Thursday, June 13th, 2024, 23:24
Eliza Tucker loves her free time outside of work. She loves her job but always needs time to decompress and recharge. Nurses and healthcare professionals are known to be burnout victims more easily than other professions and must care for themselves. You always need to put the oxygen mask on yourself first before others. Otherwise, you are useless.
Her home time is her peace, her place of privacy and zen. Being more of a homebody, she has several hobbies and projects to keep her mind busy. Yoga, meditation, reading, writing, watching music videos on YouTube, and putting jigsaw puzzles together keep her sane and well-adjusted. It took her a while to figure this out when she graduated nursing school, but it was a game changer once she found what worked. She feels she can give her best and be her best at work if she engages in these activities, eats right, and gets plenty of sleep.
Tonight, Eliza is lying on the couch reading a book. It is late, as she stays up due to her night shift schedule. She has the television on for some low background noise to drown out the deafening silence. Sometimes, when her mind is truly blank, and she is present in the moment, she can hear her heartbeat in her ears, and it is distracting. Eliza always needs a little more stimulation than most people, and the lo-fi music playing on her speakers creates the perfect mood.
Speaking of setting the mood, there is an importance to having the atmosphere just right. She is not a "neat freak", but she does need an uncluttered space. An uncluttered space means an uncluttered mind. So, her apartment is clean, with the dishes washed at all times, laundry done every Sunday, and counters free of extraneous items not in regular use. Once the space is clear, the lighting is next. She enjoys her smart lamps and the multicolored light bulbs – lilac is her favorite mode. It gives her light without overstimulating her eyes. After that, she lights a candle on her table, typically lavender, patchouli, or neroli. Top that off with her balcony door propped open so she can feel a cool breeze, a bit of the elements in the apartment. With these conditions, she can focus on anything. She feels like she can be herself and fully enjoy her life.
Eliza sighs, content with her present moment of peace and sensuality. She flips a page and continues reading.
"Knock, knock!"
The off-duty nurse whips her head around to the source of the voice in her apartment. It is just her. It is supposed to be her. She lives alone.
Her eyes land on a man peeking around the frame of her balcony door. Before she gets a good look, she yelps, rolls/falls off the edge of the couch, and crouches on her knees on the floor.
What the fuck.
Her mind is racing with what is going on. She needs to move, get up, and do something, but she is frozen, her heart racing. Her hands are running cold and she tremors. Her anxiety has kicked into over-drive, and she feels scared. She needs to get up. They could attack her, and she is in a vulnerable place, giving her back to them as she is buried in the hardwood floor. Her knees are already bruised and red from her fall, and her skirt is not long enough to provide any padding.
Eliza squeezes her eyes shut and calms her heaving chest in a square breathing pattern. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold.
Just as Eliza moves on numb legs and cold hands to pull herself up, a sickly-sweet voice calls to her.
"Eliza – don't worry, my dear nurse. I'm not here to hurt you."
Her fingers are curl along the sofa's back as her wide, emerald eyes, and her brunette crown are only visible. She clenches her jaw, the stress making her body tight – she is cramping up.
"There she is! My sweet savior, Eliza! How I've missed you so."
The Riddler stands in front of Eliza in her living room. He found her information, and now he is here, holding a bleeding wound on his arm. The nurse is unnerved at the invasion of privacy but does her best to gather her wits and calm herself. She is in fight-or-flight mode, her limbic system engaged, and she needs to get back in her cortex so she can think and not show fear in front of this villain. She stands up, fully revealing herself and taking a more defensive stance.
Edward Nygma slowly approaches her with an overly joyful smile, "Hello, my dear nurse. It seems fate has brought us together once again."
Eliza takes an appropriate reflexive step back, and her keen eyes observe his every detail. The green orbs land on his left arm, and he notices a bloody mess. She finally acknowledges him verbally.
"I-I see that you are hurt. Is that why you are here?"
He chuckles softly, eyes gleaming with amusement: "Oh, Eliza, it's not just the wound that has brought me here—it's you."
Eliza gulps as her mouth goes dry. She finds it unsettling that he is being so forward with her. Why her? She was just the nurse he saw when he woke up in the ER. Her mind recaps the events of that evening: she was the last one to give a round of compressions when they finally got a pulse on him; she was hovering above him when he opened his eyes; she smiled and welcomed him back, happy at his return to the living. If it was anyone else he saw, would they be the one he stalked instead?
Now, here he stands in her apartment, bleeding from a wound on his upper arm; his green-colored suit is slashed and browned with gore.
"I'm a little nervous that you're here. Pretty creepy. How did you get my information?"
He chuckles darkly, "All I need to find someone is a name. And, lucky me, you were proudly wearing your first and last name."
Her face scrunches in confusion for a moment, and then it registers, "My badge."
The Riddler gives a cocky grin, "Eliza Louise Tucker. Eliza is short for Elizabeth, 23-year-old, cis-gender female, date of birth October 17th, 2000; social number 415-45-4533. Graduated from Gotham University in May 2021 with a GPA of 3.7 and a Bachelor of Science in Nursing. Registered Nurse – license number 1-5561-1, ER nurse of 3 years at Gotham General Hospital, where you work the night shift. Address is 213 Center Street, apartment 525, Gotham, New Jersey 08303. Oh! And, almost forgot, you were a bartender throughout the school."
Eliza cannot help her jaw from going slack and her eyes widening in sheer horror. She takes another few steps back. She feels her pulse pounding from the anxiety and panic that swell in her chest. There is an uncomfortable silence between them and a ringing in her ears. She is speechless and not sure what to do. There is an insane criminal in her living room, and he knows almost everything about her.
Edward Nygma sees the panic in her wide, green eyes. He lets her sit with the feeling for a few agonizing moments before laughing in a joyful way that is wholly inappropriate for the frightening situation.
"Don't worry; I'm not going to hurt you." His eyes narrow at her pointedly and wickedly before adding an ominous, "For now."
That last part does not make her feel any better. She does not know what to say.
"In the meantime," he speaks casually, in his characteristic sing-song way, "I would like you to look at this."
He gestures to his bleeding arm.
Eliza's mind is spinning, and she does not feel she has a choice. She reluctantly relaxes the best she can with a few deep breaths, in through her nose and out through her mouth.
Her voice cracks as she begins to speak. She clears her throat and then continues, "O-okay, then. Let me see if I can help you out."
She walks forward on ginger footing, closer to the villain in her home. He did say he would not hurt her, and she feels it best to cooperate at this moment. The man's eyes are focused intently on her: the way her straight, brown hair swishes with every step; how she seems to walk on the front of her feet; the way her tongue peeks out nervously to lick her plush lips, and then she bites them; her unsure, green eyes observing him keenly; her black long sleeve turtle neck, short gray pleated skirt; her smell of clean, fresh linen when she encroaches his personal space.
He takes a deep breath in, memorizing her smell. Like the cat who caught the canary, he smiles down at her, amused as she examines the wound, showing her his white teeth.
"My dear nurse, I'm sure you can help me out in more ways than one," his voice is a purr that makes her uncomfortable, bothered by the suggestiveness.
Against her own volition, a pinkness rises to her cheeks, but she continues to eye his injury. He notices her reaction but leaves her be – for the moment.
"I need you to take your arm out of your shirt and coat so I can see a little better."
His eyes gleam excitedly, "Trying to get me undressed already, and we're only on our second date."
What is she supposed to say to that? Does he consider her taking care of him in the emergency department as their first date? How insane is he?
Her eyes do not meet his as she orders, "Please, cooperate with me."
Eliza is ashamed to admit that his voice and the energy he exudes are attractive. He is attractive. Ruddy brown hair falls in tapered strands around his forehead and ears; piercing eyes as green as his suit; a five o'clock shadow; an average, toned build; top it all off with a sharp wit and confidence verging on arrogance, and this has her feeling things that she should not be towards a criminal who stalked her and trespassed into her apartment.
"Yes, Nurse. Right away, Nurse."
Eliza notices the small grimace on his face, cutting through his jesting as he shrugs his blazer off and lays it on her couch, followed by him loosening his tie completely and removing his hat. Her mouth goes dry at the sight of this man undressing in front of her. She is supposed to be in a professional headspace right now but is having difficulty compartmentalizing. She is at home, in her place of comfort, she tries to justify. He continues by taking his gloves off and then slowly unbuttons his shirt. The Riddler's eyes narrow in haughty amusement as he sees her eyeing him but trying to hide it. He pulls his shirt open, revealing his chest with a smattering of hair.
Eliza does her best to ignore the man's attractiveness in front of her. He is her patient right now – nothing more. Her eyes cannot help but focus on the pinkish-healed scar of the surgery for the gunshot he took to the chest that brought him to her originally. How long has it been since then? A month? Two? She knows he was taken directly to Arkham Asylum as soon as he was stable enough to tolerate it a few days later.
Edward notices her eyes focusing on the scabulous mark, and he smirks, "I'm glad I was shot. Because it led me to you. . ."
She clears her throat, "Come sit down."
They walk a short distance to her kitchen table, where he sits in a chair, and she pulls one close to him, their knees almost touching. Regaining her focus, she examines the wound with a professional eye. The gash is deep and cuts to the superficial layers of fascia. The wound is a mixture of both clotted and oozing blood. She leans back to look at him.
"It looks like you'll need stitches. This is deep. Let me take you to the ER."
Eliza goes to stand, but he grabs her wrist firmly. Her blood runs cold as this criminal prevents her from moving.
Edward smirks up at her, sitting, "My dear nurse, you misunderstand. I don't want to go to the emergency room. . . I want you to do it."
Stunned, she shakes her head in incredulity.
"I'm sorry. Stitching people up is not within my scope of practice as a nurse. I'm not trained in it."
The Riddler chuckles, "I don't care if you are trained. All that matters is I want you to do it."
Eliza blinks in utter confusion.
"I don't know if that's a good idea, Mr. Nygma."
"Come now, my dear Eliza. Don't you want to help me? I know how much you care for your patients," he leans in close and pulls her to meet him halfway. ". . . And I am in need of your assistance."
Edward's green eyes mesmerize her as he peers up to her own emerald orbs. His opia and charm disarm her, and she feels flushed.
"W-well, I suppose I can give it a shot," the confidence is nonexistent.
"That's a good girl. I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."
Eliza quickly spins around so he cannot see the increasing rouging of her cheeks. He is engaging a part of her that she only lets people see in the privacy of her bedroom. How can she be utterly terrified and thrilled at the same time?
"I need to get my supplies."
She skitters off to get her medical bag and to get away for a moment of reprieve. In the privacy of her bathroom, she leans against the wall and breathes deeply, calming her excited nerves. Eliza looks up at the ceiling.
"What is going on," she murmurs.
She wonders if she needs to report this. Should she call the police? Should she report to her job that a patient has stalked her? Eliza shakes this away. No, the nursing board would somehow find a way to hold her liable, and he has not really done anything to her. Except for stalking and trespassing, she reminds herself.
Eliza brushes a hand through her hair and sighs. She had better get back out there. After collecting her supply bag from her vanity, she walks back out to her living room to, of course, find him waiting as all good patients do.
"I missed you."
Goddammit.
Eliza grits and clenches her jaw to keep from making a face. He is grinning like a fox. She realizes he is trying to get a rise out of her, and she will have to do her best to ignore him.
"I don't have any sutures, so I don't know how you plan to have me do this."
No sooner than she finished talking, he pulled a suture packet from his pocket.
"I'm not even going to ask where you got that. But good thing you brought it because I don't keep suture in my kit."
She takes the small pack and turns it over, checking the expiration date and for holes or signs of contamination. It looks good, so she sets it on the table and digs in her bag. Like any good medical professional, she ensures all the supplies are available and ready to her.
Focused, running through her mental checklist, she stands, rolls up her long sleeves, and then walks to the kitchen sink, where she scrubs her hands for 3 minutes. The nurse works sequentially from her fingernails to each finger on all sides, down to her palms, then the backs of her hands, and finally ending at her wrist. She rinses her hands fingers first, moving them through the water and allowing it to drip down her arms. Lastly, she grabs a paper towel and pats dry before returning to her patient. She felt the Riddler watching her every move. She is used to being watched at work, but given the circumstances, he unnerves her.
Continuing her practice, she opens her supplies: lots of gauze, a few saline flushes, and silk tape, and then fishes some pick-ups and hemostats out of her back. She places the metal tools on an open gauze on the table and pours alcohol on them – the best sterilization she can do. This is followed by opening the suture pack and dumping the tiny plastic card on another open, sterile gauze.
"I'll need to clean the area first so I can see what I'm working with," she says, donning clean gloves, and taking a saline flush in one hand and the gauze in another.
"I must admit, I'm excited to have you tend to my wounds again."
The Riddler watches as she gently sprays the area with saline, rinsing away the loose blood and then wiping the dried blood with gauze. The area is tender but does not hurt; in fact, the cool saline is soothing for his injury. She continues this process for a few minutes before she pats the area dry and then removes her now dirty, bloody gloves.
"You have such a delicate touch," The Riddler relaxes back in the chair.
Now, having a better view, she sees what she is working on. It is probably the best cut for her to suture for the first time because the wound edges are cleanly sliced, and it looks like it can be approximated well. She lets out a sigh to prepare herself for what is next to come. Eliza opens a pack of sterile gloves and unfolds the paper they rest on. Before donning the gloves, she rewashes her hands, this time with sanitizer. With care, she picks up the "dirty side" of the cuff and pulls a glove on, careful not to touch the outside. Then, with the now sterile hand, she reaches two fingers into the folded cuff of the other glove and lifts it to finally slide it on the bare hand – careful not to touch her skin with the sterile sides.
The Riddler smiles, enjoying watching her work, "I can't wait to have your hands on me, even if it is through gloves."
Eliza ignores him. Being self-aware, she knows he can now get a rise out of her. She must ignore him if she wants to keep her focus.
Another sigh leaves her, "Okay, here we go."
Her non-dominant hand grips the pickups while her other grips the hemostats. Hemostats are all she has to perform this, instead of the more appropriate needle driver.
She lets her eyes lock with his for a moment of seriousness, "This is going to hurt."
The Riddler chuckles, his eyes glinting with amusement, "Pain is a small price to pay for the pleasure of your touch, Eliza."
The nurse pushes down the embarrassment from his flirting– she must stay focused. A nervous breath leaves her, and she takes a few deep, slow ones to help steady her nerves and hands. Gripping a side of the wound with the pickups in her left hand, she takes the hemostats with the suture in her right. With the pickups, she pulls the wound close together, then quickly drives the needle in and threads it through both sides. She starts by throwing a few stitches in the middle to ensure the wound approximates correctly without any dog ears (folds or bunching), and then she starts by going back and working from one side to the other.
The Riddler grits his teeth and hisses momentarily before just resigning to furrowing his brow in pain. It burns.
Eliza regards him silently as she focuses intently on her work. She knows what to do and how to do it but has never done it before. Her hands are slow initially, but then she picks up speed and gets more comfortable. He watches her with fascination, eyes never leaving her hands and face. Her pretty round face is scrunched up in focused determination, and he cannot help but admire her for it.
The minutes tick by as they sit in silence, with her working diligently. Occasionally, she stops to clean up some oozing blood so she can see better. Everything is going well.
After about 5-6 minutes of work, Eliza straightens up from her position and appreciates the wound. She is proud of her work and thinks it is not too shabby for her first time. The last step is to clean the wound once more with saline and pat it dry, followed by sterile gauze on the wound and some neat tape on top. She grins to herself.
"All done!"
The Riddler regards her work, looking down at his arm, impressed. He rotates his arm in the socket and then smiles a normal smile.
"Well done, my dear. You have a true talent for this."
She nods in appreciation, "Thanks," and then stands to begin cleaning her mess.
The Riddler smirks and observes her cleaning up.
"You know, I could stay and keep you company."
Eliza stops suddenly and turns to look at him quizzically.
"You mean you want to stay here? In my apartment? Like, hang out?"
The suggestion floors Eliza. His statement is so casual that it seems like a viable option. Hang out? Hang out with a villain who entered her apartment through her private balcony after only one brief encounter? She is unsure how exactly this interaction will end, which worries her.
He smirks, pulling his shirt back over his arm and torso, "Why not? I'm intrigued by you, my dear nurse. Who knows what kind of fun we could have together. . ."
Eliza shivers at the look in his sharp eyes. She is unsure what kind of "fun" he is discussing. What constitutes "fun" in his dictionary? But she feels she is not in a position just to kick him out the door; she needs a little more finesse than that.
"I mean, I need to go to bed eventually for work, but I suppose you can rest here and lay low from whatever or whoever tried to hurt you."
"Oh, don't worry about that situation. It has been addressed."
She notes the undertone of conceit in his voice. Maybe he had incapacitated the person already? She didn't want to think about what he did.
"But, if you want to play nurse and patient for a little while longer, then I wouldn't refuse."
Eliza gulps down the knot in her throat, nods in acceptance, and then slowly cleans up the mess. Unsure how to handle this situation, she settles on treating him like any other guest for now.
"Would you like some water or coffee?"
He smiles, "Water would be lovely, my dear nurse."
The Riddler watches as she nods and finishes cleaning up. He leans on the kitchen table, his good hand cradling his head leisurely.
"And while you're at it, why don't we have a little chat about your life," he queries, and his eyes roam her body as she walks to the kitchen.
"I find myself curious to know more about the woman who has not only captured my attention but also saved my life."
She begins the short process of collecting a glass and filling it with purified water from her fridge.
"I thought you knew everything about me."
This is the first time he has heard sarcasm from the nurse, and it is refreshing to see her annoyed side. He likes getting her worked up and flustered. He chuckles as she hands him the glass of water and sits beside him again in their previous positions.
"Not everything. . . Just the high points." He sips the water, eyes never leaving her, "But I do want to know everything. I want to know your dreams, fears, and deepest desires."
A shiver creeps up her spine again, but she cannot differentiate whether it is from fear or something else. . .
"O-okay, well, I'm a trauma nurse, of course. I've been with Gotham General since I got my license. I enjoy the adrenaline rush of the ER. I like helping people. Making a difference in their lives helps me sleep at night."
She pauses for a moment, wondering if she should keep going, and he nods at her with a smile.
"Go on."
She clears her throat and continues, "So I like the ER, and it is a great experience, but my true love is psychiatry. I would eventually like to go back to school for a master's as a mental health nurse practitioner."
Of course, the Riddler grins wickedly at this, "Psychiatry! How fascinating."
She should have known better to mention this in front of a well-known unmanaged psychiatric patient.
"I must say, Eliza, your passion for the human mind is admirable." He leans closer to her, looking sly.
"And who knows? Perhaps one day, we might find ourselves on opposite sides of a desk in a therapy session. . . "
She blushes and laughs her nerves away. To cope, she reaches her hands up to the tips of her hair and plays with it.
"Well, you're not wrong . . .," she glances away, looking anywhere but his eyes.
The Riddler's roguish eyes follow her hands, observing her nervous tic, "You seem rather skittish around me, my dear nurse. Is it because, deep down, you know we are destined to be in opposition?
He purrs, "Or is there something else that makes your heart race?"
Eliza does not know how to answer his questions. She thinks yes to the first one but bit her lip in response to the second.
"I-I don't know. I'm not sure how to answer that."
He watches as she engages in several self-soothing behaviors all at once, playing with her hair, biting her lips, and refusing to look him in the eyes. His nurse's coyness is intoxicating.
"Oh, but I think you do know," he leans even closer into her personal space and touches one of her knees. "You just don't want to admit it to yourself."
In a state of dolonia, Eliza sucks in a quick, deep breath. He is in her bubble, and she is not sure how she feels about it because the body she owns is giving her mixed signals. Looking into his eyes is a mistake, but she does it anyway. Cocky does not even begin to describe what he exudes. His eyes are sharp, dangerous, and focused entirely on her.
"Tell me . . . What do you fear? Or is it desire that you wish to speak on? I'm no Scarecrow, but I want to know how your mind works. Do you crave excitement or something more forbidden?"
His voice is so alluring, dripping like honey into her ears.
What does she want? What does she fear? What does she desire? She's never had anyone ask this of her. People do not usually go around labeling and verbalizing these things. She thinks hard before answering him honestly but is unsure if indulging him is the best course.
"Both," she questions more than claims.
The Riddler can tell she is cracking, which is an entertaining experience to behold.
"I like excitement in my life. That's why I went to the ER. I need stimulation; otherwise, my mind runs wildly with no outlet to put it towards. I have ADHD, and it really drives a lot of the decisions I make. I must be careful and mindful, which is difficult. As for the forbidden. . ."
Eliza trails off as she tries to capture her thoughts, or collect them, or merely find them.
What exactly is considered forbidden? There are ubiquitous answers, such as murder, rape, incest, and stealing, although after that it becomes grey. Other than these agreed-upon social rules, the rest are subjective. Is helping a renowned criminal with his health forbidden? No, because the basis of medical care is to be unbiased and give unconditional positive regard. Is it forbidden to desire a criminal, knowing full and well they are a terrible person who hurts people and causes mayhem? Well, that is where it becomes grey.
Edward sees the internal struggle on her face, "If I may – the pursuit of excitement can be quite addictive. And forbidden pleasures? Well, let me tell you something.
"Sometimes it takes a little danger to ignite our passions truly," his voice is low and husky, almost growling, and it causes a funny feeling in Eliza's belly.
The nurse's hands drop from her hair to her skirt, where she grips the hem tightly in her lap, trying to hold on to something. She feels like she is falling into a ring of fire. Her breath shudders, and her eyes dilate.
The Riddler leans back from her personal space with a smirk. "Oh dear, it seems I've struck a nerve. What are you so afraid of? The unknown or the possibility that your desires are too dangerous to explore."
Eliza's mouth feels wet and dry simultaneously. She gulps down the aching knot in her throat before answering again more as a question than a statement, ". . . The latter?"
She cannot bring herself to repeat what he said.
"Ah, desires too dangerous to explore. It can be intimidating. But don't worry. I won't let you fall too far into the abyss. Not yet anyway."
She wonders where they go from here. Eliza recaps the evening so far: a villain whose life she helped save dropped into her apartment and voluntold her to suture his wound; now he is making her feel weird things. Yet, she is not uncomfortable anymore. It's just different.
"You may not yet realize, but you are becoming increasingly intrigued by the darkness within."
She is slack-jawed and still on fire. Eliza takes a deep breath as she shivers and observes him. He is a predator, and she is the prey.
"So . . . I should expect to see you again?" She asks and internally hopes.
He grins, eyes sparkling with mischief because he knows he has a hook in her.
"Count on it. But before I leave, I want to leave you with a riddle," he can't help himself.
"I'm the fire that burns within, a craving, strong, tempting sin. What I see I must acquire, yet too much of me can fuel the pyre. What am I?"
Eliza mulls it over as he waits eagerly, hoping she is smart enough to solve it. Her pulse quickens.
"Desire. . ."
The Riddler stands from his chair and reaches out a hand for her to do the same. Pulse pounding, she places a ginger hand in his, stands, and peers up at him. They are close enough for her to feel his warm breath on her face. Her throat tightens when he brushes a stray strand of brunette hair behind her ear, then slowly traces the back of his fingers down her neck to her collar.
"My dear, sweet nurse, you are right. Desire. Desire is as dangerous as hate but more insidious. And you can't resist the allure of danger, can you...?"
He does not allow her to answer before he spins away swiftly to gather and don his hat, blazer, tie, and gloves. He strides to the balcony door to exit like he came in. Before he leaves, he tips his bowler hat to her, "Until next time, Eliza Tucker."
The stunned woman watches him leave as her body lives in its heightened state. Her body is ablaze from her roots to her toes.
She murmurs, staring out the window into the dark, "Until next time."
Eliza turns around and heads to the bathroom and bedroom for her nighttime ritual, which involves winding down in more ways than one. As soon as she lays her head on the down pillow, she remembers the balcony door is not locked—and she might be okay with that.
A flame that burns
With a fiery hue,
Draws you in.
But beware, it's true.
Like a moth to a flame,
You're ensnared,
While hearts are bared.