He was hunched over on the steps of Gotham National, his green suit jacket ill-fitting around him. It hung off him, and the cuffs of his dark trousers brushed the pavement, his shoes scuffed and dirty. He looked pitiful, sitting there with his head in one hand, the other curled protectively around something in his lap. Steph dropped off her grapple and onto the street below.
She sidestepped the cops, ducking around the barrier they'd set up and walking slowly across the street. There was quite the kerfuffle behind her as more of the uniformed officers realised a vigilante was on the scene, but she paid them no mind, just took steady steps up the stairs until she was standing in front of him.
"Hi, Uncle Eddie," she said, and he looked up, his chestnut hair falling into his red-rimmed eyes.
"Hi," he said, lowering the hand away from his face.
"Do you mind if I sit?" She asked, gesturing to the concrete beside him. He shuffled over, his head drooping once more. She dropped down, landing on her butt, her cape fluttering out behind her in the wind that had picked up. She glanced down at what was sitting in his lap and bit the inside of her lip, just a little, and said, as gently as she could, "How are you?"
"Not great, kid," he replied. His voice sounded hollow, had a strangled quality to it. "Not great."
Steph wasn't sure how to reply. She tucked her hands up under her knees and leaned forward, resting her head on them, turning it so she was still facing him. Eventually, she said, "That bad, huh?"
The Riddler let out a longsuffering sigh, closing his eyes.
"Did you manage to rob the bank?" She asked.
"Yeah," he chuckled wryly. "There was almost a million in one of the vaults."
Steph gave a low whistle. It was pretty impressive, given the circumstances. The money had made it away with the goons – but Riddler hadn't made it out before the cops had set up a perimeter. Whether or not any of the money would be left by the time he got to it was another matter entirely, however.
They sat in silence a few moments longer. It wasn't uncomfortable, at least not to Steph; it was just sort of there. The Riddler rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shifted in place. His head kept twitching, and she could see him growing frustrated, see him getting antsy.
His hands twitched, and she went very still.
"Hey, Uncle Eddie?" Steph said, very gently. He turned to look at her, heavy bags under each eye, skin sallow and covered in a sheen of sweat.
"Yeah, Steph?" He asked.
"What are you planning to do with that gun?"
His shoulders sagged. "I," he said, and then he bit the inside of his cheek. "I don't know."
"Can I have it?" Steph held out her hands, but he shied away from her, his hands curling around it.
"No."
"Okay. That's cool." Steph leaned back, looking out at the crowd of cops gathered behind the barricade. A few of them were arguing with each other, but they were far off enough their voices weren't clear from across the plaza. Steph straightened out her legs, tugging on a thread in her knee padding. "There's room at Arkham, you know."
"I don't want to go to Arkham," Edward said bitterly. "I'm not crazy. I don't need to be in an asylum."
"You're not well right now, though, are you?" Steph said. He flinched like she'd hit him.
"I'm fine," he said, but even he didn't sound convinced of that. "It just – it gets so loud sometimes."
"I saw the riddles you put in the paper," Steph said. "Some of your best work."
His chest puffed up a little bit. "You think so?"
"Oh, yeah," Steph replied. "Absolutely. It took me all day to get the first two."
"What about the last one?" The Riddler said eagerly. "Did you solve it?"
"I got stuck," Steph said with a rueful smile. "I was hoping you'd give me a clue."
"Clues are more your father's purview, kid," he smiled across at her.
Steph smiled back, leaning back to one side and looking at him carefully. She really had tried on those riddles; but they'd been twisted and nonsensical, the ramblings of a very unwell man. Edward Nygma had been released from Arkham Asylum one year, three months, and twenty-six days ago. In that time, he had laid low, every image the rehabilitated man.
Then he'd started putting riddles in the newspaper, and it had started innocuously enough, the kind of things Steph's professors would put up on the board to wake the students up of a morning. They'd gotten progressively harder, and harder, until the one this morning –
The one that indicated he was going to rob Gotham National Bank.
Steph had been doing the riddles. They'd appear in the Monday paper, so Mondays before class she'd pinch a newspaper off an abandoned table in the campus coffee shop, order herself a bagel and a latte, and sit down and puzzle it out. It had been pretty clear to her who'd been sending them into the paper, although they'd never given any indication as to their author. She'd known, though.
"I'm glad it's you," he said suddenly. Steph's eyes darted across to him, and she tilted her head. "That new Batman, he's good, but he's nothing like your mentor."
"What new Batman," Steph said, playing it dumb. Riddler fixed her with a flat stare.
"The one running around in the cape and body armour who somehow gained a tan and completely lost the ability to solve a puzzle," he replied. "He's smart, don't get me wrong, but he's got no head for riddles."
Steph snorted. Yeah, that much was true about Dick. "What about the new Robin?" She said teasingly. "He's not up to your standard?"
"Hm," The Riddler said. "He's not you, to put it mildly."
"No, he's definitely not me," Steph replied. "That's probably a good thing."
The Riddler sighed. "You've always been so hard on yourself. You've always been a good kid."
"Hey, I'm meant to be counselling you, not the other way around," Steph nudged him in the side. He jumped at the contact, but turned his head to give her a shaky grin.
He seemed to retreat into himself, one hand absentmindedly tugging at his purple tie. He ran his hand through his chestnut hair once more, and for the first time Steph realised it was streaked with grey. In truth, he had aged since that time he'd lived with her family, all those years ago. There were lines around his eyes, deep set grooves in his skin, and he looked so tired. He rubbed his forehead again, but the other hand maintained a steady grip on the gun, and she knew better than to try and grab it off him.
"Hey, Steph," he said uncertainly, like he couldn't quite believe he was about to say this. "What does it feel like to die?"
Steph blanched, but maintained a neutral face. "Well," she said. "I'm probably the wrong person to ask, because I'm sitting here, talking to you now."
"You died, though," Riddler said. "It was all over the news. Your mom, she was inconsolable. Came round a few times, more booze in her than the whole liquor store. I never knew what to say. I'd just let her sleep it off and send her home the next day."
Steph paused, because she hadn't known that, not really. Knew her mom had gotten a little too friendly with the bottle after she'd died, sure. But not that she'd reached out to anyone about it.
"It hurts," she said eventually. "Before…before my heart stopped, I just remember it hurting, so much. Batman was there. I wanted him to fix it."
"Did he?" Riddler asked.
"No."
"I'm sorry, kid," he said, and then his gaze dropped to the gun in his hands. He seemed defeated, deflated.
"I don't think Arkham would be such a bad idea right now," Steph said, her voice soft. "They can keep you safe until things…stop being so loud."
"It never stops," he closed his eyes. "It never stops."
"You were better, though," Steph said. "I saw. You were doing so much better."
"It just," he said, then he brought a hand to his chest, clutching at the front of his button-down shirt. "It claws inside me relentlessly, and the only thing that makes it stop is riddles. It's the only thing that helps. Riddle after riddle after riddle, on and on, but a riddle is only good if it can be solved, right? So I made friends like your pops, and for a while that was enough, but then it got worse again. So I started throwing out challenges to Batman, to the Commissioner, to anyone who'd fucking listen, and-"
He cut himself off there, blinking back tears.
"You're really smart, you know," he said eventually. "You get most of my riddles first go."
"Not all of them." Steph shrugged. "But I grew up on a steady diet of my dad's dumbass clues, so you know. I had a lot to work with."
She let him wipe his face on his jacket sleeve, pointedly not remarking on the tears.
"I don't want to go to Arkham," he said, his voice breaking on the last word. The next sentence came out strangled. "I don't want to be fed pills until I'm quiet, or strapped down and injected with an antipsychotic just because I asked the nurse a question. I don't want to sit in group therapy with that stupid fucking clown and listen to a thousand stories about how his parents didn't love him. Newsflash, kid, nobody's parents fucking love them! You grow up and you learn to deal with it and you-"
"Rob banks?" Steph asked. It startled a laugh out of him.
"Yeah, fuck. I guess you do. You grow up and you learn to deal with it and you rob banks."
Steph nudged him again, smiling. Her anxiety was rising, but he hadn't made a move yet, hadn't given her much indication one way or the other. It wasn't looking good. But she still thought she could turn this around.
"You don't have to go to Arkham," Steph said. "I can find you somewhere else. An inpatient facility in another state, or even across the river."
The Riddler wrinkled his nose. "I'm not going to New York."
"I know, I wouldn't be caught dead there," Steph snorted. "I'm saying there's options, Uncle Eddie."
"I can only really see one," he sighed. "I'm sorry."
"You haven't done anything yet," Steph said, reaching out to catch his hand in hers. He flinched away, but after a moment, uncertainly, he allowed her to take his free hand. She gave it a squeeze before letting it go. "It's going to be okay."
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead, ghosting his fingers across his neck, swallowing hard.
"You know," Steph said quietly, drawing her knees up to her chest. "I don't think I ever thanked you for the money."
"What money?" The Riddler asked, feigning innocence.
"When I was fifteen, I had a baby," Steph said. The Riddler did not look surprised by this information – and of course he wouldn't be; he'd known. He'd been around. "And dad was in Blackgate, so it was just me and my mom, trying to sort things out. We had no money. We didn't have anything."
"I remember," he murmured. "Your mom just wanted to help you."
"And one day – right before my first ultrasound appointment – a cheque came in the mail. It was addressed to my mom, and it was for eight thousand dollars, from a Puzzlement Inc., for services rendered. It even came with a payslip. It looked legit in every way."
The Riddler was silent, rubbing his thumb along the barrel of the gun. Steph swallowed and continued.
"There was no Puzzlement Inc., though. I checked. But mom told me not to worry about it and cashed the cheque anyway. But you know what I found?"
"What?" The Riddler said.
"The Riddler – you, Uncle Eddie – stole a ruby worth eight thousand dollars from a jewellers uptown."
He gave a soft little "heh," and looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. After a few moments, he said, "Well, your pops wasn't going to do anything about it, was he?"
"No," Steph said. She glanced down to the concrete steps beneath her, rubbing her gloved thumb against the edge. "He wasn't. He wasn't happy with my choices."
The Riddler shook his head. "Your dad, he had everything I wanted," he said slowly. "He had stability. A loving wife. A bright kid. And he treated you both like shit."
"Yeah, well," Steph shrugged. "He's not our problem anymore."
He fell silent for a moment, and then offered a contrite, "I am sorry for that, Stephanie."
"I'm not," Steph said. She looked down again, unable to quite meet his eyes. "Maybe I should be."
He snorted. "I wouldn't be. My father was much the same."
She glanced aside at him. It wasn't something she'd known exactly, but she wasn't surprised to learn it. He was one of her father's few friends who'd seemed to take issue with the way Arthur treated his wife and only daughter. She knew, on more than one occasion, they'd come to blows about things, and she wondered now if perhaps that had been a part of it.
"How are you feeling?" She said.
"Cold," he replied honestly. His voice shook. "Inside and out. My mind is so loud, nothing seems to drown it out, and I just – I confess, Stephanie, I just want it to stop."
He tightened his grip on the gun.
"I don't know how to make it stop."
"Ask me a riddle," Steph said suddenly, feeling her heart pound in her chest. "Anything. Go easy on me though, maybe, I'm a little rusty."
He was silent a few moments, and Steph thought perhaps she'd lost him, but then he said, "What can you keep after giving someone?"
Steph blinked. "Your word."
The corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "The less you see, the more of it there is. What is it?"
"The darkness."
He nodded, the tension in his shoulders fading the slightest bit. "What is so fragile that to say its name will break it?"
Steph thought for half a moment, and then said confidently, "Silence."
"I think I'm going to easy on you," he chuckled. "You're smarter than this."
"Maybe," Steph said. "How are you feeling?"
He pursed his lips, looked down at the gun in his hand. He looked back up at her, his shoulders stiff again. Steph didn't know what to say. She could see the wheels turning in his head, see him considering his options. He sighed, and his grip on the firearm went loose.
"I'll go to Arkham," he said softly. "Just – would you visit, sometimes? Maybe? If you're putting someone else in?"
Steph felt the anxiety leech out of her, and almost cried from relief. She held out her hands and he deposited the gun into them, and she quickly slid her thumb along the clip and unloaded it. She turned the question over in her head, and then said, "Yeah, Uncle Eddie. I'll come visit. But not as Batgirl. I'll come as Steph."
"You don't have to do that," he said.
"I want to do that," Steph said earnestly. After a moment's hesitation, she pulled him into a one-armed hug. "Come on. Let's get you some help."
He gripped her arm as she led him down the stairs and to the edge of the barricade. She handed the gun off to the officer waiting there, and took him straight to the ambulance sitting behind the squad cars, shooing away the cops that gathered around. The paramedics took over with gentle hands, strapping Edward into the stretcher and putting him up into the rig.
"He'll still need to stand trial for the robbery," Nick said behind her. Steph turned, her cape swishing, and said, "Jesus, Nick, just let him get out of crisis first."
Nick looked a little taken aback, then resigned. "You know each other, don't you? The way you talked him down. He knows who you are."
"That's our business," Steph said, her tone bursting out of her a little sharper than intended. "I'll catch you around."
"See you, Batgirl," Nick said weakly, waving as Steph fired her grapple and swung through the night. She hopped from building to building until she found one above her that would be the perfect vantage point, so she took aim, fired, and launched herself through the air.
Steph landed on the rooftop somewhat gracefully, planting her feet and crouching to minimise the impact. She straightened and turned, the breeze tossing her blonde hair back and off her cowl, her cape flapping in the wind. She watched as the ambulance closed up its doors, and started the slow crawl out of the city streets and up to the hill where Arkham Asylum sat overlooking the city.
"Not many people could've done what you did tonight," came a voice behind her.
Steph whirled around, finding herself face to face with Batman. Not her Batman, obviously, but Batman nonetheless; Dick Grayson, in the flesh, standing tall and resolute and carrying himself like the suit across his shoulders bore the weight of the world.
In many ways, it did.
"He just needed someone to listen," she said, turning back to watch as the police started taking down the barricade, as the ambulance and its lights got further and further into the distance.
"Still," Dick said lightly. "You were there. You listened."
"I owed it to him," Steph replied, her voice sounding tiny even to her own ears. "He'll get help, now. Get better again."
Dick came up beside her, watching across the city with his bright blue eyes, so unlike Bruce's steely gaze. He seemed contemplative, for a moment, before he said: "I'm proud of you, Batgirl."
Steph bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.
"Thanks," she said eventually. "But I don't need to hear that from you."
They stood in silence and watched as the ambulance disappeared into the distance, the city streets cold and dark around them.
It was a quiet night in Gotham.
