Chapter Text
“You’re a fucker!” Jason spits in his face, “You can’t make me do nothing!”
Riddler’s face scrunches in disgust at the proximity. He takes a step back and replies evenly, “You will find that I can. I am under no obligation to permit you knowledge of her whereabouts.”
“I can help!”
Riddler chuckles, “With a tire iron?”
He crosses his arms, “I can use a gun,” he declares with a moody scoff.
He dismisses the fuming teenager with a wave of his hand, “I have it handled, boy.”
Jason’s already tense posture becomes rigid. His jaw clenches, teeth gritting. Riddler assumes he’s about to unleash a barrage of angry immature screams but he is mildly surprised when he harshly scoffs and ultimately backs down. He turns on his heel and begins to tramp away.
“And where are you going, perchance?”
He doesn’t stop, instead in response waving a hand haphazardly over his shoulder, “To find a gun in case you let Steph die.”
Delusional, hormonal, imprudent, harebrained teenager. With as much faith— patience Riddler so graciously gives the boy, compared to everyone else, at the end of the day he is still simple, predictable.
Riddler motions for one of his goons to break down the door. It comes down with a loud, unsatisfying thunk. Five minions in total accompany him on his excursion. The brawn to his brains. Riddler smoothly draws his handgun, lips twinged with a sly smirk. This particular room in the warehouse seems to be used for drinking, gambling, and other substances, by the smell. All four men jump and loudly curse. The leader pulls a gun of his own but they are all outmatched by Riddler’s men.
“Riddle me this, Carson, what do you do when a cocky, empty headed ignoramus personally insults you?”
He scowls, eyes darting between every threat in the room, “The fuck are you talking about?” his gruff tone barely disguises his budding panic.
“Why, my on and off again business partner, Cluemaster. I presume he would not be pleased with the abduction of his only daughter.”
Half truth. Riddler knows for a fact that Arthur cares very little for the activity and status of his daughter, but Riddler doubts he’d appreciate her death, or worse. If it is worse then Riddler presumes he will have to fit in some extra maiming into his precious schedule.
The man just laughs, shaking his head, “Guess you don’t know your partner all too well. He offered her up.”
Pause. Riddler was not wrong. He is never wrong. His finger twitches on the trigger. No that’d be— He foresaw this the whole time. Definitely. Logically. He forces back the shock that he does not have on his face.
The asshat must notice something on Riddler’s face that is not there, for he continues smugly, “Little bitch is insurance.”
Ah. Insurance.
INSURANCE!?
Stephanie’s not scared. She can’t be. The moment she gets scared, she loses control. She’s not scared, just… in survival mode. She tells herself this over and over again, has been for hours. The room is cold, and smells like stale water from the canal mixed with pot. A leaky pipe keeps dripping on her head, lightly wetting her scuffed hair. The ropes dig into the bare skin of her arms and wrists. They burn, from her prior resisting. Those fuckers left her tied up and gagged in some random storage room in a warehouse. It sucks, but at least they’re leaving her alone, for now.
A shudder rips through her at the memory of one the thugs from earlier, how he’d looked her d— How he’d said—
Nothing happened. She inhales harshly through her nose. You’re okay. You’ve got this.
The door creaks open. Her body stiffens, mind cycling through every possible threat she’s about to face. Get ready get ready don’t be scared—
A stupid green suit accompanied by a hat with an even stupider brim. She’s never been so relieved to receive such a dumb sight. But what she didn’t anticipate are the several dark splatters of blood staining his garish clothes. He’s holding his gun up in the air, peering down at her.
“Ah, there you are,” he notes, so casual.
She feels her throat make this terrible, choked noise, muffled behind the gag.
At that, his eyes narrow. The gun is tucked away, then he’s strolling across the miserable room to her. He kneels down and reaches behind her head, gloved hands carefully separating her hair so he can untie the gag. He tosses it aside with something akin to disgust flickering across his face.
She gulps several breaths down, not realizing how badly she needed them. Her chest is hammering so painfully. She wants to get out of these damn restraints — needs to. Her voice sounds so pitiful, dry and quivering, she hates it, “My… it was my dad.”
He shrugs off her words, “Obviously.”
Reaching into his suit jacket, he extracts a multi tool. The blade flicks up with a soft shink. Firm hands grab at her bound wrists. She lets him pull them closer to himself, watching as he works away at the thick rope.
I wasn’t scared. She feels her lip quiver against her will. But I can’t help feeling this way.
Her father has done so much to hurt her since the day she was dragged into the world. The kindest being his prolonged absence from her life. The worst being the cruel, painful hands. And what he did to Mom. But never has he injected his literal daughter into his field of work. Never has he shoved her into the direct line of fire.
And she doesn’t know what she’d do if Mom lost her. She needs Stephanie.
Her wrists are red, irritated, rubbed raw and having been constricted for hours, so many hours…
Riddler’s hand wraps around her ankle, making her mind white out. Her chest screams. Then it’s gone. She feels the blade slip into her hand. And the breath she hadn’t realized was stuck in her throat is allowed to be released. She makes quick work of the rest of her binds.
“I…” she exhales, shaky, “That— That sucked.”
Next thing she knows, Stephanie is being guided into a car, led by a gloved hand gripping her upper arm. She must have zoned out. It's a stark contrast to her previous state, hyper aware, vigilant, narrowed in on every sound, every movement. Now? The pressure of the world slinks down onto her body, holding her under. She feels as if she just ran a fucked up marathon. Her brain is buzzing with dull, devitalized sensation. But it’s almost okay, not having to be the one to drag herself out of this one. Especially considering that it wasn’t even her fault this time that she got caught up in something dire.
When the world smoothes out and the buzzing quiets into a slight thrum, she finds herself sat on a cot that is covered by a plastic sheet. Metal noises chime from somewhere distant. It smells like sanitizer and machine oil.
Jason is sitting in one of those spinny chairs, the ones with the wheels. He’s in front of her with a moody, but determined expression. One hand is holding her wrist, another gently rubbing some kind of cream or ointment into her skin. Storming blue eyes flick up to hers, then flash with recognition, “Hey Steph.”
She swallows a couple of times uselessly, throat dry. Her tongue presses to the roof of her mouth, then makes a short click sound. Then, exhale, “Hey doofus.”
His small smile is comforting, “How you feeling blondie?”
She releases a harsh, stuttery laugh, “Like I fought Killer Croc.”
“Did you win?”
“Please. It was lightwork.”
Something seems to break and before either realize it, they’re pulling each other into a big, secure hug. Messy hair awkwardly gets into Jason’s face, he doesn’t care. Once scrawny arms, now filling out, wrap a little too tightly around Stephanie, she soaks it in. And she finally lets herself cry.
She wants to say, “Jason you baby, don’t cry,” but her choked sob is what comes out instead. He grits his teeth, but she hears his mirrored sound anyways.