Left to his own devices there on the street in front of the Iceberg, baffled by champagne, white-flower scent of Fracas lingering in the air, the complex chemical processes sloshing around in his brain, and most of all by trying to work out exactly what Adele had meant, Edward Nigma opted take a turn around the block first, to clear his head, and then to go home. Or to a home of his, at any rate. He was buying certain properties in the Old Gotham area with the plan to convert several of them into Riddle Rooms to defeat Batman for once and for all, and one of those properties was practically under the Museum. The chilly night and the exercise did help metabolize the ethanol, and he was rather more sober after the walk.
Now, down to the lower level of Jezebel Plaza, which smelled like an unclean urinal these days, a left, another left, around the old Subway station—he had to kick a passed out drunk out of the doorway—but there he was, in his planned Command Central. Turning on the greenish, watery lights, he went to close the door behind him, only to find a foot in the way. A rag wrapped foot, which was connected to a leg in the most disreputable pair of pants he had seen in recent years, including those on the homeless alcoholic camped on his doorstep. The pants were of course topped by a lab coat and finished off with the less-than-fashionable accessory of a burlap mask.
Some tropes are inevitable. Take two nerds-for-life friends, add one Manic Pixie Dream Girl—although in truth Adele was deeper and more complicated than that, and given that this was Gotham City, by all rights she ought to be a Maniac Pixie Dream Girl—and you have the stuff of a love triangle.
"Hello, Jonathan," the Riddler greeted the Scarecrow, blind to the rigid, furious set of Dr. Crane's shoulders and the generally angry body language. "Just who I need to ask a question. What does it mean when a boy, a toddler age boy, hits a little girl over the head with a plastic bucket?"
"It usually means he likes her but he's not socialized enough to know how to express it in a more appropriate manner," replied the Master of Fear, tightly.
"So she's playing games with me…" he murmured, enlightenment dawning. "…Damn, if anything that makes her even hotter."
"Ms. Chester is a highly intelligent and well-educated woman. Not one to be taken in by the shallow charms of a gaudily-dressed college drop-out obsessed with word-play whose line is in unreliable gadgetry," gritted the Scarecrow.
"Who—wait a minute, do you mean me?" the Riddler replied, stung by this verbal barb from one who he considered something like a friend. "That's—I didn't have to finish college, I was getting offers in my freshman year!"
"That's right, and you opted to accept that of the Gotham Police at the moment when it was most renowned for its greed, corruption and incompetence—clearly a case of like seeking like." Crane shot back.
"In order to expose it for what it was! As if your renowned academic career or your professional practice were anything to boast of— but at least you can say you're 'Outstanding in your field'." Edward leveled an accusatory finger at his best—and only—friend. "Or is that 'Out, standing in your field'? And gaudily dressed, am I? At least I don't look or smell as though I sleep on a compost heap. Or worse."
"Gah! Stooping to that sort of insult, are you?" Crane sneered. "That's—you are nothing more than slacker! A dilettante!"
"Not as bad a slacker as you," was the Riddler's reply. "How long ago did you meet her? And how long since Academia bounced you out on your ear for nonconsensual testing of your fear gasses on unaware students, killing one of them? How many years? And you never once looked her up, did you?"
"She was too young at first, and then…It's not every woman who is suited to life in our particular community, and those that are, are usually an infernal hybrid of praying mantis, black widow spider, and Venus fly-trap. Obviously I had no idea that her background and upbringing were so uniquely suited to—."
"To what? To marrying you? What a treat for her that would be! Have you ever even—," Edward interrupted.
Jonathan Crane socked him in the nose. Had they been different people, the fight might have escalated, but instead the sudden blow brought it to an end as effectively as a bucket of cold water would do to a campfire.
There was an awkward, appalled silence. "Ow," the Riddler replied, rubbing his face. "Was that really called for? I'm not some thug you can provoke into pummeling you senseless. Like Batman, for example. Have we descended to the level of shaved monkeys? At least my nose isn't bleeding."
"I apologize. Profusely and sincerely. Jealousy does not become me. Nor you."
"I think it would be better if we didn't continue this on my doorstep. Come on in." He held the door for Crane, shut and locked it behind him. "So," he continued, more rationally, "I've known you for what? Seven years now, when you were a doctor at Arkham, not a patient. Your second disaster hadn't happened yet, she was a grad student, and you could have called her up any time."
He gestured toward the inner door to his command center. It was a mess inside, much like the rest of Old Gotham, furnished only with a couple of folding chairs and a disintegrating sofa of vile hue and viler odors. They took the chairs rather than risk contamination with the sofa's upholstery.
"I am aware," Crane began, "that great intellectual endowment does not always march with an equal social acumen. One so rarely meets a peer, for one thing, and when interacting with one's lessers, one grows tired of pretending to be one of them. It also renders one repellent, but then, turnabout is fair play."
Edward waved a hand in understanding. "Taken as read."
"Meeting someone with whom you can carry on a conversation, someone who is also compatible is…" Jonathan Crane went on circumventing what he really wanted to say, so Edward decided to cut through.
"If you never asked her out, she could never reject you," he said. "Face the irony: You were afraid."
"And you find her puzzling," riposted the Master of Fear. "or so I gathered. Unless you have some other excuse."
"Perhaps—that is part of it," The Riddler thought about it a moment. "And it's not as if she were insanely hot, objectively speaking, I mean I can see that. Not like Catwoman…"
"Personally, I find Adele more appealing and much easier to converse with, and not due to conversational content and depth alone," Crane responded. "One never knows where to look when speaking to Selina—nor to Ivy or Harley Quinn, either."
Edward could see his point. Add in that Adele was friendly, warm-hearted, and approachable—or at least seemed to be—(and won't it be fun figuring that out?), a confessed nerd, and more passionate about dinosaurs than diamonds… "She sure rolled at least a fifteen for Charisma," he commented as much to himself as to Jon.
"I beg your pardon?" the scientist replied. "The scale is one to ten, surely."
"Dungeons and Dragons…what, you never played?" Edward raised an eyebrow at him.
"A snare Satan set for the souls of the youth of America, according to my boyhood church. I still have scars from asserting to my grandmother that yes, I did think that Darwin fellow was right about evolution and no, the world wasn't about six thousand years old," he brooded. "I was not about to stick my neck out for a mere game. To return to the topic at hand…I do not intend to back down and leave you with a clear field."
"After disappearing from her life for so long, you don't get to claim first dibs," Edward said warningly. "Ultimately, it's her choice-so how about this? We each woo her or not as we choose—and we never speak of this again."
"I agree—this incident is embarrassing to a point I don't recall since high school. Ah—what is it they say? May the best man win."
The two rogues grinned at each other. In other words: Game on.
A/N: Too long since an update, too far behind, posting now. Apologies later. Thanks to ScarecrowScarecrow, Bat-teen28, SwordStitcher, and Tevinter for their reviews!
