How Much You Know
By Indiana
Characters: Edward Nygma, Riddlerbots (Alan)
Synopsis: He'll do it if it makes his dad happy, even if he doesn't want to.
Alan knew he was welcome to go find his dad whenever he wanted, and unless his dad was doing something very important he would make some time for Alan, but he still didn't feel right about bothering him when he was in his room. He didn't spend much time in there as it was, and if he was there he probably wanted to be alone. And Alan didn't have anything of particular importance to be bothering his dad about, but if he hadn't heard from him in a while he liked to see how he was doing. He was kind of regretting it, even though he'd just gotten there; his dad was standing in front of his dresser, top drawer ajar, with a white packet in his hand. He didn't look all that happy. The electric kettle on top of the dresser was almost at a boil and after glancing at it, his dad put the packet back into the drawer and removed a tea bag. He knew his dad liked tea very much, but didn't seem to really want it at the moment. What was that? Alan asked. His dad looked up at him.
"Nothing. Merely a poor facsimile of what I actually wanted."
What was it you wanted? If it was around Alan would be more than happy to track it down for him.
"It's not something you can find, Alan," his dad said, grimacing at the tea bag and pouring water over it. "It's something someone used to make for me and I cannot have right now."
Jonathan, Alan said, unable to keep the spite out of his tone altogether. His dad regarded him for a moment and then put the kettle back on the element. "Yes."
Why won't he make it for you? Because he was a jerk, probably.
"Because we're on a break," his dad answered, removing his glasses. The steam from his drink had obscured them and Alan knew that was why he'd done it, but he disliked seeing his dad without his glasses on. It made the fatigue beneath his eyes too easy to see.
What does that mean?
"It means we're just acquaintances right now."
But why? This one was probably because he was a jerk, then.
"Because if we tried to be anything more right now we would no doubt end up killing each other."
Alan certainly thought the world would be better off without Jonathan in it, and he would have been quite happy to help that along, but even on a break and just his acquaintance his dad probably still loved Jonathan and would be very sad if Alan did something like that. Hopefully one day his dad would come to his senses on that issue.
Acquaintances don't do nice things for each other?
His dad raised his cup to his lips. "In this business that would be pure idiocy."
If Alan knew one thing, it was that his dad wasn't an idiot. That made sense, then.
"Did you need something, son?" his dad asked, and Alan folded his hands together in front of him. He really liked it when his dad called him that.
No, I just... wanted to see how you were doing.
There was a special way his dad looked at them, sometimes, where he smiled just a little bit and his eyes would crinkle at the corners while the rest of his face smoothed out, and he was looking at Alan like that right now. He hadn't figured out what it meant but it was one of the things that made him happiest so he didn't mind not knowing the meaning behind it. His dad put a hand on his shoulder, which was another thing Alan loved, and said, "I have time for a game if you do."
'A game' meant chess, on the board his dad had made himself out of finished metal burnished to a dull shine and painted light purple and dark green. He hadn't made it recently, but years ago before Alan had been turned on. The shapes of the pieces were simplified, he'd said, as doing it by hand had been very time-consuming as it was, so Alan didn't know how accurate they were or how many details they were missing. Alan removed it from the dresser drawer it was kept in and set it up while his dad took off his shirt and socks. Alan still didn't know what the point of having a shirt on under his shirt was - he knew the other one was to keep his skin clean - or why his dad's chest had hair on it. He had decided that it was probably useful in keeping his head and arms warm when he wasn't wearing anything else on them, but his dad always wore a shirt. And pants. He didn't need hair to keep his legs warm because there were always pants on them! So many things about organics made no sense.
Dad, why do you wear pants?
His dad had been in the process of crossing his legs on top of the bed and accidentally kicked over his pieces on the left corner. "Why do I wear pants?"
You have hair to keep warm with, right? But you have some on your legs so why wear pants?
His dad carefully righted his pieces. "It's less about that in this state of evolution and more about keeping dirt from the skin."
Evolution?
"The very gradual genetic change of organisms so they may be optimized for their environment. Unfortunately this process is extremely slow and therefore inefficient, as this optimization was useful hundreds of years ago."
So that's why you wear pants? You're badly optimised?
His dad wrinkled his nose. "You could say that." He pulled down one of his pantlegs and folded his hands in front of him. "Go ahead."
One of the things Alan loved was playing chess with his dad. His dad always seemed more relaxed when he played this game, and he rarely let anything distract him from finishing one. What he didn't know was that Alan had to cheat.
Not because his dad would really ever beat him, but because he never would. Alan understood that his dad was smarter in some ways and he was smarter in others, and that his dad understood that too; the difference was that his dad put a great deal of his self-worth into his intelligence and Alan did not. He didn't know the full story behind it, or if he ever would, but his dad became very upset when outsmarted. If Alan won too many times, his dad wouldn't want to play with him anymore because he always lost. So what Alan had to do was carefully keep track of how many games had been won and lost, and prevent his dad from winning or losing too many times in a row. He also had to try to assess his dad's mood at the time, and what had happened recently or would happen in the future, to calculate whether it would be okay for him to lose or if letting him win would be a better idea. He thought it would be okay to let him win today. He seemed a little sad and that would cheer him up.
Alan didn't doubt that his dad would win against anyone else on earth. He was very intelligent and clearly knew a great deal of the patterns that went on in the game. But he could not out-predict Alan, and he didn't seem to know that. Alan was happy to let him believe they were on the same level, he just had to be careful about it. He would be sad to be the one that made his dad lose confidence in himself just because he couldn't beat a computer at chess. Alan liked most things about being a robot, but not that.
During their chess games was also one of the only times his dad stayed quiet. He liked it when his dad talked, because he knew so much, but it was also quite interesting to watch him study the board in silence, his eyes sharp and attentive. He sometimes wished he had blue eyes, like his dad. He knew green was his dad's favourite colour and that was why pretty much everything he could get his hands on was green, but he thought it would be nice.
The game took about an hour and his dad won, as Alan had planned, and sometimes they discussed it afterward but this time his dad disappointingly got up and took his phone out of his pocket. He had ignored it while they played but now, as always, it took up his attention. Work? he asked, trying to sound neutral.
"Mm," his dad said. "I have some calls to make."
Alan put away the game quietly while his dad left the room, because he didn't get very good reception in there, and decided now was as good a time as any to figure out what it was his dad had wanted but couldn't have. A cursory examination of the package in the drawer held no answers. It was just a plain white packet, of paper and foil. It held no writing or any other indication as to what it was. He put it back in among the tea bags, disappointed. He was going to have to ask.
He didn't want to. He didn't want to go see Jonathan and ask him what that drink was, because in his opinion the less Jonathan was involved in his life, the better. It was not the first time Alan would do something he didn't like for his dad, and it wouldn't be the last. He loved his dad too much to let his own personal biases get in the way of making him happy.
There were some things he wondered if organic children could do, and this was one of them. From his experience organics in general were more self-serving than anything else, and even Ada, the most selfish robot he knew, would do the generous thing when it came down to it. Organics… not so much. He'd seen firsthand the ones his dad had hired disappear when the whim struck them, whether it was from a task they deemed undesirable or because they just didn't feel like working. Alan didn't always feel like working either, but that was no excuse to not do his job. He didn't blame his dad at all for being so frustrated and stressed all the time, or for manufacturing hundreds of robots who wouldn't do such things. He was sure if he spent more time around organics he would understand just why his dad had turned away from his own kind, though he did recognise his dad too was selfish sometimes. His dad, however, was also the boss of these people who just ignored whatever he said whenever they felt like it, and he was paying them to do what he told them to do. And they didn't do it anyway, even though that was their job. It was selfish. Alan did not understand them at all.
And off he was, to ask for help from the most selfish man he knew.
/
Something his dad had taught him was that if you looked like you belonged somewhere, people usually believed that you did. Alan was aware there were not too many people who looked like him around and so it took a little extra conviction on his part to look like he was supposed to be walking up the stairs to Jonathan's penthouse. Everyone who saw him stared at him, but he was unsure whether that was because of how he looked or because he seemed suspicious. Some of the henchmen around the city had seen the myriad Riddlerbots and been suitably impressed, so perhaps they were just getting a good look so as to have a grand story to tell later. The entrance to the penthouse itself was, as he had expected, closed, and after ensuring no one had followed him he tried to remember what the drones were like. Jonathan couldn't know he could think for himself or he'd be too suspicious to do as he asked. He needed to be careful.
The door was not locked and it opened quietly, and Alan entered as silently as he could. He couldn't be silent, but maybe Jonathan's hearing wasn't that great.
Jonathan was sitting with his back to the door at a table littered with glass containers filled with varying volumes of liquids and powders. His hood was back over his shoulders though he still wore the mask. He looked behind him at the sound the door made as Alan closed it. His face was even more difficult to read with that material covering it.
"Is there a problem?" Jonathan asked, and Alan had to say he'd expected more of a threat than an offer of help. He shook his head and stepped towards the table. There was a notebook there covered in vague scribblings Alan couldn't read, and he paged through it until he came to a blank section. On it he wrote, with the black pen on the table there, You used to make a drink for Edward.
Jonathan looked at what he'd written but said nothing, instead standing up and crossing the room to the opposite side, where there was a bed larger than the one in his dad's room and a nightstand with a dirty lamp on it. Jonathan opened the drawer and lifted the lid on a hinged box inside, removing the heavy-looking glasses Alan had seen on him last time. He sat back down and slid the notebook in front of him, tilting it towards himself a little. "Yes," he said finally. "Does he want it?"
Alan decided to just nod, and Jonathan turned the page over and picked up the pen. His hands were just as filthy as he remembered them. Not like his dad's, either, just marked with grease and paint that would come off with a good scrub; no, Jonathan's hands were pale and marked with blue and black, and most of his fingernails were broken far below the tops of his fingers. You should do something about that, Alan said. Jonathan looked at him momentarily, and Alan realised he had something black painted around his eyes beneath the mask.
"Don't do that," Jonathan said, returning to what he was writing. He carefully removed the page and handed it to Alan. "Bring these and I will show you. After nine pm."
Alan accepted the page and Jonathan returned the book as it had been when Alan had arrived. Alan decided that was that and backed out of the room, and Jonathan took no further notice of him.
The paper had a list on it, and Alan was unable to read it until he had sat out back of the building containing the penthouse and puzzled over the letters. The farther away from typeface handwriting got, the harder it was for him to read. He could read his dad's writing no problem, but if his dad wrote him a note he at least kept the letters neat and orderly. Jonathan's writing was all over the place and he was going to have to guess what half the words were because he couldn't identify all of the letters.
Hm… milk, some kind Alan couldn't read but there couldn't be too much of a difference between them. Chocolate, but it was listed twice so there must have been different kinds of chocolate. Wait. He looked more closely at the list. He thought the word 'milk' might be there twice, but why did it look so different both times? So milk and chocolate with milk in it. All right. The other kind of chocolate was… semisweet. And then there was… mint. And… salt? As far as Alan knew people weren't supposed to drink salt, but apparently he didn't know anything. All right. He would go and collect this stuff and bring it back to Jonathan later in the evening.
/
"Do I want to know how you even got these?"
Alan just looked at him, since Jonathan had told him not to talk.
When he'd arrived Jonathan had taken him into another room, the door of which he had locked. It was a smallish kitchen not unlike the one at the Orphanage, but with a great deal more stainless steel. Jonathan removed a saucepan from a cupboard and showed Alan how to melt the chocolate into the milk, and then whisk in the rest of the milk and the other two ingredients until it was all smooth and warm. Alan had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that it did look nice.
"And that's it," Jonathan said, putting the whisk into the sink. Alan nodded and gathered the unused items back into the plastic bag he'd brought them in, though the milk would have to be carried in his hand. Jonathan put one finger into the mix and tasted it. Alan hadn't been planning on it to begin with, but he definitely wouldn't be giving his dad that now. Not with the horrendous state of Jonathan's fingers. Jonathan shook his head and stepped back. It was apparent he did not like the drink, whatever it was called, and Alan felt somewhat insulted on his dad's behalf. He seemed to know Alan didn't plan on taking it with him because he put the saucepan into the sink and turned the faucet on, letting the water overflow.
Alan was almost to the door when Jonathan said, quietly, "Is he well?"
Alan was taken aback by this. Why was he asking? Weren't they on a break? And did he know Alan wasn't a drone? He didn't believe himself to be overly recognisable, other than to other Riddlerbots and his dad; his was the base model, and more or less all the bots looked similar to him. He couldn't know. Alan was about to do him the decency of a nod when Jonathan poured out the saucepan and said, "Never mind. I don't want to know."
Alan was unable to keep from tightening his fist around the bag's plastic handles. 'I don't want to know', what kind of thing was that to say about someone he supposedly loved? Fine. Alan didn't want to tell him anyway. He opened the door and walked out, and he really wanted to slam it but he didn't. Be polite even to those you dislike, his dad had taught him that.
He would go back to his dad, and make him this drink, and maybe his dad wouldn't need Jonathan to make it for him anymore. Because Alan would know how and he could just ask him. The less his dad needed to ask Jonathan for, the better.
/
Are you sleeping, Dad?
His dad sat up, smearing the fingers of his free hand into his eyes. He'd been lying with his head in his arms on top of his desk off the foyer, and hadn't moved when Alan had walked by him originally. "No, son. I have a headache, that's all." He put his glasses back on and folded his hands together on top of the desk. "What is it?"
I brought you something. He put the cup on the desk and looked at the floor. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe this was something special between his dad and Jonathan he shouldn't have gotten in the middle of. Maybe his dad didn't make it for himself because only Jonathan made it for him, and Alan should have left things that way. What if Jonathan knew that and he'd only shown him how so as to make his dad angry with him? He should have thought of that earlier!
His dad was frowning at the cup. "I never told you what the drink was."
I still don't know what it is, Alan admitted. His dad looked at him, brows lower.
"But you knew who used to make it for me."
Alan nodded.
"And where to find him."
Alan nodded a second time. That had been easy to figure out. His dad stood up and walked around to the front of the desk, leaning on it so that his legs were slanted. "You hate Jonathan."
There was not a lot to say about that either, so he said nothing.
"You tracked down a man you hate, hid it from him long enough that he showed you how to make that – convinced him to do it in the first place – Alan, why?"
Wasn't the reason obvious? I love you more than I hate him, Dad.
His dad opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything. He looked off to his right, in the direction of the floor. Alan turned his head to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there so it must have been a gesture of consideration. He stayed silent for quite a long time.
"Why?" he asked finally, facing Alan again.
I don't know. He hadn't realised he'd need to explain it.
"That's not an answer!" his dad snapped, his fingers hard and pale around the edge of the desk, and Alan had to check himself in order to prevent taking a step back. He hated it when his dad yelled.
His dad took a long breath and removed his glasses, discarding them on the desk and pressing his hands into his eyes again. "I'm sorry," he said, a lot more calmly. "I just don't understand."
Alan tried to think of a way to help him do so, but couldn't come up with one. Logically there was no reason for him to feel one way or the other. He just did.
"It isn't as though I did anything to earn it."
Earn it? That made the least sense of all! You love me, right, Dad?
"Yes," his dad said, more or less squinting at him.
I didn't earn it, so why would you have to?
"That's different."
How?
"It just… it just is."
But why is it different?
"It's just… it's different, Alan."
Alan was more confused than ever. Why would I have to earn it and not you?
"Because I'm your father," his dad snapped. "We cannot be held to the same standard on these things."
I'm not holding you to a standard, Alan said.
"That's the very issue," said his dad, pushing himself off the desk. "You should be. If you were you would know I do not even approach what a standard should be!" With that he snatched up his glasses and stormed out of the Orphanage altogether. Alan followed, albeit uneasily. He didn't know where his dad was going, or why, or what he was mad at, exactly, but there was only one way he was going to find out.
Once outside he saw his dad sitting on the porch, smoking, and he was a little disappointed. He hoped every day that his dad would give that up, but it seemed he wasn't ready to yet. He stood next to him, unsure if he was welcome or not.
"You know what the main problem is, Alan," his dad said, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. "You don't know anything."
I don't know about that, Alan said politely. He knew there was a lot he didn't know, and that was why his dad was smarter in some ways then he would ever be, but knowing nothing at all? That didn't sound right.
"You know only what I wanted you to know," his dad told him. "Which was not very much. You weren't supposed to need to know anything. So you don't. All you know is what I've allowed you to. Which means you know nothing."
Alan sat down. This conversation was going to take some careful thought. But I can learn.
His dad's eyebrows twitched and he took a breath of the cigarette, blowing the smoke out through his nose. "By happy accident, I assure you."
What should I know that I don't?
His dad pulled his legs up so that his knees were bent. "That I'm not what you think I am."
Alan folded his hands together. What could that mean? I think you're a lot of things. They can't all be wrong.
"You said I was a good dad."
You are.
"Because you don't know any better." He flicked the end of the cigarette off the porch and picked up another one from beside him. He thumbed the end of the lighter a few times but did not use it otherwise. "You say I'm a good dad because you have no frame of reference. You don't know what a good parent is or how they behave. You know me and only me. I am the only person you even know. You have no idea what you're talking about when you say things like that." He lit the cigarette now and inhaled deeply.
Why does that matter? Even if he didn't know what he was talking about, his feelings still meant the same, right? Maybe he didn't know what a good dad was like - though he rather thought he could work it out – but that didn't really change what he thought or how he'd come to that conclusion. If anything, he knew his dad was better than Jonathan would have been.
"Because you say things you shouldn't. You don't know what the concepts you're talking about are or what they mean. You just say them without having any real context." He put his arms across his knees. "You don't know that I'm not a good father, and you don't know that you don't love me."
What? That was ridiculous! Of course he did! He had ever since he could remember! Yes I do!
"How can you?" His dad gestured vaguely with the cigarette. "You don't know what it is, or what it feels like, or where it comes from."
Alan looked at his fingers. That was true. He didn't really know what it was, or where it came from. But he was pretty sure he knew what it felt like. Why wouldn't I know how it felt?
"I didn't… that's not an ability I gave you."
That didn't make sense. It's a feeling, not a skill.
"Yes, but it's… it's a chemical reaction in the brain, Alan. Many of the other basic emotions have the ability to be simulated. Simplified, but simulated. I can't simulate love. No one can. It's ephemeral."
Hm. He wasn't convinced, and he didn't think he was going to be, but maybe he could change his dad's mind. You love Jonathan, right?
"When he's not being a complete pain in my ass, yes."
How do you know that?
His dad paused in putting the cigarette to his lips. "How do I know?"
What happens when he's around that tells you that?
"I…" He inhaled heavily again. "He doesn't do anything. It just… is."
But if you don't know what causes it, how do you know you love him? Maybe you just really like being around him.
"Because it's… different from that. More complex."
Alan didn't want to have to, but the only way to try to understand this was to tell his dad what he concluded from that. So you can tell me I can't love you because you didn't give me that ability, but you can't really know if you even have it because you don't know what causes it or why. It just is for you, but it can't just be for me.
His dad's brow creased, but he said nothing.
You also don't question that I hate Jonathan. You're okay with that and you haven't tried to convince me I don't. You accept that I hate Jonathan, but you're trying to convince me I don't love you.
His dad did not respond to that either.
I'm sorry, Dad. I respect you a lot and I don't like saying this, but you're wrong. Maybe I can't feel exactly what you feel, but I know what it feels like to me and that's good enough. I think it's you who doesn't understand what love is.
He expected his dad to get angry, to stand up and yell at him, and he was prepared for that. He was ready to stay calm even though it was what he hated most. But that wasn't what his dad did. His dad instead put both arms across his knees again and pressed his face into them.
I'm sorry, Alan said again, but you can't tell me I can't feel love and don't know what it is when the person who's supposed to love you only does when he feels like it and doesn't mind not seeing you for a long time. I would never make you feel you hadn't done enough to keep me or to make you think you couldn't talk to me anymore. Was his dad paying attention to any of this? He was very quiet and still all of a sudden. Alan turned, leaning towards him. Are you listening?
"Yes," his dad said, but in a whisper, and he sniffled a little. Alan froze up a little when he realised what that meant.
His dad was crying.
He couldn't believe it. He'd made his dad cry again. What had he said? What had he done wrong? He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms around himself. I'm sorry.
"No," his dad said, and he sat up and ran his fingers under his eyes. It didn't really do anything. "You're right. You're right again, Alan. Congratulations."
I wasn't trying to be right. I just wanted to understand what you were trying to say, but I don't… I don't think you even do.
His dad sort of half-shrugged and lit another cigarette, but he just held it between two fingers. He hadn't stopped crying but he didn't seem mad so Alan scooched a little closer. Why is it really okay that Jonathan loves you and not me?
His dad sniffed and rubbed underneath his nose with his free hand. "Because Jonathan doesn't just give it to me. I have to earn it."
That's not how it's supposed to be, though, right?
His dad grimaced slightly and cleared his eyes again. "No. But Jonathan knows I feel like I have to. He understands that. And we're not on a break because we're fine with being separated. We cannot be seen together. If we are seen together, if anyone knows we were ever together or that we will be when this is over, everything falls apart. The people working for him… they won't accept it. They'll think he's doing me special favours. They won't listen to him anymore." The end of the cigarette glowed hot against his lips for a moment. "I don't blame you for your judgements. I'm not going to tell you how to feel about him, either. But there's a lot you don't know about what we've been doing." He looked at Alan now. He seemed okay again. "If he didn't care, he wouldn't have done as you asked. He would have sent you back with nothing."
Alan had to admit he hadn't considered that. With this context, Jonathan's asking after his dad and then taking back his inquiry even made sense, though he didn't exactly agree with it. He still shouldn't be making you feel like you have to earn his love, Dad.
His dad put his head back against the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment. "There's a reason why he does that."
Alan waited to hear what that was.
"My parents didn't love me," his dad continued. "When I was young, and trying to understand the world, I couldn't figure out why. My mother left me with my father. He would treat me badly if I did anything he considered out of line. I decided they didn't care about me because I hadn't earned it." He took a last drag of the cigarette and threw it into the yard. "I wasn't a terrible kid. I did stupid things like anyone does when they don't know any better. But that didn't matter to my father. I had to earn everything from him. Even his silence." He thinned his lips. "And that's why I act… why I get like this when I ask why you do something and you say it was out of love. I haven't earned it. I haven't even tried to. You just give it to me, as though it's something I deserve. But I cannot deserve something I have not earned."
Alan shook his head. It's a gift, Dad. I love you because I want to. And that's why I do. I want to. You don't have to earn a gift and you don't have to deserve it either. It's just something I give you and it's yours. You don't even have to love me back if you don't want to.
His dad looked so upset Alan thought he was going to cry again. "Don't say that," he said.
Dad, Alan said gently, what I'm saying is that I don't feel like I have to earn anything from you. I want you to love me too but I don't feel like I have to make you. I'll be sad if you don't but I'll accept it. If you weren't a good dad, I wouldn't feel that way. I would feel like you do about your dad.
"If that ever happens, push me off a cliff," his dad said, and Alan laughed. His dad smiled, just a little bit, but it made Alan feel a lot better. "I mean it. That will signal my complete and utter failure as a human being."
But if I push you off a cliff you won't ever have the chance to go back to the way you were before.
"You have all the answers, don't you." His dad stood up, wincing, and he must have breathed a bit funny as he did so because he started coughing. It was coarse and shallow and wracked his whole body to the point where he was leaning, bent against the wall and supported by one arm with his left fist pressed to his mouth. Alan looked behind them, into the yard where he'd seen his dad throw the ends of so many cigarettes. He didn't know exactly what they did, but over the course of time they seemed to be making him very sick.
"Ça devient mauvais," he muttered, standing up and removing a kerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his mouth and nose thoroughly with it and folded it away. For some reason Alan didn't know what those words meant.
What?
"Nothing," his dad said, opening the door and waving him inside. "Ma vie implose devant mes yeux, c'est ça, ce n'est rien."
Alan only vaguely recognised one of those words and was a little miffed that his dad seemed to be talking like that just so Alan wouldn't know what he was saying, but he supposed there was a good reason behind it. As they entered the foyer his dad's phone rang, and Alan looked at him as he reached into his pocket to address it. Don't answer it, he said. His dad paused, picking his glasses up off the desk.
"Why not?"
We could… play a game first. Before you go back to work. He knew his dad was very busy, and he had just played with Alan last night, but he wasn't ready to let go of his dad's attention just yet. His dad took his hand out of his pocket. It was empty.
"All right," his dad said. "You set it up and I'll be there periodically. I need something to eat."
Alan ran upstairs to do just that, because there was something else he needed to do which would probably take the same amount of time as his dad would take to make food, and sure enough when he came back a second time his dad was already sitting on the bed with one foot folded into his thigh and the other parallel to the edge of the bed, eating a sandwich. It was on brown bread but Alan couldn't tell what was inside it. What kind is that?
His dad swallowed and put the rest of the half he was holding on his plate, which held two other sandwiches and some sliced cucumber. "Tuna."
What's tuna?
"It's a fish." His dad took a drink from his water bottle. "Where did you go?"
Alan handed him the cup, feeling a little shy for some reason. The other one was a little congealed.
His dad took it this time, in both hands, and he smiled at Alan. "Thank you," he said, putting it on the table beside him. Alan now had a decision to make.
He had let his dad win the last game, but not the one before that, and the two before he had given to him. He tried to keep about an equal amount of wins and losses between them , which was where the problem currently lay. His dad had three wins on him already right now so he needed to incur more losses, but Alan knew if his dad won it would cheer him up and help restore his self-confidence. He was going to have to risk it and hope his dad wasn't keeping track.
They had been playing about ten minutes when Alan realised his dad was squinting more than usual. When he asked about it his dad shrugged a little.
"I have a persistent headache. I am in need of a new pair of glasses, but I can't not wear these ones in the meantime. It's the blurriness that's bothering me, but that's an issue with or without them."
Blurriness?
His dad picked up one of his cucumber slices. "You don't know why I wear glasses?"
I thought it was for the same reason you wear the goggles on your head sometimes.
"And what reason was that."
You like them there.
His dad snorted and bit into the slice. "Not particularly. No, the lenses in my eyes don't focus properly. I have trouble seeing things at a distance of about a foot from me. The glasses correct that."
Why are you wearing those if they don't work?
"I'm getting a new pair made. I have to wait until they're finished." The way he moved his rook indicated he was about to fall for Alan's feint, which also indicated he probably wasn't paying that much attention. Because he didn't want to or because Alan was distracting him, he wasn't sure. Sometimes his dad could play and talk at the same time, sometimes he couldn't. Alan made a throwaway move to see if he would catch the feint, but his next move told Alan he hadn't. Sometimes his dad was so convinced his game was foolproof that he didn't even bother to think otherwise. If he was being arrogant about it Alan would correct him, but he wasn't right now so he would just abandon what he'd been doing. "You know something?"
What?
His dad poised his fingers around a bishop but didn't move it. "Only two people have ever seen me cry."
Alan folded his hand into his lap. He could guess who those two people were.
"Only two people have seen who I am," his dad continued. "I never intended you to. At the same time… it's almost a relief."
Alan wasn't reassured, exactly, but knowing his dad better always proved to be very helpful so the only part about it he didn't like was that his dad had gotten so sad.
They played quietly for the rest of the game, and his dad didn't finish his drink until then. Alan let him win, of course, and got somewhat worried when his dad put the cup aside without saying anything. Had he liked it or not?
Was it good? Alan asked, a little anxiously. He thought his dad had liked it, but he couldn't be sure.
"Better than his, thank you," his dad assured him. "But don't tell him that. He will kill me."
Alan laughed. He'll have to get through me first.
"Oh, then by all means go ahead." The corner of his mouth curled up just a little. "He couldn't get through wet spaghetti, let alone you."
That was also so funny Alan had to laugh, and when he saw his dad was giving him that look again he was so happy for one moment he didn't know what to do with himself. He busied himself with putting away the chessboard. He wished his dad were like this more often. And he would be, when he stopped working. Hopefully that was soon.
"Alan," his dad said, and Alan paused from gathering the pieces into their container. His dad licked his lips and chewed on one of them a little.
What is it, Dad? He tried to sound as gentle as possible. He wasn't sure if that was a nuance his dad would be able to pick up or not. His dad seemed anxious to say whatever this was, and Alan wanted him to feel like he could tell Alan anything.
"I love you, son."
It wasn't until Alan had already climbed over the chess set and wrapped his arms around his dad that he realised maybe he was squeezing too tight and hurting him. It was easy to forget how fragile his dad's body was. He let go for a moment with the intention of asking after this, but when he did he saw that his dad had the realest smile he'd ever seen and Alan just decided to hug him some more. I love you too, Dad, he said, and pressed his face into his neck.
When he let go again his dad swung his legs over the edge of the bed and Alan couldn't deny he was a little disappointed. It had been nice, spending this much time with his dad. You have to work? he asked. His dad nodded vaguely.
"Someone believes they can continue to move one of my puzzles from where I have placed it. You know they are all in carefully calculated places. I have some… reprimanding to do."
Can I come?
His dad laughed. "I didn't know you were a fan of intimidating people for me." He pulled off his slacks and socks.
I'm not, really. He watched as his dad removed a pair of dark green dress pants from the closet in the corner. He was surprised to see that his dad had a jagged scar on his left shin, about six inches long, and it didn't look very old. Dad, what happened to your leg?
"It's a long story."
Dad!
"All right! I dropped a power saw on it, but only because the damn thing broke in my hand."
Alan was horrified. You could have sawed your whole leg off!
"I could have done any number of things to myself by now," his dad said, pulling on his pants and uncoiling a belt from the dresser drawer he had just opened. He threaded it through his belt loops. "You're right. Something terrible could have happened. Something terrible happens to many people each and every day. I'm not going to hide myself away in a corner just in case." The tie he removed from the closet was dark purple with dark green stripes. "Additionally."
Yes?
"Don't throw chess games." He looked at Alan from beneath a raised brow, pulling on a suit jacket the same colour as his pants. "I noticed that feint. And I noticed you pretend to forget about it. Don't do that."
Oh. Oh no. I… didn't want to beat you after what happened.
"Nothing happened," his dad said, pulling on a pair of purple leather typing gloves. "We had a talk. That's all." He put a hand on Alan's shoulder. "I understand your motivation but don't do it again."
Of course, Alan said, making a mental note to be more careful. He wasn't going to stop – if he did, his dad would never play chess with him again – but he would keep a closer watch on it.
/
When they returned to the Orphanage his dad threw his car keys into a corner of the foyer and went upstairs without a word. Alan retrieved them and put them in the desk drawer where they belonged. He had stopped listening when his dad had started yelling – it upset him even when he wasn't who it was directed at – so he didn't exactly know, but the fact that his dad had been smoking the entire drive back told him the intimidation hadn't gone well. Alan was not terribly good at that sort of thing, though he'd done his best. He was sure his dad wasn't mad at him, but he didn't want him to be mad at all.
When he got upstairs he saw that his dad had just laid down wearing all of his clothes, except his shoes, on his stomach with half of his face pressed into the bed. Dad?
"I deserve respect, Alan," his dad said, raising one of his hands in a vaguely emphatic way. "He had no right to speak to me that way."
What will you do about it?
His dad rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. The paint was peeling a little but otherwise there was nothing up there. "Nothing right now. My head is killing me. I lost focus and snapped when I shouldn't have." He threw his glasses aside and rubbed his face. "Retirement sounds good right now."
Alan sat down on the bed next to him. What's retirement?
"It's when old men move someplace quiet and never work again."
Oh, Alan said. That sounded like a good idea. You should do that.
His dad laughed a little. "Do you know how old I am?"
No.
"I'm forty-six. I have another twenty years to go."
Is that a long time?
He frowned slightly. "It depends on the mood you're in, I suppose. I have the money to retire, I simply… don't know if I'm finished yet."
Money?
"An internationally accepted form of barter." He gestured vaguely again. "You trade it for things that you need. I have several million dollars. Not a tremendous amount, but more than most will ever see." He rubbed at his browline.
You should go to sleep, Alan said. His dad sat up.
"I'm boring you, am I?"
No! Alan protested. You said you had a headache because of your eyes. I just meant you should stop using them for a while.
"Hm," his dad said, picking his glasses back up. "I shouldn't, but I suppose I could."
You shouldn't sleep?
"I haven't done anything today."
Yes you have. You played chess with me, and had lunch, and- Oh. He hadn't done any work today. Never mind.
His dad pushed back his hair. "You have a point," he said. "Here. I'll have a shower and something to eat, and then I'll go to bed. Does that sound good?"
Yes, Alan said, hoping he wouldn't change his mind before he did all of that. His dad nodded, getting up and walking out of the room, and Alan waited a minute or two before going downstairs as well. His dad would take some time to shower and Alan hoped he took plenty of it.
He came back an hour or so later with all of his clothes draped over one arm and a purple towel wrapped around his waist, and he carefully lay the clothes out on top of the dresser. His hair was already combed back from his forehead. He sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up his underwear a little listlessly.
You probably just want to go to sleep now, Alan said. His dad nodded, yawning into the side of his hand.
"We might be skipping step two."
I made you something, if you want it.
"You did?" His dad stopped in the process of putting on his pyjama pants. Alan shrugged.
I wasn't busy.
His dad finished with the pants and pulled his undershirt on, throwing the towel on the free end of the dresser. "Aren't you tired of this by now?"
Tired of what?
"Babying me."
Alan tilted his head, wishing he had some way to frown. I'm helping.
"You're not supposed to do all these things for me." He did accept the salad Alan gave him, though, and sat down on the bed with it. "Not until I'm eighty and my hands are so twisted with arthritis I can't hold a spoon."
Alan didn't know what arthritis was but decided now wasn't the time to ask. I don't mind.
"That's because you're a saint. Especially compared to your old man."
My what?
"It means your father."
Alan again wished he could frown. You're calling yourself old a lot lately.
His dad finished the bite of the salad he was eating. "I feel old. My lifestyle is catching up with me."
Alan stayed quiet so his dad could finish eating, which he did; he then sat back against the pillows along the headboard and picked up the tea Alan had also brought. He waved at the space on his left with his free hand. "Come here."
Alan gladly moved over to sit with him, and his dad put an arm around his shoulders. That could not have been comfortable for him but Alan was happy he was doing it. He took a drink of the tea. "When I was younger I always wanted kids."
Alan wondered how much younger. He also suddenly wondered what his dad looked like a long time ago. That would be neat to see.
"I never wanted a son. I always wanted a daughter. She was always going to be everything to me. I was going to be a good dad. The best. I wouldn't be the dad who went to work and came home and she couldn't talk to me because she didn't know who I was; no, I was going to be the dad to beat all dads. I would be the one showing her how to do her hair, and her makeup, and taking her to the mall. When all her friends complained that their dads were deadbeats and didn't know the difference between matte and high gloss, she would go home and laugh about it with me. That was what I wanted."
Alan was a little confused. Was he saying he didn't like having a son?
"I didn't want a son because I knew how that story went. I knew I would spend so much time trying to convince myself I wasn't my father, that my son didn't think the way I did. I knew that I would be constantly reassuring myself I was doing it right, and that my son was happy. I knew I couldn't handle it."
Alan thought he should say something, but he didn't know what to say.
"I was wrong," his dad said quietly. "You proved me wrong. I can't say how much influence I've actually had, but you're a fine young man. Perhaps I didn't… really do it, but I had a hand in it. You didn't run off to start a new life by yourself."
Alan leaned into his dad and put an arm around his waist. You always make time for me, even if you're busy. You're a good dad.
"I don't deserve you," his dad said quietly.
I think you do. I think you earned it.
His dad put aside his glasses and the cup and lay down on his side, bunching his pillow under his head. "No need to stay here," he said. "I'm done for today. It's been exhausting in the worst way."
Alan didn't have anything to do, so he lay down too and moved so that he was right against his dad, and he put his arm around his waist. He hoped his dad wouldn't be so uncomfortable that he pushed Alan away, and he didn't. He just put a hand on Alan's arm and went right to sleep. After a few minutes he realised he should turn the light off, and he would. His dad would roll over soon, and he'd get up and turn it off then.
You're a good dad, he said, taking some of his dad's still-damp hair off his face. I promise.
Author's note
Reminder my Riddler is half Québécois and his dad only spoke French to him at home. Québécois readers, if he said that weird I apologise, my French is terrible. When I wrote it out the first time I used avant instead of devant like some sort of pleb. Je suis si bon à mon travail.
I don't actually know if he's forty-six. That's just the age I use for him on my RP blog.