Simple Pleasures

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/37774192.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: The Batman (Movie 2022)
Relationship: Edward Nygma/Bruce Wayne
Character: Bruce Wayne, Edward Nygma, Alfred Pennyworth
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Stalking, Slow Burn, Eventual
Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Obsession, Trauma
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-03-16 Completed: 2022-05-19 Chapters: 24/24 Words:
126283

Simple Pleasures
by RovingOtter

Summary

The game shifts. Bruce learns the Riddler's true identity. Instead of handing him over the
police, he decides to break his own rules and deal with the man himself.

Notes

More tags will be added as I update.

 Chapter 1

Bruce had scoped out the diner ahead of time. He’d determined the ideal observation point—the
rooftop of a rundown tenement building across the street. Crouched near the rooftop’s edge,
smothered in shadows, he would not be seen. He adjusted his binoculars, zooming in on the wide,
bright rectangle of the diner’s window.

Rain ran off his dark cloak in rivulets and dripped from his mask as he stared through two layers of
water-smeared glass at the man—an ordinary-looking man, bespectacled and pale, his hair limp
and soft. A cup of coffee and a slice of pie sat on the counter in front of him. He ate slowly,
chewing each bite more times than seemed strictly necessary, eyes closed, head tipped slightly
back, as though moved to transcendental bliss.

Must be some amazing pie.

The man came to this diner almost every evening. Sometimes he ordered a slice of pie (pumpkin
or custard, occasionally banana cream) and coffee. Sometimes it was a sandwich with chips and a
bowl of soup. Never a sandwich and pie—as though he didn’t dare allow himself that indulgence.

He always paid with cash. He would remove the bills slowly, one by one, from his wallet and
smooth them out on the counter in front of him with his fingertips. The change, he would arrange
in neat towers of identical coins, or in lines and circles, as though spelling out a word. His routine
was careful, orderly, and nearly unchanging: go to work, go to the diner, go home to his cramped
apartment, spend some time on his desktop computer (from outside, Bruce could watch him sitting
there, though he could never quite make out what was on the screen) shower and sleep. No blocks
of time unaccounted for…except in the quiet hours between midnight and four a.m. Sometimes he
left his apartment during those hours. But on each of these occasions, when Bruce tried to tail him,
the man had managed to shake him off. He would disappear in seemingly impossible ways—turn
down a one-way street that led to a dead end, and then he simply wasn’t there.

He lived alone. He appeared to have no friends. At least, Bruce had never seen him with another
person.

When the waitress came around to refill his coffee, pot in hand, he beamed at her, eyes bright. His
lips moved as he gestured toward the pie with an almost childlike enthusiasm.

What exactly do they put in that pie that’s got you so revved up? Or is it something else you’re
excited about? Got some plans for tonight?
Bruce couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but he noted the waitress’s expression—smiling,
nodding, but tense. Uneasy. As though she sensed something just slightly off about him.

She backed away a little—perhaps unconsciously—and the light faded from the man’s eyes,
though his smile remained in place, lips taut around bared teeth. He lowered his head, and she
quickly retreated into the kitchen. The man’s smile vanished as though a switch had been flipped
in his head. He kept eating with a blank expression, pausing every few bites to sip his coffee.

You don’t have very good luck with women, do you? They know. They see the wolf behind the
sheepskin.

The man checked his watch and glanced at the window, a strange expectancy in his eyes.

Waiting for someone?

For an instant, his gaze flicked up toward Bruce, and Bruce tensed. That boyish face stared
directly at him through the binoculars—or seemed to. Bruce had meticulously examined this
location from every angle. He was confident that he wasn’t visible from within the diner. He
clamped down on the reflexive surge of panic and remained motionless. Part of the scenery.

The man’s gaze slid away. He took another sip of his coffee. He had a curious habit, Bruce
noticed; when he set the cup down, rather than simply release it, he dragged his fingertips across
its surface before letting go. As though to avoid leaving prints. He did it every time.

The check arrived. The man counted out bills, pressing down their corners, making them lie flat,
then began to count out the change. From this angle, Bruce could just make out the pattern they
formed: a question mark.

The man pulled up the hood of his black hoodie and walked out of the diner, shoulders hunched
and head down, letting the rain drench him. No umbrella.

Going to catch a chill. That’s what Bruce’s mother always said to him when he went outside
without a coat. You’re going to catch a chill.
Bruce waited. Then he climbed down from the rooftop, approached the diner, and entered.

The waitress was picking up the empty plate and coffee mug. She glanced up. At the sight of
Bruce standing there in full Batman gear, she shrieked and dropped the mug. It shattered.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said.

“What do you want?” she asked, breathless.

He pointed to the shards on the floor.

“That?” She blinked wide, fawn-like eyes. She was young, dark-haired, with a small mole on the
side of her nose. “Sure. Okay.”

He removed a plastic bag from a pouch at his belt, crouched, collected the broken fragments, and
slipped them into the bag.

“One more thing,” he said. “That man. The one who was just in here. Do you know his name?”

“Him?” Her brows knitted together. “Um…Edward. It’s Edward. I don’t know his last name.”

Bruce nodded once. “Thanks.” Bag in hand, he walked out of the diner.

***

He’d been watching the man for eight days now. In that time, no murders had occurred. Despite
Bruce’s caution, he believed that the man was aware that he was being observed.

The Riddler had left no fingerprints, no physical traces of himself at the crime scene in the mayor’s
house. Except for one thing: a single hair tucked inside the card addressed to the Batman. A pale
brown, wispy hair.
Bruce could have given it to the police. To this day, he didn’t know how to explain—even to
himself—why he hadn’t…except for the nagging feeling that if he did that, he would be breaking
the unspoken rules of the game, and a door would close. His chance would slip away. The hair
was clearly meant for him. It could not have been an accident. It was a message: Come and find
me, if you can. Here. I’ll make it easy. Here’s a piece of me.

So Bruce had run a DNA test using his own private equipment. He’d searched for a match in the
Gotham City Police Department’s database—which he had access to, thanks to Gordon—but
nothing came up. The Riddler had no criminal record.

Then a series of vandalism incidents occurred, hundreds of them within a span of days—the words
TO THE BATMAN spray-painted on the walls of various locations in Gotham. No message
attached. Just those words. If this was the Riddler’s work, he must have help; there was no way
one man could do all that. But it left Bruce bewildered. He could see no commonality between the
locations. He began to think that it wasn’t Riddler’s work after all—that it was a trend. Copycats.

But when he spread a map of Gotham out on the table and stuck a pin the location of each incident,
the pins formed symbols from the cipher the Riddler had used in his first card: SI--LE -LE-S--ES.

Letters and gaps. A simple puzzle. Fill in the blanks.

Simple Pleasures.

He knew that name. It was the name of a Gotham diner.

Curved window. Strips of blue neon lighting. And every night at 8:00 p.m., regular as clockwork,
there he was. The man in the black hoodie.

Of course, he was not the diner’s only regular patron. But the way he showed up every night
without fail…the way he kept glancing at the window, waiting, watching…

So Bruce observed him from afar. Waiting for him to slip up, to reveal something. After all,
Bruce had no real evidence that this was the Riddler: it was only a feeling. But at a certain point,
he got tired of waiting. It was time to make a move.

***
He brought the cup-fragments back to his lab and inspected them. On one shard—part of the cup’s
rim—he could make out the faint impression of a lower lip. With a cotton swab, he collected a
sample and ran a DNA analysis, comparing it to the sequence from the hair.

It was a match.

***

He went back to the diner again the next night. Again, it was raining. And again, the man in the
black hoodie was there, hunched over the counter, alone, eating his pie.

Bruce was inching into some morally gray territory. He knew that.

But the Riddler was dangerous, unpredictable—and he was specifically fixated on the Batman.
There was a weigh in Bruce’s chest, a sense of responsibility for the mayor’s grisly death, and for
Savage’s, and for Colson’s. Bruce had to deal with this in his own way. Swift. Decisive. No
room for hesitation. Riddler wanted to be chased. So Bruce would oblige.

But Riddler clearly didn’t have a firm grasp of who he was dealing with.

His heartbeat was quick but steady. He walked with the smooth, brisk, measured gait of a predator,
slowly closing the distance between himself and the hunched form ahead of him.

Edward.

Where was he going? Ordinarily, Edward walked to the subway station after his meal in the diner,
but now he was walking in the opposite direction. He didn’t have a car. He didn’t even have an
umbrella. But the rain didn’t seem to bother him. He walked with his arms hanging at his sides,
hair plastered to his head.

As Bruce drew nearer, he heard the man humming softly under his breath, the sound almost lost in
the steady drone of the rain. The melody was somehow both playful and eerie…and vaguely
familiar, though Bruce couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.
They rounded a corner.

And Edward stopped. Instinctively, Bruce went stone-still, hovering a few paces behind him. The
rain drummed down around them on the narrow, isolated street. The yellow glow of a streetlight
flickered ahead.

Without looking back, the man began to sing in a clear, lilting tenor, his voice rising like a sweet
scent into the stale, smoky Gotham air: “I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail. Yes I would. If I
could. I surely would…” As he sang, his hand moved, creeping toward something hidden in his
jacket. “I’d rather be a hammer than a nail—”

It was an old trick. A distraction.

Edward was fast, but Bruce was faster. Within a half-second his gloved hand was clamped over
the man’s mouth, one arm around his torso, pinning the man’s arms to his sides.

There was a short, sharp intake of breath. His prey went stiff and tense but didn’t struggle, even as
Bruce dragged him off the cracked sidewalk and into a shadow-choked alley. A rat scuttled away,
disappearing behind a Dumpster.

“Don’t scream,” Bruce whispered, lips moving close to Edward’s ear.

His captive shuddered lightly in his grip, squirmed a little, and went limp. Utterly pliant. Bruce
could feel his heart racing, a hummingbird-flutter in his narrow chest.

And then he giggled. It was muffled but unmistakable.

Bruce’s hand tightened over his mouth. He thought about the dead man—the dead mayor, dead
father—limp in his chair, face bound up with duct tape, thumb severed at the joint. He thought
about Colson, the stark terror in his eyes, the Riddler’s voice taunting him from the other side of a
cellphone screen.

“Is this a joke to you?” he rasped. “Is this a game?”

Edward’s head turned slowly back and forth—a silent shake—then up and down in a nod.

No. And yes.

“It was you. Wasn’t it? You killed them.”

His eyes rolled upward to meet Bruce’s gaze. Those eyes looked enormous, whites gleaming wetly
in the darkness.

“Well?”

Another slow nod. He was breathing rapidly, still trembling a little…yet he didn’t seem scared,
exactly. The glassy, dazed look in his eyes, the dilation of his pupils behind the smudged lenses of
his oversized glasses, the flush in his cheeks, the open, panting mouth under Bruce’s palm, it was
almost—

Bruce glanced down. There was a bulge in the man’s pants.

Bruce twitched, tensing—then steadied himself.

Stay focused.

He pulled a hypodermic from his pocket and pressed it against Edward’s neck. Edward flinched,
gasped and went noodle-limbed—deadweight in Bruce’s arms. Bruce reached into Edward’s
jacket and felt around, expecting to find a pistol, or maybe a hammer—what else would he have
been reaching for? Instead, his gloved fingers closed on stiff cardboard. He pulled it out.

A card?

He’d read it later; he couldn’t linger here.

Bruce tucked the card into one of the pouches at his belt, then hauled Edward down to the end of
the alley and up a rickety iron fire escape to the rooftop of a tenement building. With the
unconscious man tucked under one arm, he traveled above the streets, leaping between rooftops
until he came to the street where his own car—one of them—was parked.

Once his captive was manacled and safely stashed in the trunk, Bruce got behind the wheel. His
gloved fingers flexed and clenched on the leather.

And for a moment, his conviction wavered.

What was he doing?

The Batman was a vigilante, but he had a few rules. First and foremost, he didn’t kill people. He
didn’t use guns. He would injure people, of course, but only to incapacitate them, never to inflict
pain for the sake of pain. He didn’t torture. So what, exactly, was his plan? How did he intend to
extract the truth from this man?

It wasn’t too late. He could still do this by the books. He could turn Edward over to the police so
he could be tried for his crimes.

Bruce thought about that boy—the dead mayor’s son. That lost, blank expression. The kid was the
one who’d found the body, the police had said. Bruce knew that bewildered expression, because
he’d been on the other side of it. The mind refused to accept certain realities. At a certain point,
feeling shut down.

No. This was too personal. And the Riddler was too clever, too dangerous. After the chase he’d
led them on, Bruce didn’t trust the police to hold onto him; he would find some way to slip through
their fingers.

It was strange, then, that Bruce had been able to capture him so easily. Almost as though he
wanted to be caught.

Regardless, Bruce had him now.

Alfred would not approve. But Alfred didn’t need to know. There were many rooms in the Wayne
Manor, and some of them were soundproof. He could keep his captive safely stashed away while
he figured out his next move.

He pulled the card—the one Edward has been carrying in his jacket—from his belt pouch. Slowly,
he turned it over in his fingers. No, envelope, this time. On the front of the card was an image of a
smiling, brown furred creature—which Bruce initially mistook for a weasel—with its paws on its
cheeks, surrounded by a flurry of red and pink hearts. The text beneath: I’M OTTERLY
OBSESSED WITH YOU! He opened the card. On the inside was written:

I’m nobody! Who are you?

Are you—Nobody—too?

No cyphers this time. No riddles. Just a fragment of poetry. But the card’s presence—the
familiar handwriting—left little doubt that this was the same man who’d bludgeoned the mayor to
death with a hammer.

Bruce tucked the card back into his pouch, pulled away from the alley, and began to drive. Rain
pattered on the windshield, and the wipers swished like guillotines, cutting through the droplets,
transforming the streetlights and stoplights into smears of lightning and blood.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

Thanks so much for the kudos and comments, everyone! The responses have been
very encouraging. :) Not sure yet how long this story is going to be. I'm just kind of
seeing where it goes.

Edward woke, head fuzzy and throbbing, a band of dull pain across his brow, a soft mattress under
his back. He was someplace warm. He was still wearing his rain-damp clothes, but his hoodie had
been removed, and so had his shoes and socks. He clenched and flexed his bare toes, pushed them
against the soft sheets beneath him.

His arms were spread, crucifixion-style. He tried to move his right hand; cold pressure bit into his
wrist, and metal jangled. The left hand was similarly manacled. A hard ridge against his throat
suggested the presence of a collar. There was no give to it. It was affixed directly to the bed’s
headboard.

His eyes cracked open, to be greeted by a dark and red blur. All he could say with certainty was
that he was indoors. Panic spiked, a brief sting of adrenaline, before he realized his glasses had
been removed.

His own breathing echoed in his ears; his heart beat faster than normal. He focused his mind,
bringing his pulse down to just over sixty beats per minute. Edward had taught himself long ago to
control his heartrate.

He blinked a few times. His tongue crept out to wet his lips, which still tasted faintly of rain and
leather. With the taste came memory.

He found me.

His pulse quickened again, despite his best efforts.

He found me. He brought me here.

Was he the one who had taken off Edward’s shoes and socks? He must have.

Somehow, that last thought—that the Batman had taken the time to peel off Edward’s rain-
drenched socks—gripped his body with an excited animal trembling.

Both of his eyes were extremely nearsighted, but the right was worse than the left, courtesy of a
buck-toothed teenage thug who had punched him there when he was twelve, damaging one of its
intricate inner structures. He closed his right eye, now, and the world became smaller but
marginally sharper.

There.

In the corner. Someone standing. A tall, dark form. It was him—of course it was him. Edward
could just make out the two dark peaks atop his mask, but more importantly, he could feel the
Batman’s energy, his aura. He could feel it sliding against his own, a sensation like a wool blanket
against the rubbery skin of a balloon, generating static electricity. He felt himself getting hard
again, there under the man’s silent gaze. The blurriness of the world was frustrating. He wanted to
see the man’s eyes.

“May I have my glasses, please?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

Edward gave a small nod. Beneath the fluttery swirl of excitement and curiosity, he felt a stirring
unease. Confusion. “All right.” He swallowed. He was unsure how long he’d been unconscious,
but he suspected it had been at least a few hours. “I’m rather thirsty.”

“Talk, first.”

He felt naked without his glasses.

There was some greater plan to this. There must be. The Batman was his ally, his comrade.
Wasn’t he?
Their courtship had been intoxicating—a union of minds, something which transcended
boundaries. Edward had first planned to draw the game out a bit more before meeting him face to
face, to continue dancing with him from afar. But in the end, he hadn’t been able to resist the
temptation to invite the Batman into his world, to meet him directly. Had he made a mistake? Had
he moved too fast, too indelicately? Had he offended him with his overly eager and thrusting
invitations?

The Batman didn’t move, didn’t speak. He remained standing in the corner, letting his presence
fill the room.

“Where is this place?” Edward asked.

“You don’t need to know that.” Now, for the first time, he moved—a shift. He seemed not to
walk, but to glide closer like a black swan.

Edward tugged at his restraints again; more jangling metal. He tried to sit up, but the collar
prevented it. Where were his glasses?

“We’ll start simple,” the Batman said. “What’s your real name?”

This wasn’t how he had expected their first meeting to go. “You don’t trust me,” he said, and his
voice emerged small and forlorn. “I thought we had an understanding. I thought—” he stopped,
drawing in a breath. He’s being cautious. That’s all. He has to be. Edward understood caution.
“Never mind. It’s all right.” He gave the Batman a wobbly smile, gazing up at him through his
naked, blurry eyes. “We can talk like this.”

“Then tell me your real name.”

“I don’t have one.”

“The name on your birth certificate.”

“I don’t think I have one of those, either. If I do, I’ve never seen it.”
The dark, blurry form filled his vision. “It’s a simple question,” he said. “Give me your name.”

“I’m from nowhere. I’m nothing. You know the name on my license. It’s Edward Nashton. I
think of myself as Edward Nygma. But those are just letters. You can arrange them however you
want. I’m the Riddler.”

The dark form glided closer.

“How many people have you killed?” the Batman asked.

“Five.”

Closer still. “How many more were you planning to kill?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind yet.” The words came out in a breathless rush now. “I
do have plans though. I thought—I thought maybe we could work together. If you want to. We
could change this city. It will be beautiful.”

He wished he could see Batman’s expression. But his eyes were next to useless right now. He
closed them to eliminate the distraction of vision. His nostrils flared and contracted, smelling
sweat-salt and fabric softener from the sheets and something else, something old and piney and
earthen, which seemed to be the smell of the house itself.

“It’s funny,” Edward said, smiling with his eyes closed. “I’ve rehearsed this so many times in my
head. What I would say to you when we first met. But now—”

“Open your eyes.”

He obeyed.

The Batman hovered over him. A hazy shadow. Then he leaned in, gaining focus, emerging
slowly from the fog of myopia. “You don’t seem to really understand the situation you’re in,” said
that rasping voice.
The sense of confusion and unease deepened. “I’m manacled to a bed,” he said, “in an unknown
location. You brought me here so we could talk in private. I assume the restraints are just a
precaution until you can confirm my identity. What am I not understanding?”

“You’re talking to me as though we’re friends.”

“Aren’t we? I mean—we could be. We want the same thing. We have the same goal.”

“No. We don’t.”

He blinked a few more times. His mind wouldn’t process the words. His erection was fading.

“I am nothing like you.”

“You—” he swallowed.

“What did you think? That we were working together? We’re not.”

“But….” The word emerged small and flat. He was misunderstanding something. Wasn’t he?
“You’re not one of them. You’re like me. You hate them. You hate this city. You hate its cruelty
and its rot. I knew that if I could just reach you, just talk to you—”

“Let me be clear. You’re my prisoner. You’re going to stay in those restraints.”

Edward breathed softly into the silence. His heartbeat was steady, but a void was opening inside
him. His gaze roved the room again. Despite the blurriness, he could make out certain things,
such as the red blinking light of a security camera in the left corner of the ceiling, adjacent his bed.

“You are going to tell me everything,” the Batman said. “All your plans. Everything you’ve
done. You’re going to give me the names of everyone who’s working for you.”

“No one is working for me,” he heard himself say. “I’m alone.”
“That’s a lie.”

A faint hum filled his head.

Had he been wrong all this time?

His nostrils twitched. That smell. That piney, oaky smell, a smell like cigars and bourbon glasses
filled with clinking ice and oiled leather and Christmas trees surrounded by expensive glittering
toys…it was the smell of money. He was in a rich man’s house. A rich man’s captive. He had
handed himself on a silver platter to the enemy.

“No.” His breathing came sharper, faster. He twisted, pulled at the restraints and bared his teeth.
He felt sick. “No. No. No!”

“Struggling won’t—”

He howled, a wild, high, wounded animal sound. His feet kicked. His back arched off the bed.

“Hold still! You’re going to—”

“NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO—” he was gasping, choking, the collar digging into his neck
with bruising force as he strained against it.

Rough, gloved hands grabbed him, restrained him. He kicked and roared. He strained against the
collar until black spots chased themselves across his vision. He shuddered, lurched, groaned and
gurgled, the endless repetition of no dissolving into incoherent bleats. When a gloved hand strayed
too close to his face, his teeth clamped down on it, clenched and clenched with enough force to
grind against bone through leather and skin. He heard the sharp intake of breath, but the Batman
didn’t scream, didn’t make a sound, not even when blood began to soak through his glove.

And then the man’s full weight was on top of him, crushing him down into the bed, pinning him.
“Hold still,” he rasped again.

Edward was not strong. He was brutal, which could pass for strength; he struck hard and fast, and
with the right tools he could deliver a killing blow in seconds, but his strength was all in planning
and precision. He was a small man. He’d never possessed the sort of raw physicality that the
Batman did. His captor was a wall of muscle. Immovable.

He went limp. His teeth remained latched around the Batman’s hand.

“I can drug you again if I have to,” the rough voice said.

He lay still. Controlled his breathing. Slowed his heartrate. Conserve. Already, he was weakened
by dehydration.

The weight atop him lifted. He opened his jaws, and the hand slid free, leaving the taste of salt and
copper on his tongue.

He closed his eyes. A dull ache, a blunted knife’s edge, dug into his heart. But he was used to this,
wasn’t he? Hope revealed itself as illusion. The mask came off, and an ugly reality stared him in
the face. He was alone. He had always been alone. This changed nothing. He had been stupid,
but he knew better now. He retreated into himself—reshuffling, rearranging, reconfiguring the
data in his mind.

His heartrate dipped below sixty beats per minute.

He needed to shut down all the unnecessary parts of his metabolism, to become a crocodile
sleeping beneath the water. His captor would starve him, keep him weakened so that he could drill
through his defenses and into the soft meat of his mind. Edward would have to bury his secrets
deep. To become a block of stone, solid and unyielding.

He had a lot of practice at that. He had been tortured before, many times, when he was still young
enough for it to be called bullying. He had learned how to detach himself from what was
happening to his body. He would retain what strength he still possessed so that when the proper
moment came, he could strike.

And then the Batman would pay.

The hands withdrew from him. He lay still, still, still.

Something came toward him. He flinched, turning his head away.

“Here.” Again, the thing moved toward his face. It nearly touched his nose before it sharpened to
coherence in his vision. A glass of water.

He stared.

“You said you were thirsty,” Batman said. “Drink.”

He didn’t move.

“It’s not drugged. Trust me, if I drug you, you’ll know.”

Edward swallowed. His throat prickled, hot and tight.

He didn’t want anything this man—this liar—had to offer him. But he was thirsty. When the glass
touched his lower lip, he drank…first slowly, then faster, gulping it down, spilling some down his
chin. He finished the glass.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

He hadn’t meant to say that. The words had simply slipped out. At an early age, politeness had
been drummed into him, and old instincts had taken over. But perhaps it was better if he hid
behind a meek, polite façade. To pretend that he was already broken.

He turned his face toward the wall. “Are you going to torture me?” His voice emerged faint.
Creaky.

He heard the scrape of wood being dragged across the floor, then a rustle of movement. He turned
his head to see Batman sitting in a chair next to his bed. There was something strange about seeing
the Batman sitting in a chair like a normal person. It was a curiously unguarded gesture.

“I use violence,” the Batman said. “But only when I have to.”

Edward breathed shallowly, staring at the ceiling. “That’s not an answer.”

“I’m hoping that I can persuade you.”

“Persuade me?” He felt his lips stretching into a smile. He laughed, coughed, and winced at the
flare of pain in his throat. Yes, he was definitely going to have bruises there. Wouldn’t be the first
time.

“Yes. Persuade you to cooperate.” Without warning, he removed something from the pouch at his
belt and slipped Edward’s glasses back onto his face.

The world snapped into focus. He looked up, meeting the Batman’s eyes for the first time since
he’d awakened in this place. A moment’s disorientation swept over him.

Normally, he didn’t like eye contact. It made him feel as though other people were crawling
around inside his head, probing his brain tissue with hundreds of little psychic fingers. Now—
looking into those eyes through the holes of the mask—he felt a strange drop in his stomach.

It was hard to define what he saw in the man’s eyes. But it was not hatred or disgust.

Edward smiled faintly. “If you’re hoping to reason with me, you may as well kill me now.
Haven’t you heard? I’m insane.”

“We’ll see.”

He laughed again—a thin, warbling laugh—and broke off in a fit of coughing. His eyes stung. He
closed them again. That ache was back—that pressure inside his chest. “Do you like riddles?” he
whispered.
“No more games, Edward. We’re past that.”

If he believed there would be no more games just because Edward was physically restrained, then
he wasn’t as smart as Edward had thought.

“I am an illusion, but I control the world,” he whispered. “Kings and queens worship at my feet.
Nations dance on my strings. I decide who eats and who starves, who rules and who is ruled. I
change form, unshackled from the material realm. Say my name.”

Batman stood. Blood still dripped from his injured hand, though he paid no attention to it. “There
are things I need to deal with," he said. "I’ll be back later tonight. Try to get some sleep.”

“You’re just going to leave me chained to the bed, then?”

“What did you expect?”

“A little courtesy, maybe.”

“I told you. You’re a prisoner.”

“What if I have to…” he trailed off. Warmth crept up his neck, into his face. He’d always been
self-conscious about bodily functions. When he was a child, his tormentors had locked him in a
coffin-like wooden chest as a joke, and he had spent nearly a day there before anyone found him.
He’d wet himself. The shame of that still clung to him, even now.

The Batman stared at him flatly. “Do you have to?”

“Not—not right at this moment.” He didn’t want to do it in front of him.

Another pause. Then Batman pulled a key from one of his pouches, undid Edward’s right manacle,
and tossed something onto the bed—a small, plastic urinal. Without another word, he turned and
strode out, shutting the door behind him. Several clicks followed, suggesting a succession of
locks. The security camera on the ceiling whirred.
Edward leaned his head back against the headboard. The collar made it difficult to properly rest.
He surveyed his prison: four dark, wood-paneled walls, a red-carpeted floor. No furniture except
the bed, the chair, and a small table in the corner. There were indentations in the dusty carpet,
suggesting that the room had until recently been filled with more furniture, and that it had been
hastily moved out to convert this place from storage chamber to prison cell. The door looked
exceptionally thick. Even if he weren’t chained down, he doubted he would be able to break out.

He had one hand free, though. There was that. His captor was a bit more soft-hearted than Edward
might have guessed…or else (more likely) it was a trick, a way to slip past his guard by plying him
with a bit of false kindness. He dug his thumbnail into his palm, focusing on the sharp, silvery
point of pain. Centering himself.

Well. No matter.

His eyes slipped shut again. His thumbnail traced the shape of a question mark on his skin,
engraving it over and over into the corner of his palm, until it burned like fire in the darkness of his
eyelids. He descended again into the labyrinth of his own mind, the one place in this cold, barren,
ugly world where he was king.

The Batman claimed that they weren’t on the same side. And yet he had brought Edward here,
rather than turning him over to the police. What possible rationalization could he have? Maybe he
didn’t entirely trust the police. But he suspected there was more to it.

In spite of himself, the Batman was fascinated by the Riddler. There was a connection between
them. Even if he denied it. He’d brought Edward here to study him, to try to understand him.
And of course, there were some significant things Edward hadn’t told him yet. He had information
that the Batman wanted, and his captor was clearly reluctant to outright torture him. Perhaps he
felt, on some level, that that would be breaking the rules of the game…and he was still playing the
game.

Edward was chained in a locked cell. And yet he did have power. He could still find some way to
turn this situation to his advantage.

A smile spread slowly across his face as he stared into the dark eye of the security camera.

This was going to be fun.

 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

Thanks once again for all the kudos and comments! I've already fallen behind on
responding but I definitely read and appreciate all the feedback I get. :)

Bruce ran his thumb over the bandage on his left hand, back and forth—a slow, absent movement.
He’d cleaned out and wrapped the bite, but it still burned. A man’s voice droned, fading in and out
of his consciousness like the buzz of a bee.

Five. Riddler killed five people.

Which meant there were two that Bruce didn’t know about. Who?

Of course, the Riddler might be lying. There was no reason to assume that anything he’d said was
true. But he’d answered that question so readily, so guilelessly. He was a master manipulator; it
seemed strange that a word like guileless should apply to him in any context. And yet there was a
disconcerting, boyish earnestness about him, something Bruce hadn’t expected, something which
—he reminded himself again—was likely part of the mask.

Bruce sat at one end of his dining room table in a dimly lit room with the curtains half-drawn,
wearing a dark hoodie and jeans that he’d thrown on a few minutes ago, staring blankly into space
as Lucius Fox—clad in a light brown suit, graying beard neatly trimmed—talked about stock
prices and dividends and other things Bruce couldn’t have given less of a shit about. There was an
entire army of men and women in suits and ties whose job was to manage the reputation and
finances of Wayne Enterprises. He didn’t see why they needed him.

But Lucius was a family friend, of sorts. He didn’t know Bruce’s secret, of course; only Alfred
knew. But Lucius had worked for Bruce’s parents for decades. The least Bruce could do was have
lunch with him once in a while. And, as Alfred kept reminding him, he had been neglecting the
business for too long.

“…election hasn’t helped much, since the Renewal fund’s been at the center of the debate…”

Bruce rubbed his eyes, blinking, trying to look attentive.

Truth be told, he’d forgotten about their scheduled lunch meeting until the last minute. He wasn’t
prepared for this. He poked at his lemon-dill orzo and salmon, struggling to focus. His hand
throbbed dully. His mind kept drifting to the psychopath chained to the bed in one of the upstairs
rooms…the man that he, Bruce Wayne, had drugged and kidnapped last night. He was confident
that even if Edward started shouting at the top of his lungs, Lucius wouldn’t be able to hear him—
the thick stone walls of the mansion muffled sound remarkably well—but even so, this entire
situation felt like a gasoline-soaked room one match-strike away from becoming a roaring inferno.

What the hell had he been thinking?

The Riddler—Edward, his name is Edward— belonged in Arkham. And yet, somehow, the idea of
simply turning him over to the authorities was intolerable.

The way Edward spoke to him, looked at him—

“Mr. Wayne? Mr. Wayne.”

He snapped back to the present. “Sorry. Say that again?”

“I said that Stryker has offered to purchase our biotech division for one hundred and twenty-
million.”

“Is that a good offer, or—?”

“Considering the losses this quarter? It’s as good as we’re likely to get.” Lucius’s tone was grim.
“It is, of course, ultimately your decision. And I confess, I don’t like the idea of dividing your
family’s empire. But Wayne Enterprise’s profits have dropped for four years in a row. If we agree
to Stryker’s terms, we could reinvest the cash in some necessary marketing and PR efforts, do
some damage control. We would simply need your signature on a few documents.”

“The biotech division, you said.”

“Yes.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

Bruce leaned back in his chair. Wayne Enterprises could sell off half of its numerous branches and
still be one of the most powerful companies in the world, but Lucius clearly felt that this was a big
deal. Bruce wondered if he should’ve worn something more formal than a hoodie for this
conversation…but then, he was in his own house, and he hadn’t had much time to change out of his
Batman suit. He wasn’t even wearing shoes. “And you think selling is the right call.”

“This company’s reputation has suffered greatly in recent years. Your parents worked hard to help
this city, but the programs they pioneered have fallen under a lot of scrutiny.”

He averted his gaze. “I’m sure Wayne Enterprises will survive. Whatever happens.”

“It might help if you made a public appearance every so often.”

“Alfred says the same thing.” He cut off a piece of salmon and ate it. He’d had barely three bites
of his meal. It was expertly prepared, but his sense of taste had deserted him. “You know I’m not
a businessman. And I’m definitely not a PR guy. If I stuck my nose in this I’d just make things
worse.” He chased the salmon down with a swig of black coffee. “I trust you. Do what you think
is necessary. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me.”

“You could at least make a few remarks to the public regarding the recent murder of the mayor.”

His muscles stiffened. An electric current passed down his spine. “Why?”

“Because the public’s badly shaken. They might like to hear some words of reassurance from
you. You’re a public figure, whether you like it or not. I’ve received correspondence from a few
media outlets asking for a comment from you. Your PR folks have prepared a statement. All
you’d have to do is read the lines.”

He exhaled a tense breath. It would look suspicious if he refused. “Fine. We can

schedule...something.”

Lucius Fox frowned and leaned forward slightly, studying his face. “Are you…all right, Mr.
Wayne?”
“Yes. Why?”

“You seem detached.”

“Didn’t sleep well.”

“And your hand?”

He glance down at the bandage and clenched his fingers. The wound had reopened, and a few
spots of blood soaked through. “Stray dog,” he said.

A pause. “Have you—”

“I don’t have rabies.”

“I know it’s none of my business. But you’ve been acting a bit strange. And you have some very
pronounced dark circles.”

He rubbed at his face, and his knuckles came away smudged with black. Shit. He thought he’d
washed off all the black paint, but apparently he’d missed a little.

Lucius squinted. “Is that—?”

“It’s, uh—” he cleared his throat. “It’s makeup.”

Lucius stared.

“New look,” Bruce added. “Figured if I’m going to be an insomniac, I might as well make a style
out of it.”

After a brief pause, Lucius said, “It does suit you.”

“Thanks.”

Lucius set his briefcase on the table, and pulled out a thick packet.

Once the papers were signed and Lucius was gone, Bruce—filled with a tense urgency to check on
his captive—retreated to his downstairs lair, where he reviewed the security footage from
Edward’s room, fast-forwarding through most of it. He watched the man’s face on the screen,
scrutinizing his expression, which remained mostly blank. At one point, Edward began to sing
quietly under his breath—the same song he’d sung when Bruce was following him through
Gotham’s rainy streets.

“Away, I’d rather sail away—like a swan that’s here and gone—a man gets tied up to the ground—
he gives the world its saddest sound…”

Edward’s gaze lifted to the camera, and that electric current rippled through Bruce again. It felt as
though the man were looking directly through the screen, into his eyes. With his one free hand,
Edward slowly reached down to unbutton his pants. Bruce’s gaze jerked away. His face warmed.

Edward was probably just about to use the urinal that Bruce had left him. But Bruce thought about
the way he’d gotten hard when Bruce grabbed him in the street, and again when he woke chained
to the bed. His face grew hotter.

He pushed that data to the back of his head. He could deal with the implications later.

His gaze darted briefly back to the screen. Sure enough, Edward was just peeing. Though he’d
shifted his body so that his privates were hidden from view. Unexpectedly modest. He’d showed
no hint of shame over his suspiciously timed hard-ons, but apparently this was embarrassing.
Bruce averted his gaze again, feeling suddenly perverted. Like he was the creep. He wasn’t
watching this for fun, but still…

He heard footsteps behind him and quickly switched off the screens.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred hovered in the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“You barely touched your lunch.”

“I’ll finish it later. I was…distracted.”

Alfred searched his expression. He sensed something; of course he did. They had known each
other too long. Bruce braced himself for the barrage of questions, but Alfred simply said, “I’ll
wrap it up for you.”

“No need. I’ll take it up to my room now.”

***

When Bruce—now in his full suit, cape and mask once again—opened the door to Edward’s cell,
the prisoner was still chained to the bed, just as Bruce had left him. The plastic urinal was now
filled.

Edward smiled. His emotions swung unpredictably all over the place—rage to amusement to
blank-eyed calm. It was hard to get a read on him. “Hello, Batman,” he said. “I didn’t expect you
back so soon. How’s the hand?”

“I’ll live.”

“But does it hurt?”

“You know how it feels.” Bruce approached slowly, set the plate of salmon on the bed, close to
Edward’s unbound right hand. A fork rested alongside the food. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Someone’s already eaten a few bites of this,” Edward said. “Was that you?”

“Yes.”
“Is this the fork you used?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He sounded almost disappointed. Edward glanced down at the plate and said, “You’ve got
quite a bit of money at your disposal, don’t you? I suppose I should have guessed. All those toys
and gadgets. And your suit is very…slick. Very professional.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said flatly, though he didn’t think it had been meant as a compliment.

“Did you hire someone to make it for you? Did you pay them to keep their mouth shut about it? I
had to improvise. Thrift stores, dollar stores. I made sure not to get everything from the same
place. It would have aroused suspicion. But you didn’t have to worry about that.” He stared
levelly at Bruce. His nostrils flared and contracted like a dog’s. “This food. The plate. The bed.”
His voice had dropped to a Riddler-ish growl. “It all smells like money.”

“Eat your food. Before it gets cold.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you would trust me with a fork.” He picked it up off the plate, holding it
delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “Could be used as a weapon, you know? Oh, I’m not
saying that I could overpower the Batman with a fork. I'm not as stupid as that. But I could kill
myself with it. I could stick it into my neck. Or jab it through my eye.”

Bruce tensed.

Edward smiled. He gripped the fork’s handle in his fist and moved it slowly toward his face.

Bruce grabbed his wrist. Leather-clad fingers squeezed it tight, immobilizing him. “You don’t get
to die,” Bruce said. “Not on my watch.”

Edward’s breath hitched in his throat. He went very still. His gaze dropped. His eyelashes
fluttered, and spots of red bloomed in his pale cheeks, like blood soaking through white cloth. A
warbling little giggle escaped his throat. “You’re so serious,” Edward said. “Relax. I’m not going
to do it. What a silly way to die that would be. I’m just saying—you might want to be more
careful.” The flush remained in his cheeks. After a pause, he said, “Are you going to let me eat?
Or would you rather feed me?”

Bruce released his wrist.

Edward speared a piece of fish, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. He paused, eyes closed,
holding the salmon in his mouth for a few seconds, and then swallowed. “It’s very good.” He ate
a bite of the lemon orzo. “I don’t usually get to eat things like this. Salmon is so expensive. When
I go to the diner I always order a grilled cheese sandwich. Tomato soup on the side.”

“I know.”

He glanced up, smiled a little, and said, “Yes. You watched me. Didn’t you?”

“Finish eating. Then we’ll talk.”

“You were there. Every night. I could feel you out in the darkness. I waited.”

Bruce wasn’t going to rise to the bait. The best tactic with Riddler, he had decided, was to say as
little as possible—to let him babble on while concealing his own secrets.

Edward opened his mouth, as though to say something else, then closed it and lowered his head.
He finished eating. Bruce removed the plate and fork from the bed and set it on the nearby table.
Better to keep it out of reach; the plate could become a weapon too, if he shattered it against the
headboard. The shards could become daggers.

Edward wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and rasped, his voice dropping lower again, “I
dwell in metal and water and eyes. I am truth and lies. I intoxicate the proud and torture the
miserable. What am I?”

“I told you. No more riddles.”

Edward tilted his head. “You don’t like riddles? But you solved all of mine.”
He could reply that he only did it because he had to, because there were lives at stake. But he
wasn’t going to play this game. “You told me that you killed five people. Who were the other
two?”

Edward head tilted to the other side, quizzically, and Bruce was reminded of that dog from the old
advertisements, peering into the record player’s horn—His Master’s Voice. “You want to know
about my past?”

“I want to know their names.”

“How about this?” He shifted on the bed, chain jangling, his neck straining against the collar. “I’ll
make a bargain with you. For every riddle of mine you can answer, I’ll answer a question of
yours.”

He leaned down, staring directly into Edward’s eyes, and lowered his voice. “You’re my prisoner.
I can do whatever I want with you. You don't get to call the shots."

“You don’t like torture. You said so. It would sully your vision of yourself. You think you’re one
of the good guys. You think you’re cleaner than me.” His expression briefly tightened, and
something cold and dark flashed up from the depths of it—then his face smoothed into the soft,
cherubic mask once again. “You’d enjoy it, you know.”

Bruce pulled back. “What?”

“Torturing me.”

He stared.

“I don’t doubt you’d be good at it. With all that stored-up rage, all that darkness…you could push
me to the edge. Make me beg. You would love it. Even the burn of guilt.”

His pulse thudded in the hollow of his neck, a steady drumbeat. “I’m not like you.”
“But you were the one who inspired me. You created me, Batman. Don’t you know that?”

“You chose to do what you did."

“It would never have occurred to me, if not for you. I was no one before I found you. You should
have seen me before my awakening—how pitiful I was, how ordinary. I was just waiting for
someone to come along and create me. To breathe life into me. I waited for years. And then
there you were, in all your defiance and fury. And I was born.” There was still a hint of a flush in
his cheeks, a feverish glitter in his too-wide, too-bright eyes. “You’re not what I expected. But
you’re still my creator.”

Bruce stared into those eyes. Into the dark, gaping tunnels of his pupils. “I answer one riddle.
And you answer a question in response.”

“Yes.”

“If you lie, I’ll know.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“A reflection,” he said. “That’s the answer.”

Edward beamed. "Good." His head dipped in a small nod. “All right. Your turn.”

“You said you killed five people. I know about the mayor, the commissioner, and Colson. So
who were the other two?”

His manacled hand clenched and flexed. “The first..." His voice creaked a little. "The first was a
long time ago. Years. Before my awakening.” His gaze lost focus. “It’s a little funny, now, to
think about how it affected me at the time.”

“Tell me the name.”

“I don’t even know his name.” Edward’s face went slack as he stared at the wall. “I was walking
home from the subway station. He followed me. He pulled out a gun. Tried to mug me. It wasn’t
the first time I’d been mugged. I knew the drill. Roll over, submit, do what they want, and you
might make it home alive. I was about to hand him my wallet like a good boy. And he pistol-
whipped me across the face. Even though I was doing what he wanted.” His face had gone blank
in that strangely abrupt way—an internal switch flipping. The words came slowly now, a little
slurred, like someone under hypnosis. “It hurt, but I was used to pain. It wasn't the pain that broke
me. It was the indignation I felt. The injustice of it. I was going to give him what he wanted, and
still. No matter how I groveled, no matter how small and weak and harmless I made myself, the
world wouldn’t stop beating me down. It never ended. I decided that night that I was done. Done
with everything. So I fought back. For the first time, I fought, I fought, I fought. I didn’t intend to
survive. I fully expected him to kill me. But somehow, I killed him. I don’t even remember doing
it. I came back to myself and he was on the ground, and his head was bleeding. He wasn’t quite
dead. I could see his eyelids flickering, his eyes rolled back in his head, moving back and forth.
So I grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the sidewalk until he stopped moving. I left
him there and I walked home and washed the blood off my hands.” He stopped. Took a breath. “I
remember vomiting. But after that, I felt…lighter. Cleaner. As though there’d been a spell on me
all these years, and I’d broken it. As though I could truly control my body for the first time.” He
stared down at his own hands, one free, one manacled. "I kept waiting for the police to arrest me,
but they never did. I just kept going to work. No one saw the change in me. But everything was
different. And I thought, 'This is what it must feel like to lose your virginity.'”

He's a virgin?

For some reason, Bruce's pulse quickened. He kept his expression blank behind the mask.

“I’ve told this story to my followers before," Edward said. "To the group. But this is the first time
I’ve told someone face-to-face. It…feels different.” The tip of his tongue crept out, wetting his
lips.

“Tell me about this group of yours.”

“Ah-ah. One question at a time.”

“Fine. You said you would tell me about both murders. So who was the other one?”

“It was practice.”

“Practice.”
“It was after my awakening, but before I killed the mayor. I needed to be certain that I could do it
again, that the first time hadn’t been a fluke—that I wouldn’t freeze up when it counted. So I
walked around at night until someone attacked me, and I smashed in his skull with a hammer. And
that was all.” He flexed his pale, slender fingers, clenched them. “It felt like smashing a melon.”
His gaze met Bruce’s. There was a strange vulnerability, a strange helplessness in his gaze. For an
instant, Bruce thought he saw a wet sheen in those eyes—then he blinked, and it was gone. “There
you are,” Edward said. "I’ve answered your question. How about another riddle? You never
answered the one I gave you yesterday.”

“Money. The answer is money.”

Edward smiled.

“This group. These friends of yours—”

“Not friends. Comrades. Brothers and sisters in arms. I don’t know any of their real names or
faces. I wouldn’t know how to find them even if I wanted to. We all agreed it was safer that way.
We don’t need to know each other’s identities in order to carry out our plans.”

So that was what he’d been doing in front of his computer every night. “What plans?”

“I answered your question. If you want more, then answer another riddle. It’s a riddle that only
you can answer. Who is the Batman?”

He was asking for Bruce’s real identity. That hardly counted as a riddle. “No.”

“Just your first name.”

“No.”

The tip of his tongue poked out between his teeth, a tiny, pink, glistening nub. “Then I suppose
you’ll just have to beat the information out of me.”
Bruce felt a vein at his temple pulsing. “What is wrong with you? Do you want to be tortured?”

“I want to strip away your pretenses. I want you to show your real face.”

Bruce stood, hovering over him. Slowly, he reached out one gloved hand. Beneath the defiance,
the curiosity, genuine fear flickered in Edward’s eyes as those dark, leather-clad fingers touched
his throat. His breathing sped. He started to shiver.

Bruce undid the clasp of his collar. It fell open, exposing the mottled bruises forming on his pale
throat. Bruce touched them, very lightly. The damage was likely superficial. Still, if he left the
collar on him, he'd likely make it worse.

Edward blinked a few times, but he didn’t move. He laughed a jittery, high-pitched laugh. “This
is bigger than you, you know. Bigger than either one of us. I won’t betray my cause. Not even for
the Batman.”

Bruce’s hand remained on his throat for a few seconds longer, then withdrew. He picked up the
urinal, which was still slightly warm. “I’ll empty this out.”

Edward fidgeted and averted his gaze. “I suppose I’m going to be here a while, aren’t I?”

“Seems that way.”

“That’s all right. This bed is quite comfortable. Much nicer than mine.”

“I can be very patient.”

Edward smiled again, slyly, like a mischievous child. “So can I.”

***

Bruce knew where Edward lived. Breaking into his apartment was a trivial matter.
He stood just inside the doorway, still in his Batman-suit, surveying the chaos inside. A cage full
of rats squeaked and wriggled and climbed over each other. A single bat hung by its feet from the
cage’s ceiling. A musty, dank smell filled the apartment, an animal smell mingled with the stale
odor of old takeout, of mold and canned soup and unwashed clothes and self-neglect: the smell of
a man who had been alone for far too long.

The walls were covered with ciphers and newspaper articles and photographs. He noted several of
himself—not just as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne. A jolt ran through him.

Bruce approached, studying one of the photographs of himself—a picture snapped by some
paparazzi as he was walking out of an event, head down, shoulders hunched.

Did he know?

No. He couldn’t. Bruce, apparently, was one of his enemies—one of the privileged elite of
Gotham. Another target on his list.

The computer sat on the desk. Bruce turned it on. Password-protected. Of course.

He would take only the hard drive, he decided. He would find some way to bypass the
password…or pry it out of Edward.

The Riddler’s voice echoed in his head: You’d enjoy it. Torturing me.

He shoved the voice aside, removed a small screwdriver from his pouch, opened the computer’s
tower, and extracted the compact black hard drive.

The rats and the bat, he would free. Taking them to a shelter would draw too much attention, but
he couldn’t leave them to starve. Aside from that, he would leave the apartment as he had found it.

He did one final, brief sweep of the rooms. The kitchen was barren. He checked the fridge,
bracing himself, but there were no body parts in Tupperware, no human heads wrapped in
cellophane. Just mustard, expired milk, a half-eaten eggroll in a plastic baggie, and a congealed
puddle of ketchup.
Good God. And Bruce had thought his eating habits were bad. Had this man ever touched a
vegetable?

He closed the fridge, checked the bathroom—rust-stained shower, roach in the sink, unremarkable
—and then strode into the cramped bedroom at the end of the hall. No posters on the wall. No
knickknacks. Not even a proper bed. Just a narrow, naked, dingy gray mattress and a pillow.

Next to the pillow was a stuffed toy. Slowly, he bent and picked it up.

He’d seen Batman merchandise before. None of it was official, of course—big companies with
reputations to protect were hesitant to capitalize on the activities of a vigilante. But there were fan-
made t-shirts and toys floating around Gotham. This was clearly hand-made, the stitching a little
clumsy, the head awkwardly large, but it was him, little embroidered scowl and all.

The Riddler—that ruthless, unrepentant murderer who had wrapped a man’s head in duct tape and
hacked off his thumb while he was alive, who had strapped a cage of hungry rats to another man’s
face and blown up a third man’s head—slept with a Batman plushie.

***

Later that night (or morning, it was hard to say) Bruce sat in front of his array of monitors,
watching Edward, the same grainy image on every screen. The Riddler seemed to be asleep,
though it was difficult to tell. Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. His eyes itched and burned. He
needed to get some sleep himself; he knew that. But he found himself afraid to take his eyes off
his captive, even for a split second.

Is it fear? Or something else?

Edward was in a locked room, unarmed, chained. There was nothing he could do. Was there?

Edward rolled over on the bed, curled up semi-fetal on his side. He was still wearing the clothes
that Bruce had kidnapped him in. At some point, Bruce would have to undo his remaining manacle
and let him off the bed, at least long enough to let him get changed and take a shower.
Should he have given him a blanket? He was probably cold. Then again, maybe a little discomfort
would help loosen his tongue.

A thin, keening whine drifted from the speaker. Bruce sat up straighter. The sound came again—a
pained noise, like a child or a small animal.

Edward?

His eyes were closed, his face slack. He twitched and shivered fitfully on the bed. A nightmare.

Bruce turned his face away from the screen and flipped a switch, shutting off the sound.

Beside him, something squeaked, and he glanced over to see the cage sitting on his desk. Most of
the rats—and the bat—he’d released into the streets. Not an ideal solution, but better than leaving
them. One—small, mottled gray and white—had refused to leave the cage. Maybe it had just
gotten used to its accommodations. It nosed around the edge, as though wondering where its
friends had gone. Bruce wasn’t sure what to do with him.

He sat in the darkness, thinking. He felt an urge to switch the screens back on...or go and
physically check on Edward, wake him from his dream. He resisted.

He would play the Riddler’s games to the extent that it got him the answers he wanted. But he
couldn’t lose sight of who he was dealing with. This wasn’t some lost, wounded little boy.
Edward was smart, and he was cruel. He would use every tool at his disposal to disarm Bruce, to
manipulate him.

Bruce had gone in unprepared earlier today. He’d lost control of the situation, let his captive get
under his skin.

He would have to be more careful.

 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

Thanks once again for all the kudos and comments! THEY GIVE ME LIFE. I don't
know how long I'll be able to continue updating at this pace (especially since my
chapters tend to get longer as the story goes on) but I am gonna seize the inspiration
and ride it as long as I can.

Edward had been alone, chained to the bed, for a long time. At least it felt like a long time. There
was no clock. He was hungry and thirsty and the urinal was full. His skin crawled from the
sensation of his dirty shirt and jeans, which had dried to a grimy stiffness. He wanted a shower and
a change of clothes. He wanted his PC. He wanted Batman to come back.

He was bored. And lonely.

By now, he ought to be used to loneliness. It was the central fact of his existence, ubiquitous as air.

How long did Batman plan to leave him like this?

He knew it probably hadn’t been that long, because his hunger—while unpleasant and distracting
—was not unbearable. He had been hungrier than this. Many times. But being hungry and
immobilized, unable to focus on anything else, was tiresome.

The security camera stared at him from the ceiling, red light glowing dimly.

Edward rolled onto his side, away from the camera.

The seconds ticked by. As he counted them, he imagined them piling up like grains of sand,
forming piles which grew to minutes and then to hours. Annoyance and boredom slowly deepened
into anxiety, and then to dread. A thought slowly formed in the depths of his brain, rising up like
some primordial sea creature: What if he's not coming back?

But he had to. Of course.

Edward’s faith in Batman had been shaken when he learned that his idol didn’t see him as a
comrade…and, moreover, that he was one of them, Gotham’s wealthy elites. But those issues
could be circumvented, he’d told himself. He could win Batman over. The connection between
them was real. The Batman was already fixated on him. Forging an alliance would just take a
little more work than he’d anticipated.

But the Batman hadn’t returned since that second visit.

Edward yanked at the chain, but without much energy. Earlier, he’d already exhausted himself
struggling, trying to wrench his hand free; all he’d gotten for his trouble were some fresh bruises
on his wrist. The bed weighed as much as an elephant. There was no budging it. And even if he
somehow freed himself, what then? He couldn't leave the room.

“Where are you?” he croaked. His throat ached and prickled with thirst.

The camera’s red light glowed, a tiny, unblinking, pitiless eye.

His own eyes slipped shut. Batman wouldn’t break his fingers or pull out his teeth with plyers. He
wouldn’t carve off bits of him. That wasn't his style. He'd made that much clear. But then, he
didn’t have to get his hands bloody in order to torture Edward. All he had to do was ignore him.

This was part of the game—of course. This waiting. This endurance. Which one of them would
break first? It wasn’t a fair game, because Batman had countless tools and resources at his
disposal. All Edward had was his own cunning. But Edward was accustomed to playing unfair
games.

Be patient. Batman was watching him; he could feel it. Watching, waiting for him to crack, to
start begging and spilling out secrets. If he refused to crack, Batman would have to return at some
point. His own fixation would draw him back like a fish-hook embedded in his gut—the line
between them, tugging, tugging.

But as the grains of time continued to pile up, forming larger and larger heaps, Edward began to
wonder.

Perhaps he had miscalculated.

It was all in your head. You thought you had some kind of power over him? Some kind of hold?
He doesn’t give a shit about you. He never did.

No. No. Batman had played the game, followed the clues. He’d chased Edward—

Because he wanted to get rid of you. He wanted you out of the way. He’s only keeping you here
because he needs information. Maybe he found some other way to get what he needs.

He couldn’t—

He could’ve taken your computer, hacked into it. He might’ve found some way to track down your
followers. He could be arresting and interrogating them at this moment. What does he need you
for? At this point, turning you in to the authorities would cause trouble for him. Maybe he’s just
going to leave you here until you die of thirst. That would be simplest. Wouldn't that be a fitting
end for Edward Nashton, the boy who was found abandoned in a garbage can as a newborn,
wrapped in bloody newspapers like a partially eaten, unwanted hamburger?

No one had ever told him that—his origin. He’d wanted to know where he came from, so he’d
broken into the records office at the orphanage and stolen his own file. Like so many orphans and
discarded children, little Eddie had been secretly convinced that he must be special in some way—
that his parents were rich, maybe even royalty. They hadn’t abandoned him, they’d simply lost
track of him, and one day there would be a joyous reunion—tears, hugging, sentimental music
swelling in the background.

Better, maybe, to have those stupid dreams dashed early. He'd been cast aside like literal trash. He
had no idea who his mother was, and he didn’t care, because she obviously hadn’t given a shit
about him. Maybe he’d had no mother. Maybe he’d miraculously and spontaneously formed out of
Gotham’s filth, as though the city itself—that howling, dark, Eldritch beast of a city—had birthed
him, manifested its rage and despair in human form. There was a twisted sort of meaning in that,
wasn't there? When he became the Riddler, he felt possessed by a supernatural force. He was a
vessel, a harbinger. If he couldn't be loved, he would be feared.

Now—chained to the bed in the house of this man he barely knew, had only imagined he knew—
he wondered if that, too, had been a childish fantasy. If he died here, no one would miss him
except his followers, and they didn’t even know his real identity. The Riddler might be missed, at
least for a short while. But no one would miss Edward Nashton. At work, they would simply
replace him, like a missing cog in a machine. Would the police even bother to investigate his
disappearance?
No. No, no. No. He had to stop thinking like this.

He ran a dry tongue over dryer lips. “Batman?” he whispered creakily. “Are you there?”

The camera stared down at him.

“I can tell you all sorts of interesting things. This city is a cauldron of secrets. You don’t know the
half of it."

The red light glowed.

“Can you even hear me?”

A faint, mechanical whir—the camera moved, just slightly. It might’ve been an automatic
adjustment. It might’ve meant nothing. But his pulse quickened.

“There’s a plan. It will change everything. I’ll wash this city clean of the filth. You can’t stop
it.” This was a bluff, of sorts. There was a plan, but the pieces weren’t all in place yet. “I am
going to transform this city in a way that you never could. Just wait. It will be spectacular.”

No response.

“We could work together. Join me.” The more he spoke, the more desperate and pathetic his
words felt.

He was extremely thirsty. He swallowed—or rather, his dry throat constricted, mimicking the
motions of swallowing, though there was no saliva. Shamefully, even the liquid in the urinal had
begun to look tempting. But drinking his own toxins would only worsen his condition. He tossed
it off the bed, so he wouldn’t be tempted.

More time piled up, and he began to regret that action. A human being could survive without
water for about three days. But dehydration could result in a host of physical and mental problems
well before that. Dizziness, confusion, exhaustion…even seizures. The longer he went without
water, the more difficult it would become to think clearly, and Edward’s most potent and only
weapon—his mind—would be neutralized.

He struggled some more. With his teeth, he tore at the skin of his hand, worrying at the base of his
thumb like a dog with a bone, thinking that blood might provide enough lubrication to slide his
hand free from the manacle. It didn’t. Now the sheets—along with his shirt—were stained with
tacky, drying blood. More precious liquid lost through his stupidity.

At a young age, Edward had taught himself not to cry. It only invited more scorn, more abuse. He
learned to retreat inside himself. But now he felt the telltale sting in his eyes. He squeezed them
shut.

“You said you don’t like to use violence,” he told the camera. “But to leave someone alone when
they’re helpless, when they have nothing…that’s a form of violence, isn’t it? You don’t even have
to dirty your hands. You don’t have to move a single finger. You can tell yourself that you haven't
broken your precious moral code, that you haven’t lowered yourself. It would be more honest to
just admit that you don’t care.”

He knew he should shut up. He was losing control, letting his desperation show. But the dam had
broken.

“I was so, so wrong about you, Batman. You, you, you—you act like you’re fighting them, but
you’re one of them. You are them. You’ve never been this helpless, have you? You’ve never felt
this. Have you ever been so cold that you would do anything, anything for a blanket? Have you
ever been so hungry that the growling of your own stomach kept you awake? So alone, so starved
for any scrap of affection that you would crawl on your belly like a dog and lick the dirt if someone
would just give you one word of praise? How can you sit there behind your walls and your money
and act like you’re risking anything? The Batman doesn’t kill, no, he doesn’t have to. Why would
he, when he can stand there and watch the worm drown in the puddle?”

Silence.

“For so, so long I tried to be good. I crawled up out of my own slime, out of the filth and rot and
the nothing that I came from, and it was hard, it was so hard, but I did it. I stayed up late and I
worked, I worked until my eyes could barely focus, Batman, and I got a respectable job, I tried not
to cause trouble for anyone, but in the end none of it meant anything, because this world doesn’t
want good men. It eats them.”
Shut up. Shut up.

“I thought you were my friend.” His voice emerged small and forlorn. Weak. “I was going to die,
you know. I was ready. I had the pills all lined up on the counter. There wasn’t going to be any
more pain. And then there you were. There you were. On the news. You reached through the
screen and saved me. You showed me another path. You didn’t wait for anyone’s approval or
permission. You just did what needed to be done with your own hands, and you made me
remember that I could do that too. That I had already done it. I could fight. But you’re a lie,
you’re a cheat, you—” he stopped, gulping.

The camera remained inert.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm so thirsty.”

The red light glared down on him, lifeless, unfeeling.

More time passed. He tried counting his own heartbeats and quickly lost track. His body burned
and then shivered, waves of heat and cold washing over him. Gray haze crept in around the edges
of his vision.

Nothing he said mattered. It wouldn’t change anything.

He gritted his teeth and slammed his head into the headboard. Once. Twice. A dull pain burst in
the back of his skull.

Thud.

His vision swam.

Thud.

A warbling, high-pitched moan, more animal than human, rose from his throat.
He kept ramming his head against the headboard, until darkness descended over him like a
shimmering curtain.

The room blurred. He wandered through forests in his own brain. Memories flickered: voices
whining, pleading for mercy. His victims. Grown men crying like children. He hadn’t shown
them mercy, then. So why did he think he deserved it now?

Not the same.

Wasn’t it?

No. They were—they—

In his foggy, addled state, he couldn’t even remember their crimes. They were Bad Men, so they
deserved to suffer and die, but he no longer knew what they had done. He could no longer
remember what he had done to deserve this pain, either—had he really murdered people? Had he
done that with his own little hands? The Riddler loomed before him like a spirit, a dark shape from
the red mist, silhouetted in fire, a thing that had slipped out of his control and could now act
independently. The deep raspy voice said, "Did you really believe that I was you, Edward? You
are nothing. You are only my shadow."

He wandered deeper, through flickering shadows. Old fears of hell. Sin and revelation. A small,
pale oval of a face stared from the window of a mansion. That same small blank face hovered on
the television screen at a funeral, and little Eddie found himself gripped by a swirl of longing and
empathy and cold resentment—an orphan. Like me. And yet not like him. Bruce Wayne.

For a while he’d almost managed to forget about Bruce Wayne, but that face followed him,
haunted him. He would never be free of Bruce Wayne.

A dark place. A child sealed away in a wooden chest, screaming for help into the darkness. Rats
crawling through the shadows. A baby, inert and limp in his arms, eyes dulled over—the
awareness that life could be stolen so easily, and everyone took it in stride. Little bundles dropped
into the abyss. Forgotten.

What was her name? That baby.

He couldn’t remember now. He remembered sitting in the chair, rocking her in his arms and
singing to her, trying to make her smile, listening to her weak little coughs. She’d cried for a while
from the pain and sickness and cold and then she’d stopped crying. Her eyes had stared up at him,
struggling to focus on his face through the fog, and then they’d gone dim forever. His little sister,
another creature spawned from the nothingness.

Had it mattered? Giving her that bit of kindness, only to watch her slip away? He wanted to
believe it mattered, that the act was engraved somewhere in the fabric of the universe, the fact of
his love for a fellow orphan, the fact that he had tried. He'd wrapped her in his own blanket and
endured the cold to keep her alive. But now he wondered if she had ever existed. In the dark
swamp of hunger and thirst and nausea and gray, sinking emptiness, meaning became a slippery
thing. Justice was an abstract concept. Rage was a reflex, a trapped-prey struggle devoid of any
deeper significance. When it was stripped away, all that remained was a whimpering animal core
of need.

Please. I’m sorry.

Don’t let me die. Don’t leave me.

Please…Bruce...

***

The door creaked. Edward woke at once, but he kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep as the door
clicked shut. His body trembled briefly, violently, then went still.

Batman was here. Edward could feel his presence filling the room. He recognized his breathing.
When he walked closer, his footsteps—heavy yet soft—were unmistakable. He was dragging
something heavy. A bag?

A dull, sticky pain pulsed through the back of Edward’s head. He was suddenly afraid to make a
sound, convinced his captor would leave again if he dared to move or squeak. His heart was
racing. It took all his willpower to slow it. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Chair legs scraped across the floor. Wood creaked faintly as Batman sat. He said nothing. Didn’t
move. Just sat there, watching Edward, for an agony of time which might have been less than a
minute. Edward was weak from dehydration; hunger had faded into the background and thirst had
become an all-consuming torment. Still, he didn’t move. All he wanted in that moment was for
Batman to stay. Just to hear the breathing of another person, the proof that he hadn’t been
forsaken.

“I know you’re awake,” said that low, raspy voice.

Edward tensed. How?

“Your eyelids twitched. Your pulse got faster for a few seconds.”

“You could hear that?” he murmured, voice hoarse. Speaking hurt; his lips had cracked and split
open from the dryness.

“I could see it. In your throat.”

Edward opened his eyes. Batman sat near the edge of the bed, watching him. Still, Edward didn’t
move, didn’t speak. His lips trembled slightly.

There was a pop, followed by a fizzing sound. “Here.” Something moved toward him, and he
flinched, instinctively raising one arm.

“Here,” Batman repeated. His voice was very soft. “You’re thirsty. Aren’t you?”

Slowly, Edward lowered his arm. Batman was holding a can of Coke.

Edward’s breathing quickened. He grabbed it and chugged it down. His hands were trembling,
and he spilled some on the front of his shirt, but he barely noticed. Even before he’d finished the
can, he began to hiccup—carbonated beverages always made him hiccup, which was why he
usually avoided them, but in the moment it tasted better than anything he’d ever had. He drained
the can and stopped, gasping for breath.

He wanted to hate Batman for what he had done, for leaving him alone, for torturing him, but all
he could feel in that moment was gratitude.
“More,” he whispered.

“Let it settle. You’ll vomit if you drink too fast.”

He nodded, gaze downcast, because he had no choice. “H…h-how…” He swallowed, hiccuped

again. “How long has it been?”

“Nineteen hours."

He blinked a few times.

Less than twenty-four hours, he thought. In his foggy state, with time stretched and distorted, he’d
begun to believe that he’d been here for days, even weeks.

He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Not even a full day alone in this room, enduring garden variety
thirst and hunger and some mild sensory deprivation, and it had broken him. And he’d been so
confident in his ability to withstand torture. God, he was pathetic.

Somewhere beneath the shame, a black and red rage swam. But it was distant, powerless. He tried
to cling to it and it evaporated in his fingers like smoke. He felt small. Broken. He had been in
this mental state before: he knew it. This abject submission.

“What do you want from me?” he asked in a tiny voice, knowing he would give it, whatever it was.

The Batman drew in a slow breath, but didn’t respond. In the silence that followed, Edward began
to wonder if he’d angered Batman by asking that question. He opened his mouth to apologize,
then closed it, wondering if he should wait permission before speaking again. In that moment, the
idea that he might do anything to displease his captor was terrifying to him.

“I’m sorry,” Batman said.

Edward raised his head slowly and stared. “W...what?” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Batman repeated. “Some things came up. I had to—” he stopped, as though trying to
think of how to talk around what he wanted to say. “Had to tie up some loose ends. I couldn’t
avoid it, not without arousing suspicion. And then there was a bank robbery, a hostage situation
—”

For the first time, Edward noticed the blood crusted at the edge of Batman’s mouth, the shadow of
a bruise on his jaw. “You…” He gulped, eyes watering.

“I didn’t intend to leave you alone for this long. But there were lives at stake. I had to deal with
it.”

The Batman had just apologized. To him. The Riddler.

No...to Edward.

He licked his quivering lips, swallowed, and blinked a few more times. “I…I thought…” His
voice was raw, hoarse, as though he’d been screaming. Maybe he had. He didn’t remember.

The Batman sat, shoulders hunched, rubbing one gloved hand over the other. He looked…
anxious. Almost guilty. It was surreal—that dark, imposing form huddled in the chair, wringing
his hands, like a naughty little boy who’d been scolded for putting a frog down the neighbor girl’s
shirt.

“I thought it was deliberate,” Edward said slowly. “I thought it was meant to break me.”

Batman’s right hand tightened on his left. “I intended to leave you alone for a little while. A few
hours. Long enough to make you nervous. That was all. Things...got out of hand.”

He wondered briefly if this was some act, some new mind game. “Why not?” he whispered
raspily. He felt his lips stretching into an involuntary, unnatural smile. “I deserve it. Don’t I? I’m
a murderer. I put those men through much worse.”

“No one deserves to suffer like that. They didn’t. And you don’t either.” The Batman met his
gaze. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
Edward lowered his head and put his hand over his face. An odd, bleating sound—not quite a
laugh, not quite a sob—wrenched itself from his throat.

A gloved hand touched his wrist, and he flinched. “You’re injured,” Batman said, as though
noticing for the first time. “All this blood—what did you do to yourself? Shit.” There was
something almost funny about hearing the Batman say shit. It felt like a break in character.
Edward let out another bleating cry-laugh.

The gloved hands were on his face, maneuvering it. “It’s on your hair too. Did you injure your
head? Look at me. Let me see your eyes.”

Edward obediently met his gaze, and the Batman’s stare swallowed him up. Such intense focus.

“If you have a concussion, I’m going to have to take you to a doctor,” Batman said grimly. “And
then I’m going to have a lot of awkward questions to answer.” Edward felt those firm hands
removing his glasses. He stared up nakedly, helplessly, as Batman leaned in to study his eyes—
checking his pupils, probably—then moved a finger back and forth in front of his face. His gaze
followed it. “Count backwards from ten.”

He obeyed.

“Good.”

At that word, a flush of warmth and pleasure—unexpected, almost violent—flooded his body.

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“Y…yes. I think so. For a little while.”

A brief pause. “Do you want to go to a hospital?”

He’s asking me?

Of course, he knew what going to a hospital would mean for him. It would raise far too many
questions. It could only end with him in the police station, in an interrogation room. Or in
Arkham. “No,” he whispered. “No. I don’t want that.”

Batman nodded, as though he'd more-or-less expected that response, but a subtle tension eased out
of his shoulders. “I’m going to have to disinfect that wound. Both of them. I, uh.” He reached
down, lifted a faded black backpack off the floor. “I brought you some things, but we can talk
about that later.” He started to stand. “I’ll get you something to eat, and some—”

Edward didn’t make the decision to move. His body moved for him. He lunged. Batman flinched
and dropped the backpack. His hand darted to the pouch at his belt, instinctively reaching for a
weapon even as Edward flung his arms around his waist and buried his face against the smooth
black leather, whispering, “Please, no, please don’t leave, don’t leave me, please—”

“I’m not—”

“Please.”

“I’ll come back in a few minutes, I swear, I just—” there was a strange, bewildered helplessness,
almost panic in his voice.

Edward clung to him, breathing rapidly. Maybe later, he would look back on this memory with
shame, but at the moment he was beyond that. Batman was warm and solid and Edward clung to
him like a lifeboat in a storm. He smelled like leather and sweat and blood. “Please.”

“It’s…it’s all right.” A hand touched his hair tentatively.

“I thought I was going to die here. I thought you had left me to die.”

“I'm sorry.”

Those words again.

Slowly—very slowly—warm arms crept around him. A hand touched his back. Batman hugged
him awkwardly, gingerly. As though he had never quite learned how to hug someone. As though
he were afraid of doing it wrong. That gloved hand stroked the uninjured part of his head.

It had been so long since anyone had held him and touched him in a gentle way. Edward couldn’t
remember the last time. A thick, heavy warmth filled his veins like syrup, like heroin—something
deep and hardwired and mammalian, more potent than an orgasm. Until that moment, he had
never consciously realized that this was what he wanted: for Batman to hold him in those strong,
dark arms. To stroke his hair. He'd longed to be noticed, to be recognized and praised for his
cleverness and daring, but maybe this was what lay beneath that. He surrendered to the need,
because he had no choice.

I'm here, he thought, dazed. I'm here. I'm here.

The arms tightened around him.

He thought maybe he was crying. He wasn't sure. He floated, aware of nothing except warmth.

Several minutes later—it might’ve been minutes or an hour, he couldn’t say—Batman said,
“Edward.”

He made a faint, incoherent sound.

“I need to clean your injuries.”

Slowly, with great effort, he extracted himself from the embrace. Self-awareness was returning,
little by little. His face burned.

He waited as Batman left the room and returned. He held still, flinching only a little as gloved
hands applied antiseptic to the back of his skull and to the bite-wound he’d inflicted on his own
wrist. He watched—still half-feeling like he was dreaming—as Batman applied gauze and taped
bandages over the injury.

“You sure you don’t want to go to a hospital? If you don't get these stitched up by a professional,
they're going to scar.”
Edward hesitated. “You would really take me? If I asked?”

“I owe you that much.”

“But I couldn’t go home after that. Could I?”

Batman averted his gaze. “Knowing what you did, what you’re capable of—no. I couldn’t just let
you walk free.”

He smiled a little. “A choice between being turned over to the authorities and staying here. Two
forms of imprisonment. Not much of a choice, is it?”

“No.”

Somehow it helped, hearing him admit that.

“What have you got in that bag, anyway?”

Batman hauled the backpack onto the bed and opened it. He pulled out several books—Crime and
Punishment. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
Curious assortment. Batman removed a folded blanket, sweatpants, a fresh t-shirt (one of his
own?) several bottles of water, protein bars, and a boxed puzzle, one of those three-dimensional
wooden puzzles which, when completed, would resemble a house. “If you’re going to be staying a
while,” he said, “you might as well get comfortable.”

He removed one final item from the backpack—the Batman plushie from Edward’s apartment.

“You were there?” he whispered.

A nod.
Maybe that shouldn't surprise him. He turned his face away. “It must seem childish to you.”

“Gotta admit, I have mixed feelings about being a toy. It's a little surreal."

"It helps me fall asleep," Edward murmured. "I have trouble with sleeping. Bad dreams."

"Well...whatever works. I’m a lifelong insomniac myself. Fitting, I suppose, for a nocturnal
animal. But I understand that restlessness. And there are worse crutches to have.”

Edward stared at the toy. His vision had started to go a little blurry. Maybe he was still
dehydrated. Shakily, he unscrewed the cap from one of the water bottles and took a swig, then
unwrapped a protein bar and took a bite. Peanut butter flavored.

The Batman stared at Edward with his characteristic blank expression—except it was never quite
blank. Even with the mask, his face gave away a lot. More than he probably realized.

“I might as well tell you,” Batman said, “I also took the hard drive from your computer.”

“I thought so. Couldn’t break into it though, could you? Or else you wouldn’t be mentioning it.”
He took another bite, chewed slowly and swallowed.

“I need the password.”

Edward finished the protein bar, chasing it down with another swig of water.

“I can close or open, I can bleed and break,” Edward said, voice rasping. “I can swell and burn and
ache. I can harden, soften, lift for joy or shrink in fear—”

Batman shifted in his chair.

“I'm nothing dirty. Well...I suppose I can be. Dirty or clean.”

“Hm.” Was it the lighting, or was there a faint flush in his cheeks?

“I can melt,” Edward said. “I can be stolen but never bought or sold. What am I?”

After a moment, Batman answered: “A human heart.”

Edward’s head dipped in a nod.

“I answered a riddle. Does that mean I get a question?”

“That’s the bargain.” He was going to ask about the password. Of course.

“Are the citizens of Gotham in any danger right now?”

Edward tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“You have some plan. You have people working with you, for you. You may have ordered them
to act even in your absence.”

“It’s…not really like that. We don’t have a hierarchy. I’m not their leader. I’m just—”

“Answer the question.”

Edward picked at a loose thread of the sheets. He'd practically worn a hole in them with his
kicking and thrashing. “The citizens of Gotham are always in danger. But if you’re asking if
some specific, terrible thing will happen to them in the near future—"

"That's what I'm asking."

He couldn't avoid answering. They had a bargain. "It's true that the group and I have
discussed...certain ideas. There was talk of explosives. Around the edge of the city. We hadn't
decided on specific locations yet. We intended to wait until the right moment, and we try not to
plan these things too far in advance, because that increases the risk of exposure. I can’t guarantee
that they won’t decide to act in my absence. But as far as I know, they're still waiting.”

“You say there’s no hierarchy. I don't think that's true. I think they look to you. They’ve acted
under your orders before. Haven’t they?”

“I’ve asked them to do things. Yes.”

“But you don’t know who they are. Except that they all live in Gotham.”

“Yes.”

Batman's gaze drilled into his. “Are you lying to me right now?”

“I don’t lie,” Edward said.

“You seem to keep a lot of secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets.” He looked at the bandage on his wrist. “I am the milk, I am the killer,” he
murmured under his breath.

“Is that another riddle?”

Edward said nothing.

“Go on. Ask me another.”

But Edward no longer trusted his own voice. He felt strange. Altered. What he really wanted was
to ask for another hug, but he’d already put himself in a dangerously vulnerable position.
“All right.” Batman stood slowly. “We can talk more later. You’ve been through a lot. I’m going
to take another crack at that hard drive. But first…” He removed a small key from his pouch and
unlocked Edward’s remaining manacle.

Edward looked up at him in puzzlement.

“I’m going to put it back on you—for now—but I wanted to give you a chance to change out of
those old clothes.”

Edward nodded. It was disorienting, having his hand free. He'd grown accustomed to being
chained. He started to pull his shirt off, then stopped. “Are you planning to watch me?” He tried
to sound calmer than he felt. As though he didn't care much, either way.

“I need to make sure you don’t try anything. You can stand up and turn around, if you want.”

He stood. His legs quivered and nearly gave out. Slowly, he turned away. He felt Batman’s gaze
on him as he shucked off his filthy shirt and put on the clean one.

Edward didn’t like looking at his own body in the mirror. He never had. He was pale, soft; he
somehow gave off the impression of being chubby despite having a low body-mass index. Since
becoming Riddler, he’d started doing push-ups and lifting, but though he had grown stronger, his
arms stubbornly refused to show any muscle tone. There was nothing overtly ugly about his body
—it was, if anything, excessively ordinary—yet he’d always felt a visceral sense of disgust toward
it. He wondered how Batman saw it, what he thought about it. If he thought anything.

He unzipped his jeans, tugged them down, and stepped out of them. Goosebumps broke out across
his pale legs. He started to pull down his boxers—then stopped. A flush crept up his neck. He
felt a little dizzy. He thought about his own genitals—penis on the small side of average, balls
which always hung a little lopsided and which had a habit of pulling up and contracting into
themselves when he was nervous or self-conscious. He vaguely remembered masochistic fantasies
of self-castration before his awakening. The fantasies had brought him no pleasure—they were
more of a compulsion, a hatred of the imperfect and unremarkable organ which wracked him with
such confusing and shameful desires. Even if he remained facing away, if he took off his boxers…

“You can leave those. If you want.”

He let out a quiet breath of relief, pulled on the sweatpants, leaving his boxers in place. Despite
his nervousness and exhaustion, he was half-erect.

It shouldn't matter. The Batman already knew how he felt. He must. It wasn't as though Edward
had gone out of the way to hide his body's reactions, before. And yet everything felt different now.

He allowed Batman to refasten the manacle around his wrist. “I need to leave you again," Batman
said. "For a little while.”

Edward swallowed the protest that rose into his throat.

“I’ll be back in three hours or less. That’s a promise.” He paused. He started to raise one arm,
and for a brief moment, Edward thought Batman was going to hug him again. He started to lean
forward…

Then Batman turned away. He walked out of the roof, floorboards creaking beneath heavy, soft
footsteps. The door creaked shut.

Edward flopped back to the bed. He looked at the books, the protein bars, the Batman plushie. He
touched it, tracing the fuzzy felt jawline with one finger. His insides still felt peculiar—wobbly,
fragile, yolk-like. The sensation reminded him, somehow, of a chilly, early spring morning. The
beginnings of the thaw. Life stirring beneath the frost.

He had already been reborn, already achieved his final form. Or so he thought. But this…

Something new had awakened within him. Something he didn’t fully understand.

It scared him.
 Chapter 5

The cursor winked on and off in the blank password field. Bruce rubbed his jaw, wincing. That
bank robber—despite his inexperience and obvious terror—had managed to land a surprisingly
strong punch on him. Embarrassing. Bruce hadn’t had his head in the game. Everyone had made
it out of the situation alive, thank God—hostages rescued, robbers turned over to the police—but
that was mostly due to luck. He’d been distracted.

I am the killer, I am the milk.

Kindness. That had to be the answer. Kill them with kindness, milk of human kindness…

He typed the word into the empty field and tapped Enter.

No dice. Well, he hadn’t really expected it to be that easy. He’d already tried Batman and several
variants. He’d tried the names of Riddler’s victims, one by one. He’d tried BruceWayne.

Of course, password cracking often didn’t work the way it did in the movies, because most
passwords didn’t have some deep symbolic meaning; they were combinations of random words
and numbers. But this was the Riddler. He wouldn’t be able to resist making his password another
riddle to solve.

On the desk, the gray-and-white rat from Edward’s apartment ran on its wheel. Bruce still hadn’t
named him.

A soft humming drifted from the speakers connected to the security camera in Edward’s room—a
gentle, familiar melody. Ave Maria.

It wasn’t uncommon for Edward to sing or hum to himself to pass the time—everything from
sixties protest anthems to commercial jingles—but that particular melody kept surfacing. It was
the only religious song that he sang with any regularity.

Bruce typed AveMaria into the field. Incorrect password.

Bruce leaned back in the chair and sighed, raking his hands through his hair.

At some point, he would have to talk to Edward again. At the thought, his heartbeat quickened.
That last encounter…the way Edward clung to him, his soft, trembling breaths…

And then Bruce had hugged him back. Had stroked his hair.

He could tell himself that he’d just been doing the decent thing, providing comfort to someone in
distress. Edward was the Riddler, but he was also Bruce’s captive. He was isolated, completely
dependent on Bruce for all his basic needs, and that made Bruce responsible for him. Denying him
physical comfort would be cruel. That was the only reason Bruce had responded to his need.

Squeak-squeak-squeak went the turning rat-wheel.

What he didn’t want to admit was that—as uncomfortable as Edward made him, as horrific and vile
as the Riddler’s actions were—Bruce was increasingly fascinated by the man himself. Was this
some sort of reverse Stockholm syndrome? Did the situation itself—Edward’s helplessness, his
complete dependence on Bruce—naturally spawn these protective feelings?

Focus.

He tried a few other phrases from the lyrics of Ave Maria, with no results. Then he tried the
translated version—HailMary. Nope.

Edward was still humming that soft melody. The rat hopped off its wheel and drank some water
from the metal tube at the end of its bottle. Bruce had ordered the feed and other pet supplies
online, overnight delivery, because buying them in person—either as Batman or Bruce Wayne—
would’ve attracted far too much attention. But of course, delivery meant Alfred had seen the
packages arrive.

He tried password after password. He tried SIMPLEPLEASURES, the name of Edward’s favorite
diner. He tried BANANACREAMPIE and GRILLEDCHEESE. He tried
IDRATHERBEASPARROW and OTTERLYOBSESSED and PASSWORD1234.

A small, strange sound drifted from the speakers. Bruce’s gaze jerked toward the glowing array of
screens displaying Edward’s room; he’d been glancing at it periodically, keeping an eye on
Edward. He had stopped singing. He lay there, motionless, one hand chained, the other resting on
his stomach. He made another one of those little sounds—almost a moan, but not quite. Soft
breathing rasped from the speaker.

Bruce stared, mouth dry, as Edward’s hand crept downward toward the elastic band of his sweat
pants.

Is he going to…?

Edward’s fingertips slipped beneath the hem of his pants.

Bruce’s gaze jerked away, face warming. Of course, if Edward wanted to do that, Bruce wasn’t
going to stop him. He’d been stuck in that room for several days now. It was only natural that
he’d want to…relieve himself at some point.

Turn off the screens.

But what if this was a trick? What if the intent was to get Bruce to turn off the screens, divert his
attention?

Edward’s breathing grew a little faster. His hand was in his pants. He looked directly into the
security camera, as though he knew Bruce was watching, as though he were daring him to watch.
Bruce’s face burned.

Look away. Look away.

“Master Bruce?”

His chest seized. Quickly, he shut off the screen and swiveled his chair around. “Hey, Alfred.”

Alfred hovered in the doorway to his basement lair, plate in hand. There was a sandwich on it,
alongside a sliced green apple. “Are you quite all right?”
“Fine. Yeah.” He fidgeted in his chair. The flush in his cheeks was probably obvious.

Alfred stared for a few seconds, then said, “I apologize for barging in like this. Didn’t mean to
startle you.”

“Uh. No problem.” He thought he’d accidentally walked in on Bruce looking at porn. The
knowledge just made Bruce’s face burn hotter. “What’s that?”

“Turkey and cheddar. I thought you might be hungry.”

“I had a burrito a few hours ago.”

Alfred approached and set the plate on the desk. “Left to your own devices, Master Bruce, you
would live on MSG and high-fructose corn syrup.”

“I drink protein shakes too.” Bruce picked up one half of the sandwich and took a bite. It was
good. Alfred always cut the crusts off, too. “I’m not a kid anymore, you know,” Bruce said,
mouth still half-full. “I can manage my own eating habits.” He swallowed and said, “But thanks.”

Alfred nodded, hands interlaced behind his back. He looked at Bruce expectedly, as though he
were waiting for something, and Bruce experienced a flash of panic—Does he know?

When he was a kid, whenever he’d done something wrong—broken a priceless vase, spilled hot
chocolate on a ten thousand dollar rug—Alfred always seemed to know, and he never confronted
Bruce directly about it. He would just look at him, one eyebrows slightly raised, until Bruce broke
down and blurted out a confession. It was an uncanny power he had.

Alfred glanced at the rat in the cage and said, “You’ve adopted a pet.”

“Yeah. It was…kind of an impulse.”

“Does this little fellow have a name?”

“No.” Bruce swiveled his chair away, a signal that the conversation was over. Alfred let out a
quiet, almost inaudible sigh and retreated.

Bruce waited a few minutes. Then—when he was certain he was alone—he switched the screens
back on. Edward had stopped touching himself. He was reading one of the books Bruce had left
him, the picture of innocence.

A dull burn crept up Bruce’s neck, and an unpleasant heaviness suffused his chest: guilt. He felt
like a pervert, like he had committed some act of visual molestation. He also felt like a kidnapper
—which, of course, was objectively what he was.

Morally, this was a bizarre and fucked-up situation on every level. But Bruce was already in too
deep to pull back. He had committed himself to this path. He had to push forward.

***

“I am always one step ahead. You can chase me, but never catch up to me, no matter how fast you
run.” Edward sat on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around
them. “People yearn for me or fear me, and try in vain to plan me. Everyone has one of me until
the moment they don’t. What am I?”

Bruce—now in his Batman gear—stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “The future.”

“For someone who hates riddles, you’re pretty good at them.”

“Your riddles are easy.”

Edward leaned back, hand over his heart, as though struck by an arrow. He was smiling.

“What’s the password to your hard drive?” Bruce asked.

Edward rocked lightly back and forth, arms still wrapped around his knees. His chain jangled.
“I’m not going to tell you that. That would spoil the fun. Ask me something else.”
“I answer a riddle. You answer a question. That was our agreement.”

“The password is a riddle. You have to figure it out.”

Bruce frowned. “You change the rules on a whim.”

“So do you. Kidnapping me and chaining me to the bed wasn’t in your rulebook, was it?” There
was a playful edge to Edward’s voice now. The wide-eyed desperation and vulnerability had
vanished; the trickster was back.

Bruce pulled up his chair and sat. He glanced down. Edward had already assembled the thousand-
piece, three-dimensional wooden puzzle Bruce had given him. The miniature house stood next to
the stack of books. The Batman plushie sat propped against the headboard, its oversized head
drooping.

“I’ve read all these before,” Edward remarked, “but I’ve been rereading The Lion, the Witch and
the Wardrobe. I owned a copy of this as a child. It was the only thing I owned, for a while.”
Absently, he ran a finger along the book’s spine. “We all got donated books one year for
Christmas. The idea of being able to step through a magic door into another world where you’re
someone important, where your life matters…isn’t that every child’s fantasy? Though I don’t
think the plots are very good. Stories are like puzzles that the characters have to solve. When you
have a god-character who steps in and solves the problems according to his own whims, it ruins
the puzzle.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Hmm?”

“You said ‘we’ all got donated books. Do you have siblings?”

Edward’s smile faded. “Not blood-siblings. Not that I know of. I mean ‘we’ at the orphanage.”

Somehow, the revelation—that Riddler was an orphan—didn’t surprise Bruce. On some level,
maybe, he’d assumed it. One more parallel between them. “I see.”
Edward stared at him with those bright, curious eyes. “Does the Batman have parents?”

After a brief pause, he answered, “I did.”

“What is it like?” His tone was still light, as though the question were just idle curiosity, but Bruce
could hear the slight quaver beneath.

He considered, for a moment, how to answer that. This felt like an opening—a path into Edward’s
past, into his head. It might get him talking, earn Bruce some trust. But he had to be careful. The
Riddler knew who Bruce Wayne was. Too many details, and he might make the connection. He
had to give an answer that was real, yet vague. “When they were alive, it felt normal. I felt…safe,
but in a way that I didn’t recognize at the time, because I took it for granted that they would always
be there. Like gravity. Then, after—” he stopped.

Edward waited. He was curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, chin resting
atop them. There was a stillness, an alertness in his face—like a predator observing prey, or prey
listening for a predator. His eyes were wide open, utterly focused on Bruce.

“After they passed on…it was like gravity disappeared. There was no more up or down. Nothing
made sense. I had to reinvent my own universe.”

“Did you ever get into trouble? Did they ever scold you?”

“A few times.”

“I always wondered what that was like,” he said, almost dreamily. “Not that I was never scolded at
the orphanage, of course. Those nuns, they wielded their rulers like whips. If you ever stammered
or slouched or said ‘yeah’ instead of ‘yes’ or showed a spark of defiance in your eyes—whap!” He
slapped his right hand down on his left, and Bruce winced a little at the crack. “But I always
imagined that scolding would feel different from a parent. From someone who cared.” His gaze
drifted away. “I suppose your parents were rich, too.”

Bruce said nothing, which he supposed was answer enough. “You said you already gave me a clue
about the password. So what was the clue?”
“If I told you that, I’d be giving it away. Part of the riddle is figuring out the clue.”

Bruce breathed in and let the air out slowly through his nose. A part of him wanted to grab the
man and squeeze him until secrets started spilling out. Then he remembered the way Edward had
clung to him last night. The desperation, the fear. The Riddler wasn’t stupid. He understood the
helplessness of his position. Bruce would not hurt him, but because he had the power to do so—
and the motive—the threat of torture was implicit in their every interaction.

He believed, also, that some part of Edward wanted to tell him the truth. But he wouldn’t do it
cheaply. He was a code waiting to be unlocked. Bruce just had to find the right combination of
words.

“Edward.”

Edward’s breathing quickened subtly, almost imperceptibly. Just hearing Bruce say his name had
an emotional effect on him. “Yes, Batman?”

“What you did to those men…however cruel it was, I don’t believe it was senseless cruelty. You
were acting according to your own idea of justice.”

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, uncertainty—then his face went blank. His guard was
up.

“I don’t know the full story. But I know they wronged you in some way. And there are others,
aren’t there? The ‘rat’ you kept talking about. People who’ve abused their power. This city is
sick. It needs help. We agree on that much.”

“And yet you think I’m a monster.”

A vision flashed behind Bruce’s eyes—the mayor’s head wrapped in duct-tape, the back of his
skull bashed in, a mass of blood and hair and brain. A thumb dangling from a flashdrive—a man’s
suffering transformed into a bad pun. Terrified eyes staring out from a cage of rats. An explosive
collar. Corrupt men, selfish men, yes. But men with families. Human beings capable of pain, of
fear.

He could draw an artificial distinction in his head, a line between Edward and the Riddler, treat
them as separate entities. But of course it wasn’t that tidy.

“I believe that some of your actions are monstrous,” he said quietly. “But people are more than
their worst actions. And…I understand it. That darkness. That rage.”

“Do you, now?” His voice was flat, unreadable.

“Yes.”

Edward smiled thinly. “The hero giving the villain the ‘we’re not so different’ speech? Interesting
twist. Are you going to try to convince me that what I did wasn’t ‘me’? That I’m a good person
deep down? Because I’m not. The inside of my brain—if you could see it—” he giggled sharply,
then pressed a hand to his mouth, as though to stuff the sound back inside him. Slowly, the hand
lowered. His lips were stretched tight around bared teeth, more a grimace than a smile. “Gotham
made me this way. But I know what I am. I’m ugly. Aaaaall the way down.”

“No. You’re not.”

Edward flinched as though Bruce had flung acid at his face. His gaze cut away.

“You’re not ugly,” Bruce said again, firmly. “But ‘deep down’ isn’t what this is about. It’s our
actions that matter, and what we choose to do in the future matters more than what we’ve done in
the past. You’ve hurt people. But you can decide to help people, going forward. You have that
power.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he murmured.

“I’m trying to gain your cooperation. To persuade you. But nothing I’m telling you right now is
untrue. I’m willing to work with you. If you tell me what you know—whoever’s hurt you,
whoever’s wronged you, I can help bring them to justice. Expose their crimes. Hold them
accountable, but in the right way.”

He smiled thinly. “You really believe the system can be used against them? They own the
system.”
“They’ve manipulated it, used it to their advantage. They’ve gotten away with it so far, but that
doesn’t mean—”

“You know, I think living at the orphanage might not have been so bad if we had a reliable heating
system,” Edward said.

Bruce frowned. “What—”

“It was always breaking down. If not for that, I think I could’ve endured everything else. I think
I’d be a different man. I know—that seems like such a trivial detail, doesn’t it? What a thing to
shape a person’s soul! But the dread every year as the days got colder…” His eyes lost focus. His
face went slack. He seemed, for a moment, to forget that Bruce was there.

“Edward.”

Edward’s breathing had shifted, growing heavier, raspier. “Bruuuuce Waaaayne,” he said in a low,
creaking voice. It sounded almost like another person—as though some inner entity had hijacked
his voice.

Bruce sat utterly still.

“Bruce Wayne,” he rasped again. “Poor, poor Bruce Wayne.” But he wasn’t looking at Bruce. He
was talking to the air, his gaze fixed loosely on nothing. “There was only one TV in the whole
building. And it barely worked. But I remember. Seeing Bruce Wayne on the screen again and
again and again. The endless fawning and weeping over that little orphan rich boy, while we rotted
in overcrowded rooms and shivered in the cold.”

He didn’t know, Bruce told himself. He couldn’t know. Bruce Wayne was on his list of targets—
another man he hated for the sin of his privilege. That was all; that was why he was bringing him
up now. But a sickly weight had settled into Bruce’s stomach.

He remembered. The news stories. The televised funeral. He remembered, too, going in and out
of therapists’ offices and doctors’ offices, rows of amber pill bottles, screaming fits in the night. Or
at least, he remembered that all those things had happened, but it was like remembering a movie
about a fictional boy; he was no longer the viewpoint character in his own memories, so he had to
assume that those memories were cobbled together from media, from video and articles and
abstract knowledge. His past was not his own. Large sections of his childhood, the time after his
parents’ murder, had been blanked out in his head. Specifics had faded. What remained—what
he’d felt throughout that dark, foggy time—was the desire to be left alone. Every well-meaning
expression of sympathy was like fingernails scraping over an open wound…and then, after a while,
it felt like nothing at all. A place inside his chest went dead, went to sleep and never woke up
again.

Bruce could’ve told Edward that sometimes that sort of attention was a curse. That it could feel
like a cage.

But was it as bad as growing up in an overcrowded orphanage? As bad as enduring bitter Gotham
winters without a working heater?

“I kept thinking…why him?” Edward asked the wall. “What was the difference between him and
me? Of course, the answer was obvious. It’s money. It’s always money. It’s like a magic power.
Suddenly you’re important, you’re someone.”

Bruce swallowed, trying to banish the pressure in his throat. “You’re right. It isn’t fair—”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” the Riddler snarled.

Bruce lapsed back into silence.

“I was susceptible too,” Edward said. “At times, I found myself pitying poor little Bruce Wayne,
all alone in his big, big house. And then…” He giggled again. “Then, one winter, I almost lost
two toes because a nail in a loose floorboard punctured my foot and it got infected. The two little
toes on the end—they swelled up like purple balloons and no one took me to the doctor or even
noticed until I literally woke up screaming from the pain.”

“Edward…”

“And then they scolded me for being so careless as to step on a nail. Didn’t I know that doctors
cost money? By being injured, I was literally taking food out of the other children’s mouths. And
I believed them. I cried because I was so ashamed, because I believed it was somehow my fault
that I lived in a rotting building run by people who didn’t care if I lived or died. And yet I kept
hearing about the Renewal fund and how important it was. Where was all that money? Millions
of dollars, just vanished like a puff of smoke—poof.”
The Renewal fund. His parents’ legacy. Was that what this was about? “Edward…that should
never have happened to you. It was—”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said in a small, sullen voice. His head was bowed,
knuckles pressed against his temples, as though trying to squeeze a thought out of his head.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Bruce sat, head bowed. He felt helpless—as though a chasm had opened between them, miles
wide, and he didn’t have the slightest idea how to cross it. He could feel Edward retreating,
pulling deeper into himself.

Bruce slid the chair back and stood. “How many of those protein bars do you have left?” No
response. “Do you need more?”

A small nod.

“Which…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Which do you like better? The peanut butter or the
Oreo kind?”

Edward picked at the edge of one thumbnail. After ten seconds or so, he murmured, “Peanut
butter.”

“All right.” After another pause, he said, “Later today, I’ll bring you some real food too.
Something that doesn’t come in bar form. And more books.”

Another nod. Edward didn’t look up.

Bruce turned away, toward the door. Edward made a small sound, and he stopped, turning.

Edward opened his mouth and closed it again. He lowered his head, sitting with his thin shoulders
hunched and drawn in.
“What?”

“Nothing,” he whispered.

Bruce hesitated. “If there’s anything else you need or want, you can ask.”

He took a small breath. “Will you…” His teeth caught his lower lip. His right hand drifted over
to grip his left arm, squeezing. Bruce noticed the faint, white lines of long-healed scratches and
cuts on his forearm.

Bruce waited.

“W-what you…what you did last time,” Edward murmured, almost inaudibly. “Can you…?”

Bruce stared at that small, huddled form, one bandaged wrist encircled by the manacle. In the
plain gray, slightly oversized t-shirt and gray sweats Bruce had lent him, he looked smaller,
swallowed up by the clothes. It was easy to forget what he was capable of. But this aspect of him
wasn’t an illusion. The Riddler and Edward—they were two facets of the same person, neither
more real than the other. Bruce flexed his hand, the one Edward had bitten on that first day. It still
hurt, though the pain had receded to a faint stiffness and ache.

Slowly, Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed and extended an arm. Edward tensed, flinching a
little.

He’d reacted that way more than once. Too-sudden movements triggered a fight or flight reflex.
Bruce remained motionless, arm extended. A silent invitation.

Edward’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips. He crept forward. Bruce’s arm slowly curled around
him, drawing him closer. Edward pressed against him, resting his forehead against Bruce’s
shoulder, face hidden. Quiet, mingled breathing filled the silence.

Edward croaked out, voice muffled, “Do you know how dealers get dropheads hooked? They give
them the first taste for free. A little sample of bliss. And then they keep raising the price each
time they come back.”
Bruce lay one gloved hand carefully on the back of his head. I’m the dealer? “There’s not going
to be a price. Not for this.”

Edward let out a wobbly little laugh; at times, that laugh seemed more like a nervous tic than an
expression of joy. “Do you think I’m stupid? I’m desperate. But I’m not stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Soft breaths shivered against him.

His gloved hand slid down over the soft, tender skin of Edward’s nape, over his back.

A tiny sound escaped Edward’s throat.

Too close.

He should pull back. He knew that.

His hand moved up and down, over Edward’s hair, his nape, his back—petting him like a cat.
Edward gripped the edge of his cape in one hand, clung to it. He turned his head, pressed the cape
to his face, breathed in deeply. He rubbed it against his cheek.

So strange. So unexpected. This feeling.

It was his need. His helplessness. But it was more than that. Beneath the killer, beneath the harsh
and utilitarian bulk of his murder-suit, was a sensitive, intelligent, damaged man. A man who
reminded Bruce uncomfortably of himself.

You are worth saving, he thought.

Bruce’s gloved fingertips rubbed Edward’s scalp in small circles, and Edward sank into him,
weakened and dazed with pleasure. His head tipped back, his expression wide open. Bruce’s gaze
focused briefly on his parted lips, then moved away.
“Your heart-rate just increased,” Edward murmured. His cheek rested against Bruce’s chest-plate,
over the bat symbol. “I wonder why?”

Bruce didn’t respond.

After another minute of silence, Edward said, “I think about you, you know.”

His heartbeat quickened again.

Of course, it was obvious that Edward thought about him. He’d addressed all his letters to the
Batman, had intended all those riddles for him. But of course, that wasn’t what he meant. In his
head, he saw the security feed—Edward’s hand creeping down over his stomach, fingers slipping
beneath the elastic waist of his sweatpants.

One hand was still balled up in Bruce’s cape, clinging to it. “You smell the way I always
imagined.” His cheek was pressed to Bruce’s chest. “Are you disgusted with me?”

It took Bruce a few seconds to find his voice. It emerged as a raspy whisper. “No.”

For a while, neither one of them spoke. Words felt dangerous. Bruce just held him, listening to his
soft breathing, conscious of the weight and warmth of him, of his limbs and organs, his humanity
—conscious of the fine, light brown hairs on his forearms, of the narrow white scar in the crook of
his elbow, of the flick of his lashes each time he blinked, the faint gurgle of his stomach digesting
the protein bar. His scent. Beneath the sour tang of unwashed skin was something else—a mild,
musty smell, something deeply and inexplicably familiar, like a puzzle piece clicking into place in
a neglected corner of Bruce’s being. He thought about taking off one of his gloves and touching
Edward’s hair with his bare fingers. He wanted to. But he resisted.

Edward Nashton, he thought. Edward Nashton, Edward Nashton. The name circled and circled
through his head, a rat spinning on a wheel.

***

Bruce sat at his desk, face bathed in the pale light of the screen. In the cage, the rat was snuffling
around in his wood shavings. He picked up a kernel of feed in his cunning little pink paws and
nibbled on it.

A mass of confused feelings roiled inside him—rumbling dark clouds, flickers of lightning.

You’re attracted to him.

No. Ridiculous. Insane. He was a serial killer—

Yup.

Also, he was Bruce’s captive.

Yup.

Any attraction between them would be inherently and inescapably unethical.

Yup. And?

“Fuck,” he muttered, putting his hands over his face.

Since becoming Batman, he’d completely avoided romantic and sexual entanglements. Too risky.
He satisfied his occasional urges with online porn and grim, utilitarian jerk-off sessions. Meeting
Selina had sparked a faint something—an awareness that, in another version of his life, she might
be his type—but he’d quickly and successfully squelched the spark. She was searching for her lost
girlfriend, anyway; nothing was going to happen, and that was fine.

And now this.

That Bruce Wayne was bisexual was a fact known not only to himself, but by the tabloids which
salivated over every detail of his romantic life (or lack thereof). In his past life, he’d had both male
and female lovers. Nothing significant, nothing that lasted more than a few months, because
human relationships had never come easily to him. And because eventually, anyone who got close
enough saw past the dark mystique of his brooding and trauma and realized that Bruce himself—
the man behind the glossy, goth-chic image—was a garden-variety depressive who was actually
kind of a bummer to hang out with; a grown-up adolescent filled with sullen silences and sour
remarks. Bruce would complain repetitively about his emotional pain the way an old man
complained about his aching joints, and eventually, the soft coos of, You can talk to me, you know,
turned to, Oh for fuck’s sake. Can’t you at least try to enjoy yourself for once?

And now this.

Edward was obsessed with Batman, he reminded himself. Not Bruce Wayne. Well, he was
obsessed with Bruce too, but in a different way. He wanted to murder him, which was yet another
reason why getting attached was a bad fucking idea.

But Bruce had a lot of practice at compartmentalizing his emotions. He needed to hack into this
fucking hard drive.

A soft hum drifted from the speakers—Edward humming Ave Maria again. The cursor blinked on
and off.

The song. It had to be a clue. But Bruce had already tried that phrase. He raked a hand through
his hair, agitated. In the cage, the rat stood on its hind legs and peered at him, pink nose twitching.

He typed in ILIKERATS. Nothing. He tried FUCKYOUBRUCE and NOMORELIES and

IMAWEIRDLITTLEMAN and THISISPOINTLESS and WHATTHEFUCKAMIDOING.

The humming continued.

On impulse, he looked up the Latin on his phone, wondering if the standard translation was
missing some nuance. Ave—it could be translated as “hail,” which was the usual interpretation, but
it could also mean “be well” or “farewell.”

He tried a few more combinations: BEWELLMARIA. BEWELLMARY. FAREWELLMARY—

Welcome.
He stared at the screen, frozen, hands poised above the keyboard. There was a faint chime, then a
plain black desktop screen with a scattered handful of icons came into view.

There was a text file labeled with a long string of letters and numbers. Bruce opened it. Chatlogs,
saved from Riddler’s livestream. Hundreds of pages. He scrolled through, dazed, taking in bits
and pieces.

There were other documents. He opened another and saw a solid page of what appeared to be
Edward’s rambling philosophical thoughts, no paragraph breaks: Edward’s mind spread open for
him. Everything was here. His connections, his social life—so to speak—his underlying
ideology. His exposed wiring. Bruce’s palms were damp with sweat. He dried them on his jeans.

Just like that, he’d broken through. He was in.

 Chapter 6

All in all, Edward had acclimated to captivity better than he might have imagined.

Of course, it helped to have things to occupy his mind. During Batman’s last visit, just before he
left, he’d said, “Almost forgot—I brought you this, too,” and removed a slender tablet computer
from his waist-pouch. The deactivated screen reflected Edward's face, a black mirror. “Not
internet-enabled, obviously. But it has some games and music loaded onto it.” He set the tablet on
the bed, removed a set of earbud headphones on a thin black cord and lay them next to the device.
“And a word program. You like to write. Don’t you?”

He wondered if Batman had seen the journals in his apartment. “I don’t know if I like to, exactly.
But I do write. Call it a compulsion.”

“It’s up to you."

"Are you going to read it?"

"Not unless you want me to.”

“Why not just give me a notebook and pencil?”

“I don’t trust you with a pencil. I think you’d find some way to escape with it.”

Of course, “escape” could mean multiple things in that context. “Nothing sharp, at least not
without supervision,” Edward had remarked. “That’s the rule?”

“That’s the rule.”

Afterward, Edward had whiled away a few hours playing the Super Bomberman emulator on the
tablet. It took a bit of getting used to—he was accustomed to playing it with a real controller on his
vintage SNES (which he’d sold for extra cash when he was first assembling his Riddler suit), and a
touchscreen wasn’t quite the same, but it scratched the old itch in his brain, the way puzzle games
did. Every so often he paused to fantasize about the sensation of gloved fingers stroking his
hair...or rather, he found himself pulled into these fantasies whenever he let down his guard. The
memory rolled around and around in his brain like a marble through a maze.

An inner gurgle distracted him. A heavy discomfort had settled low in his body. It would subside,
and then surge and subside again.

There were certain bathroom needs that couldn’t be accommodated with a plastic urinal, after all.
Sooner or later he would have to bring it up. How long could he exist in this room, chained to the
bed?

The question brought up a host of other mysteries about his location: how large was the house (it
was a house, wasn’t it?), and how many rooms? How far outside the city was this place located?
He could hear nothing outside, and of course there were no windows, but he assumed he’d been
hauled to some remote location. Somewhere no one would overhear his screams, if he were to
scream.

But it was all rather beside the point, because he doubted that Batman would let him leave the
room, even to use a toilet. Probably, he’d just bring a bucket and unchain Edward for a few
minutes.

He'd almost gotten used to his immobility. But the thought of asking for permission to defecate—
the powerlessness of it—was humiliating.

Well…he could endure a little longer.

He played the game for another hour or so, drank part of a bottled water, and took a nap, lulling
himself to sleep with the memory of warm arms, the scent of leather and skin. And that cape. It
smelled faintly of fabric softener...something fresh and unexpected with a name like "sea breeze"
or "spring morning." It was such a sturdy material. Wool? No, something lighter. Maybe a blend
of fabrics. It had felt soft against his cheek. He was still thinking about it as he drifted off.

***

A charred-meat smell tickled Edward’s nose, stirring him from a half-sleep. His eyes opened.
Food. Beef? His stomach gurgled, and his mouth filled with warm saliva. Seconds later, nausea
began to squirm in the pit of his belly.
The smell of cooked meat always had that paradoxical effect on him. He craved it and was
sickened by his own craving.

The door opened, and Batman stepped in, a plate in one hand. He closed the door behind him. The
lock clicked. “Steak,” Batman said. “And some potatoes. I did say I would bring you real food.”

Edward sat up slowly. There was a subtle tightening in his gut.

He didn’t usually eat beef. Or pork, or chicken. He knew it was an arbitrary and inconsistent
aversion on his part—he drank milk and ate eggs and fish, after all—but the visceral response was
there, nonetheless.

“You like steak?” Batman asked.

“Yes,” he lied. Asking him to take it away felt like an admission of defeat, somehow. A sign of
weakness.

Batman carried the plate over and set it on the bed. There was a small pile of potatoes au gratin,
another of tender green asparagus shoots. The steak, Edward noted, had already been cut into bite-
sized pieces; there was a fork but no knife. Edward picked up the fork, speared a piece of the
tender filet mignon—it was rare, leaking clear red juice onto the plate—and placed it in his mouth,
on his tongue.

The flavor was exquisite—rich, deep and peppery—but somehow that just heightened the nausea.
Images flashed rapid-fire behind his eyes: slaughterhouses and bolt-guns and blood congealing in
puddles on the dusty floor, cramped stalls packed together in dim industrial warehouses. No light,
no space to move. Cows lowing, pigs squealing like frightened children…

Skull fragments, glistening purple-red dura mater, a glimpse of brain through the slurry of blood
and matted hair, the wet thud…

His throat constricted; his nausea spiked. He tamped it down, took another bite, coughed a little,
and swallowed. His eyes watered. He kept eating, but it was becoming increasingly clear his body
didn’t want to cooperate.

Batman’s brows knitted together. “Something wrong?”

“Hmm-mm.”

“I can bring you something else.”

Edward choked down what was in his mouth, then slowly set the fork down on the plate. “I’m
fine.” At Batman’s stare, he fidgeted, averted his eyes, and said, “I have a complicated relationship
with meat. When it’s unrecognizable as flesh—chicken nuggets, for instance—I can usually
stomach it. But when it looks like what it is, and especially when it’s...leaking like this, I have a…
a psychosomatic reaction.”

“I see."

“I know what you're thinking. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?” He smiled. “I didn’t get
nauseous when I killed those people. In case you're wondering. But then, I didn’t eat any of
them.”

“Good to know,” he said in that raspy, unreadable voice.

"I feel so ungrateful. This is probably an excellent steak."

"I'm not going to force you to eat something that makes you gag. I'll have it later. You want the
vegetables, at least?"

Edward scraped the tine of his fork lightly along the edge of the plate. The red juice kept leaking
out of the steak, forming little puddles. He hadn’t had this reaction to meat when he was a child,
had he? It had started…when had it started? “I can have those.” He tried a bite of the potatoes,
then the asparagus. They were both delicious, fresh and expertly seasoned. He wondered if
Batman had a personal chef who prepared his meals. Or did he cook them himself? He visualized
Batman standing in front of a stove, suit and all, stirring a pot of sauce with a wooden spoon. A
little hiccupping laugh escaped him.

“What’s the joke?”

“Hnn…nothing. Just...you're a bit more domestic than I expected.”

"You don't know much about me," Batman said.

Edward opened his mouth to say that he knew a lot about him. But did he?

He kept eating.

Once Edward had finished, Batman took the plate, set it aside, pulled up his usual chair, and sat.

It begins. Edward's pulse escalated. The dance of riddles and questions, the mind games, the
strangely flattering attention of Batman trying to wriggle past his defenses, into his head. Like an
attempted seduction. And afterward…

Did he dare to hope that it would happen a third time? That it would become part of their routine?
He had to be careful. Couldn't seem eager. But maybe. Maybe.

Edward opened his mouth to give a riddle, but before he could, Batman spoke: “Who’s Mary?”

Edward froze. His jaw snapped shut. “What?” His voice cracked a little.

“The password to your hard drive. ‘Farewell, Mary.’” At Edward’s silence, he added, “I solved
your riddle. So I get a question. That’s the bargain, right?”

Edward’s gaze jerked away. So, he was already in. How much of the hard drive had Batman
combed through? How much he had seen? “No one,” he muttered. “It’s a reference to the song.
‘Ave Maria.’ They made us sing it all the time, in the orphanage.”

“I don’t believe you would have that as your password unless there was some deeper significance.”

“Sometimes there’s no hidden meaning. Sometimes I just like to play games.”

“You don’t have much of a poker face, you know.”

He could feel another nervous giggle trying to claw its way from his throat. He’d expected more
questions about his plans, his followers. Not this.

Batman’s gaze remained fixed on his. “Who is she? Was there a woman in your life, Edward?”

Heat crept up his neck. The question felt almost like a mockery. After all, Edward had already
more-or-less confessed that he was a virgin. Thirty-seven years old, and he’d never had a lover.
Never even been kissed. Not a real kiss anyway—not an “I want you” kiss like the kind they
showed in movies and porn. He had long since accepted that he would probably die before being
touched in that way, desired in that way. But so what? Considering the many indignities that the
universe had heaped upon him and all the other nobodies in this godforsaken city, his own lack of a
sex life barely seemed worth complaining about. And it made it easier to focus on his mission, his
purpose; it gave him clarity. Still...

He gripped his own wrist; he’d begun to rock back and forth a little on the bed, a compulsive
movement. “What are you asking, exactly?” The words came out sharper than he intended.

“I’m asking if there was someone you loved.”

Of course there had been. But not the way he meant. Mary. The other day—that day and night
Batman had left him alone, chained to the bed, delirious with thirst—Edward hadn't been able to
remember her name. It bothered him that he’d forgotten, even for a little while.

“Mary wasn’t a woman,” he said. “She was a baby. In the orphanage. She died.” He stared at
nothing. “That wasn’t unusual. A baby or two would die almost every winter. After her, I
stopped getting attached to them.”

“I’m sorry.”

Edward shrugged, keeping his face downcast to hide his expression.

“That orphanage…is it still there?”

“The building is, but it’s a husk. No one’s lived there for years. Well, dropheads squat there.” He
hugged his knees to his chest. “I don’t know why I chose that as my password. To remind myself,
I suppose.”

“Of her?”

“Of why I do it.”

“You mean the killings.”

He smiled tightly. “Those men stole from the people of the city. From children.” His fingers dug
into his forearm. “It goes so deep. So deep. You have no idea.”

Dark eyes searched his face—a deep, focused, probing look. It felt invasive, like a searchlight
inside his head. "I understand your anger."

His gaze twitched away. "You keep saying that. That you understand," he whispered.

“Edward…”

His pulse quickened. “Don’t say that name.” It wasn’t fair that he’d asked about her. It felt,
somehow, like a violation of the rules. And it wasn’t fair, the way his body and heart reacted to
the sound of that voice saying those two familiar syllables. Edward. It wasn’t fair that Batman
had that power over him when he already had every other power. Edward didn’t know the
Batman’s real name, so he could only think of him by his alias. Yet another inequality.

Batman sighed. He raised a hand to his head, as though to run it over his hair—a habit?—but of
course, the mask was in the way. “Fine. What do you want me to call you? Riddler?”

“Yes.”

“Riddler, then.” He rubbed his knee absently. “Maybe there are things I don't understand. About
you, about them. But they weren’t the only victims. They had families. Children.”
“I know.”

“The mayor’s son…he’s the one who found the body. Did you know that?”

Edward’s fingers dug harder into his forearm. "No. But it doesn't change anything."

Something had shifted in the air. It felt colder.

“There are some wounds that don’t heal," Batman said. "Finding your dead father in a chair with
his skull bashed in and his head wrapped in duct tape is one of them.”

Edward stared at the wall. A faint ringing filled his ears, his head. He kept his face blank, slack.

“Does that boy’s suffering mean nothing to you?” Batman asked.

Edward’s nails kept digging into his forearm. "What do you want from me, exactly? You want
me sniveling and weeping with repentance? It doesn't matter now. I can't take back what I did.
But even if I could, I wouldn't."

“If you give up on compassion, then you’ve already lost.”

He bared his teeth in a smile. “Funny how compassion always seems to protect the powerful.”

“Do you honestly believe that what you did will help anyone? Change anything for the better?”
There was something dark in his voice. A low, humming tension. Like a taut-pulled string about
to snap.

Even now, a part of him quailed away from the coldness in that voice, wanted to bury his face in
Batman’s cape and beg for forgiveness—but his head was filled with every casual cruelty that he
and his fellow orphans had ever suffered, everything magnified, taking up space until he could
barely breathe, and that thick, cold, all-smothering rage filled him. “I'm getting tired of this game."

"This isn't a game, Riddler. We're talking about human lives."

A jagged lightning-flash of anger cut through him. He dug his nails in harder, drawing blood.
“Everything is a game. Everything. They treated us like pawns, so why not turn the tables? And
you—you played along so nicely.”

Batman tensed.

“You danced like a puppet on my strings, almost like you enjoyed it. You pretend to be one of
them, you talk about honor and rules because you’re too scared to look at your real self, but you—
you’re like me. You want to see it all burn. All the lies, the filth, this whole diseased mass of a
city.”

Batman stood slowly, looming over him. He seemed suddenly larger; all traces of uncertainty had
vanished. Darkness emanated from him like an aura.

Edward’s breathing quickened. “Rethinking your stance on torture?” He stared straight into
Batman’s eyes, into the cold beyond. “You're thinking about how soft you've been on me. All
these little presents, all these mercies after all the suffering I've caused. I understand. It’s
vengeance for that boy. For his pain. You can’t let that stand. Whatever you do to me, it won’t be
nearly as bad as what he’s going through. Is that what you’re thinking? Go on.”

Batman’s expression tightened. And for a moment, Edward was sure that it was going to happen,
that the pain was going to begin. It would come with the speed of a striking snake—a black-
gloved hand cracking against his jaw. Or wrapped around his throat. Thumbs pressing into his
trachea, dark stars bursting across his vision. The potential for violence hung in the air between
them, building, seething…

Then Batman turned sharply away. He heaved a sigh, shoulders sagging.

The rush of relief made Edward dizzy. But it faded quickly, shrinking and hardening to something
small and cold inside his chest. Something like shame. He didn't even know why he'd said those
things. Nothing was going to knock Batman off his moral pedestal, even if that pedestal was built
from hypocrisy. Edward felt a perverse resentment that his captor had restrained himself yet
again. If anything, to be hit in that moment would have been a deeper relief—a release of pent-up
tension, a confirmation of everything he knew deep down. If Batman would just hit him, he could
let go of this cruel, false hope, this stupid fantasy that he cared.

Edward laughed stiffly. “Of course. Of course you won’t dirty your gloves with my blood.
Leather is hard to clean, isn’t it? I’ve been wondering about that. How do you get the blood off
your costume? Do you drop it off at the dry cleaner's, or...”

Batman walked toward the door.

He’s leaving? Already?

Batman gripped the knob, turning.

“The silent treatment, is it? How devastating. I didn’t think bats were known for their passive-
aggressiveness.”

Please. Please don’t go.

But of course it was too late. After that—all the talk about the dead mayor and his traumatized son
—he wasn’t going to hold Edward. He had the password, the hard drive, all of Edward’s secrets.
Edward himself had become redundant.

A pang of fear lanced through him.

Maybe Batman would hand him off to the authorities, after all. Discard him and walk away. If
he’d been smart about it, Edward might have been able to draw things out a little longer, to steal a
few more moments of warmth and caring, even if it was a lie, but now he’d ruined it.

Batman started to turn the knob, and a faint whine rose up in Edward’s throat; he clamped down on
it. He sat silent, burning with resentment and need and frustration, wanting to scream at him,
wanting to lunge toward him, reach out and clutch the hem of his cape. The door opened a crack,
hinges creaking faintly.

Edward’s stomach let out a sudden, loud gurgle, like an explosion in the silence.

Batman froze, one hand on the doorknob.

Edward stared down at the bed. A cramp seized his belly, and he pressed a hand to it. Oh god,
no. Not this. Not now. He willed his body to be quiet, to be still. But the heaviness inside him
was inescapable, like a cinderblock.

“What?” Batman asked.

“I…” Edward’s face burned. His throat closed.

Edward could say nothing. He could just let Batman walk out. He could preserve what little
dignity he had left.

And then what? Soil yourself and lay there in your own filth?

“I—I h-have to…” He swallowed, tried again, but only a faint croak emerged. His hand remained
pressed to his stomach.

“A bathroom. Is that it?”

Edward huddled on the bed, his nails still digging into his forearm. “Yes.”

Batman pulled a key and a blindfold from his pouch. So, he’d come prepared. He’d known this
would become an issue at some point. “There’s one down the hall,” he said, his tone unreadable.
“I’ll walk you there. But I’m going to keep your hands cuffed and your eyes covered.”

Well, it was better than using a bucket. He nodded and allowed Batman to remove his glasses and
tie the blindfold into place. He tied it firmly, securely, so no hint of light crept in. Edward closed
his eyes; Batman tightened the knot, and he felt the smooth cloth pressing in against his eyelids.

“Is this really necessary?” Edward blurted out. “Or is this just your kink?” Oh god, shut up,
Edward.

Batman went still. Silent.

“That isn’t…” Batman cleared his throat. “That’s not my motive,” he said gruffly. But his voice
was a little unsteady. “I don’t know if you’d be able to figure out the location of this place just
from looking at the outside hallway, but I can’t take any chances. You’re too smart.”

Edward blinked, lashes flicking against the blindfold. He’d expected anger, disgust. He had not
expected the Batman to get flustered.

This…all of this was strange. He felt as though gravity had shifted; he no longer quite knew what
was going on, where they stood.

“Just…come with me,” Batman muttered.

He undid the manacle from the bedpost, cuffed both Edward’s hands, and led him out of the room,
gripping the back of his shirt like a kitten’s scruff as he steered him down the hallway, into another
room. Edward felt cold tiles beneath his bare feet. Batman closed the door, undid the blindfold,
and slipped Edward’s glasses back into place.

He was standing in a palatial bathroom which seemed, at first glance, to have more square footage
than his entire apartment—a wonderland of gleaming tile and chrome, a glass-doored shower stall,
a hulking clawfoot bathtub.

Batman undid one of his cuffs; the right one. It slipped free and dangled on the end of the chain
from his manacled left hand like an oversized charm bracelet. “I’ll wait outside,” Batman said in
his characteristic raspy voice. “Once you’re done, just knock on the door.”

It was difficult, Edward had noticed, not to say mundane things in that voice without sounding a
little bit silly. It had occurred to him that that was not Batman’s real voice, that he was disguising
it. Which only made sense. When he was speaking as the Riddler, he’d done the same.

Edward looked at the clawfoot tub. His own apartment didn’t have a tub. It had been years since
he’d taken a bath. His heart was racing. “Can I…?”

“What?”

“I, um. I haven’t bathed or showered since I came here. After I—you know—I would like to wash
up.”
Batman glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, and Edward had the sense he was making
some inner cost-benefits calculation, weighing risks. “Fine,” he muttered, “but don’t take too
long.”

Batman retreated into the outside hallway (Edward got only a brief glimpse of it, not enough to tell
him anything) before shutting the door.

Edward stood alone in the massive bathroom. No window. Naturally.

Moving quietly, he opened a few drawers beneath the vast sink. Toothpaste, toothbrushes, bottles
of mouthwash. Nothing metal, nothing sharp. Batman wasn’t careless. And he’d already made
the rules clear: Edward was not allowed to take his own life. Not here. It did not belong to him.
It was cradled like a baby bird, pink and squirming, in those black-gloved hands.

***

Once he’d done his business—god, it felt good to use an actual toilet again—Edward approached
the piano-sized tub and twisted the gold-handled faucet. Hot water gushed out. He ran his fingers
under it, and that alone sent a shiver of pleasure through him.

In his own apartment building, you were lucky if the water was lukewarm. And it always had a
metallic chemical smell; drinking it (if you were foolish or desperate enough to drink it) left a
faintly slimy residue on one’s tongue.

A collection of bath products—soaps, shampoos—sat on the nearby shelf. Nothing fancy. Brands
you could buy at the corner drugstore. He squirted some shampoo under the running water to
make bubbles, then slipped out of his sweatpants and t-shirt—conscious, the whole time, of
Batman’s presence just outside the door—and stepped into the tub. The hot water was a shock. He
sank into it, letting it envelope him.

A soft sigh escaped him as his eyes rolled back. God, that felt fucking amazing. He shut off the
water and floated there like a fetus in a womb, suspended, eyes half-open and unfocused. The
eucalyptus smell of the shampoo filled the air. A soft hum vibrated in the back of his throat, like a
cat’s purr.

Yes. I could get used to this. The gilded cage...

Edward breathed quietly into the silence of the bathroom. He was in a different part of the house
now. The room-tone had shifted; he could hear a low, rumbling hum that might’ve been a heater
or some appliance. Or traffic. He closed his eyes, cupped his hands around his ears, and honed in
on that sound. Yes—it was traffic. Engines, movement, the rush of lifeblood through a city’s
veins.

He’d been wrong. He wasn’t in some isolated manor out in the countryside. He’d never left
Gotham.

Another realization bubbled beneath the surface. Batman’s skittishness, that glance over the
shoulder…

There’s someone else living here. In this house.

Did the Batman have a spouse, a partner? No—no, he didn’t think so. But someone. Someone
who didn’t know about Edward’s presence, who might not approve.

On the heels of that realization came yet another, something which, perhaps, he had already known
subconsciously: that this was the first time the Batman had taken a prisoner. He didn’t really
know what he was doing, didn’t have a plan. Not long-term. He was like an adolescent on his first
date, awkward and fumbling, afraid of going too far or moving too fast, not knowing what the rules
were. It was a contradiction. He was a man who wore his power like a second skin, a man clearly
accustomed to privilege...yet in this, he hadn't fully internalized the idea that he made the rules.
Some part of him was looking to Edward for the cues.

There was a knock at the door. A gruff voice asked, “Do you need anything?”

He was still trying to sound so tough, with that whispery rasp. Edward almost laughed. Less than
an hour ago, his captor had been glaring at him with violence in his eyes, on the verge of crossing a
boundary that could never be uncrossed, inflicting physical harm on the helpless, unrepentant
murderer in his bed. Yet now...

“I’m all right,” he called. “Thank you.”

“Just let me know.”

Edward floated, watching the suds drift around him. He took his glasses off, folded them, and set
them on the spacious soap shelf next to the half-used bar of Dove. Absently, he picked it up,
turned it over in his manacled hand. Batman had washed himself with this.

He could feel himself getting hard beneath the water. He examined the soap; he could see
fingerprints on it, shining in the muted amber light. Not his own. He studied the loops and whorls
of them, trying to memorize them. With the soap still clutched tight in one hand, he reached
beneath the water with his other, the chain clinking softly. He pinched the head of his cock, gave it
a light squeeze. His breathing had grown unsteady.

Did he dare? Here, now?

The ache, the coiled tension in his groin…it had been near-constant over the last few days. Even
when he wasn’t hard, the need was a sharp point pulsing low in his belly, behind his cock, inside
his balls. He wrapped his entire hand around his cock and squeezed it harder, trying to quell the
need, but the pain only inflamed it. At times, when he was distracted or anxious, he had trouble
achieving orgasm, even with porn; he had to nearly be in pain before he could cum.

He thought about those warm, strong arms around him. Those fingers in his hair. A hand on his
mouth...

He pulled on his cock. His eyes screwed tightly shut. He placed the soap in his mouth and bit
down on it, leaving the impression of his teeth, as his hand moved beneath the water. He trembled
and strained and whined faintly, the sound muffled by his impromptu gag, the slick taste of it on
his tongue. But he couldn’t quite bring himself over the edge.

By the time he finally gave up, he was red and sore. His cock was barely half-erect; the hot water
made this difficult. Or maybe it was the knowledge that Batman was right outside. His arousal
was a steady pulse, unrelenting, something he felt through his whole body, yet the finish line was
receding into the distance.

Useless. Can’t even jack off properly.

He gave the head of his cock another punishing pinch, making his eyes water.

You feel like you need his permission? Is that it?

He squeezed a little harder, groaning, teeth pressing deeper into the soap—then released himself.
A dull ache had settled into his chest. He pushed it aside and focused on the warmth around him.

***

After draining the tub and drying himself off with the thickest and fluffiest white towel he had ever
touched, after slipping back into his sweatpants and t-shirt, Edward knocked on the door, which
creaked open.

“I’m done,” Edward said.

“I’m going to put your cuffs back on.”

Edward compliantly held out his hands, wrists touching, palms up, fingers curled inward, and
watched as Batman fastened the cuffs back into place and locked them. He stood motionless and
Batman tied the blindfold into place.

“How was the bath?”

“It felt good. Thank you.”

The Batman led him back into his room, fastened his cuff to the bedpost. He started to turn.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

“Are you going to hold me?”

He hadn’t meant to say it outright like that. But now it was there. That naked admission of need.
A strange look—almost panic—flickered across Batman’s face. He took a slow breath. “Edward
—I mean, Riddler—”

“You said there wouldn’t be a price. Not for this.”

He shifted his weight. He seemed agitated. Almost jumpy. “I have to be careful. I have to be
very careful. This—this situation, everything about it, it’s—”

“Please.”

Batman didn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” Edward whispered. “I’m sorry I killed those people. Is that what you want me to
say?”

“Is that true?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I'm very confused.” After another few seconds,
he whispered again: “Please.”

Batman took a breath. He approached, sat on the edge of the bed, and put an arm around Edward,
drawing him in. “Just for a minute,” he murmured.

Edward rested his head against that warm, solid shoulder.

Batman hugged him. But it felt…off. He was tense in a way he hadn’t been before. He didn’t
stroke Edward’s hair, just held him stiffly, arms like a mannequin’s. Edward felt a prickle in his
sinuses, a pressure like a thumb against the base of his throat.

Well. It wasn’t surprising. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness in his eyes.
And then he happened to glance down.

Oh.

Was that…was he…?

Oh.

Batman quickly stood, releasing him, almost shoving him away. “You need anything else?” he
asked in a low, businesslike tone.

“I’m all right,” Edward heard himself reply.

“Good. I’ll, uh. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” He retreated hastily, shutting and locking the
door.

Edward sat on the bed for several minutes in a silent daze. He felt as though he were floating.

Was he really—?

Well, those dark pants were pretty tight. It was a difficult thing to mistake. But it didn’t seem
possible. It seemed like a joke at Edward’s expense. Like Batman’s obvious erection had been
somehow sarcastic.

Slowly, Edward touched his own face, refamiliarizing himself with the bumps and valleys of his
features, the frames of his glasses. He felt curiously disconnected from his own body; his face was
a rubber mask, his limbs like a marionette's controlled by an unseen puppeteer. He’d fantasized,
he’d imagined a connection between them, but deep down, he’d never dared to believe—

The knowledge should thrill him. Shouldn't it? It was a form of power, to be wanted. It put some
measure of control back in his hands. Yet his hands were trembling. That fear, that sense of
something new awakening within him…it came roaring back, stronger.
In the realm of fantasy, Edward was always in control, even when he submitted. He wrote the
script. No one could take that away from him. But this…this was real. It was happening.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on playing a game right now. But he needed something.
Slowly, he picked up the headphones, plugged the jack into the tablet, and inserted the buds into
his ears. Maybe music would drown out his thoughts, quell the slowly swelling panic inside him.

His hand moved slowly, like a man in a trance, as he opened the music folder and scrolled through
the songs—hundreds or thousands of them—loaded onto the tablet. He settled on a vaguely
familiar song and lay down, letting the music wash over him. His mind drifted in and out of focus.

“Creature comfort makes it painless

Bury me penniless and nameless

Born in a diamond mine

It’s all around you but you can’t see it

Born in a diamond mine

It’s all around you but you can’t touch it…”

He remembered his brief, voluntary stint in Arkham all those years ago, long before his
awakening. Pills, bad meatloaf, a series of foggy hallways, electroconvulsive treatments. He didn't
remember agreeing to those, but he probably had; he'd been so low, at the time, that he would've
consented to a frontal lobotomy if someone promised him it would stop the pain. He’d seen a
therapist for a little while. At one point, soon before his release, Edward had snuck into his office
to look at the notes in his drawer, morbidly curious as to what the man had to say about him. He
still remembered the typed lines of notes, almost word for word. “Edward Nashton is an
intelligent but rather childlike man plagued by deep-seated loneliness, insecurity, and feelings of
worthlessness. He shows a consistent pattern of avoiding real human bonds (which bring the
potential for betrayal and disappointment), instead forming intense, obsessive parasocial
attachments to public figures, a pattern going back to childhood and involving an imaginary
friendship with Bruce Wayne, the famous orphaned heir…”

He closed his eyes. The song pulsed through his brain, numbing him.

“On and on, I don’t know what I want

On and on, I don’t know if I want it

On and on, I don’t know what I want

On and on, I don’t know if I want it…”
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

Fairly short chapter this time...next one will probably be longer. Thanks once again to
all my readers. :)

BlackRabbit: You know I’d never betray the group. I won’t go to the cops or anything. I’m just
saying I don’t know if I can be actively involved in this anymore. If we start blowing shit up,
innocent people are going to be hurt.

NoTrueNihilist: And?

BlackRabbit: I mean, that would make us no better than our enemies.

NoTrueNihilist: Are you fucking kidding me right now? I hate that pussy “both sides” horseshit
and I can’t believe I’m hearing it HERE of all places. That’s how they keep us under their fucking
boot. This idea that hitting back at the bullies makes us bullies.

BlackRabbit: So as long as we have the right motives, anything we do is righteous? Do you really
buy into that?

GodFucker: Folks, take a deep breath. If we start eating each other then it’s all over. If Rabbit
doesn’t want to help with the big night they don’t have to.

NoTrueNihilist: No. We’re all in the same boat here. Why do they get to keep their hands clean?
You’re in or you’re not in, there’s no standing on the sidelines. We’re past that. So when do we
move?

The words, white against a black background, glowed softly on the screen.

Strange, watching these people argue with each other in the chatlogs. Bruce had always thought of
Riddler’s “group” as a single, shadowy organism, something with a unified will and purpose. But
of course, they were individuals. Riddler's friends, so to speak. Riddler himself mostly spoke
through his livestreams, rarely participating in the text chats; a god watching and giving
instructions from on high. He kept himself distanced from them.

The big night.

Riddler had mentioned something like this. A coordinated attack involving explosives. In the
logs, the group kept talking about it, but they always spoke of it in vague terms. Bruce had
scrolled through hundreds of pages and watched recordings of Riddler’s livestreams—it was
jarring, hearing that deep, distorted voice and seeing him in his murder-suit, this man he had come
to almost think of as a friend.

Edward’s—Riddler’s face flashed through his head. Those pleading eyes.

Are you going to hold me?

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I killed those people. Is that what you want me to say?

Bruce shouldn’t have given in to the impulse. He’d decided he wasn’t going to do that anymore.
The hugging. Having come to the realization that he was attracted to this man—his prisoner—he
had to make more of an effort to maintain distance, both physical and emotional.

Had Riddler seen…?

Bruce shoved the thought away. He had to clear his head. There was still so much here he hadn’t
explored.

Bruce ate a mouthful of Lucky Charms and wiped milk from his mouth with the back of one hand.
He glanced at his security screens. Edward—Riddler, he reminded himself again. He’d been
trying to think of him as Riddler, both because Riddler had asked for it and because it was a way to
dampen Bruce’s troublesome, budding empathy for this dangerous sociopath—Riddler was asleep,
at the moment, curled semi-fetal on his side. Hugging his Batman plushie.

Bruce clicked out of the text logs and began opening other folders. Everything was labeled with
random letters and numbers, which he assumed were some kind of cipher and which made
Riddler’s hard drive damnably confusing to navigate. He felt as though he were wandering through
a labyrinth.
He opened a folder of image files, which hit him like a punch to the throat. Even from the
thumbnails it was obvious that these were photographs of his victims. Lots of red. Bruce stared,
mouth dry, pulse pumping beneath his jaw…then closed the folder.

He opened a text document which wasn’t a chatlog.

Flesh is a puzzle

The way we fit together in my head, edges interlocking

A click, and I am complete

You make and unmake me, scatter my pieces

Another riddle? He scrolled down. More cryptic lines:

Open my skull and uncoil my brain, loop by loop

Reading every inch of me with your fingertips

An umbilical cord to my soul

Put it all back in the wrong order

Riddler’s…poetry?

There was a knock on the door. Bruce gave a start and shut the screens off—both the security feed
and the monitor. “Come in.”

Alfred entered. “Lucius has been calling. He wants your input on several matters related to Wayne
Biotech. The CEO of Stryker wishes to speak to you personally—at least over the phone—before
finalizing the deal.”

For a moment Bruce didn’t know what he was talking about, and then he recalled his last
conversation with Lucius. They were selling the biotech division. Right. “Isn’t it his job to deal
with this stuff?”
“It is your empire, Master Bruce.”

Weariness settled over his mind like dust. Bruce had never asked for this. For any of it. He
hadn’t chosen to be the heir to his parents’ kingdom. But the protest would’ve sounded whiny,
childish, so he just said, “I’ll call Lucius tomorrow.”

“There is also the matter of making a public statement regarding the murders. He said you agreed
to it.”

He had, hadn’t he? Shit. “Well, what do they want me to say?”

Alfred approached and handed him a sheet of paper. Bruce skimmed over the lines.

“I, like the rest of you, am still reeling from the shocking and heinous crimes that have wracked
Gotham over the past few weeks. This city has lost not only its beloved mayor, but its
commissioner, Pete Savage, and district attorney Gil Colson. The act of taking a life is one of both
arrogance and cowardice. Those who believe they are above the law—who think they can mete
out their own brand of justice without accountability, without regard for the sacred rights
guaranteed to all citizens, such as the right to a fair trial—are the enemies of everything we hold
dear. In these trying times we must strive to focus on what we know is right. We cannot allow
chaos and fear to consume us…”

It went on like that. It all struck Bruce as rather self-righteous and hollow. It was meant to project
an aura of bravery and strong moral leadership, but condemning murder wasn’t a particularly
daring stance. Did the citizens of Gotham really need some rich guy to remind them that killing
people was bad? And considering his own vigilante activities, there was an added layer of
hypocrisy.

Of course, the listeners wouldn’t know that. But Bruce would.

“Did Lucius write this?” he asked.

“No. The PR division did. This is an early draft. They’re open to suggestions.”

He crumpled up the paper. “Well, I suggest something different.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Such as…?”

“I don’t know. Something less phony. This sounds like it was written for a politician.”

“Master Bruce.”

He was being difficult. He knew that.

Bruce swiveled his chair away. “I still don’t really understand why I’m being asked to make a
statement about it to begin with.”

"You need to manage your image."

"You make me sound like some kind of Instagram influencer. I feel more comfortable in the
shadows."

Alfred didn’t respond, but Bruce felt his gaze boring into the back of his head. “Master Bruce,” he
said again, quietly.

“Yeah?”

Again—no response, just that stare. Bruce felt something inside him squirm, but he remained
facing away, afraid of what Alfred might see in his expression.

Bruce had just taken another bite of his cereal when Alfred said, “Were you planning to tell me, at
some point?”

“About what?” he said, mouth full.

“Whoever you’ve got locked in the upstairs room.”

Bruce froze.

Shit.

When had he figured it out? The day he’d let Edward—Riddler—take a bath? Had Alfred
overheard Bruce talking to him? Or had he known the entire time? Had he just been waiting for
Bruce to confess?

Denying it seemed pointless. It had been stupid to think he could hide it from him to begin with.
Slowly, Bruce set his spoon down. "I was going to tell you. Eventually. I didn't know how."

“Who is it?” Alfred’s voice was deceptively calm, but tension hummed beneath the surface.

Bruce slowly swiveled the chair to face him. He met Alfred’s gaze. “The Riddler."

There was a subtle tightening in Alfred’s expression. “Are you sure?”

“That I have the right man, you mean? Yes. I’m sure. He’s not exactly shy about it.”

“Bruce.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve done something illegal.” Hell, Batman’s entire existence was illegal.

Alfred’s expression remained taut and grim. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish, keeping
him here? What is your goal?”
“Information.”

Alfred drew in a slow breath. “This is extremely dangerous territory,” he said quietly. “What
you’re doing—even if he is a murderer—once that line is crossed, Bruce, that is not something a
man can return from. It changes you.”

Bruce tensed. “It’s not like that. I swear. I haven’t—” he stopped. He’d left Edward alone,
chained to the bed without water for nearly a full day. He couldn’t exactly say he’d done nothing
inhumane. “I would never torture a helpless prisoner. Even a killer. You know me better than
that.”

Alfred’s brows drew together. “So then, how do you intend to extract information from him?”

“I’m reasoning with him.”

Alfred stared flatly.

“I know how that sounds,” Bruce said. “But I’m making progress. I have the situation under
control.”

“Why do I have trouble believing that?”

He could feel a flush creeping into his face. “What do you think I should do, then?”

“Turn him over to the authorities.” He said it immediately. Firmly. “If you truly have irrefutable
evidence that he is the Riddler, turn that over to them, as well. Tell them everything you know.”

Of course. Of course that was what he should do, what he should have done from the beginning.
It was how he’d always operated. So why was this different?

He took a breath. “I can’t do that.”

“And why not?”

Why not, indeed.

Bruce had always known the system was corrupt, that it was ineffective. That was why he’d
become Batman in the first place, wasn’t it? But until recently, he hadn’t understood just how
deep that corruption went. The system had already failed Edward. Badly. To deliver him back
into its rotting jaws…it felt like a betrayal. That he was thinking about it in those terms was, of
course, proof that he’d already become too attached, that his motives were compromised. But did
that really change the reality?

“I don’t trust the authorities to handle this the right way,” he said.

“And you think you can do better? Alone?”

“I’ve learned a lot. And…Alfred, he’s not…he isn’t what I expected. He’s a complicated person.”

At this, Alfred closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Oh, my dear Lord.” He said
it faintly, under his breath—the words seemed intended more for himself than Bruce.

“What?”

“Bruce. You have a serial killer locked in the upstairs storage room.”

“I’m watching him carefully. He’s restrained. And he’s been surprisingly…passive.
Cooperative.”

“Frankly, it’s your mental state I’m concerned about.”

“I know that this situation isn’t ideal.”

“No. It is not.”
“But it’s only temporary. Until I figure out a better solution.”

“Need I remind you, this is the Riddler we’re talking about? He’s ruthless. And cunning. Even if
you don't have a plan, I suspect that he does. After everything he's done...”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “He had to become that way. To survive. Alfred, his childhood,
what happened to him, what this city did to him…it’s horrific.”

“I don’t doubt that he’s a very sick man. But that’s all the more reason he needs to be in a facility.
Someplace they’re equipped to deal with him.”

“I know what it’s like in Arkham,” Bruce said. “They won’t help him. They’ll lock him away in a
room, pump him full of drugs, and forget about him.”

“He’s already gotten to you, hasn’t he? You say you’re making progress with him. But he seems
to be making progress with you.”

Bruce averted his gaze.

“Do not take anything he says at face value. A man in that position, especially one such as
him...he will say whatever is necessary in order to gain your trust, to gain his freedom. He’s trying
to radicalize you, to sway you to his way of thinking—”

“I’ve always believed the system was flawed. You know that.”

“Does he know your real identity?”

“No. No, I never take the mask off when I’m with him.”

“If you keep him here, it’s only a matter of time before he finds out.”

He rubbed one hand over the other, his jaw tense. Of course, Alfred was right. About all of it.
Hadn’t Bruce been having the same thoughts? “Are you going to tell the police?” Bruce asked
quietly.

Alfred’s expression sagged. A shadow of weary resignation slipped over his features. “When you
first put on that mask, I told you that I would help you. That I would walk this path with you. I
committed myself to that, for better or worse.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, relieved. “Thank you.”

“But I'm very worried about you. Sometimes I think that this—this life, this identity—has only
deepened your wounds. And that I’ve enabled it.”

“No. Alfred. You’ve helped me. You’ve always helped me.” His voice emerged husky,
unsteady.

“I wonder, sometimes, what your mother and father would think.”

Bruce didn’t know, of course. He would never know.

“I wouldn’t even be here without you,” Bruce said. “You know that. After…” He took a breath.
“After what happened…all I wanted to do was crawl into the grave with them. All the money and
the media attention, it meant nothing. Less than nothing. And the pills, the therapy, it—it kept my
body alive, it kept me getting out of bed, going through the motions. But that was all. It wasn’t a
reason. You’re the only one who really gave a shit. You saved my life. You wouldn't let me
crawl into that darkness, into that nothing, as much as I wanted to. And I know it seems sometimes
like I take that for granted. But I don’t.” He met Alfred’s gaze. “I know I’ve already asked a lot
of you. I can’t blame you for having doubts. But this—all of this—I’m in too deep to stop now.
This is personal, necessary, in ways I don't know how to explain. I have to follow this road to
wherever it ends.”

Alfred sighed softly, shoulders sagging. “As I said. I won’t intervene. But I won’t pretend to
condone this, either. My advice remains—turn him over to the authorities. It is your decision.”
He turned and walked toward the door. He paused, hand resting on the knob. “I’ll inform Lucius
that the current speech is unacceptable to you. He’ll have the PR department draft up a new one.”

“Okay. Thanks.”
“And Bruce…” He paused.

Bruce waited. But Alfred just shook his head and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

Bruce sank back into the chair.

He ought to be relieved. Alfred knew, and he wasn’t going to inform anyone. Bruce’s secret was
safe. At least for now. But his insides were twisted into knots.

He swiveled the chair around, turned on the monitor again, and resumed scrolling through the
endless text logs. His mind was a chaotic swirl. Focus, he told himself. His gaze caught on
random fragments of the text. He couldn’t piece them together, couldn’t make sense of them. He
couldn’t shake the thought that Alfred was right—that his own mental state was deteriorating, that
he was barreling down a rabbit hole, deeper and deeper into madness, that this could only end in a
spectacular train-wreck that would burn all of them to ashes.

In its cage, the rat groomed itself with its forepaws. Bruce watched it. It was strangely soothing,
he’d noted, just observing the rat—imagining its little consciousness, which had no room for
abstract concepts like justice and difficult choices and moral grayness, which knew only the need
for food and warmth and companionship.

Rats were social animals, after all. It seemed cruel, keeping it alone in its cage. Maybe he should
get a companion for it.

He thought about Edward. About the expression on his face right before Bruce left.

He had seen. But his reaction had been unexpected. Confusion, vulnerability…fear.

Well, of course. Of course he was scared. He was a prisoner. His captor had a hard-on for him.
Even if he returned Bruce’s attraction, even if the Riddler had fantasized about Batman, that didn’t
change the power dynamics of the situation. Edward was helpless, dependent on Bruce. He was in
survival-mode; he couldn’t truly consent to anything.

Bruce wanted to hold him again. Ached for it. He wanted to go there now, reassure him. I won't
hurt you. I won't do anything you don't want. He suppressed the urge. His own emotions were too
volatile right now, too raw.
He started to feel a little dizzy.

Breathe.

He centered himself. He counted each inhalation and exhale, scanned his body from the crown of
his head to his toes, mentally repeated you are safe in this moment. All the old tricks. But the
shadow remained. He raked shaking hands through his hair. It had been years since he’d felt so
close to the verge of a panic attack. He needed to get his shit together. He meditated for a half-
hour each day, as a matter of habit: maybe he needed to increase that to an hour. Definitely, he
would meditate before his next visit to Riddler. He needed every ounce of his willpower and
focus. He could not afford to be weak.

The black dog of anxiety curled around his feet, but it was an old and familiar presence—
something he could not fight, but had to merely coexist with.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.
 Chapter 8

Edward had been playing Dr. Robotnik’s Mean Bean Machine for the past three hours. Watching
the little colored blobs drop down the screen, he’d drifted into a deep trance-state—that focused
dazed which accompanied puzzle solving, the mental fortress which had helped him survive his
own life. As long as he had a game or a question to ponder, he could retreat here.

In the earlier levels, when the pieces moved slower, the game rewarded strategy and careful
maneuvering. To get the best combos, you had to think three or four moves ahead. Like chess.
But as the game went on, the speed of the falling pieces increased to the point where hesitation
meant instant death. Forethought was no longer a viable strategy; the game rewarded intuition and
risk. You had to take in the entire screen at a glance, perceive the position of the colored beans as
an integrated whole. Embrace chaos.

The Batman is sexually attracted to me the Batman is sexually attracted to me the Batman is
sexually attracted to me the Batman is—

The beans piled up on the left side of the screen, filling it to nearly the top. His heart-rate
accelerated. This was the final stage. His fingers darted over the screen, turning the pieces,
maneuvering them. It was cumbersome. If he had a real controller, he would’ve beaten the game
by now; he wondered if it was possible to get one that worked with a tablet, if Batman would bring
him one if he asked—

His thoughts, like metal filings to a magnet, kept going back to the sight of Batman’s cock straining
against those tight, dark pants. Edward kept wondering, even now, if he’d been somehow
mistaken, if the sight had been a sort of optical illusion…but the way Batman reacted, hastily
departing the room…

Since then, he had visited Edward only once, to empty and return his urinal and replenish his
supply of protein bars and water bottles. He’d said very little—hadn’t touched him, had barely
made eye contact. At any other time, Edward would have taken it as a rejection. And it had
stung. But this wasn’t indifference—quite the opposite. Batman was on edge. Nervous. Unsure
of how to proceed.

So what did Edward do with this information? What was his next move?

Seduce him.
The words rose up from the depths of his consciousness like the answer to a riddle. In retrospect,
the answer always seemed obvious.

That was the way for Edward to attain power in this situation. He could reverse their current
dynamic; Edward could become the dealer, Batman the addict. The thought made his head swim.

What if he just…

No. Even if his captor had the option of taking what he wanted by force, he wouldn’t. He
wouldn’t act on his desires at all—not unless Edward pushed him to it.

So Edward just had to…what?

He’d never tried to seduce someone. His experience in the realm of dating and romance was
limited. After a string of embarrassing failures during his early twenties, he’d more or less stopped
trying. For the most part, it had never even gone past the first or second date, but he vividly
remembered the one time he’d actually tried to have sex with someone—a young programmer he’d
met on a dating app, someone he seemed to have a lot in common with. Despite his attraction to
her, his anxiety had overwhelmed him at the last minute and his body refused to cooperate. The
night had ended in stammered apologies and shame. Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t contacted him
again after that.

But the situation was different now. Wasn’t it? He was different now. His new, awakened self
could take control. He could win.

Win—what did that even mean? What was this game they were playing, if it was even a game?
What was Edward’s goal?

Freedom. That was the obvious answer. But it rang hollow.

Freedom to do what? Go back to your old life? Go back to the plan?

Yes. Yes, that was what he wanted. Why wouldn’t he? Nothing had changed.
Hasn’t it?

On both sides of the scene, the beans were piled precariously close to the top. Red, he needed red.
If he could get a red piece, he could just—

YOU LOSE.

He stared at the screen, then slowly put the tablet down.

The Batman wanted him. Being wanted was a power, he reminded himself. Even if he didn’t feel
powerful.

You are the Riddler. You’re strong. Dangerous. Clever. Even without the suit. Even without
your followers. Your mind is your most potent weapon.

He would use it, now. He would find some way to turn this situation to his advantage. He had to.

***

Bruce lit another candle.

He’d just spent a headache-inducing forty minutes on the phone with Lucius, ironing out details of
the Stryker deal. He’d been sent another speech from the PR team, which said more or less the
same thing in different words and was every bit as bullshitty, but unless he intended to rewrite the
speech himself, he doubted he’d get anything better, so he resigned himself to reading it next
Tuesday at the scheduled press conference.

He blew out the match. The dozen or so candles fluttered and wavered in the dimly lit room.

It meant nothing, he told himself. He could read the lines, understanding they were part of the
persona he hid behind. Bruce Wayne was not his true self; he was a costume.

This was where his mind needed to be. Here, now.

He sat down on the floor in the middle of the room and folded his legs Lotus-style in front of him.
He was shirtless, feet bare.

He’d spent the last day immersed in Edward’s hard drive; he had gleaned all the information he
could from it. He’d gained a deeper understanding of the group’s dynamic, the power struggles
within it and their cultish devotion to the Riddler. But there was nothing he could act on, nothing
to lead him to their identities. He needed to talk to Edward again. He could not continue to exist in
this limbo—keeping him locked upstairs, feeding and providing for him while awkwardly avoiding
him. He needed to confront and defeat his own attraction. He needed absolute control over his
own body and mind.

He counted his breaths. He allowed thoughts and physical sensations alike to pass through his
consciousness unremarked on; he became an empty space through which these things traveled.
Eventually his consciousness went numb and empty and he felt that shift in his thoughts, like an
optical illusion flipping. The self vanished. Bruce Wayne and Batman were both just two vague
abstractions. Reality was the air playing over his skin, the faint flicker of flames visible through
his closed eyelids, the rough texture of the carpet beneath him.

Internally, he repeated the words, Guide me, give me strength. Guide me, give me wisdom. Guide
me, give me strength.

He was not talking to anyone in particular. He’d never believed in any gods, at least not in the
traditional sense. But there were times when he felt that the universe itself was conscious—or
perhaps not conscious in the sense that a human or animal brain was, but there was something
there, nonetheless, something dim and vast that could be plugged into and accessed. A network.
There were brief moments when he could perceive that overall pattern and the path in front of him
became clear. One such moment had been the inspiration for him putting on the mask.

Help me. Help him. Help me help him. Help me help him help them help me help—

Words slid into incoherence; tiny noises in his head, like the static on a radio. He breathed into the
nothing, descended into it, became it, and ascended again. His consciousness moved through time
and space like a blue whale through the ocean, huge and ponderous and unbound by gravity.

He was flying over Gotham like a sparrow, looking down at the tangled maze of streets, the
highways choked with traffic, the narrow alleys and dead ends, and he felt the consciousness of the
city itself; the mishmash of old and new, the gray stone and crumbling bricks and neon and smoke
and billboards, the cracked pavement, the pigeons and rats, the CEOs in penthouses like glass
cubes perched atop towers, the people shivering on the streets and on benches.
Flash.

He was in a large, dark room, shivering beneath a too-thin blanket. There was a sense of other
bodies all around him—there was one next to him, a bony spine digging into his. Half-asleep, he
rolled over and clutched the other form for warmth. The gesture was instinctive, unconscious. The
other form squirmed and growled and kicked out at him.

His skin itched with dirt, his head itched with lice. It had been a long time since he’d had a
shower. He closed his eyes and slipped into an old, familiar fantasy of being in a big, warm house
with a fireplace, sitting at a real dinner table, a mother and father and little sister all gathered
around, smiling and talking—

The images blurred and faded. He slid into another dream within the dream. He was a child
again. He was trying to scrub a stain out of a priceless rug, but it wouldn’t come out. Tears stung
his eyes. His mom would be sad. The rug was special. It was worth a lot of money, but that
wasn’t the special part. It was a “family heirloom.” He didn’t know exactly what that meant but
the words conferred a sacred, almost religious power upon objects.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work,” Alfred’s voice said, and Bruce’s child-self looked up to see a
younger version of his old friend staring down at him. “It will need to be professionally cleaned.
Even then, the stain might not come out.”

“What do I do?” he whispered.

“Tell them the truth.”

“But—”

“You must face it. You must weather the storm. You won’t lose their love.”

But how could he know that?

“What is real will not disappear under the light of truth. You already know the path you must
take.”
And in another flash, he understood.

No. No, what he needed was more distance. What he needed was to expunge this troublesome
fixation from his soul so that he could act rationally.

“Is that what you need?” Dream-Alfred pulled up a chair and sat, looking at Bruce with gentle
amusement. “If that is truly your wish, then you already know what you must do. Surrender him
to the system. He will be alone, discarded once again, but he won’t be able to hurt anyone else.
And you have enough information, at least, to spur an investigation of the men who misused those
funds. Some good will come of this. He will live and die quietly behind walls. And you will
remain Gotham’s symbol.”

That was the right answer…wasn’t it? That was what he should want. But…

“Too easy, isn’t it?” Already smiled a little. “It feels wrong. Because this isn’t just about the man
himself. It’s what he represents. The need. The injustice that was done to him as a child. Your
parents’ failure. He exists at the crossroads of so many things, doesn’t he? He is a mirror to so
much about you. You are a Wayne—a modern monarch. You inherited your parents’ empire.”

“Not by choice.”

“But you have a choice now, don’t you? It’s your name on the dotted line. As everyone keeps
reminding you. You could burn your empire, carve it into pieces and sell it, relinquish your
godhood—along with the mask—and still live quite a comfortable life. That’s always been an
option. But if you choose to keep the power, you must take on the weight of your parents’ sins as
well. He is your failure, your responsibility. You are bound to him intimately, deeply, through his
pain, through his sins and your own. And you can’t quite convince yourself that putting him in a
cage is the answer to this riddle.”

“So what do I do?” he whispered hoarsely.

“You have already come to the realization. Haven’t you?” His voice was calm. Gentle. “Show
him your real face.”

Panic fluttered. No.

“You owe him that much.”

To entrust the Riddler, his enemy, with his true identity…there was no limit to the ways that could
go wrong. It was madness.

“Show him. Or surrender him now.”

Even in the depths of his dream-state, a part of him resisted. The panic slowly grew, mounting,
and his breathing escalated. He recoiled from the realization. Alfred vanished. Bruce’s insides
had grown dark and foggy. He blundered through a series of empty rooms, looking for the exit.

Show him.

No!

A jolt, and he snapped back into his own skin like a rubber band.

Bruce’s eyes opened. The candles flickered around him. His mouth was dry, his skin drenched
with sweat.

He stood, grabbed the towel he’d left folded in the corner of the room, and wiped the sweat off his
face. He took a swig from the water bottle sitting beside it. He was shaking.

He’d done this to clear his head. Yet he felt more confused and agitated than before.

The Riddler wanted to kill Bruce Wayne. Telling him would be the height of stupidity.

Alfred’s voice echoed in his head: You owe him that much.

***
When Bruce opened the door, Edward was holding his iPad, his fingers darting over the screen.
He looked up. At the sight of Bruce standing there in his Batman suit, his cheeks pinked a little,
and he looked away. Bruce’s gaze wandered briefly to the Batman plushie, currently facedown on
the bed, as though it had toppled over drunk.

“Hellooo,” Edward said. His voice sounded strange—there was a lilting note, both playful and
shy, but it felt like a performance.

“Hey.” He hovered there uncertainly, close to the door.

Edward put the iPad down. He sat with his arms folded on his knees, chin resting atop them. “I
was starting to think you weren’t coming back. I’ve been lonely.”

“Sorry. I’ve been…sorting through some things.”

He smiled. “Did you miss me?”

At the question, Bruce’s heartbeat quickened. Was he…flirting?

Edward was clearly trying to get some sort of response out of him. To get him off-balance. And
despite his attempts to mentally prepare himself for this, Bruce didn’t have a clear plan for how he
wanted this conversation to go. He ignored the question, cleared his throat, and pulled up a chair.
“I’ve been looking through your hard drive.”

“Of course you have.”

“Your group seems to have a lot of respect for you.”

Edward shrugged.

“They seem to have gone silent in your absence. But they might be planning something through a
different channel. One I can’t access.”
“Maybe. Who knows?”

“If you got back into contact with them—if you told them to stop whatever they were planning—
would they?”

He rocked a little on the bed, back and forth. “I don’t know. It would depend on the reason,
probably.” He answered offhandedly. He didn’t seem particularly focused on the conversation.
His face was flushed, his eyes a little glassy.

Bruce pushed on: “I think they’d listen to you. If there is a terrorist attack in the works, you have
the power to stop it. You’re in a position to save lives. Think about that.”

Edward—Riddler—smiled a strange, detached smile and bit the tips of his fingers. Something was
different. He seemed…altered. Agitated, or excited, or nervous. “Oh my. I could be a hero. How
intoxicating.”

“This is important,” Bruce said, frustration creeping into his tone. “You act like you don’t care,
but I know you do. You—” he froze. Looked down.

Edward’s hand was resting on his knee.

“Edward,” Bruce said. His own voice seemed to be coming from far away.

The hand crept up, just a little, toward his thigh. “I know you like me. You’ve already got me
chained to the bed. So why not do something about it?”

Alarm bells were clanging in Bruce’s head. He watched as the hand continued to rub slowly back
and forth on his leg. It crept up a little farther, a pale spider.

He grabbed Edward’s wrist.

Edward gave him a quizzical look. “Are you ticklish?”

“This..." Bruce took a breath. "This is not going to happen." His voice emerged less steady than
he would have liked.

“Why not?” He wet his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, drawing Bruce’s attention to its shape
—the little Cupid’s bow in the center. Pretty lips. “You know how I feel.”

Suddenly, it was a struggle to form words. “I can’t—”

“Because I’m your prisoner and therefore I can’t properly consent? Please. You crossed that line
when you abducted me.” He giggled. His voice had gone wobbly. “You’re already stained. Do
you really think it makes a difference, what you do next? You might as well do what you want.”

This—it had to be some trick, a game, there had to be some larger plan. He was trying to distract
Bruce, to—

Edward leaned forward, bringing his face in closer, until Bruce could see the smudges on his
oversized glasses. Bruce's thoughts scattered. “You can do whatever you want to me, you know.”
The eyes behind those thick lenses were wide, the pupils enormous. Edward’s eyes were always
abnormally dilated—like open windows. As though he were constantly fascinated with everything
around him, in a perpetually aroused and excited state, his nervous system humming with
electricity.

Or because he’s frightened.

Bruce’s gloved fingers tightened on his wrist. “You said you were a virgin.”

A brief hesitation. A flicker. “I never actually said that.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Do you want me to be? Do you like virgins?”

“Edward—”

“You’re already hard. Your cock feels like it’s about to burst, doesn’t it? Are you still going to act
like you have the moral high ground?” With his other hand—the chained one—Riddler reached up
slowly to touch his cheek. Soft fingertips skated along his jaw. He shivered. “Come on, Batman.
This is why you brought me here, isn’t it? So you could fuck me?”

His chest tightened, even as his dick jerked, straining. “No.” Walk away. Walk away.

“Don’t lie to yourself. You feel this too. This connection.” Riddler leaned in slowly as he spoke,
until his forehead touched Bruce’s. Their eyes were an inch apart. Riddler’s hand slid around to
cup the back of Bruce’s neck.

A faint groan escaped his throat. Almost against his will, he felt himself leaning in as well. His
gloved hand drifted up to touch Edward’s shoulder, and he felt—

Bruce’s muscles tensed. He pulled back and gripped Riddler’s arms. “You’re trembling.”

“I’m excited.” Riddler smiled a dazed, wide smile and leaned in to kiss him again.

Bruce gripped his arms harder. “That’s enough.”

“Who do you think you’re impressing, pretending to be so fucking noble? Do you get off it?” He
was breathing hard now, rasping, shivery breaths, cheeks flushed. He was still shaking. “You’re
going to do it. So do it. Fuck me. Hold me down and shove your fucking cock into me—”

Bruce lurched to his feet. In the same movement, he shoved Riddler down to the bed.

Riddler lay there, glasses askew, eyes enormous.

Bruce took a step back. Away. His pulse thundered in his veins. “No,” Bruce rasped.

Riddler—Edward—tensed.
“What do you take me for?” Bruce’s voice emerged rougher, angrier than he’d intended.

Edward blinked a few times. His lips parted, trembled a little. Then his expression went blank,
and he lowered his face. “I see.” His voice had changed. The teasing lilt was gone. His tone was
strangely calm, almost indifferent. Slowly, he sat up. “A hard-on…it’s just a physical reaction,
isn’t it? A reflex. A person’s heart isn’t always in agreement with their cock.” He let out a small,
stiff laugh and ran a hand slowly down his face. “I’ve done such ugly things, after all. I’ve hurt so
many people. To give in—it would be a betrayal of everything you believe in. Everything you
are. And me trying to tempt you, shoving myself at you like some…some cheap slut…it just
makes me uglier, in your eyes. Doesn’t it?”

Bruce’s shoulders stiffened. He opened his mouth to say that that wasn't true, that he'd completely
misread Bruce's reaction. But the words hit a wall in his throat. He was suddenly afraid of what he
would say in that moment, if he were to speak.

“It’s all right.” Edward stared at the wall. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for doing that. It was stupid. I
should have known it wouldn’t work.” He sat huddled, shoulders hunched, his back to Bruce.
“My urinal needs emptying, by the way. It’s under the pillow.”

Bruce stood, frozen. Helpless.

He was at a crux. A crossroads. Whatever he did next, he would not be able to undo it.

Walk away.

To leave him now—to wash his hands of this entire mess, to never see him again, except through
glass under the cold, sterile lights of Arkham—would be agonizing. But in another way, it would
be the easiest thing in the world. Alfred—the real Alfred, not the phantom from Bruce’s
meditation-dream—had told Bruce to hand his prisoner over to the police. Riddler was too
dangerous. Too damaged, too sick. Bruce couldn’t do anything for him. He didn’t have the
expertise. Everything he did was just making it worse, tightening the knots of this tangled mass.
There were impassive faces and white-gloved hands waiting to take this man into custody: to
neutralize him, to seal him away in a place where no one had to look about him or think about his
existence and what it implied.

Bruce took one unsteady step forward, then another. “Edward.”

The thin, hunched shoulders tensed. "I'm fine," he muttered. "I'll be fine." Edward's nails dug into
his own arm, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Bruce reached out, took Edward’s chin in his gloved hand, and lifted it, gently turning his face.
Edward blinked at him in confusion.

“Look at me,” Bruce said quietly.

“W-what—”

“You don’t need to say anything. Just let me look into your eyes for a few minutes. Will you let
me do that?”

Edward didn’t answer. Bruce’s palm remained where it was, cupping his chin. Wide eyes stared
up.

“Good. That’s good. Just keep looking at me.”

Bruce had always found prolonged eye contact uncomfortably intimate. He knew it was a
superstition, but some part of him always felt that the longer you looked at someone, the deeper
you could see into them. He felt that now—a curious sense of gravity shifting, of being drawn in,
like a leaf pulled by currents. He allowed it to happen, allowed those eyes to expand in his vision,
filling his world. He gave himself over. He could feel the vast inner realms behind those eyes, the
hallways and chambers of this man's soul. He could feel Edward’s longing to be seen, and his fear
of it, his hunger to be solved; to be someone else's puzzle. And Bruce knew that Edward could feel
his essence, too—his own underdeveloped heart, hardened and compacted and stunted by years of
myopic fixation on dark and narrow paths defined by old, old pain. His emptiness, his addictions.
The wire armature of his psyche.

Edward was the ocean. Bruce was a swimmer who wanted to drown.

“What do you want right now?” Bruce asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Edward said in a small voice.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to hold you?”

“Yes.”

Slowly, Bruce climbed up onto the bed. He had never done this before. The most he’d done was
sit on the edge of it. Being in the bed, with him—it felt different, somehow. It felt radical.

“Lay down,” he said.

Edward obeyed. Bruce lay down beside him. His arms crept slowly around Edward, drawing him
close. Dimly, Bruce was aware that he was still hard, that they both were, but that didn’t seem to
matter at the moment. He murmured against Edward’s hair, “I told you before. You’re not ugly.
Please, stop using that word about yourself.”

Edward breathed quietly into the silence. He’d started to tremble again.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes,” Edward whispered.

Gloved fingers touched his hair. “What are you afraid of?”

He let out a croak that might have been a laugh. “This. Me, you. Everything.”

Bruce’s lips brushed over his forehead. “I’m scared, too.”

Their gazes met, wide and naked.

Bruce felt himself moving in. Before he’d even made the decision, his lips had touched Edward’s.
Edward let out a faint whine as black-gloved hands framed his face, held it. Anchored it.
Edward’s lips tensed. His wide eyes rolled and fluttered in a panic, then went soft and unfocused,
then disappeared back into his head. His lips opened. His body went limp, so suddenly and
completely that for a moment Bruce thought he’d passed out. And then, all at once, Edward was
kissing him back, hungry and clumsy, teeth scraping, tongue pushing forward, making needy little
noises in the back of his throat. His eyes closed tightly; a tear escaped from one and trickled over
his temple, into his hair.

“I’m here,” Bruce heard himself murmuring against Edward’s lips. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Don’t leave me,” Edward whispered.

“I won’t.”

He was plummeting. He was barreling toward an incoming train.

But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

Thanks once again to everyone who's read and commented so far. :) I'm super
inconsistent about replying to comments but I read them all and love hearing people's
thoughts. Also, I have my own plan for where this story is going to go plot-wise but
I'm always interested in hearing readers' expectations for where it's going or where
they want it to go.

This was his design. This was the Riddler's plan coming to fruition. The Batman had fallen like a
domino.

He’s kissing me. He's really...oh god. What do I—how—is this—?

Edward’s lips moved against Batman’s. He didn’t know what he was doing, but it seemed to him
that lips should not be completely motionless during a kiss. There was softness, pressure and heat,
the slightest scrape of stubble, a sensation which turned the inside of his chest to water, and static
swallowed his thoughts. He heard himself making little whining noises—sounds of hunger, of
need, but too strange and piteous to be sexy. Not the throaty, breathy moans that people made in
porn. More like a kitten trapped in a drainpipe.

When his eyes slipped shut, he saw strange patterns—rainbow wavy lines, then neon purple circles
expanding outward like ripples in a pond.

Batman’s hands were around his wrists, gripping tightly, the lengths of their bodies pressed
together on the bed. Every inch of contact had become its own separate, indescribable sensation.
His hips twitched. He felt pressure building, coiling, then spreading through his belly.

There was a shift taking place at a deep chemical level, down in the microscopic filaments of
neurons, some part of his code being rewritten. A sense of opening. It scared him. He couldn't
stop. He couldn't-

His mouth was open, panting. His hips jerked again, involuntarily, spasmodically, pressing against
the leather plate at Batman’s belly—it was firm, the armor, but with a slight give to it, like flesh.
Another thin, whining sound rose up from his throat. And for a time (it could’ve been a half-
second or hours) all thought disappeared.
“—ward. Edward.”

His voice was different. Its usual rasp was gone. Batman’s real voice.

Edward lay motionless, staring at the masked face above his. He blinked a few times, mouth
slack. His glasses had been pushed askew at some point; the world was partially blurry, partially
clear. “Uh,” he said.

He felt a sticky heat in his boxers and only then did he realized he’d just cum in his pants. From a
kiss. Warmth climbed up his neck, into his face.

The master seducer, ladies and gentlemen.

“I. Um.” He cleared his throat. Had Batman just asked him something?

One gloved hand remained on his cheek. The Batman leaned in, studying his face with an intent,
almost clinical focus, as though trying to ascertain whether Edward had sustained some type of
brain damage.

Then he glanced down at the wet spot forming on Edward’s crotch.

More heat rushed to Edward’s face, so suddenly he felt dizzy. He felt the urge to clarify that he
had not wet himself, though what he had done was just as shameful. Grinding against him like a
dog in heat…in the moment he’d barely thought about what he was doing, he’d been so
overwhelmed from days of pent-up lust, it had only taken a little pressure to bring him over the
edge, a few jerky thrusts. Should he apologize? Or try to pretend it hadn’t happened? Or…

He found himself mentally reciting the Nicene Creed; they’d had to say it every Sunday in the
orphanage, and now the words were engraved permanently into his brain. They held no particular
meaning for him, but it was easy to fall into their rhythm when he was overwhelmed. We believe in
Lord-God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth…

“Edward.”
“Hm?”

“Are you disassociating?”

Automatically, his hand drifted up to push his glasses up the slope of his nose. The world came
into focus. “Am I—what?”

“Where are you in your head, now?”

“Where?” Something about the question struck him as funny. Where was he supposed to be,
exactly? He heard himself giggle.

“Talk to me.”

“I’ve—” the word stopped as though it had hit a wall in his throat. His lips worked silently for a
moment, and when his voice emerged again, it was faint. “I’ve never—”

Never been kissed. That wasn’t strictly true. He had kissed a few people during his brief and
disastrous dating life, but it had always felt perfunctory; the rubbery press of lips against lips, the
wetness of saliva. He’d thought that it was him, that he was broken in some way, unable to feel the
things he was supposed to feel even when he genuinely liked the other person.

And now this. There seemed to be no in-between for him. Either a kiss was nothing at all or it
was a bomb detonating behind his eyeballs.

“I am small and thin and red at one end,” he recited, sing-song. “I kiss the one who held me, shine
bright, then die. What am I?”

Batman's brows knitted together. “Edward. Are you okay?”

“It’s a riddle.”
Batman pulled off one glove—his hand was paler, slenderer than Edward might have imagined—
and lay two fingers against his neck, taking his pulse.

He was being so funny. Edward giggled again. “A matchstick. Come on, Batman. That was an
easy one. Here’s another. You can lose it but never gain it.”

The Batman’s bare hand touched his face, and he shivered a little in shock at the warmth of skin on
skin. Almost involuntarily, he turned his face, nuzzling into his palm. He could feel the little
studs of calluses there, but they were surface-level; beneath it was the unmistakable softness of
privilege. It was a very particular softness. “Your hand smells nice,” he murmured against
Batman’s palm.

Batman didn't reply. He held still, letting Edward rub his cheek against his fingers like a cat.
Slowly, the hand moved, knuckles grazing his jawline, brushing over his lips. The contact was
soothing. Edward thought briefly about taking one of those long fingers into his mouth, but he
didn't. Eyes half-closed, he touched the very tip of his tongue to one fingertip, tasting the salt of
flesh and the residual hint of leather. His own breathing sounded strange to him; ragged and jerky,
like an exhausted runner stumbling up a hill and then down again.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Batman said. His voice was quiet but firm.

“I don’t know.” His own voice, like his breathing, sounded alien. Faintly echoed. The tears were
still drying on his temples. “I feel…” He trailed off. Overloaded. He felt...unreal. Even now, he
couldn’t shake the sense that this was all some vast and incomprehensible prank, that at any
moment, the walls would fall away to reveal the live studio audience laughing uproariously at the
idea that Edward had actually believed this could happen to him. He’d had so many fantasies
about this man. Ever since he first set eyes on the Batman, almost two years ago, that dark
silhouette had been taking up space inside him, shaping his reality, seeping into his dreams both
day and night. He'd imagined the sensation of Batman's cock in his ass many times. He'd
imagined himself on his knees in front of him, hands bound behind his back. The taste of his cum.
Gloved fingers in his throat. And yet he’d never imagined kissing him. Not because he didn't
want to, but because it felt somehow even more unrealistic, more outlandish, than the idea that
Batman might want to fuck him. It was too...personal.

He felt fuzzy. Detached. But beneath that, he felt scared, and he didn’t even know how to explain
why.

“What would help?” Batman asked. “What do you need right now?”

He tried to remember if anyone had ever asked him that before. In any context. He thought about
asking to be held again. Instead he said in a small voice, “Some new pants would be nice.”

He stood. “I can do that.”

***

After Batman returned with fresh boxers and sweatpants, he turned away to give Edward privacy to
change. By now, Edward could do that even with one hand manacled to the bedpost. When he
was finished, he said, “I’m ready.”

Batman sat on the edge of the bed. Edward’s old sweatpants were still balled up on a corner of the
mattress. Batman was still wearing only one glove; the nakedness of his hand still felt shocking.
New.

He’d regained control over himself by now, but still, he had to resist the urge to reach for that
hand. Edward had spent most of his life without being touched. He thought that he was used to it,
that he’d acclimated to his solitude...or perhaps that he'd transcended the need. So much for that.
Well, why not? Why not just hold his hand?

He resisted.

“So," he said. "Do you kiss all your prisoners, or am I special?”

He’d meant it as a joke, but Batman's shoulders went rigid. “I don’t—” he cleared his throat.
“You know I’ve never taken another prisoner.”

“Oh, don’t get all guilty and awkward now. I’m the one who came onto you, after all. I wanted
this.”

“Even so. I want to be careful."

“Of what?” He smiled thinly. “Crossing some arbitrary moral line? It’s like I told you. If there’s
a line, you've already trampled it.”
Batman frowned. “This isn’t about me keeping my hands clean. It’s not about my code. Or at
least...it’s not just about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He sounded so fucking earnest. Edward felt something wobble in his chest, like a plate balanced
on its edge, on the verge of falling and shattering. He let out a small, strained laugh, turning his
face away, and put a hand to his forehead. It occurred to him that Batman was just as strange, just
as broken and disconnected from normality as he himself was. If not more so.

“Is that funny?” Batman asked.

“Yes. It’s extremely funny.”

“Well. It’s true.”

“What do you think a kiss is going to do to me? You think I’ll spontaneously combust?”
Though...he sort of had.

“I’m talking about your mind. Your heart.”

Edward fidgeted. “How weak do you think I am?”

“Not weak,” Batman said. “Traumatized.”

His stomach tightened sharply, an inward jerk of muscles. “Ah—so you’re my therapist now. Dr.
Batman. Well, all right. Let’s add another layer of ethical complication to this.”

“I recognize it. I have flashbacks too. I freeze up.”

Edward stared straight ahead, breathing shallowly. He didn’t dare respond.

“Used to happen a lot more,” Batman said. “Took years of training and meditation to control. But
they're still there. Those landmines. And I know that what sets them off, it’s not always…what
you might expect. I don't want to...” he stopped, as though searching for words.

That unsettling, wobbly weakness hadn’t left Edward's chest. His throat felt tight. It was just too
ridiculous. His enemy, the man keeping him chained to the bed, trying to be conscious of his
boundaries.

It wasn't like he was wrong. Back in Arkham, when Edward had looked through that doctor’s
notes, he'd seen something about PTSD, too. Trauma, particularly early, severe trauma of the sort
that Edward had endured in the orphanage, permanently changed the brain; made it hyper-alert to
danger. On some level, he was biologically incapable of feeling safe...or at least, that feeling
would never last for long. He had learned to navigate his own neural wiring, to compensate for it,
but it would never be normal. And the doctors hadn't done much to help him—just prescribed him
some medication which made everything fuzzy and gray. He’d weaned himself off the pills after
his awakening. Calm and stability wasn’t what he needed. His rage, his pain—the things that had
held him back and tormented him had suddenly become his most potent weapons. Or so he’d felt,
at the time.

Did Batman feel the same way? Did he have bad dreams too?

Maybe that shouldn't surprise him. Normal people didn't do the things they did. Normal people
didn't dress up like bats and get into fights. Or kidnap serial killers.

Or kiss them.

He asked, keeping his voice light, as though it didn't much matter: “So, are we going to...to do that
every time you visit now? Is that going to become part of the routine? Maybe it’s all in your
strategy. You think I’ll be more receptive to your speeches about morality if I’m still lightheaded
from kissing.”

Batman shifted, cleared his throat. “I didn’t come in here today planning to do that.”

He was off-balance again, on the defensive. Edward had to admit, there was a certain enjoyment in
making him squirm. It seemed like a good opening to ask a question, as well. Batman would be
less inclined to withhold information when he was in Guilty Dog mode. “There’s another person
in this house,” he said in that same casual tone. “Isn’t there?”

After a few seconds, he replied, “Yeah.”

“Who?”

Another brief pause, then: “My butler.”

He had a butler. Well. “How rich are you?”

“Very.”

Edward’s abdomen tightened again, another sharp clench.

The fact that Batman hadn’t put his glove back on felt significant. Even if his hand didn’t reveal
anything about his identity, it was a piece of him that Edward had never seen. Pale, elegant, long
bones. The hands of a pianist. His nails were clean and neatly tended. Did he have them
professionally manicured? "And how rich is 'very'?"

“About that…”

"I know. So rude, asking questions about money."

"No. You should know. 'Very' in this case means 'billions.'"

A vague unease stirred and shifted in the corner of his mind. Its shape lurked just outside of his
awareness. That answer ought to narrow it down. How many billionaires were there in Gotham?
Not many. Just...

A high, steady drone filled his head.

“Before I came to see you today,” Batman said, “I meditated. For a long time. I was looking for
an answer. And I got one, but I didn’t want to accept it, because of what it would mean.”

“What answer?” he whispered.

“That night I left you alone…I reviewed the recording later. I heard everything you said.”

“I was delirious.”

“It was true, though. Me hiding behind walls, behind money, behind this mask.” He touched the
smooth black material. “Expecting you to trust me when I don’t give you that same trust is
hypocritical. If I want to make an ally of you—if I’m going to have any hope of that—I can’t do it
without risking something.”

Edward’s heartbeat quickened. “An ally,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You must think I’m
stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a murderer. You’re all about punishing criminals. Are you really telling me that you’re just
going to forgive everything I’ve done? Treat it like water under the bridge? If my crimes ever
come to light, the best I can hope for is a lifetime in a cage. Execution is a definite possibility.
Every other criminal you’ve caught, you’ve put away. Are you going to make an arbitrary
exception for me? I don’t believe that. You want to use me to help neutralize the rest of my
group. After that, I don’t believe you’re going to let me walk away a free man.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. This entire situation is unprecedented. But I don't want to see
you locked away for life. And I will not allow you to be executed. Under any circumstances.”

The way he said that, as though it were up to him...the funny thing was, Edward believed him.
“Why? Why am I different? Because you like me?” A sneer crept into his tone. But his voice
wavered a little, as well.

“This isn’t just about my feelings. This is deeper. There’s a personal connection between us that I
can’t ignore. What you did…it was horrible, yes. But I hold myself accountable, at least partly,
for everything that led up to it.”

Edward felt suddenly very small. “What are you talking about?” he whispered.

“It has to do with who I am. Right now, A—my butler is the only one who knows who I really
am. Batman’s true identity.”

Edward’s fingers curled inward, hiding in his palms.

“I find it strange that you’ve never tried to rip my mask off," Batman remarked. "To reveal my
face. You’ve had plenty of chances.”

“I have a very pragmatic reason to avoid learning your identity. If I see your face, there’s no way I
leave this place alive.”

“You know better.” Batman’s gaze met his. “The thing is...I think you already know.”

Edward stared. “What?” he croaked.

“When most people see me like this, as Batman, it’s dark. Nighttime. I try to stay out of direct,
bright light. The mask doesn’t cover my entire face, after all. Not like yours. It’s enough, though,
because most people don’t have the time to focus too closely on my features. They’re distracted.
But I’ve been spending time with you in this room every day now, talking to you, for almost a
week. You’ve had a lot of time to study me. And you know my face. My real face. I’m someone
famous.”

His pulse thudded in the hollow beneath his jaw. “If I knew, don’t you think I would’ve said
something by now?”

“I think you’re hiding the knowledge from yourself.”

“Why would I—no.”

“You’re too smart not to have put the pieces together by now." He smiled without humor. "I'm on
your list."

No. No, no. Not him. Please. Not him. Not this.

“Edward.”

Anyone else. Literally anyone.

Hands gripped his shoulders. “Edward. Breathe.”

You already know.

Those lips…

No.

The hands were still on his shoulders. The voice was saying his name.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered.

Batman released him. Immediately, Edward wanted to be held again. He squelched the urge,
repulsed at himself. He clutched the Batman plushie against his chest and curled around it, then
flung it away as though he’d found himself holding a dead rat. The truth hovered just outside the
edge of his mind, banging on the door with an angry fist, shouting to be let in. He tried to ignore
it. But of course it was already too late.

Bruce Wayne. Bruce Fucking Wayne.

He started to laugh. He laughed and laughed and laughed. Like any riddle: in retrospect, the
answer seemed almost stupidly obvious.
How long had Edward known the truth? How long had he been hiding it from himself? From the
very beginning?

“Edward!”

He couldn’t feel his own body. He could barely hear Bruce’s panicked voice; it was tinny,
distorted, like a bad recording. When the fog cleared he saw bloody runnels on his own forearm,
bits of skin caught under his own nails, dark leather-clad fingers locked around his wrist, and
Bruce was talking to him but Edward couldn’t understand the words. A dull ringing filled his ears,
a chorus of voices blending into each other, babbling, screeching nonsense. He could feel
something warm and thick trickling down his face; he couldn’t see out of his left eye.

He saw Bruce reach for something in his waist-pouch, felt the sting of a hypodermic in his neck,
and nothingness pounced.

***

“Edward…" The doctor tapped his fingertips together. Tap, tap, tap. "Can you tell me when you
first began feeling that you had a personal connection to Bruce Wayne?”

“When I was a child. Ten…eleven? After his parents died.”

The doctor’s pen scratched something onto his notepad. “But you understand that it was just a
fantasy.”

“Yes. I know.” He sat on the couch in the bland, sterile little room in Arkham. On the wall was a
factory painting of a mother duck and two ducklings swimming through a pond, the only touch of
décor. He studied the scuffed tips of his Velcro shoes. They were too big on him. They flopped
whenever he walked. They'd taken his regular shoes away when he checked himself in. “There
were times when it felt like more, though.”

“Can you explain what you mean?”

He hesitated, fingernails pressing into his forearm. He knew that if he told the full truth, it would
make him look crazy. “I felt like…I could feel his emotions sometimes.”

The doctor lifted his head, salt-and-pepper eyebrows slightly raised. "Did this happen often?"

“At night, mostly. When I was lying in bed, trying to sleep. His feelings would just...flow into
me. Sometimes I could feel him crying. Or thought I could. He was so, so lonely. At first it was
confusing, scary, but then I started to find it...comforting, almost. And I wondered if he could feel
my emotions too. I would talk to him in my head. Have conversations with him. I'd tell him
riddles and he'd try to answer them. He was good at it.” He rubbed one hand over the other
absently. “I know. I know what you’re going to say. It was a delusion. I was lonely, that’s all. I
had trouble making real friends, so I invented one in my head.”

“I’m not here to judge. Only to understand.”

But it was impossible for them not judge, wasn’t it? The doctors were only human. He wondered
if they had to actively work to conceal their disgust at their patients’ dysfunction. Or maybe they
found it funny. Maybe they laughed about it together in the break room. Well, who could blame
them? Wallowing in human misery all day…you had to eventually numb yourself to it, find the
farce in it, or lose your mind.

“Do you still think about Bruce Wayne?”

Edward stared at the wall. His own breathing suddenly seemed louder in his ears. “No,” he lied.

“So you no longer feel this…connection.”

“No. He’s just some rich man who doesn’t know I exist.”

He felt the doctor’s gaze on him, boring a hole into his head, as though he sensed the evasiveness
in Edward’s answer.

But Edward didn’t particularly want to talk about how deeply he’d grown to hate Bruce Wayne—
how his longing had slowly curdled into contempt, growing like a tumor in his gut. Bruce Wayne
(he kept reminding himself) couldn’t help being born into his circumstances any more than
Edward could help being born into his. And yet…
He could do so much, with everything he has. So much. And he does nothing.

He didn’t even seem to enjoy his wealth and privilege, which somehow made it even worse. If
he’d been a carefree playboy, Edward still would have hated him, but he could’ve dismissed him,
moved on. But no—Bruce skulked around in the shadows with his hollow insomniac’s eyes,
avoiding public attention, as though existence itself were an imposition on him, as though his
mountains of wealth were a tiresome burden to bear, his fucking gilded cross. And still people
loved him. Still they obsessed over him. Bruce Wayne’s face stared at him from newspapers and
magazines—usually some candid shot that had been snapped against his will, with Bruce hunching
over, face half-covered with one pale hand. The world just couldn't get enough Bruce Wayne. A
thousand hungry tongues lapped at his narrow feet, a thousand hands reached for him as he stared
off into space with his characteristic detached boredom.

But the real reason Edward hated him was both simpler and more shameful. He had never truly
stopped loving him—never stopped craving his friendship, his attention. He hated himself for
wanting it and he hated Bruce for having that power over him. Even if Bruce was completely
unaware of his own power.

“I would like to try hypnosis again,” the doctor said. “Would you be comfortable with that?”

Edward stared at the floor. “Okay.”

“Lie down. Close your eyes.”

He obeyed.

“You’re standing at the top of a staircase. It’s quite an ordinary staircase. You’ve walked down it
many times before. I’m going to count backwards from fifty. As I do, I want you to walk down,
step by step. And the lower you go, the more relaxed you’ll become. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight…”

“Doctor?”
“Hmm?”

“What did I say last time? When I was under.”

A pause. “We talked about anger.”

“Anger. About what?”

“The state of the world. Human suffering. And the causes.”

It was a suspiciously vague answer. Edward wondered just how much he had said.

“Let’s continue. Forty-seven. Forty-six…”

He wondered if he really ought to do this again. But he enjoyed being hypnotized—being spoken
to in a calm, steady voice. He enjoyed the shift. He sometimes stayed aware during trances;
sometimes remembered. Like lucid dreaming. Sometimes he didn’t. He was a good subject, the
doctor said so, and far from being a sign of gullibility, as some might assume, being able to easily
achieve a trance-state was actually a sign of intelligence and creativity. And it was intoxicating,
losing inhibition. Emerging from within oneself. A man might become too honest, in such a state.
He might say silly things, embarrassing things, or shocking things. What else might he do?

He walked down the stairs again.

***

Edward surfaced slowly, rising up through layers of fog.

Both his wrists were manacled to the bedposts. Around his neck was a collar affixed to the
headboard, keeping his head immobile.
So. Back to this.

The room was empty. The scratches on his forearm had been bandaged; there was a pad of gauze
taped over the self-inflicted injury on his cheek, another over his left eye. It burned. The pain had
a dulled quality which suggested he'd been administered a painkiller while he was unconscious, but
even so, he felt the pain extending in hot bands down his jaw and neck, around his forehead and
over the bridge of his nose. When he moved his head, frayed nerve-endings shrieked. He
wondered absently if he’d gouged out his own eye with his fingernails. Or perhaps just detached
his own cornea, peeled it off like a contact lens. His glasses were in place, the gauze pressed
between lens and lid.

Edward stared blankly at the security camera.

The man he’d idolized—the one whose existence had given him the strength to continue—was a
Wayne. Not just a rich man, but a man so repulsively, unthinkably wealthy that he moved in a
different plane of reality. A man with that sort of money could provide for every orphan and
homeless person in Gotham with plenty to spare. Instead, he’d decided to play dress-up and run
around the streets punching petty criminals. How had Edward ever found that inspiring? How had
he imagined that he and Batman were on the same side?

He’d been desperate. That was all. A lost duckling imprinting on the first thing he saw. He’d
transformed himself into a caricature, an imitation of an imitation of another man’s juvenile
fantasy.

He was so, so tired.

He couldn’t even kill himself. He didn’t have the fucking privilege to end it all, because his death
would be another stain on Bruce’s conscience, and everything, everything, everything was about
fucking Bruce Wayne. The gravity of his vast self-importance warped the fabric of space and
time. He was a black hole of privilege sucking in everything around him and Edward had hurtled
past his Event Horizon; his atoms had been crushed, compressed into nothing, and he'd come out
the other side this flattened, faded thing.

“I know what this is,” Edward said. “This—all of this—it’s charity. To ease your guilt over the
sins of your parents.”

He had no idea whether Bruce was watching him right now. Listening to him. Maybe it didn’t
matter.
“You Waynes. You’re all alike. You want so, so badly to see yourselves as good people. All the
pain around you...it makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Your palace walls can never quite
muffle the tears and screams outside. You don’t actually want to give up your power, though. Oh
no. So you give just enough to ease the guilt. The Renewal Fund…it sounds so hopeful, doesn’t
it? You tell yourself that you can clean up everything dirty, heal the wounds, with the stroke of
one benevolent hand. That’s what I am. I’m your Renewal Fund."

The red light of the camera glowed.

“But what happens if I don’t play along? What if my rage and pain is who I am now? Well—then
I’m no good to you, am I?” His voice cracked a little, despite his efforts to hold it steady. His
smile hurt.

No response. Of course.

Maybe Batman was done with him. Maybe after Edward’s frenzied tantrum of self-harm, he’d
finally realized what Edward himself had known all along: that the man chained to his bed was
irreparably broken. That he wasn’t worth the trouble.

“It’s all right, Bruce. I’m not going to kill anyone else. You were the last one on my list. The only
one who got away. And I don’t want to blow anything up. Not anymore.” He closed his eyes.
“I’m tired of hurting people. Are you hearing this? You did it. You broke me. You win, Bruce. I
don't want to be the Riddler anymore. But I don't want to be Edward anymore, either. I can’t be
what you want. I won’t help you hunt down my comrades and put them in cages. So just…give
me to Arkham. Or let me die. End this. Just fucking end—”

The door creaked open. He tensed.

An older man in a suit entered, pushing a cart in front of him; on the cart was a platter covered with
a silver dome. He surveyed Edward impassively—or rather, with his face schooled into a carefully
neutral mask. His beard and hair were threaded with gray. “Alfred Pennyworth, at your service.”

“You must be the butler,” he muttered.

“And you must be the one who left tooth-marks in the soap.”
“You saw that?”

“Who do you think changes the soap?” Alfred lifted the silver dome from the platter, revealing a
steaming bowl of oatmeal and a glass of milk.

Edward turned his face aside. “So why are you here?”

“Master Bruce thought that seeing him might be upsetting to you. He didn't want to worsen your
mental state. So he asked me to check on you, and to see to it that you ate and drank something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Alfred pushed the cart up to the bedside. “Make an attempt. Three bites, at least. I’d rather not
force-feed you.” He pulled a key from his pocket and undid one of the manacles.

Slowly, Edward picked up the spoon. He stared at his reflection in its curved surface, then
scooped up a bit of oatmeal and ate it. It was bland, unsalted and unbuttered, but at the moment it
was probably the only thing he could have stomached. He mechanically ate three bites and drank
half of the milk. “There.”

Alfred locked the manacle around his wrist again. “You should know,” he said, his tone calm,
almost casual, “that Bruce is like a son to me. And you are not the only person in this house who
has killed.”

Edward looked up slowly.

“I planned to deliver that speech in a more intimidating fashion. But Master Bruce made me
promise—repeatedly—that I would be gentle with you.”

Edward turned his face away. He didn’t want to see or hear right now. Didn’t want to be. He
resented Alfred—and by extension, Bruce—for trying to keep his body alive. But in the moment,
he’d lost all energy to resist; he no longer had the will even to attack his own flesh. “So what
now?” he whispered hoarsely.
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s up to you.”

“You’re not going to turn me in?” he asked, without much interest. After that, he doubted he was
going to see Bruce again. Chained to a bed here, or in a cell in Arkham—what difference did it
make?

Alfred tapped his fingers against the handle of the cart. “I have advised Master Bruce, multiple
times, to hand you over to the authorities. Considering that he hasn’t done it yet, I doubt he will.
He is convinced you can be swayed.”

“Then he’s an idiot,” Edward muttered.

“He’s an idealist. He’s inclined to search for the best in people. Much as he might pretend
otherwise.” Alfred approached and reached out, toward his face.

Edward flinched away. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to check under the bandage on your left eye. Master Bruce treated your injuries while
you were unconscious, but he was a bit distraught, at the time. He asked me to make sure you
haven’t done anything to permanently damage your vision. If you need surgery, then we’ll have no
choice but to take you to Gotham General.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I will drug you, if I have to. Be still.” His tone wasn’t exactly kind. But it wasn’t exactly unkind,
either.

Teeth gritted, Edward lay still as Alfred removed his glasses, peeled off the tape and lifted the
gauze, examining the ravaged flesh beneath. “Can you open your eye?”

He did. It hurt, but his vision was no worse than usual.

“Very good. The damage is superficial. Scratches on the eyelids and the flesh around it.”

Edward closed his eye again, and Alfred taped the gauze back into place. “If you truly wish to turn
yourself in,” Alfred said, “then I’m sure that can be arranged. Is that your wish?”

Edward had said as much, minutes ago. But now he wavered. “I know his identity. He’s not
going to let me go.”

“He will. If you ask it. The alternative is to keep you chained here indefinitely, which isn't
feasible, for multiple reasons. Still, he’s placing a great deal of trust in you. I can’t pretend to
understand why it’s you, of all people. But then, that boy has always been a bit of an enigma.
Even to me.”

A dull ache settled into Edward’s chest. He just wanted to stop thinking for a while. “Is he…” He
stopped, biting his lower lip.

Alfred waited.

“Never mind.”

Alfred inclined his head forward in a small nod. “I will return to check on you in another hour.”
His gaze fell briefly on something on the floor. He knelt and picked up the Batman plushie, which
Edward had thrown aside. Without comment, he placed it next to the pillow. Then he wheeled the
cart out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
 Chapter 10

The rat was dead.

Bruce sat in his chair, staring numbly at the tiny white-and-gray body curled on its side in the
wood shavings—the open, blank eye, the motionless pink nose.

How? The rat had been fine yesterday. Hadn’t he?

Over the past few days, Bruce had spent most of his time holed up in this room, watching Edward
on the security cameras, sending Alfred to check in on him but never visiting him in person. He
couldn’t; not after what had happened. He didn’t dare risk triggering another breakdown. Bruce
hadn’t slept much since his last visit. But he’d refilled the rat’s food and water every day. The
steady creak of the turning wheel had remained in background, weaving its way in and out of his
thoughts.

Rats only lived a few years. It was possible that this one had simply been close to the end of its
natural lifespan when Bruce found him. Still…it shouldn’t happen this suddenly. Should it? Had
he bought the wrong food, or—

Someone knocked on the door behind him.

He closed his eyes, breathed in, and exhaled slowly before opening his eyes again. He would bury
the rat later. “Come in.”

The door opened. Alfred stepped in. He had a mug in one hand. “Hot chocolate,” he said.

When he was young, Alfred had always brought him hot chocolate when he was feeling down.
Bruce instinctively opened his mouth to protest that he wasn’t a kid anymore, then closed it.
“Thanks,” he said instead, quietly.

Alfred approached and set the mug on the desk. A tuft of whipped cream floated on the surface.
Bruce took a small sip. The flavor barely registered; his sense of taste was blunted. “How is he?”
Bruce asked. He asked every time he saw Alfred, even though he observed his interactions with
Edward on the screens every day.
“Unchanged,” Alfred said. “He’s become very withdrawn. He doesn’t speak much.” He glanced
at the cage. “Is he…”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bruce ran his left hand slowly back and forth over his right. His eyes burned and itched. He’d
slipped into the altered state of consciousness that came with prolonged insomnia—a detached,
artificial wakefulness, a foggy clarity. Like a trance.

Over and over, in his head, he kept seeing Edward recoil from him. Clawing his own arm, his
face, blood dripping onto his shirt, onto the sheets…

“Master Bruce.”

“Hm?”

“How long will this go on?”

Bruce hung his head. “I don’t know.”

“You could at least unchain him, if you’re going to keep him confined to that room.”

Strange, hearing Alfred advocate for giving Edward more freedom. But then, every time Alfred
had checked on Edward, he’d been passive and nearly mute. Even knowing his past actions,
maybe Alfred couldn’t help but pity the captive. Bruce was the one who looked like the monster
in this scenario. He knew it, and he felt that quiet reproach every time he talked to Alfred now.
Bruce had crossed so many moral lines—some that Alfred didn’t even know about. Kissing
Edward…

The memory made him burn with guilt now. It was the proof of just how tainted his own motives
were. He’d been sexually attracted to the man from the beginning, however he might’ve denied it,
and he’d still gone through with this insane plan.

“I’m afraid that if I unchain him, he’ll hurt himself. Or worse. And I know—I know you’re going
to say that that’s another reason he belongs in an institution, but I—” he stopped, breathing in
slowly. His gaze drifted to the rat’s tiny, immobile form.

Can’t even keep a rat alive.

Bruce had never even given him a name.

Alfred waited, silent.

“If I turn him in…Arkham is the best case scenario. I’ve been watching the news. Lots of people
are angry. Scared. They want the murderer to pay. I made him a promise that I wouldn’t let him
be executed. If I turn him over and they kill him, I won’t forgive myself.”

Alfred’s expression tightened, then sagged in weariness. “Bruce…”

“I know.”

“Something must change. He cannot remain this way. And neither can you.”

Bruce stared numbly into space. There was no way out. Since finding out Batman’s true identity,
Edward had shut down. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want to see Bruce again, and Bruce’s
attempts to communicate with him through Alfred—relaying messages back and forth—hadn’t
gone anywhere. Edward ignored most questions. There was only one he answered consistently.
When Alfred asked him, “Do you wish to be turned over to the authorities?” his answer was always
the same: “No.”

But if not that, then what? What?

The answer came to him, floating up from the depths like a message in a Magic 8-ball, almost
absurdly simple. He felt a spasm of panic; almost immediately, it subsided into calm acceptance.
“Bruce?”

He met Alfred’s gaze and said, “I’m going to let him go.”

Bruce saw the flash of shock, horror, before Alfred regained control of his expression. “You're
serious."

“Yes.”

“Sir…”

“I know. He’s a serial killer. He’s dangerous.”

“And he knows your real identity. He intended to kill you.”

“I know his real identity now, too. I know where he lives and works. I plan to keep an eye on him,
to monitor his actions, even after I release him.”

“What will you do? Implant a tracking chip in him?”

The question was sardonic; Bruce didn’t currently have the technology to do that. The closest
thing he possessed were his contact lens cameras, which the user could easily take out. “No. I’ll
watch him the old-fashioned way, with binoculars and stealth. Same way I did before I captured
him.”

“If he’s free, you won’t be able to watch him all the time. You won’t be able to control his
actions.”

“I’m aware of that. But you said yourself, this can’t go on.”

“And if he kills again? Will your conscience bear that?”

Bruce’s fingers tightened on his own wrist. “He won’t.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow slightly.

“He’s…changed, Alfred. He’s different than he was when I first brought him here. When he
learned the truth, he lost control, and still, it wasn’t me he attacked. It was himself.”

“Even so.”

“He isn’t violent. Or at least, that’s not his natural state. I know how insane that sounds, after
what he did, but…” He trailed off. Because of course it did sound insane, and but...but what? But
I'm attracted to him, so therefore he must be a good person. Of course it was more than that, but
he didn't know how to put it into words.

Alfred stood stiffly, his expression taut. The silence unspooled between them. At last, Alfred said,
“You’re certain, then? This is what you’ve decided?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

***

Edward had been staring at the wall for the past three hours. He knew, because he’d been
counting the seconds and minutes.

Soon—according to the usual schedule—the butler would show up again to feed him. He would
try to engage Edward in conversation. But Edward would refuse any attempts at communication
beyond what was strictly necessary, because silence was the only power he had left. He’d
barricaded his heart. No one could access it, now. Not even himself.

He was grimly curious to see how long he could draw out the game, how long Batman—Bruce
—would leave him chained here. What Bruce wanted now was to wash his hands of this whole
troublesome situation. The game hadn’t gone his way, so the little rich boy didn’t want to play
anymore; he wanted to take his ball and go home. He wanted Edward to give his consent to be
turned over to the authorities so that Bruce could hand him over without guilt, without going back
on his word—could tell himself that he was doing the right thing, the necessary thing.

Of course, Edward now knew his secret. But even if he told, who would believe him? He was the
Riddler. His story about how Batman was actually a famous billionaire who'd held Edward
prisoner in his home for several weeks would sound like the ramblings of a lunatic.

Eventually, regardless of what Edward said or did, Bruce would break and deliver Edward into the
care of the corrupt Gotham police. But Edward would deny him the satisfaction of his own
permission. He would go unwillingly, would force Bruce to confront his own hypocrisy. Because
that was all he could do. Bruce would just have to live with that.

I hope they execute me.

Then he remembered Bruce’s arms around him. Those gentle fingers in his hair. His strange
tenderness…

Stop it. He’s your captor. He doesn’t love you. Not in the way you love him. You’re just an
exotic pet—a caged tiger.

Bruce’s words echoed in his head: I have flashbacks. I freeze up.

Damaged. Like him.

It isn’t the same, and you know it. He had every imaginable resource to cope with his pain, a team
of world-class psychologists working on his broken heart. And his butler. And the entire fucking
world crying tears over him. He was loved, even after their death. He still mattered. He
wallowed in his own suffering by choice. It’s his own self-pity, his self-importance—

And yet Edward felt seen by him in a way he never had with anyone, before now. He’d shared a
sense of purpose and friendship with his group, but with them, he was always the Riddler. He’d
tried to tell himself that that was his real face, that Edward was the mask, but he’d always been
careful and selective about sharing his feelings with the group. He’d certainly never revealed the
fact that he slept with a Batman plushie, or—god forbid—that he’d once fantasized about being
friends with Bruce Wayne, the boy billionaire, the face of Gotham’s corrupt and indifferent elite.

Bruce had seen his real self. All of it. The pain and vulnerability as well as the darkness and rage
and violence. And he had accepted it all. Understood it all.

It really was funny. The man who’d kidnapped and imprisoned him was the closest thing to a true
friend he’d ever had.

The door creaked open. Right on schedule. Edward didn’t look up.

Footsteps approached. Something heavy settled onto the bed; the mattress creaked. A hand
reached toward him, and he tensed—

Click. His left manacle fell open. Click went the right one. Weathered, professional hands undid
the buckle of his collar, and it slipped away.

Edward lay there, blinking in puzzlement. His brain hadn’t quite processed the fact that he was
unbound, that he could move if he wanted. His gaze settled on the full backpack which Alfred had
placed near Edward’s feet. “What is that?” he asked at last, in a small voice.

“Your things,” Alfred said. At Edward’s blank stare, he elaborated: “Your hard drive. Your cell
phone, keys and wallet, which Master Bruce confiscated from you when he first brought you here.
The phone has been fully charged. He’s also included a change of clothes and fifty thousand
dollars in cash, to account for the missed workdays and any extra expenses you may have incurred
as an indirect result of your captivity.” When Edward just continued to stare, he added, “You are
free to go, Mr. Nashton.”

This…this had to be a trick. It had to.

“If you wish, I can drop you off close to your apartment. Or you can call a car or taxi yourself.”

“I don’t…understand.”

“What is unclear?”
“You’re not turning me in?”

“No.”

“He—” Edward swallowed. “He wouldn’t actually let me go. It would be stupid.”

Alfred stood, hands folded behind his back, expression calm. “He made you a promise, did he
not? That he would not deliver you to your death. Given the current political climate in Gotham,
he doesn’t feel confident that you wouldn’t be executed for your not-insubstantial crimes, and he
understands that he can’t keep you here indefinitely. So, you are free to go.”

Edward stared at the backpack until his vision drifted out of focus. “I’m going home?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“And then what?”

“That’s up to you.”

Slowly, Edward slid off the bed and stood. His legs wobbled a little, but held. He picked up the
backpack. Slipped it on. The fact that he was now carrying fifty thousand dollars in cash should
have meant something to him—he’d never in his life possessed so much money at once—but the
knowledge barely registered. “He’s…not going to say goodbye?”

A pause. “Do you want to say goodbye to him?”

Edward stared at his bare feet. A pair of shoes had been set on the bed, as well. Moving
mechanically, he put them on. He wasn’t wearing socks. Maybe there were socks in the
backpack. But this, too, felt like a meaningless detail.

Say goodbye.
Did he want that?

He didn’t want to leave at all. What he wanted was to go back to the way things had been before
Bruce revealed his true identity—one hand chained, Batman bringing him little presents, holding
him, comforting and talking to him. He wanted to return to that limbo where he’d felt so
inexplicably safe.

Sick. Pathetic.

He couldn’t go back to that. Seeing Bruce now would just make it hurt more. Worse—Edward
might lose his will to leave. Caged animals adapted to their captivity. He might throw himself at
Batman’s feet and beg to stay, and he would never forgive himself for that. Not knowing what he
did now.

He swallowed, throat tight. “No,” he whispered.

***

The outside world was bright, blinding, dizzying. So many people. So many sounds.

How long had he been living in that room? Two weeks? It felt like an eternity. As eyes adjusted
to darkness, so his mind had adjusted to his tiny world of reading and playing games and waiting
for Batman to return. The chaotic swirl of Gotham, the open sky above—once so familiar—made
him recoil. His mind contracted in shocked indignity at the onslaught of sensation, the infinite
choices. He sat in the backseat of a stylish black car, Alfred behind the wheel. Edward didn’t
make a sound; he clutched the backpack against his chest.

“Are you all right, Mr. Nashton?”

Take me back. “Yes,” he lied. “I’m fine.”

“This seems like as good a spot as any.” He parked the car.

Edward didn’t move.

“Mr. Nashton.”

“I just—I just get out here?”

“Unless there’s something else you need, yes.”

Edward looked at the handle of the car door. He pulled it. The door opened, and he stepped out
onto the street, like a sailor setting foot on dry land for the first time in months.

The car pulled away. Edward watched it vanish around the corner.

Edward shouldered the backpack and walked the rest of the way to his apartment. He was still
wearing the t-shirt and sweatpants that Bruce had given him. The shoes rubbed against the heels of
his bare feet as he walked. His hair was a little longer than it had been when he was last free. The
bandage had since been removed from his left eye; the scratches had scabbed over. He probably
looked like an escaped mental patient. Of course, plenty of people in Gotham looked that way; no
one gave him a second glance.

He unlocked the door to his apartment building, as he had a thousand times before. He walked
through the dingy lobby, past the elevators which were always out of service, up the creaking
stairs, down the narrow hall with its stained carpet. There was a bright yellow sign taped to his
door, warning him that if he didn’t pay his rent within a week he would be evicted.

He entered his living room and stood there for a few minutes. It was just as he’d left it, except that
the cage full of rats (and the single bat) was gone. He’d expected to find them dead; he’d worried
about them during his captivity. Several times, he’d almost asked about them. But there’d been
too many other things on his mind, and admitting to his own worry would have felt like a
weakness. Batman must have taken them, when he came here to retrieve the hard drive. He’d
adopted them or released them or brought them to a shelter…something.

Because he’s kind. Kinder than you. You would’ve let them starve to death rather than admit you
cared what happened to them. You fucking hypocrite.

Easy to be kind when you have all the power.

Power is relative, isn’t it? You had power over them. So easy to just do nothing. To just let
helpless beings starve because you have other things to worry about.

Sunlight filtered through the window-blinds. Dust motes glimmered within the hazy shafts of
light. He watched the tiny particles wink like fireflies until his vision drifted out of focus.

He should probably call work. Let them know he wasn’t dead. He’d have to concoct some story
to explain his absence. It was possible that he’d lose his job, but at the moment, the worry felt
abstract and faraway.

Aside from his group, there was no one else to notify. He wondered if anyone had bothered to file
a missing person’s report. Who would even notice his absence? One of his neighbors? His
landlord? Edward Nashton had no friends, no family. He was a ghost.

He wandered into the kitchen, filled a glass from the tap, and drank it. Slimy, chemical Gotham
water. There was something unsatisfying, mechanical, about getting a glass of water for himself.
When someone brought you water, it meant that they cared enough to bring you water, that they
were trying to keep you alive.

He sat down on the couch, setting the backpack next to him, and opened it. He fished out his cell
phone and sent a perfunctory text to his boss, saying that he’d been in a car accident and had been
hospitalized, unable to notify anyone. It seemed as good an excuse as any.

He set the phone on the coffee table.

He rummaged absently through the backpack. Several rubber-banded stacks of cash tumbled out;
one fell onto the couch, the other onto the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up. He fished out
his wallet, along with the Batman plushie; at some point, it had been taken from the bed and
packed up with everything else.

And then, at the bottom of the backpack: an envelope. Slowly, he picked it up. The words To
Edward were written on the front.

His pulse quickened. His breath sped up. A shadow of panic crept over him.

He dropped the envelope, closed his eyes, and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples.
The kiss replayed in his head. The warmth of lips against his. God. He was going to be
fantasizing about that kiss for the rest of his miserable life. He might kiss other people at some
point, or he might not, but he knew—with a gut-deep certainty—that that would be the kiss against
which all other kisses were measured, and they would all fall short. Batman and Bruce Wayne
were both so deep inside him, so tangled around his insides; no one would ever again have that sort
of power over him, no one would ever make him feel such keen and overwhelming pleasure, such
fulfillment, because after the betrayal of learning the truth, Edward would never again have the
courage to open up that much to another person.

He never wanted to feel that sort of pain again. He didn't want to feel at all.

The words inside that envelope, whatever they were, would have too much power over him. He
wanted more than anything to see what was in the letter, and at the same time, he wanted to burn
it. To rip it up and flush the pieces down the toilet.

In the end, he did neither. He picked up the letter and tucked it inside the backpack.

He walked into his tiny, rust-spattered bathroom and opened the cabinets. An array of amber pill
bottles greeted him. Xanax for the anxiety, Ambien for the insomnia, a couple of SSRIs which
hadn’t done much except make him gain weight and make it take five times as long to cum when
he jerked off.

Edward hadn’t taken the medications for some time. He’d weaned himself off them when he
became the Riddler. Murder had become his medicine. He’d sublimated his fear into aggression;
had become the fear. That chapter of his life was over, he’d decided. So what now?

He stood there, staring at the pill bottles, for a long time.

***

Bruce stood in the doorway to what he’d come to think of as Edward’s room. The bed lay empty,
the collar and manacles still attached to the headboard, a faint, barely visible impression of his
body in the mattress.

He’d just buried the rat in the garden, near the foot of a birch tree. It was late autumn; the soil had
been stiff, unforgiving. The process had taken longer than he’d expected. It had given him a lot of
time to think about the fact that he’d just released a serial killer into the world…one who was not
in the most stable mental condition. He thought about the ragged scratches on Edward’s arm and
face.

He was afraid of what Edward might do to other people, given his freedom. He was more afraid of
what Edward might do to himself. He wondered what that said about him.

You had to let him go. You had no other choice.

He kept reminding himself of that. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.

He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. He wondered if Edward had read the
letter yet. Wondered if he would even want to.

In his jacket pocket, his cell phone buzzed. He retrieved it, his movements stiff and automatic.
LUCIUS FOX glowed on the screen.

What now?

He answered. “Bruce speaking.”

“Hey, Bruce,” Lucius said, “I just wanted to confirm that you’re still free for the press conference
today.”

“The…what?”

“The press conference. We talked about this. I texted you the other day to make sure we were still
on.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been…distracted.” He didn’t doubt Lucius, but he had no memory of the text, or
of answering it. “Remind me again. What’s going on?”
“You agreed to speak at the press conference today. About the murders.”

Bruce pressed his fingertips against his forehead. “What time?”

“You’re expected there in an hour.”

He took a breath. “I’m…not feeling my best right now.”

“Is it a flu, or—”

“No, no. I’m not sick. It’s—it’s a personal thing. Something happened.”

A brief pause. “I realize it’s none of my business, so feel free not to answer this, but…bad
breakup?”

That was a little too close to the truth. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I can cancel, if need be. But I’ll be blunt—I’ve been promising people that you’re going to be
there, and a lot of folks are going to be pissed if you don’t show.”

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. Jesus Christ, he thought, so what? Who were these people, and
why did they give a fuck whether or not he showed?

“It’s your call,” Lucius said. “But if there’s any chance you could make an appearance, even for a
brief while…”

Bruce didn’t really care about whether his reputation suffered, or whether Wayne Enterprises’
stock went down.

But if he didn’t show, and people were disappointed, Lucius was the one they’d take it out on.
Bruce had made a promise, even if he barely remembered making it now. Stand up in front of a
crowd for five minutes, read some meaningless lines for the cameras, and then retreat back into the
shadows—he could manage that much, couldn’t he? It would keep them off his back.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

A quiet breath of relief. “I appreciate that.”

“Where is this taking place?”

“The Don Mitchell Junior Banquet Hall.”

So they’d named a banquet hall after the mayor. Or hastily renamed it after his murder. He hadn’t
even been particularly popular, but now the news had only positive things to say about him. Death
transformed crooks into saints. If they were famous enough, anyway.

“Should I have someone pick you up?” Lucius asked.

“I can drive myself. Be there in an hour.” He hung up and glanced down at himself. He was
wearing a faded Nirvana t-shirt and raggedy jeans with a hole in the left knee. He wondered
briefly what the reaction would be if he showed up like this—he almost considered it—but no.
He’d embarrassed Lucius enough. He had time to throw on something decent. He walked toward
his room.

“Bruce.”

He stopped and turned his head. Alfred hovered in the hallway.

“Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I overheard some of the conversation. Are you sure you want
to do this? It’s only a press conference, after all.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me I need to uphold my
family legacy? Maintain my reputation?”
“Ordinarily, yes. But this hardly seems like the time. You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” Bruce muttered.

“Bruce.” Alfred approached and lay a hand on his shoulder. “Get some sleep.”

But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Right now, his own head was the worst place to be.
This would distract him for a little while, at least.

“This shouldn’t take long,” he said. “And I’m not going to stand around shaking hands
afterwards. I’m not doing any question and answer sessions. Nothing off-the-cuff. I’ll give them
their sound bite and go.”

Alfred sighed, lowering his gaze, and lifted his hand from Bruce’s shoulder. “As you wish. Let
me drive you, at least.”

Bruce nodded, face downcast.

***

Rain blurred the windshield and trickled down the windows of the car. A smoggy Gotham sunset
glowed in the west, smears of fire and ash. Bruce sat in the backseat, watching the city glide past
outside.

With a skill born from years of practice, he shut his emotions away. He emptied himself out. He
could sleepwalk through events like this. In his pocket, he carried a sheet of folded paper, the
speech his PR people had prepared for this occasion. He should probably have tried to memorize
it, but whatever.

I’m your Renewal Fund.

Even more than the words, even more than the contempt in Edward’s tone, it was the
hopelessness, the sheer fucking despair in his eyes that cut Bruce. He had wanted so badly to help
Edward, and instead he’d broken his heart. He’d left him worse off than when he’d found him, if
that was possible.

All right, he’d promised not to kill again; if that was true, that was the most important thing, wasn’t
it? But Edward himself was in shambles.

Of course, Bruce’s motives had been impure from the beginning. Of course Edward was right
about him. In Edward, he had been seeking his own salvation. He’d actually been stupid enough,
reckless enough, to think that he could rehabilitate a violent, deeply traumatized man with a few
hugs, a little bit of kindness…all while he was chained to the bed. Like a child catching a wild
animal and shoving it into a cage, expecting it to learn to love him.

The banquet hall loomed into sight from around a corner. Alfred parked the car in front of the
valet station. "You're sure about this?" he asked quietly.

Bruce could see his eyes in the rear view mirror. He averted his gaze. "Yeah."

Bruce stepped out of the car and walked through the rain to the entrance.

***

The hall was crowded. The chatter of voices washed over him. Champagne glasses clinked.
Servers roamed the space with trays of canapes.

What even was this event? Some kind of official memorial service? A press conference, Lucius
had called it, but the label felt meaningless, disconnected from reality. Bruce couldn’t make sense
of it in his head. This all had the quality of a fever dream, more impression than reality. He had
the sense that if he wanted, he could put his hand through the wall, like glitching through a surface
in a video game. He could sink through the floor.

Everyone who was here was someone. Everyone had been invited to be seen and heard, to help
craft a narrative, to tell the citizens of Gotham how they were supposed to feel and what was going
to happen next. And Bruce was one of them.

Except the words he would be speaking weren’t even his. He was a mouthpiece, a puppet. He
might as well be a hologram. Bruce Wayne, the man himself, was nothing more than the shadow
of his own image, its residual trace.
At the front of the room was a stage with a podium.

Bruce grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and drank it. It burned and tickled going
down, a trail of molten silver down his throat. Warmth pooled in his stomach and seeped through
his limbs, and the world grew hazier. He tried to stay close to the wall, out of sight, as the room
fell silent and—one by one—a series of droning voices made boilerplate statements about the state
of Gotham, the recent murders, the rise in crime and drug use, etc. etc. Bruce’s mind was a mass
of static. Occasional phrases broke through:

“…a time of spiritual crisis…”

“…thoughts and prayers are with the families of the victims…”

“…will be brought to justice…”

“…cannot remain neutral when confronted with genuine evil…”

Evil. The word got stuck in Bruce’s mind, replayed itself over and over. E-vil. Ev-il. What did a
word like that even mean?

It meant irredeemable. Once you had been marked as evil, it meant that society had finally and
definitively turned its back on you. There was no rehabilitation, no solace for the evil, no path
forward—just a door slamming shut, the end to the conversation. The term conjured a certain dark
mystique, a sense that to try to understand the motivations of such a person was not only pointless
but potentially dangerous, that you might find yourself complicit in their acts. To try to
comprehend “evil,” to see its side of the story, was to feel yourself blurring into it. You might
catch it like a virus. If that was the case, Bruce was already infected.

He thought about Edward. About the way he clung to Bruce, face hidden against his chest. His
grief for the baby who had died so long ago. Little Edward weeping in shame because he’d nearly
lost several toes to infection and his doctor visit meant that there’d be less food for the other
children.

A hand touched his arm, and a voice said, “Your turn.”

Bruce walked numbly up to the stage, ascended the stairs, and stood behind the podium. The
crowd lay before him, a sea of blurred-out faces. Cameras snapped, flashing; whispers swept
through the assembled media personnel. His name—Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne—floated toward
him, swirled around him like fog.

He pulled the sheet of paper from his pocket and skimmed over the prepared speech: “It is with a
heavy heart that I stand before you. I, like all of you, am grieving. I am shocked and angered.
The serial killer known as the Riddler is still on the loose, and until he’s caught—”

He crumpled up the paper, faced the crowd, and said, “Why the fuck am I here?”

Silence. Another camera snapped, tentatively, like a muffled cough bursting in the silence.

“Seriously…why? Why do you want to know what I think about all this? Who am I to all of
you?” He swayed a little on his feet. The lights were bright, blinding. Probably shouldn’t have
had that champagne. Shouldn’t have come here at all. “It’s true, there are things you don’t know
about me. A lot of things. But as far as any of you know, I’ve done nothing with my life except
inherit a bunch of money. I've earned nothing. I’m barely involved in running my own company.
I’m no one. And yet here I am, on a stage in front of a bunch of cameras, everyone waiting to hear
my take on the latest big thing. Why?”

Silence.

“I know you’re all expecting me to talk about the murders, but seriously, we’ve been hearing about
nothing else for the past few weeks. Sure, they were pretty horrible. Do you—you wanna know
what else is horrible? Children dying because the heater in their building doesn’t work.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. It was difficult to discern the tone of it. It might as well
have been wind through the trees, or pipes creaking in an old house. Meaningless background
noise.

“Gotham Orphanage? Ring a bell? Anyone? No? Well, it did burn down years ago. But yeah—
children died there. Routinely. Totally preventable, if anyone had given a shit. This went on for
years. Any of you remember that? Was there any kind of investigation, or—anything? I’m really
asking. I don’t know. Because we didn’t hear about it. Kind of weird how something like that
barely even registers in the public mind. I mean, I’m no different than all of you. I didn’t learn
about it until recently, until I got to know a man who actually grew up there, and some of the
things he told me—” he stopped, taking an unsteady breath. “And things like that are still
happening. Just in other places now. I’d bet anything on that. Things just keep getting worse in
Gotham. Rich get richer, poor get poorer, same old story, not much to say. And here we are." He
felt a little dizzy. He gripped the podium, steadying himself.

The murmuring in the crowd swelled.

“How much do you think it would’ve cost to fix that heater? A few thousand dollars? How much
did that bottle of champagne cost? Yeah, that—that one. Right there, on the tray. Three
hundred? Five hundred? What about that suit? Hell, what about my suit? I don’t even know. I
don’t know what most of my things cost. But this—” he gripped a handful of his suit. “—I
could’ve sold it and donated the money and maybe a few more people would’ve had something to
eat tonight. Could’ve just worn my old Nirvana t-shirt. I almost did that, anyway. What do you
think?”

Silence.

He leaned against the podium. “I know—I know, things are complicated. You can’t fix all the
problems in the world with money. But you can fix a broken heater. You can buy some antibiotics
for a little boy who’s sick. There was a lot of talk tonight about how the killer needs to be held
accountable—well, who’s holding us accountable? How many people are sleeping in the streets
tonight? It’s going to get pretty cold. I wonder how many of them will die. Hey—does anyone
else think it’s really hot in here?” He pulled at the collar of his suit. “Seriously. What is it, eighty-
five degrees? Or maybe it’s just the lights. Either way, I feel like…oh, I guess my time is up.
Here comes security.”

Two burly men in dark suits and sunglasses shouldered their way toward the front of the crowd.

Bruce didn’t resist. He allowed them to enfold him in a wall of muscle and quietly escort him off
the stage, through the crowd. Cameras continued to flash around him, and countless eyes followed
him, but the murmuring had stilled. The room was eerily silent.

What had he just done?

 Chapter 11

When he was the Riddler, Edward had prepared for each execution with ritual self-hypnosis. He’d
adapted the techniques that the doctor in Arkham had taught him. The hypnosis had been meant to
tame him, to file off his fangs. He’d repurposed it into a weapon.

With clinical precision, he would put himself into a deep trance and strip away his own doubt and
moral squeamishness until nothing remained but an iron core of purpose. He would delve deep and
bring forth the rage. He would make himself pure.

Even when he wasn’t readying himself to deliver the killing blow, even when he was just going
about his day, he’d spent much of his time in that self-induced trance state. He had discovered
within himself a wild, strange joy which he’d carried with him even through his mundane life.
Edward had begun to feel like a cocoon, a larval version of himself. Riddler was the bloodstained
butterfly emerging from within. The conviction he had felt, the absolute certainty: that was him.

That certainty was gone now. He felt naked without it.

Edward Nashton. The Riddler. He no longer knew which was his true self. Was that even a
logical question? Was there any such thing as a true self, or was he just a series of meaningless,
disconnected actions, like muscle spasms? That seemed more likely—that at the heart of
everything you found randomness, a universe like a blood-spray on a wall. His consciousness was
strapped into the passenger seat, observing helplessly, trying to impose some sort of narrative on
the nonsense because that was the only way he could maintain his sanity. He had wanted so badly
to find a pattern, a code which explained his suffering.

The patterns were slipping away now. He felt like no one. Like a blank page on which anyone
could write anything. Maybe that was all he had ever been.

***

The building where Edward worked resembled a brick file cabinet. Rows of narrow windows
reflected the gray Gotham sky. He took the subway to the nearest stop and walked the last few
blocks, as he always did. He’d never owned a car. The parking fees in this city were ruinous.

He walked in through the glass double doors in front, scanned his employee ID at the terminal, and
stepped onto the elevator. Blankly he watched the floor numbers light up, one by one.
KTMJ was a midsized accounting firm. Edward had been working there for over ten years now.
The work was neither easy nor pleasant, but it suited him. Accounting—and especially forensic
accounting—took a keen and nimble mind, an obsessive focus on detail, an ability to take in oceans
of raw data and sift through. Find the patterns.

He had grown to hate this building. The fluorescent lights had an antiseptic brightness, a droning
hum that crept under his skin and rubbed along his nerve-endings. And the smell…

He’d never quite figured out what it was. Air freshener? Some cleaning product they used on the
carpet? It had a cloying, artificial sweetness that seemed to coat the inside of his sinuses and the
back of his throat with every breath.

As he walked into the cubicle-filled office, the clack-clack of typing stopped and the dozen or so
people in the room raised their heads. Their eyes widened at the sight of the still-healing scratches
on his cheek and eyelids.

“Hello,” Edward said, breaking the silence.

The wall clock tick-tick-ticked.

Maybe they’d assumed he was never coming back. Maybe they thought he was dead. Maybe
they’d been secretly relieved.

“Nice to see you again, Edward,” one of them—an older woman named Rose—said in a neutrally
polite tone. “How are you feeling?”

“A little sore, but I’ll survive.”

“Tony said there was an accident?”

Car accident was the official story. Of course, the scratches didn’t look like the sort of damage
that would be inflicted by broken glass or blunt force trauma.
Briefly, half-jokingly, he considered telling the truth: I was kidnapped and spent a week and a half
chained to a billionaire’s bed. But it’s all right, my kidnapper was actually really nice to me. It’s
just that I had a mental breakdown when I found out his true identity.

Oh, he would love to see her reaction. To shatter the veneer of polite chitchat and get a human
response out of someone, even horror…

Instead he replied, “Yes, I was in a taxi and the driver was a little distracted.” He’d told Tony, the
boss, that it was a rented car, not a taxi; he wondered if anyone would notice the discrepancy. He
didn’t really care. “I had a concussion, but I’m recovered now.”

“Good, good. Glad to hear.”

“Thank you for the concern.”

She gave him an uncertain smile.

He took a seat at his desk. Everyone around him became quietly reabsorbed in their work.

And that was that.

Well, he’d expected as much. This wasn’t even the first time he’d come in with self-inflicted
injuries. The questions—Are you all right? What happened?—were always perfunctory, because
people weren’t actually interested. They satisfied their social obligation to appear interested, then
they moved on. Everyone had their own worries and cares, their own bills to pay; everyone was
frantically treading water to keep their heads above the surface, because that was how the system
wanted them. For so many years, Edward himself had been no different. Work, go home, pay the
bills, try to numb the pain—that was life.

But of course their careful distance with him was more than that, and he knew it.

Edward was weird. He’d always been out of sync with others, even when he was a child. For
years he had tried to adapt himself to society and had never quite succeeded, but he could never
figure out what he was doing wrong, why his speech and actions all felt off to others. He tried to
follow the appropriate scripts, to make just the right amount of eye contact, to smile and laugh
when it was appropriate and avoid smiling or laughing when it was inappropriate. And still. Even
when people were nice to him, he could feel their unease. Whenever groups his coworkers went
out for drinks or dinner after work, he was never invited.

It might have been his own natural wiring, at least in part. Maybe he would’ve been a little odd
even if he’d had a perfectly happy childhood.

But early trauma and malnutrition affected brain development. The hippocampus, the center of
memory and emotion, shrank. Cortisol levels rose. He’d read enough to recognize the symptoms
—to know that he was not just different but scarred. There was a wound in the center of his
being. Other people felt it. Smelled it.

You ought to be used to this by now.

He tried to lose himself in work. They were still dealing with the Sachman case, which had been
dragging on for months. Insurance claims. Sloppy reporting. Missing puzzle pieces. As with all
puzzles, there was a fair amount of intuition involved; he had to be flexible, to zero in on relevant
details, and then unfocus his mind and zoom back to see the big picture. His brain was a
complicated system of file cabinets. He cross-referenced, pulled up relevant past court cases for
comparison—constellations, galaxies of data.

Was this it, then? He would just go back to his pre-Riddler days and live out the rest of his life as
Edward Nashton, the good little worker bee? Would it all pass like a fever dream?

The fifty thousand dollars from Bruce was gone. He’d divided it up, slipped into envelopes, and
handed out to homeless people, reserving only enough to pay his rent for the month and buy a
banana cream pie for himself at the corner store. The letter was still tucked away in the backpack,
unread—the only proof that any of it had even happened.

He thought again of the pill bottles in his cabinet. His mind kept drifting back to them. He’d
counted the Xanax and Ambien last night, lining them up on the counter.

Suicide was the way it would end for him. He’d known that for most of his life. It felt almost like
something outside of his control, like a genetic disease, something sleeping dormant inside him that
would emerge once conditions were right. He had all the risk factors. It was just a question of
when. Would he make it to fifty? To forty? To next week?

“Holy shit!”
Edward looked up.

Raj—his youngest coworker, a twenty-something with a pierced ear—was chuckling at something

on his computer.

“What’s so funny?” Rose asked.

“This Bruce Wayne shit! You haven’t seen it?”

Edward went very still.

“Bruce Wayne?” Rose frowned. “What?”

“Yeah, you know, the guy who owns Wayne Enterprises. He had this like, public meltdown and
went off on a big rant at a press conference. It’s actually kinda epic.”

“Don’t be watching that stuff on the clock,” she said.

“Chill out. It’s only like five minutes.”

A faint humming filled Edward’s head. He was blinking rapidly.

He opened up the browser, Googled, Bruce Wayne meltdown, and the video instantly came up.
Mouth dry, he slipped on his headphones, plugged them into the speaker, and played the video.

And there he was. Bruce Wayne. He swayed, leaning over the podium, gripping the edges, his
expression grim and taut, eyes glittering with feverish intensity. The top button of his suit was
undone, exposing a pale triangle of his chest, which gleamed with sweat. His dark hair hung lankly
over his face. Edward felt a familiar weakness seeping through him and hated himself for it.

Bruce was beautiful. It was just a fact; anyone could see it. Even after Edward grew to despise
him, even as he planned his death, the wanting never stopped.

Bruce’s voice filled his ears. He was talking about…

Oh god.

The floor seemed to drop out from beneath him. His office chair and computer floated in a void.
The blood pounded in the hollows of his temples. A part of him wanted to turn the video off, to
forget about the fact that it existed. But he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

The video ended. He closed his eyes for a moment and focused on regaining control of his
heartrate and breathing. Then he scrolled down, gaze skimming loosely over the comment section
below.

Wow, I guess this guy does have a pulse after all. Never seen him so worked up about ANYTHING.

Fucking hypocrite. He’s even richer than the rest of them. Where does he get off talking about
inequality? It’s not like he’s gonna give up his billions.

He’s right tho.

He’s obviously drunk lol.

Omg the part where security shows up. And he just goes limp.

Like a sexy goth ragdoll.

Why does everyone think this guy is hot? He looks like a ferret fell in an oil slick.

Did he seriously faint or is he just being dramatic?

This isn’t funny. He’s obviously having a mental breakdown. He needs help.

What? For telling the truth? To me he sounds like the only sane one in the room.

Is that stuff true? About the orphanage?

Yeah, I’ve been reading about it. Pretty fucking grim. I swear, this city is such a shithole.

Edward clicked out of the video and to a news website. Bruce’s “meltdown” was the first story
that came up, complete with a photograph of Bruce being half-escorted, half-carried away from the
stage by security guards. He looked barely conscious, eyes half-open and hazy, as though he were
drugged. Members of the crowd leaned in, a few of them reaching out as though to touch him. The
image had an oddly majestic, almost Baroque quality, like the Rubens painting of The Descent
from the Cross.

Edward closed the window. He picked up an empty coffee mug on the desk, raised it to his mouth
as though to take a sip, then set it down. His own movements felt disconnected from himself, as
though someone else were controlling his body remotely.

The room seemed to be getting brighter and blurrier. The glare from the ceiling lights expanded
and swallowed his vision, as though they were all being enveloped in a silent, slow-motion
explosion.

Bruce had mentioned him in his speech. Talking about the orphanage. I didn’t learn about it until
recently, until I got to know a man who actually grew up there. Who else could he have been
talking about?

“…ward? Edward?”

He took off his headphones. “What?”

Raj was looking at him in puzzlement. “You okay, man?”

An icy sheen of sweat was forming on Edward’s brow. He felt lightheaded.

“Yes, I just—expired milk. I should have thrown it away.” He let out a high-pitched, wobbly little
laugh.

“Uh. You need to lay down or—”

“No. I’m just going to the bathroom.” He stood. “I might be a moment.” He walked stiffly,
quickly out of the room. He had to restrain himself from breaking into a run.

***

Edward splashed cold water on his face. His own wide, dazed eyes stared back at him in the
mirror. When he closed them, the video replayed in the darkness behind his lids.

It’s not fair. That was the thought that kept cycling through his head. It’s not fair, it’s not, it’s not,
it’s not—

Edward had skimmed enough of the news story to know that Bruce had been sent up there to give
another canned, sanitized speech condemning the murderer. Condemning him. Instead, he had
spoken out on Edward’s behalf. And not just his, but everyone—all the children who had suffered
and were still suffering.

Edward clutched his shirt. He was sweating profusely, gray half-moons forming under his arms,
darkening his white shirt. His heart rattled in his chest.

It doesn’t change anything. He’s still Bruce Wayne. His family is still responsible for all the lies
and false promises.

But what if he could change things?

What if we—

No. No, no.

He wouldn’t put his faith in a Wayne again. If he allowed himself to believe in another promise,
and that promise turned out to be hollow, it would shatter him utterly. He didn’t want to hope.

The world seemed to be turning slowly around him. Edward retreated into a stall and shut it. He
sat wedged between the toilet and the stall-wall, his gaze loosely fixed on a crack in the tiled
ceiling.

***

The rest of the workday passed in a haze. Later, he didn’t even remember the subway ride home.

In his living room, he fished the envelope out of the backpack. He stared at the words To Edward
written on the front.

He couldn’t put it off anymore. He didn’t have the strength to destroy it, and the longer he went
without reading it, the more it would torment him. It would probably just be some sanctimonious
bullshit reminding him to lead an honest, non-violent life, to brush his teeth and eat his vegetables
and not bash anyone’s skull in with a carpet tool. Because that was what he was to Bruce; a
rehabilitation project. He was a plaque Bruce could hang on his wall. I REFORMED A SERIAL
KILLER.

Even that kiss…

No. He wasn’t going to think about that.

He watched his own thumb slide under the lip of the envelope, breaking the seal. He pulled out a
single folded piece of notebook paper covered with scrawled handwriting. Bruce’s writing.

As he read, he felt a curious emptiness settling over him. The words blurred.

“Oh Bruce,” he said in a small, watery voice. “Bruce.”

And then he started to laugh. He bit his own wrist hard enough to leave tooth-marks, muffling the
sound, but he kept laughing even as tears squeezed themselves from his eyes and trailed down the
sides of his nose.

He lay down on the floor and laughed and laughed.

***

Alfred sat across from Bruce at the table, his lips taut as he stared at the morning paper. “Well.
You made quite a spectacle.” He set the paper down. “Just how much did you have to drink
before that speech?”

“One glass of champagne.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows.

Bruce took another bite of his Pop-Tart and chewed slowly, mechanically. Brown sugar flavored,
frosted—his favorite kind. But his sense of taste was still curiously absent. “I don’t usually
drink.”

“I probably don’t need to tell you that Lucius is a little upset. And Wayne Enterprise’s stock price
has dropped again. People are speculating that you’re mentally unstable, that you’re in a
downward spiral—”

“I don’t regret what I said, Alfred. It was true. All of it. And I’m sick of saying nothing. If
people are going to insist on putting me in front of a crowd and a microphone, they’re going to get
my real thoughts.”

Alfred sighed. A shadow of sadness slipped over his features. “I understand your feelings. I do.
And it’s a noble cause, using your fame to draw attention to injustice and poverty, but…there’s a
time and a place, Bruce. And a way. This wasn’t it.”

“So I should have said the phony bullshit they wanted me to say, instead?”
“As you may recall, I recommended staying home. You were in no state. You had to be
practically carried out of the room.”

The media referred to it as a fainting spell, which was an exaggeration; he hadn’t actually
collapsed. But he had grayed out for a moment or two, after security got hold of him. He blamed
it on the heat, the glaring lights. Though the fact that he hadn’t eaten or slept much over the past
few days probably hadn’t helped, either.

“People are losing faith in this company,” Alfred continued. “If this continues, Wayne Enterprises
may end up having to sell another division. We may lose agriculture, as we lost biotech.”

“So what? Why is that such a tragedy?”

His shoulders tensed. “Do you intend to hack off the limbs of Wayne Enterprise one by one, then?
Your parents’ legacy? Your legacy?”

God, he was so sick of hearing about his legacy. “The company isn’t a living thing. It’s not going
to bleed or scream.”

“Wayne Enterprises is not just stocks and assets,” Alfred said quietly. “It’s made up of people,
Bruce. Ordinary people who are in danger of losing their jobs.”

“They won’t lose their jobs. They’ll just be working for someone else.”

Alfred stood, one hand resting on the table. “Stryker—the company who bought your biotech
branch—they’ve already made it clear that they plan to downsize. To increase automation, reduce
manual labor so they can cut costs. And those who are still working there will see their benefits
slashed. And if they complain, well, they can be replaced.”

Bruce flinched, lowering his gaze. “Lucius didn’t say anything about that,” he muttered.

“He probably thought it went without saying. Your parents were very involved in the company.
They always saw to it that their employees were provided for. Not everyone is so conscientious.
Wayne Enterprises isn’t perfect, God knows, and neither were your parents, but they did their best.
They tried.”
Bruce’s throat felt tight. When he spoke, his voice emerged thick and hoarse. “No one should
have this much wealth and power, Alfred. Least of all someone like me.”

“Whether you should or you shouldn’t, you do.”

“So what am I supposed to do, then?”

“Embrace your inheritance. But do it right. Set an example. When your father spoke out about
inequality—”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Alfred lapsed into silence.

“I…” Bruce stopped, taking a breath. “I loved my father. But I’m not him. I don’t want to be
him. Or my mother. They’re dead. And I don’t—” he stopped, aware that his hands were
trembling. He raked one through his hair, pushing it out of his face.

Bruce had been trying not to think about his parents over the last few days. He’d seen plenty of
disturbing things in Edward’s hard drive, and he didn’t know how much of it was true. But if it
was, there were certain things Bruce hadn’t known about his mother and father. A lot of things.
He wasn’t ready to confront all that though—already, his mind was a fucking mess—so he’d shut
it away for the moment. He could try to process it later.

“I know you’re trying to help me,” Bruce said, “but please stop comparing me to them. Stop
holding them up as some example of what I’m supposed to be.” He stared at the wall. “I’m still a
Wayne, whether I want to be or not. I know that. But I have to figure this out on my own. I can’t
just be an extension of them.”

There was a brief silence, and then Alfred said quietly, “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I know you’re disappointed in me.”

“Bruce…”

“I embarrassed you. Up there.”

Alfred made a small, husky sound in his throat and said, “Bruce, that’s not—” he stopped. “I
worry about your future. Your reputation. But I’m proud of you. And I’m proud of what you said
last night.”

Bruce’s vision blurred. He blinked, trying to clear it. “Thank you.”

“We’re overdue for a long talk,” Alfred said, “about a lot of things. About the past, and…” He
stopped, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. His knuckles whitened briefly, then he relaxed
his grip. “There just never seems to be a right moment. I know you’re going through a rough spot
right now. I know you—you really feel for that man. For what he’s been through.”

Bruce hesitated. “When you dropped him off at his apartment…how did he seem?”

“He didn’t say much. Seemed a bit lost, a bit bewildered. Like a dog who’d been left by the side
of the road.”

“He’ll adjust,” Bruce murmured. This was better, he reminded himself. This was how it had to
be. If he kept involving himself in Edward’s life, he would just make things worse.

Alfred glanced at the half-finished Pop-Tart in Bruce’s hand. “If I scramble some eggs, will you
eat them?”

Bruce’s first impulse was to say he wasn’t that hungry—he wasn’t sure he could even eat the rest
of this—but he stopped himself. “Sure. Thanks.” He had to take better care of himself. He knew
that.

Alfred retreated into the kitchen.

Bruce glanced at the photo of himself in the newspaper, then away. He checked his phone. No
calls, no texts.
Of course. What did he expect?

Edward had loved the Batman, maybe, but his loathing for Bruce Wayne ran deep, and the
contradiction—the paradox of his own feelings—had ripped him in half. Writing that letter had
been a selfish act; of course Edward didn’t want to hear it. If he’d burned the thing without
reading it, that was just as well.

Bruce slipped the phone back into his hoodie-pocket. The crack of shells and the hiss of sizzling
butter drifted from the kitchen. He found himself wondering if anyone had ever cooked breakfast
for Edward.

***

That night, Bruce quietly slipped out of the mansion and into the streets.

He wore a plain black hoodie with the hood up, black jeans, a scarf across his mouth and nose, and
black paint around his eyes. He wasn’t fighting crime tonight, so he wasn’t going out as Batman;
he had another job, and he would attract less attention this way. He had brought some of his
equipment though, hidden in pouches under his hoodie—a grappling hook and line, and
binoculars. Edward’s apartment was a few stories up. Bruce would need to scale the side of an
adjacent building to get a good view through his window.

Face-to-face contact with Edward was off limits, and so was calling or texting him; that was what
Bruce had decided. Any direct contact they had in the future would be initiated by Edward. And
that was not going to happen.

But there were pragmatic reasons to monitor him from afar. If the Riddler was making plans to kill
again, the Batman would be there to stop him.

Also—yes, he was worried about Edward’s emotional state. He kept having visions of him in that
tiny, rust-flecked shower with his wrists slit. Or flinging himself in front of an oncoming truck. At
the very least, he needed to assure himself that Edward was alive.

Once he’d found a good vantage point on the roof of a neighboring apartment complex, Bruce
brought his binoculars up to his eyes. He was wearing one of his contact lenses, too; he could sift
through the visual data later, at his leisure.
There was the glowing square of Edward’s window. But he couldn’t see the man himself.

He waited. Watched.

There. A flicker of movement. Bruce remained perfectly still.

Edward walked past the window. He was…naked? Shirtless, anyway. He had something in his
hand, something long and narrow. Bruce couldn’t quite make it out.

Edward stopped briefly, his face turning toward Bruce. From this distance, it was hard to make out
his expression. Bruce zoomed in—

Then Edward moved away from the window, disappearing again.

Damn it.

Bruce shifted, trying to get a better vantage point. He zoomed in further. Nothing.

Beside him, a pigeon landed with a rustle of feathers and strutted across the rooftop. Below, traffic
roared past. Fog hung over the city, transforming it into a dream-world. Neon signs glowed
through the white mist, red and blue and lurid pink. It had begun to rain—one of those dreary,
half-hearted Gotham rains, midway between a mist and a drizzle. The moisture settled onto
Bruce’s hoodie, chilly and foul-smelling. Should’ve worn a heavier jacket. Even in autumn,
Gotham nights could get brutally cold.

He waited and waited some more.

Still, Edward didn’t reappear in the window.

This was no good. He needed to try a different vantage point. Or—had Edward already slipped
out of the apartment? Maybe Bruce should check the diner.
Or maybe he should just go home. This obsession was out of control. He could try to tell himself
that he was doing the responsible thing by keeping an eye on Edward, but no—this was about
scratching an itch in his own brain. He was desperate to see him. Here he was, hovering outside
the man’s window like a vulture. Like a perverted creep. Even after letting him go, he couldn’t
respect his boundaries, couldn’t mind his own goddamn—

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He gave a start. Slowly, he lowered the binoculars. The
phone kept buzzing. He pulled it out.

Edward’s number.

Bruce stared at the screen. It buzzed again.

He answered. “Hello.”

Heavy breathing filled his ear. “Hello, Bruce.”

It wasn’t quite Edward’s normal voice. It was deeper, distorted. But it wasn’t quite the Riddler’s,
either.

“Edward.” He swallowed, pulse jumping in his throat. “I…didn’t expect to hear from you. Are
you at home?”

“You don’t have to pretend, Bruce. I know that you’re watching me. You aren’t as subtle as you
think.”

Bruce stared at the empty window, mouth dry.

“I saw your speech.” More raspy breathing in his ear. “Everyone at work was talking about it.
Poor, poor Bruce Wayne. He’s clearly having some sort of mental breakdown.”

“I’m fine.”
“Are you?”

He took a breath. “Listen. I—I know that I—”

“Have you ever read VALIS?”

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s a novel. Philip K. Dick. You know…Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? But it’s
different than his usual work. More autobiographical. More surreal. Even the fantastical elements
are interpretations of his own experiences. He was schizophrenic, you see. And he experimented
with hallucinogens. There was a sequel…there was supposed to be a third book as well, but he
died before he could write it.”

Bruce said nothing. He couldn’t get a bead on Edward’s mental state. His tone was calm enough,
but it was the sort of calm that spoke of a deep inner turbulence. He was on the edge. Of what,
Bruce didn’t know.

“There is a particular scene,” Edward said. “The main character—who is basically the author—
has a mental breakdown. He’s institutionalized for a while. He talks to a sympathetic
psychologist. At one point, Philip asks a question and the doctor tells him, ‘You’re the expert.’
Just three words. But it’s those three words that change everything, and Philip has a metanoia—
you know that word?”

“A profound spiritual awakening. A shift in perception.”

“Yes. It’s that phrase. A healing phrase. I always found that idea intoxicating—the notion that
there is a specific combination of words that can induce that sort of shift, that can mend a person’s
soul. And I was a little jealous, because my own experiences with doctors were not nearly so
transformative. Oh, there were one or two who did seem to be genuinely trying, but they were
working with…such a mess. You know?” He chuckled. “Therapy—it’s a rat race. You can work
your ass off for months or years or decades, and if you don’t make any progress, if after all that
you still want to kill yourself…well, it’s your own fault for not trying hard enough.”

“Edward. Are you thinking about hurting yourself right now?”

He continued as though Bruce hadn’t spoken: “Anyway. I was talking about the metanoia. The
words ‘you’re the expert.’ I always thought that if there was such a thing as a healing phrase, the
reverse must be true as well. That for each individual there must be a specific combination of
words which—spoken under the right circumstance—can break him. Destroy him. Words have
such power. They say that men are visual creatures, but I’ve found that I lean toward the verbal
when it comes to self-stimulation. When I’m aroused enough, I can induce an orgasm by repeating
certain words or phrases to myself over and over inside my head.”

Bruce’s pulse drummed in his skull. He whispered, “Like what?”

“Oh…you can probably guess, Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce heard a strange sound—a crinkling, crackling sound, followed by a faint sigh.

“Edward. What’s going on?”

More crinkling. “You must be cold, sitting up on the roof. You can come in, if you want. My
door is unlocked.” He hung up.

***

The main door to the apartment lobby was propped open with a chunk of asphalt. Bruce entered
and took the stairs up. He walked down the narrow hallway to the door and hesitated, fingers
touching the knob. He’d been inside this apartment before. But he had no idea what he would find
in here, now.

He knocked twice and said, “I’m coming in.”

No response.

Bruce turned the knob and opened the door a crack, then another. He stepped through, into the
living room.

It was as he remembered, the computer on the desk, the now-empty rat cages on the walls, the
shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books and journals. Edward was nowhere in sight. Bruce
walked slowly down the hallway, his own breathing a hurricane in his ears.

“Edward!”

From up ahead, he heard it again—that creaking, crinkling sound.

Bruce found him in the bathroom, on the floor. He was curled semi-fetal, his back to the door. He
was wearing only his boxers. His entire body was cocooned, mummified in glistening cling-wrap;
his legs were bound together, his left arm pinned to his torso. Only his right arm remained free—
though he’d wrapped it up to the wrist, a translucent sleeve. His phone and glasses lay on the
chipped floor-tiles nearby, next to the now-empty box of Saran Wrap.

Bruce dropped to his knees and gripped his shoulder. “Edward.”

When he didn’t respond, Bruce grabbed him with both hands and rolled him over, onto his back.

Edward stirred. The wrap crinkled with his movements. His head was wrapped up, too, with only
small slits for his mouth and eyes. He blinked at Bruce a few times, breathing raspily through his
open lips. His eyes always looked naked and helpless without his glasses. “I feel strange,” he said
in a small voice.

Alive. Uninjured, as far as he could see. Bruce exhaled a shaky breath. “Jesus, Edward. You
scared the shit out of me.” He looked him over again. Edward’s bare feet moved inside their shell
of cling-wrap. He’d encased himself in so many layers, it was almost opaque. “Why are you—?”

“I like the feeling of constriction,” he said in a floaty, detached voice. “It’s calming.”

The Riddler had always encased himself in cling-wrap. To keep his DNA out of crime scenes. It
had worked. The only trace of himself he’d ever left was that single, deliberate hair tucked into the
card addressed to the Batman.

“Doesn’t it get hot?” Bruce asked.

“Oh yes.” He breathed slowly, shallowly. His gaze was fixed loosely on the ceiling. “After a few
hours in this I start to hallucinate.”

Bruce pulled a small knife from inside his pouch. Edward flinched.

“I’m going to cut you free.”

“I’m fine like this.”

“You’re overheating. You’re sweating so much in there, you’re probably dehydrated.” Bruce
inserted the tip of the knife into the cling-wrap around Edward’s feet.

“Bruce. Please.” His voice cracked.

“Please what?”

“Just leave me. Just go home. I told you before, I’m not going to hurt anyone else.”

“Does that include yourself?”

No response.

Bruce slid the knife-tip up, carefully maneuvering around Edward’s groin and over his belly, as
though he were performing a Caesarian section. The layers of wrap made a rough purr as they split
open. Edward couldn’t have been in this for that long, but already, his skin was slick and gleaming
with sweat. In spite of that, he was shivering, his body wracked by small, vicious tremors.

“You really are an idiot,” Edward whispered. “You know that?”

“Why am I an idiot?”
“Oh, Bruce.” He smiled, a pained, wild-eyed grimace.

Bruce made another swift, strategic cut, and the cocoon peeled away. Edward didn’t move. He
lay, limp and pliant, as Bruce lifted the sweat-drenched form into his arms. He took his glove off
and pressed a hand to Edward’s forehead. It was burning hot.

“It’s funny. I don’t feel like myself. But I don’t even remember what ‘myself’ feels like.” Edward
looked up at him blearily. His face was wet, too. “Am I dead?” he whispered. “Is that what this
is? Are you h-here to—to take me to hell?” His voice wobbled a little. “If it’s you, it’s all right.
I’ll go.”

“No. No, you’re not going to hell, Edward.” He sat on the tiles, cradling Edward against his chest,
and brushed damp hair from his face. “You’re alive.”

His breath caught. One hand lifted, trembling, to tug the scarf down, exposing Bruce’s face. “This
is real?” he whispered.

“Yes. It’s real.”

Edward pressed his face into the hollow between Bruce’s shoulder and neck and clung to the
sleeve of his hoodie. He was breathing raggedly. “I should’ve known,” he muttered. “It still
hurts.”

Bruce curled his hand around the back of Edward’s head, cradling it.

He spoke in a slow, monotone voice, like someone in a trance: “The doctors couldn’t fix me,
Bruce. No one can. There’s too much damage. Too deep, too old. I only felt good when I was
killing people. I thought I’d found the answer to this—this whole sick riddle. I thought I knew
what I had to become. But I didn’t find anything.” His breaths shivered against Bruce’s neck.
“I’ve done so many terrible things now, and I can’t go back. I don’t know how to live. I don’t
know what to do.”

“We can figure it out together.”

Edward moaned faintly. “You’re so cruel. You have no idea.” His grip tightened on Bruce’s
sleeve. “I spent my life hating you and everything you represented. And then you have the
fucking nerve to be good. Why couldn’t you have just been a piece of shit?”

“I mean…I can try, if you want.”

Edward let out a faint, pained wheeze that might have been a laugh or a sob or something else.

Bruce’s arms tightened around him. “What have I done to you?” he murmured under his breath.
His lips were close to Edward’s ear.

He felt Edward’s heart-rate quicken.

Bruce lay a hand against his cheek. “My poor friend.”

“Friend…” He let out another wheezing laugh-cry. “Is that what we are?”

“Yes. If you’ll let me.” He stroked his hair. He knew this was a bad idea—he’d already made up
his mind to pull away, to maintain the distance between them, and here he was, cuddling a sweat-
drenched Edward on the bathroom floor. But god, the fear he’d felt when he saw that motionless
form on the floor and wondered… “Let me be your friend.”

Edward let out another weak moan.

There was something stuck to his sweat-slick chest. At first, Bruce had mistaken it for a stubborn
scrap of cling-wrap, but—no. It was a sheet of paper, awkwardly folded, pressed against his heart.
Bruce peeled it off and unfolded it.

It was the letter, now smudged and almost illegible, the words faded to ghosts. But of course, he
knew what it said. He’d written it in a feverish insomnia-haze, but he remembered every pathetic,
desperate word.

Edward,
I need to write this for my own sake. You don’t have to read it. You can throw it away. I don't
even know what I'm trying to say, only that I need to say it, that if I don't say it it will burn a hole in
me.

I am thirty-five years old. Sometimes I feel much older. But sometimes I feel like I stopped aging
the night I found out what happened to my mom and dad. I feel like everything stopped, then, and
time never really started up again. For over two decades, I believed that I was incapable of certain
emotions—that the part of me which could form real bonds had died along with my parents. That's
why I became who I became. Alfred is the only true friend I’ve had through all these years.

I know I’m lucky to have even had one true friend. You never had that much.

What I'm trying to say is, I haven’t had the kinds of experiences that most people would consider
normal for a man of my age. Nothing about me is normal. But I guess you know that better than
anyone.

What I did to you was twisted. I know I should regret it. But I don’t. I enjoyed having you as a
captive. I enjoyed having you under my power to hold whenever I wanted. I let you go not because
I wanted to, but because I had to. I am a very sick man. A selfish man. I know that. But I have
never felt so connected to another person. The universe brought me to you. Even if it's all in my
head, for me, it was life-changing.

I want to be inside you. I want to descend into you, to swim through your brain. I want to
penetrate the deepest part of your consciousness and find you there.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I l—

He’d kept writing the words over and over in a trance, filling up half the page, until his handwriting
melted into an illegible scrawl—a wobbly, spiky line, like a heart monitor—then dropped and
trailed off to the corner of the paper in a steep downward slope. Disintegrating.

"You read this, I take it."

Edward clung to him. "Yes." He hid his face against Bruce's rain-wet hoodie. "You're a real
weirdo," he whispered.
"Yeah," Bruce said. "I know."

"I..." Edward gulped, made a small sound, as though the words had shrunk back into his throat,
curled back in on themselves and disappeared into his chest where they could stay safe. His face
was half-smushed against Bruce’s chest. One eye—red-tinged and shiny-wet—rolled up toward
him. “I can barely see you.”

Bruce picked up his glasses from the floor and slipped them onto his face. “Here I am,” he said.
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

Notes at the end.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Edward sat on his living room couch, wearing an oversized, faded Donkey Kong t-shirt and boxer
shorts, his hair still damp with sweat.

At some point—things were a little hazy in his memory—Bruce had picked him up off the
bathroom floor, toweled him off like a wet dog, and helped him into some fresh clothes. Edward
was slowly returning to himself. He absently worked his fingers into the gap between the couch
cushions, focusing on the pressure.

“Here.” Bruce held a glass of water in front of his face. “You’ve been sweating a lot. Drink.”

Not an offer; an order, delivered matter-of-factly.

Bruce had the unthinking, almost innocent arrogance of someone who’d been born into power. He
spoke like a man accustomed to being obeyed. Like a man whose only friend was his butler. And
yet beneath the surface of his voice was a wavering uncertainty…as though he were a prince
venturing into an unfamiliar land where he didn’t know the laws or customs. What a peculiar
creature, this Bruce.

Bruce. He was still getting used to thinking of him by that name. All the face-to-face time they’d
spent together, until now, had been with him as Batman. Strange, seeing him without the mask—
that familiar face, a face which he had seen countless times over the years on screens and in
magazines. Now, the man himself was standing here in Edward’s cluttered living room.

Edward wrapped his shaking hands around the glass of water and took a swig. He felt weak,
unsteady, but…lighter. Cleaner. As though he’d sweated some toxin out of his pores.

Bruce stood nearby, hovering over him. “Tell me what you need.”
More orders. “You could ask.”

Bruce stood there awkwardly a moment longer. “Do you—” he stopped, as though reconsidering
the question. “May I sit down next to you?”

“If you want.”

Bruce sat down, leaving a few inches of space between them. The couch cushion squeaked
beneath him. One of the springs was broken.

The letter lay on the coffee table. Bruce’s love confession.

The audacity of those words. I want to be inside you.

Did Bruce even know what he was doing? Did he even comprehend the way he was
reprogramming Edward?

Bruce sat next to him, hunched over slightly, elbows resting on his thighs, chin resting on his
folded hands. His eyes were still smeared with that dark paint, his hair still plastered to his head
from the rain that had soaked through his hood. He seemed, paradoxically, more animalistic—
wilder—than when he was dressed as Batman. Like a wet stray cat that had wandered into
Edward’s apartment.

“I take it you don’t have guests very often,” Bruce remarked.

Edward gave him a faint smile. “Is that a tactful way of saying this place is a shithole?”

“No. I just wondered.”

“Well. You’re correct. Aside from myself, you’re the only person who’s ever set foot in this place
since I moved in.”

“Really?”
“There was the refrigerator repairman, I suppose.” Edward drank the rest of the water and set the
glass on the coffee table. “Of course, this isn’t your first time here.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Edward’s gaze roved over his own apartment—the countless journals crammed with his rambling,
repetitive, obsessive thoughts. He wondered if Bruce had looked inside any of them, and what he’d
thought, if he did. “What did you do with the rats?”

“I released them. There was one that wouldn’t leave his cage, so I brought him back to the house
with me. I took care of him for a while. But he died. I don’t know why.”

“Which one?”

“The white and gray. His tail was a little crooked.”

Edward knew the one he meant. He lowered his head.

“Did any of them have names?” Bruce asked.

“No.” Edward rubbed his wrist across his face, which still felt raw and chafed from sweat and
tears.

A line from the letter flashed through his head: I want to descend into you, to swim through your
brain.

A liquid shiver ran through him, and his dick twitched. He averted his gaze, face warm. He
removed his glasses and started to polish them on the hem of his shirt.

“I’m making you nervous,” Bruce said—more of an observation than a question.

“I have trouble with eye contact. I guess it was…easier, in a way. When you were Batman. It felt
different.”

“If you’d rather be alone—”

“No,” he said quickly. “No. I don’t want you to leave.” His voice went a little wobbly on the last
word, despite his efforts to hold it steady.

“Okay.”

Edward slid his glasses back into place.

Bruce’s long, pale hand rested on the couch between them. He wished Bruce would hold his hand.
He knew that all he had to do was ask. But when he opened his mouth, the words hit a wall in his
throat.

Asking for things was difficult. In the orphanage, asking for seconds in the cafeteria—or for new
clothes, or a new toy, or anything—was frowned on. The children were supposed to keep quiet and
be grateful for what they’d been given; they were constantly reminded that there were kids in the
world who had even less, and so wanting anything was a form of selfishness.

Only as the Riddler—only when he embraced the darkest part of himself—had he been able to shed
the guilt over his own existence. He hadn’t needed to ask for anything, then. He’d taken.

I could reach for his hand. I could do that.

He flexed and clenched his fingers, conscious of how sweaty his palms were. It shouldn’t have
mattered. Bruce had been hugging his sweat-slick, nearly naked body just fifteen minutes ago.
Yet now the old insecurity was back. His hands—pale, soft, nails bitten down to the quick—
remained clenched in his lap.

“I still haven’t gotten into contact with my group,” Edward said, mostly to break the silence. “But
I only ever talked to them as the Riddler, with my mask and everything, and I haven’t been him
since you captured me. They’re going to want answers. And I won’t know what to tell them.”
“That’s up to you. Honestly, I’d prefer it if you didn’t talk to them again. I read the chatlogs.
There are some very violent people on that channel.”

“You do remember who you’re talking to, don’t you? The man who strapped an explosive collar
around Colson’s neck and then livestreamed his execution?”

Bruce tensed. “They cheered you on. They encouraged it. I don’t think you would’ve gone as far
as you did if they hadn’t—”

“Don’t try to absolve me by shifting the blame onto them. I chose to do those things.”

“I know,” Bruce said quietly.

Though now, Edward found himself wondering how things might have gone if he hadn’t found his
followers. He’d developed his Riddler persona around the same time he found the group—after he
discovered that file at work, the ugly truth behind Renewal—but he hadn’t actually made the
decision to kill the mayor until he’d been talking to them for a while. They’d validated all his
darkest impulses, echoed his rage back at him, amplifying it…

And you kept coming back for more.

After a lifetime of being ignored and bullied, of being shoved down and kicked in the teeth, he’d
found camaraderie, sympathy, respect. It was addictive—that dopamine hit each time his follower
count climbed. That moment you realized you weren’t alone, you weren’t crazy, that it wasn’t all
your fault, the world really was rigged against you. It was the first time in his life he’d truly
belonged anywhere. More than once, after logging off, he’d wept with relief.

“I should at least let them know I’m alive,” Edward said. “I disappeared without warning.”

“You don’t have to tell them anything.”

“I’d think, if anything, you should be encouraging me. Don’t you want to know what they’re up
to? If they’re planning an attack?”
He hesitated. “I do, but—”

“But you’re worried I’ll get sucked back into the game.” He smiled thinly. “I won't. I’m done
being the Riddler.”

Are you?

Bruce rubbed one hand over the other. “If there was something in the works—an attack—would
you tell me?”

It felt odd to be talking about this now, with Bruce’s confession still hanging in the air between
them, unaddressed. But in a way it felt easier. Discussing murder and potential acts of terrorism
was less overwhelming than the alternative. “I told you before, I won’t help you track them down
and arrest them. I won’t be a rat. Staying free and watching them get locked up…I’d despise
myself.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. I’m saying, if something is going to happen—something where
innocent people might get hurt—will you help me stop it?”

He’d brought up this possibility before. During Edward’s imprisonment. Work with me. Be one
of the good guys. Edward hadn’t believed him, at the time. He’d thought Batman was just telling
him what he wanted to hear.

“If there’s a way…yes. I’ll do what I can,” Edward muttered.

“Thank you.”

The Riddler and Batman, working together. Just as he’d always dreamed. Though perhaps not
quite the way he’d envisioned it.

He found himself distracted, again, by Bruce’s nearness. He could feel the warmth emanating
from his body.

Edward tentatively raised his eyes, meeting Bruce’s gaze. He noticed a faint line around one of his
irises. That hadn’t been there before. “Are you wearing contacts?”

“One. Yes.”

“And here I thought you had perfect vision.”

“I’m not nearsighted. This is surveillance equipment.”

Edward tilted his head. “Surveillance.”

“I’ll show you.” He tilted his head back, and—in one fluid, practiced movement—extracted the
contact lens with a finger. He held it up. “There’s a built in camera. I use this sometimes when
I’m working. As Batman, I mean. It helps, being able to go back over everything I see. I notice
things that I missed the first time around.”

Sure enough, when Edward looked closer he saw a translucent pattern on the lens’ surface, like a
circuit board, and a tiny silver chip near the edge. His curiosity awakened, distracting him from
the confusing swirl of emotions inside him. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible to fit a
functional camera inside something so thin and transparent. “Audio too?”

Bruce nodded.

“I can’t see a battery. How is it powered?”

“Electromagnetically. The power’s beamed in over a wireless link to a receiver in the camera.”

“Over long distances? Even when you’re moving around? That shouldn’t even be possible. This
is Star Trek stuff.”

“They’re not commercially available. I hired an engineer to design them for me.”

“Did he ask what you were planning to use them for?”

“No. I paid him well for his discretion.”

Edward wondered if Bruce had ever worn those contacts during his visits while Edward was still
his prisoner. But—no, Edward was pretty sure he would have noticed. "If I'd known I was being
recorded I would've made myself more presentable," he said, half-jokingly.

A brief pause. “If you don’t want me to record you right now, I can take this out. Or delete the
recordings later.”

He thought about Bruce watching the videos back home, reviewing this moment, scrutinizing
Edward’s expression and body language, taking notes. His heart fluttered. “It’s fine.”

Bruce popped the lens back into his eye and blinked a few times.

Absently, Edward rubbed his own forearm, feeling the familiar ridges of tiny scars from long-
healed scratches. “Could you get a live feed, too? See everything another person is seeing?”

“I can. I’ve used them that way before. When Selina went into the Iceberg Lounge—”

“Selina?”

“Someone I met while I was Batman. We were gathering information. She works there. Her
girlfriend went missing recently. As far as I know, she’s still searching for her. At this point,
though, I don’t think she’d want my help. I pushed her too hard about her relationship with
Falcone, and she got angry.”

Falcone. At the name, the muscles in Edward’s stomach tensed. Gotham’s true ruler, the man
behind the curtain, pulling the strings of the puppet politicians, bribing police and lawyers to keep
their mouths shut. Bruce had never really answered the final riddle; Edward wondered if he had
put the pieces together yet. He knew Falcone was powerful, but did he grasp the full extent of it?
Did he still believe in the system, or had the great lie finally materialized before him, like the
picture emerging from one of those Magic Eye illusions?

Did he know that his parents had been complicit in it?

“Anyway,” Bruce said, “I’d have to set up the wireless link ahead of time, but yeah. I can give
someone a lens and watch the feed from my security monitors back home. Or on my cell phone.
A few times, I’ve had Alfred watch my feed while I’m out on missions, just in case things go to
hell.”

“I see.” Edward kept rubbing his own arm absently. He wet his lips. “You’re all about
surveillance. The silent observer in the shadows.”

“It’s…a necessary part of the job.”

“Are you planning to make a habit of lurking on the rooftops around my building at night,
watching me?”

Bruce hesitated. “I needed to check in on you.”

“Oh, I understand. After everything I did, even if I promised not to do it again, well—it seems
irresponsible to just release me into the wild and hope for the best. It doesn’t bother me, really. It
just seems like a lot of trouble for you. Sitting up there in the rain and cold.”

“I’m used to that.”

Edward’s palms wouldn’t stop sweating. “Do you like it? Watching me?”

“I—” Bruce cleared his throat, fidgeting a little, and averted his gaze.

So, Edward could still make him squirm with a few pointed questions. He still had that power.
There was a distinct pleasure in seeing the great and untouchable Bruce Wayne blush. “You had a
live security feed of me all the time when I was a prisoner,” Edward remarked. “I suppose you got
used to it. Being able to check in on me whenever you wanted.”

“I did.” He shifted his weight, opened his mouth, and closed it. “I watched you sleep, sometimes.
It was…calming.” A pause. “It really doesn’t bother you?”
“I’ve spent most of my life being invisible. I will admit it’s a little addictive. Being the object of
such intense focus.”

It was a little frightening, too, of course. The sense of exposure. Invisibility was a curse and a
shield.

He glanced at Bruce’s motionless hand again, then away. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips.
A nervous habit. They were starting to feel chapped. “Could I try it on?” he blurted out.

“Try—”

“The contact lens. If we’re going to be working together in the future—if I’m going to be your spy
—it will be useful for you. Being able to look through my eyes.”

“Oh.” Bruce fished a small, round plastic container from his pocket. “I have a spare. I always
carry one. It won’t feel any different than a normal contact, but if you want—” Bruce rolled the
container slowly, thoughtfully between his thumb and finger. “I wonder if your glasses would
interfere. Well, I could probably correct for that. Take them off.”

More orders.

Edward slipped his glasses off. His hand was trembling very slightly.

Bruce unscrewed the container’s lid, revealing the translucent half-bubble floating in solution. He
hesitated. “Do you want to put it in yourself? Or—”

“You do it.” He fidgeted with his glasses, turning them over in his fingers. “I’m squeamish about
that sort of thing. I can barely give myself eye drops. I always flinch away. Reflex.”

Bruce scooped the lens out with his forefinger. “Hold still.”

Edward sat motionless, unblinking, barely breathing. Carefully, Bruce held the lids of his right eye
open with a thumb and forefinger. He came in slowly.
“Hn.”

“You’re squirming.”

“Sorry.”

“Look at me. Almost—there.”

The touch was brief, butterfly-light, but Edward felt it like a shockwave through his whole body.
He let out a little gasp. “Nn.” He gulped, blinking rapidly. His eye still burned a little, but the
discomfort—already fading—registered as oddly pleasurable.

“Sorry. Was I too rough?”

“No. No, I barely felt it,” he lied. His dick was unexpectedly hard; he hunched over a little, trying
to hide it. With a shaky hand, he slipped his glasses back into place.

He would’ve expected the faint circuitry on the lens to obstruct his vision, but he could see nothing
out of the ordinary. He looked back and forth, up and down. “So it’s recording now?”

“Yeah. If you want I can send the data to you later, once I have a chance to upload it at home.”

“All right.”

He looked directly at Bruce.

Bruce Wayne. Here, now. With him.

They stared at each other. It was Bruce who looked away first.
“I’m a little nervous,” he murmured.

Edward let out a wobbly laugh. “You’re nervous?”

“It’s like I said. I haven’t had many experiences that other people would consider normal. I’m
figuring this out as I go.”

“You’ve had…” He cleared his throat, face burning, and resisted the temptation to compulsively
lick his lips again. “You’ve had relationships, though. Romantic relationships, I mean.”

“A few. None that lasted very long. After a certain point I just stopped trying.”

That sounded familiar. Edward swallowed, mouth dry. “H-have you…”

“Have I what?”

Was he allowed to ask this? Well, Bruce had asked him, once. “Have you…you know. Had sex?”

“Yeah.”

Of course, thought Edward. Bruce Wayne was rich and famous and ethereally beautiful, and while
he kept out of the public eye as much as possible, the tabloids had run photos of him in his
twenties, arm-in-arm with some woman or some man. Of course he’d had lovers.

“But it was—” Bruce stopped, as though hunting for words. “It never felt…right. Even when I
orgasmed, I felt detached from what was happening. Like it was happening to someone else. And
I think my partners could sense that. It was creepy to them, being with someone who wasn’t really
there. Sex, romance, even friendships—all of it felt like something I wasn’t wired for. And it
seemed unfair to inflict that on anyone else. So I decided I wasn’t going to do it. Any of it. I
would focus on protecting the city. That would be my connection to others. Trying to be with
other people, to get close to anyone, it just…” He stopped.

“It just reminded you,” Edward whispered, “of all the things about yourself that hurt.”
“Yeah.” Bruce stared straight ahead, hands tightly interlaced in front of him. He drew in a slow
breath. “I don’t think it would be that way with you, though.”

Edward’s already rapid pulse escalated. He focused his mind, trying to get his overexcited
nervous system under control, but he couldn’t seem to bring his heart-rate down to its normal
level. Bruce Wayne was sitting here on his living room couch, talking about the possibility of
having sex. With him. Having a relationship with him.

Where did they go from here? There was no script for this. This hadn’t progressed according to
any sort of normal relationship logic. Things had been simpler when he was chained to the bed.
He’d understood his role, then.

“Can I hold your hand?” Bruce asked.

“Okay.” His voice emerged out-of-breath, as though he’d just run up a flight of stairs.

Bruce took Edward’s pale, sweat-damp hand, folding his own long, elegant fingers around it. The
thumb rested in Edward’s palm. The gentle pressure was almost uncomfortably intense. His skin
tingled.

“Is this something you want, Edward?” Bruce asked quietly.

“You mean—”

“This. Me. Everything.”

That feeling again—like the world was turning around him. Like a silent explosion. It was too
much, all at once. He closed his eyes and visualized himself walking down a set of stairs. He
counted them, one by one, and when he opened his eyes again he felt something inside himself
settle into place.

Batman—Bruce Wayne—was in his apartment, on his couch, asking if he wanted this. Was
Edward going to say no?
He leaned toward Bruce, put a hand on one pale cheek, and kissed him.

He felt Bruce tense up briefly in surprise. He made a small sound, deep in his throat…then his
arms were around Edward, pulling him closer.

That taste. Just like before. The light scrape of stubble. It was him, the same man; this made it
real, and in that moment, Bruce Wayne and Batman fused into a single entity in his mind, and he
couldn’t separate them. This man had always been in him. Edward had longed for him for
decades. Bruce Wayne. That name was etched over and over onto his brain, his bones.

His lips were warm and thin and mobile. Wetness, heat, the curl of a tongue…

Was this happening? Were they going to do this now, tonight? Would he—

Bruce’s hands were on his face, holding it as he kissed and kissed and kissed him.

Yes, Edward thought, dazed. Yes.

Bruce was already hard, his dick pressed up against the side of Edward’s thigh. He was stroking
Edward’s glasses, his thumb rubbing along the left temple-arm, tracing the curve of it as it hooked
over his ear, as though they were a part of his body capable of sensation. Edward had a brief
mental image of Bruce leaning in and licking the lenses of his glasses, and a compulsive giggle
burst from his throat. It turned into a hiccup.

Bruce pulled back a little, catching his breath. “Are you—?”

“K-keep going.”

Bruce leaned in again, and his lips fell on Edward’s cheek, on his forehead, on his neck, his ear.
Edward started to feel dizzy. Kiss after kiss. Tentative—experimental. He was watching Edward,
testing his reactions.
The gentleness was almost excruciating. Soft touch…it was too much. Too intense. He felt those
kisses in his spine, in his balls. Too much, but he wanted more. Edward’s fingers dug into the
couch cushions.

Bruce’s thumb slipped beneath the collar of his t-shirt, pulling it to one side to expose his
collarbone. He caressed it, running his thumb back and forth over it, dipping into the little V-
shaped hollow. His gaze remained fixed on that spot, as though Edward’s collarbone were the most
fascinating artifact he had ever encountered. As though he could spend hours just staring at that
particular spot.

“You have a scar here,” Bruce said quietly, hoarsely. His thumb traced it. Back and forth.

“I have a lot of scars.” He reached out, tangling his fingers in Bruce’s shiny dark hair.

The words I love you—written in that scrawled handwriting over and over—drifted behind his
eyes. No one had ever said those words to him before. I love you. He traced the shape of the
letters in his head. Love. What did it mean to love someone? Parents said it to their children.
People said it to their partners, their spouses, to friends. Love. The tap of tongue against teeth, the
vibration of the V…

“Did you do this to yourself?”

Edward blinked a few times. Was he still talking about the scar? “Yes. I scratch,” he replied
absently. “But it’s fine.” He leaned in to kiss Bruce again.

Bruce put a hand over his mouth, stopping him. “Wait.”

“Mm?”

He lowered the hand. “Look at me.”

“I am.”

“No. Look at me.”

He went still.

God, his face, he thought. That fucking face. The eyes, so penetrating and feral, staring through
that dark paint. Even the slight asymmetry of his jawline somehow made him seem more perfect.

What was it like to be so beautiful? To look in the mirror every morning and see this face and
think, that’s me.

“Edward,” he said. “I need—” he gulped, cradling Edward’s face between his hands. “I need you
to talk to me. To tell me how far you want to go.”

“Oh.” He smiled woozily. He felt drugged. Bruce Wayne ought to be a controlled substance. His
very nearness altered a person’s neurochemistry. “Is that up to me?”

“Yes.” Those eyes held him. “This doesn’t need to happen tonight.”

Edward hesitated. “Do you not want to?” His voice wavered a little.

“I want to. God yes. But I—I know you’ve been through a lot lately, I mean—I put you through a
lot. And maybe some of this is confusing to you, and it’s—it’s your first time. I want to do this
right.”

Do this right—he didn’t even know what that would mean for them. “What? Take me on dates to
restaurants with linen napkins? Give me flowers and fancy chocolates?”

He meant it sarcastically. But Bruce replied, “If that’s what you want,” all deadpan earnestness.

He allowed himself to think about that for a moment. Edward Nashton, the Riddler, the monster,
the weird, creepy loner, the drab, mousy little accountant, being not only touched and desired but
courted by the prince of the city. Swept off his feet into a world of unimaginable luxury, like some
twisted Cinderella parody where the princess was a mentally ill serial killer with a penchant for
duct tape.
And maybe even…

Before he could stop them, scenes unrolled behind his eyes, scenes of growing older together, of
eating breakfast, adopting a cat, watching movies with his head resting on Bruce’s shoulder,
waking up in the morning to the sight of messy dark hair on a pillow and sunlight on that pale
cheek—

No. Absurd.

“Just fuck me,” he whispered.

Bruce hesitated...then leaned in and began to kiss him again, far too gently.

Some part of him was still walking down stairs inside his own head, strategically detaching a part
of himself to avoid being completely consumed by the torrent of physical and emotional
sensations. Deep in his head, alarms were blaring, red lights flashing and spinning. This was
outside his sphere of experience. He didn’t know what it was going to do to his brain. Already, he
felt a peculiar sense of unraveling.

But it didn’t matter. Bruce Wayne was in his apartment, on his couch, touching him, kissing him.

He knew—he knew. Even if it was real, it couldn’t last. He had to do this now, had to seize this
moment, engrave it on his soul. Because the universe would never allow him to keep something so
good. The universe would not forgive him his sins. This would end, one way or another, and
when it did, it would destroy him—destroy them both, maybe.

If he were a better person, he would have pulled away. Told Bruce to run and save himself from
the ensuing train-wreck.

Just let me have this. Tonight. Please, let me feel what it’s like. Just once.

He was conscious of the faint ring of the contact lens in Bruce’s eye. He was wearing one, too.
They were both recording. Bruce could go back over this footage later and scrutinize every micro-
expression that passed across Edward’s face, relive each fraction of this memory—or look at
himself through Edward’s eyes. Experience it from his point of view.
Edward’s cock was rigid, aching. He felt each heartbeat inside it.

Bruce still hadn't made any moves beyond kissing, so Edward took the initiative. He undid the
button of Bruce’s jeans, tugged down the zipper, slipped his hand inside. His fingers crept beneath
the waistband of Bruce’s boxers and curled around hot, firm flesh. Bruce’s erection jerked in his
grip. He groaned, head bowed.

Oh. He’d seen the length and girth of Bruce’s dick before, through those tight black pants, but
even so, he found himself surprised by how big it felt. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can do
whatever you want.” He wondered distantly if it would hurt. “Even if you’re rough, I’ll enjoy it.”

Bruce was breathing raggedly, pulsing in his grip. Another low, rough groan—almost a growl—
rose up from his throat. His body trembled.

Edward tugged Bruce’s boxers down a little further, exposing the sleek length of him, the slit
already wet with precum. He stared, mouth dry, and experienced another flash of awareness that
the camera in his eye was recording every second of this. Capturing that little bubble of clear fluid
as it emerged.

Bruce was saying his name again, but he barely heard it. The phrase Bruce Wayne’s dick had
become lodged in his brain and was stuck on loop.

He gripped it.

A choked gasp. “Holy shit—Edward—”

Edward started to lower his head. He licked his lips.

Bruce grabbed his hair and jerked his head back up. The sudden flare of pain made him gasp; his
cock twitched. A strangled sound escaped his mouth, and he squirmed, then a shuddering rush of
warmth filled him.

And then Bruce was pushing him to the couch, onto his back, his body pressing down on him. His
baggy t-shirt rode up and Bruce’s dick was rubbing against him, thrusting down against his soft
belly.

Edward whined, low in his throat. He clutched fistfuls of Bruce’s hoodie. His own hips arched up,
meeting his thrusts, muscles in his thighs clenching and quivering. He felt Bruce’s hands at his
groin, pulling down the elastic of his boxer shorts, freeing his cock, and then Bruce’s hand was
around him, pumping, fingers squeezing the sensitive tip of his dick until he squealed, and Bruce’s
mouth crashed down on his, swallowing the sound.

Too much, too much, too much.

More, more, more, more more MORE—

Bruce kissed him roughly, teeth scraping over his chafed lips, and then he was whispering in
Edward’s ear, his voice low and raspy, Batman’s voice—“Edward.”

“Hn—ah—u-uh—”

“You’re beautiful, Edward," he breathed. His hand squeezed and stroked, squeezed and stroked.
"Do you know that?”

Beautiful. The word was like an injection. His limbs jerked. No, no, I’m not. “Uh—” his hips
kept moving, kept bucking of their own accord, pushing up into Bruce’s palm. The friction was
almost painful.

Bruce’s face hovered an inch above his. “Your eyes—they change color. When you’re excited
they get so—so green…”

Bruce was on top of him, bearing down, weight pressing him into the cushions, hand pumping his
cock, his own dick grinding against Edward, both of them sweating and desperate and thrusting
and pushing against each other on Edward's old, faded, beaten-up couch.

“You tried so hard—so goddamn hard, every day of your life.” Bruce’s breath huffed against his
neck, shivering hot.
“Ah—hnnnhhheeuhh—”

“You’re so good. So smart.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

It was too much. It felt too good. It hurt. And Bruce wasn't even inside him. They weren't even
fucking, not really, they were just grinding like two hormone-addled teenagers, a flailing mass of
limbs and mouths and straining genitals, and still he felt as though Bruce were crawling around
inside his skin. Colors burst like fireworks in the darkness behind his lids. One of Bruce's blind
thrusts brought his cock up against Edward's balls, making him cry out; his boxer-shorts were
somewhere down around his knees.

“I won’t leave you.”

Edward’s mouth was wide open, his head tipped back. He could feel his eyes starting to roll back
in his head behind his scrunched-shut lids.

“I won’t leave you. I need you. I need you, Edward.”

Everything contracted to a single point of light. He was falling. And when his mind rose back to
the surface, Bruce’s palm was dripping with Edward’s cum, and Bruce’s cum was all over his
shirt. Some of it had gotten on the couch too. Bruce lay heavy and panting atop him. He raised
his head and stared down at Edward with wide, helpless eyes, the whites tinged red. Madman’s
eyes. Lover’s eyes.

***

GodFucker: Holy shit, guys. HE’S BACK.

BlackRabbit: Riddler, is that really you?

RiddleMeThis: It’s me. Can’t turn on my video footage right now. Just wanted to let you know
I’m still here.
NoTrueNihilist: We thought you were dead. Or in prison.

RiddleMeThis: I’m free and very much alive. I was unable to access my accounts. Long story.

NoTrueNihilist: You have no idea how glad we are to see you. Things have been crazy. But we’ve
been working hard. Wait until you hear about our plans. We’ve got a few new members, too.
We’ve really tapped into something, here. So much righteous fury under the surface. And now
that you’re back, we can really get things moving. It’s like they’re say on the news. This city’s a
powder keg, and you’re the match.

NoTrueNihilist: Riddler, u there?

RiddleMeThis: Certain things have changed.

GodFucker: What do you mean, changed?

RiddleMeThis: My situation. I can’t take an active role in things the way I did before. I’m limited
in what I can say about it. But I want you to know that I still consider all of you my friends. And
I’m grateful for everything.

BlackRabbit: That goes without saying.

GodFucker: Are you okay? Are you safe?

RiddleMeThis: Yes. As safe as anyone ever gets in this city, anyway.

BlackRabbit: If you can’t be on the frontlines, that’s okay. We’ll keep you updated.

NoTrueNihilist: Hey, did you hear what that phony asshole Bruce Wayne said in his speech?

NoTrueNihilist: You were right about him, Riddler. He’s the worst of them. I can’t stand it when
the elites pretend to care. I mean, he’s one of the parasites profiting off of our suffering. There’s
no way he doesn’t know what his parents were up to, or about the Renewal Fund, or Falcone or
any of that.

GodFucker: I don’t know. He always struck me as kind of an idiot.

NoTrueNihlist: It’s willful ignorance. He’s complicit. I wish you’d had a chance to blow up that
piece of shit, like you wanted.

NoTrueNihilist: You’re awfully quiet tonight.

BlackRabbit: Yeah, what gives? I would’ve thought you’d want to announce your return in the
general chat. Why just us? Can you give us some clue about what’s going on? Are the police
watching you?

RiddleMeThis: No. Not exactly.

GodFucker: You don’t seem like yourself.

NoTrueNihilist: Give us the code phrase.

RiddleMeThis: The Pale King.

GodFucker: I believe it’s you. But yeah, are you okay, man?

RiddleMeThis: I’ve met someone. I’m in love.

BlackRabbit: For real?

RiddleMeThis: Yes.

RiddleMeThis: Many things have shifted.

 RiddleMeThis: I request that you don’t tell the rest of the group. My mind is in a very turbulent
state. I’ve honestly never experienced anything like this before. I feel altered.

NoTrueNihilist: Dude, you know I respect you, but I can’t believe I’m hearing this. This—what
we’re doing here—it’s bigger than your little feelings. It’s bigger than any of us. Someone needs
to hold the real monsters in this city accountable, and it’s not going to happen unless we fucking
MAKE it happen. I get it, sex is a hell of a drug, but the group needs you. You’re our symbol.

RiddleMeThis: This is not about sex. Also please don’t call me “dude.” You know how I feel
about that.

NoTrueNihilist: Whatever.

BlackRabbit: Glad you’re alive, anyway.

RiddleMeThis: Thank you.

RiddleMeThis: I need to log off for a while. I’ll check back in later.

NoTrueNihlist: Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget about what you’ve endured. And who’s
responsible.

RiddleMeThis: I have not forgotten.

NoTrueNihilist: Good.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter contains some fairly graphic smut. At some point I'll change the rating to
"Explicit" to reflect that.
 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes

Notes at the end.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Bruce stood in darkness of his surveillance room, face bathed in the pale glow of the monitor,
watching the recording from the lens—the shifts in Edward’s expression. Eyes widening. Lips
parting. The way his entire face went slack, mouth opening as his eyes went glassy and unfocused
with pleasure.

So green. There weren’t many green things in Gotham.

Edward’s body arched off the couch, his eyes squeezing shut, brows knitting together. The
recording couldn’t compare to the moment itself, to the memory, but it allowed Bruce to notice
things that he had missed before, like the way Edward’s fingertips dug into the couch cushion,
clinging to it like a life-raft in a storm.

He rewound to the moment when Edward whispered, “Just fuck me.”

His eyes were closed when he said it, so it was harder to read his emotions.

The soft rasp. The way his voice broke over the word fuck.

Bruce hesitated—then rewound again.

“Just fuck me.” Low, soft. Pleading.

Again.

“Just fuck me.”

In the moment, he’d been so caught up in his own desire, his own need. He’d read Edward’s tone
as straightforward lust. Maybe it was.

But something about the way he said those words, it sounded almost…sad. Desperate. But in a
different way.

Edward had wanted this. Hadn’t he? He’s grabbed hold of Bruce’s dick like a joystick. He’d cum
so hard his entire body spasmsed with the force of it. After they’d both caught their breath, Bruce
had held him there on the couch.

Edward had been quiet. He’d clung to him, face pressed into the hollow between Bruce’s neck and
shoulder, eyelashes flicking against his skin as he blinked. At the time, the silence had felt
peaceful, almost holy—a moment of pure being where words were unnecessary. Eventually,
Edward had extracted himself and gone to change out of his cum-stained t-shirt.

“I have work tomorrow,” he’d called. “I should try to get some sleep.”

It had felt worryingly abrupt. But it was possible—likely, in fact—that Edward had been
overwhelmed by the intimacy. Edward craved stimulation and closeness, but by now Bruce had
known him long enough to know that he also became overstimulated easily. He had begun to
visualize Edward’s need for affection as two separate chambers or vessels, a smaller one leading
into much a larger one: his hunger for touch and connection was deep and vast, because he’d spent
a lifetime without it. But stimulation first had to pass through the smaller chamber—too much at
once and it would overflow. If Bruce had been more of a computer person he might’ve reached for
a different analogy…RAM verses hard drive storage, maybe. Either way. Given too much at
once, Edward had overloaded and retreated in order to process the experience.

“Okay,” he’d said. “I’ll…I’ll see you again soon?”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Let me give you my number. You can contact me whenever you want. I’ll set up the wireless
link between the lens and my phone as well.”

“All right.”
“…Edward? Are you…”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

He would wait, he’d decided. He would let Edward initiate their next contact.

Bruce checked his phone. Still nothing.

He rewound the recording from his own lens again, replayed the moment on loop.

“Just fuck me.”

“Just fuck me.”

“Just—”

Bruce forced himself to switch off the monitor.

He was on the edge of a precipice. He could feel himself sliding deeper and deeper into obsession.

Should I have stayed with him longer? Should I have tried harder to get him to talk?

Was this what love felt like for normal people? Was it this…intense? There were so many songs
comparing love to sickness or lunacy, but he often had the sense the songwriters weren’t taking
those analogies entirely seriously. The degree to which he’d become so consumed with Edward in
such a short time…was this a sign of his own mental stability deteriorating? Or was it just that he
wasn’t used to feeling these things?
It was unnerving. And yet he felt alive in a way he hadn’t been for years. Maybe not since his
parents’ deaths. Edward had awakened him, had brought him out of some spiritual coma.
Ordinary things—the sight of a pigeon flying across the pale sky, a song on the radio, the gray
Gotham sunlight filtering through layers of smog to gleam like amber fire in a discarded beer can
—struck him with a force he’d never experienced. The world was super-saturated, dialed up.
Edward’s existence made blues bluer, heightened the taste of food, the brush of air against his skin
when he moved.

He felt as though he’d spent years in a dark room, looking out at the world through a tiny crack in
the door. And now, suddenly, the door had been flung wide open and sunlight blasted in like the
glare from an explosion.

He’d never known that something like this was possible for him.

He couldn’t go back. He didn’t want to.

***

“…police are still searching for the serial killer who claimed three lives. While Riddler has been
silent and inactive for nearly a month now, the city of Gotham remains on high alert—”

Bruce—sitting at the breakfast table, a glass of orange juice in one hand—closed the news story
and tucked his phone back into his pocket. He’d been checking his text messages periodically. Of
course, the phone would buzz if he received anything, but the urge to physically check was still
powerful.

He’s probably at work now. He’s preoccupied.

Alfred had made an omelet with mushrooms and chopped bell peppers mixed in. He’d long since
learned that Bruce was more likely to eat fresh vegetables if they were cut up and put into
something else, so he often mixed them in omelets and chili. There was a plate of Canadian bacon,
too, for extra protein. Bruce squeezed some ketchup onto the orange-yellow mass of the omelet
and ate another bite.

When he first became Batman, two years ago, he’d put himself on a strictly regimented diet
consisting of nutrient shakes and unseasoned fish, mainly salmon; it was a way of purifying his
body and mind. He’d counted calories and grams of protein with religious fanaticism. But that
hadn’t been sustainable, and (as Alfred kept reminding him) such a stringent diet wasn’t actually
that healthy, so after a few months he’d lapsed back into his old eating habits, which were also
unhealthy, just in a different way.

The phone buzzed in his pocket, and his heart lurched. He grabbed it, heart pounding.

A text from Lucius.

Fundraiser event on December 1 for the Gotham Housing Project. You’ve been invited. Can you
make it?

As far as he knew, Bruce had nothing going on that day. His first impulse was to refuse, anyway—
he hated going to events, always felt like a phony in his overpriced suit—but he paused, thumb
hovering over the screen.

He Googled the Gotham Housing Project—a charity, relatively new, which provided free housing,
temporary or permanent, to anyone who needed it. The page was filled with statistics. Gotham
had one of the highest rates of homelessness of any major city—he’d known that much already—
and it was growing every year. Existing shelters were underfunded (like nearly all of Gotham’s
infrastructure) and tended to fill up quickly. People were crammed together in rooms packed with
lice-infested beds. No privacy. No protection if you happened to be bedded next to someone who
wanted to hurt you. The shelters were so notoriously dangerous and pest-ridden that sometimes
people chose to sleep on the streets.

Another problem that Renewal was supposed to fix. Another broken promise.

I’m surprised anyone is inviting me to anything after that speech, he sent.

Honestly, I think the speech is the reason you were invited to this particular event. You certainly
got people talking.

For the most part, Bruce had avoided looking up reactions to his so-called meltdown. He’d been in
the public eye from an early age. Googling himself was a rabbit hole leading straight to madness.
Of course it couldn’t be entirely avoided—he’d seen the headlines. He’d assumed he was the
laughingstock of Gotham, but he was beyond caring about that. He’d said what he needed to say.
Apparently, though, not everyone thought he was losing his mind.

I’ll go, he sent. What kind of fundraiser is it?

The usual. It’s in the Arkham Center. Food, live music, that sort of thing.

The name Arkham was so closely associated with the mental institution; it had always struck Bruce
as weird, having a banquet-hall-slash-ballroom by the same name. But then, the Arkhams were
one of Gotham’s founding families. Old money, like the Waynes. Unsurprising that they’d have
multiple buildings named after them.

I’ll make a donation, he sent. However much they want. But if I go to this thing I’ll probably just
be standing in the corner the whole time. Not really planning a repeat performance with the whole
speech thing.

You’re not expected to. They’d appreciate it if you just made an appearance. Might help draw
attention.

Then I’ll be there.

Great. A few seconds later, he sent: You can bring a plus one.

A guest?

If you like.

Alfred emerged from the other room, carrying a plate of toast with jam, which Bruce had
requested. He set it on the table.

“How did you sleep last night?” Alfred asked.

“Better than I have in a while, actually.” He’d gotten home late—or early, rather—but he’d
dropped into a deep, sound sleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
“Glad to hear it.”

Bruce picked up a piece of toast and took a bite.

“May I inquire as to where you were last night?”

Bruce froze, the toast halfway to his mouth. “Just…doing reconnaissance.”

“I see.” He refilled the glass of orange juice from a pitcher. “And how is Edward?”

He dropped the question so casually. Of course—of course he’d figured out that that was where
Bruce had been. The man was a goddamn telepath.

Edward’s voice echoed in his head: You’re not as subtle as you think.

Had Alfred overheard Bruce listening to the recording? These days, Alfred generally knocked
before he entered Bruce’s “cave,” but Bruce could easily picture him approaching the door to check
in, then quietly retreating once it became plain that Bruce was essentially watching porn. Had he
recognized Edward’s voice? Did he know—?

Well, the how didn’t matter now.

“Edward’s—” he cleared his throat, cheeks hot. “I checked in on him. He’s back to his normal
life. More or less. He goes to work and comes home. He seems…stable.”

Alfred looked at him expectantly.

Fuck.

Bruce took a bite of toast, stalling. He chewed slowly. “I got invited to a fundraiser event,” he
said, mouth still half-full. “Lucius just texted me.”
“I see.”

Still, Alfred’s expectant gaze remained on him like a tangible weight.

Was it obvious? That he was in love? That he’d just had sex for the first time in…god, what was
it, nine years? Bruce didn’t think he’d been acting differently, but he felt so much different, it
seemed like the internal shift must manifest itself in some physical way: a pheromone seeping
from his pores, a brightening in his aura. He felt as though he were walking around carrying a
neon sign that said, I JUST FUCKED EDWARD NASHTON. And they hadn’t even fucked,
technically. Or…did that count? Had he taken Edward’s virginity last night, or—

“Did he notice your presence? While you were monitoring him?”

Bruce swallowed and set the toast down. “Yes.” Fuck it. If he was going to keep seeing Edward,
Alfred was going to find out sooner or later. “I talked to him directly. I…went to his apartment. I
know that I said I was going to avoid direct contact with him, but I was worried. We…”

He shouldn’t feel so nervous about this. He wasn’t a teenager, he was a thirty-five-year-old man,
and Alfred wasn’t his father, he was Bruce’s butler. Bruce didn’t need his approval to see
someone. Bruce and Edward were both consenting adults. So what was the problem?

Actually, there were a lot of problems.

Even if Edward had resolved not to kill again, he was still associating with potential terrorists who
saw the Riddler as an agent of justice—and Edward still sympathized with their cause, at least to
some degree. He and Bruce weren’t exactly on opposing teams, but their values weren’t exactly
aligned, either.

But that wasn’t even the part that bothered him.

“You are planning to see him again, I take it,” Alfred remarked.

“What makes you so sure?”

“You’ve been checking your phone every ten seconds. You’re waiting to hear from someone.
Who else could it be?”

Bruce exhaled. “I told him he could contact me. If he needed.” With his fork, he cut off another
piece of omelet, but didn’t eat it.

“Continued association with him has its risks. Even if you’re just talking.”

“We did more than talk,” Bruce muttered. He met Alfred’s gaze. “Is that what you’re waiting for
me to say?”

For a few seconds, they just looked at each other.

“Forgive me, Master Bruce. This is a rather awkward question, but I must ask,” he said, his voice
curiously gentle. “Did this begin while he was your captive?”

Bruce’s pulse quickened.

There it was.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Not exactly. But…sort of. Yes.” A few more heartbeats
passed, and he said, “We kissed.” That was as far as it had gone while Edward was chained to the
bed. But that kiss had been everything. “That’s why I let him go. The way I felt, I—I couldn’t
keep—” he stopped, drawing in a breath.

Still in that oddly gentle tone, Alfred said, “I probably don’t need to tell you that you’re swimming
in some very murky ethical waters. In more ways than one.”

Bruce rubbed his forehead. “I know this is fucked up. Believe me.”

Even if Edward was free now, that didn’t change the reality that they’d begun their relationship—if
you wanted to call it that—while he was in a profoundly helpless state.
And Edward was a deeply lonely, deeply damaged person. No family. No friends, at least not in
the normal sense of the word. Prior to his capture, his only real emotional support structure had
been a group of online radicals whose names he didn’t know, whose real faces he had never seen.
And Bruce had taken even that from him, forced him to question his moral foundation, destabilized
his already precarious core. Had Edward latched onto Batman—to Bruce—because he genuinely
wanted this? Or because he had nothing else? Was Bruce just taking advantage of that
desperation, even now?

Fragments, threads swirled together in his head. Renewal, his parents’ tarnished legacy…Edward
as a child, a ghost living in a decaying limbo…the little boy who had lost a father to the Riddler’s
brutal brand of justice…the words To the Batman, and Edward hugging that doll, clinging to it
because it was the only thing he had…his voice, pleading…

Just fuck me.

Crack.

“Bruce!”

He jolted back to the present, realized that his glass of orange juice had broken into several large
shards, spilling its contents all over the table. His hand was bleeding. He blinked at it, dazed. The
cut on his palm was deep—he must have squeezed the glass until it cracked down the middle—but
he couldn’t even feel the pain. “I—I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t know what—”

Alfred approached, gripped Bruce’s wrist, and examined the injury. “Stay here,” he said quietly.
“I’ll get some antiseptic and bandages.”

“The glass—”

“Don’t worry about the glass.”

He sat motionless, watching the blood trickle down his wrist and drip into the puddle of orange
juice on the tabletop.
Alfred returned with a first aid kit. He set it on the table, unscrewed a brown bottle of antiseptic,
and began dabbing the injury with the easy precision of a man who had treated hundreds of
wounds in his life.

“Bruce…”

“I love him,” Bruce whispered hoarsely.

Alfred fell silent. “Oh, Bruce,” he said at last. His voice was soft, almost inaudible.

“I do. It’s real. I know you probably don’t believe me—”

“I believe you. That’s why I’m so afraid for you. And…god help me, for him, too. This is utter
madness, all of it.”

“I know.”

“I should never have—” he stopped. The white cloth in his hand was stained with red. “I realize
this is a stupid question,” Alfred said, never taking his gaze from his work, “so I don’t really
expect an answer…but out of everyone in Gotham, why him?”

Bruce’s watched those weathered, skilled hands winding bandages around his palm. His throat
tightened. “I’m connected to him. I don’t know how else to explain it. I don’t know if I believe in
fate, but…I don’t know what else to call this.”

“Nothing is controlling your actions, or his. You can choose. You know in your heart that this
won’t end well. You can stop seeing him. You have that power.”

He finished tying off the bandage. Bruce flexed his hand slowly.

“Alfred,” he said.

Alfred met his gaze.

“Have you ever been in love?” Bruce asked.

An unreadable expression passed over his face. Slowly, he sat down at the table, across from
Bruce. “It’s been a bit,” he said. “But yes.”

“What was it like? For you?”

A pause. “A shift in gravity,” he said. “She was…” he left the sentence unfinished, which seemed
to say more than any words could’ve.

“Then you understand. Even if I cut off all contact with him…I’m not the same person that I was
before I met him.”

“You haven’t known him so very long.”

“Long enough.”

He let out a small sigh, shoulders sagging.

Bruce hesitated. “What…” He stopped. He’d been about to ask, What happened to her? But
Alfred had always been taciturn about his past. “Is she—?”

“That was another lifetime,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s better to let the past lie.” He stood and
began collecting the broken fragments of the glass.

“I can do that,” Bruce said. “I’m the one who broke it.”

“Wipe up the orange juice, then.”

He stood, picked up a napkin and mopped up the spill—the red-swirled orange.

Now, Bruce could feel the pain. His hand throbbed. He curled his fingers inward.

Let the past lie. Something about the phrasing bothered him. It evoked the Riddler’s first riddle,
the cipher in the card: What does a liar do when he’s dead? He lies still. The lies of the past had
shaped Edward’s life. Bruce’s life. They were bound together by the actions of the dead, by old,
old sins.

“Did my father have a man killed?”

Alfred froze in the action of picking up a shard. Slowly, he placed it in his palm along with the
others. “One moment.” He retreated into the other room, and Bruce heard the tinkle of glass
being deposited in the trash. Alfred returned, his expression blank. They stood facing each other.

“I suppose it is time,” Alfred said. “Isn’t it?”

“Riddler—Edward—he knows a lot of things about a lot of people. He had dirt on my parents,
too. I saw it in his hard drive. Carmine Falcone, and that reporter, and the Renewal Fund, and…
m-my…my mother…”

Alfred averted his gaze. “I should have told you a long time ago.”

“It’s true, then? My father was a murderer?”

“He was no such thing. It’s…complicated. It will take some time to explain everything. But
know this. Your parents were good people, Bruce. The best I’ve ever known. Your father made
mistakes, but he never meant for that man to die.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you’re ready for
all this, now?”

“I need to know.”

He nodded.
 ***

Forty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one…

Bruce lost count again. He started over. A bead of sweat trickled into his eye, stinging. He
blinked it away.

He’d been doing pull-ups, squats and deadlifts in the gym room, trying to lose himself in the
familiar burn of muscles. His workout routine was so programmed into him now, he could do it on
autopilot. On most days he had sparring sessions with Alfred as well. He knew he wouldn’t be
able to focus on sparring right now, though.

Your parents were good people.

People did bad things sometimes, but it didn’t make them irredeemable. He was in love with a
killer; he ought to know that better than anyone. But some part of Bruce had always seen his
parents as the incarnation of goodness.

No—not just goodness. Lawfulness. His father, in particular, had always been a man who played
by the rules. And yet he’d gone to Carmine Falcone for help. Even if he’d done it to protect his
wife…

Bruce set the weight down, gasping. Sweat drenched his shirt. His muscles quivered. He needed
to stop. He was going to injure himself if he kept this up. He walked into the adjoining bathroom,
showered, toweled off, pulled on fresh clothes.

Everything was shifting. Things which had once seemed as constant as the rise and fall of the sun
were now in question. There were cracks in the foundation on which he’d built his everything.

Was this what it was like for him? When he learned the truth?

He walked to the edge of the room, where his cell phone sat on the padded bench of the leg press
machine, and checked it again.
Nothing.

He had Edward’s number, of course. He’d had it for a while; he’d taken his cell phone when he
captured him, after all. But Edward hadn’t given him a number. It felt like crossing a line,
contacting him that way, but Bruce couldn’t resist anymore. He sent, How are you?

No response.

***

The sun had gone down, but there was still light in the sky. Bruce thought about waiting until full
night, but he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He dressed in his hoodie, tying the black scarf
across his face, took his binoculars, and drove out.

He knew where Edward worked, had known from the beginning, even before the capture; when he
first started stalking him, he’d observed him at his workplace several times. He went there now,
parked a few blocks away.

From the shadows of an alley, he watched the bright square of the office window. Silhouettes
drifted past. He glimpsed Edward once—it was him, wasn’t it? From this angle, it was hard to
tell…

“Hey, buddy. What’s goin’ on here?”

He froze. A uniformed police officer stood in the street, staring at him.

You scopin’ out this building for some reason?”

“I like watching the pigeons,” he muttered.

“Pigeons, huh?”

“The pigeons on the roof.”

“Kind of a funny hobby you got there. You got some ID on you, pal?” He leaned in, squinting.
“You look familiar.”

The policeman looked familiar, too; Bruce was pretty sure he’d seen him as Batman, at some crime
scene or another. “Have I broken a law, officer? Am I under arrest?”

“Just show me some ID.”

Bruce debated making a run for it. He weighed the risks. He glanced down, saw the man’s hand
resting on the butt of his pistol, still in its holster.

He pulled an ID out of his pocket and showed him.

The man blanched.

“So, are you going to arrest me? For watching the pigeons?”

“S…sorry for the misunderstanding. Sir.”

Bruce walked away.

***

He went home.

Too close, he thought. He needed to get a fucking grip. When a bat—or any nocturnal animal—
went out before nightfall, it usually meant it had rabies.

Back in his surveillance room, he reviewed the recent recording of the office building, zooming in
on the window. All he wanted was confirmation that he’d seen Edward—that he’d been at work,
going about his daily routine. Still, he was unable to determine if the man he’d glimpsed was him;
it could have been any man with glasses. The angle and the glare off the window made it
impossible to be sure.

Of course, there was nothing stopping him from just going to Edward’s apartment again. Why
didn’t he?

You are swimming in some murky ethical waters.

He’d decided to wait. To let Edward contact him. It felt, oddly, like the game they’d played as
Batman and the Riddler—the waiting, the tension and anticipation. Following the clues. And yet
nothing was the same.

The phone buzzed.

A text from Edward.

Illness intoxicates, swims through the brain

Like spiraling bubbles in champagne

Over and under and over the moon

Violets and violence have a similar tune

Eyes are fickle

Yours change too (black and then blue)

Opening like an iris, the mind plays games

Under the influence of a certain name

A riddle? A cipher?

And then he saw. The first letters.

His vision blurred. A small, husky laugh escaped his throat. He closed his eyes and pressed the
phone against his forehead. For a moment, his whole body trembled.
He texted: I was worried about you.

Sorry. I was sorting through some things. I wanted to be clear-headed before I contacted you.

Where are you right now?

You want to see?

A link appeared.

Bruce’s pulse sped. He tapped the link, opening it. A video feed.

The screen was dark at first. Then the world appeared as the curtain of Edward’s eyelid lifted.
Bruce saw a ceiling with cobwebs in the corner, a slowly turning ceiling fan, a half-open window.
Edward was in his bedroom, laying on the bare mattress on the floor. His vision moved slowly to
the side, and Bruce saw the Batman plushie propped next to him. The only sound was the rasp of
Edward’s breathing.

Then a low voice: “Bruce? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

Edward’s gaze lowered again. He was looking at his own body. He lay on his back; he wore a
loose, plain white t-shirt that reached down to his hips. He seemed to have nothing on underneath
it. He shifted, and Bruce just barely glimpsed the tip of his dick poking out from underneath the
shirt, though he wasn’t hard. Bruce stared, mouth dry.

Edward’s eyes closed. Opened again. Slowly, he reached down to pull up the shirt, revealing
himself fully. His stomach rose and fell, rose and fell; there was a faint, almost invisible line of
brown hair running down to his navel. Bruce could see another silvery-white scar next to that
small divot.
I scratch, he’d said.

“I can feel you watching through my eyes,” Edward said, his voice soft and detached, a little
slurred. “It’s like you’re inside my head.” A pause. “Have you been looking at the recordings?”

“Yes.” He swallowed. “Did you—did you get the one I sent you, last night?”

“The one from my lens? I got that.”

As Bruce watched, his soft dick slowly plumped and rose. Edward wrapped his fingers around it,
and Bruce’s heart lurched—was Edward going to jerk off here, now, with him watching?—but he
just held himself for a few seconds, then let go.

More soft breathing. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?”

“I wouldn’t mind if you chained me up again sometime.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a few seconds, dizzy.

“You said that you liked it. Having me under your power.”

“I…”

“It’s okay, Bruce. You understand how I’m wired. Don’t you? I enjoy being restrained.” Still, he
didn’t touch his cock. Instead, he rubbed a finger over the tiny scar on his stomach. “Have you
fantasized about it? About dominating me?”

His fingers tightened on the phone. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Have you thought about what I would feel like around your cock?”

“Yes.”

“You wanted to do that last night, didn’t you?” he asked, still in that detached, fuzzy voice.
Absently, he pressed a finger into his own navel, dimpling the soft flesh of his stomach.

“Edward. Are you…are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem…I don’t know. Your voice is…different.”

“Oh. I hypnotized myself earlier.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes. I’m in a trance right now. A light one. I like altering my own mind sometimes. It’s like
changing clothes. Sometimes you want a different outfit. Clothes can have quite an impact on a
person’s mindset, can’t they?” His dick was standing straight up; his hand remained on his
stomach, index finger tracing circles around his belly button. “When you become him, you’re still
Bruce. But you’re someone else, too.”

“Edward, I—I want—”

“Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“Right now?”

“Mmmm-hmmm. There’s something you want to do with me, isn’t there? Some particular thing
that’s been on your mind. I can feel it.”
“There is. Actually.”

“Good. That’s good, Bruce. You can tell me.”

“I don’t—I don’t know if this is the time—”

“Don’t be shy. We’re beyond that, now.”

“It might seem strange.”

“I like strange.”

“I want—”

Edward’s breathing sped. His hand closed around his cock, squeezing.

“I want you to go to a charity fundraiser with me.”

Edward froze, fingers still clenched around his dick. “What?” His voice emerged as a squeak.

“It’s for the Gotham Housing Project. Lucius told me I can bring a guest.”

He released his dick. His gaze swung away, then shifted rapidly back and forth. “Bruce. Are you
—are you joking?”

“No. It’s on December first.”

Silence.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said to me last night. About wanting to go on an actual date,
and—”

“I didn’t say I wanted that.”

“You don’t, then? I thought…I don’t know.”

Edward’s vision shifted, swinging; he stood and began to pace. “Whether I want it isn’t really the
point.”

“I know. It seems risky. But no one there is going to know who we are. Our other selves, I
mean. It doesn’t even have to be an official date. I could just bring you as a friend. I just—I want
to do something with you. I want to take you somewhere—somewhere nice. And if I’m going
anyway…”

Silence.

“If you don’t want to, I won’t bring it up again. Or, I mean—it doesn’t have to be that. We can go
somewhere else, somewhere more private. Any restaurant in the city, anywhere you want—”

“Bruce.”

“Hell, it doesn’t have to be fancy. We can just go to that diner you like. Let me buy you a slice of
pie and a coffee. Or I’ll take you to a movie.”

“Bruce, no matter where we go, people are going to recognize you. If they see that you’re with
someone, they’ll speculate. They’ll talk.”

“Let them talk.”

More silence. Bruce’s heart sank.

Still, he plunged ahead: “I don’t just want to sneak around. I want a relationship with you. And I
 know that—that me being who I am makes things complicated. I know it’s a lot to ask of anyone,
having to deal with the paparazzi and the media attention, and you have a lot of reasons to be
careful about that sort of scrutiny. I’ll do everything I can to protect you, but still…if you don’t
want that, I understand. I can just keep coming to your apartment at night. Or I can bring you
here. I’m just asking. I’m asking if you want to go with me.”

The image on the screen had gone blurry, watery.

“Edward…”

“You’re such a fool,” he whispered.

The image of Edward’s hallway winked out. The screen went dark. He’d severed the connection.

Chapter End Notes

Some light smut in this chapter.

 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

Notes at the end.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

RiddleMeThis: BlackRabbit and GodFucker have me blocked. I can get into the general chat but
it’s empty. Everyone’s left. What’s going on?

NoTrueNihilist: The three of us agreed that I would be your sole point of contact until you get your
shit figured out.

RiddleMeThis: I told you, I won’t do anything to put any of you in danger. I’d never rat any of you
out.

NoTrueNihilist: That’s not enough.

RiddleMeThis: Is something happening? Are you and the others planning something without me?

NoTrueNihilist: I can’t tell you that. We’re not sure where your loyalties are right now.

RiddleMeThis: So that’s how it is.

NoTrueNihilist: That’s how it is. Sorry, man. This was a group decision.

NoTrueNihilist: Still there?

RiddleMeThis: It’s funny. We’ve been in contact for years, now. But I know almost nothing about
you.
NoTrueNihilist: None of us know anything about each other. That’s the idea.

RiddleMeThis: I have a request. I’d like to turn on the audio and speak to you without the voice-
distorting software. We won’t be able to identify each other through that alone. I want to hear
your real voice. Just for a minute.

NoTrueNihilist: Why?

RiddleMeThis: It’s hard to explain. I just need to hear a human voice right now.

NoTrueNihilist: No.

NoTrueNihilist: You’re the one who made the rules, Riddler. No voice chat without distortion
software, no video without masks. We’re ghosts. That was your line, wasn’t it? “We are the
faceless, the nameless. We are already dead. And we will haunt them like the dead.” Of course,
that was the old you.

RiddleMeThis: I’m still me.

NoTrueNihilist: You said yourself you felt “altered.” You’ve changed. Anyone can see it. Of
course, Gotham hasn’t changed. This city is still run by the mob, and the upstanding citizens keep
their mouths shut and look the other way. People are still dying in the streets. But you’ve found
something that makes you feel good, so to hell with all that.

RiddleMeThis: So that’s my crime? I said I’m in love with someone, so now none of you trust me
anymore?

NoTrueNihilist: Not just “someone.”

RiddleMeThis: What do you mean?

NoTrueNihilist: I guess I might as well tell you. GodFucker did a little digging on you. I asked
them to.
RiddleMeThis: You hacked me? How?

NoTrueNihilist: You’re surprisingly trusting, you know. Opening whatever links we send you. We
found the little sex tape on your hard drive. Would’ve expected your PC to be better protected,
especially since you’re keeping such sensitive material on it. But I guess you’ve been preoccupied.

NoTrueNihilist: Bruce Wayne. You know, I had a bad feeling about this as soon as you told us you
were involved with someone, but I never would have guessed it was HIM.

NoTrueNihilist: Did he promise to take care of you? All that money, I guess you’ll never have to
worry about anything ever again. I guess you’ve got yours. I guess you don’t need your friends
now.

RiddleMeThis: You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything about us.

NoTrueNihilist: I know what I saw.

NoTrueNihilist: Seriously, though, this is fucking sad. I admired you so much. You were like a
brother to me.

RiddleMeThis: Is this how you treat a brother, then?

NoTrueNihilist: You’re the one fucking the enemy.

RiddleMeThis: He’s a good person.

NoTrueNihilist: Damn, he’s really got you wrapped around his dick, doesn’t he? He’s
brainwashed you.

RiddleMeThis: I’m done with killing. If that makes me “brainwashed” then so be it.
RiddleMeThis: I keep thinking about the mayor’s son. How it must have felt when he found the
body.

NoTrueNihilist: Oh please. You told me about the place where you grew up. Kids died there
every year. That’s where you come from. You were forged in the fires of hell, a place where
human life was so cheap that the graves in the backyard cemetery don't even have names. Just
little blank crosses. So how does one rich boy’s pain outweigh all that?

RiddleMeThis: It doesn’t. But the answer to suffering isn’t more suffering.

NoTrueNihilist: You sound like a fucking Hallmark card. Like some platitude on an inspirational
poster. The answer to injustice is JUSTICE. All that “an eye for an eye makes everyone blind”
shit is how evil people get away with their crimes. If the system won’t hold them accountable, then
the people have to. That’s the only way anything will ever change.

RiddleMeThis: I didn’t change anything. Fear, violence—it gets reactions, so it can give you the
illusion that you’re changing things, that you’re making some kind of difference. But I look back
now and it all feels so hollow. Like theater. Even if those men were evil, I didn’t kill them for the
sake of a better world. I killed them because I was angry and hurting and I wanted to make others
hurt. Because I felt invisible and I was desperate to be seen. Even if people saw me as a monster,
that was better than being no one. But it wasn’t even my real self they saw. It was a carnival-
mirror reflection of their own fears. I was playing a character. And this group I’ve created, this
community—it’s not a revolution, it's a death cult. No one was saved because of what I did.

NoTrueNihilist: You saved me.

NoTrueNihilist: When you killed the mayor, I thought, finally—here is a man who won’t be
stepped on anymore. Here’s someone who’s standing up and saying “no.” At last. I felt reborn,
just knowing what you had done. And now…what? You say violence isn’t the answer, so what is?
Some vague bullshit about how we’re all human so our differences don’t matter? They fucking
matter.

RiddleMeThis: I don’t have the answers. I’m not pretending to. I just know that I don’t want to
inflict any more pain. It made me feel good while I did it, but now I think about their screams and
the way their eyes dulled over and I just feel tired and sick. There has to be another way. Even if I
don't know what it is, I can stop making things worse.

NoTrueNihilist: If that’s your attitude, you’ve already given up. You might as well eat a bullet.
RiddleMeThis: Believe me, I’ve thought about that too.

NoTrueNihilist: We all have. But I decided a long time ago that if I ever went that route, I’d take
at least one of those lying motherfuckers with me. I won’t die quietly in the shadows. That’s what
they want. For us to self-neutralize.

NoTrueNihilist: You want a human voice right now? You want to know where I come from? I’m
an orphan too. But I wasn’t, at first. I never knew my dad, but my mom, we lived together in this
shitty little one bedroom apartment. She cleaned houses for people who made more money in one
year than she’d ever make in her entire life. When I was nine, one of her employers raped her, and
he paid her to keep her mouth shut. So she did. And she just kept cleaning his fucking house right
up until a year later when she slit her wrists in the bathtub.

RiddleMeThis: Jesus.

RiddleMeThis: I’m sorry.

NoTrueNihilist: Suffering comes cheap in this world. I’m not special. But after I found her, I kept
thinking, why was it herself she killed? Why didn’t she kill him instead? There were a dozen ways
she could have done it. Swapped out his heart medicine for something else, maybe. It’s not like he
watched her cleaning the bathrooms. The piece of shit died a few years later of a heart attack
anyway, but I wish someone had made him suffer.

RiddleMeThis: I had no idea.

NoTrueNihilist: Stop it. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to DO something. I
want you to be my brother in arms again. These pricks think that they can walk all over people like
us, and they keep getting away with it, because we fucking let them. Violence is the only language
that gets through to them.

RiddleMeThis: That’s what I used to think.

NoTrueNihilist: Before what? Before Bruce Wayne showed up with his billions to kiss your boo-
boos and make it all better? “Oh, you’re so good, Edward, what a good boy, so smart.” Like he’s
talking to a fucking dog. It made me sick, hearing him say those things and listening to you moan
like a whore. Is that all it takes to buy your soul? Are you that cheap?
RiddleMeThis: Shut up.

NoTrueNihlist: Does he fuck you in the ass? When he’s in there, do you ever think about the cries
of those dying children in the orphanage? About the mold in your food and the infected sores from
filthy beds, because that rich pig didn’t care enough to notice?

RiddleMeThis: I said shut up. You have no right to say those things to me.

NoTrueNihilist: The hell I don’t. You know he’s using you, right? He’s going to throw you away.
I’m not saying these things to be cruel. I'm saying them because I want you to wake up.

NoTrueNihilist: It’s not too late for you. You can cut him out like a tumor. You can come back to
us. Finish what you started. Kill him, and we’ll forgive you. It’ll be easy now. He thinks he’s got
you tamed. He’ll let his guard down.

RiddleMeThis: Eat shit.

NoTrueNihilist: I never thought you'd be our Judas. We were supposed to break this ugly world
together.

RiddleMeThis: Well, it’s over. I never want to talk to you again. The Riddler is finished.

NoTrueNihilist: The Riddler isn’t finished. He’s bigger than you now. He’s all of us. And we
don’t need you.

***

“May I have a slice of banana cream pie and a cappuccino, please?”

The waitress—an older woman with red-dyed hair—blinked a few times. Edward had just come in
from the rain, so he was soaked through, his hoodie plastered to his frame, shaking so hard his
teeth chattered. He felt like the squashed rat he’d seen on the street outside, its guts tire-ruptured
and sprayed across the pavement.

Did it show? Did she see suicide and murder in his eyes?

Regardless—her tone, when she spoke, was polite and professional. “Sure thing.”

He sat at the counter and began to slowly shred a napkin between his fingers. His head was
ringing.

What did it matter? What did any of it matter?

She brought him a glass of water. “Soup today is chicken noodle. If you want soup.”

He should probably have something more substantial than pie. He hadn’t eaten since that
morning. But he wanted pie. And of course, he never ordered both a meal and a treat in the same
sitting.

If someone had asked him why, he couldn’t have explained it. Maybe it was the lingering effects
of a childhood of deprivation; maybe he’d simply been conditioned to subsist on only what he
needed. Maybe he felt guilty ordering so much because there were so many people in the world
who didn’t have enough to eat. Maybe he didn’t like spending the extra money. Maybe he hated
how soft and doughy his belly looked. Even now, with his mind crumbling around him, he
couldn’t bring himself to order a bowl of fucking soup.

“No,” he said. “Just the pie and coffee today, thank you.”

The waitress vanished into the kitchen. Edward sat at the counter, hunched over.

Rain trickled from the awning outside. It wasn’t late, but it was already dark out. The days were
getting shorter.

Earlier, walking from the subway station to the diner, Edward had experienced a brief but strong
impulse to throw himself in front of an oncoming semi. Those impulses were nothing particularly
new, of course.
He wondered if NoTrueNihilist was planning to leak that tape out of spite. But there was no way
to know. Edward had been immediately blocked after that conversation. His last point of contact
with the group had been cut off. And once that recording came to light, as it almost certainly
would, his relationship with Bruce would implode.

What then?

He could turn himself in to Arkham, confess to all his crimes. The idea had a certain perverse
appeal. Or he could quietly live out the rest of his life as a lonely, ordinary accountant. He could
get a pet rat and spend his evenings talking to it. The rat would be his therapist. He’d die a
miserable shell of a human being, but he made decent money as a forensic accountant, even if most
of it was eaten up by the criminally high rent for his cramped apartment. He could continue to live
beneath his means, donating every spare penny to charities, and make his life count in that way.

Or…

There were so many ways to die, in Gotham. You didn’t even have to do the job yourself. You
could wander around at night until someone did it for you.

His phone buzzed in his pocket; he pulled it out. A new text from Bruce: Please just let me know
if you’re okay.

Edward’s pulse quickened.

He wasn’t okay, of course. He was pretty far from okay. And he hadn’t contacted Bruce since the
other night, when Bruce had invited him to that fundraiser. Of course Bruce was worried.

He should probably just text, I’m okay. Leave it at that. But he found himself afraid to answer.

For so, so long, Edward had been obsessed with Bruce in one form or another. There was a safety
and comfort in that one-way fixation; he knew it wasn’t healthy, but it was a source of sustenance.
And—most importantly—it was within his own control. When love was one-sided, when the
other person didn’t know you existed…well, sure, they could still disappoint you. But they were
limited in the ways they could disappoint you.
Now that barrier was gone. That position of control—of being the observer, the one on the outside
—had been wrenched away from him. Bruce kept pushing into his life, intruding on his carefully
ordered routine, blunt and insistent, a solid, smothering wall of concern and love. As Riddler, he
had wanted the Batman to reciprocate his interest, but now that he had that…

It wasn’t like his fantasies. He never could have imagined something like this. It went so much
deeper. It touched desires, needs, he hadn’t even known he possessed.

It was terrifying.

It wasn’t enough that they were sexually involved, it wasn’t enough that Bruce was living inside
Edward’s head every waking moment and invading his dreams, now Bruce wanted to go on dates,
he wanted a real relationship, because he apparently couldn’t grasp how stupid and ridiculous that
was, because he had some delusion that the two of them could have a happy, normal little life,
going on picnics and running hand in hand through fields of flowers and saving Gotham together,
because Bruce Wayne was clinically fucking insane and so painfully earnest and kind and—

No.

He had let this go too far. Everything was falling apart, and if Edward let this continue any longer,
Bruce would be ruined along with him. All he could do now was try to minimize the damage.

He tapped out the words, I need to stop seeing you. I’m sorry. Please don’t contact me again. His
thumb hovered, trembling slightly, over the send button.

He deleted the text and sent instead, I’m fine.

I’m glad. After another few seconds: Can we talk? On the phone, I mean. I just want to hear
your voice.

Edward felt a lump forming in his throat, and the words on the screen stared to blur. Some part of
him had been convinced that Bruce would be angry at him, after the abrupt way he cut off their last
conversation. But of course he wasn’t. It would be easier, in a way, if he were angry.

I can’t. Not right now.

A pause. Then: Are you really okay?

You don’t need to keep checking in on me, you know. I’m not your responsibility, he sent.

The response came immediately: Yes. You are.

Arrogant as ever. But in Bruce’s mind, he was just stating a fact.

Something happened, he sent. I don’t know if I can talk about it now. But I can tell you that it
would be wise to distance yourself from me. For your own sake.

Why?

It was a mistake. What we did.

“Here’s your coffee. Pie’s coming right up.”

“Thank you.”

The phone buzzed again.

Another text from Bruce: Edward. If you truly believe that this was a mistake, if you don’t want to
see me again, then I’ll accept your decision. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forsaken my responsibility
to you. If you’d prefer to be left alone, I’ll continue to monitor you from afar without contacting
you directly.

God, he was relentless. Edward texted, Are you planning to keep tabs on me for the rest of our
lives, then?

For as long as necessary. Until I’m certain that you’re not a danger to yourself. What’s your
mental state right now?
His teeth were clenched so hard, his jaws were starting to ache. He sent, My mental state is none of
your business. What reason do you have to believe I’m a danger to myself, anyway?

All right, maybe that was a stupid question.

You self-harm, Bruce replied. You told me as much. You have scars.

Those? They’re scratches. They’re nothing.

I don’t want you to harm yourself, Edward.

His breathing quickened, whistling through his nose. A flush rose into his cheeks. Anger—hot
and unexpected—surged through him. It felt better than panic or despair, so he clung to it. I’ll do
whatever I want to my own body, he sent. You don’t own me. I never asked you to take
responsibility for my safety. If I want to mark myself, I will. If you're really so concerned, then tell
the police who I am and have me committed to Arkham.

Replying, replying, replying. As though he were composing and then deleting messages.

Then another text: Is there anyone else who can check in on you? I know you have your online
group, but they don’t even know where you live. A neighbor? A coworker? Anyone?

His eyes started to blur again. There’s no one.

Then, I’m sorry, but I need to continue to check on you myself. You don’t have to see me or hear
from me if you don’t want. I won’t make any attempt to interfere in your everyday life. But I will
be here, regardless.

His cheeks grew hotter. He started to text, You controlling, hypocritical, overbearing—

He deleted it.
He started to text, Your fixation on me is pathetic. Don’t you have anything better to do with your
time? He deleted that without sending it, too.

“We’re out of banana cream.”

His gaze jerked up. “What?”

“The pie you asked for. We’re out. Is there another kind of pie you’d like?”

“Oh. P…pumpkin, please,” he muttered.

As soon as she walked back into the kitchen, Edward texted, We need to establish some
boundaries.

There, he thought. That was a good response. Businesslike, firm, unemotional.

Of course, he knew full well how ridiculous it sounded coming from him, the man with newspaper
clippings of Bruce Wayne plastered all over his walls, the man who’d sent Batman cryptic cards
filled with murder-riddles, the man who literally slept with a toy made in his image. He fully
expected Bruce to point out the contradiction.

After another brief silence, Bruce replied, All right. What are your boundaries?

Edward blinked a few times, caught off guard.

He started to reply, then realized that he didn’t actually know what to say. He had never had a
conversation like this with someone before.

The watching, the following, the binoculars—it wasn’t even that, specifically, that bothered
Edward. They were both vigilantes; sneaking around and secretly watching people was part of life.

It was everything else. It was Bruce’s entire overwhelming existence. It was the way Bruce kept
peeling back his defenses without even fully realizing what he was doing.
“Here’s your pumpkin pie.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Because he hadn’t replied yet and he had to say something, Edward texted, I don’t want you
worrying about me all the time. I’ve been dealing with suicidal ideation since I was nine years
old, and I’m still here. I don’t die that easily.

Immediately after he sent the text, he wished he could unsend it. He hadn’t meant to reveal quite
that much.

Bruce didn’t respond for a moment, and Edward felt the weight of that silence, the weight of him
trying to find the right words.

Edward sent another text, hastily: Yes, I realize I’m not the most stable person, but I’m accustomed
to taking care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time. There will be times when I go silent.
Don’t assume the worst.

At last, Bruce sent, All right. After a few seconds, another text: I can be a little intense. I realize
that.

You, intense? Never.

Bruce didn’t seem to process the sarcasm. It’s true. This is new for me. I let myself get
overwhelmed by my own feelings, and I imposed those feelings on you. You're right to be angry. I
want to find some way to keep you safe without violating your boundaries.

Edward put his phone away and ate a bite of his pie. His face was still hot. Why did he have to be
so...so...

He cut the thought off and tried to focus on eating.

After he’d finished the pie, he sent another text: Where are you right now?

I’m on a rooftop, about half a mile from the Iceberg Lounge. I was doing a routine sweep of the
streets tonight. Needed to get out. I caught a convenience store robbery in progress. Thief got
away, but I stopped the robbery.

So wait, you’re Batman right now?

Yes.

You’re just sitting on a roof, as Batman, texting with me? That’s funny.

What’s funny about it?

Bruce could be so dense. He wondered if it was difficult to text with those gloves. Never mind, he
sent.

“Anything else?”

“Just the check, thank you.”

The waitress brought his check. He counted out bills, carefully smoothing down their corners, and
walked out, into the rain.

He ought to just go home and try to get some sleep. He was exhausted. But he thought back to the
conversation with NoTrueNihilist, and his stomach contracted. In that moment, the thought of
being in his own apartment—that cluttered, claustrophobic space, the pale glow of his monitor, the
rows and rows of journals filled with ciphers and rage and pain—was unbearable. He was
suffocating there.

Under an awning, he texted, You said you were close to the Iceberg Lounge?

Yes.
He hesitated, knowing full well that this was probably a mistake. He didn't know what was going
to happen now, how they went forward from here. But he needed to tell Bruce about the
recording. He owed him that much. Maybe it would be easier to do that in person. Can I see you?

Yes.

I’m outside Simple Pleasure. The diner.

I’ll be there.

Edward waited, shivering and soaked, under the awning. Steam rose up from the pavement. Neon
glowed through the darkness. His glasses were wet, the lenses covered in beaded water droplets,
and he couldn’t dry them off on his hoodie, because that was wet too. It was hard to see.

A form materialized from the shadows, cape dripping. All he could see was that familiar
silhouette, the peaks of his helmet catching the glow of the nearby streetlight. Edward's heart
started to pound.

Batman stretched out an arm, gloved hand extended. Edward took one shaky step forward, then
another…then gave in and dashed across the street to him. He crashed into him, nearly knocking
his own glasses off, and buried his face against Batman’s chest. Arms enfolded him; the cape
surrounded him like wings, drawing him deeper into the shadows. His throat and eyes burned.

He thought back to that first hug they’d shared, that feeling of safety, of acceptance—so
unexpected. Growing up, he’d been held so infrequently. In the orphanage and then the foster
homes of his teenage years, affection had been doled out only in small, sparse doses, like a finite
resource that had to be carefully distributed among countless needy hearts. And once he turned
eighteen, he was simply thrust into the world, expected to provide for himself, and those scraps of
affection—the stiff hugs, the fleeting words of praise—stopped completely.

Gloved fingers settled atop his head, stroked his water-slicked hair, and Edward closed his eyes,
lightheaded.

“You're shaking,” Bruce whispered.

Edward swallowed, throat tight. He could say that it was just the cold. But what was the point of
denying it, now? “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he said.

“What?”

“The—the recording—the one you sent me, I—” he gulped in a breath. “I was careless. My
computer got hacked. By a member of the group. They saw. They know that we’re—” he
stopped. He could barely speak. “They're going to use this against you. Against us. They want to
hurt you.”

Bruce was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “We’ll deal with it.”

Batman—Bruce—curled around him, drawing him in closer, enfolding him completely, cape
shielding him from the rain.

Edward squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a faint whuff of breath, not quite a laugh. His chest
constricted. What was this life? He was standing out in the rain at night, swallowed up in the
embrace of a man dressed as a giant bat. The shadows enfolded and protected them from the sight
of passing cars, but if someone were to walk too close and see them, what would they think?

He didn’t care.

He was in the arms of someone who loved him, someone who saw his existence as precious,
irreplaceable. He felt that—that love, something deeper and more primal and powerful than sex.
Whatever else was true about them, whatever happened in the future, however bad things got, this
feeling was real.

He didn’t believe in god. He had given up on that idea sometime around the same age when he
understood that Santa Claus was a fairytale, that the shoddy presents they received on Christmas
morning were hand-me-downs from other, more fortunate children. He hadn’t prayed since he was
five years old. But he found himself praying now, sending words out into the blind, uncaring
universe.

Please, please let me keep this feeling. Even if it’s just for a little while longer.

“You’re drenched,” Bruce said. “Let me take you someplace warm and dry.”
 Edward nodded.

“Do you want to go back to your apartment? Do you want me to take you home?”

“That place isn't home anymore,” he muttered.

“Then come with me.”

***

The door to the foyer opened. Alfred approached. He saw Bruce enter, dressed as Batman, one
arm around a soaked, shivering, bespectacled form, and he thought, Oh dear.

He had to remind himself that this bedraggled cat of a man was the Riddler.

Bruce met his gaze and said, “He’s staying here tonight.”

Alfred was not surprised. He had been bracing himself for something like this. But he was going
to have to have another talk with Bruce later.

“Understood.” He turned. “I’ll bring some dry clothes.”

Chapter End Notes

CW: Suicide-baiting, mentions of rape, and suicidal ideation.

 Chapter 15

Edward had changed out of his dripping wet hoodie and jeans, into a pair of gray sweats and one of
Bruce’s t-shirts, the In Utero one with the angel-winged anatomical mannequin against a black
background. He sat at the kitchen table, light brown hair still plastered to his head from the rain.
A bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup sat in front of him. He ate in small, careful bites.

Bruce sat across from him. He’d changed out of his Batman gear, into a loose, black, hooded
sweatshirt and jeans.

“I’ve never seen this part of the house,” Edward remarked. “Though I guess I didn’t see very much
of it. When I was here before.”

“I can give you a tour later, if you want.”

He made a noncommittal sound, lifted another spoonful of soup to his lips, blew the steam from it,
and took another small, precise sip. “This is very good soup.”

“Alfred made it the other day. I just reheated some of it.”

It was hard to read Edward’s expression. During the drive here, he’d shut down, retreating into
silence. Bruce noticed him picking chunks of chicken out of the soup and placing them on his
napkin. “Sorry. I forgot. You don’t eat meat.”

“I eat it sometimes. If it’s processed enough to be—”

“Unrecognizable as flesh. Right.”

“Sometimes chicken is all right. But I don’t want to push it right now. I'm feeling a
little...wobbly.”

“There’s lots more food in the fridge, if you want something else.”
“No. This is fine.” He cut the noodles with the edge of his spoon.

Bruce hesitated, searching Edward’s face. He didn’t want to bring up this subject, but they would
have to discuss it sooner or later. “So, you got hacked? By someone from your group?”

“They decided they didn't trust me anymore. And now that they've seen the recording, they
definitely don't. I've been excommunicated."

“Those people," Bruce muttered. "Violating your privacy and then punishing you."

“You don’t understand how they think. This is war. You’re the enemy. By associating with you,
I’ve declared my loyalty to the other side.”

Bruce lowered his head.

“I’d already told them I was done with killing,” Edward said. “That I was having doubts. Maybe
this was inevitable.”

His tone was neutral, but Bruce could hear the quaver under the surface.

Not surprising that he was shaken. It had taken a lot for Edward to let down his guard, to let
someone like Bruce into his heart, and now their first sexual experience together—Edward's first
sexual experience with anyone—had been stolen and used against him by the people he'd thought
of as his friends. And now that moment of vulnerability was about to be leaked to the world, to
countless strangers who would judge and comment and share it with their friends for their own
amusement. They would transform that intimate moment into a public spectacle.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Which one of them is responsible for this?” he asked quietly.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“I want to know. Was it NoTrueNihilist?”

Edward raised his eyebrows a little. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you know their names.
You've been through my computer."

"It was, wasn't it?"

“Bruce. I don’t want you going after them. Any of them."

"After what they did to you, you're still protecting them? You don't owe them anything."

"Even if I wanted to give you their real names, I couldn't. We were all very careful about keeping
our identities a secret. Trying to track them down would be a waste of time.”

Bruce exhaled slowly.

“It’s my own fault, anyway,” Edward murmured, poking at his soup. “It was stupid of me to
record that. I shouldn’t have asked for that lens. And I definitely should’ve have stored the video
on my hard drive.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I wonder if they’ve already leaked it. Things go viral so quickly. I keep fighting the urge to
check my phone.”

“I don't think anything will happen tonight. We don’t even know for sure that they’re going to leak
it. And if they do…it's not like the recording shows us doing anything illegal or reveals our secret
identities. It doesn’t even contain your full name. Sure, the tabloids will have a field day
speculating about my mystery lover, but I’m accustomed to media attention. I can deal with it. If I
can keep you out of this whole mess, that will be enough for me.”

Though of course, that meant it would be stupid for them to be seen together in public.

“The group knows who I am,” Edward pointed out. “And what I’ve done.”
“They can’t prove anything. Not without blowing their own cover. I mean, what are they going to
do? Release the video with, ‘This guy is the Riddler, by the way’ in the description and expect
everyone to believe it?”

Edward didn’t respond. His face had gone blank, slack; he stared at the wall.

“I know it’s still a lot to deal with,” Bruce said. “I’m just saying, even if the worst happens, it’s
not the end. It will eventually blow over. Public attention shifts quickly.”

Edward gave a small nod, but didn’t reply. He swirled the spoon around in the remains of his
soup. “Thank you,” he said. “For letting me stay here tonight.”

“You’re always welcome here.” He could practically feel Alfred (currently in the kitchen) wincing
as Bruce said those words. But right now, it was important for Edward to know that he wasn’t
alone.

“I feel like we should…make some sort of plan,” Edward murmured. “For what to do if—when
this comes out.”

“It’s late, and you’ve had a rough day. I think you should get some sleep. We can talk more in the
morning.”

Edward scraped his spoon lightly along the edge of the bowl. “I don’t know if I could sleep right
now.”

“We could do something else, then.”

Edward met his gaze. “You mean…”

“I mean like watch a movie. Play videogames. Whatever you want.” Bruce’s face felt a little
warm. He was out of his element. Just hanging out with someone—it wasn’t a thing he did very
often.

He tried to remember the last time he’d had a guest over in a purely social context. Edward’s time
as a prisoner didn’t count, and the occasional visits from Lucius or other Wayne Enterprises
employees didn’t count either. It must have been during Bruce’s twenties, while he was still
dating.

Even as a child, Bruce had been introverted and shy, self-conscious about his status as a Wayne.
He'd always been aware of it as something that separated him from others. People whispered about
him in every room he entered. At every school he'd attended, he felt like an alien visitor. Now, he
felt suddenly as though he were ten years old again, awkwardly trying to make friends with another
kid.

After a moment, Edward asked, “Do you have Tetris?”

“I’ve got everything.”

“I’d like to play Tetris. Will you play with me?”

“Sure.”

***

In the entertainment room, Bruce pushed a button on a remote and a massive cabinet whirred open,
revealing a television screen that took up two-thirds of the wall.

Bruce played games on it from time to time—it helped sharpen his reflexes and spatial awareness
—and once in a while, Alfred joined him. There were two recliners in front of the screen for those
occasions.

Bruce flipped through various emulators, to his list of classic games. He passed Edward a
controller and took a seat in the recliner on the left, his own controller in hand.

They played in silence for a little while, watching the colored pieces drift down from both halves
of the screen. Bruce usually gravitated toward first person shooters rather than puzzle games, but
he’d always considered himself pretty good at Tetris. Edward was much better, though. His hands
moved with an almost eerie speed, thumbs darting over the controller as the pieces zipped down
and locked into each other.
“I’m not giving you much of a challenge, am I?” Bruce asked after Edward won the third game in a
row.

“It’s fine." They started another game. "It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to do this with
anyone," Edward remarked after a few minutes. "I used to play online sometimes with
BlackRabbit. They’re one of the few people who could beat me at Tetris. Or Dr. Robotnik’s
Mean Bean Machine.”

Bruce recognized the name. Another group member. “Never played that. I'm—damn.” He had
just lost. Again. In record time.

“You’re too stiff,” Edward said. “Relax your mind.”

“I am relaxed.”

“No, you’re leaning forward and hunching your shoulders. Lean back. It’s a game. Don't focus so
hard on winning.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile. “Yes, sensei.”

An answering smile tugged at Edward’s lips.

They started another round. A knock came at the door. Bruce paused. “Come in.”

Alfred entered with a tray balanced on one hand. He glanced at the screen. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, it’s fine.”

He nodded. “Snacks. If you’re hungry.”

“Thanks.”
He set the tray on the small table between the two recliners. His gaze darted briefly to Edward.
“Anything else you need?” The question seemed to be addressed to both of them.

“Edward?”

“No.”

“We’re good.”

Alfred retreated quietly.

Edward examined the contents of the tray. “Graham crackers with cheese?”

Bruce picked one up and took a bite. “I like them this way.”

Edward picked one up and took a tentative bite from one corner. “You’re so weird.” He took
another bite. “It’s not bad, though.”

There were two mugs of hot chocolate on the tray as well, still steaming, with mini marshmallows
floating on the surface. Edward picked one up, wrapping his hands around it tightly, as though for
warmth, and blew steam from the surface. He sipped. “Holy shit." He nearly gasped the words.

“What? Too hot?”

“No, just—this is the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had. What’s in this?”

“I think Alfred melts actual bars of chocolate into it instead of using the cocoa powder. And it’s
got both cream and whole milk.”

Edward took another sip and made a small, almost pained sound deep in his throat. “He must be a
sorcerer. There’s no way an ordinary human made this.” Another sip. “Hhhnn.”
Bruce smiled. “I don’t think I’ve heard you making sounds like that since—” he stopped.

Edward’s gaze met his for a half-second. He looked down, into the clouds of marshmallow foam
swirling on the chocolate’s surface.

“Go on. Finish it.” Bruce took another bite of his graham cracker and cheddar.

He took another sip, getting some foam on the tip of his nose. “Do you want to keep playing?”

“If you do. Uh, you’ve got a little—” he tapped the tip of his own nose.

Edward wiped the back of one hand across his face and picked up the controller.

“You know,” Edward said after another brief silence, “Videogames can be therapeutic. Playing
Tetris regularly after a traumatic event lessens your chances of developing PTSD. They’ve done
studies.”

“Really?”

“It probably works with other puzzle games too. And it makes sense.” He maneuvered a piece
around, slotted it into an opening. “Games offer a world with rules that you can understand and
learn in order to win. It’s an environment where you have control. There’s an element of chance,
sure. But if it was pure chance, it wouldn’t be as fun.” His gaze remained focused on the game;
the screen was reflected in his glasses, obscuring his eyes. “In order to function—to feel safe—the
mind needs to see the world as comprehensible. To see patterns of cause and effect. And of
course, winning…it gives that little dopamine hit to a pleasure-starved brain. That sense of
validation.”

He’d stopped playing. The pieces piled up to the top of the screen.

“Edward?”
GAME OVER. Edward stared blankly, as though he'd abruptly lost interest.

“You want to talk?” Bruce asked quietly.

“About what?”

“About what just happened. With the group. Or...anything.”

“I don’t even know what to say,” Edward muttered. “For so long, I’ve been…” He took a breath.
“After I found out about Renewal, about everything, I felt the weight of those lies, like something
—” he raised his hand to the side of his head, fingers contorting, as though squeezing the air
—“pressing against my brain. All the time. That pressure. It builds and builds until you want to
scream, until you want to break something.”

Bruce hesitated. “Carmine Falcone. He’s the one behind all this. Isn’t he? He was on your list of
targets, right after me.”

Edward smiled thinly. “He’s a bad one, all right. I regret that I didn’t have the chance to finish
him off. But there is no single person ‘behind all this.’ It’s bigger than that. It’s society. No
matter how you rearrange the pieces, you see the same patterns emerge.” His gaze drifted out of
focus. “I thought I understood what I had to become. What I needed to do. Now that’s over, and I
don’t even know who I am."

"You're Edward Nashton."

"A name is just syllables. Edward Nashton...it sounds like nonsense to me, now. My hatred was
my skeleton. Without it, I can't even stand up.”

“That isn’t true.”

“This isn't a new feeling." Absently, he ran the controller's cord between his fingers. "My whole
life, I’ve felt empty. Being the Riddler was just a brief reprieve from that.”

“You survived for years, decades, before you became him. You must have been living for
something.”

“Honestly, sometimes I think the only reason I held on was because I had some vestigial fear of
hell. I used to have nightmares about it as a child.”

Bruce thought about the text Edward had sent him—the admission that he’d been dealing with
suicidal ideation since he was nine. He thought about that little boy, crammed into a room with
countless other children, yet alone, comforting himself with fantasies of death.

Bruce reached across the space between the chairs and took his hand. Edward’s breath fluttered in
his throat.

For a minute or two, Bruce just held Edward's motionless hand. He felt lost. He wanted to give
him some answer, some words of wisdom that would fill the void, but his own solution to trauma
and emptiness had been to dress as a bat and roam the streets at night confronting criminals. It had
given him purpose, but he was well-aware that most people would view it as objectively insane.
Who was he to give someone else advice about living?

“Do you want help?” Bruce asked quietly.

“Help.” Edward pronounced the syllable carefully, as though it were a foreign term he’d never
encountered.

“A doctor. Counseling. Medication. Anything.”

Silence.

“If money’s an issue, I can take care of that.”

Did Edward tense a little, at those words? Or was it Bruce’s imagination?

“It’s your choice,” he said, still holding Edward’s hand. “I won’t try to push you into anything
you’re not comfortable with. And I know you said you've tried those things before. Maybe it
made a difference, maybe not. But the option’s there, if you ever want to try it again.”
Still, Edward’s gaze remained fixed on the screen. “What if some people are just broken?” He
said it idly, his tone detached, as though it were a matter of mere intellectual curiosity. "What if
there is no 'help'? What if that's just the fiction we have to adhere to as a society, in order to
maintain order?"

He could say, You aren't broken, but that felt like a trite answer. Edward didn't want blind
reassurances. He was searching for an answer.

Bruce thought back to when he was ten years old, when he had crawled under the bed with a bread
knife crying that he wanted to be with Mommy and Daddy. He tried to remember what Alfred had
said to him, then, but the memories were foggy. He only remembered a calm, gentle voice and
arms around him, anchoring him. “Honestly, I've asked myself the same thing. About myself.
But I'm glad, now, that I held on." His fingers tightened on Edward's. "If I had died then, I
wouldn't have met you."

A helpless expression slipped across Edward’s face; for a moment it was soft, open and confused.
Then his lips stretched into what could’ve been a smile or a grimace of pain. His hand twitched in
Bruce’s, then slid free. He took off his glasses and began to polish them on his t-shirt—more, it
seemed, to have something to do with his hands than because the lenses were actually dirty. "You
may yet regret it," he said. "You never know."

"I won't. I'm sure of that much." Bruce hesitated. This, all of this, felt so new. So uncertain.
“You want to play something else?”

He shook his head slowly. “It’s very late. And I have work tomorrow.”

“You could call off. Sleep in.”

“I should go. I need to maintain my normal life as much as possible. Though, I must admit, I’m
not looking forward to it.” He picked up the mug of cocoa and started to take another sip, then—
realizing it was empty—set the mug down. “Will I be sleeping in my old room?”

“Only if you want to. There are plenty of spare rooms. You could even take my room, if you
want.” Edward raised his head, and Bruce quickly added, “I mean, half the time I end up falling
asleep on the couch anyway, so. Anything’s fine.”
After the abrupt way their attempt at cyber-sex had ended several days ago, Bruce wasn’t sure
where they stood, relationship-wise. But regardless, what Edward needed more than anything else
right now was a friend. A stable presence. He wasn’t in the right mental state for anything else.
And Edward had made it clear that he wanted some boundaries. Offering to share a bed would feel
too much like making a move.

“If I do take my old room, would you chain me to the bed again?” Edward asked idly.

Bruce’s heart jumped. “Is that…are you joking?”

“I don’t know. It might be calming. There were times when I felt very safe here, as a captive.
Even the difficult parts…there’s a curious sort of nostalgia when I look back on it now. You could
chain me up, tuck me in—”

“I, uh. I don’t think I should.” His face was burning.

“All right.” He gave Bruce a slight smile. It faded quickly. “I must admit, I am curious to see
your bedroom.”

Bruce stood. “I’ll show you.”

***

Bruce’s bedroom was spacious but spare, minimalist: a king-sized bed with a dark blue bedspread,
a boxy, utilitarian set of lacquered black dresser drawers, a pole lamp, and nothing else. The
curtains were drawn shut over the window; the floor was hardwood, the walls the same deep,
almost-black navy.

“It’s very blue,” Edward said.

“They say blue is a calming color.”

“It makes me feel like I’m drowning. Like I'm at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Guest room, then?”

“I never said I didn’t like it. I’ll sleep here.”

Edward started to walk toward the bed, then stopped abruptly, facing away from Bruce. As though
he’d suddenly remembered something.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Then it clicked. “Oh. You don’t have your Batman.” He’d mentioned that the toy helped him
sleep, helped stave off nightmares. It was part of his routine.

Edward looked over his shoulder and gave Bruce another one of those thin, dry smiles. “I’m
thirty-seven. I’ll manage without it for one night.”

“We can drive out to your apartment and get it, if you want. It’s not that far.”

Edward shook his head. “It’s fine. Really.”

“If you’re sure.” Bruce paused. "There's an intercom, if you need anything." He pointed to the
fixture on the wall. "I'll be awake a while longer." He started to walk toward the door.

“Bruce.”

He stopped.

Edward took a breath. His fingertips dug into his forearm. “You don’t have to be so delicate about
this. The bed’s more than big enough for us both.”
Bruce’s pulse quickened. “I thought you might want privacy.”

He gave a small, stiff chuckle. “I’m surprised you’re willing to leave me alone right now. I mean,
I’m not going to do anything. But still. Though…knowing you, you’ve probably got the room
bugged.”

“I don’t, actually. To be honest, I do feel nervous about leaving you alone right now. But you told
me that you don’t die that easily. I’m trying to trust in that.”

Edward was silent, his gaze on his sock-clad feet.

“Edward?”

“As a child, I shared a bed with two other boys. There were never enough beds for us to have our
own. It wasn’t comfortable. I’d start to drift off and get kicked or pushed because I’d rolled over
in my sleep. But after I left that place and went to a foster home, and I had my own bed for the first
time…you’d think I would’ve slept like a rock. But I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I missed the
kicks.”

"Are you asking me to share the bed with you, Edward? You can just ask, you know. It's okay."

Edward’s soft breaths filled the room.

“Nothing has to happen,” Bruce said. “I can just lay close to you. If you want.”

“I want that. Yes,” he whispered. And then, a few seconds later, "Thank you."

Bruce usually slept naked, or in nothing but boxers. Under the circumstances, though, that would
probably be ill-advised. He changed hastily into some loose pajama pants and a t-shirt. The two
of them stood there for a moment, unsure. Then Edward climbed into the massive bed and slipped
under the covers. Bruce turned off the lamp, then climbed in alongside him. Their mingled
breathing filled the darkness.
The bed could’ve comfortably accommodated three people. If they kept to opposite sides of it,
they wouldn’t even brush against each other. As it was, there was nearly half a foot of space
between them. The door was still open a crack; Bruce could see the faint light from the hall
reflecting on Edward’s glasses. “Do you want to take those off?”

“What?”

“Your glasses. You don’t usually sleep with them, do you?”

“Oh. No.” He slipped them off and set them on the dresser next to the bed.

Bruce’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness, now; he could make out the curve of Edward’s cheek,
the fringe of his lashes and the gleam of his open eye. He could feel every movement Edward
made. Every shift. The bedsprings creaked faintly. He wondered if he’d actually be able to sleep
like this. He was so aware of Edward’s presence, his breathing. When Edward swallowed, Bruce
heard the faint click in his throat.

“The pillow smells like you,” Edward murmured. “Your hair, I mean. Your shampoo.”

“I didn’t know it had a smell.”

“It’s faint.”

Bruce felt the tickle of breath against his neck. Edward had shifted closer. Bruce could feel the
warmth emanating from his skin. He could smell Edward, too. He smelled like rain and soot.
Like the city itself.

“That charity fundraiser...when did you say it was?”

Bruce hadn’t really expected this to come up again. “December first. Why?”

“I’ll go.”
His mouth opened. “You…really? I thought—”

“I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to run from this. People are going to find out about us anyway,
sooner or later. I’d rather they find out on our terms.”

Bruce’s head spun. He said yes. A giddy lightness swirled through him. He forced himself to ask,
“You're sure about this?”

“I suppose I’ll have to wear a suit, won’t I? I don’t even own one.”

“We can get one. Tomorrow, after work, if you want.”

“Bruce Wayne, the prince of the city, bringing some random accountant to a fundraiser. What will
people say, I wonder?”

“They’ll say that I’m a lucky bastard.”

Edward laughed, a burst of high-pitched sound in the stillness. It sounded a little strangled.
“You’re so funny.”

“I’m not being funny. You’re beautiful, Edward. You’re stunning. I’m glad you don’t want to
hide. Because I don’t either. I want to walk into that ballroom arm in arm with you. I want the
world to know how I feel.”

Edward’s breathing hitched. He made a low, flat sound in his throat, not quite a moan.

“Edward?”

“Can’t you see what your gentle insanities do to me?” he said in an odd, sing-song voice, as though
he were reciting poetry. “Rob me of anger and give me despair.”

Bruce’s chest tightened. “I don’t understand. Did you change your mind? Do you not want to
go?”
“No. I want to. Ignore me. I’m just being silly.”

“Because I know it's a lot right now, I know the media is going to be there and—”

Edward’s lips pressed to his, cutting him off.

He didn’t expect it. He tensed up a little. Edward was breathing in ragged, shuddering breaths, his
lips moving against Bruce’s. Bruce started to lean in, instinctively, losing himself in the taste and
smell and heat of Edward, the softness of those lips. He tasted salt—sweat or tears, he wasn’t sure
—and pulled back. “Hey.”

“You wrote in that letter that you want to be inside me. That you want to penetrate the depths of
my consciousness.”

Bruce’s head was spinning. He was dizzy.

Edward’s body pressed up against his, warm under the covers. So warm. Bruce was already hard;
at the contact, his cock twitched. Edward was here in his bed, with him, kissing him, and Bruce
wanted him so badly in that moment, more than he could ever remember wanting anything. He
ached.

“You want this?” Bruce whispered hoarsely. “Now? Tonight?” He cupped Edward’s cheek with
one hand.

“It’s all right,” Edward whispered. In the dimness, Bruce couldn’t quite make out his expression.
He wished he could see his eyes. “Whatever happens is fine.”
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

Notes/warnings at the end.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Whatever happens is fine.

The words flooded Bruce’s bloodstream.

Edward was here. In his bed. Close and willing. Offering everything.

It would be so easy to give himself over to this feeling, to lose himself in it.

“You..." He swallowed, throat tight, pulse tripping beneath his jaw. "There's something I've been
wanting to ask you about."

"Yes?"

"When we were talking through the lens a few days ago...you said you hypnotize yourself,
sometimes.”

A brief pause. “What about it?”

“I don’t know how that works. I need to know. Are you in a trance right now?”

Edward’s arms slipped around Bruce’s waist. His breath fluttered against Bruce’s lips. “Does it
matter?”

“I want your mind clear. When we do this. I want you fully with me.”
“Oh, I’m with you.” With one finger, he traced Bruce’s jawline. "Every bit of me."

Bruce’s dick pulsed. But Edward hadn’t answered the question. Not exactly.

“I want to see your face right now,” Bruce said.

“You want the light on? But I like darkness.” Edward’s hand trailed over Bruce’s chest, down to
his stomach.

Bruce closed his eyes. Even through his t-shirt, the touch was electric; Edward’s fingertips left
trails, like fire etched behind his eyelids.

“Eyesight can be a little too powerful sometimes,” Edward continued. “It overwhelms the other
senses.” His fingertips brushed over the bulge in Bruce’s pajama pants, and Bruce's dick jerked
again. “Darkness is like a womb. It wraps you up. It lets you be and do things you couldn’t
otherwise.”

Bruce struggled to focus his mind. “I thought you were all about pulling things into the light.”

“And I thought you were all about lurking in the shadows. But I suppose we’re both a little more
complicated than that. Aren't we?”

Something felt…off.

“I’m turning on the light,” Bruce said.

“What do you think you’re going to see in my face that you can’t hear in my voice?”

“Just for a minute.” It took all his willpower, but Bruce pulled away from Edward’s touch. He
leaned over and switched the lamp on.
Edward winced.

Bruce rolled toward Edward and took Edward’s face between his hands, studying his expression.
His pale cheeks were flushed.

Bruce meditated regularly, which could be compared to a trance-state, but he had a sense that the
process was different for Edward. He wasn’t sure how to determine whether or not someone was
hypnotized. Were there physiological signs? Edward’s eyes were still dilated, despite the light.
But then, his eyes were always dilated.

Edward smiled. “So intense. So focused.”

“I need to know if you’re in control of yourself right now.”

“Are any of us in control? Free will has always struck me as something of a paradox.”

“You refusing to give me a straight answer isn’t helping.”

“But if I’m not in control of myself, me saying that I am doesn’t count, does it? And if you can’t
tell the difference, if you have to take my word for it, how can you ever know? See, this is what
happens when you ask questions instead of going along with the moment. Now everything is
complicated.”

Something was definitely off. There was a cadence in Edward’s voice that reminded Bruce too
much of the Riddler—of that masked face staring from the screen, that rasping voice taunting him
with questions as a victim’s eyes bulged in terror from a blood-streaked face.

Of course, Edward was the Riddler. Bruce could not reject that part without rejecting Edward
himself. But something had shifted, just now. This was a different layer of Edward than the one
he’d interacted with earlier, the one who’d been so shy about asking to share a bed. When had he
done it? During the few minutes they were laying together in the darkness? Somewhere between
taking off his glasses and remarking that the pillow smelled like Bruce, he’d performed some
neurological alchemy on himself, descending into the basement of his own brain to adjust the
settings. Like taking a drug.

Could he really consent like this? He’d done it to himself, deliberately, but still—
“What breaks as soon as you say its name?” Edward asked.

“No riddles.”

“I’m right here, Bruce. I’m no one else but me. Are you going to fuck me, or are you going to
spend the next hour examining me to determine my state of mind? Give me a twenty-question
survey? Attach some electrodes to my scalp to measure my brainwaves, perhaps? Maybe for you,
that’s like foreplay.”

“You’re acting strange.”

“When have I ever not acted strange? By the way, the answer to the riddle is either ‘silence’ or
‘me.’”

“Edward…”

A small shiver rippled through him, and his eyes went soft and fuzzy. “Every time,” he
murmured. One hand drifted up to cup Bruce’s cheek, sliding over the slight roughness of stubble.

Bruce caught his wrist. “This is important. If you can’t talk to me seriously for one minute, this is
not going to happen.”

“Always so stubborn,” Edward muttered. “Everything is on your terms.” He tugged his hand free,
then stretched out on his side, rested his elbow on the pillow and propped his cheek up on one fist,
gazing at Bruce. He didn’t shy from eye contact, the way he usually did. “What are you afraid of,
Bruce Wayne? Is it me? Do I disturb you, when I’m like this?”

Bruce tensed. “I’m not afraid.”

Edward gazed at him steadily with those all-swallowing eyes. “Oh,” Edward said quietly. “I see.
It’s yourself. You’re afraid of what you might do if you really let go. Of who you might become.”
His lips were parted, his breathing a little heavier. “You're always holding back. It must get so
tiring, being the good one.”
Bruce’s mind flashed back to when he’d first kidnapped Edward, Edward’s words: You’d enjoy it,
you know. Torturing me. I don’t doubt you’d be good at it. With all that stored-up rage, all that
darkness…

He flinched.

“There. You see?”

Edward was too smart sometimes.

They were drawn to the darkness in each other. That wasn’t all of it, but it was part of it. There
was no point in pretending otherwise. Their relationship had begun with the Riddler drawing
Batman into his bloody game—with Bruce stalking and drugging Edward and shoving him into the
trunk of a car.

Images flickered behind his eyes. Bruises on that pale flesh, standing out like brands...red blood…

“Would it really be so bad?” His hand crept toward Bruce again, lifted. One finger brushed lightly
over his lips. “To just let go? Do you think I’ll shatter?”

But Edward was still practically a virgin. And when he wasn’t in a self-induced trance, he became
easily overwhelmed by touch. He’d found ways to temporarily dial down that fear, but it was still
there, beneath the surface. He was—

“My dark knight,” Edward whispered, moving in closer, crawling toward him. “Bruce Wayne. So
chivalrous. So noble.” He reached out. “You’ve already been so patient. In so many ways.” His
fingers slipped beneath the elastic waist of Bruce’s boxers.

Is he going to—?

Edward tugged Bruce’s pajama pants and boxers down, exposing his erection. His gaze focused
on the straining flesh, and he licked his full pink lips. “Just look at you,” he whispered. “How this
must ache.”
Bruce’s thoughts careened in circles, crashing into each other.

Edward’s head started to lower, lips opening.

“Hey.” Bruce cupped Edward’s cheek, lifting his face. His thumb brushed the corner of Edward’s
mouth. “Edward. Listen. We—”

Edward’s lips parted. His tongue slipped out to lick the pad of Bruce’s thumb, a quick flesh of
wetness and heat—then he bit it, teeth squeezing lightly around the knuckle. Bruce watched,
spellbound, as Edward’s lips closed around his knuckle and he began to suck, a steady tugging
motion, smooth cheeks drawing inward. Edward’s gaze lifted, meeting his. Bruce’s thumb slid out
of his mouth with a soft pop, and Edward licked his lips. “I like how you taste,” he said.

Edward moved slowly, deliberately. He pushed Bruce gently down to the bed, nudged his thighs
apart, and lay down between them, stomach-down, face hovering directly over his groin. Bruce
watched, dizzy, as Edward lowered his head again. His tongue lapped over the head of Bruce’s
cock, a quick dart. Then his lips opened more fully, and—

Oh.

Wow.

Bruce watched, frozen. That soft, wet mouth had enveloped just the head of his dick. Edward’s
tongue swirled over and around it. He pulled back. A thread of saliva hung suspended briefly
between his lower lip and the tip of Bruce’s cock, shining, then snapped. “I’ve always wanted to
try this.” His breath feathered over taut flesh. He ran a finger slowly down Bruce’s length.
“Sometimes I would imagine seducing you. The Batman. Sometimes I'd fantasize about you
forcing me to do it. Me on my knees in my filthy little apartment, you standing over me, dark and
imposing, your gloved hand fisted in my hair…”

Bruce gulped. His dick jerked.

“You like that idea. Of course you do.”

Edward’s mouth engulfed him again, lips sliding down rigid flesh. Bruce gasped.

So wet. So soft.

No. Wait. This wasn’t—Edward wasn’t—

Edward’s mouth tugged, and again Bruce’s thoughts crumbled, spinning off in every direction.
Edward hummed, and Bruce felt the vibration in his flesh. He descended, then lifted his head
again. Bruce’s cock slipped out of his mouth, and he licked his lips. “You could do that, you
know. You could fuck my throat.”

“Edward.” His voice emerged as a weak croak.

“You’re so big. You would fill my mouth. My jaws would stretch wide until I heard the joints
clicking in my ears as you pushed your way into me, your fingers tight in my hair—”

Jesus. Bruce's hands fisted on the sheets. He groaned.

“Things don’t have to be sweet all the time."

He engulfed Bruce again. As he descended, his teeth grazed the flared edge of the head, and Bruce
twitched. For some reason, it was that—the scrape of teeth—that broke the last thread of his
control. He grabbed Edward’s hair in one hand, anchoring his head in place. Edward let out a
muffled gasp, his body stiffening. Bruce’s hips surged forward, up, pushing in deeper, stretching
those soft lips wide open as his hand pushed Edward’s head down. Up and up, his hips bucking,
spasmodic thrusts. Something bestial in his brain seized control. His body moved blindly,
straining toward the heat and slickness of Edward's throat.

Edward made a little choked sound, halfway between a hiccup and a burp. The muscles of his
throat constricted visibly, and Bruce felt that, felt Edward’s gag reflex kick in and squeeze the tip
of his cock. Edward’s eyes went blank, glassy.

Bruce gave his hair a sharp tug, then pushed. Again. Again. Again.
Edward let out a faint whine.

There was distress in the sound; it hit Bruce like a splash of ice-water. This was hurting him.

Bruce’s dick pushed into Edward’s throat once more before his mind caught up to it and slammed
on the brakes.

Bruce released his hair and Edward pulled back, coughing, eyes watering. He let out another one
of those hiccupping burps, as though he’d chugged a can of soda too fast.

“Shit,” Bruce said, breathless. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Edward coughed again. His face was bright red. A line of drool hung suspended from his lower
lip. He wiped it away. “No, I’m—I’m okay. L-let me try again.”

“Your body’s not used to this.”

“They make it look so easy in porn,” he wheezed.

“Let me get you a glass of water. Okay? I’ll be right back.”

He climbed out of bed, disoriented. His dick was still erect and wobbling, his pants down around
his knees, and he nearly tripped over them; he shucked them off and hurried into the adjoining
bathroom. There was already an empty glass in there, since Bruce got thirsty at night sometimes
and he didn’t like drinking directly from the tap. He filled the glass now and brought it back to
Edward, who was sitting huddled on the bed, hugging his knees. Another small cough erupted
from him.

“Really, Bruce, this is not—”

“Just drink. Slowly.”

Edward took a small swig from the glass, then another. Bruce lay a hand on the side of his face.
His thumb stroked Edward’s soft cheek. “You okay?”

He nodded, gaze downcast, cheeks brightly flushed. His coughing had subsided. He finished the
water and set the empty glass on the dresser. “This is not how I imagined this going,” he
muttered. His voice had shifted; he sounded subdued, almost sheepish.

"I mean, it's the first time we tried something like that."

“I’m so bad at this.”

“You were doing fine. It—it felt incredible. I’m the one who grabbed your hair and started
shoving—”

“I wanted you to do that. I wanted you to lose control. I thought…” He trailed off.

Bruce took Edward’s face between his hands, examining him again, and a small knot inside his
chest loosened. He could see the change—could feel it, like a shift in Edward’s energy. He was
back. And it reassured Bruce, to know that he was capable of discerning that shift. Edward liked
to toy with his own mind. Like changing outfits, he’d said.

“You play dangerous games sometimes,” Bruce said.

Edward’s gaze shifted away. “Have I done something terrible?” he said in a faint voice. “Are you
angry at me?”

“No. No, no, I just want to understand why you feel like you have to hypnotize yourself to do
things like this.”

Edward raised his eyes, then lowered them again. “I get…overwhelmed. And I can do things in
that state that I can’t normally. I didn’t want to freeze up. I wanted—” he swallowed. “I wanted
us to be together without inhibitions. I wanted to embrace your darkness. To show you that I
could.”

Bruce hesitated. Experimenting, pushing boundaries—he understood that. The flirtation with
danger. But they were both still learning each other's limits. “We have plenty of time, you know.”

“Do we?”

“Of course.”

Edward was silent. “You’re disturbed,” he said.

“A little. More at myself than you, though. I hurt you. I saw the fear in your eyes.”

A smile tightened Edward’s lips. “You try to take everything onto your own shoulders. Even
now, I don’t think you properly understand how fucked up I am. The ways I’ll ruin you.” He
pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You seem to have forgotten that I’m a manipulative
psychopath. That I like to play these sick games.”

“You aren’t a psychopath.”

“Are you really going to say that? After everything?”

“You don’t fit the diagnostic criteria. True psychopaths don’t experience remorse or shame.
They’re incapable of affective empathy. You experience both shame and empathy. Even if you try
to hide it.”

Edward let out a cracked laugh.

“Do you want me to be afraid of you?” Bruce asked quietly. “Do you want me to see you as an
irredeemable monster?”

Edward didn’t answer.

Bruce gathered him into his arms, pulling him close. Edward tensed. He started to pull away…
then pressed closer, gripping a handful of Bruce’s shirt. He brought it to his face, rubbed his cheek
against it and pressed it to his nose, smelling. Bruce recalled him doing something similar with his
cape when he was Batman, one of the first times he held him. The smell of Bruce’s clothes
seemed to calm him. His arms tightened a little around Edward. He leaned in and kissed his
forehead. Edward’s lashes flickered in surprise.

“Talk to me. Help me understand what’s happening in your mind right now.”

Silence.

“I know it’s hard. Talking. But you’re still a mystery to me in so many ways. You say you freeze
up. I’ve seen it happen. It happened the first time I kissed you. Why? Is it just the sensory
overload? Or…”

Edward lowered his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m like this. It’s not like…”

“Like what?”

“I was hurt a lot of ways, as a child. But…not like that. Not really.”

Bruce waited, holding him.

Edward was silent for a minute or two. And then he began to speak in a low monotone, like a
sleep-talker.

“There was another boy. In the orphanage. A few years older than me. He said that he would be
my friend if I…if I did something for him. I was ten years old, and I didn’t have any friends, so I
agreed, without even really understanding what I was agreeing to. We went into the bathroom, and
he took off his pants, and…I didn’t understand what was going on. I panicked at the last second
and started yelling. He punched me in the face and said, ‘This is why no one likes you’ and
walked out.”

“Edward…”

“I barely even think about it these days. Everything that happened to me there, it all just…blurs
together.”
Bruce cradled Edward against his chest, holding his head to his shoulder. His hand moved
rhythmically, fingers combing through his hair. “You don’t need sex to bind me to you,” Bruce
said. “You know that. Right? Whatever we do or don’t do, the way I feel about you won’t
change. I’ll still be your friend.”

Edward’s breathing hitched.

“I told you once that there would never be a price for this,” Bruce said. “I meant it.”

“There’s a price for everything,” Edward whispered. “That’s the way the world is. If not this,
then what is your price?”

“Love doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry that no one ever showed you that.” Bruce’s fingertips
grazed his cheek. “Have you…” His throat tightened. He swallowed and forced himself to ask
the question, “Is that why you offered yourself to me, that first time? Because you thought you
had to?”

There was a silence that seemed to drag on forever. “No,” Edward whispered at last. “I...I want
this. With you. I’ve thought about it so many times. I was hoping, really truly hoping that it
would happen tonight. I hate that I’m scared. It’s—it’s so fucking absurd. I’m practically middle-
aged, and after everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve done, I still crumble to pieces. And now
you’re not even going to want to touch me because I’m so fucking pathetic. I’m broken. I’m
useless. I’m barely even human anymore, I’m just this...this wreckage, this—”

Bruce placed his fingers on Edward’s cheek, turned Edward’s face toward him, and kissed him
softly on the lips.

Edward’s eyes slipped shut. His lips quivered against Bruce’s, then slowly went still.

“You are humanity itself,” Bruce said.

Edward looked up at him with an unreadable expression.

“I’m glad you told me what happened. I feel like I understand better now.”
“Nothing even happened,” Edward muttered.

An experience like that would have been traumatic and confusing for any child. But of course, it
was more than that. Edward had gone most of his life receiving very little in the way of affection
or positive touch, but he’d been frequently bullied and punished. He was starved for love, but on a
deep level, he’d learned to associate touch with being hurt. So he'd learned to shut down certain
parts of his mind in order to bypass that. He was clever, resilient. He'd gotten so good at it. But
there was a cost.

He was so complex. Bruce could spend years learning to navigate the waters of his mind. Maybe
he'd been naive, to think he understood Edward on some deep, intuitive level.

“I can just hold you all night, if you like."

Silence. Edward sniffled a little, faintly.

"Or…if you really want to try again, we can,” Bruce said. “But if you feel yourself start to
disassociate, I need you to tell me."

"It's...hard, sometimes."

"We could have a code-word. If that makes it easier.”

Edward's head lifted. “You mean…like a safeword?”

“Yes. If you want me to slow down or stop—at any point—just say it.”

He stared at Bruce for a few seconds, his brows knitted, as though trying to work out a math
problem in his head. “Really?”

Bruce nodded.
“What—what word?”

“You choose.”

After a few more heartbeats of silence, Edward said, “Winter.”

“Okay.”

Edward whispered, “We can try? Again?”

A nod. Neither one of them moved. “Do you want to just…touch me?" Bruce asked. "Or…”

“I want you to touch me.”

He thought about what Edward had told him earlier. His half-joking remark about Bruce chaining
him to the bed again, how he might find it calming to be restrained.

Bruce nudged the covers aside. Gently—slowly—he pushed Edward down to the bed, wrapped
his fingers around Edward’s wrists and spread his arms, pinning them in place. Edward tensed a
little. Bruce straddled him, keeping his wrists pinned in place, a loose crucifixion pose.

“I’m just going to hold you like this for a moment,” Bruce said.

Edward’s chest rose and fell. His mouth was open. Bruce saw the faintest flicker of fear in those
eyes before they went soft and fuzzy. Bruce’s hands remained where they were, anchored around
his wrists. He was conscious of the difference in physical strength between them, how easy it had
been to immobilize Edward. He didn’t even need to chain him. His own hands were enough.

Bruce lowered his head, slowly, and kissed Edward’s jaw, his neck. Edward’s breathing sped.
Bruce’s lips grazed his earlobe, and a tiny sound escaped his throat. His body arched up off the
bed, and his eyes squeezed shut.

“I’ll keep going,” Bruce murmured. “Until you say the word.”
Edward gave a little nod.

Bruce leaned down and kissed his temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. He
pressed his lips to Edward’s—that soft, full mouth. “Do you still want the light off?” Bruce asked.

“I—” his voice creaked a little. He swallowed. He seemed caught off-guard, a little lost, as though
the question had jarred something loose in his head. “No. Leave it on.”

Bruce nodded. He released Edward’s wrists. His hand slid down his side, under Edward’s t-shirt;
his fingers slipped under the elastic waistband of his sweatpants and gently tugged them down,
exposing his erection.

Their first time had been so hurried and desperate, full of fumbling need. This was the first time
he’d really looked at this part of Edward. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around it. Around him.
His hand nearly swallowed it up. He liked that. How well they fit.

He ran his thumb gently over the head of his cock, smearing the bit of precum there. He could feel
Edward pulsing in his grip. After a moment, he released him and carefully cupped his balls, which
were already full and tight; he felt the slight roughness of their surface, the tickle of fine, light
brown hairs. Edward made a little hiccupping sound and squirmed under the touch. Bruce paused,
meeting his eyes briefly, checking the emotional weather there…then one finger slipped behind his
balls. He could feel the dip in flesh there, the small, tight folds.

“I’m…” Bruce’s voice emerged thin and scratchy. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m
going to try putting a finger inside you.”

“Okay,” Edward whispered.

Lube. They needed lube for this.

Bruce reached over, opened the top drawer of the dresser next to the bed and fumbled until his
fingers closed around a bottle of massage oil that he used during the infrequent occasions when he
jerked off; it was more efficient than Vaseline. Now, he squirted some on his first two fingers and
reached in again. Edward twitched a little.
“Cold,” he whispered breathlessly.

“Sorry.” He swallowed, one fingertip resting against that tight ring of muscle.

He’d done anal stuff before—twice, to be exact—but it had been such a long time. And his
partner, back then, had been much more experienced than Bruce, able to direct him. Bruce wasn’t
accustomed to being the more experienced one. He wondered if Edward had ever put anything up
here, if he’d ever used a buttplug or his fingers to stimulate himself, or if this was entirely new
territory for him.

Mouth dry, he pressed lightly. Tight. He wriggled his finger, maneuvering his way past the
resistance.

“Hnn…” Edward gulped. His eyelids fluttered.

Bruce pushed a little deeper, until he could feel the clenched ring of muscle hugging his knuckle.
Edward gazed up at him, dazed. His free hand clenched on the sheets, kneading them, as Bruce
moved deeper still, until he felt a smooth swell. He could just reach it with his fingertip, feel its
firmness and the slight give…

The ring of muscle clenched tighter. “Ah-ahhh—”

“Edward?”

He writhed on the sheets, mouth opening wider. It was hard to read the faces he was making.
He’d gone a little cross-eyed.

“Edward, is—is this good or bad? Am I—”

“G-good,” he gasped. His cock twitched. “It’s just—ah. Mm.”

Was this too much? Maybe he should just focus on stimulating him externally for now.
“Another,” Edward whispered.

“What?”

“Put another inside me.”

Bruce’s heart jumped. He eased his middle finger carefully into Edward’s body. “You’re.” He
swallowed. “You’re very tight.” He moved his fingers in an awkward scissoring motion, trying to
loosen him up a little. Was his cock even going to fit in here? “Does this hurt?”

Edward’s expression had gone soft and open again. Dreamy. “It burns,” he whispered.

Bruce’s pulse thundered. He pressed his fingers a little more firmly against that swell, and Edward
twitched and squeaked like a chew toy. I could make him cum just like this, Bruce thought with
wonder. Just touching this spot. Or he could bring Edward right to the edge, keep him there…

Another time.

He fell into a rhythm, fingers moving in and out, advancing and then retreating. His left hand was
still wrapped around Edward’s left wrist, holding it down. Edward’s eyes slipped shut. His hips
had begun to move, pushing down, bringing Bruce’s fingertips more firmly against his prostate.

Bruce’s own cock was rigid and aching, but he ignored it. His attention remained utterly focused
on Edward.

God, he was so fucking beautiful. His face changed with every small movement inside him. His
eyes squeezed shut, and when they opened again, they were greener than Bruce had ever seen
them, thin mossy rings around black pools.

Bruce wet his lips. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s good, Edward. So good.”

Edward froze. Bruce felt him tighten, clenching up.

Shit. Had he said something wrong? Edward seemed to like being praised, before. “Are you—?”

“Fine,” he whispered. “I’m fine, it’s just—” he was blinking rapidly. For a moment Bruce thought
he saw the glint of tears at the corners of his eyes, and then it vanished. “Please. Don’t stop.”

After a half-second, he kept going. As he did, he leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips.
When he pulled back, Edward’s free hand drifted up to caress Bruce’s face.

“You’re so pretty,” Edward whispered. He sounded astonished, as though seeing Bruce for the
first time. One finger touched the skin under Bruce’s right eye, trailed through the dark paint
which he hadn’t bothered to wash off. “How are you so pretty?” His fingertips trailed down to
Bruce’s lips.

Bruce kissed them, one by one.

Edward stared up at him raptly. A spectrum of emotions—too many to sort through—moved

across his face.

No—he was no psychopath. He was capable of inducing a state of psychopathy in himself,

transforming himself into a weapon, but it was not his natural state. This was a man who felt and
felt deeply. He had learned to bury his emotions specifically because they were so powerful and
overwhelming. If he allowed himself to feel everything all the time, he would collapse in on
himself like a dying star. But it was all there, inscribed indelibly. Every injustice, every scar.
Every need and desire. Every private fantasy. Like dozens of journals crammed into the shelves of
his mind, a record of everything he had ever seen and felt and thought, a self-contained universe, a
library filled with the code of Edward Nashton.

They were both so inexperienced at this. There would be mistakes. But he wanted to try. He
wanted it so badly. Let me, please, let me love him, let it work, let me give him this.

“I want you inside me,” Edward said, his voice unsteady.

The words, Are you sure? rose up into Bruce’s throat. He swallowed them. He had to trust
Edward. He was saying this now, unaltered.

Breathing raggedly, Bruce pulled his fingers out, tugged his pajama pants and boxers down, and—
with a shaky hand—squirted some lube onto his own cock, slicking it. He crawled forward,
straddling Edward. “Lift your hips,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Edward did. Bruce pushed forward. His own hips jerked; his cock missed the mark and rubbed
against the left cheek of Edward’s ass, leaving a smear of precum. He tried again.

This was more difficult than he remembered. He’d topped before, both times he’d done this, and it
had gone fairly smoothly. Now…Bruce was rock-hard, and he was pushing, but it wouldn’t go in.
Was it just that Edward was tighter?

“Bruce?”

“Hang on. Let me—” he reached down, maneuvering himself. He pushed again. Still no give.

Edward let out a compulsive, hiccupping giggle, which sounded more nervous than amused. “Oh
dear. This isn’t working, is it?”

“Are you nervous?”

“Do you really need to ask?"

Bruce thought about saying try to relax, but of course, trying to relax was a paradox. That would
probably just make him more self-conscious. “I could keep fingering you,” Bruce said. “Maybe if
I just loosen you a little more—”

“I'm sorry." Anxiety edged into his voice. "I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to do
this. I do.”

“Okay,” Bruce said, breathless. “Maybe—maybe we just need more lube.” He grabbed the bottle
again and squirted some more onto both himself and Edward, then re-maneuvered himself and
pushed in again. He was expecting more resistance, so he pushed hard and fast and before he knew
it his entire length was buried inside Edward’s body.

Edward gasped, eyes flying open. “Jesus!”

Bruce froze. “Are you—?”

He gulped. “I’m okay. Just—give me a minute.”

For a moment they both remained still, breathing heavily, looking into each other’s eyes. Edward’s
face was brightly flushed, his lips parted. Bruce remained motionless, buried inside him. Edward
made a tiny sound, and his eyes started to glaze over.

“Edward. Look at me.”

His gaze snapped into focus.

“I love you,” Bruce said.

Edward swallowed. He gripped Bruce’s shoulders. His fingertips dug in. He was trembling.

“I love you,” Bruce said again. He touched Edward’s cheek. “This can stop. Whenever you
want.”

After a few seconds, Edward whispered, “Keep going.”

“Breathe, okay?”

Edward let out a gust of breath. The tightly-clenched ring of muscle around Bruce’s cock loosened
a little. Bruce rocked back, then forward. He could feel Edward’s erect cock rubbing against his
stomach with each push. Edward’s fingernails dug harder into his shoulder, small, sharp points of
pain. As Bruce moved against him, inside him, he felt the urge building to cum, and it took
everything in him not to give himself over and thrust hard and fast into that tight, slick hole—
because god Edward felt good around him, he felt right.

So this is what it’s supposed to feel like, he thought, dazed.

Edward made a small sound. “W…”

Bruce froze. He waited, his whole body quivering with the effort of restraint.

He’d been about to say winter. Hadn’t he? Bruce started to pull back, out, but Edward’s legs
hooked around his, dragging him back in. Bruce groaned, his whole body shuddering atop
Edward’s. Edward’s fingertips dug into his shoulders again, anchoring him there.

“Don’t stop,” Edward whispered. “Don’t, don’t, don’t. Please.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Just. Just talk to me. Keep talking to me.”

It was difficult to form words right now. But he nodded. His hips pushed forward again. I’m
inside him, he thought, dazed. It was really happening. “Edward,” he said. “Edward Nashton.”

Slowly, Edward began to move with him, meeting his thrusts.

Bruce lowered his head, lips brushing Edward’s ear. “I’m here,” he murmured. “I see you,
Edward Nashton.”

His breathing quickened.

Bruce felt himself slipping deeper. He was sinking through water. He closed his eyes, and he was
in the ocean, the shimmer of sunlight receding above him. He was swimming down, down, toward
another faint, wavering point of light, a fairy-shimmer, a single star in a blue-black void. “I see
you.”

Edward’s short, jerky breaths filled Bruce’s ears.

Down and down, through him, into him. It seemed he could hear the whisper of Edward’s
quicksilver thoughts all around him, brushing past him like schools of fish. That point of light
expanded, filling his inner vision. Yes. There, there, there. Right there.

“I see you.”

“Bruce…”

So warm…

The light enveloped him, cocooned him. This was Edward—not his body, but something deeper,
some essential spark that made him himself. It was so unexpectedly pure, so clear. Bruce could
exist here forever, could spend eternity bathed contently in that light, like an embryo floating in a
womb. I’ve found you, Bruce thought. I’ve found you.

Bruce opened his eyes and gave himself over to the need. His hips moved of their own accord,
pistoning up and down, in and out. Little whuffs escaped Edward with each thrust. His nails
scrabbled at Bruce’s shoulders. His eyes started to roll back in his head. A high-pitched moan
quivered in his throat.

So beautiful—so—

“Hhhnn!”

Bruce wasn’t sure which one of them had made the sound.

The light brightened, filling his head, whiting out his thoughts. It swallowed him whole. He was
dissolving into it, passing through, beyond, into another place.

He flopped down on top of Edward, gasping for breath. Their bodies were drenched with sweat;
he could feel the heat and slickness of Edward’s cum on his stomach, where his shirt had ridden
up. He lifted his head, dizzy, to meet Edward’s gaze again. A line of drool ran from the corner of
Edward’s mouth. His glasses were crooked, knocked askew. Slowly, Bruce reached up to adjust
them. His erection was fading inside Edward, but he didn’t want to pull out of him just yet. He
didn’t want this to end.
Tears streaked Edward’s temples, shining in the lamplight. Bruce felt a subtle tightening in his
chest. “Hey…”

“Mm?”

Bruce pulled back, tugging free of Edward’s body. He looked down and noticed the faint thread of
blood glistening on his own cock, mixed in with the shine of lube. His stomach clenched. Edward
was bleeding. What had he done? “Edward. You’re hurt.”

His brows knitted. “What? Where?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Edward glanced at Bruce’s cock and said, “Oh.” He slowly lifted his own hand and stared at his
fingertips. They glistened red. “Look,” he said, with a tone of wonder. He turned his hand back
and forth, as though he were examining fresh nail polish.

Bruce blinked. Vaguely, he remembered Edward’s nails digging into his shoulders. Edward must
have scratched him hard enough to break the skin. Bruce had barely felt it.

“We’ve both drawn blood from each other,” Edward whispered. “It’s okay.” He smiled.

Bruce caught his wrist, looking at his bloodstained fingertips. He rubbed his thumb over Edward’s
palm. “Your nails are so short. I wouldn’t have thought you could do that much damage with
them.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Bruce’s thumb traced a circle in his palm, then rubbed over Edward’s knuckles.

“Hold me,” Edward said.

Bruce hugged him close, tight. One hand slid into Edward’s hair, anchoring his head against his
shoulder.

Edward’s face turned. His hands drifted up to frame Bruce’s face between them, and he caught his
lips in a kiss. He was humming—a soft, tuneless, nearly inaudible hum, more vibration than
sound. He broke the kiss and nestled into Bruce’s chest.

They sank to the bed, tangled up in each other’s limbs.

He still felt as though he were emerging from…whatever had happened to him just before he
came. The vision had been so intense, so real. Almost like the waking dreams that came to him
sometimes in a deep state of meditation. He felt as though something within him had shifted. A
part of him wanted to talk about it, to ask Edward if he’d experienced anything similar—but at the
same time, it seemed that words could only cheapen the moment. The soft, amber glow of the
lamp filled the room, turning Edward’s hair the color of honey in dim sunlight.

At last, Bruce broke the silence. “Do you want to shower?”

Edward gripped a handful of Bruce’s shirt, twisting it around his fingers. He shook his head. “I
like how this feels.”

“We can stay like this then.” He glanced down at his shirt, stained with Edward’s cum. “Let me
take this off, at least.” He shucked his shirt off, letting it drop to the floor—he could put it in the
laundry basket later—turned off the lamp, and pulled Edward close again.

Edward’s forehead sank back to Bruce’s bare chest. His soft breaths echoed through the darkness.
He was silent for so long, Bruce began to wonder if he’d drifted off to sleep. Then he whispered,
“Did that really happen?”

“Did what?”

“Did I really feel you inside me?”

Bruce had the sense that he was talking about more than the physical penetration. “Yes,” he said.
Edward’s face remained hidden against him.

They lay together, pressed close under the sweat-damp covers. In the morning, Bruce thought,
they could wash up and then have breakfast together. They could sit at the table. The idea of
waking up with Edward at his side felt, in that moment, too impossibly good to be real.

Something had changed. He examined the ancient scar inside himself, the one left by his parents'
death. It was still there, of course. It still hurt. But the nature of the hurt had shifted.

“I’ve always wondered,” Edward said, his voice soft and detached. “Why a bat?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “You’re asking this now?”

“I mean, it makes sense. Bats come out at night. But I suspect there’s some deeper reason. Some
symbolism.”

“I like bats.”

A pause. “Really? That’s it?”

“I’ve always liked them. I wanted a flying fox for a pet when I was a kid. My parents indulged me
in a lot of things, but they refused me that. Can’t really blame them—I’m not sure if it’s even legal
to own one.”

Edward blinked a few times. Then he hid his face against Bruce’s shoulder and started to giggle.

“What?” Bruce said, puzzled. “All kids have a favorite animal. I mean…there are other reasons.
When I was first preparing myself to walk this path, as a vigilante, I meditated. I asked for
guidance, seeking the shape my new self would take, and I had a vision of a giant bat materializing
out of the darkness—”

Edward was giggling out of control now, breathless and flushed.

“Oh come on. It isn’t that funny.”

“Yes. Yes it is.” His arms tightened around Bruce’s waist. “You’re the funniest man I’ve ever
met.”

Bruce rested his chin on Edward’s hair. He smiled a little. “I guess it is sort of funny.” He could
ask where Edward had come up with his Riddler persona, but it seemed pretty self-evident. He’d
said it himself—he’d always loved little puzzles. “What’s your favorite song?” he asked instead.

“I have a lot of favorite songs.”

“One of them, then.”

“It’s nerdy. You haven’t heard of it.”

“Try me.”

“’Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft’ by Klaatu.”

“I haven’t—wait. I might’ve heard it. A woman sings it, right?”

“You’ve probably heard the Karen Carpenter cover. It’s more famous than the original.”

Bruce reached over, feeling around on the dresser until his fingers closed around his phone. He
turned on the sound and opened up a browser.

“Oh god, are you looking it up? It’s not going to be your thing.”

“I listen to stuff other than Nirvana, you know.” He brought up the song, set the cell phone on the
pillow, and folded his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
Birdsong, grass rustling, footsteps. Then a soft, sweetly alien-sounding melody and a breathy
androgynous voice.

“I like it,” Bruce said.

Edward smiled. “Sure.”

“I do. It’s soothing. And it’s…hopeful. I don’t know. It’s very you.”

Edward lay curled on his side, close to Bruce. “That’s ‘me’?”

“Yeah.”

They listened, together, until the song faded into silence.

“Do you think change is possible?” Edward asked quietly. “Real change, I mean?”

“For Gotham, or…?”

“I don’t know. For everyone, I guess. Do you think there’s hope for us?”

“Of course I do. I mean, this fundraiser, for instance—”

“Oh. The fundraiser.”

“I really think it’s going to make a difference. I’ve already decided what I’m going to do.” His
gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. “My father pledged a billion dollars to Renewal. I’ll pledge a
billion, too, to the Gotham Housing Project. Except this time, it won’t be an empty promise. I’m
going to see it through.”

“A billion dollars,” Edward said. “A billion. It sounds like a made-up number. You can just…do
that? With a snap of your fingers?”

“Not exactly. I’ll have to sell Wayne Agriculture. It wasn’t an easy decision. Alfred and Lucius
keep reminding me that every choice I make affects our employees and that a lot of people will
lose their jobs, and Wayne Enterprises isn’t doing great as it is. A lot of people already think I’ve
lost my mind. Lucius has been very concerned. He calls it ‘financial self-harm’—as if that’s a
thing. But think of the good.” He rolled onto his side, facing Edward. “We can build homes.
Lots of them. Places where people with nowhere else to go can be safe.” He reached out and
twined his fingers through Edward’s. “And it doesn’t have to stop there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gotham’s mental health infrastructure is crumbling. Arkham is a relic from the nineteen-sixties.
We can give people more resources, fund programs, suicide prevention, awareness, medical
assistance programs—I mean, why haven’t I been doing this all along? I’m one of the few people
in this city who actually can. I’ll have to liquidate a lot of assets, but…fuck it. Right? I’ll sell off
every branch if I have to.”

Edward stared at him for a moment. His expression was difficult to read. “A lot of important
people aren’t going to be happy about you burning your empire to the ground.”

Bruce shrugged. “What are they going to do?” At Edward’s silence, he frowned. “I thought you’d
agree. What’s wrong?”

“We’re already risking so much by going to this fundraiser together. And with the recording about
to come out…”

“And I’ve told you, I don’t give a damn what people say about me. I know there’s risk. Change is
always risky. But if I don’t do something, then that speech I gave at the press conference was just
words.” With his thumb, he stroked a tiny, white scar on Edward’s knuckle. “This city is
wounded. We can heal it.”

“We? It’s your money. You don’t need me.”

“I do, though. I need your mind. You know this city’s rotting infrastructure better than anyone.
You’ve researched the corruption, the embezzlement. You’ve seen where the numbers don’t add
up and you understand better than I ever could. You know every turn and twist of the maze. I
need your help to make sure this doesn’t turn into another Renewal. Will you help me?”

Edward stared into his eyes. “Bruce…I want to. I do. But I’m so…so fucking scared.”

“What are you afraid of?”

His gaze shifted away. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

Bruce just kept stroking his knuckles. “It’s a lot right now. I know. You don’t have to make any
decisions tonight.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Edward’s forehead. “Let’s get some
sleep.”

***

Edward lay awake long after Bruce had drifted off, listening to his faint snores. When he rubbed
his thumb against the tips of his own fingers, he could still feel Bruce’s dried blood on his skin.
He brought his fingers to his mouth and pressed them against his lips.

His ass ached. It would probably ache tomorrow too. Even with lube and foreplay, the muscles in
there weren’t accustomed to being stretched in that particular way; there was still a slight burn, as
well. But it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. It was proof that it had happened—that he was alive,
that he was here, that he’d had sex—made love?—with Bruce Wayne. All of it was real.

He was tired, and warm, and safe—enclosed in this big, sturdy house, under these soft covers, next
to a man who controlled a fortune roughly equivalent to a small country’s GDP, who was an expert
in mixed martial arts, and who loved him with a fierce devotion that bordered on insanity. Edward
felt in his bones that Bruce would protect him from any threat. He was safer now, here, than he’d
ever been in his entire life.

Sure, a part of him still felt like the floor might collapse out from under them and send them both
plummeting into the depths of hell at any moment, but maybe that was just the PTSD talking.
Maybe it was all right to relax his guard, for one. Maybe in spite of everything, a happy ending
was possible for them.

Despite his exhaustion, some part of him resisted sleep, because he didn’t want this night to be
over. He looked at Bruce’s sleeping face in the dimness, the spill of dark hair over his brow, and
tried to brand the image deeply into his memory, to store it inside a locked drawer of his soul
where it couldn’t be touched.

Bruce looked younger when he was asleep—as most people did, Edward supposed. His face was
softer, more open. Easy to forget that he was younger, if only by a few years.

Bruce stirred. His breathing shifted. A small furrow appeared in his brow. He moaned under his
breath.

Bad dreams?

He moaned again, louder.

Slowly, Edward reached out. “Bruce. Bruce, it’s all right.” Awkwardly, Edward stroked his hair.

Bruce gave a start. His eyes opened a crack.

“It’s okay. Just a dream. You’re safe. I’m—I’m right here.”

Bruce didn’t seem fully awake. His eyes rolled beneath half-open lids, then closed again, and the
tension ebbed out of his muscles. Within moments, he was sleeping soundly once more.

Even the Batman had nightmares. Of course he did. That was why he’d become the Batman.

It was a strange feeling, being able to comfort another person. Having that power.

Edward still hadn’t spoken the words to him directly. He’d confessed to his group, before they
kicked him out, and he’d told Bruce through a cipher, but he’d never said them aloud. He wet his
lips, leaned over, and whispered them into Bruce’s sleeping ear now. “I love you.”

Bruce didn’t react. Perhaps he was too deeply asleep for words to reach him, now.
 “I love you, Bruce.” The words sounded small and lost in the darkness.

A clock ticked faintly. Somewhere in the house, he could hear the distant creak of footsteps—
Alfred walking around. Edward wondered how much he’d heard.

The bed was so big, so soft. The room felt as vast as a cavern. The air in a rich person’s house
smelled different; the omnipresent smog of Gotham was absent, filtered out, leaving it with an
artificial tang like carbonated water. Edward could hear the almost inaudible whoosh-whoosh of it
whispering through the vents, like the voices of ghosts.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter gets pretty graphic.

Content warning for (non-graphic) references to childhood sexual assault and

childhood trauma in general.

I forgot to mention in the last chapter's notes, the lines Edward uses (Can't you see
what your gentle insanities do to me? Rob me of anger and give me despair) come
from the song "Aldonza" from Man of la Mancha.

Thank you, once again, to all my readers. I don't respond personally to comments that
often, I realize, but I appreciate the feedback and continued support more than I can
say.
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes

Notes at the end.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Due to Wayne Manor's idiosyncratic design and the varying thickness of the old walls, certain
rooms were very nearly soundproof. In other rooms, you could drop a pin and the sound would
resonate throughout the house.

Last night, he had done his best to ignore the noise, most of which came from Edward. The high-
pitched moans sounded barely human, at times. Had Alfred overheard them with no prior
knowledge of what was happening, he might have assumed a feral cat was giving birth upstairs. Or
that a poltergeist had taken up residence in the bedroom.

He’d told himself that he would remain alert at all times while the Riddler was in his house, but he
was enormously tempted to put on a pair of headphones, play some Debussy, and pretend that none
of this was happening.

The sheets would need to be laundered tomorrow.

The next morning, when Alfred walked into the dining room, he found Bruce and Edward seated at
the table, wearing t-shirts and pajama pants and eating Lucky Charms. They both froze when he
entered, then glanced at each other. Bruce flushed.

As if it hadn’t been obvious enough…

Alfred folded his hands behind his back. “Good morning. There’s a pitcher of freshly squeezed
orange juice in the refrigerator, if you’d like some nutrients with your sugar.”

“Uh…sure,” Bruce said.

Bruce was barefoot; Edward was wearing socks, one foot crossed over the other under the table.
Alfred strode into the kitchen and started a fresh pot of coffee, as much for himself as for them.
He could feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind his brow. Caffeine usually helped with
that.

During Edward’s captivity, he and Alfred had had only one real conversation. Most of their
interactions had been brief—Alfred popping in every few hours to check on him or feed him,
Edward silent and blank-faced, his thoughts locked away. Alfred still didn’t have a clear sense of
who Edward—the man behind the Riddler—really was. There were moments when he seemed so
lost, so helpless. At other times, Alfred felt a cold, gut-deep certainty that this was all part of some
inscrutable game.

The Riddler had murdered at least three people, all in calculated and sadistic ways. A man like
that did not change so easily.

He fetched the pitcher of juice, along with two glasses. He set them on the table and filled them.
Edward took a swig. “It’s very good,” he said. After an awkward pause, he added, “Thank you.
For having me here.”

“Of course,” Alfred said. “You’re Bruce’s guest.” And quite a bit more, at this point. “Coffee,
Mr. Nashton? Bruce doesn’t usually drink it, but there’s a full pot, if you want some.”

“I’ll have a cup. Thank you.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

Alfred started to turn.

“I realize you have no reason to trust me,” Edward said.

Alfred hesitated, looking over one shoulder. Bruce had stopped eating; his spoon hovered halfway
between his mouth and the bowl.
Edward took another swallow of his orange juice. “When you’re in the same room as me, you’re
always on guard. Ready to tackle me and pin me to the floor if I make one wrong move.”

Alfred smiled, showing just a hint of teeth. “I’m hoping that won’t be necessary.”

“I don’t have any tricks up my sleeve,” Edward said. “I’m unarmed. And, well, look at me.” He
gestured toward his soft form.

“Appearances can be deceptive, Mr. Nashton. As you well know. You’ve proven yourself more
than capable.”

“I’m best at striking from the shadows. I can’t say I’d fare well in hand to hand combat against an
experienced opponent. There are probably three different ways you could kill me right now if you
wanted.”

“Four,” Alfred replied. “At least.”

“Alfred,” Bruce said quietly.

“It’s fine.” Edward took a bite of his Lucky Charms. “If I were in his shoes, I would be on guard,
too. I’m not planning to try anything, of course. But I’ve committed multiple atrocities. And I
considered you an enemy, once, before I knew who you really were. I’m sure he’s aware of that,
too.” He added a little more milk to his cereal from the half-gallon jug on the table.

“That milk is expired,” Alfred said. “I meant to pitch it last night. We have more.”

“It’s fine. I don’t like throwing food away. It won’t make me sick because it’s one day past its
date.”

Alfred let out a tense sigh. “Right, then.” Maybe he could make some biscuits with it later.

Edward drank the rest of his orange juice. He briefly met Alfred’s gaze, then looked away. “I
won’t be in your hair much longer. I have to be at the office today.”

The idea of the Riddler in an office, sitting in a cubicle…well, perhaps it wasn’t so strange. “Will
you need a ride, then?”

“I’ll drive him,” Bruce said.

Alfred opened his mouth to protest, then closed it.

“There’s something else,” Bruce said. “Edward is going to need a suit. He’s going with me to the
charity fundraiser.”

“Of course he is,” Alfred muttered.

“I was wondering if you could recommend a good store,” Bruce said. “I wanted to take him out
shopping after work, but, uh. I’ve never actually shopped for clothes before.”

Edward raised his eyebrows. “Never?”

“Not in an actual store,” Bruce said. “I don’t like going out in public. It attracts attention. I’ve
never needed to, anyway.”

“Naturally. Clothes just appear in your closet like magic,” Alfred said drily. “And you don’t wear
most of them. You’d prefer to keep rotating the same three t-shirts.”

“T-shirts are comfortable,” Bruce said. “When I’m not Batman, I barely leave the house. There’s
no point in getting dressed up.”

“You have more than one suit, then?” Edward asked.

“He has twelve,” Alfred said. “If you want to borrow one of his, I’m sure he wouldn’t object.”
“I’ll do that, then.”

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked. “I thought you might want to pick something out.”

“If you really have twelve suits in your closet, I’ll have my pick.”

“I can make adjustments to the fit, if necessary,” Alfred said.

Edward’s gaze returned to him. “You’re a tailor, too? Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Steer Bruce toward sensible life choices, apparently.”

Bruce frowned. Edward smiled a little. “You really would have to be a sorcerer, to do that.”

Alfred almost smiled back before catching himself. He started to walk toward the kitchen again, to
get a cup of coffee, and Edward called out, “What should I call you?”

He stopped. “Pardon?”

“Mr. Pennyworth? That’s your last name, isn’t it?”

After a pause, he muttered, “No one calls me that. It’s Alfred.” He walked into the kitchen. The
coffee had just finished percolating.

Even when Edward was chained, Alfred had been wary of him. Now he was free. And Bruce was
plainly willing to let down his guard around him. Every time Alfred looked at the Riddler he felt a
tense, savage protectiveness rear up in him—like a tiger watching a cobra slither toward its cub.

But Bruce was not a child, he reminded himself. And Alfred wasn’t his father. Regardless of how
he felt. Bruce had long ago made up his mind to walk this path, and Alfred had no real power to
stop him.
He could announce his resignation, if he were so inclined. But of course he wouldn’t do that. He
hadn’t left when Bruce declared his intention to become a vigilante, or when he started dressing up
as a bat during his nightly runs, or when he kidnapped a man who turned out to be a serial killer, or
when he announced that he was in love with said serial killer. Alfred had long since made himself
complicit in this madness. And Bruce had been alone with Edward many times, now. If this was
all some scheme of the Riddler’s, the end goal was not Bruce’s death. It was nothing so simple.

And there was a small, treacherous part of him that had begun to wonder—truly wonder—if
Edward Nashton had changed.

Bruce trusted this man. Completely. For the first time in nearly a decade—perhaps the first time
since his parents’ death—Bruce had made the choice to open his heart and his life to another
human being. It was a monumental thing. And the sheer force of his conviction had begun to
wear down Alfred’s guard. God knew the boy could be irrational and stubborn—when he set his
mind to something, he was nothing short of fanatical—but he was not a fool.

Of course, love makes people fools sometimes. Doesn’t it?

He poured the coffee.

“Do you like egg salad?” he asked, setting the mug in front of Edward.

“Yes. Why?”

“I’ll make you some egg salad sandwiches to take to work.”

Edward stared at him for a few seconds with an unreadable expression. Then he smiled and took a
sip of his coffee. “I hope you’re not going to poison them.”

“If I were inclined to do that, I’ve had ample opportunity.”

“The hot chocolate was amazing, by the way.”

Alfred nodded, turning away so Edward wouldn’t see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
 ***

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Bruce asked as they walked up the stairs.

“I have a little time before work,” Edward said. “I can take a look. I’m curious where in your
bedroom you’re hiding a closet big enough to keep a dozen suits.”

“It’s not in my bedroom. I just keep a few essentials in there. I have a separate room for most of
my clothes.”

“Oh.” Of course. There was a room for everything in this house.

They walked down the hall, past a Baroque-looking light fixture dripping with curled bronze
vines. Bruce opened a door and flipped a light-switch, revealing a room-sized closet, the walls
lined with clothes on hangers. A musty smell permeated the air; when Edward inhaled, it tickled
the back of his sinuses.

He surveyed the wonderland of clothes around him, all of them theoretically Bruce’s, even if some
of them had never touched his skin. He brushed one finger along the sleeve of a navy blue
sweater. The fabric was soft and rich. Dense. He wanted to roll around on it like a cat in catnip.
He thought about how it might look on Bruce—about how it might look on himself.

Edward had always chosen simple, utilitarian clothes, most of them from thrift stores. Aside from
his Riddler suit, he’d never particularly considered clothes a form of self-expression. He’d always
felt an inherent contempt toward the entire concept of fashion, which was the epitome of
decadence and frivolity, the playground of people with too much time and money. Now he felt
some hidden, ravenous part of himself awaken. He sensed that—given enough resources, and the
right prodding—he could become an absolute slut for clothes, for the sheer sensual pleasure of
them, the texture and smell of fabrics.

Better not to indulge that part of himself, maybe. He released the sleeve with a faint pang of regret.

“I think the suits are in back,” Bruce said. Edward followed him into the depths of the closet.
“Here.”
Edward examined the row of suits. They were arranged by color, from darkest to lightest. Edward
lifted a dark gray one, holding it by its hanger. It looked so pristine, he was almost afraid to touch
it. “I have to confess,” he murmured. “I have no idea how to pick out a suit.”

“You’re not much different from me, then. I mean, by now you’ve probably figured out that I’d be
completely useless without Alfred. Just choose a color you like.”

His eye roamed over the rainbow of suits and settled on a forest green one. He touched it lightly,
with one finger. “This?”

“Sure. Try it on.”

He hesitated, then slipped the suit jacket off the hanger and onto himself, over his t-shirt. “The
pants, too?”

Bruce nodded.

He stepped slowly out of his sweatpants and into the green slacks. Sure enough, everything fit,
more or less. He and Bruce were almost exactly the same height. Bruce had always felt physically
larger than him, but maybe that was because Edward was used to seeing him as Batman. The suit
made him seem bigger.

“There’s a mirror on the inside of the door,” Bruce said.

Edward turned toward it, and his heartbeat quickened. He touched his own chest— that’s me?
—self-consciously smoothing the fabric.

Bruce stood behind him, looking over his shoulder into the mirror. “The green almost matches
your eyes,” he said.

Edward lowered his gaze self-consciously. “This one,” he said. “I’ll wear this one.”

Bruce nodded. His hands settled on Edward’s arms, turning him slightly. “It’s a little loose in the
shoulders.”
“A little tight in the belly, too.” Edward rested a hand over the slight swell of his stomach—
unnoticeable in loose clothes, but a far cry from Bruce’s sleek, muscled abdomen.

“Shouldn’t be hard to adjust,” Bruce said. “Alfred can take your measurements later.”

Once it was adjusted, the suit would become his. Edward had never owned something like this
before. He’d worn a rented suit for job interviews, and while he didn’t know how to judge these
things, he was pretty sure this one was astronomically more expensive. He turned back and forth,
examining himself in the mirror.

Words floated like ghosts behind his eyes: Did he promise to take care of you? All that money, I
guess you’ll never have to worry about anything ever again.

He flinched.

“Edward?”

“It’s nothing.” He slipped the suit jacket off. “I should get ready for work. I, um. I don’t have
any of my own clothes with me. Could I borrow something a little less fancy? Just for today?”

“Of course. Take whatever you want.”

***

Shortly after, Bruce’s car pulled up in front of Edward’s office building. They hadn’t spoken much
during the drive. Edward glanced down at himself. He’d selected a velvety gray, button-down
shirt—long-sleeved, of course—and a pair of dark slacks. They were still higher quality than
anything he’d ever worn, but they were more understated than most of the clothes in Bruce’s
closet.

“Here we are,” Edward said.

“Yeah.” Bruce hesitated, eyes searching his face. “I’ll see you later? Tonight?”

“I’ll text you.”

Bruce nodded. Edward sat there for another few seconds, hands balled into fists in his lap. He
wanted to ask for a goodbye kiss, but it felt…risky. Even if the windows were tinted, he was in a
car, in public, with Bruce Wayne. Anything they did together was risky. His gaze darted from
Bruce to the office building. “Could you…”

Bruce took his chin between a thumb and forefinger, turned his face toward him, and caught his
lips in a kiss. It was soft and brief, but he felt the impact of it throughout his nervous system, a
tingling wave spreading from his lips, over the top of his skull and down his neck and spine before
feathering out through his limbs.

And now he was hard. Damn it. He ducked his head, covering his erection with both hands—
though of course that just drew more attention to it.

“Edward?”

“G-give me a minute.” He stared out the window and counted his breaths.

He was afraid to go in there, he realized. And not just because of the way his body was reacting
right now.

Had the recording been released onto the internet yet? Had his coworkers seen it? Would they
recognize his voice?

Regardless, stalling wouldn’t make this easier.

Once he had himself under control, he whispered, “Okay.” Then he opened the door and stepped
out.

“Oh. Here.” Bruce handed him a brown paper sack. “Lunch. From Alfred.”
The egg salad sandwiches—Edward had almost forgotten. He took it. “Tell him thank you.”

“I will.”

Edward started to walk away, and Bruce called, “Edward.”

He stopped.

“I love you.”

He said the words without hesitation—matter-of-factly, the way someone might say two plus two
equals four.

Edward closed his eyes for a few seconds. “I…” The words quivered in his throat. He
swallowed.

“It’s all right,” Bruce said.

Edward clutched the lunch sack tightly in one hand, the paper crinkling in his fingers. Even now,
he couldn’t say the words aloud to Bruce’s face. Not here. He felt ashamed of his own weakness.
He looked over one shoulder, meeting Bruce’s gaze, hoping that Bruce could see his feelings in his
eyes.

Bruce’s car remained parked on the corner, idling, as Edward walked toward the building’s main
entrance. With every step, the pit in his stomach deepened. He could still feel Bruce’s presence
behind him, warm and supportive, bolstering him up, but as soon as he entered the building, he
would be alone once more.

He entered, and the stale, artificial heat of the building washed over him. He bypassed the broken
elevator, took the stairs up, and stepped into the office.

A few coworkers mumbled good morning in his direction, then returned their attention to the
screens in front of them.

He stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, then walked to his own desk. His pulse drummed in
his wrists; his palms were slick with sweat. Discreetly, he dried them on his expensive slacks.

He’d resisted looking online until now. He knew he probably shouldn’t look it up on his work
computer, so he pulled out his cell phone and Googled “Bruce Wayne sex tape.” A few hits came
up, but they were ancient—speculation, rumors, gossip. Nothing real. Nothing recent.

He exhaled quietly and put his phone away. He felt lightheaded with relief, but a ball of tension
remained lodged low in his gut.

Why wouldn’t they have released it yet? Maybe they were waiting for the right moment, when it
would have the maximum impact.

Or maybe…

The group didn’t have anything tangible to gain by making that recording public. They hated
Bruce Wayne, of course, and any sex tape was a potential source of scandal, something that could
complicate his life. But it wouldn’t be enough to take him down. It was possible they’d decided to
hold onto it. Perhaps they thought that the looming threat was more useful than the actual impact
of releasing it. Perhaps they were simply busy with other things now, more urgent plants…which
wasn’t a reassuring thought. But regardless. Maybe he and Bruce had been granted a reprieve.

***

A few hours later, Edward sat in the break room, unwrapping the egg salad sandwich that Alfred
had made for him. Whole wheat bread, crusts cut off. He took a bite. The eggs were expertly
peppered and salted. There was a hint of something spicy—the mustard?

Exquisite.

He’d known Bruce long enough to have an idea of how he ate. Alfred’s skills were wasted on him.
Edward finished one sandwich and started in on the second. A second sandwich was an indulgence
he ordinarily wouldn’t have permitted himself, but because it had been made for him, it felt
ungrateful not to eat it. There was a green apple in the paper sack, too, and a small wedge of dark
chocolate which melted into bittersweet velvet on his tongue.

He was just finishing it off when Raj entered the room and sat down across from him. “So,” he
said, “have you seen this video?”

He froze. The chocolate turned to mud in his mouth. He swallowed. “What video?” he mumbled.

“It just came out this morning, apparently.”

Easy. Take it easy. Raj hadn’t connected the dots, or he wouldn’t be approaching Edward so
casually about this. Maybe he hadn’t recognized Edward’s voice. “You mean the Bruce Wayne
thing?” Edward asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Huh? No.”

Edward met his gaze. “Then...what?"

Raj’s expression was grim. “The Riddler,” he said. “He’s back.”

Edward stared.

“I mean, he hasn’t killed anyone else, not yet, but he released a new video this morning,” Raj said.
“They’re talking about it on the news.”

“Bella Reál also won the election, in case anyone is interested,” another voice said, and Edward
glanced up to see Rose pouring herself some coffee from the communal pot. He hadn’t even heard
her enter the room. “But then I guess a viral video from a psychopath is the bigger story.”

“I mean, we all knew she was gonna win,” Raj said. “The other guy is dead.”
“Well, I’m not even going to watch this new Riddler bullshit. You shouldn’t either. Creeps like
that thrive on attention. If you ask me, the news is being irresponsible to broadcast it. They’re just
sensationalizing the actions of a sick man.” She walked out, mug in hand.

Raj shrugged. “She’s right, probably. But I can’t not watch this stuff, you know? It’s like passing
a horrible car accident by the side of the road. You slow down whether you want to see it or not.”

Edward stared straight ahead, breathing shallowly. His stomach churned. “What does he say? In
the video?”

“It’s pretty cryptic.” Raj went to the refrigerator to grab a Coke. He opened it and took a swig.
“They showed a short version on the news but it doesn’t take much digging to find the real thing.
If you’re gonna watch it, though, I wouldn’t do it while you’re eating. It gets a little gross.”

He walked out.

Edward exhaled shakily and pulled out his phone.

Sure enough, it only took a minute to find the full video, linked on a message board. Mouth dry, he
tapped the link with his thumb. The video opened.

For a moment, he felt as though he were looking at himself. The Riddler’s face stared into the
camera, head enveloped in shrink-wrap and tape, eyes glinting behind the lenses of his glasses.
The lighting was low, the visibility poor, but he could see that this other Riddler was in a grimy
apartment not so different from his own. Raspy breathing echoed. In and out.

“Hello, people of Gotham.” The voice was so heavily distorted—both by the mask and audio
effects—that it sounded more alien than human, a mechanical buzz filled with static and clicks.
“This is the Riddler speaking. I have a new riddle for you.” The Riddler leaned in, face filling the
screen. His eyes were still lost in shadow, faint glints, like shards of glass in a night alley. “How
much do you really know about the people you love most? How much do they really know about
you? For that matter…how much do you know about yourself?”

A faint ringing filled Edward’s head.

The face withdrew. “Let’s do an experiment.” The camera turned.

A small, gray rat lay on its back on a board on a tabletop, its forelegs spread, paws skewered with
pins, its hind-legs bound together with rubber bands. It was motionless, sedated, but Edward could
see the slight up and down movement of its chest. Alive.

“It can’t move,” the alien voice buzzed, “but it’s conscious. It can still feel the pain.” A gloved
hand, holding a serrated knife, moved toward the tiny body. The rat twitched when the tip of the
knife touched its stomach. When the blade pressed down, the rat’s tiny chest fluttered, and its eyes
bulged out. Blood welled up and trickled down in a dark rivulet as the knife slid down.

The knife withdrew. The camera refocused on the Riddler’s face.

“That rat is not the subject of this experiment, by the way. You are. So. Take note of your own
reaction. Are you horrified? Are you fascinated? Do you think I’m sick?” More rasping breaths.
“There is suffering all around you. Our society is built on a foundation of suffering. Our clothes,
our food, the gas filling up our cars—it was all purchased with the misery of others. You step over
the bodies of the less fortunate on your way to work in the morning. And every day, you make the
choice to turn a blind eye. To keep living your little life. Your empathy is so selective, your horror
so arbitrary. You only notice suffering when someone shoves it in your face. You pretend to
condemn me. But the truth is that you need me. You need something to look at and say, 'I know I
am not evil, because that is evil.' Does it make you feel better about yourself? Calling me a
psychopath?”

The camera briefly swung back to the rat, which had begun to stir and struggle against its bonds,
then the lens turned back to the Riddler’s face. “There’s a word that people use about me,” he
said. “‘Nihilist.’ But is that really what I am? No. Nihilism would be to ignore the corruption and
perversion and greed and pretend that a good life is possible within this rotting framework.
Nihilism would be to turn my face away from the darkness and slime and maggots to preserve the
illusion of my own innocence. You are the nihilist.” The voice dropped to a whisper. “And I
know who you really are.” It rose to a normal volume again: “This happiness, this peace that you
feel—it is so, so fragile. You’ve purchased this fleeting comfort with your own hypocrisy and
blindness. But deep down, you already know the truth. How long do you think you can pretend,
Gotham? I am here to rip the shadows from your eyes and throw you, screaming, into the light.
We are not finished. We have only just begun.” The Riddler tilted his head. “Oh…are you
concerned about our little friend?”

The camera moved back to the table, the injured rat. The Riddler reached over and removed the
pins holding the rat’s paws to the board.

“Don’t worry. He won’t die. I’ve done my homework. I know just how deep to cut.”
Slowly, he scooped up the limp, shuddering, bleeding creature in one gloved hand, brought it close
to his face, and stroked its fur. “See you next time, Gotham.”

The screen cut to black. There was a burst of static, then a fragment of audio, distorted and
crackling. Heavy breathing. Moans. Flickers of video, run through a heavy greenish filter. A
fuzzy close-up of an erect penis. More static. And then Bruce’s voice, barely recognizable
through the distortion: “Your eyes—they change color. When you’re excited they get so—so
green…”

The video ended.

Edward stared blankly, motionless.

“I think it’s a copycat,” said a voice behind him.

He gave a start, spinning around.

Raj took a step back. “Sorry.” He gave a nervous smile. “Came back to grab a Clif bar and I
started watching over your shoulder. Like I said—you don’t wanna look, but you can’t look away.
Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t sound like the same guy to me. What do you think?”

Edward didn't answer.

“I mean, I guess it’s hard to tell with the voice distortion.” He started unwrapping his Clif bar.
“That bit at the end felt kinda random. Like something from a porno. Was that supposed to be
some symbolic reference to the link between sex and violence, or what? I mean…there was a dick
there for a second, right? I wasn’t imagining things?”

Edward needed to get out of the room. He started to stand. A wave of vertigo slammed into him,
and he stumbled a little, gripping the edge of the desk.

“Whoa. Hey. Shit. Listen, uh. I shouldn’t have told you to watch that. I didn’t know it would
affect you like this. I thought—I dunno.”
 “You thought what?” Edward heard himself ask. “That I would be into this stuff? Because I’m the
weird, creepy loner?”

Raj didn’t answer.

Edward didn’t dare look at his expression. He began to walk. He walked out of the office and
down the hall, to the bathroom. He barely managed to make it there before his knees gave out and
he slid down the wall to the floor.

Chapter End Notes

CW for animal cruelty.

 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

So I was originally thinking this story was going to be around 20 chapters once it was
complete. I'm thinking now it'll be a bit longer than that. But in any case, it's in its
final third.

Thanks once again for all the feedback. :)

Warnings at the end, as usual.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Edward avoided speaking to any of his coworkers, tried to
focus on sifting through the data, seeing the patterns. But he kept losing track of which forms
went with which accounts, kept making basic, stupid mistakes and then having to go back and
undo them.

This copycat had stolen his face, his image. And now he was using it to personally threaten
Edward. Beneath the numb haze, a quiet rage had begun to simmer.

Would the general public even realize it wasn’t the same Riddler? With the mask and bulky outfit,
it was difficult to discern physical differences. Raj had figured it out, but how many people would
hone in on those subtle shifts in tone and inflection?

He skimmed through the news sites. Lots of people talking about the video, though so far, no one
seemed to have figured out that the voice at the end was Bruce Wayne. At this point, the sex tape
going public was the least of Edward’s worries. He had no idea what this other Riddler was
planning.

He skimmed through The Gotham Gab—trashy as ever, and their take was predictably
sensationalized, dripping with lurid speculations about who would be the next to die.

He noticed another headline—BRUCE WAYNE TO APPEAR AT FUNDRAISER FOR THE

GOTHAM HOUSING PROJECT. Beneath it was the now-famous photo of a limp Bruce being
half-escorted, half-carried away from the stage by security guards.

Ever since Bruce Wayne’s passionate—some would say unhinged—speech about inequality went
viral, the public has been divided, some claiming that this is the beginning of a downward spiral,
others saying a newly awakened social consciousness. Now, Bruce Wayne has promised to make
one of his rare public appearances at an upcoming charity event on December 1st, and everyone’s
asking—will he actually show up? Or will Gotham’s most famous recluse slink back into the
shadows?

There was a photo of the Arkham Center—where the event would be taking place—as well.
Everything with the name “Arkham” on it seemed to feel an obligation to look as Gothic as
possible. The building resembled a Medieval fortress more than a banquet hall.

All Bruce had done was say he’d be there, and now this fundraiser was being hyped like it was the
Second Coming.

Edward’s gaze wandered down to the last paragraph.

When asked for a comment, Lucius Fox—who often acts as the unofficial spokesperson for Wayne
Enterprises—said only that Bruce had promised to make a donation, of some unspecified amount,
and that he would be bringing a guest.

***

Once he’d clocked out and left the building, Edward stood on the corner, shivering in the frigid,
smoggy Gotham air.

He knew that he should call Bruce, or at least text him. They needed to talk about this.

Instead, he walked to the subway station, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, took the subway to
the familiar corner a few blocks from his apartment, and walked the rest of the way there, as he
had done so many times. It was during this walk home that he’d been mugged all those years ago
and killed a man for the first time, long before he took down the mayor. Now, every time he
passed the alley where it had happened, he reflexively tensed up; his heartrate briefly increased as
he felt the stinging tingle of adrenaline in his brain.

Everything in his apartment was just as he’d left it, cramped and cluttered—chaos, to a casual
observer, but arranged according to a convoluted system that only Edward could comprehend.
Empty.
He missed the rats.

He sat on his faded, stained couch and stared into space. He could feel his mind trying to shut
down, to retreat into an inner fortress.

He pulled out his phone. There was a text from Bruce.

Are you home now?

Yes.

The phone rang. Edward answered. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

His voice filled Edward’s ear. Just the sound of it calmed him a little. Simultaneously, it made
him uneasy, realizing how dependent he’d become on this man in such a short span of time, how
much he’d grown to need the sound of that voice. Of course, he had always needed the idea of
Bruce Wayne—and later, of Batman. But there was a difference between needing an idea and
needing a person.

“There’s a new Riddler video,” Edward said.

“I saw. I wasn’t sure if I should contact you right away or wait until you got off work.” His tone
was grim.

“It isn’t me.”

“I know. Any theories?”

A subtle tension loosened in the muscles of his stomach. He hadn’t truly thought Bruce would
suspect him, but he said those words—I know—with an easy certainty, as though they went without
saying. It was absurd, the faith Bruce had in him. “Someone from the group,” Edward said.
“Likely NoTrueNihilist.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“He’s planning something. I don’t know what. But he said ‘I know who you are.’ That message
was directed at me.”

“Does he know? Is that possible?”

Was it? They’d hacked his computer. But Edward had always been careful about what kind of
information he kept on his hard drive. Storing the recording there had been a lapse of judgment. “I
don’t think he knows my full name. I think he means ‘I know who you are’ in a more abstract
sense. Like he knows what sort of person I am. But of course, he knows who you are. And he
knows I’m connected to you. It’s only a matter of time before they put the pieces together.”

“You say ‘they.’ Do you mean the whole group, or—”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if this person is acting alone or if it’s all of them. I don’t know
anything.”

After a pause, Bruce asked quietly, “How are you doing right now? Emotionally.”

He worked his fingers into the crevice between the couch cushions. “This development…it isn’t
exactly surprising. During our last conversation, NoTrueNihilist told me that the Riddler wasn’t
finished. I’ve been preparing myself for something like this.” Of course, that didn’t exactly
answer the question.

“It was unnerving,” Bruce said. “The video. But I guess that was the point.”

“Bruce. I know I said I would go to that fundraiser with you. But I don’t think we should.”

A slow intake of breath, then an exhale. “I get it.” His voice was disappointed but resigned. “If
you don’t feel safe doing something like that right now, I understand. I’ll go alone.”

“I don’t think you should go.”

A brief pause. “I promised them I would be there. They’re counting on me to help drum up
publicity. And I’m making a massive donation. It’ll look weird if I don’t even show up.”

“Since when do you care about things like that?”

“Since I started giving a damn about trying to make a difference in this city. In real ways, I mean.
Me playing dress-up and prowling around at night, stopping the occasional robbery…let’s face it,
that’s not how real change happens.”

“And this is?”

“It’s a start.”

Edward rubbed his forehead. Of course, Bruce Wayne had to pick now to embrace the Wayne
legacy of philanthropy and reconsider his methods. Now, the most dangerous time imaginable for
him to make himself more visible to the public. “I don't like it,” Edward said quietly.

“What do you think is going to happen, exactly?”

“I think the group will see this fundraiser as an opportunity. It will be a media circus. A lot of
people gathered in one building. And you’ll be there. So will the new mayor, apparently. What
better time for them to attack?”

“There’ll be plenty of security. I asked. Everyone’s going to be bag-checked, there’ll be police

and bomb-sniffing dogs outside the entrance—”

“There was security at the mayor’s funeral. And I still crashed that party. Literally. All it took
was a homemade explosive collar, some duct tape and a cell phone.”
“No one will be able to crash a car into the Arkham Center,” Bruce said. “Those walls are solid
stone. And what you did—that took a lot of ingenuity and guts, too. This new Riddler…I don’t
believe he’s as smart as you, or as resourceful.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I can just tell. This new video, it’s just an attempt to replicate the feelings you created. He’s a
shadow. You were the mastermind behind everything. Without you, these people are just bitter
nobodies. No real vision, no plan.”

“I’m a nobody too. I’m not special. I became the symbol because we needed a symbol. But it
could have been any of us. It was the right moment for the movement to happen, that’s all.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Edward said nothing.

“And even if you’re right,” Bruce continued, “it doesn’t change anything. This—it won’t stop.
There will always be angry people out there. There will always be threats. But you’re the one who
opened my eyes to how fucked up things are in this city and how deep it goes.” He could hear
muffled footsteps as Bruce paced. “I can’t hide in the shadows anymore. I won’t.”

Bruce was right, in a way. That was the most frustrating part. Hadn’t Edward given him a dozen
speeches about the plight of Gotham’s poor and needy? How many times had he complained
(aloud or inside his own head) about how privileged and sheltered Bruce was, how little he’d truly
done to change things, how he could be doing so much more?

And now here was Bruce, trying to draw attention to a real and significant social problem, and
Edward just wanted him to forget about it. He wanted to hide under the covers with Bruce, play
videogames with him, and drink hot chocolate.

“This isn’t just about you,” Edward said.

Bruce’s voice softened. “I know. Believe me, I know this affects you too. That’s why I’m saying,
I don’t expect you to show up with me. But this is something I need to do.”
Edward’s breathing grew heavier.

“Edward?” He’d stopped pacing. “Are you okay?”

No, I’m not fucking okay. “Fine,” he muttered.

“I feel like we should be talking about this face to face,” Bruce said. “I can come and pick you up.
If you want. We can go to my place.”

It would be easy to say yes. They could go straight to Wayne Manor. Eat some more of Alfred’s
excellent cooking for dinner. Spend another night in that big, warm bed. Or two nights. Why
not? The Wayne Manor had better home security than his own apartment, so on a practical level,
he would be safer there as well, and that felt relevant right now. In fact, why come back to his own
apartment at all?

Edward could see how easy it would be to be absorbed into Bruce’s life. Moving in so early in the
relationship would be insane, but so was everything else about their relationship. If Edward
suggested it, Bruce would probably say yes. It was such a big house, after all, and Edward’s
financial situation would be greatly improved if he didn’t have to pay rent. He wanted to go back
to Bruce’s house, to let Bruce’s overbearing concern and love swallow him up, to spill out all his
fears, and maybe…

Maybe if he begged softly enough, maybe if he said the right words, did the right things—

Please, Bruce. Please, please, please.

“If I asked you to leave this city with me,” Edward said, “if I asked you to forget about everything
and go somewhere far, far away with me—would you?”

A pause. “Are you serious?”

“Alfred could come with us.”

“Edward. I—” he stopped. “I can’t abandon Gotham. You know that. Yes, it’s dirty and it’s
desperate and angry and full of pain. But it’s my home. I don’t know how to exist anywhere else.”

Of course. Edward had known that would be his answer. He smiled. It felt stiff, curiously
involuntary, as though some unseen puppeteer were yanking on the strings connected to the
corners of his lips. “Well,” he said. “I had to try.”

“It’s your home, too. I don’t think you truly want to leave. You’re just overwhelmed right now.”
A pause. “Should I come pick you up?”

“I need…” Edward swallowed, closing his eyes. “I need time.”

A pause. Then, softly, “I don’t like leaving you alone at a time like this.”

“Bruce.”

“I know. I know. We talked about this. Boundaries.” He sighed. “All right. I’ll—” he stopped.
“Can you check back in with me? In a few hours? Just let me know you’re all right.”

“Yes. I will.”

“Okay.”

Edward hung up.

He sat on the couch, staring blankly at the wall.

He wanted to laugh. Or claw the skin off his arms. For the first time in his whole miserable,
stupid life, he’d begun to feel something resembling hope—hope that he could have a real
relationship, that he wasn’t irreparably broken, that he could experience something resembling
happiness. Couldn’t he just have that? For a little while, at least?

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Bruce was right and they had nothing to fear. Maybe
everything would go smoothly.

Edward logged onto his computer. He opened Discord, more out of habit than anything. He’d
been blocked and abandoned by the entire group. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be there.

There was a message from BlackRabbit waiting for him in a private channel. His heartbeat
quickened.

BlackRabbit: Hey. I’m not supposed to be in contact with you right now. I just want you to know I
had nothing to do with that video. I was surprised by it as anyone else. It made me sick, to tell the
truth. I hate animal torture.

BlackRabbit was online now, a green dot next to their name. Edward’s fingertips settled on the
keyboard.

RiddleMeThis: Do you know who it is?

BlackRabbit: Not for sure. But I can make a pretty good guess, and it’s probably the same as
yours. Things have been really tense since you got excommunicated. Lots of infighting. Honestly,
at this point, I just want out.

RiddleMeThis: I don’t blame you.

BlackRabbit: So. Are you really with Bruce Wayne now?

RiddleMeThis: Yes.

RiddleMeThis: Are you disgusted with me?

BlackRabbit: You know, it’s funny. When this all started, you said that the only people who would
die would be the powerful and the corrupt. That the righteous and the downtrodden had nothing to
fear from us. And you stuck to that, for the most part. But you putting Wayne on the list—it
always felt weird to me. Because he hadn’t done anything, hadn’t lied or cheated or gamed the
system like the others did. I mean, he wasn’t the reason the Renewal fund got hijacked by the
mob. He was a kid when all that happened. He’s just some rich guy. You singling him out and
wanting to kill him, it felt almost like some personal grudge that you were trying to twist to fit our
ideology.

RiddleMeThis: You’re right. I told myself that in inheriting his parents’ fortune, he’d also
inherited their crimes. But I think it went deeper than that. I resented the hold he had on me, from
the very beginning. I resented the commonality between us. In any case, I don’t want to kill him
anymore. In case that wasn’t apparent.

BlackRabbit: What happens if he finds out who you are?

RiddleMeThis: He knows everything. He’s known from the beginning.

BlackRabbit: Seriously?

RiddleMeThis: Our relationship began in an unconventional way.

BlackRabbit: So he knows you’re the Riddler. He knows that you killed those guys and that he
was next on your list of targets. And he’s totally cool with that? He sounds like a real freak.

RiddleMeThis: He is. :)

BlackRabbit: Lol

BlackRabbit: Well I guess that’s one way to accomplish wealth redistribution.

RiddleMeThis: I swear, it isn’t about the money.

BlackRabbit: Sorry, bad joke.

BlackRabbit: For real, if you’ve found something that works, I’m happy for you. Chances like that
don’t come along every day. I’m probably going to die a virgin. But I guess there are worse fates.
RiddleMeThis: I thought the same thing about myself, not long ago. I couldn’t have predicted
something like this.

BlackRabbit: I’m going to miss you, man.

BlackRabbit: Sorry, I know you don’t like being called like “man” or “dude.”

RiddleMeThis: It’s all right.

RiddleMeThis: There’s no reason we can’t keep talking outside the group. Is there?

BlackRabbit: It’s too risky.

RiddleMeThis: Why? What’s going to happen?

BlackRabbit: I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling. After I disconnect, I’m going to scrub my
hard drive and delete all my accounts. GodFucker is going to do the same thing. They said to tell
you goodbye, and that they’re sorry they hacked you.

RiddleMeThis: What about NTN?

BlackRabbit: Haven’t talked to them since yesterday, and I don’t plan to again. When they found
out the truth about you and Bruce I think it really messed them up. I mean, they were always a
hothead, but the last conversation I had with them, they were sending me all these links about
torture methods, talking about the logistics of skinning someone alive over a period of days, about
which kinds of poisons could kill someone the slowest, etc. Stuff that made your execution methods
look humane by comparison. Maybe they were just venting. I mean, we’ve all gone to some dark
places when we were low, but. This felt different.

RiddleMeThis: He wants to kill me?

BlackRabbit: Not you. Bruce Wayne.

Edward’s mouth had gone dry.

BlackRabbit: It’s like they think Bruce has you under some kind of spell and if he dies you’ll come
back and be our leader again. But obviously that isn’t going to happen.

RiddleMeThis: No.

RiddleMeThis: What’s he planning?

BlackRabbit: I’ve told you pretty much everything I know. Sorry.

BlackRabbit: Goodbye, Edward.

The green dot went dark.

Edward leaned back in his chair. The heater hummed and rattled faintly, but the apartment was
still cold. The sun had gone down, drowning the city in darkness. The days were getting shorter.

It was November 29th. The fundraiser was only two days away.

***

Edward didn’t have much of an appetite, but he hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches at lunch. He
heated up a frozen bean burrito for dinner. When he ate it, parts were overheated to a leathery, dry
toughness, other parts still cold. His microwave was old, no longer reliable. He really ought to
replace it. He forced himself to finish the burrito, then went back to his computer.

If he told Bruce what BlackRabbit had told him, would it make a difference? Probably not. Bruce
had already made it clear that he didn’t see this copycat as a legitimate threat, and that he was
determined to make an appearance at this event, with or without Edward.
He felt so fucking powerless.

He was contemplating going for a walk just to get out of this cage of an apartment when he noticed
a new email in his inbox, from an address he didn’t recognize; a random string of letters and
numbers. The subject line read TO THE RIDDLER (aka Edward Nashton).

His pulse echoed through his skull, like stones dropped into an open pit. Thud. Thud. Thud.

He opened the email.

Behind the husk of hell

Where the little crosses grow

I’ll wait for you tonight

And if you do not show

You will burn up in the light

And all the world will know

There was an attachment as well. An image file. Against his better judgment, he opened it.

It was a photo, dark, blocky and pixelated but still recognizable, of his own face, captured in what
appeared to be the moment of orgasm.

His vision swam.

It had to be from the recording. Didn’t it? But the recording was from Edward’s point of view.
His face didn’t appear in it at any point. So where had this come from?

He pressed his knuckles against his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds, and then
forced himself to look at the image again. It had clearly been enlarged many times. It must have
been lifted from a reflection.

Bruce’s eye. Of course.

Maybe that one small image combined with his first name had been enough for the new Riddler to
put the pieces together. In his conversations with his inner circle, Edward had mentioned being a
forensic accountant. If you did a search for all the forensic accountants in Gotham named Edward
and you had a photo, even a blurry one, all you had to do was look for the closest match. And now
his enemy knew exactly who he was.

He walked to the window. The world fell silent; a faint ringing sang in his ears.

A form in a baggy hoodie stood on the sidewalk outside his apartment, looking up at him. A scarf
covered their face. It wasn’t Bruce; he saw that immediately, but he couldn’t discern anything
specific about the observer, except that they weren’t especially large, and they were wearing
glasses. The lenses caught the light, shining like the eyes of a cat.

Edward stared. The observer stared back. Then they turned and slowly walked away,
disappearing around a corner.

Behind the husk of hell, he thought. Where the little crosses grow.

The orphanage.

Edward’s fingernails dug into his arm. Breathing hard, he dragged his nails slowly down, gouging
furrows. Little pieces of skin came off, sticking under his nails. He dug his nails harder into the
raw flesh, until the pain made him lightheaded. A low, growling gurgle rose up from his throat,
and he rocked slowly back and forth on his heels. He shut his eyes and pressed his bloody
fingernails against the lids, pressed and pressed until red flowers bloomed in the darkness. He felt
himself descending, heard his own voice moaning, a low, monotone ahhhhh.

Ahhh. Ahhhh. Ahhh.

A switch flipped in Edward’s head, and all at once he was calm. He knew what had to be done.

It didn’t matter if his own secrets were exposed. It didn’t matter if the police locked him up in
Arkham or executed him. That was the end he’d foreseen for himself from the first night he put on
the mask and coat. He no longer cared what happened to him.
All that mattered now was making sure that Bruce didn’t go down with him.

He lowered his hands, opened his eyes, and walked into his bedroom. He opened the bottom
drawer, pulled out a faded olive-green duffle bag, and unzipped it, revealing his bulky, folded
Riddler suit, which he hadn’t touched in over a month. Beneath it was a carpet tucker, its edge
fresh and gleaming, and a roll of gaffer’s tape.

***

He called a taxi, because there was no easy way to get to Gotham Orphanage via subway or bus.
Edward sat in the backseat, wearing his hoodie, the duffel bag beside him. He gave the driver the
address, and she gave him a puzzled look. “There’s nothing there. You know that, right?”

“Just drive. Please.”

She dropped him off outside the orphanage’s open, rusted metal gates. Edward waited until the car
disappeared around the corner, then he walked through, up the crumbling path toward the burned-
out building.

The front doors hung half-open and charred. Edward entered. Inside was a spacious entrance hall,
the walls covered in spray paint. He tried not to pay attention to his surroundings; he didn't
particularly want to revisit these memories. He was here on a mission. He unzipped the duffle
bag.

Transforming himself into the Riddler was ordinarily a long, elaborate ritual. It started with
putting himself in a trance, then wrapping himself slowly in cling-wrap. He didn’t have time for
that now. He would do the bare minimum to ensure that any potential witnesses wouldn’t get a
clear look at his face. He doubted anyone would see him here, anyway, save perhaps a few
dropheads.

He took out the combat mask and hastily pulled it over his face, fastening the strap, then pulled on
his gloves. He didn’t bother to put on the coat; he left his hoodie in place.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it. A text from Bruce: Doing okay?

That was right—Edward had promised to check in with him.

After a few seconds, he texted back, I’m fine.

He could not allow himself any distractions. Not now. He had to finish this.

Bruce would not approve of what he was doing, of course. But Bruce would never even have to
find out. What did it matter if one sadistic maniac died? NoTrueNihilist would not leave behind
any grieving spouse or children, of that Edward was certain. Even the other members of the group
had distanced themselves from him. He was acting alone.

Alone. Like you were, not so long ago.

So what? So what?

There was nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose. If he was truly determined to
kill Bruce, he would find some way to do it. Unless Edward stopped him here, now.

He left the phone in his duffle bag, which he hid behind a pile of rubble. In one hand, he gripped
the carpet tucker as he walked around to the back of the building, to a yard which was little more
than a patch of brownish-yellow grass and a single dead tree. Tiny stone crosses—dozens of them
—poked up from the grass like gray flowers. No inscriptions, no dates.

Edward walked slowly through the graveyard, the rain-sodden grass squishing underfoot. His
breath streamed through the mask’s tiny holes, forming white plumes in the air. As far as he could
see, he was alone. The new Riddler hadn’t specified a time. Just tonight. Well, he could wait.

He stopped, looking down at a particular cross, which leaned slightly to the left. He crouched,
reached down to touch the top of it lightly.

If she’d lived, she would have been almost thirty years old now. She had never even made it to
one.

A soft snow had begun to fall onto the grass, onto the crosses. Edward straightened and stared into
the shadows, which felt alive with possibility. He didn’t feel the cold. He was sweating, even
without the cling-wrap. His own breathing rasped in his ears. A strange excitement tingled at the
base of his spine—the old rush, a primal energy coursing through him, as though he were
channeling a spirit or a god, his limbs moved by a force greater than himself. It was happening.
He was going to kill again. He felt as though he were growing larger, or perhaps denser—as
though a dark, pulsating aura had formed around him. He trembled lightly, but not with fear.

A voice deep down whispered, What if Bruce finds out?

He flinched, then shoved the voice aside.

Grass rustled. A twig popped. Edward’s breathing quickened.

In the faint moonlight, he could just make out the outline of the figure standing at the other end of
the graveyard. The figure took a step forward. He wore his full suit and mask.

“I’ve been waiting so long to meet you,” said a buzzing, synthesized voice.

Edward had assumed that alien voice was the product of software. But his mask seemed to contain
a physical device that altered the sound.

Edward didn’t respond. He was very conscious of the carpet tucker’s weight in his hand. They
faced each other across the graveyard.

“I wanted to give you one last chance,” that buzzing voice said. “I wanted to ask you here, in this
place. In front of your dead brothers and sisters.” He gestured toward the tiny crosses. “You
resent me. I know. I threatened to expose you. I had to take extreme measures to get your
attention. But I don’t want us to be enemies. I want you to remember who you are. So I ask you
one last time. Join me. Help me destroy him.”

Edward’s gloved fingers clenched tighter on the handle of the carpet tucker. “Clever trick,” he
said. “Zooming in on the reflection in his eye. You must have pored over every frame of that
recording. You must have watched it over and over. Do you jack off to it?”

He tensed. “You—what kind of sick—” after a half-beat, Riddler seemed to regain his footing.
“You brought that tool to intimidate me. But I don’t believe you will kill me. Not in this sacred
place. Not in front of them.”
Edward didn’t move.

“You used to be so pure. So righteous.” He took another step forward. “And now, you’re trying
to silence me so you can go on with your comfortable little life. How like them you’ve become. Of
course, I wouldn’t come here without taking precautions. There is a program which will release
the full recording, along with the truth about your identity and your crimes, if I don’t enter a certain
code every twenty-four hours. If you kill me—”

Edward charged forward, swinging the carpet tucker. Riddler stumbled out of the way, narrowly
avoiding the swoop of the blade.

“Fuck!” Riddler yelped.

Edward swung the tool again, and it cracked against Riddler’s temple. Edward felt the impact all
the way to his shoulder. A savage animal joy rose up in him. Riddler went down.

He was smaller than Edward. He was obviously unused to combat. And he hadn’t been expecting
a direct assault. But he was probably armed. Edward would have one chance, while the element
of surprise was still on his side.

Edward straddled him, breathing raggedly. Yes. Yes. He raised the tool again to deliver the killing
blow. Riddler stared up at him, eyes bulging with fear behind his glasses.

Bruce’s face flashed through Edward’s head.

He froze.

It was only a half-second. But it was enough.

Riddler drove an elbow into his gut, knocking the wind from him, and scrambled out from
underneath him, flailing and kicking wildly. Edward lunged again, swinging the carpet tool.
Riddler shoved something against his neck. There was a loud buzz, a sensation like being grabbed
and shaken. For an instant the world went black, and then he was on the ground, on his back,
groaning, dizzy. Bile bubbled up in his throat. He grayed out. When his vision cleared, Riddler
had hold of his ankles and was dragging him across the wet grass, away from the graves. It was
obviously a struggle for him—he was panting, straining, grunting. He released Edward’s legs, and
they flopped down like a doll’s.

Edward tried to sit up. Riddler shoved the taser against his neck again. Another jolt. Edward’s
limbs spasmed.

“Stupid of you not to bring a pistol, if killing me was your plan from the beginning,” Riddler
rasped. “But that was always one of your rules, wasn’t it? At least in the beginning. You never
used guns.” He yanked off one of Edward’s gloves. Then he pulled something—a dingy white
plastic bottle—out of his coat pocket. ”I never liked bullets anyway. Too fast. Too clean.” He
twisted off the bottle’s cap, then crouched and grabbed Edward’s wrist, pinning his bare hand to
the grass. “You came here tonight, to the graves of your brothers and sisters, with murder in your
heart. You raised a hand against your comrade. There’s a line in the Bible, isn’t there, about how
if your right hand causes you to sin, you should cut it off?”

Slowly, he poured the liquid onto Edward’s palm. The pain was instant, searing, as though his
hand had been plunged into fire.

Edward screamed.

Riddler loomed over him, chest heaving in his coat, eyes wild and white-edged and gleaming like a
rabid dog’s behind his glasses. “You could have finished me,” he said. “You had the upper hand.
But you hesitated. You can’t even commit to being a traitor.” He laughed. With the voice
distortion, it sounded like crackling static, like a knife in a blender. “You pitiful half-thing.” He
stood over Edward, shoulders heaving. He raised his boot, as though to crush Edward’s throat
beneath it—then he looked at Edward’s burned hand twitching on the grass. A strange look
slipped across his eyes.

He lowered his foot to the grass, and took a few wobbly steps backward. The bottle slipped from
his gloved hand, as though he’d forgotten he was holding it.

He stood there stiffly for another few seconds. Then he turned and bolted, vanishing into the
darkness. The night swallowed him, and silence settled over the yard.

Edward lay there on the grass for a few minutes, breathing weakly through his combat mask, his
burned hand throbbing. Snow drifted steadily down from the sky, piling up on his glasses,
obscuring his vision. Slowly, he sat up and brushed off the lenses with his uninjured hand. The
world tilted and spun, and he shut his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again and forced
himself to look at his hand.

Layers of skin had been burned away, leaving the flesh of his palm and part of his fingers a raw,
glistening reddish-pink. He could see several white blisters the size of quarters rising on the flesh
like bubbles in bread dough. He turned his face away.

He was lucky. Given the level of pain, he’d half-expected to see exposed bones and tendons.

Why did he run away?

Edward could figure it out later.

He stood slowly. He felt sick. His legs quivered but held.

He left the carpet tucker on the grass and trudged around to the front of the orphanage. He
retrieved his duffle bag from inside, gripping it in his good hand, and walked down the street, past
more dilapidated buildings, trying to put some distance between himself and the building, just in
case the Riddler returned.

He leaned against a flickering streetlight, breathing heavily, fighting off waves of dizziness and
nausea. How high had the voltage on that taser been?

He needed medical attention. But this would be awkward to explain to an emergency room staff.

With his left hand, he clumsily unzipped the duffle bag and fished out his cell phone.

Bruce had been Batman for several years now. Surely, he’d come home injured a few times,
which meant that either Bruce himself or Alfred (probably Alfred) had some medical training—
enough to treat flesh-wounds, at least. There were undoubtedly some painkillers and antibiotics
lying around the house, as well.

His thumb hovered over the screen. He stopped.

Did he really want to explain this situation to Bruce? He could call another cab, he supposed. But
the thought of talking to any other human being now was daunting. It was hard to think, hard to
focus on anything. His skull was pounding.

Maybe he could just rest here a moment.

He yanked the sweat-damp mask off his face and stuffed it into the duffle bag. He could treat the
burn at home; it looked horrific, but the damage was superficial enough that it would heal on its
own in time with minimal scarring. He had bandages and Petroleum jelly.

He wondered what had been in the bottle. It had smelled like a cleaning product. Strong bleach,
maybe.

He sagged against the streetlight, then slumped to the pavement as his legs gave out. He sat there
on the sidewalk, shivering.

This was his own fault. If he’d just delivered the killing blow when he had the chance, he could
have eliminated the threat. He had no idea whether NoTrueNihilist was bluffing with that whole
speech about how Edward’s identity would be automatically released if he didn’t enter in certain
codes, or whatever. But Edward didn’t care about that, he truly didn’t. Hell, at this point Arkham
sounded like a less stressful alternative to his life. All he wanted was to protect Bruce from this
lunatic.

Edward had not hesitated to kill Don Mitchell Junior, or Savage, or Colson. He’d delivered each of
them to their death with a clean conscience, with complete confidence in his own righteousness.
Yet tonight, he’d hesitated.

Was the difference simply that NoTrueNihilist had been his friend, once? Was that why he had
frozen up?

No. Something had shifted within himself. A piece of his code had been rewritten. The purity of
his rage had been clouded by doubt and nuance and humanity.

“Damn you, Bruce Wayne,” he croaked. Tears stung his eyes. “This is all your fault.”

His head hurt. His hand was on fire.

 None of this was supposed to happen. Edward had had it all planned out. He would kill all those
men, the ones who’d lied and stolen and caused so many deaths, and then he would be locked
away, but he would be remembered. Justice would be done. And then it would be over. It had all
made sense.

And then Bruce had hugged him, and everything had changed.

He checked his phone again. It was dead. He’d forgotten to charge it before he left.

A quiet sigh escaped him. He smiled. He felt tears coursing down his face, freezing on his
cheeks.

Absurd. Everything about him was so absurd—this grown man sitting under a streetlight, this
stunted, warped, overgrown infant crying because he had failed to kill someone, crying because he
was no longer a wolf but could never be one of the sheep, because his hand hurt and his head hurt
and he’d lost sight of what anything meant. His tears dripped onto the lenses of his glasses,
blurring his vision.

Eventually the tears stopped and he remained there, huddled against the stoplight, watching the
snow drift down until the world started to blur around the edges. It occurred to him that he didn’t
have to call a cab at all. He could just stay here, just lay down on the sidewalk and let the snow
cover him like a blanket.

Right now, that sounded very relaxing.

He lay down. As he hovered on the edge of blackness, he heard the low growl of a motorcycle
approaching.

Chapter End Notes

Mild gore.
 Chapter 19

“Shit. What happened to you?”

He didn’t recognize the voice.

Edward looked up, blinking. A slender form in a helmet and a dark jacket stood over him. He
couldn’t clearly see her face. There were tear-tracks frozen on his cheeks, tears crystallized on his
glasses. The world was a kaleidoscope blur.

He remained where he was, lying on the snow-covered sidewalk, motionless. A possum playing
dead.

She lowered herself into a crouch. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” she said quietly. “Do you need a
doctor?” When he didn't answer, she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and said, "I'm gonna call
an ambulance."

“No. No doctors.” His lips felt thick, and the words emerged slurred and fuzzy, as though he were
drunk. "P...please."

She hesitated, then slipped the cell phone back into her pocket. “Okay.”

He couldn't see. With the sleeve of his hoodie, he wiped at his glasses, though he only succeeded
in smearing the dirt and snow on them. His duffel bag sat nearby. He should probably grab it; he
didn't want her looking inside. Slowly, he sat up, pulled the bag into his lap, and hugged it to his
chest. His teeth were chattering. His toes and ears had gone entirely numb. He’d underestimated
just how cold it would get tonight; he wasn’t dressed for the weather. Laying down in the snow
hadn’t helped.

“You live around here?” she asked.

“N...no.”

“Is there someone I can call? You have family nearby?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. His brains seemed to slosh around in his
skull, and he winced, raising one hand to his temple.

It was worryingly difficult to focus his thoughts. Information kept slipping through the cracks; he
kept losing track of himself. His mind, like his vision, had fragmented into blurred crystals, and
every attempt to clear his thoughts just smeared them around more. He’d never been tased before.
Was this an aftereffect? Or was it hypothermia? Both? He didn’t like not being able to think. He
especially didn’t like dealing with strangers in this vulnerable state. She seemed kind, but it almost
made him uneasy, how nice she was being. It felt like a trap.

She started to reach out, and he flinched back again. “Hey. It’s okay.” She withdrew her hand.
“My name is Selina. What’s yours?”

He swallowed. Selina. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d heard that
name recently. “Edward,” he murmured.

“Nice to meet you, Edward.” She glanced at his hand. “Jesus.” Her gaze moved back to his face.
Through the smears, he could just make out the concern in her eyes. "Did someone do that to
you?"

He gave a small nod.

“Who?”

“Don't know. He was…w-wearing a mask.” Speaking was still a struggle. Probably the less he
said the better.

“There are some real sick shits in this city.” After a pause, she said, “I could call the police.”

"No."

“Yeah. I’m not on the best terms with the cops either. They’re not everyone’s friend, are they?”
She smiled slightly. “Okay. You don't want to call the cops and you don’t want to go to a
hospital. So what are we going to do about that hand?”
He didn't answer.

"I can't just leave you like this." Her voice was low, gentle, as though she were soothing a nervous
cat. “Do you have a phone?”

He showed her his dead cell phone.

“Okay.” She murmured under her breath, as though talking to herself, "You probably don't know
how to get home, do you?"

It struck him as an odd remark. He'd lived in Gotham his whole life, so why wouldn't he know
how to get home? And then the puzzle pieces clicked into place; she probably thought he was
mentally disabled. Well, at the moment, he supposed that wasn't untrue.

He opened his mouth to tell her that he was ordinarily much more articulate than this, that he was
very intelligent, that he was a gifted forensic accountant, actually, and the problem was just that
he’d been recently tased and was very cold and probably dehydrated, and the pain in his hand was
making it hard to think, and also he tended to become less verbal when he was emotionally
overwhelmed, but the words got lost somewhere in the space between his brain and tongue and all
that came out was, “It hurts.”

“Looks like it.”

She straightened, looked around. Then she sighed—a resigned, I’m going to do something stupid,
aren’t I? sigh. “Look, my apartment’s not far. I can clean and bandage up that hand for you and
get you out of the cold for a little while, at least. And then we can figure out who to call. Okay?”

“O…okay.” Getting out of the cold sounded nice.

“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?”

“No.”
“Just sit behind me and hold on tight. I’ll go slow.”

***

She had a lot of cats.

A marmalade-orange tabby lay curled on the couch, tail flicking. A ghost-gray cat with a white
paw brushed past his leg. A black cat with yellow eyes pounced on Selina’s feet as she entered,
then darted off and vanished under the couch.

Selina took off her helmet and set it on a chair. Her hair was short and sleek. She took off her
leather jacket—beneath it she was wearing a plain white tank top—and tossed it over the chair as
well. “You can sit,” she said. “Sorry about the mess. Been kind of a crazy week. Well…crazy
month, I guess.”

He sank to the couch. The orange cat butted its head against his knee.

“Oliver likes you,” she remarked. “It’s okay, you can pet him. He's a sweetheart.”

Edward stroked the cat with his good hand, and it pushed its head up into his palm, purring like a
small engine. The black cat leapt up onto the couch and began investigating his duffel bag,
sniffing at it and pawing the strap.

He flexed the fingers of his good hand; the fingertips had gone red. Now, as they warmed, they
started to tingle and ache. His ears burned, too.

“Here.” Selina handed him a blanket, and he promptly wrapped it around himself, huddling on the
couch. She passed him a box of tissues. "You wanna clean off your glasses?"

He slowly wiped off the lenses and, with a shaky hand, slid them back into place. He blinked a
few times.

She smiled. “There, that's better, isn't it? Sit tight. I’m gonna get some bandages. I’ll be right
back.” She walked out of the room.
He wondered what she’d been doing, riding around the slums at night. He leaned back on the
couch, focusing on breathing, watching the white cat pad across the room. It sat down on its
haunches, curled its tail around itself and watched him with pale green eyes. Its mouth opened in a
meow, showing a pink tongue and tiny white fangs.

Selina reappeared with a jar of petroleum jelly and a roll of bandages tucked under her arm. In one
hand she held a bowl of warm, soapy water, in the other a cloth. Her nails, he noted, were
extremely long and sharp. It seemed like it would make it difficult to pick up anything, but she
didn’t seem to have trouble.

She dipped the cloth in the water. “I won’t lie. This is gonna hurt like a bitch. But I have to clean
it.”

“Okay.”

The cloth touched the raw, blistered flesh. He flinched, gritting his teeth. A thin whine escaped
his throat.

“I know. I know, hon. I’m sorry.” Gently, she wiped the bits of grit and dirt from the burn.

Watching was making him nauseous, so he looked away.

His thoughts were starting to clear. He should probably say something to correct the
misconception. Actually, he shouldn’t be here at all. He needed to go back to his apartment. He
needed to contact Bruce. He’d promised to check in with him. If he didn’t, Bruce would assume
the worst. But Edward still didn’t know how he was going to explain all this to him, what he was
going to say. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t particularly want to tell him the truth either,
because that would involve admitting—

“Ah!”

“Just a little longer. You’re doing good,” she said. “You’re braver about pain than I am.” She
dipped the cloth into the jar of petroleum jelly and carefully dabbed some onto the burn. “I’m just
putting this stuff on so the bandages won’t stick. Hey—Oliver, knock it off. This isn’t food.” She
shooed the cat away from the open jar, which she’d set on the coffee table. "He'll eat literally
anything. You put lotion on your hands and he'll try to lick it off. I think he was starved as a
kitten. When I found him he was just a little bit of fluff. He weighed less than a bird. I didn't
think he was gonna make it. Now he walks all over me."

She wound a strip of bandages carefully around his palm.

“Thank you,” Edward murmured.

She glanced up, briefly meeting his gaze. “You’re welcome. You want something warm to
drink? I was gonna make some coffee. Or maybe tea. I’ve got peppermint tea.” Under her
breath, she added, “Ani always liked that.”

He nodded.

She walked into the kitchen and returned several minutes later with a mug of dark, steaming,
peppermint-scented liquid. She set it on the coffee table in front of him. “You don’t talk much, do
you? That’s okay.” She sank down to the couch.

Edward took a small sip of the tea. "Mm." It was sweet; she’d added honey.

“Guess I might as well tell you,” she said. “I’m leaving Gotham tonight.”

He looked up.

“I have to. Long story. And there’s nothing left for me here. Well…just them.” She reached out
to stroke the nearest cat. “I can’t take them with me. Still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do
with them. I don’t want to just drop them off at a shelter, you know? But I don’t know what else
to do.” She took a sip of her tea. Her gaze slipped out of focus. She seemed to forget what she’d
been about to say. She gave her head a small shake, glanced at him, then down. “You’re still
shivering. You wanna change into some dry clothes, hon?”

“I don’t think anything of yours would fit me,” he said. “I’ll endure.”

Her face went blank.

He looked away. “I wasn’t trying to deceive you. I really was struggling to speak. I’m a little
more lucid now. Still sort of...fuzzy around the edges. But just getting out of the cold helped.”

“Shit. I thought—”

“You’re not the first person who’s made that mistake. As a child, I didn’t talk much. When I got
nervous or stressed out, I would just…shut down. Occasionally, I'll regress into old habits.” He
sipped his tea.

She put a hand over her face. “I feel weird. I mean, I'm not...” She took a breath. "I'm not
normally this open. With strangers."

After an awkward pause, he asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

She lowered her hand and stared at him for a moment. “Where would you go?”

“I’d walk to the nearest subway station. Take the subway back to my apartment. Or…if I could
borrow your phone, I’d call a cab.”

"You don't have to rush out. I invited you in, after all." She looked down at his bandaged hand.
“You wanna tell me what happened?” At his silence, she said, “Up to you. I won’t pry. We’ve all
got our secrets.”

He took another sip of the peppermint tea. After she’d brought him to her home and treated his
injury, he felt he owed her some sort of explanation, even if it was an incomplete one. “I came out
here, to this part of the city, to meet someone tonight. Probably a bad decision on my part. Things
went off the rails.”

She studied his face, her expression unreadable. “You in some kinda trouble?"

"I guess you could say that." After a pause, he added, "Like I said. If you want me to go-"
"You said you didn’t have family around here, but…is there anyone you can call? If you needed
help, I mean.”

He wet his cold-chapped lips. “There is someone. My—a friend of mine. Well. More than a
friend.” What did he even call Bruce? His boyfriend? They were both men in their thirties.
Partner? That felt too official, somehow. Too formal. “I should call him. But I’m…” He felt
warmth rising into his face. “I don’t know how he’s going to react when he finds out about this.
He might be upset. I’m a little afraid to tell him, to be honest.”

Her voice went soft. “You think he might hurt you?”

“No. No, it’s not like that, it’s just that we had—it wasn’t even a fight, really. A…disagreement—
the last time we talked. And I made a choice, tonight, that would probably disappoint him, if he
knew.”

After a pause, she said, “Coming out here to meet this other guy. For whatever. That was the
choice?”

“Yes.” He fidgeted. This was an odd, vague conversation. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her that
he’d intended to kill someone tonight, or that he’d killed others in the past. But talking around that
fact was like trying to navigate through a room of invisible trip-wires. “I didn’t even do anything,
really. I didn’t go through with it. But I almost did. And it was something I promised him—my
friend, I mean—that I would never do again.”

“I get it." She opened her mouth, closed it, as though she were debating how much to say. “I used
to be a drophead too. Been clean for a few years now.”

“That’s not—” he stopped.

Probably better, if she thought he was talking about addiction.

“It’s okay.” She wrapped her fingers around her mug of tea, long nails clicking together. “When
you’ve got nothing else, you find your own ways to numb the pain. You have to. I mean…you
might as well, right? Even if you know it’s destroying you, that doesn’t matter. There’s no reason
not to destroy yourself.”
“What made you stop, then?”

“I found a reason.” She took a slow sip of her tea. “Her name was Ani.”

Ani. She'd mentioned that name before. Edward thought about asking what had happened to her.
But judging by the haunted look in her eyes, that was still a very fresh wound. “What was she
like?” he asked instead, quietly.

“She was…good.” A smile flickered across her full lips. “She saw things in a different way.
There’d be a smear of orange light in the sky, just barely there through the smog, and she’d say—”
she slipped into a Russian accent—“‘Oh, look, look at the beautiful sunset.’ When she was
excited, she’d forget the words for things and make these little grabby movements with her hands,
like she was trying to pull the words out of the air. It was so cute. And she could always tell when
I’d had a bad day, even if I didn’t say anything. She would take one look at my face and just put
her arms around me.” The smile faded. “She was trusting. And other people took advantage of
that. But no matter how many times she got hurt, she never lost that faith.”

Edward said nothing. Just listened.

“You know,” she continued, “when I saw you there, lying on the sidewalk, I thought about just
driving past. I thought, ‘I can’t do this, not now. I have enough problems.’ But then I thought that
if Ani was here, she would’ve stopped.” She blinked away tears, took another sip of tea. “What
about yours? What’s he like?”

“I guess…similar, in some ways. He’s an idealist. He wouldn’t describe himself that way. But
he’s the sort of person who wants to save everyone.” Edward gave a strained smile. “Maybe
that’s why he got attached to me. Maybe he saw me as someone who needed saving.”

“You do have that stray cat energy. No offense.”

He laughed stiffly. His gaze drifted away. Strange, just sitting here on another person's couch, in
another person's apartment, asking questions, talking about his life. Was this the sort of thing that
normal people did all the time? It was disorienting. “It caught me off guard. This, him. This is
the first time I’ve ever—” the words caught in his throat. He swallowed. “I’ve never had a real
relationship before this. Of any kind. I realize how absurd that is, at my age. How that must
sound.”
She shrugged. “Some people start later.”

"I don't know why I just told you that. You're easy to talk to, I guess. You would make a good
therapist."

She smirked. "I doubt that. But thanks." After a half-beat, she added, "You're sweet."

She said it so offhandedly. “I’m not. At all. I'm a very—very broken person.”

She stroked the orange cat beside her. “We’re all broken, hon.”

“There are degrees.”

He wasn't used to being called hon. Particularly by someone he barely knew. Maybe it was just
the lingering power of her initial impression. His oddities normally came across as creepy to other
people, but maybe in her eyes, it made him vulnerable. Of course, she didn’t know who he really
was. What he’d done.

Then again, he didn’t know her, either. Why did she have to leave Gotham in such a hurry?

The gray cat rubbed its head against his ankle. He’d heard, somewhere, that when they did that
they were using their scent glands to mark someone as their territory.

“It will go badly, in the end,” Edward said. “I know that. And I keep thinking that the noblest
thing for me to do would be to leave him before something terrible happens. But I’m too selfish.
Too weak.” Clouds of bubbles swirled on the tea’s surface, tiny galaxies.

“You love him?” she asked.

“Yes,” he whispered. "Very, very much. More than anything."

“Then don’t torture yourself with these bullshit head-games. I used to do the same thing. ‘I’m not
good enough for her,’ ‘I’ll ruin her.’ ‘I don’t deserve to be happy.’ All that woe-is-me crap. And
now she’s gone. Hell, maybe I was right, maybe it’s all my fault, but…fuck. However many years
I’ve got left, I’d give them all just to hold her one last time.” Tears gleamed in her eyes. She
blinked them away, sniffled, and wiped the back of one hand across her eyelids, smearing the faint
bluish eyeshadow there. “We only get a little time in this world. And it’s a cold, ugly world. You
don’t get too many shots at love. The real thing, I mean. Those people, the ones who change you
—they're one in a million. When you find someone who makes you want to wake up in the
morning, you grab hold of them and you hold on. With all your strength. Because you never know
how many more mornings you'll have. One moment you're talking to them, and the next, they're
gone, and you never knew it was your last conversation. You keep thinking about all the things
you should've said.”

He opened his mouth to reply. But he couldn’t find his voice. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

“Yeah. Well. The guy who did it, he won’t be hurting anyone else now. There’s that.”

Edward hesitated. He wondered, again, how much he should ask.

“There’s a charger next to the TV.” She pointed. “You should charge up your phone before you
leave.”

He plugged it in. Fortunately, it fit. After a minute or two, the screen lit up.

There were several texts from Bruce.

The latest: Please, just tell me if you’re okay.

Edward flexed his injured hand. He answered: I’m okay. Sorry. My phone died. I’m charging it
now.

Where are you?

A safe place.

Are you hurt?

What makes you ask that?

I just had a feeling.

A tingle ran down Edward’s spine. He thought back to his own childhood delusions of being able
to feel Bruce Wayne’s emotions directly. It made him wonder if there actually was some psychic
umbilical cord tethering the two of them together. Perhaps it had started out one-way. Perhaps
Edward had created it with the sheer force of his obsession, and when Bruce began to reciprocate
that obsession, it had opened a channel into Edward’s soul.

He knew these thoughts were crazy. He knew he shouldn’t indulge them.

I do have an injury, but it’s not serious. I’ll explain later. I’ll be home soon. Please don’t worry.

He sat down next to Selina again and curled his bandaged hand into a fist. It hurt like hell. But the
hand was still functional. “You said you’re leaving Gotham.”

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t know what to do with the cats?”

“They’re the only reason I’m not already gone. Honestly, I never meant to adopt so many. But I
can never turn away a stray. They tend to find their way to me. Or I find my way to them. Like a
sixth sense, almost.”

“Is that how you found me, too?”

She half-smiled. “Maybe.”

“I can take them.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I have five,” she said. “How big is your apartment?”

“About the same size as yours. Maybe a little smaller. I’ll figure it out. I was just thinking earlier
today that I miss having animals around.”

She reached over, lay a hand on his—her skin was warm—and squeezed lightly. “You’re an
angel.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Outside, he heard the rumble of an engine.

He went to the window and peered out just in time to see a black car turn the corner onto Selina’s
street. The car parked by the curbside, and Bruce—wearing a long, dark coat—got out. Edward
blinked a few times. How did he…?

Selina approached and peered over his shoulder as Bruce walked up to the building. “Holy shit,”
she said flatly. “That’s him?”

“Yes,” Edward said.

Her face had gone slack. “You’re dating Bruce Wayne.”

Dating? Was that the word for it? “I guess I am”

“How did he get here so fast?”

“I was just wondering that.”

He hadn’t even given Bruce this address. Bruce had shown up shortly after he plugged his phone
in. He must be tracking Edward’s location through it.
Well, that did seem like the sort of thing Bruce would do. When had he installed the tracker?
Probably back when Edward was still his captive. He’d had access to Edward’s phone then, and
Edward had never really taken it apart to see if it had been modified.

“Well, he has a car,” Edward remarked. “That will make it easier to move the cats.”

“Bruce Fucking Wayne." She put her fingers against her temple. "This is nuts.”

“It still doesn’t feel quite real to me, honestly.”

“Well, he’s pretty. I’ll give him that.” She turned away from the window. “I’ll buzz him up.”

***

All night long, Bruce's instincts had been screaming that something was wrong, that Edward was in
real danger. He told himself not to read too much into Edward's silences. Edward had asked him,
once, not to assume the worst in those cases. But the alarm bells in his head wouldn't stop
clanging.

When Edward finally texted him back, the relief that flooded Bruce’s body was as instant and
powerful as a drug. Still, the unease remained, a shadow lingering over his heart.

He’d last picked up the tracker signal near the Gotham Orphanage. And now it was coming from
—of all places—Selina’s apartment building. He hadn’t seen her since she broke contact with him
in the Iceberg Lounge...or the club beneath it, rather. And as far as he knew, she and Edward had
never crossed paths.

Yet here he was.

The door was open. When Bruce entered the apartment, the cats swarmed around his feet. Edward
was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, his hair still damp and sparkling with melted snow.
As soon as Bruce entered the room, Edward’s gaze instantly latched onto him and stayed there.

Safe. Thank god.

Bruce wanted to go straight to Edward, pick him up and carry him down to the car, then take him
to Wayne Manor and chain him to the bed again so he would be safe, so he couldn’t run off to
strange places in the middle of the night and disappear. But Bruce remained where he was,
hanging awkwardly in the doorway.

“Hey.” Selina stood next to the couch, arms crossed over her chest.

Bruce tried to keep his expression neutral. He’d only ever interacted with her as Batman. He had
to be careful what he said. “Hey.” He awkwardly lifted one hand in a wave. “I, uh. I’m Bruce.”

“I know who you are.”

At those words, the muscles in his back stiffened, but he managed to keep his expression blank.
“Yeah. I guess most people do.”

“Funny how you got here so fast,” she said. “He texts you, and a minute later you show up. Like
magic.”

“I happened to be in the area.” Of course, he’d tracked Edward’s signal to a spot not far from here
before it went dark.

"I know a guy like you," she said. "One who's 'in the area' a lot."

He had no idea how to interpret that or respond to it, so he didn't. He glanced at Edward, who
remained huddled in his blanket nest, a duffel bag sitting next to him. “You and Edward have
already met, I take it.”

“I found him on the street. Didn’t seem right to leave him out in the cold.”

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of him,” Bruce said. “I knew he was having a difficult night, so I
asked him to check in with me, but I hadn’t heard from him in over an hour, so—” he stopped,
biting his tongue. Why was he explaining himself to her? They didn't even know each other. Not
officially. “You just…found him? By chance?”
“I like to ride around at night sometimes. Clear my head.”

Edward’s right hand slipped out from beneath the blanket to pick up a mug on the coffee table.
The hand was wrapped in bandages. Bruce’s pulse quickened.

“I’m moving out,” Selina said. “Edward offered to look after my babies.”

“The—the cats?”

“Can’t take ‘em with me,” she said. “I’d feel better knowing they’re going to a good home.” She
leaned down and scooped up the black cat near her feet. “Boo here needs medicated eye drops
every morning. Oliver needs diet food. And don’t leave any people food uncovered around him.
He’ll gobble it up and then puke. I’ll write up all the instructions.”

“Uh…”

“She helped me,” Edward said. “So I wanted to help her. I’ve never had a cat before, but I’m
accustomed to taking care of small animals. I can learn.”

“I’ve got some pet carriers in the bedroom closet,” Selina said. “Down that hall. Will you grab
them for me?” She was speaking to Edward.

He extracted himself from his blanket. Beneath it, he was wearing his dark hoodie and jeans. He
hesitated, then turned and disappeared down the hallway. Once he was in the other room, Selina
approached Bruce in slow strides, stroking the cat in her arms, and stopped with her face just
inches short of his. His back stiffened.

He averted his gaze.

“Hey,” she said. “Look at me.”

The words were an exact echo of the ones he’d spoken to her outside the Iceberg Lounge. His
pulse quickened. He forced himself to meet her gaze again.

She stared at him in silence for several seconds. “Be good to him.”

He blinked.

Before he could respond, she turned and walked out of the room, following Edward.

***

An hour later, five cat carriers—along with several bags of dry kibble, a box of wet food cans, litter
boxes, litter, and several bottles of medicated eye drops—were loaded into the back of Bruce’s
car. The cats meowed and shifted in their carriers, restless. Bruce, Edward, and Selina stood out in
the street in front of her building.

Selina zipped up her leather jacket and fastened the strap of her helmet. There was a single
suitcase strapped to the back of her motorcycle.

“That’s all you’re taking?” Edward asked.

“I like to travel light. The furniture’s all junk, anyway. If you want anything in there, feel free.”
She straddled her motorcycle and gave Edward a small, lopsided smile. “Take care of yourself,
angel.” She cast one last, unreadable look in Bruce’s direction, then turned her face toward the
road ahead, revved up the engine, and sped off. The motorcycle disappeared around the corner.

Bruce stood, hands in the pockets of his coat, breath steaming in the air. “So,” he said. “I guess
we have five cats now.”

“Well...I do. I told her I would take care of them. I will.”

“She left in a hurry.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons.” He shivered lightly in the chilly night air. “Do you know her?”
“Yeah. She's the one I was telling you about before, the one I was working with as Batman.
Weird, me running into her again, under these circumstances. Don’t think she recognized me
without the mask, though.” After a pause, Bruce added, “Carmine Falcone is dead."

"What?"

"Someone shot him recently. They just found the body. I saw it on the news earlier. They don’t
have any suspects. But a witness said he saw a black-masked individual fleeing the building.”

Edward raised his eyebrows. “You think that’s related to her leaving, somehow?”

“She had some sort of relationship with him. Never found out what.”

“He was a mobster. He had a lot of enemies. It could have been anyone.”

“Guess so.” His gaze strayed, again, to Edward’s bandaged hand. “What happened?”

Edward’s gaze remained downcast. “Chemical burn.”

Bruce’s pulse grew heavier. “We’ll go to my place,” he said. “Once we’re there, I'll take a look at
your injury.”

“Selina already treated it.”

“Chemical burns can be serious. It might need specialized care.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’d feel better if you let me—”

“When were you planning to tell me that you’d put a tracker in my phone?”

Bruce froze.

“That might have been a relevant thing to mention in our conversation. About boundaries.”

Warmth rose up Bruce’s neck, into his face.

“I’m not angry,” Edward said. “Honestly, I would be more surprised if you hadn’t done something
like that. I don’t know why it never occurred to me to check.” He stared at his shoes. “Maybe I
subconsciously wanted you to come after me. Maybe I wanted to be found. But it’s a little funny,
thinking you’ve been tracking my location this entire time and I’ve never known. I guess until
tonight, I’ve never gone anywhere interesting. You were just watching me move from my
apartment to work to the diner and back again. Like watching a goldfish swim around in its tank.
It’s funny that my dull little existence is so fascinating to you.”

“I swear, I don’t do it all the time,” Bruce muttered. “I've watched you, yes. Through windows. I
mean, you know that. But I felt like tracking you via GPS would be crossing a line."

"You draw your lines in such curious places."

"I promised myself that it would only be for emergencies. A last resort. And you weren’t
answering my texts.”

“Is that an emergency?”

“Given the circumstances, and the fact that you promised to stay in touch with me and then went
silent? Yes. I’ve been driving all over the city, looking for you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re injured.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. Edward was still staring at the ground, so Bruce reached out, taking
Edward’s face between his hands, and tilted it up. Edward's breath caught in his throat. “Who hurt
you?” Bruce asked quietly. “Was it him?”

Edward shivered a little. His eyes lost focus. “Yes,” he murmured. “It was him.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He ran off.” Edward tugged his face free and stepped to one side. He clutched his
duffel bag tightly in one hand. Patches of red burned on his pale cheeks. His lips were parted, his
breaths coming in rapid sips. “Can we just go home?”

Bruce hesitated. “You want me to take you to your apartment?”

“To your place.”

A knot loosened in Bruce's chest. If Edward had insisted, Bruce would've taken him back to the
apartment. But he wanted him close, now. Wanted him safe. “Okay.” He glanced at the car,
where the cats were still meowing in the back. “We can talk more on the way there.” He walked
toward the driver’s seat.

“Bruce?”

He stopped, turning. “Yes?”

Edward opened his mouth, closed it, and adjusted his glasses. “The, um. The notes from Selina.
You have them?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Bruce pulled the small notebook from his pocket and flipped through the pages.
“She left a novel’s worth of instructions. ‘Sasha really likes tummy scritches.’ ‘Nala’s favorite
treat is Tuna Nibbles.’ I don't know when she even had time to write all this up." He glanced at
the car. “We can bring them to my place for now.”
Edward nodded and got into the passenger seat. Bruce started the engine and pulled away from the
curb. They drove for a few minutes without speaking; the only sound was the rhythmic swish of
the wipers, the occasional faint meow from the backseat.

“What were you doing at the orphanage in the middle of the night?” Bruce asked at last.

Edward pressed his lips together. “I received an email from him. The new Riddler. He made it
clear that he knew my personal identity and threatened to expose me unless I met him there.”

“You should’ve contacted me.”

“I wanted to deal with it myself. I didn’t want to drag you into it. This is my problem.”

“If a psychopath is threatening you, that’s my problem, too.”

Edward turned his face toward the window. His reflection was a pale oval in the glass.

“He burned your hand?”

“With bleach.” Edward flexed his fingers. “I don’t think the goal was to permanently disable me.
Just to inflict pain. To punish me. He feels that I betrayed him, so he wanted to cause me the
same suffering that I caused him.”

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw twitched.

“He certainly succeeded at that.” Edward smiled wanly. “The damage is superficial, but there are
a lot of nerve-endings in the skin of the palms and fingers. I suppose I should count myself lucky
that he didn’t go for my eyes or my genitals. That would’ve been permanently disabling. This will
heal almost completely. I may lose some sensitivity in the skin, but—” he must have seen
something in Bruce’s expression, because he trailed off. “Bruce?”

Bruce’s hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel. “He won’t hurt you again.” His voice
emerged flat and calm. Calmer than he felt. “I’ll make sure of that.”

“I don’t want you going after him, Bruce,” Edward said.

“I’m not afraid.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want you risking yourself for me. This—all of this—it’s my fault.” Edward's
voice wobbled.

“How is any of this your fault?”

“Have you forgotten who I was, who I am? You said yourself, he’s just a shadow of me.” He
hunched his shoulders, drawing in on himself. The muscles of his throat moved as he swallowed.
“When I first started talking to him online, he was angry but…unfocused. He didn’t know what to
do with all that rage. I showed him. I gave him an example to follow. If he kills you—if he kills
anyone—that will be my fault, too.”

Bruce wanted to say no, to tell him that it wasn’t like that—that even if he’d been an influence on
someone, he couldn’t control another person’s actions and therefore couldn’t hold himself
accountable for them.

But Bruce understood his feelings. All too well.

Edward Nashton was who he was because of Bruce. Bruce’s existence—his heritage as a Wayne,
his media presence, and later his actions, his vigilantism—had shaped Edward in countless ways,
both obvious and subtle. From the very beginning, Bruce’s name had been echoing in Edward’s
ears, in his mind. Orphans, both of them, one in a lonely tower and one struggling in the dirt and
grime below. It was those questions—why is he there, why am I here?—that had tortured Edward,
led him down that bloody path.

The Riddler had been born because of Batman. Even if those murders weren’t truly Bruce’s fault,
even if no one would hold him accountable, he couldn’t untangle himself from the threads of fate
that bound him to this man. Even if Edward left him tomorrow and never spoke to him again,
some part of Bruce would always feel responsible for him, always feel that connection.

“We won’t let him hurt anyone else,” Bruce said quietly. “We’ll figure this out. Just—let me help
you. Please.”

After a brief silence, Edward whispered, “Okay.”

***

At Wayne Manor, they let the cats out of the carriers and watched them prowl around the dining
room, investigating their new surroundings. At Alfred’s raised eyebrow, Bruce said, “Yeah, this
was a surprise to me too. Unexpected turn of events. But they’re staying here. At least for
tonight.”

“Do they have names?”

“Uh—there’s Sasha, Oliver, Boo, Nala, and—” he flipped through the notebook. “Quentin.”

After they’d filled the cats’ food and water dishes and scooped the kitty litter into the pans, Bruce
noticed Edward swaying on his feet a little. He was pale, his eyes unfocused. Bruce stepped
closer and put an arm around him, steadying him. “Hey,” he said, close to Edward's ear. “What’s
wrong?”

“Just tired.”

“It’s been a long night, I gather,” Alfred said. “Bruce was very concerned about you. I kept telling
him that you would be fine. That you can handle yourself. No matter what sort of scrapes you get
into, you always seem to land on your feet.”

“Just barely," Edward said.

"His hand is injured," Bruce said to Alfred. "Can you bring some painkillers? The good kind."

Edward cracked a weak smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"I'll get them."

“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.” Bruce guided him gently up the stairs, down the hall, to his
bedroom. Edward leaned against him.

He eased Edward onto the bed, pulled off his shoes one by one, and set them on the floor. Alfred
brought and amber pill bottle and a glass of water.

"Thank you," Edward said.

He retreated, closing the door behind him.

"Start with one," Bruce said. "They're strong."

Edward popped off the cap and swallowed one of the tablets, then sank back to the bed. He stared
at the ceiling. His breathing was soft and shallow.

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you need anything else? Something to eat?” He brushed a
few locks of Edward’s fine, light brown hair from his forehead. His fingertips lingered there,
resting lightly against his brow. “We’ve got frozen pizzas. I could put one in the oven. Or ask
Alfred to make you some more of that hot chocolate. Or both.”

“You’re going to make me fat, you know,” Edward murmured.

Bruce’s hand settled on Edward’s belly, rubbing the slight swell gently through his shirt. “Good.”

Edward let out a faint chuckle. “Don’t encourage me. I’ve already got more padding than I
need.” His eyes slipped shut. “Every year it gets harder to keep it off. I hate my belly.”

“I like your belly.” He tugged Edward’s shirt up a little. His fingertips brushed over the line of
faint, soft brown hair leading to his navel.

Edward’s breathing hitched softly. His eyelids flickered. He giggled a little.

Ticklish? Bruce wasn’t going to do that to him, not now, but he filed the information away for
future use. He lay his palm over Edward’s stomach and felt it rising and falling. He was warm.
"Is this okay?"

"Feels nice," Edward murmured.

He rubbed Edward’s stomach slowly, back and forth, up and down, massaging the tension out of
the muscles. Edward made a soft cooing sound in the back of his throat. “I want to feed you by
hand sometime," Bruce said. "Something decadent. Chocolate-covered strawberries, maybe.”

The tip of Edward's tongue crept out, wetting his upper lip.

“I want to take you out, too. Buy you whatever clothes you want. Watch you try them on.”

His head lolled to one side. “I have what I need. I’ll just feel guilty if you spend money on me.”

“What’s the point of all this money if I can’t spoil someone I love?” His hand slid under Edward’s
shirt, up to his chest, still rubbing gently.

“You just want to make me soft and useless, like a pet,” Edward said. “Like a fat little hamster
you can stuff full of treats.”

Bruce tensed a little, at the words. But Edward was smiling. He relaxed. “Maybe.” His hand
moved in gentle circles. “What do you want right now?”

Edward’s eyes were nearly closed. He peeked up at Bruce through the tangle of his light brown
eyelashes. “Just stay with me.”

Bruce leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his stomach, then stretched out beside him atop the
covers. Edward’s head turned toward him, and Bruce inched closer, until his forehead was pressed
against Edward’s.

“Still planning to go to that charity fundraiser?” Edward whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

Bruce’s eyes searched his. “What changed your mind?”

“I want a chance to wear that suit in front of everyone. What can I say? In spite of everything, I’m
a vain and greedy creature at heart. And I like attention. I want to be seen on the arm of a
gorgeous billionaire. I want everyone speculating about who I am and where I came from. The
mystery man in the green suit.”

“You’re not scared anymore?”

“Of course I am. I’m terrified. But I’d be even more terrified, sitting at home while you went
alone. And you were right, you know—about how there will always be threats and people who
want to hurt us. How we can’t let that control our actions.”

Bruce inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “I’ll talk to Lucius about this. I’ll get him to increase the
number of security guards and police at the fundraiser. And I want you to tell me everything you
know about this new Riddler, so we can get a psych profile started. We won’t have a lot of time—
the fundraiser’s the day after tomorrow, after all—but I do take this seriously. I want you to know
that. I won’t let you be hurt again.” He brushed his knuckles over Edward’s cheek, along his soft
jawline. “We can make this work. But you have to talk to me. Let me know if he tries to contact
you again.”

“I will.” A shadow slipped across his eyes. “Bruce…when I…when I went there earlier tonight, I
was—”

Oliver jumped up onto the bed and crawled onto Bruce’s shoulder.

“Ow—ow! Claws.”

Oliver jumped down. Edward giggled.

A flush of warmth spread through Bruce’s body. When he first met Edward, his laugh had always
sounded a little manic, a little desperate, as though he were laughing in defiance of his own
despair. This…

It was soft, natural-sounding. Sweet. He wanted to hear that laugh again. Many times.

With his bandaged hand, Edward reached up slowly to touch Bruce’s pale cheek, cradling it. His
thumb stroked the skin under his right eye, where the residue of dark makeup was always faintly
visible. “Will you stay with me tonight?"

Bruce’s curled an arm around Edward, drawing him closer. “Sure.”

Edward's breathing slowed and evened. Within minutes he was asleep in Bruce’s arms, still in his
hoodie and jeans. He was exhausted—not just from tonight, but from the bone-deep fatigue of
prolonged stress, from years—decades—of living with no real support system, no one to rely on.
Bruce’s arms tightened around him. Edward just couldn't seem to catch a break.

It was strange. Edward had, in some sense, known Bruce his entire life...or at least since
childhood. Two months ago, Bruce hadn’t even known Edward's name. Yet now he would give
his life for this man in a heartbeat. There was no shred of doubt. If someone fired a gun at
Edward, Bruce would leap into the bullet’s path before it found its mark. It wouldn’t even be a
decision; it would just happen.

He knew, too, that if it became necessary, he would kill for Edward.

The Batman didn’t kill. That was his first, most important rule. There were lines he could not
cross, at least not while remaining himself. But now, he thought about Edward screaming in pain
as the chemicals ate away at his skin. He thought about the masked face looming in the camera's
lens, the bulging, frightened eyes of the rat as the knife-tip entered its stomach. And he knew—
with that same gut-level certainty—that if Bruce and this new Riddler ever found themselves in the
same room, there would be blood on the floor, and one of them would not leave the room alive.
 Chapter 20

Who is that man?

Edward stared at himself in the mirror on the inside of Bruce’s closet door. He turned this way and
that, examining himself in the green suit. Alfred had adjusted it to fit him, so it was now
comfortably snug around his shoulders and loose enough to accommodate his midsection. He
smoothed the fabric with one hand.

Who is that man standing next to Bruce Wayne? Does anyone know his name?

“Edward Nygma,” he said aloud, and smiled at himself. “Hello.”

He’d never cared for the name Nashton. It had been randomly assigned to him at the orphanage;
he felt no attachment to it, and the sound of it was heavy and blunt in his mouth, nash like gnashing
teeth and ton like a boulder. As a child, he’d come up with the name Edward Nygma for himself
and decided he was going to legally change it when he got old enough, but then adulthood came
and having a pun for a name started to feel silly. He kept it stored in his heart, anyway.

He brushed a tiny bit of lint off the cuff of his suit and said to his reflection, “You need some better
glasses, don’t you? Sure, these ones are still functional, but you went for the cheapest pair. You
always do. You liked the ones with the silver frames, remember?” Of course, they would’ve cost
more than a month’s worth of groceries.

Nala—the cat who’d likely been named for her unusual coloring, a creamy light brown with tinges
of gold, which made her look like a lion—nudged her way through the door and meowed for
attention.

“What do you think?” he asked her, sweeping a hand over himself.

She sat down on her haunches, looked at him seriously and meowed again.

“A brighter shade would suit me better? I agree. But it seems so self-indulgent to ask for a new
suit on such short notice. I mean, I know Bruce would oblige me, but…” He curled the fingers of
his injured right hand. He’d rewashed the burn and changed the bandage again a few hours ago.
“Maybe some other time.”
Nala began grooming herself with her tongue.

On a shelf, between two rows of shirts, was an array of oddly shaped cloth strips. “What are
these? Bowties?” They had probably been selected to go with the various suits, though he doubted
any of them had ever been worn. Edward couldn’t picture Bruce ever putting on a bowtie. One of
them was a vivid emerald green.

He picked up the strip of cloth. “This is a delicious shade,” he remarked. Of course, he had no
idea how to put the thing on.

He looked at himself in the mirror again. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing a little quicker
than normal. Excitement? Nervousness? He touched his own face, his hair.

Who is he?

Edward Nashton. That was all.

Everyone at this fundraiser would be rich. No matter what clothes he wore, they would look at
him and instantly know that he was from a different social class.

Look at you. Preening like a parakeet in your overpriced suit, getting ready for this orgy of
hypocrisy—

He turned away from his reflection. The self-critical voice in his head—which was usually his
own voice—had begun to take on the mechanical, squealing rasp of NoTrueNihilist’s vocal
apparatus. He’d decided to ignore it, but he could never quite shut it off.

The fundraiser was tonight. Edward had called off work that morning because he was too
overwhelmed to focus on anything except the fact that he was going on a date with Bruce Wayne.

All right, not officially a date, maybe, but yes. A date. If he allowed himself to dwell on it for too
long, to really think about everything it implied, he started to feel lightheaded.
“Need any assistance, Mr. Nashton?” Alfred’s voice came from outside the closet.

Edward wondered how long he’d been hovering outside. He wondered if Alfred had heard him
talking to the cat like a madman. “Yes, actually. I wanted to try this on.”

Alfred opened the door. Nala darted out.

He glanced at the strip of cloth in Edward’s hand, plucked it from his fingers, and—within
moments—affixed it to his suit, tying it with a few practiced movements.

Edward looked his reflection again. There it was, that brilliant flare of green, like an emerald at
his throat. He touched it. “What do you think? Is it too much?”

“It suits you.”

“I suppose I am a bit too much.” He let out a short, sharp laugh, and clamped his mouth shut.
“Sorry. I’m nervous.” He fiddled with his bowtie.

Alfred contemplated him in silence for a moment, as though he were a puzzle with a piece that
didn’t quite fit.

“Do you think this is a bad idea?” Edward asked.

“I think it’s a bit late for second guessing. If I understand the situation, this new Riddler already
knows your identity anyway. So if that’s your concern—”

“I don’t even know what my concern is. Everything, I suppose. There’ll be reporters at the event,
won’t there?”

“I’d think you would be accustomed to media attention by now.”

Of course. He’d been on the news plenty of times, as the Riddler. “That was different,” he
murmured. He took a breath. “Where is Bruce? I haven’t even seen him since you brought me
here.”

“Same place he’s been all day. In his training room, shadowboxing. It’s how he blows off steam.”

“I suppose he must train a lot. His combat style is very…fierce.”

“Sparred with him a few times this morning, myself. Though it’s harder for me to keep up with
him, these days. He’s very focused. I believe he’s imagining a potential confrontation with this
new fellow.”

Edward stared at the wall. “The Riddler threatened to expose my identity, my past actions. He
hasn’t done it yet because right now, the threat is a useful form of leverage. But if that happens—
if people see us together, and then it comes out that I was the Riddler—what will happen to
Bruce?”

“Depends on a lot of things. I don’t know what sort of evidence this man has, how convincing it
would be.”

“Suppose it is convincing. Suppose it’s enough to convict me.”

Alfred paused. “Obviously the most sensible course of action for Bruce, in that situation, would be
to feign ignorance. To insist that he didn’t know about your actions as the Riddler, that he knew
you only as Edward Nashton, normal upstanding citizen. But Bruce has never done the most
sensible thing, has he? I can tell you this much—if the truth came out, protecting you would be his
first priority.”

“I’m not sure even he could protect me, in that situation.”

“No, I don’t think he could. Not in a high-profile case like that. Even with the best lawyers, I
doubt he would be able to shield you completely from the legal consequences of your actions. But
he would throw everything he had into saving you from the lethal injection.”

“Sometimes they give the condemned an option, you know. The needle or the chair. If it were up
to me, I would pick the chair. More dramatic.” Edward examined his reflection in the mirror. His
face had gone blank. “I used to imagine what it would feel like. All that electricity coursing
through my brain. An arch of lightning between my temples. Like the shock therapy, but
permanent. One last flash before everything went dark.”

Alfred’s lips tightened briefly, and he turned his face away. “Arkham seems a more likely
outcome.”

Edward had imagined that fate for himself, too. Many times. Life in a cage, staring out at the
world from behind glass. He’d been there before—voluntarily, but still. “You know, they still
performed lobotomies in Arkham up until the late eighties.”

“I’m aware. Poor Martha was very nearly lobotomized during one of her stays there. I suppose
you know about that.”

Edward looked at him in surprise. He knew Bruce’s mother had been in and out of institutions.
He’d done a great deal of research on the Waynes and the Arkhams, digging up whatever sordid
details he could find. But he’d never heard that particular detail. “I don’t.”

“They’d stopped calling them lobotomies at that point. They had some other name for it, and they
took steps to keep it a secret from the general public. But it was the same principle. A few
strategically placed electrodes to burn out little clusters of cells. Right around here.” He reached
out and briefly tapped Edward’s forehead, above his left eye. “Sever the connections.”

“Broca’s area,” he said softly. “No more words.”

“Precisely. It kept their more troublesome patients quiet.”

Edward was almost impressed at the poetic nature of their cruelty. So precise, yet so Medieval. So
blatantly political in its motivations.

“Martha saw some of the less humane things going on there during her stay and was planning to
expose them,” Alfred said, “so they decided to take steps to keep her mouth shut. Thomas was
utterly enraged when he found out. He charged in and had to be physically restrained from
attacking the doctor who’d ordered the procedure. After that, naturally, Martha never went back
there, and Arkham stopped performing those procedures. Cleaned up their act, or at least the worst
of it. Thomas and Martha had something to do with that, I’m sure. Even if you do end up locked
in a cage, they’ll keep their grubby paws off that troublesome brain of yours. You can thank her
for that.”
Of course—until it almost happened to a Wayne, no one had cared enough to look too closely at
what Arkham was doing, so long as difficult people were kept locked away and out of sight.

He absently touched the spot above his left eye, imagined a life without words. Able to
comprehend but unable to respond. Like an exaggerated version of his pre-Riddler existence as an
invisible, unheard cog in the machine. “Does Bruce know? About all that?”

“No. His parents always tried to shield him from certain things.” His gaze drifted away. “Martha
struggled with such…terrible darkness. I see it in Bruce, sometimes. That same shadow. Though
of course, he’s also his father’s son, in many ways.” He exhaled slowly. “We all inherit a legacy.
For better or worse.”

“Not all of us.”

Alfred stared at him with an unreadable expression.

Edward wondered how much Bruce had told him. “My mother left me in a garbage can,” Edward
said. “I suppose that’s my legacy.” He smiled thinly. “I never blamed her for that. She was
probably poor. Probably young. Some confused, drop-addled child who didn’t know what to do
with the screaming, bloody thing in her arms. Maybe it seemed kinder just to leave me. It was a
cold night, I’m sure. She could never have predicted that I’d be idiotic enough to survive.”

Alfred didn’t answer.

“Pleading insanity would feel like a lie,” Edward said. “If I went to trial, I mean. I am mentally
ill. I know that. But ‘insane’ means you’re not responsible for your actions, and what I did—it
wasn’t because of some faulty wiring in my brain. It was all very deliberate. Like a chess move.
It was the culmination of everything.”

“Do you regret it?”

He stared at his shoes—a pair of brown leather dress shoes he’d found in the closet. “I don’t
know. But I know that I’ll never kill again. I can’t. I’ve changed too much. And I’m terrified of
losing him.” He hadn’t meant to say that last part. It had slipped out. He cracked a smile, as
though to play it off as a joke, but it felt stiff and unconvincing on his face.
Alfred let out a small sigh. “I don’t think that will happen. I’ve never seen Bruce so utterly
smitten. I always wondered what he would be like if he found someone—if he came out of that
self-imposed prison of his. Never imagined it playing out quite like this.”

Edward ducked his head and started fiddling nervously with his bowtie again.

“Let it be.” Alfred reached out, pushed Edward’s hand away from the bowtie and straightened it.
“You’re worse than Bruce. He never stops fussing with his ties.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll go check on him. We ought to leave a little early. Traffic will be heavy at this hour. Oh—
you’ll need some cufflinks, won’t you?” He pulled a pair of bronze cufflinks from his pocket, each
with a stylized W engraved on its surface, and fastened them in place.

Edward held up his wrists and smiled again, wryly. “Property of Wayne Enterprises.”

“If you’d prefer a personalized set with your own initials, I’m sure Bruce could arrange that.”

“These will do.” He rubbed his thumb over the W.

He nodded. “And Edward…”

Edward looked at him.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. After a few seconds he said, “Enjoy yourself.”

“Th…thank you.”

Alfred walked away.

 ***

Edward sat next to Bruce in the backseat of the car. Alfred was driving. The dingy lights of the
city glimmered through the smoggy night. Bruce wore a charcoal gray suit over a white shirt with
a matching gray tie. He was fussing with the knot.

“Bruce,” Alfred said.

He released the tie. His hands dropped to his sides. Bruce’s expression was grim, facial muscles
drawn taut, and Edward thought about what Alfred had said—about Bruce in his training room,
shadowboxing, honing his reflexes. Preparing himself.

Edward reached out slowly to take Bruce’s hand in his. He ran his thumb over the knuckles.
“We’ll be fine,” he whispered. “You said you told them to increase the security.”

“Yeah. I know. Just…after what happened the other night…maybe you were right. Maybe this is
—”

“It’s fine, Bruce. My hand doesn’t even hurt.” Well, only a little. He’d taken a painkiller before
they left, though he’d restricted himself to half a pill so he wouldn’t get too drowsy. He could still
feel a dull ache in his palm. He cracked a smile. “Maybe I can pass the bandage off as a fashion
accessory.”

Bruce stared at him solemnly and said, “I won’t let anyone hurt you like that again. I’ll protect
you.”

So earnest. Edward’s stomach gave a strange little lurching flip-flop, and he had to avert his gaze.
He was getting flushed again. It was ridiculous that Bruce could say those things to him, could sit
here and deliver that promise with the gravity of a wedding vow. This was Batman sitting next to
him. This was the masked man he’d seen on the news and fallen in love with. He had the sense,
not for the first time, that he was living out some deranged fairytale. His fantasy had come to life,
as though an enchantment had been cast on his Batman plushie, transforming it into the real,
complex, flawed, unpredictable man who was sitting beside him now.

“Bruce…I’m not…”
“We’re here,” Alfred said.

The Arkham Center loomed ahead of them. A dozen police cars were parked in the lot, uniformed
officers standing near the entrance. German Shepherds stood at their sides, panting. Reporters
swarmed around the granite steps leading up to the front doors, a tide of cameras barely held in
check by the red velvet ropes. Edward’s breathing quickened.

“Oh dear,” Alfred said. “The jackals are hungry tonight.”

“I don’t suppose we could go in through the back entrance or something,” Bruce said.

“With the added security measures? No, I doubt it. They’ll be checking everyone at the front
door.”

Edward’s hand had started to sweat in Bruce’s.

Bruce leaned in and murmured in his ear, “It’s okay. Just walk straight ahead, don’t make eye
contact, and don’t say anything.”

Edward didn’t reply.

“It’s not too late,” Bruce said. “If you want to change your mind. Alfred can drop me off and take
you home.”

“I’m fine.” The words sounded limp and unconvincing. Bruce could probably feel his pulse,
which kept inching up and up, and his usual techniques weren’t working. He kept walking down
stairs in his head, but his heart-rate and breathing remained unaffected. He hadn’t been this on
edge even when he went to confront NoTrueNihilist in the graveyard. Of course, he’d felt more
prepared for that, in a strange way. The dance of murder, of violence, was something he knew.
This…

This was another world. Bruce’s world. Edward was about to step through the portal into the
alternate universe of Gotham’s elite.
Alfred pulled up. The cameras kept flashing. The lights hurt his eyes.

Back when he’d been the Riddler, it had been thrilling to see himself on the news and in the papers
—the mask, the rasping voice. Now, he imagined himself unmasked on television, his plainness
on display next to Bruce’s elegant, careless beauty. The suit flattered him, but it couldn’t entirely
disguise his middle-aged thickness, his weak shoulders. He was a drab little sparrow next to a
sleek raven. He imagined a slew of comments about his appearance online, thousands of strangers
evaluating him, dissecting him—

Bruce whispered, “Do you want me to keep holding your hand?”

“That will get them talking,” he murmured.

“It doesn’t matter what they think. They’re just noise. They’re just air.”

Edward closed his eyes for a few seconds, swallowed and said, “Yes. Hold my hand.”

They stepped out, still holding hands. Bruce said, “See you later tonight,” to Alfred and closed the
car door. They strode forward, down the narrow gauntlet between the velvet ropes, toward the
steps leading up to the open, towering double doors.

Voices shouted all around them. “Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!”

“A brief comment, please!”

“Who’s your guest?”

A woman shoved a microphone in the direction of Edward’s face and shouted, “Sir? Sir!”

Edward froze.

“Keep walking,” Bruce whispered.

But Edward’s legs wouldn’t move. His vision started to go gray and fuzzy around the edges.

“Sir, what’s your name? What’s your relationship to Mr. Wayne?”

The cameras kept snapping around him. He imagined the dazed and stupefied expression on his
own face, imagined it appearing in the tabloids tomorrow.

All his life, he’d been invisible. People only cared about him once he put on the mask. Now, here
was his chance to stand in the spotlight at last. And all he wanted to do was crawl back into the
shadows. The cameras just kept flashing, blinding him. He blinked, raising one hand to shield his
face. He felt like a wild animal on display in a cage.

Bruce released his hand and put an arm around his shoulders. “Edward,” he whispered, “look at
me. Look at me. It’s all right—”

“Excuse me! Mr. Wayne! Who is this man?”

Bruce turned toward the reporter and said in a firm, cool tone, “He’s my partner. We’re going in
now. No more comments.” With his arm still around Edward, he walked briskly toward the
stairs. Edward followed.

Behind them, the excited buzz of voices filled the air. They kept walking. Reporters kept shouting
questions, but the words blended into static in Edward’s ears.

They walked up the steps. There was a metal detector and a conveyor belt. Edward had never
flown, but it looked similar to the setup he’d seen on TV shows in airports.

“Empty out your pockets, please,” a man’s voice barked. “Place the contents on the belt.”

They obeyed, setting their wallets and keys and phones on the conveyor.

“Hands in the air.”

Bruce put his hands up. Edward copied the movement.

A woman in a security uniform waved a wand over them. “I’m going to pat you down briefly,”
she said.

“Okay,” Bruce said.

She patted him down, then gave the same treatment to Edward, who flinched.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” she said.

They walked through the arch of the metal detector. Bruce took his wallet, keys and phone and put
them back into his pockets. Edward stared blankly at his own possessions.

“Edward,” Bruce whispered.

He gave a start, picked up his things, and pocketed them.

Bruce took his hand again and said, “Let’s go.”

They stepped forward, through the Arkham Center’s towering, open entrance doors. Instantly—as
though they’d stepped through some sort of forcefield—the din behind them was muffled.

They were standing in a grand entrance room: gray stone walls, narrow fortress windows glinting
with ruby-red stained glass, and a dusky blood-red carpet patterned with vines and roses. Above, a
glittering eldritch god of a chandelier spread its bronze tentacles. Soft music—the familiar
intertwining of Pachelbel’s Canon and "The First Noel"—played from somewhere up ahead. A
few other people stood around in the entrance hall, chatting and holding drinks, but most of the
guests seemed to be in the room up ahead. The silence and relative emptiness was a stark contrast
from the crowds outside.

“You okay?” Bruce asked.

“Yes,” Edward heard himself reply. His heart was still beating rapidly. A part of him wanted to
ask Bruce to hug him. But he felt too exposed.

“That won’t happen again,” Bruce said. “There will be a few reporters in the main room, but
they’ll behave themselves. They’re being very selective about who they let in here.”

Edward only half-heard him; his mind was replaying the last few minutes.

Partner. Bruce had called him his partner. He had declared, in front of the world, that he and
Edward were in a relationship.

Bruce slipped his arm through Edward’s and began to walk. Edward followed.

It smelled nice in here. It smelled rich. There was a hint of something Christmassy, something
like fresh pine and spices. Sure enough, he saw tastefully understated Christmas decorations here
and there, red ribbons and wreaths with golden bells hanging from the walls, antique nutcrackers
on the mantle over a roaring fire.

They passed a dark-haired young woman on her hands and knees, wearing a light blue uniform. A
bucket of soapy water and a sponge sat nearby, and she was scrubbing a stain off the carpet—it
looked as though someone had spilled eggnog. Several shards of broken glass lay nearby. She
glanced up at them, and then quickly looked down again, as though she’d crossed some unspoken
boundary by making eye contact with the guests.

Edward had had a cleaning job at a nice hotel, once, when he was young. He’d been instructed to
make himself unobtrusive, to only speak when he was addressed directly. Guests were meant to
feel as though their accommodations were maintained by magical, invisible elves.

At the end of the entrance hall, an arched doorway led into another (from the looks of it, even
larger) room: a ballroom-slash-banquet-hall. At one end of the room, Edward could see a stage
with a live orchestra, still playing, and a children’s choir adding soft vocals—that brought back
some uncomfortable memories. The main portion of the room was filled with tables—smaller
tables designed to seat groups of five or six, larger tables piled high with food and drink. More
people milled around, all of them impeccably well-dressed.

Over the doorway hung a black banner with the words GOTHAM HOUSING PROJECT in silver
lettering.

“I, um. I’ve never been to an event like this before,” Edward said. “I guess I should have asked
this earlier, but—what do we do?”

“We don’t have to do anything. When I go to these things I usually end up spending most of the
time just hanging out in the corner, avoiding everyone. There’ll be an open bar. Food. You can
eat if you’re hungry.”

Edward nodded. It had been a while since he’d last eaten, but at the moment, his stomach felt like
a fist. It was hard to imagine putting anything inside it. “Who else is here?”

“The mayor. Bella Reál.”

“Yes. I remember reading about that.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to her. She approached me a while back at Don Mitchell’s memorial,
talking about my family’s history of philanthropy. She said I could be doing more for this city. It
stung, at the time. Felt like yet another person telling me that I’d never measure up to my parents.
But she said that if she became mayor, she wanted to change that. She was saying she wanted to
work with me. Of course, the memorial got...interrupted, but she did say she wanted to continue
the conversation. This seems like a good opportunity.”

Edward was having trouble focusing on the words. He’d underestimated just how overwhelming
this whole thing would be. He felt his mind fluctuating strangely, expanding to encompass the
barrage of sensory stimuli—the music, the scent of the air, the rising and falling murmur of voices,
the glitter of the lights—then collapsing in on itself until all he could hear was his own breathing
and all he could see were the tips of his own shoes.

“Hey.” Bruce gripped his hand, squeezing.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He swallowed. “Am I? Really?”

“Are you what?”

“Your partner. Is that what—? I don’t know what to call it. Us.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He hesitated. “Should I not have said that?”

“N-no, it’s not that I don’t—I mean, it’s fine. I’m just…trying to get my bearings, I suppose.” His
wrist drifted to his mouth. He bit the bronze cufflink on his sleeve, ran his tongue over the
engraved W—the sensation was oddly soothing—then he realized what he was doing and quickly
dropped his arm to his side.

They approached the doorway, hand in hand.

Sure enough, Edward spotted Bella Reál in the crowd beyond, holding a glass of what was
probably champagne. She was speaking to a small group of men and women, gesturing with her
free hand, and they listened, nodding along seriously. Then one of them glanced over and noticed
Bruce and Edward approaching. She pointed.

The members of the small group smiled and quickly excused themselves from the conversation
with Bella. They drifted away from her and toward Bruce, into the entrance hall. Bella’s
expression went blank. She shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and quickly
downed the rest of her champagne before grabbing a new glass from a passing tray.

“Bruce,” said an older woman. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. So glad to see you. I don’t know if
you remember me but I was a good friend of your parents.”

“I’m sure you were,” he said, unsmiling.

“And who is this?” Her gaze fell on Edward.

“This is Edward, my partner.”

Partner. That word, a second time.

“So you’ve started dating again,” the woman said, leaning toward them, her thin blood-red lips
parted in a smile. “Your mother and father would be thrilled, I’m sure. God rest their souls. So
how did you two meet?”

Bruce’s hand tightened on Edward’s, and Edward felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness. Who
was this vulture, swooping in to talk about Bruce’s dead parents to his face and pry into his private
life? He smiled at her and said, “He kidnapped me. Drugged me and stuffed me into the trunk of
his car. It was quite thrilling.”

Her face went blank. Bruce drew his breath in sharply.

“What? You’re looking for juicy gossip, aren’t you?” Edward asked. “That’s why you’re talking
to us. Oh, you needn’t worry about me, I’m enjoying myself.”

“Well.” She gave a strained laugh and glanced at Bruce. “Your friend certainly has a…unique
sense of humor. I’m sure your conversations are very lively.”

“You have no idea.” Edward giggled. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were about to get some…
what is that over there, eggnog?” He turned and steered Bruce toward a table near the doorway,
where he ladled some eggnog from a silver bowl into a crystal glass. “God, that must get
exhausting,” he murmured. “Dealing with people like that. No wonder you hate going to these
events.” He took a swig of the eggnog. “This is amazing, though. Do you want some?” Bruce
was silent, and Edward’s chest tightened. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I know. It just made me
angry. The way she was talking to you.”

“No, it just…surprised me. I mean, you seemed so overwhelmed by all this. I didn’t expect—” a
smile grew from one corner of Bruce’s mouth. “It was funny. The look on her face.”

Edward smiled back. “Should we go inside?”

Bruce linked arms with him again, and they strode through the doorway, into the glittering
ballroom.
 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes

Notes at the end.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The choir had finished Pachelbel’s Canon and was singing “Carol of the Bells.” Bruce and
Edward wove their way through the crowd, arm in arm. Strings of white Christmas lights
festooned the walls. Whispers and glances followed them.

Bruce ignored the onlookers and remained attuned to the rhythm of Edward’s breathing. It was
slower now than it had been in the entrance room. The confrontation paradoxically seemed to have
calmed him.

“You look good,” Bruce said.

Edward glanced over at him, blinking.

“I forgot to tell you earlier. I was…preoccupied. You look nice.”

Edward gave a small, nervous smile. “Green is my color.” He stared at Bruce’s face for a
moment, then dropped his gaze. “You look amazing. But then, you always do.”

“I forgot to shave.”

“Same. Though I’ve never been very prone to growing facial hair. I mean, even after a week
chained to your—sorry. Shouldn’t be talking about that here.”

“I still can’t believe you told her that. Even if she did assume you were joking.”

“Any story we made up at the last minute wouldn’t have sounded convincing, and she was out for
blood. She would’ve kept digging. But what I said—that shut her up, didn’t it? Sometimes, truth
is the best lie.”

They were approaching a table covered with silver platters of hors d'oeuvres. An ice sculpture
stood in the table’s center—a robed angel with spread wings, perched atop a metal stand. It was
already starting to melt. Whole lobsters lay draped over the edges of silver bowls all around it,
collapsed like spent boxers draped over the edge of the ring. Their beady black eyes stared at the
guests. The bowls were filled with crushed ice and whole cooked shrimp.

As Bruce watched, a man plucked a shrimp from one of the dishes, took a single small bite, and
then discarded the rest in the nearest trash can.

Edward twitched. Of course—he hated food waste. Even if he’d wanted to come here tonight, he
probably couldn’t help but be appalled, confronted by all this shameless decadence. Bruce could
practically hear his accountant’s brain humming like an engine, tallying up the cost of everything
in the room and what percentage of it would likely end up in the Dumpsters by the end of the night.

The man put a wedge of dark cake on his plate, ate one forkful, wrinkled his nose, and threw that
out, too.

Edward’s breathing had quickened a little, whistling in and out through his nose.

“You, uh—you want anything to eat?” Bruce asked.

“I’m all right for now. You said you were going to talk to the mayor tonight?”

“Right. Guess I should do that while I have a chance.” Where was Bella Reál? He’d seen her just
a moment ago, talking to those people, before they gravitated over to Bruce. He scanned the room
and noticed her talking to another man in a business suit.

He started to walk toward her, but a voice called, “Excuse me—Bruce Wayne?” A young woman
with a camera approached. “I’m with the Gotham Post. I won’t take up more than a minute or two
of your time, but I wondered if I could ask a few questions.”

This reporter was a lot more polite than the ones outside. But he remained on guard. “Depends on
what they’re about. I’d rather not answer any questions about my personal life.”
“Of course.” She smiled. “You made quite a stir with your last appearance. Do you have any
thoughts you’d like to share about the homelessness epidemic in Gotham?”

“It’s a serious problem. Obviously. That’s why we’re here.”

“Some critics have called the Gotham Housing Project a band-aid solution to a complex social
issue, saying that rather than simply providing free living space, we should direct funds toward
addressing problems such as unemployment and substance abuse. What’s your response to that?”

“Is there any reason we can’t do all those things? Why is it either-or?”

“I’m simply relaying what others have said. But of course, funding isn’t infinite.”

Bruce glanced at Edward, who had averted his gaze firmly from the reporter; he seemed
determined to pretend she didn’t exist.

“I think housing is more urgent,” Bruce said. “Especially now, in the winter. Looking for a job is
a lot harder when it’s fifteen degrees outside and you don’t have a place to sleep. I mean…that’s
common sense, right?”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne. May I take a picture?”

He glanced at Edward, who was still looking down, and said, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

She nodded and retreated quietly.

Edward remained motionless, his gaze on the floor. His lips were parted, his breathing a soft rasp.
A vein throbbed visibly in his temple.

“Hey,” Bruce said quietly. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“We don’t have to talk to anymore reporters. If anyone else asks me for a comment, I’ll send them
away.” When Edward didn’t respond, he asked, “Is it what she said?”

“It’s everything. It’s all of this.”

He suddenly remembered a line from one of the entries he’d seen in Edward’s journal—hell is an
empty promise. Edward had been there the day that Thomas Wayne assured everyone in the
orphanage that things were going to get better. And then they never did.

Bruce took Edward’s hand, intertwining their fingers, and squeezed. “This won’t be another
Renewal,” Bruce said. “We’ll make sure of it. I’m going to talk to Bella. And you’ll be there,
too. This is a chance.”

“You think she’ll listen?” His tone was difficult to read.

“She wants to talk to me. She’s the one who approached me at the memorial. She wants to change
this city. She’ll listen.” Bruce scanned the room. He spotted her near the stage in back just before
she disappeared through a doorway.

“There,” Bruce said. Keeping his hand linked with Edward’s, he made his way across the room,
weaving through packed bodies, until they came to the doorway. It led to a long, quiet, carpeted
hall. Bella, clad in an understated dark blue dress and short heels, was walking down the hallway;
she walked briskly past the restroom doors and turned a corner.

“Maybe we should wait until she comes back,” Edward said. “It seems like she wants to be alone.”

“We might not get a better chance,” Bruce said. “It’ll be easier if we can talk without distractions,
anyway.” He unlinked his hand from Edward’s and strode down the hall after her. The din of the
ballroom receded behind them.

“Bruce…”
He kept walking, glancing briefly over one shoulder to make sure Edward was following. He
didn’t want to let Edward out of his sight.

As they neared the end of the hall, he heard Bella speaking in a hushed, fierce voice: “Oh, you
should’ve seen it. The instant he walked into the room, everyone just forgot I existed. I am the
mayor—the fucking mayor, the youngest mayor this city has ever had. And I’m still invisible.”

Bruce stood motionless, muscles stiff. Maybe Edward had been right. Maybe he should just turn
around and walk away.

Bella continued in the same sharp whisper: “I swear to God, Bruce Wayne could walk onto that
stage, drop his trousers, take a shit and walk off again and the Gotham Post would be running
think-pieces about it for the next six months. And of course now everyone’s losing their minds
because he comes walking in with some guy no one’s ever seen, and the ones who aren’t talking
about that are talking about this new Riddler video and about why the fucking Batman hasn’t
made an appearance, because Gotham treats these vigilante lunatics like celebrities—”

“Bruce,” Edward whispered.

No—he had promised to do this. This was his chance. Bruce braced himself and approached,
turning the corner. Bella stood with her back to him, a phone glued to her ear.

“I swear to God,” she hissed, pacing, “one of these days I’m going to just go off on these
motherfuckers and tell them what I really think. I’ve worked too hard to get this far only to keep
playing second fiddle to these unhinged white boys—”

“Hi,” Bruce said.

She turned around sharply, and her face went blank with panic. “I—I’ve gotta go.” She hung up,
shoved the cell phone in her pocket, smiled, and said in a smooth, professional voice, as though a
switch had been flipped, “Bruce Wayne. It’s a pleasure to see you here tonight. I—when did you
—”

“Just now,” he said. “Last time we spoke, at the funeral, you said you wanted to continue our
conversation, but we never did. I’m interested in helping with the Gotham Housing Project. And
with anything else you have in mind. I’m making a donation tonight, of course, but I understand
there’s a lot more work to be done.” At Bella’s astonished expression, he added, “Uh…do you
want us to go? Do you need to finish…?”

She looked from Bruce to Edward.

Awkwardly, he raised a hand in greeting. “Edward Nashton,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you,
Ms. Reál.”

She took a breath and put a hand to her temple. “Let’s just…find somewhere to sit.”

“Okay.” Bruce paused, frowning slightly. “Are you all right?”

“To be honest, I’m a little on edge,” she said, “considering the serial killer who murders politicians
is apparently active again. I take it you’ve seen that new video by now.”

“The one with the rat? Yes. I’ve seen it.”

“And you just snuck up on me in an empty hallway.”

“Oh.” Bruce blinked. “Sorry.”

“The Riddler’s targets were all corrupt,” Edward said. “I don’t think you have anything to fear.”

“Very kind of you to say, but I don’t trust the moral judgment of someone who straps a mask full of
live rats to a man’s face. But…yes. Let’s talk.”

***

Minutes later, they were back in the ballroom, sitting at one of the large, round tables.

Edward’s stomach was starting to growl audibly, despite what he’d said earlier. As they’d passed
one of the tables, he’d hastily grabbed an assortment of hors d'oeuvres—bacon-wrapped chestnuts,
white chocolates shaped like snowflakes, a square of gingerbread spice cake, and tiny sandwiches
speared with toothpicks. But he hadn’t touched any of it.

“I apologize,” Bruce said, “for taking so long to get back to you. I’ve…had a lot going on.”

“Well, we’re here now.” She took a slow sip of champagne. She seemed to have recovered her
composure, more or less, though tension still hummed in her voice.

It was odd seeing her so…keyed up. Every time Bruce had heard her speak, before this, she’d
seemed very put-together, projecting competence like a coat of smooth varnish. Now, her voice
wobbled slightly.

“That speech you gave at the press conference,” she said. “I have to admit, it surprised me. You
never publicly expressed any sort of political opinions before that night. What changed?”

Bruce hesitated, then said, “Honestly…meeting Edward. He’s altered my perceptions about a lot
of things.”

Edward fiddled self-consciously with his bowtie, then folded his hands in his lap.

Bella glanced at Edward. “And who are you, Mr. Nashton?” The question might have sounded
confrontational, but her tone gentled noticeably when she spoke to him.

“Me? I’m nobody.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“I’m a forensic accountant.”

She studied him with an unreadable expression. “Are you, by any chance, the man Mr. Wayne
referenced in his speech? The one who grew up in the old Gotham Orphanage?”

After a pause, Edward said, “Yes.”

“And how did you and Bruce meet?” At his silence, she said, “You don’t have to answer, of
course. I’m just curious.”

Edward and Bruce exchanged a glance. They’d never really agreed on an official story, and this
wasn’t a situation where he could deflect the question with a joke.

“Online,” Bruce said. “We met online. A dating website.”

She tilted her head slightly. She seemed to sense something off, but she didn’t pry. “Well…as you
said, Mr. Wayne, there’s a lot of work to be done. Gotham’s infrastructure is crumbling, and
Renewal has been broken for decades. We need to wipe the slate clean and start over. Redesign
from the ground up. But naturally, rebuilding requires a lot of money upfront. And Gotham’s
middle class is already under a heavy tax burden. They all want change, but they get scared when
you start talking about how you’re going to pay for it.” She took another slow sip of her
champagne.

“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes,” Bruce said. “I’ve already made the decision to sell Wayne
Agriculture. And after that, it will be Wayne Aerospace. I need to talk to Lucius, but it’s just a
matter of which ones will go first. I’m planning to sell of most of my stocks. Hell, maybe
everything. I’ll keep enough to live on, but—”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait,” she said. “Hold on. You’re talking about liquidating everything? The
entire company? Am I misunderstanding?”

“I’m talking about dividing my empire. Selling it off in pieces and giving that money back to
Gotham.” He paused. “I mean…I know I can’t do it all at once without…you know, causing a
market panic.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But when I pushed Lucius for an answer he said that, if necessary, I could convert about three
billion dollars’ worth of assets to cash every year. We could do a lot with an extra three billion a
year, I’m sure. At the very least, we could make sure no one in Gotham has to sleep on the
streets.”

She stared at him blankly.

“What?” Bruce asked.

“Frankly, I think that would be a short-sighed decision. I hope you’ll reconsider.”

He frowned. “You’re saying you don’t want my money?”

“Wayne Enterprises has always been an important part of Gotham’s economy and a reliable
supplier of jobs for our citizens. If you destroy it, it will throw everything into chaos. You’d undo
in a few years what your parents and grandparents and great-grandparents spent their lives
building, and we’d all be worse off for it, in the long run.”

“Then…I don’t understand. You’re saying you don’t want my help?”

“Of course I do. Just not like that. You can help more, in the long term, if your company stays
intact and profitable. Your parents always understood that.”

“My parents,” he muttered.

“Yes. They were smart businesspeople as well as philanthropists.”

Bruce pushed his hair out of his face. “It’s just…you talked a lot about change. During your
campaign. But now, you’re telling me that you want me to keep doing the same things my mother
and father were doing. You’re the one who kept talking about how the system was broken. I don’t
—I don’t really get it.”

“Obviously we don’t want another Renewal. But the issue there was lack of oversight. Everyone
hates government red tape, but without it, you get messes like that. We need every penny
accounted for. And of course, accountants have to get paid too. I’m sure you’d agree, Mr.
Nashton.”

Edward made a noncommittal sound.

“Look at it this way.” She took another sip of champagne. “If you kill the cow, everyone feasts
for a little while, but then there’s no more milk. So what then? We need that Wayne milk.” She
paused. “Sorry, that…came out weird.” She set the glass of champagne down and pushed it
away. “The past few days have been exhausting. I’m not at my best.”

“I get it,” Bruce said.

“I suppose I should apologize for the ‘unhinged white boys’ remark as well. And for lumping you
together with the Riddler. I didn’t mean to imply that you were in any way like that psychopath.”

Edward twitched.

“It’s fine,” Bruce said.

She hesitated, then said quietly, “A better analogy, maybe…have you ever tried to untangle a
messed-up ball of yarn? You loosen one knot and another tightens. It’s difficult. It’s tedious.
You just have to keep picking away wherever you can, trying not to make something else worse.
And it gets tempting to think that maybe you just grab the scissors and start chopping your way
through the knots. But now imagine that every centimeter of yarn is a human life. Gets
complicated fast, doesn’t it? But nobody wants to hear that. Nobody wants to know about the
grubby details of actually fixing things. They want change now. And who can blame them?
People are dying out there. They’re desperate. But if you want lasting change, it can’t happen
overnight. Or even in a year.”

“So then, we just keep…picking away at knots in the yarn? While the world burns around us?”

“That’s what governing is. That’s what living is.” Her eyes lost focus. She checked her phone,
took a breath and said, “It was good speaking to you, but I’ve got a speech of my own to prepare
for. I’ll contact your people. I want to continue this discussion soon. In the meantime…well, I
can’t control your actions, of course. But please don’t do anything reckless.”

Her gaze flicked to Edward, and she held out a hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you as well, Mr.
Nashton.”

He shook her hand. Her skin was warm and a little dry. She shook Bruce’s hand as well, then left
the table.
“I offer her billions of dollars to rebuild Gotham, and she says no,” Bruce muttered. He turned his
champagne glass slowly. “You wouldn’t think it would be so hard. Giving away money. I mean
—am I crazy? I shouldn’t have so much. People keep telling me that, and I keep agreeing with
them. But every time I try to get rid of it, everyone acts like I’m losing my mind.”

“Funny,” Edward said, “isn’t it?” He took a slow bite of the ginger cake. “I mean…she is a
politician.”

“So you think all that stuff she said about real change—it was just telling people what they wanted
to hear? None of it meant anything?”

Edward rolled his cufflink slowly between a thumb and forefinger. “She knows how to play the
game. But I think she’s earnest about wanting to help Gotham. She’s better than Mitchell,
anyway.”

“To be honest, I didn’t even vote in this election.”

“I’ve never voted. Well…I suppose I did, this time. In a sense.” He smiled, his gaze downcast.
“Anyway, thank you. For trying.”

There were times when he felt so connected to Edward, as though they could read each other’s
thoughts, and other times when Edward was still so much an enigma to him. Bruce couldn’t tell
what was in his mind right now.

“How’s the cake?” Bruce asked.

“Extremely sweet. It almost hurts my teeth.”

“Don’t force yourself to finish it.” At Edward’s silence, he added, “They’ve got pumpkin pie.”

“I still haven’t tried these chocolates.” He made eye contact briefly with Bruce and flushed.

Bruce suddenly remembered what he’d said about wanting to feed Edward by hand. Slowly, he
picked up one of the chocolate snowflakes.
They were in the middle of a crowded room. There were undoubtedly people watching them,
gossiping and speculating.

Fine, he thought. He’d give them something to gossip about. “Open your mouth,” Bruce said.

Edward’s breathing quickened a little. His lips parted, and Bruce placed the morsel on his tongue.
His finger brushed over Edward’s full, pink lower lip as he withdrew his hand. Edward closed his
eyes and chewed slowly.

“Good?”

“Mm-hmm.” He swallowed.

The children’s choir had vacated the stage; the orchestra had just finished playing a soft jazz,
instrumental version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” After a brief silence, they started a new
song.

As the opening notes played on a grand piano, Edward’s eyes widened in recognition. “Is this…”

“I, uh. I might’ve put in a request.”

Edward put a hand over his eyes. A small, breathless laugh escaped him. “A prog rock song from
the seventies is a little out of place at a Christmas-themed event. Don’t you think?”

“It’s an orchestral version. I think it’s fitting.” Bruce rose and offered a hand to Edward. “Do you
want to dance?”

Edward remained in his seat.

Bruce lowered his hand. He forced a smile. “It’s fine. We can just relax. I’ll bring you a slice of
that pie, if you want.”
Edward wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I—I’ve never—” his voice quavered a little. “I
don’t know how to dance.”

“Me neither.”

Slowly, Edward reached out and took Bruce’s hand. Bruce’s fingers tightened on his. Edward
stood, and they walked toward the dance floor together. Out into the open.

The lights had dimmed, softening. Edward’s legs wobbled like a newborn foal’s. He put one hand
on Bruce’s hip. He raised his other hand and interlaced his fingers with Bruce’s. “We just sort
of…sway?”

“I think so.”

The drums kicked in as the chorus swelled. They moved gently to the rhythm.

Edward let out a nervous little giggle. “Am I doing this right?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

Bruce had been on guard since the start of the night, waiting for something to happen. Now, he
allowed himself to consider the possibility that maybe nothing would. He doubted they’d heard
the last of the new Ridder, but given the level of security at this event, it would be impractical for
him to actually try something tonight. Maybe for one night, at least, they could have a good time.

Edward moved in closer to Bruce and rested his head on his shoulder. His lips nearly brushed
Bruce’s ear as he whispered, “There’s someone watching us.”

“There are a lot of people watching us.”

“Near the wall. Behind the stage.”

Sure enough, a figure was standing motionless near the edge of the room, staring at them—a small,
thin person dressed in light blue. It was hard to tell, from this distance, but Bruce thought it was
the dark-haired young woman he’d seen earlier, in the entrance hall, the one who’d been cleaning
up the spill. She held a broom in one hand, now, a dustpan in the other.

Bruce kept moving slowly, gently. Stepping, swaying. “People stare at me all the time. Most of
them don’t mean any harm. And you’re with me. They’re curious about you.”

“I’m trying not to be paranoid. I really am. It’s just…”

“I know.” He rested his palm on Edward’s smooth cheek, caressed it with his thumb. “It’s okay.”

The rest of the room faded softly into the background. He felt Edward gradually relaxing into the
music as they moved. As the song’s tempo increased, warm strings filling the air, Bruce gave him
a little spin, and he gasped. The pink in his cheeks brightened. A smile spread slowly across his
face. As the violins swelled again, he gripped both of Bruce’s hands in his own, and they began to
move in a rhythmic sidestepping motion, swinging their arms together. It wasn’t elegant. They
probably looked more like kids goofing around than two adult men dancing. But that was fine.

As the song drew to a close, Edward leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, close to the corner of
his mouth.

It was quick, just a press of lips against skin, but Bruce hadn’t expected him to do something like
that in front of everyone. His hand flew to his cheek in surprise.

Edward’s fingertips touched his other cheek, spots of warmth. “You’re a good dancer,” he said.

“Th…thank you.”

***

They made their way back toward the table and sat. Edward was still flushed, beaming, his eyes
bright and sparkly and very green. And suddenly Bruce ached for him—a fierce stab of longing so
intense it was almost pain. He wanted to be alone with him. Wanted to kiss him, to touch him.
Bruce put a hand over Edward’s and leaned in toward him. His voice lowered. “I want to take you
back to my place tonight.”

Edward’s tongue crept out to wet his lips. “What would you do with me, there?” he asked, his
voice thin and a little hoarse.

Bruce put his lips to Edward’s ear and whispered, “I want to chain you down to the bed.”

He heard the soft click in Edward’s throat as he swallowed. His eyes slipped shut. His eyelids
quivered a little, as though he were struggling to maintain his grip on control. Then they opened
again, wide and a little dazed, and Bruce could see the strings of white Christmas lights reflected
there, like tiny cities at night. “Like before?”

“In my room.” His fingers encircled Edward’s wrist. His thumb lingered over the pulse there. He
spoke very softly, lips nearly touching the outside of his ear: “I want to be in you.”

Edward’s tongue crept out to moisten his pink lips again. Bruce’s gaze fastened on his bow-shaped
upper lip. He watched that mouth move, shaping the words as Edward murmured, “I would like
that.”

Bruce’s thumb slowly stroked his wrist, back and forth.

“Will you let me do something?” Edward whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I want to unlock my mind for you tonight.”

Bruce froze. Edward was talking about putting himself in a trance. Bruce’s pulse quickened.

He hadn’t wanted their first time to be like that. Especially since they hadn’t discussed it
beforehand. But he couldn’t deny that there was something appealing about Edward in that state.
Edward leaned in, bringing his mouth close to Bruce’s ear, warm breath feathering against his
neck. “I want to show you what an absolutely filthy slut I can be when I let go.”

Bruce was starting to feel dizzy. They needed to stop. Even if no one could hear them, this
conversation was starting to have an effect on both of them, one that would soon become
noticeable. “Are you—” he swallowed. “Are you still able to safeword? When you’re in a
trance? Or do you forget things like that?”

Edward hesitated.

“Answer,” Bruce said.

“It’s…not that I forget. My state of mind changes. I’m more open. But I could condition myself
to…to shift out of it. At certain cues.”

His thumb slid into Edward’s palm and traced the line across its center. “We can talk more about it
when we get home.”

Edward inched his chair closer. His shoulder pressed against Bruce’s. He whispered against
Bruce’s ear, “I want you to wear the mask tonight. And everything else.”

Bruce’s heart was pounding. His mouth had gone dry.

“Every time they showed footage of you on the news, I would watch it over and over. God, you
always looked incredible. So many times, I fantasized about being taken by you.”

He always felt more powerful in the suit. Bigger. He saw himself in the mask and cape, strapped
into his dark armor, Edward chained to the bed wearing nothing.

Bruce—Batman—would slowly undo him. He would start out just touching him. Kissing him.
His lips, his throat, his belly…

He could take him to the edge. Hold him there until he started to softly beg.
“I could do that,” Bruce whispered hoarsely.

“I may give you more than you bargained for,” Edward said. Something had shifted; there was a
wicked twinkle in his eye now, a sly curve to his lips. “Even with my hands bound, I could take
you to places you’ve never been. Down the rabbit hole to Wonderland.”

They looked at each other. The room suddenly felt very warm.

A microphone whined faintly, and Bella Reál’s voice rang out through the room: “May I have
your attention, please?”

The murmurs died down as the crowd turned toward the stage.

Bruce exhaled. He was a little dizzy. Focus. He centered his mind firmly in the moment. “We’ll
stay for the speech,” he said. “Do you want to head back after that?”

“Yes.”

Bruce had done what he said he would do. He’d made an appearance. The conversation with
Bella had left him confused and frustrated, but he could figure it out later. They could figure it out.
Right now, he wanted more than anything to be close to the man he loved.

Bella continued: “It’s an honor to stand here tonight as your mayor, and to see so many people
here at this event, with me, to express our concern and support for Gotham’s less fortunate
citizens.” She paused. “I probably don’t need to remind you of the statistics. Gotham has the
highest rate of homelessness of any major city in the United States. And this number has only risen
with each passing year.”

She adjusted the microphone.

“I don’t often talk about my early life. I’ve always felt that candidates should be judged on their
qualifications, not their backgrounds. But as a child, my family and I endured a brief period of
homelessness. We slept at the homes of friends and relatives, and when their good graces ran out,
we slept in our car. I remember this as one of the most frightening and stressful times of my life.
No one, least of all a child, should have to endure that. And we have an obligation to do
everything we can, now and into the future, to protect the most vulnerable among us.” She
paused. “I know this is a tumultuous time. There’s a lot competing for our attention right now.
This recent election—it was a close one. There are a lot of people wondering if I only won
because my opponent was murdered, if a serial killer is the reason I’m standing here now in front
of you. Believe me, I've asked myself the same questions. They haunt me. I am tormented by my
opponent's tragic death."

A low, uncertain murmur rippled through the room. No one had expected her to actually
acknowledge that. To bring up Mitchell's murder.

She kept talking, softer now: “The truth is that none of us know how this election would’ve turned
out if not for that terrible tragedy. But I’m here now. And I swear to you all, I’m going to do my
best for Gotham.” She took a breath. “This speech will be televised, so I have a message to the
Riddler, if he’s listening."

Bruce put an arm around Edward’s shoulders.

“Whoever you are, it’s not too late to do the right thing. Come forward. Confess your crimes.
Help bring peace to this lost and troubled city. No matter what you’ve done, no matter who you
are, there is always a choice. Your soul will not know peace until you stand in the light and take
responsibility for your actions.”

Edward stared straight ahead, his expression blank, his lips slightly parted.

She took another breath. “We’re all a little on edge. But we’re here, now, tonight, because we
chose hope over fear. We’re looking for answers. Sometimes the struggle can seem
overwhelming. Sometimes it can feel like there are no real solutions. So what do we do during
these times?” She stepped back from the microphone.

That seemed to be the orchestra’s cue; they started playing. A gentle melody swelled, and the
children’s choir reemerged, filing onto the stage. Bella exited.

Bruce’s arm remained around Edward’s shoulders as they listened.

“How do we make it better?

How do we make it through?

What do we do

When there’s nothing we can do?

We can be kind

We can take care of each other…”

From the corner of his eye, Bruce saw movement. His head turned.

A young woman approached them, head bowed, breathing raggedly. She moved in small,
awkward lurches, her forearm pressed against her stomach, as though she were sick or injured. He
frowned. It was her, the woman who’d been watching them earlier.

Bruce’s arm slipped away from Edward. He stood.

She raised her head, and he saw that she was more of a girl. Too young, even, to be working here.
She seemed no older than fifteen; a scattering of acne marred one gaunt, wax-pale cheek. Her eyes
were dark and wide, a little glassy, her forehead gleaming with perspiration. She was shaking.

MARIA—that was the name on the badge pinned to her shirt.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked quietly. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

Her hair—which had been bound in a tight ponytail—had slipped free and hung loose around her
face. Her hand was in the pocket of her pants, clutching something.

“Bruce Wayne,” she said in a faint, scratchy voice. She pulled her hand from her pocket.

***

Edward saw the shard emerge, sharp and glittering. His mind flashed to the broken glass on the
floor in the entrance hall. He looked into her eyes, and in an instant, he knew who she was and
what she was about to do.
She lunged, shrieking like a demon, the shard of glass aimed for Bruce’s throat.

Bruce still hadn’t grasped what was happening. His face was blank as his mind raced to catch up.

Edward’s body moved automatically. He flung himself between her and Bruce. There was a blur
of movement. She faltered, letting out a choked gasp. “No—”

He had to immobilize her. Without thinking, he flung his arms around her in a rough embrace,
pinning her arms in place.

She was breathing heavily in his ear, muscles stiff. A thin, creaking whine escaped her throat. She
struggled.

“It’s all right,” Edward whispered. “It’s all right. It’s enough. You don’t have t—”

There was something warm seeping through his shirt.

“No,” she said flatly. “No, no, no.” She kept struggling in his grip, jerking, and there was a sharp
tugging sensation in his belly. He released her, and she staggered back. He looked down and saw
the shard of glass emerge, inch by bloody inch, from his stomach. His shirt was soaked through
with blood. There was more blood on his pants, on the floor.

Edward fell to his knees.

People were shouting in confusion, now. The Riddler was screaming. “No! No, no, no, no, no!”
Wild-eyed, she raised the shard of glass to her own throat.

He saw uniformed security guards running onto the dance floor. They grabbed hold of her, but it
was too late. She’d already sliced open her carotid artery. She went limp, coughing, choking out
blood, more blood cascading down the front of her uniform.

Edward’s vision had started to go gray. Blood slipped out of him and onto the floor. When he
raised his hand, it covered his palm like a shiny red latex glove. So much blood.
He raised his eyes. The crowd swarmed around him, faces blurring. The world spun.

He could feel the hole in him opening wider, splitting at the edges from the pressure of everything
inside him. His guts were trying to escape. They didn’t want to be trapped behind the wall of his
skin. He thought about the rats in their cage, scrabbling at the wire bars.

Strange. He didn’t even feel the pain. Though there was an uncomfortable sense of pressure, like
an enormous rubber band encircling his gut, squeezing.

The children’s choir had stopped singing. Silence hung over the room. A faint ringing echoed in
Edward’s ears.

Then Bruce’s arms were around him, holding him up, and his voice faded in and out of Edward’s
consciousness. He heard his own name over and over, saw the terror in Bruce’s eyes. The rest of
the world faded, softening and blurring, and there was only Bruce’s face, his voice.

The ringing in his ears grew louder, drowning out all other sound.

He willed his hand to move, to press itself against the wound in his abdomen, to hold in his
escaping guts, but he couldn’t tell if he was moving or not. He was sinking backwards, into
himself, into the darkness behind his face, to the back of his brain and through the other side. The
light receded. He couldn’t see.

It occurred to Edward that he’d never told Bruce he loved him. He’d told others that he was in
love with Bruce. He’d given him that cipher. But he’d never said the words I love you directly to
him. He had to do it now. This was his last chance.

But his voice wasn’t working. He felt his lips trying to shape the words, but no sound emerged.

***

He was walking through a snowy graveyard full of tiny crosses. The girl, the Riddler—Maria—
was on her hands and knees, sobbing. Raw, wounded animal sounds.
Ironic. Despite all Bruce’s training and preparation, she’d still caught him off guard. He’d been
ready to face the devil himself for Edward’s sake; he had not been prepared for a child-assassin
with a piece of glass. She’d been invisible to him.

Except—no. That wasn’t it. Even when she approached them, he hadn’t clocked her as a threat.
He’d been concerned. It wasn’t his arrogance that had blinded him. It was his kindness.

But Bruce was safe now. It was fine. Whatever happened was fine.

“I didn’t mean for it to be you,” she wailed. “I loved you. You were my brother.”

“I know,” he said.

She was not the baby who had died, not the same Mary. But now, in this shadow-space, they
merged into a single person. His little sister, returned to him in this twisted form, warped by his
own hand.

Maybe he should have known. In the group, they’d never asked personal details about each other,
not even ages. Why should it surprise him that some of them were children? Why should it
surprise him that even a child could be so hardened, so cruel?

He had failed her a second time.

He wanted to tell her that it was all right, that it didn’t matter, because nothing mattered. There
were so many tiny bones under their feet. This—it was so small, in the scheme of everything. But
she was already fading away.

Snow drifted down around him. Each flake unique. Each one melting, losing its shape as it
touched the damp, brown grass.

The odds had always been against him. He’d never truly expected to live past forty. When he
became the Riddler, he’d begun to view himself as the already-dead. A ghost haunting the city.
This was more than he’d expected. He’d been given a fleeting chance to experience love—real
love. In that brief, precious window of time, he had been held and cherished. Seen. It was more
than some had.

Now, he could simply fall asleep cradled in these strong, loving arms one last time. It didn’t even
hurt. Not really. Not as much as he would’ve expected.

But Bruce…what would happen to Bruce?

A vision flashed through his head—a young Bruce Wayne on the television screen, standing next
to a younger Alfred at his parents’ funeral, his small face blank. Bruce’s haunted eyes staring out
from dark paint. Bruce crying out in his sleep from bad dreams.

Panic fluttered.

No. He couldn’t die. Bruce needed him. He smacked his own cheek. “Wake up,” he hissed.
“Wake up.”

But it was too late. The graveyard was fading around him, too.

This was it. One last dream. And then…

What? Nothingness? For someone like him, that was probably the best case scenario.

He’d always told himself that he didn’t fear death. That he was prepared for it, had been for years.
But he found, now, that he was afraid. Death was so terribly lonely. Even if someone was holding
you, you faced that black wall by yourself. One last flare of light through the synapses, and then…

The final, great riddle.

He walked forward through the fog.

A bell was clanging. It was time for breakfast. He rolled over in the bed he shared with two other
boys. Faint sunlight filtered in through the windows of the room where they all slept. He was
hungry. There’d been only soup for dinner last night. His tummy hurt.
 One of the nuns stood over his bed, ringing the bell. “Edward,” she said. “It’s time to go.”

“I know.” The sheets were dirty and thin, and it was cold, bitterly cold. But he had his Batman
plushie. He hugged it. “Can I take this with me?”

“If you must,” she said.

He got out of bed, the plushie still clutched tight against his chest, and followed her through the
doorway, into the dingy gray light.

Chapter End Notes

Content warning for blood/violence.

This is the song referenced after the speech: https://www.youtube.com/watch?

v=VE7uBX8DdmE

Also, in case it was unclear, this is not the final chapter.

 Chapter 22

A much-anticipated fundraiser event for the Gotham Housing Project was cut tragically short last
night by a stabbing attack and public suicide.

15-year-old Maria Wortzik, who infiltrated the event by posing as one of the cleaning staff, carried
out the attack before ending her own life. She was pronounced dead upon arrival in Gotham
Hospital. The cause of death was blood-loss due to a self-inflicted throat wound from a shard of
broken glass.

Witnesses say that her target appeared to be billionaire Bruce Wayne. Wayne’s guest—37-year-
old Edward Nashton—attempted to restrain her and was stabbed in the abdomen. He was rushed
to the hospital in critical condition.

Police are searching for any information about Wortzik.

“At this point, we’re still trying to verify basic details like next of kin,” Commissioner Gordon
stated. “What we do know is that she was living in a small, squalid apartment, seemingly alone
despite her young age, and that she was obsessed with the serial killer known as the Riddler. She
owned a suit identical to his, and she appears to have been active in an online group of political
radicals who saw him as a hero and leader.”

Wortzik’s neighbor described her as a “sad, timid girl” who rarely came out of her apartment.

This incident has prompted a conversation about the way the media reports on vigilantes such as
the Riddler, with some saying that his shocking videos should never have been aired. Others see
the tragedy as more evidence of Gotham’s failing mental health infrastructure.

When asked for comment on the shocking turn of events, Mayor Reál said only that she is “deeply
shaken.”

Bruce Wayne, uninjured, was unavailable for comment. Edward Nashton remains in critical
condition.

***
Since his arrival in the hospital, Alfred had finished two bitter, burned-tasting cups of coffee from
a hallway vending machine. An ache pulsed and snarled behind his eyes. He’d neglected to eat a
proper dinner before driving Bruce and Edward out to the fundraiser, and now he was paying the
price.

They’d been here for six hours now. Still no word on Edward’s condition. As far as they knew,
he was still in the operating room.

Alfred took another swig of the cooling coffee and dry-swallowed two ibuprofen, which he’d
purchased from the pharmacy downstairs. As he paced, his gaze kept wandering back to Bruce.

Earlier, the police had been in briefly to question him. Bruce had answered robotically, dead-eyed.
Now, he sat in a hospital waiting room, in a hard, plastic chair, slumped over. He was still wearing
his suit from the fundraiser, now rumpled, limp and foul-smelling. There were a few spots of dried
vomit on it from when he’d thrown up in the hallway bathroom a few hours ago. He was rocking
slowly, almost imperceptibly back and forth in the chair, staring straight ahead.

“Bruce,” Alfred said softly.

No reaction.

Alfred approached and put a hand on his shoulder.

He should’ve known better than to approach him from behind when he was in such a state. Bruce
jerked as though he’d been electrocuted, leapt to his feet and spun around. His arm shot out in a
reflexive punch, fist clenched.

Alfred’s hand came up automatically, catching his wrist. Bruce blinked at him, eyes wild and
white-edged, as though a spirit had suddenly materialized in front of him. He was breathing
raggedly.

“Bruce,” Alfred said again.

Bruce’s eyes slowly focused. “Sorry.”

Alfred released Bruce’s wrist, and Bruce’s arm dropped to his side. He was pale, visibly
trembling. Even without his dark paint, the flesh around his eyes was shadowed, bruised-looking.

“There’s nothing you can do for him right now,” Alfred said. “You need rest. Let me drive you
home.”

“No. No, I’m not leaving until I can see him.”

“Even after they finish, he’ll be under sedation for a while. They’ll contact us as soon as there’s
anything to report.”

“I need to be there when he wakes up.”

“He’s in good hands—”

“He needs someone he knows. Edward’s been abandoned too many times. I won’t leave him.”

“You’re not abandoning him,” Alfred said firmly. “He’s in the best possible place he can be right
now. And you’re already exhausted.”

His jaw tightened. “You can go home if you want. I’m staying. I’ll sleep here, if I have to.
There's a couch in the room down the hall.”

Alfred sighed, shoulders sagging. Bruce stared straight ahead, his sweat-damp black hair hanging
in his face.

Bruce's gaze kept twitching back and forth; his pulse, visible in the hollow of his throat, was
dangerously fast. He was on the verge of unraveling. Alfred hadn’t seen him like this since…

Well, since that night.

“Mr. Wayne.”

A doctor stood in the entrance to the waiting room.

Bruce stared.

“Mr. Nashton has been taken out of surgery,” she said. “He’s in the critical care unit.”

“How—” Bruce swallowed. “How is he?”

“The internal bleeding is under control,” she said. “He’s been given several transfusions. His
heart-rate and breathing have stabilized.”

“So he’s going to be okay,” Bruce said. When she didn’t answer immediately, he repeated, “He’s
going to be okay.”

“His vital signs are stable. He’s in no immediate danger.” Her face was arranged into a carefully
neutral expression.

“When will he wake up?”

She hesitated. “He was in severe shock when the paramedics brought him in. We had to operate
quickly to stop the internal bleeding. We’re going to do a CT scan and a few other tests to evaluate
his condition. But we won’t know the full extent of the damage until—if—he regains
consciousness. All we can do right now is wait.”

If. That little word that changed everything.

Bruce stared blankly, as though he didn’t want to comprehend what she was saying.

The muscles in Alfred’s face tightened. He knew—they both knew enough about injuries to know
that losing so much blood in a short amount of time could result in irreparable damage to the brain
and other major organs.
“I want to see him,” Bruce said.

“He’s deeply unconscious. He won’t be aware of you.”

“I don’t care. Take me to him.” He’d slipped into his Batman voice—that low, rasping growl.
“Now.”

“As I said, we need to run more tests and carefully monitor his condition. It’ll be a few hours, at
least, before anyone can go in there. If you want, you can come back first thing tomorrow—”

“I said now!”

Her lips tightened. “Do I need to call security?”

They stared at each other. The doctor turned and retreated quickly from the lobby.

Bruce started to follow her. Alfred grabbed his arm.

“That’s enough,” Alfred said.

Bruce tried to yank his arm free. “No. No.” He was breathing hard and fast. “I won’t let them
keep me from him.”

“They’re not the enemy here. They're doing what they can.”

“I need to see him!”

“You’re having a panic attack,” Alfred said quietly. “You’re in no state—”

“Let me go!”

Alfred dragged him closer and embraced him, pinning Bruce’s arms to his sides. Bruce struggled
harder, thrashing like a wild animal—

And then abruptly, he collapsed against Alfred, his body shaking and heaving with sobs. “I can’t
—I can’t lose him, Alfred,” he gasped. “I can’t. Please. Please, he needs me, I need to be with
him—”

“Bruce. Bruce.” Alfred grabbed his face, holding it firmly between his palms. “Listen to me.”
His voice was quiet, firm. “If there’s anything I know about Edward Nashton, it’s this. He’s a
survivor. He’s not going to slip away so easily. What he needs, right now, is your faith and
patience—and for you to take care of yourself, so that you can take care of him when he wakes
up.”

Bruce’s eyes were wide, his face streaked with tears. Abruptly, the raging beast was gone. He
looked like the child he’d once been. “I…” His voice wobbled. He swallowed. Then he gave a
small nod. His breathing had steadied a little.

Alfred released his face. Bruce swayed on his feet. His legs started to crumple; Alfred caught
him. He held him for another minute, then lowered him into the nearest chair.

Bruce put his head in his hands. “Th-this…this feels like...back then.”

“I know. But it’s not.”

“I hate being so helpless. Knowing that whatever happens, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” He
pressed his fists to his temples. “I hate that more than anything.”

Alfred lowered his gaze. “Believe me. I know the feeling.”

Bruce sniffled and wiped his sleeve across his face. “He was so scared. When I was holding him,
he…he was trying to say something to me. But he couldn’t. I know I'm in no shape to be here
right now, but I don’t want him to wake up alone. Or surrounded by strangers.”
“Then I’ll stay.”

Bruce raised his head.

“Call a car,” Alfred said. “Go home. Have a shower. And then take a sedative and get some
sleep. You can come back first thing in the morning.”

After a moment, Bruce nodded. “Thank you,” he said in a small voice.

Alfred lay a hand on Bruce’s back. “He’ll be fine,” he murmured. “We’ll all be fine.”

***

Once he’d seen Bruce out and watched the car drive away, Alfred returned to the waiting room and
got himself another cup of foul-tasting coffee. Fifteen minutes later, he sent a text to Bruce: Home
yet?

Yes.

He wondered if sending Bruce back alone had been a bad idea. The boy was in such a fragile,
unpredictable state. He would not attempt suicide, not knowing there was a possibility that Edward
could wake up at any moment, but Bruce tended to deal with his pain by throwing himself into the
path of danger. Instead of going to bed, he might decide to put on the mask, go out and look for
would-be robbers and murderers to hit to distract himself from his own feelings of helplessness.
And that would likely go very badly, given Bruce's current level of mental instability. Either he'd
accidentally kill someone, or...

Alfred sent another text: The cats probably need feeding.

Bruce sent a response: I'll do it.

He let out a small breath and sent: You’ll go straight to bed after that, won’t you?
The response came after a minute: Yes.

Alfred would have to have faith in that answer. There was nothing else he could do.

***

Two hours later, the doctor returned. Alfred rose from his chair. “I apologize for Mr. Wayne's
behavior. He’s very distraught. I sent him home.”

"And you're...a relative?"

"His butler."

“Oh." A pause. "It's late. You may as well go, too. It’s unlikely that Mr. Nashton will wake up
tonight. As I said, both of you can come back tomorrow during regular visiting hours.”

“I promised Bruce that I would stay. As long as I'm here...may I see him?”

After a pause, she nodded. They walked down a long, gray-tiled hallway, footsteps echoing.

“What’s his condition?” Alfred asked. When she didn’t respond at once, he said, “You can be
honest with me.”

“Given the amount of blood he lost, there was a span of several minutes, at least, during which his
brain wasn’t receiving sufficient oxygen.”

“You’re saying he might be disabled in some way, when he wakes. Or that he might not wake up
at all.”

“Unfortunately, that’s a possibility.”

“What are his odds?”

“There’s no simple way to answer that question. Every case is different. And the brain, in
particular, is a finicky and unpredictable organ. I’ve seen patients come out of worse situations
virtually unaffected, and others who remain in a permanent vegetative state after shorter periods of
blood-deprivation. All we can do is wait.”

She led Alfred to a small room with a single window and a single bed. He pulled up a chair and
sat.

“There’s a call button there,” the doctor said. “The machines will alert us if there’s any change in
his condition, but if you see anything unusual, don’t hesitate to contact a nurse.”

He nodded. She left the room.

Edward lay motionless in the bed, pale blue covers pulled up to his chest. An IV trailed from one
arm. A tangle of wires ran from a pad taped to his chest. A pulse-oximeter was clamped onto the
forefinger of his right hand; a heart monitor beeped steadily. His face was slack, pale.

“Hello, Edward.”

No response, of course.

Edward wasn’t wearing his glasses. He didn’t look like himself without them. Alfred glanced
around, hunting for the oversized, plasticky lenses, but didn’t see them anywhere in the room.
He’d have to ask the nurses about that later.

Alfred thought about the panic in Bruce’s eyes. His hoarse, broken sobs.

Even if Edward did awaken tomorrow, there was a chance he wouldn’t recognize Bruce. Or
anyone. There was a chance he wouldn’t be able to talk or walk, that he would have to relearn the
most basic tasks—that he would need to be fed and cared for like an infant.

No matter what, if he was still conscious, still there on any level, Bruce would be there for him;
Alfred had no doubt of that. He was his father’s boy, fanatical in his devotion, religious in his
loyalty. Thomas had been there through every one of Martha’s breakdowns. If Edward returned to
the world of the living with his mind a mass of shattered porcelain, Bruce would painstakingly
gather up whatever fragments remained and help him rebuild himself, or try, even if it took months
or years. Or a lifetime.

Of course, it was equally possible that Edward would never wake, that his essence—everything
that made him Edward—had already fled, leaving only a shell.

“When is a door not a door?” Alfred asked.

Edward’s chest rose and fell with each breath—a slight, almost imperceptible moment. His color
looked wrong. Faintly grayish.

“When it’s ajar. I suppose you’ve heard that one. It’s an old one. How about this? You can’t
keep it until you’ve given it.” Silence. “A promise.”

The air rasped faintly through Edward’s parted lips, almost inaudible under the steady beep of the
heart monitor and the low hum of the overhead lights.

“Riddles were never really my thing,” Alfred said. “Though I’ve always had a knack for ciphers. I
like to think so, anyway.” He forced a smile, even knowing Edward couldn’t see him. “I tried to
decipher your first one, but I wasn’t the one who solved it. Bruce was. ‘He lies still’—I thought it
must be a partial key, but he guessed right away that it was the entire thing. And when he saw the
word ‘drive,’ he said, ‘the mayor’s car,’ right away. And I thought, now how he is so sure about
that? Seemed like a stretch. But he was right. He understood you uncannily well, right from the
beginning. As though he could step into your mind. All those bloody little games you played.
And those cards…” He stopped, taking a breath, and rubbed his forehead.

He was exhausted, too; he’d lost track of what he was saying. He shouldn’t be talking about this in
the hospital. But then, he doubted anyone was listening.

“When he first brought you home, first told me what he had done, I had the most terrible feeling
about all this. I saw him getting attached to the monster he’d chained up in the bedroom, thinking
he could save you, and I thought, God help him. He’s going to get hurt. Badly. It was like
watching a train speeding toward him and knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. Even
after he let you go, that obsession of his—I thought it would be the end of him.”
Edward’s eyes twitched beneath the lids. Or did they? It was hard to say. It might be a
meaningless reflex, unconnected to any form of consciousness.

Or…was he dreaming, in there? Could someone dream under these conditions? Probably not.

He watched carefully, but it didn’t happen again.

“I was right, I suppose,” Alfred continued. “Still…I didn’t expect it to happen like this. You
taking a knife for him. I never could have predicted—” he let out a hoarse breath, not quite a
chuckle. “You truly are a riddle.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Does it sound like madness, to say that I think you’ve been good for him? He’s different, now.
More alive. More connected. And he loves you so, so fiercely. I always knew it was in him. That
boundless capacity for love. He really is so much like Thomas. And…like her, too.” Alfred
stopped, catching his breath. “After he lost them…he went nearly catatonic with grief. Those
empty eyes. I never want to see him like that again. I’m not sure he’d recover a second time. And
what would I do, without him? I’ve had quite a long and eventful life. I’ve been many things. But
the truth is that I’m a bit lost without someone to take care of.”

Outside the tiny window, a few snowflakes spiraled down.

“Once you’re back home with us, I’ll make some more of that hot chocolate. You might be on a
liquid diet for a while. But that’s the perfect excuse to indulge, right? Healing takes a lot of
calories.”

The snow came heavier, thicker. The heater rattled, but the room was cold. He’d have to ask the
nurse for another blanket.

“Here’s another one. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a
sound? Though that’s more of a koan than a riddle. It’s not meant to have an answer. Not a single
one, anyway. It’s more in how you look at it.”

What would happen if Edward died in his sleep? That was a possibility, too. Complications could
happen after major surgeries. Infections, blood clots.
If that happened, the rage would consume Bruce completely. But there was no one to kill, no one
to take vengeance on. That girl was already dead. The rest of the Riddler’s old group was
scattered, disconnected; there was no way to find them. Bruce would roam the streets in a blind
death-lust, hunting for an enemy that didn’t exist. Alfred wouldn't be able to restrain him. He
would spiral hard and fast until he picked a fight with the wrong thug and got shot in the face.

“Don’t you leave him now,” Alfred whispered hoarsely. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

His face remained motionless, unresponsive. He was so very still. Like a blanket of fresh snow,
pristine and peaceful. At least Edward himself was beyond pain, right now. Beyond fear.

Alfred almost envied him.

In the hallway outside, faintly, a radio played Christmas music. “Joy to the World” ended and
“Ave Maria” began.

***

Where am I?

Slowly, a hazy spot of light—a computer screen—materialized out of the murky darkness. An eye
peered at him from the screen: his own eye, staring out from the Riddler suit. Low breaths rasped
through the silence. “This is hell,” said his own voice, deep and muffled by the mask.

He was walking down stairs. So many stairs. Did they go down forever?

What is this place?

He couldn't stay here. There was a doorway somewhere. There had to be.

He was stumbling down a hallway. He spotted a red glowing EXIT sign and dashed toward it.
The ceiling collapsed, wooden beams and dust and rubble blocking his path. Rats poked their
heads out from the rubble, noses and whiskers twitching.

The rush of water filled his ears. He looked down to see water rising around his feet, foam
swirling, choked with dirt and debris. The building was flooding. He turned and slogged through,
hunting for a way out even as the water rose up to his waist.

A dead rat bobbed past, bloated, entrails floating behind it like the string of a deflated balloon.

Somewhere far above him he could hear “Ave Maria” playing. In the direction of that song, there
was pain. The pain seeped in through cracks in the walls, like the water rushing in to fill the space
around him. There was no escaping it.

No. No more, please.

A wave smacked him in the face. The water swallowed him. His head broke the surface near the
ceiling, gasping.

It was all supposed to be over.

Sacrificing his life for Bruce Wayne, the man he’d once wanted to kill…there was a certain justice
to that, wasn’t there? It was the only logical answer to the stupid, pathetic riddle of his own life.
In spite of all his rage and bitterness, Edward had always known deep down that he was bad, that
he was worthless, that his existence would never be anything more than an ugly mistake, a scar on
the world. An errant figure in some vast, universal ledger. He was never supposed to have
survived at all; he should have died after his mother left him in that garbage bin. Giving his life to
save another’s—that was the only thing of value he could do, now. The only possible redemption.

He did not believe in heaven. Hadn’t for a long time. And even if by some chance such a place
existed, he was never going there. But some part of him had dared to hope that in exchange for his
sacrifice, he might at least be granted a reprieve from further suffering.

So much for that.

The water dragged him under again. He struggled, kicking out blindly. It was hard to breathe. His
lungs hurt. His belly hurt. There were rats burrowing into his guts, eating him alive. He was
underwater, he was running down an endless dark hallway, he was splayed out on the floor of a
dirty room, limbs gone, innards exposed as the rats chewed deeper.

An eternity of this, he thought. Of stairs and rats and ice-cold water. Suffering until a door opened
into more suffering, and then more, and then more.

A voice split through the rush of water. It was the Riddler’s voice— her voice, mechanical and
squealing.

“This isn’t hell, Edward. You’re not dead. You’re locked inside yourself. The exits are blocked.”

What do I have to do?

“Follow the maze.”

What maze? There’s no maze.

Foggy red light pulsed through the darkness.

He swam toward it, found himself blocked by a wall of rubble again. He clawed at the rocks and
dirt, but he couldn’t dislodge it. Air. He needed air.

“Why do we suffer? That is the question.”

Help me!

“I can’t help you. You have to do it. Figure it out.”

The black water pulled him under again. He hung suspended, a fragment of consciousness in the
sea of his own brain. There was a sense of walls closing in, pressing, suffocating. And then he
was sinking, drawn in toward a deeper darkness.
He wanted to go. If he was alive, that meant he could still die. Still escape. Below lay an end to
the pain, to the terror and confusion, to riddles that had no answer. An exit from the miserable
maze that was Edward Nashton.

No.

He tried to swim upward, but the water pushed back against him. It was a feeling like trying to
move under sleep paralysis. Figure it out, she’d said, but what was there to figure out? His mind
—the only thing he had, now—was fragmented, spinning and wriggling like a roach around a
drain.

Help me. Someone. Bruce. Anyone. Help me.

Help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me Help me help me
help me help me help me help me help me help me help me Help me help me help me help me help
me help me help me help me help me Help me help me help me help me help me help me help me
help me help me Help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me
Help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me
 Chapter 23

Edward was at the office, hunched over his desk. He’d been focusing so hard and for so long on
the screen in front of him that the words had begun to blur and dance in front of his eyes. He took
a swig of bitter, cheap coffee.

As usual, the heater in the building was on the fritz. It was cold.

He tried to focus on the positive. His job at KTMJ was a good one. Getting by in Gotham was
difficult for nearly everyone save those at the very top, but he had his own apartment and a bit of
money in savings. That was more than many had. He was living a functional adult life. He’d
taken steps to get his mental issues under control. He’d made it, in spite of the odds.

Of course, he still wanted to kill himself. But so did lots of people. Count your blessings, the
Sisters at the orphanage would say. Others have less. Self-pity was a sin.

The screen wavered. The letters transformed into a cipher resembling Egyptian hieroglyphs.

That’s right, he thought. He had to solve the cipher as part of the audit he was doing for Schweiz
and Bluff.

Well, he’d always liked puzzles. But right now, for some reason, it was difficult to focus. Or was
it that the cipher kept changing? The symbols blurred in and out until he saw a pattern emerging,
like a Magic Eye illusion, four words: WHY DO WE SUFFER?

“Hey Edward,” Raj said. “Will you do me a favor? Go grab a Mr. Pibb from the vending
machine.”

“Mr. Pibb? Does that even exist? I thought they discontinued it.”

“It’s in the special vending machine. Just keep walking past the elevators.”

Edward walked out of the office and down the hall. For some reason, the hallway led directly out
into the parking lot. That didn’t seem right—they were on the fifth floor, after all. But he could
see the vending machine on the other side. He kept walking.

Tiny crosses poked up from cracks in the pavement like weeds. There were so many, it was
impossible not to step on them. They crumbled, eggshell-fragile under his feet, breaking down
until they became part of the dust.

The vending machine was filled with shards of bloodstained glass.

He saw words spray-painted on the brick wall of a nearby apartment building: WHY DO WE
SUFFER?

That’s right. That was the riddle he had to solve in order to escape this place.

Where was this place?

Unease grew within him.

He’d been asking himself that same question a moment ago, hadn’t he? Why was he still
miserable? He was no longer in the orphanage, being gnawed on by rats. He had enough to eat.
Why couldn’t he just be content with that?

Because you’ve been traumatized and that damage doesn’t go away, even if you learn strategies to
cope with it. You still have nightmares about that place, don’t you?

Because society is unjust. Because you’re a rat on a wheel. Work, work, work, work just to keep
your head above the water while the elites sit back and watch their accounts grow fatter on passive
income—are you supposed to be satisfied with that?

Because you have no one to love you, no one who truly sees you. No one to trust.

It’s because you’re bad. That’s all. You’re a vile sinner, a wicked, selfish man with a head full of
filthy dreams…
He dug his nails into his forearm, breathing heavily, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. Focus, he
thought.

Who was to blame—himself or the world? Why do we suffer. Who was the we in that sentence?
That seemed like a crucial question. The riddle within the riddle. It could be people like Edward,
who had been scarred by deprivation. Or it could be all of humanity. No one was untouched by
suffering, after all.

He aimed his face at the smoggy sky and said, “A little clarification, maybe?”

No response. He was on his own.

Edward had already found the answer to the riddle of his own suffering—or he thought he had,
anyway. It had turned out to be surprisingly straightforward. One word. Renewal.

The empty promise. The charitable fund that had been taken over by the mob, the powerful and
indifferent elite of Gotham who had allowed it to happen because it was more convenient and
profitable for them to look the other way. The answer was greed and corruption: it was the gap
between those with power and those without. It was so easy to let people suffer when you had the
option to ignore it.

But if that was the answer, would he still be here?

He had the sense there was something important that he had forgotten.

He turned toward the office. The building was gone.

***

Edward’s eyes had moved. Bruce was certain. Just a flicker beneath the lids, like minnows darting
beneath the surface of a pond, but he had seen it.

Hadn’t he?
Bruce rubbed at his face. His own eyes felt like they’d been rolled in sand and roughly shoved
back into the sockets. He’d slept only a few hours last night, and as soon as he’d awakened, he’d
rushed back to the hospital. He’d come in wearing sunglasses to hide the bags under his eyes,
though that probably just made him look weirder and more suspicious.

He’d been at Edward’s bedside, watching him, listening to his breathing, for most of the day,
taking a break only to mechanically consume a sandwich—chemical-tasting turkey, limp lettuce—
from the hospital’s cafeteria.

“Edward,” he said for the hundredth time.

No response.

Outside, it was snowing. It had been snowing for a while.

The door creaked open, and Bruce looked up. A nurse entered, carrying a large bouquet of
multicolored tulips with a card attached. She set it on the bedside table.

Bruce blinked. He glanced at the card. On the front was a fluffy gray kitten in a tiny hospital bed
with bandages around its head and leg, and the words: Hope you’re back on your paws soon!

“It’s from KTMJ Accounting,” the nurse said. “Is that where he works?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, surprised. Edward had never talked much about his coworkers, and the few
times he did, Bruce had always gotten the sense that they more or less ignored his existence. He
hadn’t expected anything from them.

“Any change in his condition?”

“I saw his eyes moving a little earlier. Just about twenty minutes ago. Like he was dreaming.”

The nurse approached. She checked the numbers on the various monitors, then lifted one of
Edward’s eyelids, flicking a light over the blank white beneath. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The nurse made a noncommittal sound and said, “I’ll let Dr. Hartfield know.” She left the room.

She didn’t believe him. Of course, Bruce wasn’t the most plausible witness at the moment. He
was more stable than last night, but he was still a disheveled, twitchy mess, desperation seeping out
of his pores. He glanced down at his faded Nine Inch Nails t-shirt and ragged hoodie, wondering
if he should’ve worn something more presentable. At the moment, though, he couldn’t bring
himself to give a shit about how he looked to other people.

Her doubt made him doubt. Was he just seeing what he wanted to see?

No. Edward was in there, trying to reach him. He had to believe that.

Bruce took another look inside the card. It was filled with signatures, several of which included
personalized messages.

Hang in there! We’re all rooting for you. – Rose

Looking forward to seeing you again. – Annie

You’re in our prayers. – Patrick

Never knew you were such a badass! Get well soon. – Raj

Maybe they’d liked Edward more than he thought. Of course, things had changed. By now,
everyone in Gotham had probably heard about the incident at the fundraiser.

Since the incident, Bruce had actively avoided looking at the news, but now, he couldn’t resist.
He took his phone out of his pocket and brought up the Gotham Gab. On the very top of the page
was a photo of Bruce and Edward walking toward the Arkham Center, Edward clinging to Bruce’s
suit with a dazed, bewildered look on his face, Bruce’s arm protectively around his shoulders. The
headline: ACCOUNTANT STABBED SAVING BILLIONAIRE BOYFRIEND FROM TEEN
ASSASSIN.

There was something so surreal about seeing the whole nightmare encapsulated in one glib
headline.

Bruce skimmed the article. It painted a sympathetic portrait of Edward as a humble everyman
who’d been swept off his feet by the prince of the city, emphasized how timid and overwhelmed
he’d seemed by the media attention. It used words like “heroic” and “selfless” to describe his
actions at the fundraiser.

It was difficult for Bruce to say why the article made him uncomfortable. Edward’s actions were
heroic and selfless. Maybe he ought to be happy that a news outlet, even a shady gossip column,
had recognized him in this way. And nothing in this was a lie. But it somehow felt like a lie,
anyway—as though they had robbed Edward of some crucial element of himself, reduced him to
something palatable to the sort of readers who frequented their site.

The Riddler had been a monster. Now, Edward was a hero. Of course, they were the same person
—the man who now lay helpless and unconscious on a bed while the media made his image dance
like a puppet on a stage.

Further down, there was a photo of Maria as well. Where they’d gotten it on such short notice,
Bruce had no idea. It looked like a selfie, though she didn’t really seem like the selfie type. She
was staring into the camera, face pale, hair lank and greasy-looking, eyes wide and haunted. The
article described her as a “terminally online, mentally ill serial killer groupie.” There were lurid
details about the gory videos on her computer and the mutilated rat discovered in her apartment, its
stomach-wound clumsily sutured shut with black thread. Still alive, though obviously weakened.

There was a quote from a witness who’d been at the fundraiser: “I’m going to have nightmares
about this, I can tell you that. I’ve never seen anything so shocking. And hearing about what was
on her computer…well, this is just another reason why the Riddler needs to be caught and put to
justice. Now he’s influencing kids to become killers. The fact that he did all those horrible things
and got away with it is appalling. And when he is caught, he needs to be given the harshest
possible sentence. People need to see that justice can still prevail in this city.”

Bruce closed the article and put his phone away. The image of Maria slitting her own throat
flashed behind his eyes.
He’d seen death before. Plenty of times. After watching a man’s head blow up directly in front of
him, how could anything shock him?

But of course, this was different. In a lot of ways.

“How’s he doing?” Alfred asked.

Bruce gave a start—he hadn’t even heard Alfred enter the room. He looked over one shoulder to
see him standing there in the doorway.

Normally, Bruce was far more aware of his surroundings. But right now he couldn’t focus on
anything except Edward.

“The same,” Bruce said. “An hour or so ago, I thought I saw his eyes move. But…it’s hard to
say.”

“We should work out a system. Take turns staying with him. We’re going to burn out, otherwise.”

Bruce nodded reluctantly. He didn’t want to leave Edward’s side at all. But there was no telling
how long he and Alfred would be keeping vigil, here.

He wondered what had happened to the rat, the one they’d found in Maria’s apartment. Would it
be taken to a shelter, treated, allowed to heal? Or would it simply be euthanized?

For that matter, what would happen to her—to her body? If she had no next of kin, there was no
one to deal with the remains. From what Edward had said, most of the group’s members were like
that. Profoundly alone. The group had been everything to them. In a strange way, Edward was
probably the closest thing she had to a living family member. But of course, no one could know
that.

A heavy dread settled into his stomach. The article had contained several references to Maria’s
computer. The police had gone through her hard drive.

Bruce stood. “Can you stay with him for a few hours?”
Alfred frowned. “Yes. Of course. But where are you off to so suddenly?”

“Taking care of some business.” Bruce started to walk away.

Alfred caught his wrist. “I know that look. You’re about to do something reckless.”

“I just have to talk to someone.”

“Who?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. He stared at Alfred; Alfred returned the stare, unyielding, until Bruce
looked away. “Commissioner Gordon,” he said quietly. “I need to find out how much the police
know. About him.”

“There’s nothing you can do. I’m worried, too. But asking too many questions now will only
invite suspicion. He’s already getting quite a bit of attention. He saved Bruce Wayne’s life, after
all.”

“Bruce Wayne isn’t the one who’ll be talking to the commissioner.”

Alfred didn’t relax his grip.

He lowered his voice. “The Batman was looking for the Riddler before all of this happened. It
won’t seem strange to Gordon, now, if Batman shows up asking questions about an incident
involving someone who was influenced by the Riddler. If anything, it would seem stranger for
Batman to not contact him about this.”

“I don’t advise it.”

“Alfred. Please.”
Alfred’s grip tightened briefly…then he sighed and released Bruce’s wrist. “Don’t be long.”

“I won’t.” Bruce strode out of the room, down the hall.

Maria had threatened to expose Edward’s identity as a means of manipulating him. She must have
enough information to connect the pieces. The question was, would it be enough to convict him?

He imagined Edward finally awakening, only to be clapped in handcuffs and locked away for the
rest of his life. Or worse.

The Riddler had always had sympathizers. But after this incident—a horrifying tragedy clearly
inspired by the Riddler’s actions—the public would turn against him fully. People would be
clamoring for him to be caught and executed.

No.

Edward had suffered too much, sacrificed too much. Bruce wouldn’t allow it to end that way.

***

“Do you think you deserve to die, Edward?”

A stale, recycled-air smell filled the room. Edward was sitting on the couch across from his
psychologist in Arkham. The doctor was scratching notes into a spiral notebook, the way he’d
always done during their sessions. Except now, he looked like Alfred.

“Probably,” Edward said. “But I think those men deserved to die, too.”

“You still don’t regret the murders, then.”

Edward’s hands twisted together in his lap. “Does that even matter, at this point?”
“It matters to you. Or I wouldn’t be asking you now.”

Edward turned his hands over and stared down at his own palms.

When he’d first learned the full truth, he’d considered going to the police with his evidence.
Considered doing things the official way, the right way. But there was no doubt in his mind what
would have happened, if he’d done that. The mob controlled the police. They would’ve done what
Thomas Wayne had done (so he’d thought at the time) with that reporter: they would’ve tried to
buy his silence, and when that didn’t work, they would have found another way to silence him.

Edward was no one. If he disappeared, no one would care or even notice. And the truth would
have disappeared with him.

So he’d taken a different route.

He had killed those three as vengeance for his own suffering, yes. But he had killed them for
Mary’s sake, too, and for all the other dead children who were never mourned or acknowledged,
and for everyone else—for the dropheads drowning themselves in addiction because they had
nothing else and because the city’s biggest drug bust had been a lie. Because the people in power
had simply taken over and continued to prey on the vulnerable, exploiting their pain for profit.

Those three men: their bodies were bloody flowers laid on the graves of their victims. Edward’s
gift to the nameless dead.

But you liked the attention too. Didn’t you? It was refreshing. People talking about you, being
afraid of you…

“No,” he said. “I still don’t regret it. I think someone had to do what I did. But I think not
regretting it makes me a horrible person. I don’t feel like I deserve to be happy. If they put me to
death, I would accept that as justice.” He let out a faint, warbling laugh. “I guess that’s a paradox,
isn’t it?”

“Sometimes riddles don’t have a single answer.”

He stared at the floor, losing himself in the shifting grays and blues of the faded carpet. “I regret
the last one. A little. I’m not sure Colson really cared about the bribe money. I think he was just
scared of what they would do to him if he didn’t look the other way. And he had a chance to save
himself—at least for the moment—but he chose to die rather than endanger his family. I respected
that, a little. Even if I never would have admitted it.”

“Would you really have spared him, if he’d given you the answer?”

“Of course. Those were the rules. But it’s like he said. They probably would have killed him
anyway.” Edward ran his thumb absently over the pale skin of his wrists, the veins there.
“Renewal, everything else…it was going on for decades. I can’t be the first person who noticed
those figures, who saw the pattern and tried to expose it. And yet it kept happening. There was no
way that just telling people the truth would have worked. It had to happen the way it did. It had to
be horrible. That was the only way to make people pay attention—to draw everyone into the
game, so that it was impossible to cover up the truth afterward. Except I never got to finish.
Everything changed when…”

Alfred said nothing.

“I read the things you wrote about me, you know,” Edward said. “About my tendency to form
parasocial bonds because I’m afraid of real human connection. Of the pain it brings.”

The doctor nodded.

“You weren’t wrong,” Edward said. “That was why it upset me so much. Though…maybe now,
you understand why I’m so frightened of connecting with other people. What happened to Maria,
and to…” His voice wavered and broke. He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, grinding them
against his skull. “There’s too much pain inside me. Too much darkness. I can only hurt others.
It’s better if I disappear. Then, at least, no one else will get hurt.”

“Who are you afraid of hurting, Edward?”

His lips parted. Trembled. He felt a strange sense of panic—a flash of yearning, then a sinking
dread.

He smiled again, a brief tightening of facial muscles. “Is this what they mean when they talk
about your life flashing before your eyes?”
“How so?”

“Before death, the brain floods with chemicals similar to DMT, leading to experiences that
resemble a drug trip. Time is distorted. A few minutes become hours or days. Or an eternity.
Records of activity in a dying brain show brainwave pattern similar to dreaming or remembering.
Your mind tells you a story about who you were and what it all meant. Because that’s what the
human brain does—it searches for patterns. Even when there are none. We want our lives to mean
something. We’re still grasping for meaning, even as the lights go off one by one around us.”

“Is that what you believe is happening to you right now?”

“Probably. I lost a great deal of blood. At this point, I don’t—I don’t think I can be saved.” He
removed his glasses and fiddled with them, turning them over in his hands. He felt a strange
tenderness toward them—his glasses, this object that had been part of him for so long. “Maybe
that’s all right.”

Death couldn’t feel much different than the time before his birth, could it? There was nothing so
terrifying about that. He had a lot of experience being nothing.

The room faded. A murky darkness surrounded him.

Maria stood before him in the void, cheeks flushed with cold and streaked with frozen tears,
wearing an oversized Riddler coat with a question mark painted onto its front. The sleeves covered
all but the tips of her fingers. “Why do we suffer?” she said in her small, creaky voice.

It wasn’t a riddle, he suddenly realized. It wasn’t a test. If there was a way out of this maze, he
wouldn’t find it through his own cleverness; there was no magic key to unlock the door to the
outside. She was asking because she was looking for the answer, too.

She had always looked to him for meaning. For purpose. Even when she was cruel, even when
she tortured his mind and body, even when she tried to take away everything that made his life
worth living, she had done it according to the principles Edward had taught her.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I pretended like I had the answers, but I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

She lowered her face and clutched one sleeve. “So…what did I live for?”
Dark fog shifted around them.

“What was your favorite flavor of ice cream?” Edward asked.

She clutched her sleeve harder, then answered in a whisper, “Peanut butter. My mom used to take
me to an ice cream shop called The Carousel when I was a kid. It was expensive, so we could only
do it on special occasions, but to me it was the happiest place. I wish I could go back there one last
time.”

“I hope you get to. If they don’t have ice cream in the afterlife, then I don’t want to go.”

She let out a cracked laugh. “You don’t even know if that place ever existed. If I really exist. I
might just be a part of your dream.”

“If that’s the case, I can do anything I want here. I’ll make an ice cream shop in my head and take
you there.”

She raised her head slowly. “Really?”

“Of course.”

She smiled—a broad smile like sunbeams breaking through clouds. There was a small gap
between her front teeth.

Then she faded, and Edward was alone in the void once again.

No ice cream, then. A shame. That might have been a nice note to go out on. Even if it wasn’t
real.

He suddenly remembered: she’d said something once about having a program that would release
all the details of his true identity upon her death. Well, the public would have closure, then.
They’d find out who the Riddler really was. They’d appreciate the poetic irony of the serial killer
being slain by his own follower. There would be some logic and justice in his death, after all.

I’m ready now, he thought.

The darkness pulled at him, beckoning. He started to walk deeper…then stopped.

There was a voice. Faint, faraway.

Wasn’t he forgetting something?

He hung suspended in the void. Questions nagged at him.

What did it all mean?

When is a door not a door?

Not every riddle had an answer. What is the smell of green? was a fundamentally nonsensical
question. Maybe, What did my life mean? was the same. Maybe most existential questions were
like that, and for millennia, philosophers and ordinary people alike had been torturing themselves
and twisting themselves into pretzels over these silly little noises in their heads. Humans never
should have evolved their stupid big brains. Rats were smarter. They knew what mattered—food,
warmth, companionship. They didn’t get lost in these mazes of words.

And yet the mind still found answers, even where there were none.

What is the smell of green? It burst now inside his fading brain like fireworks: the smell of fresh-
cut grass, of mint, of the coffee shop where he’d briefly worked as a barista once, as a teenager,
where the walls were all painted bright Kelly green. He’d been good at latte art. What had been
the name of that place?

The name. There’s a name. A special name.

Why couldn’t he remember?

That voice again. So faint. But unmistakably familiar.

He walked toward the voice. His stomach began to hurt.

There was more pain that way. He stopped again. He was so tired of pain.

If he only relaxed, let the nothingness take him, there would be no more suffering. No more
confusion. No more shame or loneliness.

No more hot chocolate. No more hugs. No more…

Bruce.

Blue eyes. A tiny, wry smile.

Bruce!

Edward.

He struggled toward the voice. Bruce Wayne. The name that had shaped and defined his life from
an early age. His obsession, his fantasy, the symbol, the man, the object of his deepest loathing
and deepest love. How could he have forgotten the name, even for a moment?

Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce.

The darkness parted and he was outside, in the street. It was raining, a dense sleety Gotham rain,
and the diner’s window glowed through the void. The neon sign shone like blue fire through the
fog. Like a lighthouse beacon.

Bruce was sitting alone at the counter in his wet hoodie, hair hanging around his face, head bowed
and cradled in his hands. Edward kept walking toward him. With each step, the pain in his
abdomen increased until it felt like fishhooks twisting and pulling in his intestines, but he kept
going, pushing through the pain until, gasping and limping, he reached the door. He flung it open
and stepped through.

***

Bruce raised his head slowly.

Edward had just spoken his name.

Or…had he dreamed that? Bruce had come back to the hospital that night exhausted, and he’d
nodded off in his chair a few times. Illusion and reality mingled in his foggy brain.

Edward’s eyes were still closed, his face still slack.

“Edward?” he whispered, hardly daring to hope.

That soft, raspy breathing had shifted subtly. It was faster now. It was, it was, it was.

Bruce’s mouth opened to say his name again, but nothing came out. His throat felt thick. He
pushed the word out: “Edward.” He gripped Edward’s hand tightly. “I’m here. I heard you.”

Did his eyelids quiver a little? Or was Bruce just seeing what he wanted to see?

He took Edward’s cool, motionless hand in his. “You’re there,” he said. “I know you are. I can
feel you. You’re trying to open your eyes.”

No response.

“Come toward me.” His hand tightened on Edward’s. “Keep focusing on my voice, Edward. Stay
with me. I’m right here. I’m with you. I’m not going to leave you, no matter what. Come toward
my voice.”
Please, he thought. Please, please.

“You can do it, I know you can.” He lay his hand on the side of Edward’s face. “Open your pretty
green eyes.” His thumb stroked Edward’s cheek. “Open them for me. Let me see you. You’re so
close. I’m right here, Edward.”

His lashes parted a crack.

A small, strangled sob escaped Bruce’s throat. “Yes.”

Edward’s lids lifted a little more. His eyes moved back and forth, soft and unfocused, as though
searching for something to latch onto. He made a faint sound.

And then his head turned and he was looking directly at Bruce. There was a puzzled blankness in
his eyes—the fuzzy curiosity of an infant looking around the world for the first time. His lips were
parted. They moved, as if struggling to speak.

“Do you—” Bruce gulped. “Do you know who I am?”

Silence.

Edward had said his name earlier. Hadn’t he? Had he imagined that? “Do you know my name?”
Bruce asked softly. “It’s—it’s okay if you don’t. We’ll get there. Just look at me for a moment.
Okay? Look at me.”

Edward blinked a few times. His eyes struggled to focus behind the lenses of his glasses. His
pupils contracted, then slowly expanded. He spoke in a hoarse, creaking whisper, “Bruce…
Wayne.”

Bruce let out a shaky laugh and wiped his forearm across his eyes.

Edward smiled back. He looked a little confused. He drew in a slow breath, and winced. “Ah—”
he pushed his hands against the bed, trying to sit up.

Bruce held him gently down. “You’ve had surgery,” he said. “You need to rest.”

Edward grimaced. “Thirsty,” he croaked.

“I can get you some ice chips. They said you need to be careful about fluid intake, at least for a
little while. They’ve been hydrating you intravenously.”

“How…” He paused, catching his breath. “How long have I been—?”

“This is the third day you’ve been in the hospital. You slept for a long time.” He paused. “How
do you feel?”

His tongue crept out to moisten his chapped lips. “Glad to be alive. Though my guts are on fire.”

He sounded like himself. There was still a possibility that he’d lost some functionality, that there
would be gaps, but he was Edward. And he recognized Bruce. Everything else, they could figure
out in time. The relief was immense, overwhelming. Bruce felt momentarily dizzy, as though he
might pass out from sheer joy.

“I’ll get the doctor.” Bruce stood.

“Wait.”

Bruce froze.

Edward fumbled for his hand. Bruce took it. “I love you,” Edward said.

Bruce’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked them away. He leaned down and kissed Edward softly
on the lips. “I love you, too.”
 ***

Alfred was at home, changing the litterbox, when he received the text from Bruce: He’s awake.

He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.

When he arrived at the hospital, some twenty minutes later, Edward was sitting up in bed, his back
propped against a stack of pillows. Bruce sat in a chair next to him, holding a Styrofoam cup full
of ice chips. A doctor was there, too, holding a penlight. She moved it back and forth in front of
Edward’s eyes; his gaze tracked the movement, and she said, “Good. Do you know where you
are?”

“Gotham General, I assume.”

“That’s right.” She pulled up the covers from his feet and squeezed his ankle. “Can you feel
this?”

“Yes.”

“Move your toes for me.”

He wiggled them.

“Excellent. Do you know who the mayor of Gotham is right now?”

“Don Mitchell Junior.” After a pause, he said, “Wait. No. Bella Reál.”

“Right again.”

“The old mayor was mmm-mm…muuurdered.” His voice warbled a little on the last word. Then
he giggled, a sudden, sharp sound, and clapped a hand over his mouth. A look of horror flashed
through his eyes.
Bruce tensed.

Noticing the reaction, the doctor—Dr. Hartfield, he recalled—said, “He’s just gone through a
major surgery and awakened from a three-day coma. Odd behaviors and atypical emotional
responses are common, in these situations.” She glanced over at Alfred and said, “You can come
in.”

He entered. Still, he hadn’t spoken. There was a lump in his throat.

“Can I have another ice chip?” Edward asked.

Bruce glanced at Dr. Hartfield, as if seeking permission.

“It’s been a few minutes since the last one, hasn’t it?” she said. “Go ahead.”

Bruce fished one of the melting fragments from the cup and said, “Open up.” Edward obeyed, and
Bruce placed it on his tongue. “Let it melt slowly,” Bruce said. “Don’t swallow it.”

“Mmm.”

“Good. You’re doing good.”

“I like it when you call me good,” Edward said, his voice muffled by the ice chip. “I like it a lot.”
He giggled again.

Bruce’s face flushed.

“He’s doing very well,” Dr. Hartfield said, speaking to Alfred. “There’s some disorientation, and
he’s struggling a bit with fine motor skills, but that’s not surprising. It should pass.” She smiled,
then turned to Edward. “I’m just going to take a look at the incision, see how that’s holding up.
It’s probably time for the nurses to change the bandage, anyway.” She pulled down the covers and
carefully peeled the bandage off of Edward’s stomach.
“Oh no, no, no, no, I don’t want to see that.”

“You can close your eyes.”

He did.

“The staples will come out after a few weeks, if everything goes smoothly,” the doctor said,
covering the incision up again.

“I feel itchy,” Edward murmured, scratching his arm.

“That’s a side-effect of the morphine. I can give you an antihistamine to help with that. Once
you’re out of the hospital, I’ll write you a prescription for something a little less intense. In the
meantime, try not to scratch too much.”

Alfred’s mind was still reeling. Though he’d put on a brave face for Bruce, he’d begun to give up
hope that Edward would ever wake up. And now here he was, sitting up, talking, alert.

“Another ice chip, please,” Edward said.

“Give it another minute or two,” the doctor said. Then, to Bruce: “You’ll want to reintroduce
fluids very slowly and carefully. If he can keep all these down, after a few hours, you can start
giving him small sips of water. Tomorrow, we can try some apple juice or broth. And if that goes
well, you can move onto heavier liquids.”

“I can hear you,” Edward huffed. “You can talk to me.”

She glanced at him and said, “I’ll be back in a few hours to check up on you. Nice to properly
meet you, Mr. Nashton.” She gave another brief smile and left the room.

Alfred approached. He looked at Bruce’s face. In the several minutes since Alfred had first
entered the room, Bruce hadn’t once taken his eyes off Edward.
“I feel like I had a lot of dreams.” Edward’s voice was still a little hoarse, a little weak, the words
slurred as though he were drunk or half-asleep. “I can’t remember them very well now. I think you
were in them, Alfred. But you weren’t you.” He glanced down at the IV trailing from his arm,
then at the bouquet of flowers. He reached up to touch one of the orange tulips, his fingertip
grazing the petal. He pressed his fingertips to his own cheek. “I feel weird.”

“That’s normal,” Bruce said. “Do you want to see the card? Your coworkers sent it.” He handed
it to Edward.

Edward looked at the card for a few minutes, his expression unreadable. He looked at the window
full of blue sky and sunlight, and then back at Alfred and Bruce. His eyes were wide, dazed, and a
little wet. “Am I…is this real?” His voice wobbled. “Am I alive? Or—”

Alfred smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, but his own eyes felt a little wet,
too. “We’re not angels, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Definitely not,” Bruce said.

Edward let out a wobbly little laugh, then winced. “Laughing hurts.”

“That’s how you know you’re alive,” Alfred said.

Edward placed the card on the bedside table. His face had gone blank and unreadable again.
“How long do you think they’ll keep me here?”

“The rest of the day, at least. They’ll want to monitor your condition. After that…we’ll see. The
doctor said you’re healing up well, so you might even get to go home tomorrow.”

Edward nodded slowly. “So when do they arrest me?”

Bruce looked at Alfred, who stared back.

Bruce said softly: “No one’s going to arrest you, Edward.”

“But I did so many bad things.”

Bruce took Edward’s hand firmly between both of his own and spoke in a low voice: “We’ll talk
about that later, okay? Try not to worry about that right now. Just rest.”

“People are going to find out. Aren’t they?”

Bruce stood and wrapped his arms around Edward. He held Edward’s head to his shoulder,
stroking his hair. “It’s okay, Edward,” he said. “You’ll see. Everything is going to be okay.”
 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“I can walk,” Edward said as two nurses helped him from his hospital bed into a wheelchair.

“Hospital procedure,” one of them said, snapping the metal foot-rest into position and maneuvering
Edward’s foot onto it. He was still wearing his blue cotton hospital socks.

Truth be told, he was still extremely weak. He’d taken a short walk up and down the hospital
hallway earlier that morning, with Bruce holding onto his arm the whole time, steadying him, but
even that small effort had exhausted him.

“At least let me put on my shoes,” he said.

“I’ve got them,” Bruce said. He lowered himself to one knee in front of the wheelchair and slid
Edward’s scuffed, brown leather shoe onto his foot. He glanced at the nurses. “I’ll take him from
here. Thanks.”

Edward watched those long, elegant fingers tying the laces of his shoe, and it struck him that this
was Bruce Wayne—the heir to a multi-billion dollar empire, the prince of Gotham, lowering
himself before him with his head bowed, offering his assistance in the most humble of tasks. It
shouldn’t have seemed so peculiar, after everything that had happened between them. But several
months ago, if someone had told him that he would one day have Bruce Wayne kneeling before
him, this wasn’t the scenario he would have envisioned.

The doctor had given him a long list of tasks to avoid in the coming weeks so as not to strain his
healing abdomen. No bending, no lifting any object heavier than a few pounds, no strenuous
exercise. Any sudden movement or exertion sent fresh pain rippling through his midsection, even
with the drugs there to muffle it. He would be dependent on Bruce—Alfred too—for a while.

If anything like this had happened to him before he met Bruce, he had no idea what he would have
done, how he would have survived.

“Thank you,” he said, once Bruce had finished tying the other shoe.
Bruce looked up, still on one knee before him, a few strands of dark hair hanging loose in his face.
“You’re welcome.” He stood. “Ready?”

“Yes.” He was more than ready. He’d never liked hospitals. And of course, they had to be
careful what they said to each other in here. There was still a lot they needed to discuss. A lot of
unanswered questions.

Bruce wheeled him down the hall and into the elevator. As they were going down, he leaned down
to murmur into Edward’s ear, “I should warn you. There are reporters in the parking lot. I just
found out, myself.”

Edward raised his eyebrows. “To see you?”

“Both of us. But mostly you, I think. You’re a celebrity now, remember?”

He thought about the fundraiser, the sea of flashing cameras and shouting voices, and started to
feel dizzy. His hand drifted to his wrist and absently twisted the button on the cuff of his white,
long-sleeved polo shirt.

“I was really hoping to keep this quiet,” Bruce said, “but somehow, word got out that they’d be
discharging you today. One of the hospital employees must have talked to the press.”

“What do they want?”

“Probably just to see you. They won’t be allowed to get too close, though. There’ll be police
there, making sure they keep their distance. You don’t have to say anything to them. Alfred will
be waiting for us with the car. Just look straight ahead. Don’t even acknowledge them.”

Edward’s breathing quickened. He twisted the button harder. “This is a hospital,” he murmured.
“Are they even allowed—?”

“It’s insane. I know.”

The elevator brought them to the lobby, and Bruce wheeled him across the shiny white tiles,
toward the automatic glass double-doors. The doors slid open, and they exited into the frigid, gray
December morning.

There they were: the crowds, the cameras, all crammed up against the edges of the hospital
parking lot, jostling each other on the sidewalks.

Among the reporters were people holding up homemade signs. As he and Bruce emerged, the
crowd started screaming in excitement, as though they were at a rock concert and the band had just
come onstage.

“Stay back!” a uniformed officer shouted. “Stay out of the lot!”

Edward blinked in the sunlight. As they drew closer, the signs came into focus. A sense of
disorientation swept over him.

EDWARD, WE LUV U!

EDWARD NASHTON: THE HERO GOTHAM NEEDS.

EDWARD x BRUCE 4EVER.

ACCOUNTANTS > VIGILANTES.

Edward stared, jaw slack, as Bruce wheeled him toward the waiting car.

When they reached the car, Bruce opened the back door.

Edward didn’t wait for help getting out of the chair. He stood and slid in, ignoring the sharp flare
of pain in his abdomen. Bruce got in beside him, shutting the door. As they drove away, Edward
slumped, eyes closed, in the backseat. Sweat beaded on his brow. Just that little bit of exertion had
steamrolled him.

“Are you all right?” Bruce asked.

Edward managed a nod. The car pulled forward, out of the lot.

Once he’d caught his breath, Edward opened his eyes and said, “There were a lot of people there.”

“They’ve no sense of boundaries,” Alfred remarked from the driver’s seat, shaking his head.
“Hounding a man who just woke up from a coma—disgraceful. How are you feeling, Edward?”

“I’m fine.” He stared out the window, watching the crowd dwindle into the distance, then
disappear as they turned a corner.

His heart was beating fast. His emotions were a confused swirl. There had been people screaming
his name in excitement. People who loved him. Him—the nobody, the little blur of a person
who’d only become somebody once he put on the mask. The Riddler had always had his fans, of
course. But they hadn’t been cheering for the Riddler.

Edward Nashton now had groupies. Who would have thought?

Bruce took his hand, pulling him out of his own head. “I know. It’s overwhelming. But a lot of
people in Gotham are really inspired by you.”

“All I did was get stabbed.”

“You saved my life. I try not to scroll through comment sections because it’s usually a cesspool,
but when the Gotham Post reported that you’d woken up from your coma, people were thrilled.”

“It’s because of my connection to you. That’s all.”

“That’s part of it. But you’re the one they’re paying attention to, now.”

His head was buzzing. One hand drifted up to touch his own face, feeling the bumps and valleys
of his features.
It was ironic. Gotham had embraced him as a symbol of everything the Riddler wasn’t. He had,
through a single action, become a champion of lawful goodness and simple human decency in the
public eye—the hardworking orphan, the Cinderella who had been lifted up out of his ordinary,
grubby little world by the prince recognized his goodness. The man who had played by the rules
and been rewarded.

Oh, it was intoxicating. A part of him wanted to bask in the adoration, to soak it up like sunlight.
He could embrace this new persona, wear it like a suit; he could smile and blush for the cameras,
say something humble and listen to the coos of appreciation. Sainthood could feel decadent, in its
own way. Maybe he could even convince himself that that was the real him.

Of course, it would be a lie.

How many of those people would still love him if they knew who he really was? What he had
done?

Edward watched the city roll past outside his window. It was too much to take in. His hand
drifted down to his abdomen; his fingertips pressed lightly against the bandage under his shirt. It
hurt, but the pain helped ground him.

They were going home. Except home was not his apartment, now. Their destination hadn’t even
been discussed, but of course they were taking him to the Wayne Manor.

***

Given that Edward would be more or less bedbound for a while, it made sense for him to have his
own room with all the necessary amenities—a television, a computer, a bell for him to call for help
whenever he needed it, and what little he’d requested from his own apartment: mainly some
clothes. And his Batman plushie, of course.

He wondered if there were fan-made Riddler plushies, too. It wouldn’t surprise him.

When they showed him which room he’d be staying in, he started to laugh. It hurt his stomach, but
he couldn’t help himself.

“It doesn’t have to be this one,” Bruce said quickly. “We’ve got other rooms. It’s just—there’s
already a bed here, so—”

“This—this is fine,” he said, grinning and wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “I told you, I
have fond memories of this room. This was where we had our first kiss.”

And once again, he would be helpless in this bed, dependent on Bruce and Alfred to bring him
whatever he needed. Of course, the circumstances were entirely different. Edward himself had
changed so much since then. But he could still appreciate the dark humor of it.

One of the cats—Oliver—was currently sprawled on the bed, tail twitching. Alfred shooed him off
before pulling back the covers. Bruce helped Edward into the bed.

“If you’re hungry,” Alfred said, “I can fix you up a little something. No solids, of course. But I
did promise you hot chocolate.”

“Did you?”

“You weren’t conscious. But yes.”

“Now that you mention it…”

“We should avoid anything too rich for the first few days,” Bruce said.

“Bruce, you’ll deny me this? You’re a cruel king. The promise of Alfred’s hot chocolate is what
kept me clinging to life. I clawed my way from the jaws of hell for that. I fought a bull-headed
demon with a flaming saber.” He giggled. He’d taken a painkiller when they arrived home, and it
was making him a little loopy.

“The doctors made me promise,” Bruce said. “If you put too much strain on your system right
away, you’ll just make yourself sick.”

Edward sighed. “Fine. But I’m going to pout.”

“I’ll make a smoothie,” Alfred said. “We’ve got blueberries and bananas. I’ll add a bit of honey.”

“Okay.”

Alfred left the room, and Bruce pulled up a chair. He gazed directly, intently into Edward’s eyes.
“Is there anything else you need?”

Edward carefully pulled up his shirt and examined the bandage taped over his abdomen, beneath
and to the left of his navel. “I guess this should be changed soon, shouldn’t it? They said twice a
day.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He hadn’t really looked at the incision yet. He’d been avoiding it, but he supposed he’d have to,
sooner or later. He peeled off a bit of tape and lifted the corner of the bandage to peek underneath.

The healing incision was bright red, a little swollen, held shut with a neat line of surgical staples.
Quickly, he looked away, but the image remained lodged in his brain—the Frankenstein body-
horror of having been opened.

Edward had done unspeakable things to other people’s flesh. He hadn’t flinched at that. But when
it was his own precious skin, he could barely look. Hypocrite.

“I feel a little sick,” he murmured.

“Just focus on breathing.” Bruce placed a hand on his forehead and carefully smoothed his hair
back.

“It’s going to leave a big scar, isn’t it? I realize that’s a shallow thing to be concerned about. I’m
grateful to be alive. I am. But I know it’s going to be ugly. It is ugly.”

“Nothing about you is ugly.”

Bruce meant those words, and not just in regards to his body. That was the funny thing. All of
Edward’s past, his twisted thoughts, his obsession, his darkness—Bruce saw and accepted and
accepted. But everyone had a breaking point, didn’t they?

And if he didn’t…well, that was almost more unnerving, in a way.

The dizziness had started to creep over Edward again. Maria’s angry, terrified face flashed
through his head. The confused screams of the onlookers—the shard of glass protruding from his
stomach, the slowly spreading blood…

“Edward?”

He snapped back to the present. Bruce was holding his hand.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Flashback?”

He nodded.

“I’ve been having them too.” Bruce’s thumb rubbed slowly over his knuckles. “That offer I made,
on the night we played Tetris together—you remember?”

“We did considerably more than play Tetris that night, as I recall. But yes. You offered to pay for
my therapy.”

“That offer’s still open.” He kept stroking Edward’s knuckles, back and forth. “You’ve been
through an extremely traumatic experience.”

Edward stared at the ceiling—at the corner where the security camera had once been installed. It
had since been removed. Disappointing. He’d grown accustomed to the glow of that red light; like
a nightlight, almost.
“You said that you were afraid of being unfixable,” Bruce said. “But I don’t believe that the world
is divided into fixable people and unfixable ones. I don’t think it’s even about ‘fixing.’ There are
certain wounds that don’t ever heal completely. But we can still find a way to move forward in
spite of that.”

“If you want me to go to therapy, I will,” Edward said without looking at him.

“It’s not about what I want. I told you before. I won’t try to push you into it.”

“But you do want me to.”

“I want you to get whatever you need.”

He smiled a small, stiff smile. “It doesn’t seem quite right, does it?”

“What?”

“She never had a chance at healing. She died because of me, and now here we are, talking about
my pain, my mental wounds.”

Bruce’s hand tightened on his. “Denying yourself what you need because others don’t always get
what they need—that doesn’t do anyone any good.”

He was right. Probably.

He’d had sessions with the doctor at Arkham, of course. But something about therapy had always
felt so self-indulgent to him. It was work, yes, but work in the sense of doing an exercise routine
with a personal trainer. That was the domain of wealthy people who could afford to spend
hundreds of dollars a session to fine-tune and tighten up their minds the way they tightened up
their abs at the gym, all the while congratulating themselves on their willingness to self-improve,
while others starved in the gutters.

But beneath that was a simpler resistance: I don’t deserve to heal, after the pain I caused.
“Tell me to do it, then,” Edward said.

Bruce hesitated. “Why?”

Edward shrugged. “If you really think it’s important, then show a little conviction. Pinch my nose
shut and make me take my medicine.”

Bruce stared at him with a difficult-to-read expression, and for a moment, Edward wondered if
he’d angered him—if Bruce would frown and tell him to stop playing these games.

But Bruce just nodded and said, “In that case, I’m going to set up an appointment for you Thursday
of next week, with someone I know. Someone I trust. I’ll have Alfred drive you there.”

“Okay.”

“But promise me that you’ll make an effort, at least. You can’t just show up and sit there.”

“Of course not. That would be a waste of resources.” His gaze drifted toward the corner of the
ceiling, again—the absence of the security camera. “I don’t suppose there’ll be a funeral for her.”

“No. There’s no one to arrange it. But if you want, we can visit her grave.”

“You wouldn’t think that’s strange? She nearly killed me. She was trying to kill you.”

“You wanted to kill me once, too.” He smiled a little. “I’ve always wondered. How were you
planning to do it?”

Edward averted his eyes. “A letter bomb.”

A brief pause. “I don’t even open my own mail.”

“I would’ve marked it for your eyes only. I don’t know if that would have worked. But that was
the plan. There would’ve been another envelope inside, a fireproof one, with a card for the
Batman.”

“I see.”

He could feel Bruce’s gaze resting on him.

There was another question, one that Edward had avoided asking, because he was afraid of the
answer—and because it was the sort of thing they couldn’t safely discuss in the hospital, where
there were always other people nearby. “The police…by now, they’ve been through her hard
drive, I’m sure.”

“Yes.”

“How much do you think they know?”

“I talked to Commissioner Gordon a few days ago, while you were still unconscious. He said
certain files were locked. They hadn’t broken into them yet. They didn’t seem to know your real
identity.”

Edward’s throat felt tight. “Bruce, there…there’s something I should tell you. When I confronted
her—before I knew who she really was—she said that there was a program on her computer that
would automatically release my real identity if she didn’t enter in a certain code every so often.”

“She may have been bluffing to scare you.”

“It’s possible. If it hasn’t happened yet, then I guess she must have been. But even if she was…
she had that information. It’s in there. Sooner or later, everything is going to come out.”

“No. It won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I wiped the drives.”

Edward’s gaze jerked toward him.

“That night, after I talked to the commissioner, I disabled the security system at the police station
and broke into the evidence room,” Bruce said. “I found her hard drive and wiped it clean.”

“Jesus. Bruce.”

“I was very careful. You’d be surprised at how easy it was, breaking into the police station. But
then, I have access to technology that most people don’t.”

“They could still figure out it was you. Batman, I mean.”

“They can’t prove it. I didn’t leave any trace of myself behind. But even if they suspect me…
well, that will affect my relationship with Commissioner Gordon. Worst case scenario, I won’t be
able to work with him anymore, which will limit what I can do in the future. But we’ll be safe.
You’ll be safe.”

Edward pulled his glasses off and began polishing them mechanically, his face blank. “Tampering
with police evidence. That’s very much against your code, isn’t it?”

“It was. Does it bother you? That I did that?”

Did it?

It was the sort of thing that Edward might have killed a man for, when he was the Riddler.
Destroying evidence to protect a criminal. Of course, Bruce’s motives were different; this wasn’t
about material greed or power. This was purely about protecting someone he loved.

Did that matter, in the larger moral equation?

He slid his glasses back into place. “I just…I keep thinking about what the mayor said that night.
About how my soul would never know peace unless I stepped into the light. Unless I confessed
everything. Maybe she was right.”

Bruce took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t want you to turn yourself in, Edward.”

“But that would be the right thing. Wouldn’t it?”

“At this point, I don’t think you allowing yourself to be locked up in Arkham would do anyone any
good. You’re not a danger anymore. And you’ve suffered enough.”

“It might help give the victims’ families some closure. If the killer stepped forward. Don’t you
think?” His voice was calm on the surface, but there was a slight quaver underneath.

Bruce raked a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “I don’t know.”

“That boy, for instance. The mayor’s son—do you suppose it would help him? Knowing who’s
responsible for his trauma?”

Bruce bowed his head.

Edward wondered if he was being cruel, bringing up these things now.

“You still don’t know, do you?” Edward asked quietly.

“No.” He rubbed at his face with one hand. “Based on some things Alfred told me recently, it
might have been Carmine Falcone. But I’ll probably never know for sure. And it’s hard to say
whether knowing would help, at this point. If I had known, I think I would’ve become obsessed
with the idea of killing Falcone, or at least seeing him locked up. Whether that would’ve been
better or worse than what actually happened…I don’t know.”

Edward said nothing.

“We have an opportunity now,” Bruce said. “We have a fresh start. We can work together to try to
make things better in this city, to really help people. And you’re famous now, too. You have a
voice. You can influence opinions, draw attention to the causes that need it. I realize that I’m
biased, because I need you. And maybe it’s pure selfishness on my part. But turning yourself over
to the authorities to live out the rest of your life in a cage…that doesn’t feel to me like taking
responsibility. It feels like giving up. You can do more good out here, as Edward Nashton, than
you can in Arkham as the Riddler.”

“You make a compelling case,” Edward said, a hint of wryness in his voice. “I’m almost
convinced.”

Bruce turned his face toward the wall. The muscles of his throat constricted as he swallowed.

“I’m not going to turn myself in, Bruce. I’m not going to waste the risk you took for my sake. I
don’t care whether it’s right or wrong.”

Bruce let out a quiet breath of relief. “Thank you.”

“Though I have to admit, it feels very strange. People calling me a hero. I always thought I would
enjoy this sort of attention, but…”

“It’s the curse of fame. Everyone knows who you are, but no one really knows you. Well…almost
no one.”

Edward looked at those long, pale, elegant fingers folded around his. Even now, he found himself
continually astonished by Bruce’s physical beauty, wondering how it was that this god among
mortals had become captivated with him. “Bruce.”

“Yes?”

“Will you lay down next to me?”

Without hesitation, Bruce climbed into the bed and lay on his side, close to Edward.
“Will you…will you put your hand on my stomach?” When he hesitated, Edward said, “It’s all
right. You won’t hurt me.”

Bruce’s hand slowly descended, coming to rest atop the bandage, over his shirt. Edward’s stomach
rose and fell slowly beneath Bruce’s palm.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said.

“For what?”

“You must have been scared. While I was unconscious.”

“I was. But it’s okay. You’re here now.”

Edward’s face turned toward him. They looked at each other in silence for a few minutes.

“Is it really over?” Edward asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Everything. Are we really…safe?”

“For now. Yes.” Bruce’s hand remained where it was, a gentle pressure against his tender, healing
belly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. I can’t pretend to. And I still want to
fight for this city, both as Bruce Wayne and as Batman. I’ll take a break from the vigilante stuff
while you’re in recovery, but I haven’t given up on it. There are people out there who see him, me,
as a symbol of hope. They see that light in the sky and they feel like someone’s looking out for
them.”

“I know. Who do you think saved my life, back then?”

Bruce raised his other hand to rest his fingertips against Edward’s cheek. He looked at Edward as
though he were the entire world.

The bed was soft beneath Edward’s back. He was warm. Protected. Provided for.

“You look like you’re struggling to keep your eyes open,” Bruce said. “Are you sleepy?”

“A little.”

“Close them.” When Edward hesitated, Bruce said, “I’ll still be here. Even if you drift off.”

After a few seconds, his eyelids slipped shut. He felt Bruce’s lips press against his forehead, then
his temple.

A glowing screen—green words against a black background—hovered in the darkness behind

Edward’s lids: The Riddler isn’t finished. He’s bigger than you now. He’s all of us. Maria’s
words to him, before he knew she was Maria.

There might be other copycats, others who put on the coat and mask to enact their own bloody
justice on Gotham. In becoming the Riddler, Edward had unleashed something dark, vast and
primal. And of course there were bigger problems, too. Poverty. Need. The omnipresent despair
that festered like a cancer in this city’s cells.

Was it wrong to be happy, in the midst of such despair?

Was it wrong to want happiness? To let himself rest here for a moment, bathed in love, as the
world burned?

***

Alfred walked down the hall, carrying a tray—two blueberry-banana-yogurt smoothies. They’d
been out of honey, so he’d used agave nectar.
When he eased the door open he found Bruce and Edward in bed, both of them asleep. Edward
was on his back, Bruce curled on his side, his hand resting on Edward’s stomach.

A memory crept along the edges of his mind: Thomas sitting next to Martha, one hand resting
tenderly and protectively on her pregnant belly.

Alfred set the tray on the nearby table. He pulled the covers up over them both, tucking in the
edges.

Batman and the Riddler. Two lonely, confused boys dressing up, playing cops and robbers. Two
wounded men who had endured more trauma and hardship than anyone should.

He brought the smoothies back to the kitchen and put them in the refrigerator for later. Then he
poured himself a small glass of bourbon with ice, went into the living room, and sat in his armchair
by the crackling fire. He tilted the glass back and forth, listening to the ice cubes click against the
sides.

Thomas and Martha’s faces drifted behind his eyes like passing clouds.

“Did I do right by him?” he asked the silence.

At this point, he’d been Bruce’s father-figure longer than Thomas had. And yet he’d never
stopped feeling like an imposter. God knew he’d tried. But he’d felt so lost, so much of the time.
He’d been making it up as he went along. Though perhaps Thomas and Martha had felt the same.

“You’d be proud if you could see him now, I think,” he said. “He cares deeply about this city.
Too deeply, sometimes. In the beginning, perhaps, he was just looking for a cross to crucify
himself on, whether or not it did any tangible good. But that’s changed. I know how strange this
must all seem. But hope comes in unexpected forms. Doesn’t it?”

This could still go horribly wrong. In so many ways. He knew that.

Snow fell outside the window. Christmas would be here before they knew it. It had been too
many years since there’d been a Christmas tree in Wayne Manor. They’d avoided holiday
traditions in general, since the death of Bruce’s parents. Alfred had always worried about
reopening old wounds.
 It was time for that to change, he decided. They would have a proper Christmas this year.

He wanted some music. He set his glass down, went to the shelf and ran his fingertips over the
vinyl albums in their sleeves. He lingered over Fleetwood Mac. “Landslide” felt appropriate right
now. He started to pull out the record…then stopped and instead pulled out one of Bruce’s old
Nirvana albums instead.

He put it on the turntable, turned down the volume on the speakers so as not to wake Bruce and
Edward, and sat.

Sasha approached, meowing. He patted his leg, and she jumped into his lap and curled up as Kurt
Cobain’s voice filled the living room. Alfred rubbed behind her ears. She butted her head against
his fingers and seemed to smile in the knowing, private way that cats did. And Alfred—who had
long since memorized the lyrics to every song on Nevermind, having heard it over and over during
Bruce’s teenage years—sang along quietly.

“Come as you are, as you were

As I want you to be
As a friend, as a friend
As an old enemy

Take your time, hurry up

Choice is yours, don't be late
Take a rest as a friend
As an old

Memoria, memoria
Memoria, memoria…”

-The End

Chapter End Notes

Thank you, everyone, for coming with me on this journey.

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