Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re a fucker!” Jason spits in his face, “You can’t make me do nothing!”

Riddler’s face scrunches in disgust at the proximity. He takes a step back and replies evenly, “You will find that I can. I am under no obligation to permit you knowledge of her whereabouts.”

“I can help!”

Riddler chuckles, “With a tire iron?”

He crosses his arms, “I can use a gun,” he declares with a moody scoff.

He dismisses the fuming teenager with a wave of his hand, “I have it handled, boy.”

Jason’s already tense posture becomes rigid. His jaw clenches, teeth gritting. Riddler assumes he’s about to unleash a barrage of angry immature screams but he is mildly surprised when he harshly scoffs and ultimately backs down. He turns on his heel and begins to tramp away.

“And where are you going, perchance?”

He doesn’t stop, instead in response waving a hand haphazardly over his shoulder, “To find a gun in case you let Steph die.”

Delusional, hormonal, imprudent, harebrained teenager. With as much faith— patience Riddler so graciously gives the boy, compared to everyone else, at the end of the day he is still simple, predictable.

Riddler motions for one of his goons to break down the door. It comes down with a loud, unsatisfying thunk. Five minions in total accompany him on his excursion. The brawn to his brains. Riddler smoothly draws his handgun, lips twinged with a sly smirk. This particular room in the warehouse seems to be used for drinking, gambling, and other substances, by the smell. All four men jump and loudly curse. The leader pulls a gun of his own but they are all outmatched by Riddler’s men.

“Riddle me this, Carson, what do you do when a cocky, empty headed ignoramus personally insults you?”

He scowls, eyes darting between every threat in the room, “The fuck are you talking about?” his gruff tone barely disguises his budding panic.

“Why, my on and off again business partner, Cluemaster. I presume he would not be pleased with the abduction of his only daughter.”

Half truth. Riddler knows for a fact that Arthur cares very little for the activity and status of his daughter, but Riddler doubts he’d appreciate her death, or worse. If it is worse then Riddler presumes he will have to fit in some extra maiming into his precious schedule.

The man just laughs, shaking his head, “Guess you don’t know your partner all too well. He offered her up.”

Pause. Riddler was not wrong. He is never wrong. His finger twitches on the trigger. No that’d be— He foresaw this the whole time. Definitely. Logically. He forces back the shock that he does not have on his face.

The asshat must notice something on Riddler’s face that is not there, for he continues smugly, “Little bitch is insurance.”

Ah. Insurance.

INSURANCE!?

Stephanie’s not scared. She can’t be. The moment she gets scared, she loses control. She’s not scared, just… in survival mode. She tells herself this over and over again, has been for hours. The room is cold, and smells like stale water from the canal mixed with pot. A leaky pipe keeps dripping on her head, lightly wetting her scuffed hair. The ropes dig into the bare skin of her arms and wrists. They burn, from her prior resisting. Those fuckers left her tied up and gagged in some random storage room in a warehouse. It sucks, but at least they’re leaving her alone, for now.

A shudder rips through her at the memory of one the thugs from earlier, how he’d looked her d— How he’d said—

Nothing happened. She inhales harshly through her nose. You’re okay. You’ve got this.

The door creaks open. Her body stiffens, mind cycling through every possible threat she’s about to face. Get ready get ready don’t be scared—

A stupid green suit accompanied by a hat with an even stupider brim. She’s never been so relieved to receive such a dumb sight. But what she didn’t anticipate are the several dark splatters of blood staining his garish clothes. He’s holding his gun up in the air, peering down at her.

“Ah, there you are,” he notes, so casual.

She feels her throat make this terrible, choked noise, muffled behind the gag.

At that, his eyes narrow. The gun is tucked away, then he’s strolling across the miserable room to her. He kneels down and reaches behind her head, gloved hands carefully separating her hair so he can untie the gag. He tosses it aside with something akin to disgust flickering across his face.

She gulps several breaths down, not realizing how badly she needed them. Her chest is hammering so painfully. She wants to get out of these damn restraints — needs to. Her voice sounds so pitiful, dry and quivering, she hates it, “My… it was my dad.”

He shrugs off her words, “Obviously.”

Reaching into his suit jacket, he extracts a multi tool. The blade flicks up with a soft shink. Firm hands grab at her bound wrists. She lets him pull them closer to himself, watching as he works away at the thick rope.

I wasn’t scared. She feels her lip quiver against her will. But I can’t help feeling this way.

Her father has done so much to hurt her since the day she was dragged into the world. The kindest being his prolonged absence from her life. The worst being the cruel, painful hands. And what he did to Mom. But never has he injected his literal daughter into his field of work. Never has he shoved her into the direct line of fire.

And she doesn’t know what she’d do if Mom lost her. She needs Stephanie.

Her wrists are red, irritated, rubbed raw and having been constricted for hours, so many hours…

Riddler’s hand wraps around her ankle, making her mind white out. Her chest screams. Then it’s gone. She feels the blade slip into her hand. And the breath she hadn’t realized was stuck in her throat is allowed to be released. She makes quick work of the rest of her binds.

“I…” she exhales, shaky, “That— That sucked.”

Next thing she knows, Stephanie is being guided into a car, led by a gloved hand gripping her upper arm. She must have zoned out. It's a stark contrast to her previous state, hyper aware, vigilant, narrowed in on every sound, every movement. Now? The pressure of the world slinks down onto her body, holding her under. She feels as if she just ran a fucked up marathon. Her brain is buzzing with dull, devitalized sensation. But it’s almost okay, not having to be the one to drag herself out of this one. Especially considering that it wasn’t even her fault this time that she got caught up in something dire.

When the world smoothes out and the buzzing quiets into a slight thrum, she finds herself sat on a cot that is covered by a plastic sheet. Metal noises chime from somewhere distant. It smells like sanitizer and machine oil.

Jason is sitting in one of those spinny chairs, the ones with the wheels. He’s in front of her with a moody, but determined expression. One hand is holding her wrist, another gently rubbing some kind of cream or ointment into her skin. Storming blue eyes flick up to hers, then flash with recognition, “Hey Steph.”

She swallows a couple of times uselessly, throat dry. Her tongue presses to the roof of her mouth, then makes a short click sound. Then, exhale, “Hey doofus.”

His small smile is comforting, “How you feeling blondie?”

She releases a harsh, stuttery laugh, “Like I fought Killer Croc.”

“Did you win?”

“Please. It was lightwork.”

Something seems to break and before either realize it, they’re pulling each other into a big, secure hug. Messy hair awkwardly gets into Jason’s face, he doesn’t care. Once scrawny arms, now filling out, wrap a little too tightly around Stephanie, she soaks it in. And she finally lets herself cry.

She wants to say, “Jason you baby, don’t cry,” but her choked sob is what comes out instead. He grits his teeth, but she hears his mirrored sound anyways.

Chapter Text

This is frankly a terrible idea. Wasn't being kidnapped enough? Now she's going to be embarrassing herself. But she feels that it'd be kind of rude to not do it. It isn't every day that he actually does something for the benefit of… literally anyone or anything but his massively inflated ego.

She steps inside his office.

He's hunched over a desk. His head jerks up,  “How dare you not kno—” he sighs, “Of course, Stephanie,” and looks back down at what looks like a bunch of tiny scribbles, from where she's standing.

She shuts the door. Well, it's not going horribly, yet.

“If your injuries aren't treatable here, have Jason take you to that Dr Thompkins.”

“I'm not hurt bad.”

He doesn't look up from his work. Is it all written in green pen? There is branding and then there is this. “Then is there something you need assistance with, Stephanie? You must not need something material because if you did, you would just steal it and assume I never noticed.”

“I—” she freezes. Huh. Yeah he's got her there. She never thought he actually knew about the whole thievery thing. To be fair he's got tons of shit and won't miss a thing, and he's got a lot of money.

Stephanie takes a breath, and starts again, “Uh, Edward.”

It's almost comical the way his face instantly twists into a disgusted, stone faced deadpan.

Third time's a charm! “Nygma,” she starts.

His eyes narrow but he leans back in his chair, looking almost patient, “What is it, Stephanie?”

“You rescuing me, you didn't have to do that, y'know.”

His tone is even, “I'm aware.”

“Um,” what the hell is she doing. Stephanie knows she's more confident than this, “My dad won't be happy with you.”

“Riddle me this, Stephanie, what does Arthur Brown and an appendix have in common?”

She blinks, “Uh—”

He continues smugly, “You were born with both which would gladly kill you. And sure theoretically they have use but once again they're just unnecessary and not to mention a pain to get rid of.”

She can’t help the laughs that spark, finding herself grinning, “That’s so dumb.”

“I am a genius. Nothing I say is dumb, merely factual.”

She snorts, “Well that was pretty factual.”

“I'm aware.”

Stephanie rubs at suspiciously wet eyes, “Thanks, for saving me.”

Riddler shakes his head, “It was of mere convenience. Jason wouldn't be pleased if I left you to deal with the situation yourself. And he is… useful. I'd rather keep him complacent.”

She makes an amused noise and strolls over, planting her hands on the edges of his desk. Leaning forward, “What's all of this crap?” the green scribbles aren't of any language she knows, little messy symbols.

“It's encrypted. So nosy little brats aren't able to snoop about my plans.”

She grins, “Oh come on! That's my specialty.”

“I know, Spoiler,” he enunciates pointedly, “Need I remind you how we met?”

“In my defense I was fucking with my dad, not you.”

His arms cross, “Yes about that. What precisely is your plan since your father has been in jail for seven weeks?”

She brushes off the jab, shrugging, “He isn't my only nuisance to deal with.”

“Ah but isn't that the whole purpose of the Spoiler?”

“Well yeah, it was, but… I dunno, I just have more to deal with now. More that feels more important,” when she blinks she sees the faces of those she’s helped behind her eyelids. Last week, some college student girl getting mugged. A street kid getting mixed up in a knife fight. Saving a fucking dog from a tree, “I'd rather sleep every night and not be shot at ten times a week, because God does that sound like Heaven. But it's…”

He raises a brow.

She huffs, fisting chunks of her hair and lightly pulling, “This is what I do, okay? You terrorize the populous over your brain and I help people not get hurt by assholes, or, I can at least get them some contentment during the shittiest days of their lives.”

This is the longest he's never blabbered about something. But hell she can sense him mentally tearing her apart.

She feels the need to defend herself, for some unknown reason, “I'm not being dumb— I'm capable.”

He makes a small, hmph, and states, “I never said you weren't.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Okay.”

She squints, “What's this— Why are you being like this?”

He cocks his head to the side, “Like…?”

She rolls her eyes pointedly.

“I never said you were incompetent, Stephanie.”

Her shoulders hunch a bit, hands gripping tighter at her locks, “You had to drag me out from a warehouse,” and haul my sorry butt to your secret lair.

“That was your father’s—”

“It always is!” hands throw themselves up, hair swishing. God, she just feels so damn frustrated. Dad has always been some distant creature-leech… thing. She’s not good at metaphors but— He’s always looming, only daring near to ravage the little good she’s scavenged for herself. It hurts, like a wound forever weeping. And it pisses her off.

He watches her with a curiosity glinting in his eye, and doesn’t seem offended by the interjection.

“You shouldn’t have wasted your time getting me,” she doesn’t know why exactly she is spilling these specific words to this specific person. They’re just pouring out, “Just because he's behind bars does not mean he can’t reach me. I will never escape him. So next time he has some dickwads take me, don’t bother rescuing me! It’s not convenient!”

She feels out of breath by the time it’s over, by the time the words stop blabbering out. This is probably about the time he starts laughing at her. Or perhaps she’s annoyed him so bad he’ll kick her out permanently. She doesn’t have friends. She doesn’t have a home. She was lucky to get his help—

“Alright um,” his face is scrunched up in an unpleasant expression, but at least not angry, “Oh gee, I loathe having to deal in social, emotional matters but…” he covers his face with the palm of his gloved hand, “Just— Stephanie, sit,” he mutters, words stiff and stunted.

She looks around. There is a plastic foldable chair in the corner, which pretty clearly states how he feels about visitors. Nearly dropping it, she manages to unfold the piece of crap and set it down. “Okay, I’m sat?”

“My f—” she almost balks as he shudders, “My biological paternal er… man, never treated me with the true respect and admiration I deserved, either.”

Did I break him? Stephanie is horrified.

He continues, avoiding all eye contact, “He enjoyed more brutish, brainless activities: sports, cars, beer, more sports,” he scoffs, “And because I wasn’t like h— because I was better than him, he hated me. So therefore to “fix” me, he would…” his already rigid posture, like a coil, winds with further tension, “opt to teach his unnecessary lessons via a firm hand, or the belt,” he adds flatly, “he loved his fucking belt.”

Stephanie leans back in the chair, her perplexity settling in her stomach, shifting into  highly uncomfortable understanding. She returns dryly, “My dad preferred shoving. He hated when I got in his way, or near him. He likes hitting people he knows he can get away with, weaker, trapped.”

Edward— Riddler, bitterly muses, “Isn’t that the worst part? They are supposedly meant to protect you, parents, men,” he sighs long and tired, “People are so silly.”

A sad smile worms its way onto her face, “Yeah. Silly. I— How did you escape him?”

“I was lucky,” he shrugs, “He lost interest.”

Of course. Why would Stephanie be so foolish to believe that some random guy who dresses up to torment a man in a batsuit would hold the magical answers to her problems? Sounds pretty darn nuts.

“Your father is a fool, Stephanie,” he finally lets himself look at her. His gaze is so intense it makes her want to physically shrink in the chair, “While you are several hundred leagues away from I in intelligence, that is not a fair metric to judge you by. So ignoring me, you are clever, I’ll admit. And compared to your pathetic sperm donor, well,” in a jerky, stiff motion, he looks down, messing about with his paperwork as if he had been working the entire time, “you are brilliant.”

Her mental spiral hits pause.

You are brilliant.

She remembers her dad’s voice, when she was little and wanted to play hide and seek with him. He had pushed her away so many times, and when she tried to climb onto his lap, he had grabbed her by the hair and practically threw her, yelling, “Leave me alone, stupid girl! Crystal control your fucking kid or I swear to God I’ll—”

She inhales shakily.

No fuck you Dad. I’m fucking brilliant.

Not letting her get a word in, the man before her continues, “And horrifically sneaky. It is astounding how someone so awfully loud can go undetected. And another thing, you do not let people control you. I’d say that is a very valuable trait,” he lists off in a tone so casual, they both know it is a load of crap, “So as a word of advice, from a genius, while Arthur can send people after you, and perhaps one day seek you out to further his means, he cannot control you. So do not let him. It would be an utter waste.”

She realizes she’s wrapped her arms around herself, holding on like a sad self hug, “And what the heck do I do if he gets me again?”

“Do not worry your tiny little head over that. I will have it swiftly dealt with, no matter how many frustrating times he predictably acts. After that? I know you can handle it.”

It’s not perfect, not by far. This guy’s a weirdo. But it is more secure than anything else she’s ever been allowed to have. It is a strange feeling, knowing you’re not alone, left to deal with a monster who won’t stop creeping under your bed, or using you as insurance. In her head, she knows that she is a kid, law and all, logic and all. But her access to that privilege was stripped away years ago, when she had to look after Mom, when she had to look out for herself. With Jason she can be an annoying kid, with Riddler, she doesn’t have to be the adult if some asshole kidnaps her.

And you know what? That’s enough for her.

She grins, “Yeah, I’ll just hit him back harder.”

A week later she visits him in prison. The guard appointed for her visit is delighted to get a break, “not noticing” Arthur’s cry as Stephanie decks him in the face.