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Tears and Rain	By : Waxcrayons Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 13546 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not nor will I ever own Batman, Superman,DC comics or any of their characters, or make any money off of them.

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Just after midnight bells finished solemn tolls the artic winds picked up with a vengeance. Black clouds flashed here and there without the sound of thunder, raining hail and wet snow as if to signal it was time for the biblical apocalypse. In the dead of night the temperature had dipped to -49 ºF. Combined with the weather it was a wonder Commissioner James Gordon had managed to flood the streets with as many cops, on-duty, off-duty, reserve or whatever he could get, as he had. The former gumshoe sucked deeply on his pipe with a complete understanding of how his boys were feeling as he surveyed the area. Gotham had never been the kind of city you moved across country for. It was a haven for only five kinds of people. Pimps, druglords, mobsters, crooked officials, and socialites. Perhaps it was that nobody had any real hope for the city, or that the odds were challengeably stacked up against integrity, or even just the simple fact that he had been placed here by superiors who's intentions were to watch him flail and fail. Whatever it was, Jim had had an ear to the ground when the city called for help and he had been all too willing to try. He wasn't about to let madmen and their former chain-gang thugs overrun Gotham. Not without fighting them to the last man, rain or shine. Or in this particular case, thunder snow hail.

And that's really how this all came about the night before. The weather had just started the dip to where it sat currently when an anonymous caller left a most curious message. Kooks called in weird things at all hours in this city, but that stalwart voice had information just too precise to be a common prank. He went with his gut and sent a car up to the Asylum. Hearing nothing in the next couple of hours, Jim admitted to sitting on his hands. There were enough cops on the take with no love for his straight and narrow that he was used to having his orders occasionally postponed. Never enough for him to make a solid case of insubordination out of it, only to let him know he wasn't liked and this was one of the ways of showing it. When no response came in after several tries, he sent a few more cops up to investigate. Their frantic reports gathered all the active police force to the looney bin. The lead had been flying for almost twenty four hours now. SWAT teams were dissuaded from entering after it became clear they were just lambs being sent to the slaughter. The shoot-out was all over the news all over America. The complete focus of every Gotham citizen, politician, and police officer. And that was when all hell broke loose.

Early this morning Blackgate Penitentiary experienced a jailbreak of it's own. All signs pointed to an inside job with extensive knowledge, time, and means to coordinate the release of most of the Joker's clown posse. In light of what was still going on at the Asylum it wasn't hard to put two and two together. Tabs on Cobblepot told him the Penguin was moving large numbers of illegal weapons labeled as antique replicas. Harvey Dent had snuck out between the Arkham and police crossfire to start up some turf war's where other lesser crimelords had moved in since Two-Face's incarceration. There was a trail of young butchered women the Commissioner would lay at the missing Zsasz's feet in a heartbeat. A pre-pubescent blonde angel named Alicia had been spirited away by a man that fit Jervis Tetch's description. The Boss and The Roman weren't helping matters either. Gotham's dirty underbelly was pouring out of it's gutters. Too many problems, too little man power, too many ways Jim felt he was fracturing his mind to keep up with it all. If there was ever a perfect time for the Bat to swoop in with a plan of action, this would have to be it. But that was another problem all together. No Bat... And no Joker, even though this whole fiasco was just the kind of carnage the clown would get off on.

Jim puffed long on his pipe. He had been a police officer in dirty cities long before the young man behind that bat mask was out of his diapers. He would keep his nose to the grindstone and hold the fort all at the same time. He would also keep his eyes and ears peeled. The Bat wasn't here for a reason, and if there was anything he could do to help the ominous vigilante with a secret heart of gold... Jim Gordon would do that too.

***

Alfred Pennyworth was a man possessed with a sense of loyalty that you could neither find nor pay for in this day and age. In his many years service to the Wayne family he had never once felt unappreciated or taken advantage of. The demands of the current Wayne while certainly falling well beyond your average buttling -Often more mechanic, medic and master of the timely 'pick-up'- were never the sort of thing the old boy couldn't handle. The days were long behind him now, but he had had his own run of the fast life during his theatre days and others things he dared not dig up. Now this current dilemma he intended to handle as sufficiently as he would any other. Were it that he could. Driving back towards the manner every drift of his eyes up towards to the rear-view mirror where three sets of innocent eyes could meet his, only made every gentle manner in which he thought he could explain their father's vacancy sound utterly dismal.

He had placed the communicator in his front breast pocket and hoped any time now it would vibrate and spare him from having to tell the children Master Bruce had not come home last night. He had done all he could do for the moment. Informed the police. Kept the channels open for any blip of information that might be a sign from the young Master. He had called after Master Clark at the man's work, his apartment, and even called Martha Kent's home in Smallville Kansas. He left ambiguous messages that only Master Clark would be able to read into and kept his cellular telephone well charged in case Superman returned a call. How he wished Master Bruce had left him some way of contacting this 'Justice League' the Batman worked with on occasion...

Alfred valued himself as a dutiful and loyal manservant. Took pride in it. So what kind of loyal butler was he if he could find no better means of helping his Master then waiting by the phone?

***

Exactly three tears ran their pitiful course down his cheeks before he could blink the lot of them away. Batman didn't despair in the face of evil. There were lives on the line and he intended to save them. Doctor Holm was his top priority seeing as how the man was living on borrowed time now. Bought with a stupid children's game he had failed to win. After he had failed to get all thirty of the hostages out of the Asylum. I'll make a list of all my short-comings as soon as I get back to the Cave. Time, Soldier. You don't have any time to spare. Every ache was filed away mentally with a tab that read; See Also: I don't give a shit right now.

The Batman organizational system. No home should go without. You'll be saving thousands in therapy bills alone! PTSD got you down? Not with the Bat-system at your disposal. Just take all those problematic ails and file them away under our 'Don't be a candy-ass nancy-boy' index cards. Exclusive with this one time offer. Not available in stores, order now!

Strange it was, where humor came from. He supposed it meant he wasn't as hopeless as he feared he might be. And if he was going to work against the clock, he might as well be amused as he did it. There was no wasted movement. The gowns were dragged out from the heater, kicked as closely to the sink/cabinet hybrid as he could manage while still being able to reach them at the end of his chain. The tricky part was a labour intensive, patience obliterating game of trial and error. On his back with held breath for the added inch or two he could achieve with the the chain pulled taut, he used his feet to grip the gowns at one end, using his whole body to whip them up atop the dusty counter and slowly drag it down. His goal was to catch the old metal scalpel and drag it to where he could reach it with his prize-performing feet. Really, the scissors might work just as well. Both would be an added bonus. The issue was actually getting the light fabric to land forcefully enough so that it didn't merely glide over the metal tools. With that ticking clock raising the ante he found himself doing everything from meditating and humming, to listing prime numbers and saying Hail Mary's. Anything that would keep his rampant catecholamines in check.

Stay calm... Stay cool.

Timothy Drake. Tim was an excellent face to focus on for this exercise. The small abandoned child picked up for petty crimes. The Dark Knight recalled plucking the boy out of trouble and dropping him off with the proper authorities. It was later on that Bruce Wayne found himself thinking of the poor boy's plight. Foster care wouldn't help a boy like that. The too street-wise for his tender age, clutching a genuine batarang... Bruce had visited the orphanage Tim was place in numerous times with gifts of books and clothing for the needy children. When he had time, the billionaire playboy liked to shrug off the hype and read to them. Reading was important to him, and important to developing young minds. A beautiful harmony. Bruce made it a point to visit every week. Tim was a small boy in some self-imposed vow of silence. It had taken a few visits where he purposely stayed later to talk to the boy before he even got a word. Tim was still quiet and introspective, but he had been coming out of his shell of late. Tim was starting to trust that he wasn't going to abandon his youngest son and now because of this... How do I make it up to..?

The fabric snagged and he froze.

This is it. Be careful. Slow.

He tried to be, anyway. The pain filed under 'I don't give a shit right now' didn't agree with his filing system. His invasive fissure was mostly to blame. Definitely an area worth investigating as soon as possible. Later. He growled. Gently... Just a little tug here, a shift there. Oh, that beautiful sound of metal. He prayed it was the scalpel, would be happy with the scissors... was rewarded with both falling to the ground musically.Christmas came a whole three weeks early. Giddy satisfaction bubbled over gloriously... Promptly cut short. Footsteps echoed down the hall towards his lonely medical room. It was a race to shimmy back in place, taking the gowns with him. He was clammy with cooling sweat and out of breath when the door creaked open to reveal Edward Nygma. But if he's here... Did he do it already? Was I too late? Bruce bit his lip and waited for Nygma to talk.

The Riddler was oddly quiet. He stared at the bound Knight as if seeing him fully for the first time. All of him. As a whole, both Bruce and Batman and the true man they formed... He had never seen anybody truly seehim before. It was disturbing yet... strangely exhilarating. He had never not had something to hide. Nygma screwed up his eyes and stared seemingly through him now. Then at the cabinet before unhurriedly returning his eyes to where they had first rested. His costumed boots made a distinct sound as he chanced a few steps closer. "You look like you're in a great deal of pain." When Bruce said nothing Nygma continued. "I... heard." As if that was suppose to explain anything. "I wanted to let you know that Doctor Holm will survive. I'm letting him go."

"...Why?"

"You played the game well, my Dark Knight Detective and upon reflection I agree that the odds were too stacked. But that's not really why."

"You're interested in money, fame, and winning. You have nothing to gain from taking his life. You already won by figuring out my secret. But letting him go will give you an even greater narcissistic pleasure. You're sparing a man I failed. Dr. Holm will spend the rest of his life knowing he's alive because of you."

"Guilty, Batman. I will confess to entertaining that thought however, I wish to say that there are other reasons here that will never cross your mind. One perhaps being... you care that he lives."

As if, Nygma. "When has that ever swayed you before? And for that matter, why not the other two men and the girl, Sophie Brant? What about them?"

"Holm I have a say over." The Riddler answered easily. "The Joker gave him to me for the game. I tell the Joker I killed him, no questions asked. Jeremiah Arkham isn't going anywhere just because of who he is. The other guy and Arkham are playing punch-bags for the clown's thugs. The girl has been within arms reach of the Joker since he shot her. Not much I can do for them. Not safely, anyway."

"Then I suppose I will just thank you for doing one right thing." He spoke evenly... but honestly. If the Riddler wanted to make Holm one less life he was responsible for, then by all means. "Thank you, Edward." His voice was softer... pulled from the depths of exhaustion. I'm getting weaker. I might be too weak to do what needs doing. His eyes drifted shut. And wouldn't it be so easy to just sleep? It's never has nor will it ever be easy to sleep. He reminded himself with a chuckle. "What are you doing?"

"Don't sound so surprised." The Riddler was so much closer to him, kneeling with one bent leg flat up against one of his own. The man's left arm came to rest on the ground just inside his thigh. "I've been thinking over how many instances it's seemed that separate actions taken by both the Batman and Bruce Wayne have worked towards thwarting criminal activities, ousting crooked cops and officials, and incarcerated us... For treatment, of course. You fight this war on two fronts with identical ideals... And no one ever stops to put that together. You act so genuinely spoiled in public..."

Bruce pursed his lips. Placing blame on the head injury, there were too many undercurrents he felt he wasn't grasping.

"Now I have the keystone piece of the interlocking puzzles. What drives the Batman to cling to the shadows? What pushes you so hard to never fail? How cold you have acquired the vast knowledge and skills in so short a life? How do you afford all those nifty toys? These are riddles I have the piece to finally discern. You hide in the shade. Afraid, Bruce? Afraid of what the light might make you see about yourself? Afraid you'll see once more there is a weakness inside you you'll never be rid of? You cowered once and you believe you failed them. You failed to protect your parents. I'm certain an army of child psychologists have worked over the years to convince you you're a victim too. It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could do... So, Bruce Wayne gets shipped off to the best boarding schools and universities throughout America and Europe. I didn't have to look much further then your fan-created website to find that there are too many random courses in your educational career, that don't fit the path of a business mogul... And no business degree. You've been cherry picking the knowledge for years, haven't you? And your inheritance has paid the way to to achieving this lifestyle, naturally."

"Congratulations, Nygma. You can use a search engine and type my name and everything. I'm public record. It's not hard."

"You're right. Took me half an hour to read up on you from the comforts of this bunker. Imagine how many people have read up on Bruce, never realizing? Your socialite friends? Your business associates? I've been wondering how you deceive those close to you but assume you are of a finer moral cloth then your friends at Arkham."

"I do what's necessary." You will not worm your way into my mind, Nygma.

The Riddler's head tilted to one side, better to look at him. "Now see, I would have believed Batman. But I'm looking at the what's behind the curtain while I'm watching this play. You do what you want to do, Bruce. You do it because it makes it hurt a little less inside. Saving people."

I know that. It's just... strange to hear someone else say it. But it's not an insight I haven't already had.

"You're a band-aid on this cancerous city and you know it. You can't stand the way things are but your self-appointed duty is a shot of morphine... You're addicted, my friend."

I love this city. Did he truly? I do, I do! It's... their home. They loved it, the went damn well near bankruptcy trying to make it a better place. They... Thomas and Martha Wayne had been murdered in Gotham. They were buried under the fall of a mild winter rain. Black, greasy water staining the snow, and following his parents six feet under. The city's ugliness had gotten two philanthropists murdered. Orphaned me... Still. They loved Gotham. There is good here. There has to be... I just wish I would see it as easily as they could.

Nygma cupped his face with a hand. It shocked him into a rare unguarded expression.

"You know what is the most fascinating thing about you?" The Riddler's smile was small and private. Existing here for him alone to see. "Your willpower, Bruce. You have every reason and resource to run away... You'll never do it. This place will beat you one day, but you'll go down fighting. I... admire that quality in you. So rare... Beautiful." The smile widened as Nygma's body moved closer, an arm snaking around behind him...

Is he..? Bruce parted his lips, eyes fixated on The Riddler. Why would he want to ki--

Nygma pulled back, his quiet smile turning childishly playful.

"What..?" He hated how stupid he sounded.

"This is what I'm talking about." The Riddler said sweetly. In his hands, Bruce noticed he toyed with the makeshift rope he had constructed out of the hospital gowns. "You're not going to sit tight here. Not while there is work to be done and people to save, right?"

He grit his teeth and said nothing. Nor did he even think about how he was certain-- Nor will I even think about thinking about it. Ever.

"A beautiful machine you are, Bruce. I'm a little inspired, myself."

Inspired? The Riddler stood quite suddenly, rope in hand and walked towards the door, never quite making it there. He turned slowly and simply watched Bruce recover from... Whatever I am recovering from. He looked at Nygma's hands again. He can take it. I'll make another one.

"My, Bruce... Whatever did you want over here?" The Riddler mused, toeing the old medical instruments on the ground. "The scissors or the scalpel? And what did you intend to do with it?"

I... He knew lying wouldn't work. Not the Nygma and his new found fascination with him. But what did he do? His stomach fluttered and his tiring mind provided no answer. "I wanted both." he went with the truth betting on Nygma's recent bizarre behavior. "I intended to escape with them."

"Oh?" The Riddler pondered this, frowned, and then gave up. "That's steel..." After another thoughtful pause, Nygma sighed. "Answer something for me, Bruce?"

Time to raise the stakes or fold..."What is it?"

"You don't use guns. I am aware of your moral code against killing, understandable all things considered... But you can shoot a man in the leg or shoulder to take him down easily. You don't." Nygma seemed to be picking his words carefully now. "It's because of the Wayne, shooting. But there must be more to it. If your parents had died in a car crash, I believe you would still be driving fast cars today. Can you tell me why that is?"

Having never been asked such a question... There was something inside him that cried out to that. Some part of him that had needed to be asked about the gun. Needed to confession.

Thomas was holding his hand, Martha the playbill and her clasp purse. He had a well-loved cloth Gray Ghost doll in his loose hand. It was snowing, it was Christmas, and it was perfect. The street looked like the main street in 'It's a Wonderful Life', and they were heading there by a shortcut through a side street. Martha stopped with a gasp. The gun was luminant despite the shallow light. The first gun he had ever seen. It excited him, this strange instrument. It was a forbidden, dangerous appeal to a small boy of six. But that excitement turned to terror. The yellowed, rotten teeth of the desperate man glinted like the gun. The barrel raised, Thomas gave the man his wallet. The man was frightened, he almost ran... Thomas and Martha almost survived. Martha's pearls lit up under the moonlight, and fate was sealed. The man grabbed for them, Thomas moved to protect his mother, pushing him aside, and fell. Martha screamed, and the man in a panic shot her too. Then the gun swung over to point at him, shell-shocked between his dead mother and dying father. The man's gun brushed his nose and the hand holding it trembled, but Bruce didn't scream. He couldn't... He...

"It has power." he whispered, half caught in the memory he held so close to his heart. "The people threatened by it, the people who use them, the people who hear the shots, see the cold glow of the barrel... It has power over them all. It was a lot of work, desensitizing myself to the sounds and the flashes but... Guns can take a life so quickly, the person using could kill before they even knew they had. That same person in that same situation with a knife..? Things could end differently. A gun, though? Squeeze the trigger and that's it, you can't stop what you started. They terrify me."

"I'm sorry I asked." The Riddler said after a long moment, sounding as if he honestly meant it.

There was a sound of scraping metal before the scissors and scalpel slid into the view of his downcast eyes. He stared at them unbelievingly before looking up at Nygma. "Edward?"

"Let's see how you persevere, shall we?"

"Edward..." He trailed off. The Riddler made no move to leave the room and he had to wonder if the man intended to stick around and watch him twist and contort in the ways he was going to to get this straight jacket off. "You're going to... to watch?" What was with the stuttering?

The Riddler shrugged a shoulder. "You can't tell me you suffer from performance anxiety, Bruce. You're whole life is sleight of hand and costumes."

Well, this is another peculiar twist. It didn't matter that he spent his days hitting the dressing room for costumes and different characters. This was... Different. He was suddenly very shy. If he's going to be here couldn't I keep him talking? I don't want him to watch me wiggle around in deafening silence... "Isn't the Joker going to be a little if he finds you here just watching me escape?"

The Riddler chose to study him working the scissors into his toes securely, surgical steel slicing him here and there, before he answered. "Oh, he's not here right now."

Bruce paused where he was, rolled close enough to the wall for it to push against his knees, to ease the surgical scissor into the clasp between his legs. "He's not here." He reiterated. "Where is he?"

"Working on something for you, apparently."

That's... great. "You're not going to tell me what that is, are you?" The jacket and clasp were custom built to withstand Croc's shifting and pulling, but there was a way around that, one Croc would probably never figure out on his own, or even be capable of. I should know... I designed the bloody thing.

"You know, Bruce, if I knew... I may have told you. He's crazier then everybody thinks he is. My skin crawls when he's in the same room as I am."

"So, why work with him?" He arched as gracefully as he could for his audience.

"Because he can really get the job done. He brought you to me, didn't he? I was so thrilled to be able to match wits with you in person. It's a privilege I would pay any price for." Nygma stared blankly as the clasp clicked, and the strap abraising his privates slipped free. "Goodness, you actually got it open."

"Perseverance..." He groaned, rolling to a sitting position despite the numerous cramps and muscle spasms. Remember the 'I don't give a shit right now', file? "For my next feat, I'll open the ones behind me with nothing but this handy scalpel and my extreme flexibility." The Riddler laughed, and he smiled wryly... Hey, since when am I anybody's entertainment? This thought was contemplated upon while he did just as he said he would ; fluidly and certainly he set the standard in scalpel lock-picking time. He took perhaps a second too long to simply enjoy the loosening coat... But truly, free movement was a gift taken for far too much granted. Shrugging it off was even better, but the sudden weightlessness stole his balance and he caught himself too late to prevent hitting his already bruised temple against the wall heater. Dizzy, he was sent stumbling backwards...

...Into The Riddler's arms. Where he possibly hung wordlessly and slack-jawed for a significant amount of time. Any yet, The Riddler supported his weight patiently and even helped to straighten him when Bruce decided movement was better then hanging around.

"Okay, Nygma. You watched me squirm... So now what? Do you have something waiting for me outside this door you want me to walk right into?"

The Riddler actually pouted slightly. "I would think you of all people would have realized I am trying a new angle here." Nygma shredded the home-made rope easily and held up a tatter to his temple. "I've always found you fascinating as Batman, but I find Bruce Wayne's methods to be simply inspiring."

"What are you--"

"You're bleeding. Stop fidgeting for a moment." While that wasn't the answer to the question he was in the middle of asking about, he felt compelled to comply. "I'm taking Doctor Holm out of here in a minute. That will be my cover story, naturally. You, on the other hand, will be all by your lonesome with the other two shrinks, and the joker's boys. I don't believe you'll find better odds later."

I don't believe I will either. But this is too easy. Too convenient. "Nygma... Why?"

The Riddler tore off another piece of the gown to replace the blood-soaked shred he discarded. "My methods... They don't work as well as yours. So logically I will try to do things your way."

He studied The Riddler suspiciously. What the hell? I want to believe they can get better. Maybe this is Nygma's second chance. Maybe all he needs is someone to support him in this? "Okay, Nygma."

"I like how you say my first name." The Riddler admitted quietly, and waited.

I want to help him, but I've wasted enough time already. The Joker's not here to stops me. One glance up softened his resolve to brusquely run with his preliminary plan. The Riddler had made this possible, after all. "Thank you for your help, Edward. I mean it. Please save the doctor for me."

Edward nodded softly and pulled away. "May I see you later?"

What? When I'm out of this place? When this whole mess is resolved? "Yes, of course." He replied quickly.

"Good." Edward vanished with a queer grin.

No time to wonder why, either.
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Tears and Rain