Content Warning: Language, mentions of anxiety and intrusive thoughts
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Even high profile criminals have to do laundry. Of course there were probably some who cleaned up less frequently than others, but Edward Nigma was not one of that ilk. The man had an image to uphold, after all, and beyond that, he'd decided that cleanliness was next to genius…ly…ness.
Yep.
Not that he was really free to live by his immaculate standards at all times, unfortunately. Even when pressures were low, basics such as washing machines or, hmm, soap were not always readily available due to certain lifestyle choices he may or may not have made. Or been forced to make, rather, much his deep distress.
As such, laundry day did not rear its sparkling little head as regularly as Eddie would have liked. Some years it barely occurred more than twice, depending on how much time he spent wasting away in the bin overall. It was a much cherished affair though, despite its erratic cycle.
Today, praise the fates or the Lord or whoever might be responsible for this good fortune, was laundry day. Or, more accurately, laundry night. Or laundry early morning, probably. The Riddler really didn't have the privilege to wander around Gotham in broad daylight anymore. Claiming a spot on America's Most Wanted list will do that to you. In fact, he tried to avoid most legitimate laundromats when he could help it. Sometimes they had cork boards with posters and things. Instead, the great Prince of Puzzles often found himself jimmying open lock after lock at Gotham University's dormitories, navigating through one basement or another, silently seeking out the student laundry facilities long after most of the school's populace had gone to bed. It wasn't too hard, just monotonous. After all, the freshman dorms' washing machines ran for free.
He moved briskly through the front hall and down the stairs into the housing complex's depths, arms loaded up with affects as he counted backwards under his breath.
"Ten, nine, eig—…Ten, nine, eight, seve—sonofabitch—TEN… nine, eight…"
Though he hardly considered himself in recovery (nor did he really intend to be) Edward did find himself taking some of Dr. Young's advice, when he thought it worthwhile. She'd recently suggested that counting backwards from ten in response to brushes with those nasty intrusive thoughts of his would help to quell the anxiety. He wouldn't really know though. The closest he'd ever come to completing his mantra was five, and in fact, his counting had become somewhat compulsive in itself by now.
By the time he'd made it to the laundry room, Eddie had reached number eight roughly a dozen times. He glanced around and scrunched his nose up indignantly.
However pleasant-smelling it was, space was dimly lit, and there were little puddles of mystery liquids spreading across the linoleum floors just waiting to be disturbed by an unsuspecting shoe. Crumpled socks were scattered mateless and lonely all around the room, as well as a variety of other abandoned undergarments that would almost certainly transmit any number of unknown diseases in the advent of contact with human skin. Eddie forced himself not to consider this as he made his way to the nearest block of washing machines, all of which were unoccupied.
Though it didn't happen regularly, the criminal had certainly come face to face with a student or two over the course of his frequenting their abode, though most of the kids overlooked his presence, assumedly ignorant to who he really was. Without the mask and emerald zoot suit, Eddie was a confoundingly ordinary-looking man, if not a bit on the short side. Still, he had to be careful. Sooner or later, he was bound to cross paths with a night owl who read the morning paper.
Though he was eternally thankful for an opportunity to do it, the laundry was a fairly mundane process that begot roughly an hour and a half of waiting by impatiently, which Eddie spent perched on the edge of a rickety table, kicking his legs back and forth absently.
"…nine, eight, seven, si—… Ten, nine, eight…"
The washing machine went off after twenty-five minutes, momentarily distracting him from the threat of a panic attack with the annoying realization that no amount of color guard could rescue one particular pair of trousers from turning a sickly shade of springtime vomit. He grimaced and continued to gather his belongings, punching up a mental memo to use the unwearable article as a prop in a visual pun the next time he built a labyrinth.
It had been too long since he'd built a labyrinthian death trap.
Next, onward to the drier across the room, leaving a snail trail of used water behind him and pushing an unfortunate soggy patch into his vest in the interim.
He returned to his vantage point with only an hour left to wait.
"Ten, ni— ten, ni— ten, nine, eiGH— HELL!"
He was really anxious tonight, wasn't he? Looking around, he decided that the chaotic state of the laundry room only intensified the mess in his own mind. It made him twitchy. The sooner he could get out of here, the better.
He glanced at the timer on the drier. Ten minutes to go.