to remain on the premises, provided there was no funny business - of course he lived for funny business, so it was yet another job to explain they didn’t mean it so literally.
To Bruce’s surprise, the Riddler had behaved shockingly well. True, he still “borrowed” certain everyday objects around the manor, leaving a trail of ordered riddles in its wake for whoever needed it to locate said thing, but it was hardly as though he was going to give up all his traits immediately - Bruce was many things, but he was not a miracle worker. At the same time, from how the amount of cheeky deeds increased when Aunt Harriet wasn’t around, he was beginning to suspect that the Riddler straightforwardly just did not want to displease her, and he didn’t blame him. Handling Aunt Harriet when she was disappointed was a task even himself as Batman would not want to take on.
The point was, the first few weeks had gone fine, and so had, to his knowledge, the months after that. The issue laid after that first fortnight, when he’d gotten unbelievably busy and had been in and out of meetings, on and off the phone, and up and down the batpoles every other moment, leaving the Riddler to his own devices. He hadn’t caused any mischief, but recently, he’d been quiet.
Too quiet.
As someone who had seen just how wacky the man could get, Bruce found it incredibly jarring. Work has slowed up, so he’d had more time to focus on his progress again, and last night, things had been looking up, as he’d been relatively normal to his usual self, but this morning, he was down again.
Naturally Bruce was bothered by this, and with everything else that had been going on, it was no surprise he’d forgotten something, if he even had; there was always a chance he was just imagining it from the stress. But with the manor’s regular phones out of order and most of the household occupied (Aunt Harriet had gone out shopping early this morning in preparation for something Bruce had failed to listen to, Dick was at school, the Riddler out for a walk around the premises), it left Bruce to ponder over the question-loving fellow.
That was until Alfred entered the room, a towel over his arm. Bruce looked up inquisitively, inaudibly asking what the occasion was.
“It’s the Batphone, sir.”
-
He’d never sped to the scene of calamity more quickly. Commissioner Gordon had filled him in on the situation as well as he could for the information available, and the summary was that the Riddler was allegedly up to his old tricks. He’d tried to contact Bruce Wayne (Batman shuffled uncomfortably, unbeknownst to the two men opposite), but the phones must have been out of service because he couldn’t get a hold of him. Thankfully for efficiency’s sake, a clue had been left in the form of a riddle - what else? - “I’m associated with food, but not eaten. I bring light, but I'm not a meal. What am I?”
The Kandle Lite Factory (a place he remembered well from one of Riddler’s previous schemes) had reported nothing more than buckets of water placed strategically above select doors that had done nothing all day but splash the company’s rotten CEO every time he walked through them. Clearly this was Riddler’s doing, but there didn’t seem to be an exact purpose. Although with the way the employees were talking about their boss, they appeared glad for what had occurred, so Batman doubted any charges would be pressed with him out of commission. And despite Batman feeling that it wasn’t exactly right to do, it was in reality just a bit of harmless fun, and honestly, the boss’s nasty actions had set him up to have it coming.
The receptionist had handed Batman a new sheet of paper with something else scrawled on it, clearly rushed, the clue “what goes up, but must come down”, taking him around a few different buildings before he arrived at a party shop that was having a sale on balloons. Well… it had been having a sale on balloons until the Prince of Puzzlers had gotten his mitts inside and poked small, unnoticeable holes into the bottom of each balloon, making it impossible for them to be inflated. Funnily enough, he’d done the shop owner a favour, as the balloons he’d had delivered last week turned out to be reject models, a type that became incredibly dangerous to those around them when popped, so the lady was genuinely rather grateful for what she believed had been the Riddler’s assistance, and even gifted Batman with the next clue to have been left behind.
“I can be cut, squashed, or taken apart. Sometimes I wear people on my head. What am I?” was indicative of a cake, sending him right over to Mother Gotham’s Bakery. Seeing the old place again after so long, for he’d not been down this way in a while, brought back memories. The Riddler had struck this place before during his silent-film fixation, a scheme that had given Batman the fright of his life where Robin’s safety was concerned. Not that he could hold the action against him since he’d actively chosen to not follow through, of course. Perhaps that had been another reason he’d chosen the Riddler. Out of all the rogues he’d been up against, the Riddler was one of the only ones who almost seemed against hurting anyone too badly. He left traps and seemingly horrible ways to capture and destroy Batman and Robin, but there was always a snag. Just enough time to get out or just little enough power to break the machine or just the right thing in the right place at the right time. Batman had long stopped wondering if it was a coincidence. The Riddler could act as maniacal as he wanted, but he couldn’t hurt them. He lived for the riddles, and what were they without a worthy pursuer?
The fact they’d both been there before had to mean something. Wracking his brain, Batman sought to try the only thing he could think of to trial: word association. Silent films… old. Meeting before, memory. Rewind, backwards, back, behind-
Behind?
Not wanting to waste a moment, Batman scaled the iron side-gate and hopped down, his batboots nicely cushioning the drop. Apart from wanting to locate and take the Riddler back to the manor for obvious reasons, he also wanted to find out just what these petty displays had been all about. These couldn’t hold a candle to his usual plans (could that be what the first clue had been referencing?), for there were no grandiose threats or diabolical plots, all just all so unlike him. The Riddler, at his worst, was a master criminal, the best safe-cracker in Gotham, not some prank-pulling teenager. And yet, that was what he was acting like, and Batman needed to know why. The man prided himself on being puzzling so if it was just another stunt to prove that, then he’d done a brilliant job.
Rounding the back of the bakery, Batman allowed his shoulders to relax with the relief that his hunch had been correct. There stood the Riddler, a little across the way, with his back to him, arm reached high above his own head in order to better spray-paint a message against a wall. It was quite the funny sight, really, given how much smaller he was.
The sound of footsteps approaching caused the Riddler to turn, looking barely bothered until they caught each other’s eyes. For a moment, he seemed to flare to life, making Batman miss seeing that stupid smile on his face when he told of whatever ridiculous idea had wound itself up in his thought process that afternoon, but as quick as it was there, it was gone.
“Time to curtail these juvenile practical jokes, Riddler,” he warned without any of the bite, coming to a stop when he was just a few steps away from where the other had been about to hunch over to pick up a different-coloured can.
“I cannot say I expected anything less than efficiency from you,” the Riddler stated in a rather monotone fashion, dropping the can like it meant nothing to him in favour of turning to face the taller more fully, holding his wrists out against one another, offering himself, “I know when I’ve lost - you’ve caught me, Batman.”
It was exceedingly uncharacteristic. The Riddler he knew put up a fight as soon as he was cornered, not caring what went on in pursuit of achieving his goals. Then again, “fight” may have been a bit of an exaggeration, really, so perhaps “quick escape” or “pulling a trick” was more apt, but no synonym nor change of phrase would erase the fact that he was firmly neutral about everything he’d done so far, and was now handing himself in. Batman had half a mind to suspect it could even be False Face pulling a fast one, but as far as he knew, that cretin was still locked safely away in prison. In response to the Riddler’s sentence, he said nothing, opting to remain still.
The Riddler’s brows furrowed, a familiar confusion creeping onto his face as he puzzled over what he was witnessing, Batman feeling a light relief just from being able to practically see the cogs turning in the other’s genius mind once again. His hands faltered, and he glanced up at his opposition, head inquisitively tilting concomitantly with his next blink.
“Am I under arrest or not?” he questioned, his old tone tingeing the edges of his speech.
“Not,” Batman replied, folding his arms across his chest, “You haven’t done anything.”
“Haven’t done anyth-” He looked insulted, more or less spitting the repetition before he cut himself off to go on. “I broke into a candle factory and poured water all over the CEO!”
“They’re not pressing charges,” came the explanation, “and the lady on reception told me she knew exactly what would happen if you got inside with those buckets, so she opened up the gate to let you in on purpose.”
A scoff. The Riddler’s hands went straight to his hips, positively scandalised. “I poked holes in a bunch of balloons that were going to make a killing when sold!”
The phrasing he used was ironic, almost like he knew exactly what he’d truly done, but given the lack of thought he’d seemingly put into this little episode, Batman doubted it - in a way, his obliviousness, and how frustrated the state of being so was making him, was almost sweet.
“That’s true, but not exactly in the way you think.” Batman waved his index finger to accentuate his point. “Those balloons turned out to be faulty - immeasurably dangerous when popped after being blown up. Your stunt actually saved many lives that would have otherwise been needlessly damaged or lost. In fact, the shop owner asked me to thank you.”
Restraining himself from hopping from foot to foot, the Riddler tried one last desperate attempt. “Graffiti!” he exclaimed, pointing straight behind himself with an arm that lightly vibrated in agitation, “Criminal property damage, criminal mischief, it’s vandalism!”
He was happy to see that the Riddler had been reading up on the law books he’d recommended. With his brains, Bruce had hoped he might want to attempt taking up a career in it, since he’d make for a good lawyer, too. Bruce doubted there was a singular person in the world that could beat him in a battle of wit, but currently potential choices of occupations didn’t matter. Bruce Wayne could help the Riddler after he was home. Right now, he was Batman.
“Normally I’d concede,” he began, voice level, a stark contrast to the unbalanced shakiness of the Riddler’s, “but I’m afraid you picked the wrong wall.”
“What do you mean?!” he demanded.
There wasn’t really much clarification necessary after he gestured to a sign not too far left from where the spandex-wearing man had been scribbling his riddle out. That was another point, actually, how he’d gotten the costume. When he’d left the house earlier, he’d been wearing his favourite civilian outfit, one of the first ones Bruce had purchased for him in that initial week, and from what he’d noticed, he hadn’t been carrying anything else with him, so when, where and how he managed to pull the old costume out from and change into it was an utter mystery. Nevertheless, it was remarkably comforting to see him in it and slowly spiralling back into his usual self. Personality-wise, that was. Not the crimes, and such.
The sign he pointed to had only been hammered down fairly recently, but the city’s weather being none too great had taken its toll on the thing and left behind a bit of water damage. “Gotham Creation Wall - Graffiti Art Permitted,” he read, doing his best to hinder his slight mirth.
“I-” It was not often that one saw the Riddler speechless, but now was one of those times. Biting the inside of his mouth so hard it was a wonder he didn’t draw blood, he looked back and forth between the sign and Batman’s stupid cowl, clutching at straws to try and find something, anything, he could do to actually get what he wanted, but no matter what angle he took, the Batman inside his head was in front of him with yet another rebuttal. So tense that his forearm was quivering, his hand rose to his mouth, opening it to allow access for the tip of his thumb to be held between his teeth in a way that would leave a mark, even through the lilac glove.
“Drat and blast you, Bat-man!” he exclaimed with an infliction on the former half of his name that Batman knew well, “I can’t even get arrested intentionally with you around foiling everything! You’re impossible!”
Expeditiously scanning his surroundings for any last hopes, the Riddler dropped to his knees the moment he caught sight of the spray can on the floor, and half-heartedly lobbed it in Batman’s general direction as a final bid to get in trouble, it colliding not very impactfully with his upper leg.
“Assault, see!” he pointed out, “I attacked you, I’m dangerous!”
He was so weak that Batman doubted he’d do half the amount of damage even if he’d thrown a spiked weapon. Resultantly, he ignored him. “What’s this all about, Riddler? The last I heard, you were the subject of a reformation project under Bruce Wayne’s eye.”
That struck a nerve, and immediately Batman could tell, to his relief, that all this wasn’t him having some kind of criminal relapse. “It is due to the actions of the aforementioned millionaire socialite Bruce Wayne that I’m out here instead of enjoying myself at the manor!” he complained, “You’d think someone they refer to as a philanthropist would talk to me more, especially around this time of the year, but apparently not!”
The Riddler didn’t really enjoy discussing his feelings at the best of times, so the fact he was spilling it all so easily to Batman was rather telling. Whether that be because it had been eating him up for too long or another reason, he couldn’t say.
Before continuing, he threw up his arms in exasperation. “I mean-! I didn’t have to behave myself for so long, I could’ve gone right back to prison if I’d wanted to!” If he’d wanted to. “But he gives me all that fabricated baloney about-” Here he stopped to hold his head up a bit higher, square his shoulders, and fold his hands together politely, clearly mimicking what he envisioned Bruce looking like, before he slipped into an impression that shook Batman with how uncanny it was. “‘Over these next few months that you’re here, I’ll make sure you get the proper reinforcement you need to improve yourself - I’ll see to it personally that you get the support enough to do so. We’re here to help you.’”
Batman scrunched up his nose. He had guaranteed that, and with how busy work had been keeping him, he hadn’t delivered. He may have given the Riddler his freedom, but he’d been depriving him of one of the conditions he believed helped misunderstood people the most, and that was someone to talk to.
“Some promise,” the Riddler said in his normal tone, still grumbling, “I thought- I thought maybe, today, he might redeem himself but no-! Before I left this morning, he barely even looked at me, stuck in his own head as usual! Even said today was ‘just like any other day’,” he slipped in the impression once more for good measure, “can you believe that? Today, of all days?”
…Was today all that special? If Bruce had said that he thought it was just a regular Tuesday, he would have said so, yes - in fact, he was pretty sure he had, earlier. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the day of the week, maybe more the date? The 1st of April, if memory served, and there was nothing all that thrilling about that date other than April Fools Day, of course - could that be it? It would certainly explain all of the pranks as opposed to life-endangering schemes, but at the same time, it still felt too basic to not have a deeper meaning. Batman knew the Riddler, and knowing him as well as he did, these actions, base-level, were completely below him.
But what could pranks have to do with anything? What could he be trying to say, what did he want Batman to solve, to answer, to give him that gratification? Perhaps the name of the day, he considered, one for fools - was he trying to make Batman seem a fool? Everyone else? Or did he himself feel a fool? For why?
There were too many questions to process properly with so little time to respond, but a quick glimpse of the words behind the Riddler’s head had Batman realising he could not complete the puzzle without all the pieces. There on the wall, he took a moment to read the final riddle to himself, the question mark temporarily neglected with where he’d spoilt the other’s crafts before he could paint it to completion.
The riddle “the last special event a man went to was his 35th, and his next will be his 37th - how is this possible?” stumped him. For a moment he wasn’t sure if it was possible, seeing as a surface-level view of the question broke the very laws of mathematics themselves, the fundamentals, even. It did take a while to spin in his less-than-apt for riddle-solving brain (these had always been Robin’s speciality), but suddenly, it clicked. Because the man was currently at his 36th special event, of course. Problem solved but bad news remaining, he still had no clue what that meant, so had no other choice but to review.
Candles, balloons, cake, today was his 36th-
Oh…
Oh.
“It’s your birthday.”
A wide, crooked smile spread onto the Riddler’s face and he shuffled forward excitedly in a bid to get closer. “You remembered!” he declared giddily, “Oh, I knew you would, Batman, I knew it - because, of course, I’m a genius! If anyone was going to be a proper gentleman about it, it would be the caped crusader himself!” That laugh Batman hadn’t heard in so long breached the Riddler’s mouth now, and the little stimming nods that came with it confirmed that he’d gotten exactly what he wanted. That was another thing about him; when he wasn’t doing crime, he always knew how to weave the threads to get exactly what his heart desired. “Nothing like everyone back at the manor, they’re all- why did the vampire’s teeth come out at night?”
He’d used enough brain power for today, he thought, staring down at Riddler, but knew better than to not follow along with his little games. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Because,” he punctuated, raising his arm into an upwards point, “they were fake! Hee-hu-hu-ha-haa!”
Despite the laughter, Batman could sense the feelings of rejection behind that clever disguise of which the Riddler was a master of, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less. He’d tried his best to be there during the process, and recalling it now, Riddler had been hinting at it for weeks, and every time he’d been overlooked. It was a total repeat of Catwoman’s situation, and it kept boiling down to one thing. He wasn’t a good enough parole officer.
There were a few emotions that spiralled around his mind now: regret, sympathy, disappointment in himself… At the same time, he just had to think about the advice he would give Dick if he had been the one in this situation - he’d messed up, but that didn’t mean things were unsalvageable, he still had the ability to turn things around. And he intended to do so. Besides, there was a reason Riddler hadn’t done anything to get into serious trouble, maybe deep down he even knew he’d done nothing wrong, and it was simply the fact he wanted just a bit of attention.
“You don’t know that,” Batman pointed out, his own plan forming, “just because they’ve not said anything yet doesn’t mean there’s nothing to come.”
“Like a surprise party?” the other asked for clarification, laugh faded and brow raised.
“Something like that.” It worked as an excuse, but he didn’t want to leave the Riddler feeling forgotten - he felt awful that he’d not remembered such an event. In fact, he should have known. It was probably what Aunt Harriet had gone out shopping for so early. Still, he could fix this. “Did you ever consider that?”
“Well, I…” he drifted off, nose wrinkled in thought; he didn’t particularly like the notion of his jumping to conclusions possibly meaning he’d been incorrect - he was the Riddler, and the Riddler was never wrong. “No, I suppose not, but-”
“Perhaps,” Batman reasoned, “you just needed to put a bit more faith in them. Even if Mr Wayne has been busy. You must still get on well with his butler, Mrs Cooper, or his youthful ward, Dick Grayson?”
The Riddler was still. This time the joint of his index finger met his mouth, holding it there as he processed. He’d been so upset about things not having gone exactly as he anticipated them to that he frankly hadn’t stopped to consider much else. Regardless, he wasn’t going to fully admit he may have been wrong - there was still a chance they could fail, yet. “True,” he settled with.
Then another thought. The hand shot down and his head snapped up. “How did you know Mr Wayne had been busy?”
“I… ran into him outside of Commissioner Gordon’s office a few weeks ago,” he lied - nice save - “he informed me of his situation then.” Naturally he was making all of this up, but it was imperative to get the Riddler off of this slippery slope, so added a “I asked about how you were doing, actually.”
He perked up. “Oh?”
“I heard you were doing well, and I was glad, as expected. This little stunt had me worried at first, but it seems the Commissioner may have been over-dramatising, just a tad.”
“When doesn’t he!” Riddler let his shoulders flop. “He loves spoiling my fun! So do you.”
The Riddler’s idea of “fun” generally wasn’t, to be fair, at least when he met with him as Batman, but this was a different story. “Not today, Riddler,” he smiled, reaching for a compartment on his utility belt, thanking himself that he carried most things in case of emergencies, “Happy Birthday.”
What he produced from said section was nothing other than a cupcake, still wrapped comfortably in its case. It wasn’t exactly impressive in size, neither did it look the most interesting of flavours, but there was a small bat shape neatly iced on top thanks to Alfred’s fine work.
For a moment, Riddler just stared in awe. He rarely got anyone wishing him a good day, let alone a treat, even if it was a bit of a pathetic one in the grand scheme of things. Scrambling to his feet, both the Riddler’s hands rushed to cup either side of the gift, fingers practically shaking in anticipation. They itched closer toward the item before he jerked forward to finally grab around the casing, removing it from Batman’s grasp and into his own, fixating wide eyes on the cake as though it were some kind of ancient artifact.
Lifting it up and around to give the thing a proper lookover, the smile that crept onto Riddler’s face couldn’t be described as anything less than ecstatic. Giggles began to slip through his mouth once again, partially hindered as he moved the cake to one hand so he could use his teeth to aid him in pulling off the other hand’s glove. The second glove got similar treatment before he bunched them up and shoved them into Batman’s still-open palm with a “hold this!”; being gifted such a present from the caped crusader himself no less was nothing else but an honour, and Riddler was sure he didn’t do this for just anyone, so wanted to get a real feel for his prize.
His fingertips danced around the outside of the case, small chuckles blurting out here and there as he took in the situation, allowing himself to feel the lovely smooth texture it held and the way the bumps of the wrapper were so evenly spaced as to stimulate his touch as he explored further.
“It’s green,” he expressed, not looking up.
Batman, who had been watching him in his own type of fascination, nodded. The case was green, but not for the reason the Riddler probably thought - unfortunately it was just an instance of mere coincidence as they’d run out of blue cases that day and had to resort to second best, but there was no use letting the other know something that would destroy a concept he clearly cared so much about. If it made Riddler happy on his birthday, then Batman was happy too.
“It is, yes.”
It was rather funny, in a way. Knowing Batman and all the resources he had readily available to him, anyone would be wondering what the cupcake itself tasted like, what was in it, how the icing complimented the flavouring without being too sickly - and here Riddler was caring more about the case than anything else. He certainly had different priorities, but that attribute was exactly what made him so interesting to think about. What exactly went on inside that mind of his?
The following laugh lasted only a few seconds, cut short by his own recollection, a hand slapping against his forehead. “Oh, where are my manners?” He met Batman’s gaze again. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” the hero responded, getting a better hold of Riddler’s gloves so as to not lose them. Riddler had been oddly polite even before starting reformation, and yet it still had Batman feeling proud of his progress whenever he heard it. He’d been doing so well even without Bruce’s help, and Aunt Harriet’s strict rules against him must not have been particularly fun to adhere to. The standards had loosened up about a month ago when she realised he was no longer as dangerous as the news said he was, but no-one really blamed her for having put the rules there in the first place. She wasn’t to know Bruce and Dick were none other than Batman and Robin, and that they’d be completely safe even if the Riddler did try anything. Despite it all, though, she and he ended up getting along rather well.
He deserved a good day, a reward for behaving, for wanting to try and doing his best. “As a matter of fact, Riddler, how about another birthday treat? As long as I don’t get any pressing calls on the batphone, I should be free for a few hours - is there anywhere you’d perhaps like to go?”
“The movie theatre.” The reply was almost immediate, indicating he’d definitely had it in mind prior to this. “If you please.”
That was fine, yes. Driving there wouldn’t take long, the film may be an hour or more, probably no more than two, and then he could drive him back to Wayne Manor… Of course via the help of a bit of bat-sleep on the way home, he could just enter via the Batcave and take him upstairs whilst unconscious, giving him enough time to help Aunt Harriet set up whatever it was he was sure she’d gone to purchase for Riddler’s party, almost exactly by the time Alfred brought Dick back from school. Then he’d just need some waking up, a few clever lies of what Batman had allegedly said before leaving, and the party was in-action. All in all, not a bad plan.
“Certainly,” he agreed, “Anything in particular caught your eye?”
“Oh,” The Riddler’s demeanor shifted in an instant, much calmer than moments prior, as he leaned forward with half-lidded eyes, tone low, “oh, it very well may have, Bat-man.”
Tensing as Riddler broke the boundary into Batman’s personal space, he drew his mouth into a thin line, not moving toward the other man but also not actively moving away, unsure of the best move, or if he even wanted to make one. If this puzzling prankster was implying-
“This cupcake, actually,” the Riddler revealed, moving away quickly and holding it up in the gap between them, “I wanted to ask a question about it, you know how I love those.”
The wry smug drawn on his face said it all. Tricky devil. Batman took a moment to compose himself before replying, “Another riddle?”
“Just a question this time, my caped crusader - how do I know that this conveniently-packed little food item you so graciously brought with you for someone you originally thought was committing crime is not, say, poisoned?”
Batman considered himself the type of person to be prepared for most situations. He wouldn’t call it paranoid, as such, but safe - when you were in this line of work, it was always best to come with a plan; how you might get out of a certain trap, for instance, when a plan should be sprung, or what to say when engaged in a battle of wits. Currently, he was completely out of his depth. He was a crime-fighter, not someone who would fatally harm anybody, even if they were an enemy, and it hardly something he’d consider for small misdeeds.
Whatever concern and distress that had woven itself into the unobscured part of his face must have been obvious (or he was just easy to read), because the Riddler cut in to put an end to the comment at that moment.
“What’s wrong?” He raised a brow. “Would you say my question was… puzzling?”
He understood. “Ah.”
“Ha-ha!” he announced, shoving a pointed finger far too close to Batman’s face, “Ho-ho! Got you, did I? Out-witted again, Batman - April Fools!”
It was hardly a well-thought-out prank, but it was probably the best he could achieve with what limited resources he had, just a testament to how quick-thinking he really was. The classic laughter was creeping up again, and the pointed hand withdrew in favour of being bitten. “And ten seconds to midday, no less! Hee-hee!”
Checking his bat-watch confirmed the statement true, leaving Batman pleasantly surprised in wondering how the other had kept time so well without an apparent way to tell the time of his own. A brilliant mind, as he’d said before, and would again.
Letting out a humoured exhale, Batman offered him a somewhat-amused smile. “Alright, Riddler, you got me. I suppose I could hardly win against the King of Conundrums himself on a day dedicated to such problems.”
“How true, how true!” came the excited concurrence, almost accompanied by a clapping of the hands before he realised he was still holding the cake in his other one and stopped. “Our intellects are thoroughly unmatched today.”
Egotistical he may be, but he was also correct. All morning and even before that he’d been one step ahead, and now he was getting a free theatre trip out of Batman, with compliments to boot. It was almost laughable - and was, on account of the fact the Riddler had been laughing at the very situation itself a lot already.
Not wanting to prolong anything further than need be, Batman begrudgingly agreed with his take and requested he go and wait in the Batmobile. This seemed to be good enough for him, because it didn’t take the Riddler long to erupt into giggles once more and dart off in the direction he came. Batman watched him go, all bubbly and animated, and sighed.
Bruce Wayne would not be forgetting his birthday next year.