Chapter Text
“Darlene, shut the fuck up.”
Hey, it’s not like you were the best at keeping jobs anyways.
Considering what happened this morning, today would be the last time you worked at this godforsaken diner. It started with one bad customer, turned into two, and then into three and eventually shithead after shithead decided today was the day to visit during your shift. After one too many failed pickup lines and some actual harassment, you did what any sane Gothamite would do and threatened to castrate the next guy that tried to get your number. Needless to say, your head manager Darlene was not happy, which led to your current predicament: telling her to keep her fat mouth shut. Darlene, in her infinite mercy, was ever so kind enough to let you finish up your shift before sending you home. In all honesty, you couldn’t be more thankful. Sure, you’d need to find a new job, but it's not like work was hard to come by, especially at rundown joints like these. All you needed to do was survive.
The hours started to wind down, until the only one left inside the diner was you—you and a lone rat from time to time.
You glanced at the clock precariously hung on the left wall, and then maybe one more time, just to be sure. Eleven at night, just one more hour left. You sighed in relief, continuing to sweep the front. You would’ve already left if you weren’t so fond of tomorrow’s opener, and it's not like another hour of empty seats and soft jazz was going to kill you. As you turned to sweep behind the desk, a soft chime rang out from the door. You internally groaned and moved your head, just enough to catch a glimpse of the new arrival before putting away your broom. He was, wow. He was angelic? No, no, cherubic. He was tall, with soft features and even softer-looking hair. Upon making eye contact he curled in on himself, like he was unsure, almost regretful to take up your time. You immediately grabbed your notepad and gestured to a bar seat, trying to coax him to open up, or at least relax a bit, curious as to what brought in such an interesting character.
“C’mon in! What are you looking for tonight sir,” you hummed, a bit at ease with the customer’s company.
The man barely glanced at the menu, sliding it to the left of him on the counter as he cleared his throat.
“Ah, a slice of pumpkin pie and a black coffee please,” he mumbled, looking down to fiddle with the edge of his jacket, allowing for you to get a better look at him. He was… pretty? Yeah, definitely pretty. You quickly turned back, hoping your staring wasn’t too obvious and that you hadn’t creeped him out. After starting the coffee machine and plating the slice of pie, you walked back over to him, seeing he’d started a puzzle sheet. You fumbled a bit, but managed to place the plate in front of him, noticing his slightly flushed face and twitching fingers. It seemed impossible for him to sit still.
“Thanks.”
“Of course, the coffee's on its way.” You smile back at him, internally resisting the urge to start up small talk. It wasn’t your forte, to say the least.
“How has tonight been, it seems a bit, ah, empty?” the man attempted.
“Not bad, not bad,” you stuttered. “Nice to have a bit of company, though!”
Another period of silence began—thankfully the overhead speaker playing the local station filled the room with a semblance of comfort. A ding rang out: the coffee finally finished. You hurried over, grabbing the creamer and sugar on your way back to his seat, just in case. As you approached, he looked up, a gleam in his eye.
“The person who makes it has no need of it; the person who buys it has no use for it. The person who uses it can neither see nor feel it. What is it?” He questioned, looking into your eyes with a strange sense of confidence. You’ll be honest with yourself, you’re not the sharpest tool in the shed, knife in the drawer, etc. It just wasn’t your specialty, but you’d be damned if you wouldn’t give it your all for this … stranger, you reminded yourself. A handsome stranger, at least.
Setting the coffee down, you leaned over the counter next to him, putting your finger to your mouth, pondering. C’mon, c’mon, not too hard. No use for it… can’t feel it, so they’ve got to be asleep. Bed? No, the one buying it has no use for it—gotta be dead, right? You thought to yourself, hoping you hadn’t already spent too much time considering the answer.
“Casket, right? S’gotta be,” you try, lifting your head to look at him, surprised to be met with a wide grin and a muted chuckle. His pie sat abandoned, the man’s attention fully centered on you and your response. His gaze grew even more intense.
“Good job! And thanks, I’ve been trying to figure that one out for a minute.” Edward lied. It was a children’s riddle, easily solvable in a minute or two, but you didn’t need to know that. He needed entertainment, something quick to take his attention off of work and well, work. The Riddler didn’t—no, couldn't—rest, not until his plan had come to fruition, although streaming nearly everyday grew a bit tiresome (he’d never admit it—his followers needed him, needed his constant support just like how he needed them for the bigger picture). All in good time, he assured himself. In the interim, you were interesting enough. Certainly pretty enough. It wasn’t a word he used often for men, especially considering his partner. Batman was rough and tall and off limits at the moment, until (until) his plans came to a brilliant end. But you? You were pretty. A bit shorter than himself, he guessed, with large glasses almost shielding your eyes. Freckles decorated your arms and neck like flecks of grass in between the concrete pathways that wove through Gotham.
Even with the confidence the riddle gave him, Edward still struggled to communicate without his mask (he wonders, quickly, if you’d like it), so he adjusts his focus back to his sheet and cold coffee.
You, on the other hand, were ecstatic. 'Good job’ you thought to yourself once you had left the counter to finish closing the back. Heat spread to your cheeks and chest and—Jesus you needed to get laid. Getting this flustered over one comment? Your mind flickered back to the stranger sitting alone, big hands flipping his page of puzzles. Maybe, in some universe, he’d be touching your arm instead. Would he hold your neck when you went in for a kiss? Take your glasses off so you two didn’t bump frames like teenagers? A sharp jab from a fork you were washing woke you up from your thoughts, bringing you back to the dingy gray of the diner’s kitchen. You just needed to lock up and then you could leave. Could ditch this shitshow and find another circus to wrangle for a few months before eventually starting the cycle over.
Yea, you really weren’t the best at holding down a job.
Heading back to the front, you noticed the man was done with his paper and pie. The coffee sat half full, but he seemed finished with his meal, so you hurried to grab his dishes before going back to put them in the sink. As you returned, you struggled to think of conversation, trying to think of anything to keep this guy’s attention, but when he looked up, and you traced his soft features with your eyes, you noticed him doing the same to you. A bright flush danced across his face as he quickly looked away. Before either of you could say a word, your phone started to buzz. It was your alarm, alerting you of the fast-approaching end of your shift.
“Oh shit,” you mumbled, hoping the stranger hadn’t heard you. You sped through the last of your chores, some missed sweeping and tables that needed to be wiped down, before returning to him, still sitting at the counter, seemingly content to work on his puzzle sheet. You break the silence.
“It’s closing time,” you explain apologetically, “and I gotta lock up in a couple minutes, do you need anything else?”
The man looked startled, if only for a moment, shaken from his reverie as he turned to regard the clock on the wall. Come on, you think to yourself, either you make a move or I’m gonna. He shook his head in response to your question and handed you a few dollars with a mumbled ‘keep the change,’ before turning his attention back to his sheet. Once the register was counted out and the money was put in the safe for the night, you shrugged on your coat and grabbed your keys, drawing the stranger’s attention back to you.
He wordlessly followed you to the door, where he stood behind you as you flicked off the lights and locked the door, entering the chilly air of Gotham before turning to start your trek home. You paused for just a moment, hoping he might say something. His arms were straight down by his sides, fingers twitching against the ends of his long coat. He looked up to you, opened his mouth, shut it, and seemed to flounder with his words until he spoke.
“Can I walk you home because it’s, uh, very cold tonight and the Iceberg Lounge down the street is a hotbed of crime and Gotham has a crime rate nearly 60% higher than any other urban area in the US and I would like to make sure you get home safe,” he rambled quickly, out of breath by the time he had forced his monologue out. You chuckled at his outburst and he seemed to steel himself for rejection when you slowly reached for his hand. As your fingers interlocked with his, his eyes grew wide behind his glasses, looking between your joined hands and your face, as if checking to see if it was real.
“That’s very kind of you, and yes, I would love the company on the desolate two-block walk to my apartment.” He smiled at your attempt at humor, and looked elated at your acceptance as he gripped your hand, following your lead as you started the journey home. Oh god, his hands, you think to yourself, they are big. You let yourself feel his warmth as it seeped into you, this simple contact already leaving you lightheaded as your previous imaginings barreled into the forefront of your mind. What would those hands feel like on your body? What could they do to you? What could you make them do? Would they be smooth and inquisitive or bold and demanding? If this is how you thought about just his hands, you nearly got weak in the knees at the thought of the rest of his body, hidden under his coat.
The walk was quiet, but pleasant, as you tried to wrangle your thoughts into submission. You entered your apartment building with the man in tow, up the stairs and down the hallway until you made it to your door. You unlocked it and opened it with a tug, shifting to look at him. He seemed at ease, following your lead, until he noticed your open door and stood up straighter, back to the more nervous version of himself that you had met earlier in the night. You waved your hand in as you walked into your apartment.
“I never, ah, I never asked your name,” you said, walking back further into your apartment, trying to lead him in. The room was warm against the bitter air in the hallway outside—a welcome change, and hopefully inviting enough to convince your new friend to come in, despite being a bit on edge.
There was a long pause, like he was thinking of the right answer, as if there could ever be a wrong one.
“Edward,” he said finally, and the man, Edward, slowly walked in, trailing a half step behind you before you closed the door.