Author's Note: Thank you to all those wonderful people who have followed this story despite the fact it takes me so long to update! Anyways, I feel like this is a rather short chapter, but Kit will be meeting with the Riddler again in the next one.
Firespin98 – Thank you! I am so glad you read it, and I hope you continue to like it.
WantFanFics – Nothing makes me happier than when someone likes on of my OCs, thank you! She will interact with many more villains in the future.
Eva Sirico – Thank you! I will try to update more frequently.
Violette Archer – I'm so glad you like it. I'm sorry you had to wait so long for the next update.
Chaos and Clemency – Thank you for the lovely review. I am so glad you want to read more. I will try harder to ensure there is more for you to read!
Kit wondered into work early the next morning after a tormenting night of no sleep.
She had closed her eyes for about an hour or two, but her efforts ended up being futile, considering the time she had left the asylum the night before…and when she had finally woken up, Aaron was already gone.
Rubbing her sleepless eyes, stained with dark rings of exhaustion, Kit made her way through the unwelcoming hallways of Arkham Asylum, passing the night guards on their way out with a short, tired hello.
She could hardly blame Aaron for how he felt, but that didn't make it hurt any less – the way they fought with one another. The way he looked at her, sometimes, as if she were as unstable as the inmates around them.
It was one sleepless night after another, and Kit knew today would be no exception, especially when she walked right into the middle of the scene taking place outside of the Riddler's cell.
The Riddler stood tall at the bars, blue eyes glaring at Dr. Akers, a janitor, and one of the few remaining night guards, although, skinny as the man was, it was having a less impressive effect than he probably would have liked. Flickering from one to the other, his eyes bristled with agitation.
"…dependent personality disorder, a desperate need to prove yourself, and – not to mention – obsessive compulsive," Gretchen finished haughtily as Kit rounded the corner. She peered, disgusted, at the Riddler through her old-fashioned glasses, her mouth pressing into a thin line of disapproval.
Kit wondered, vaguely, what it must be like to have your flaws listed to your face in such a scathing manner – as if every single one of them could and would be held against you.
"Not as obsessive compulsive as you might think, Doctor," the Riddler replied dangerously, clutching the bars tightly in his hands, "else I would feel the need to point out the day-old piece of salad stuck between your central incisors."
Then, after a short pause, he added coolly, "That would be your front teeth."
"I know what they are!" Gretchen snapped, blushing furiously.
Shrugging, the Riddler fixed her with a taunting grin, "Now who has a desperate need to prove themself?"
At this point, Gretchen looked so much like a pot about to boil over that Kit decided to make her intervention. Planting herself subtly between the Riddler and the infuriated Arkham staff, she faced Dr. Akers with a tired smile.
"What's the problem, Gretchen?" she asked, doing her best to be as unassuming as possible. It was difficult trying to keep the peace with the elder doctor.
Thankfully the janitor, who was normally such a reasonable man, spoke up before Gretchen could get a word in edgewise.
"This is the third time this month I've cleaned up his messes, Dr. Whitaker!" the man implored, running a hand through his thin, greying hair, "Do you know how long it takes to scrub off that paint? It's taking away from my other work! I don't know how he's doing it, but –"
"Perhaps a week in solitary confinement will make him see reason," Gretchen spoke up, glaring at the Riddler over Kit's shoulder.
But the Riddler only shrugged, blinking owlishly back at the doctor. He knew it was only a threat – after living in a cell next to the Joker for months on end, solitary confinement would be more of a blessing than a curse.
Kit, however, frowned, thinking of the Scarecrow, still locked away in that dark little room.
The one patient she couldn't help, yet the one she wanted to help the most.
"I'll handle this, Gretchen, if you please," she voiced curtly, sticking her hand in her pocket. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the magazine's smooth pages, left in there from the night before.
"Well, you should," Gretchen replied, unfazed, fixing her piercing gaze on the younger doctor, "He's your patient, after all – your problem to deal with."
"So let me deal with it."
Huffing, Gretchen turned and marched indignantly down the hallway to her office, slamming the door with an angry bang. Kit had hoped the tension would follow Gretchen to her office as it so often did, like a rather persistently annoying rain cloud, but if anything the emotions in the room became thicker, settling heavily on Kit's weary shoulders.
"I really don't have the time for any more of it, Dr. Whitaker," the janitor repeated in hushed tones, wringing his uniform cap in his hands, "I –"
"I'll take care of it," Kit repeated, eyes falling to his cart. His water bucket was filled to the brim with green-stained, murky water.
Nodding reluctantly, the janitor put his hat back on his sweaty head and loaded his cart, pushing it off down the hallway on squeaky wheels.
Thankfully, the night guard, too, gave Kit a small nod and was on his way shortly. He had only been around to accompany Dr. Akers, it would seem, who very rarely visited the patients without some sort of back-up.
And with that, it was only Kit and the Riddler, who each privately breathed their own sigh of relief as the rest of the party moved on.
"I wonder...," Kit began at last, after a short pause, "what she'd say about me."
The Riddler peered curiously at her through the bars, inclining an ear to her.
"Pardon?"
"Dr. Akers," Kit explained, nodding her head towards the old crone's office door, "Somehow, I have the feeling she goes around diagnosing everyone in her head."
"Secretive, too friendly with the patients, careless…," the Riddler rattled off in his best imitation of the good doctor's outlandish accent, ticking the offenses off on his fingers as he went before adding, in a horrified voice, "…and deviant."
Kit's yawn effectively suppressed the smile that was in danger of creeping up her face as a guard walked by, nodding in her direction.
"Long night, doctor?" the Riddler continued, gazing intensely at her as he remembered her curious visit from the night before, "What sort of business did you have here last night?"
His face clouded at the thought of it involving Bruce Wayne; she had accompanied him for a short time, after all. Just how well did the two know one another, if at all?
Kit fell into a subdued silence, doing nothing to ease the Riddler's wild suspicions, but she had to think about her answer carefully. She didn't want anyone to know what her true business had been in the asylum last night – or who it had ultimately involved.
"I was visiting a colleague," she said at last, eyes flicking to the stairwell.
"A businessman?" the Riddler interrogated swiftly, uttering it as if it were a swear word.
"A psychologist," Kit corrected quietly, "We went to college together."
And with that, she turned to go abruptly, terrified of the memories broiling to the surface of her tired mind.
"I have something planned for our session tomorrow," she called back to the Riddler, stepping backwards in order to face him, "Behave until then."
"…I look forward to it."
The Riddler kept an eye on Kit for the rest of the day, unable to suppress the keen interest in her that had begun to form after their first session together.
At lunch, still, he kept his eyes trained on her, wondering why she was in the same cafeteria as the inmates. The doctors and patients normally ate in different rooms, but for a few months now, Kit had taken to eating her lunch with the former Dr. Harleen Quinzel, now Harley Quinn.
The staff at Arkham would never have assigned Kit directly to Harley, of course, considering the friendship between the two in the past, but she had persuaded the higher-ups that Harley could use some separate counseling for her troubled relationship with the Joker.
Honestly, though, Kit had probably only gotten her way because none of the other doctors wanted to listen to Harley talk about "Mister J".
Now, as Kit walked past with her tray, she met eyes with the Riddler and gave him a small nod before settling at a round table set off to the side, meant specifically for she and Harley, who was currently making googoo eyes at the Joker.
Another reason Kit's request was granted so easily: keeping Harley and the Joker apart.
Neatly placing a tissue box in the center of the table (anytime Harley got to talking about the Joker, it was guaranteed the conversation would end in tears), Kit took a seat next to the blonde with a sigh.
"Oh, wow, someone looks exhausted," Harley promptly remarked, finally turning from the Joker, who had, of course, been ignoring her. She glanced down at Kit's tray knowingly, clicking her tongue. "No sack lunch today – had a little fight with Aaron, did ya?"
"Haha…this is supposed to be your couple's counseling, Harley," Kit reminded her.
"Rumour has it you were in late last night," Harley continued slyly, ignoring her attempt to steer their session back on the track it ought to be on. Pointing her flimsy plastic fork in Kit's direction (real silverware, of course, could be used as a weapon), she stared her down hard, waiting for an explanation. "What were you up to?"
And before Kit could even ask who had given her away, she caught a glimpse of the Joker's face, leering eerily in their direction. When he saw her looking, he winked conspiratorially.
'The clown,' Kit thought, 'Of course.'
"…I had work to take care of," she said finally, avoiding the blonde's gaze.
"Uh-huh, not the way I heard it."
"Harley…"
"I'm just saying I heard you was talking with that playboy Bruce Wayne last night, that's all."
"Harley, you are so far off, it's actually a little bit funny," Kit said, eating her (lumpy) mashed potatoes, "Your boyfriend would laugh."
"Well, your boyfriend isn't," Harley retorted with a huff. Her lower lip fell into a little pout, and she crossed her arms childishly.
Nobody ever told her anything.
"…Let's talk about you, Harley," Kit began tiredly, changing the subject, and though Harley would have liked to have argued with her, she could recognize when her friend had been through a rough night.
Sighing, she drew a tissue out of the box in the center of the table and worked up a good cry.
"Well…I-I wasn't going to say anything…but the other day when we left the cafeteria…," Harley sniffed, dabbing at her nose, "Mr. J told me if I kept scarfing down those chili cheese dogs, he'd have to g-get me a new uniform because…b-because…my fat ass wouldn't fit into the old one!"
And with that, Harley buried her face in her arms, sobbing into the ugly orange fabric of her jumpsuit. No longer coherent, she continued to blubber on, pigtails bobbing as she took in large, sloppy, shaky breaths.
Harley grinned into Kit's shoulder, thinking, not for the first time, about what a glorious acting career she could have had if she hadn't turned criminal. Not one person in that cafeteria had ever suspected her tears were anything but real. Except Mr. J, of course. Mr. J knew very well what she looked like when she cried.
So why fake tears? Harley wasn't even sure herself why she made such a spectacle at lunch time, day in and day out, but somehow, she felt like she was paying Kit back, even just a little bit. Crying for her when she wouldn't even cry for herself.
And that was why lunchtime usually ended with Harley sobbing a wet spot into the shoulder of Kit's lab coat, her food beside her untouched. She had a uniform to fit into, after all…and soon.
Her doctor friend wasn't aware of the plans Mr. J had in store, and Harley was torn – torn between obeying Mr. J and helping Kit escape what could ultimately be the end of her.
"Ivy?" Harley heard Kit asking, minutes later, as she shifted ever-so-slightly in the uncomfortable cafeteria chair.
After an irritated sigh and the sound of plastic slamming onto a nearby table, Harley heard the padding of Red's bare footsteps.
Peeling Harley off of Kit, the tall, green woman glared mercilessly at the doctor, who took a few tissues from the box and began dabbing at the large puddle of tears on her shoulder.
"Thank you, Ivy," she said politely, smiling, "How's your daisy doing?"
"Poorly," the woman snapped icily, as if it were Kit's fault it was doing so, "There's no sunlight in this disgusting place."
Discarding the tissues onto her tray along with the rest of her trash, Kit stood to throw it all away, looking thoughtful.
"Hmm…perhaps a heat lamp?"
Ivy paused, surprised to say the very least, but still her face remained unaffected.
"…Perhaps," she allowed, staring cautiously at the strange doctor.
Harley winked at Kit, hoping to encourage her. Dealing with Ivy was always a challenge, even more so when the crazy plant lady was jealous of your friendship with her friend.
"I'll talk to your doctor about it, then," Kit said at last, frightfully aware of Ivy's mistrust.
"Promise?" the woman asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.
"Cross my heart and hope to die," Kit swore, drawing a small 'x' over the area with her finger.
However, unbeknownst to the three women, one of the inmates perked up at the sound of the last word, repeating it gleefully to himself.
"Die? Die? Yes, someone should die," he murmured fretfully, "But who?"
"What's that Zsasz, old boy?" the Joker inquired, leaning across the table to hear better.
"Who should die?" Zsasz repeated, scratching down his already scarred arm with his jagged fingernails. "Who should I kill next?"
The usual look crept back into his eyes – that murderous, deadly gleam – as he looked around the cafeteria for his next victim. It was time to kill again.
"Who, who, who?"
But before he could properly survey the room, the Joker gripped his bald head and spun him around to face him.
"Now, I don't mean to pry," the clown began politely, drawing Zsasz's attention to him, "but I was wondering, Zsasz, if you take requests?"
"Requests?" Zsasz repeated blankly, trying, in vain, to peer of the Joker's shoulder at the mindless zombies going about their business. Which one would he release from their fleshy prison?
"Yes, requests," the Joker continued cheerfully, patting his tally-marked shoulder, "like…who should you kill first?"
"Kill."
"Yes, kill. Kill is good," he agreed with a yellow smile, "but you know who really needs to die?"
"Who?" Zsasz repeated spastically, eyes manic. Fists clenched, face eager, the man looked as if he wanted nothing more than to leap out of his seat and tear someone's heart out, but the Joker leaned forward calmly and whispered in his ear.
"Kit Whitaker."
"Kit…Whitaker," Zsasz repeated, following the Joker's gaze to the unassuming Doctor. "Yes…"
As he spoke, Kit bid farewell to Harley and Ivy, placing her tray neatly on one of the towering stacks before exiting the cafeteria. Zsasz watched until every one of her limbs disappeared through the doorway before allowing a twisted grin onto his face.
"Kit Whitaker is going to die."
The Joker cackled madly and thumped Zsasz so hard on his back that he dropped his fork while the Riddler glared over at them in annoyance, wondering what the insane clown could possibly be so happy about this time…
Disclaimer/Author's Note:
I do not own the Riddler, Batman, Aaron Cash, Zsasz, the Joker, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, or the Scarecrow.
Thank you to everyone who has stuck with the story despite how long it has taken me to update it! Please review if you have the time.
Also, if there is any Batman character (hero or villain) that you would like to see in this story, feel free to private message me or tell me in a review! I already have a healthy line-up of characters planned, but there might be some I have not thought of.
Thanks again! Please R&R!