Chapter Text
A cold shaking hand knocked on the glass doors of the diner. You ran out from the kitchen, smoothing out your skirt and wiping flour off of your hands with one of the rags from the kitchen. You looked to the door, not knowing who or what to expect.
Ever since the masked man that calls himself The Riddler had begun wreaking havoc on the city of Gotham, security at the diner had tightened up. Not a single square inch wasn't under the watchful eye of nine security cameras, and your manager had installed a lock on the door that could only be opened by an employees key, or the press of a button hidden under the main counter. He had encouraged you to take a good look at possible customers before letting them in, seeing as crime rates in the area were skyrocketing, and the bank just four blocks from the diner had been robbed only a week earlier, resulting in death of the poor bank teller that fell victim to the morbid side of the city.
You looked at the man standing behind the glass door and you pressed the button, thinking he couldn't possibly hurt a fly.
"Good evening, you're welcome to take a seat wherever you find fit," The door automatically shut behind him. He jumped as it did, seeming startled by the loud thud it caused.
"We're a but understaffed right now, my apologies for the limited menu." He sat at the front counter by the register and pushed up the clear frames of his round glasses as he did so. You handed him a menu and moved away from him to whipe down the tables, giving him time to gloss over his limited choices. Once you had finished cleaning all five tables, you circled back to your spot behind the counter.
"What can I get for you?" He looked up from the menu you had handed him, seeming surprised that you had spoken to him. "Um- A coffee, please." He looked you in the eyes as he ordered, they were wide and clueless as you asked him "Can I get anything else for you? Pumpkin pie just came out of the oven, it's hot and ready." He stuttered
again as he agreed. "S-sure, yes, one slice of that, please." You sound his manners charming and went back to the kitchen to get his coffee and pie with a smile on your face, happy you let him in.
The man smiled to himself as you worked in the kitchen. He had come to the diner to see if it had aged much since the sixties, when an elderly couple was shot and killed in a drive-by while they were out for breakfast. He had an idea for another live-stream: a riddle that The Batman would have thirty minutes to solve before he would detonate a bomb in the diner. Something like "What's a blast from the past that'll soon be up in ash?"
But the second his eyes met yours, and he felt his heart fall to his feet, he knew he couldn't do such a thing to a place where you could be.
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It was his second night visiting the diner, he had gone there for a different reason tonight: to see you . He couldn’t even fathom that you had spoken to him, he was even more shocked when you had complimented his sweater. “I like your sweater, Is it soft?” He couldn't control how quickly blood rushed to his face. “I- I think so- I-”
Two hours later you told him “I’m sorry, sir, we close in five minutes.” As you walked out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. It was already two hours to midnight and he couldn't believe what that meant. He had watched you mop and scrub and bake and cook and sweat for two hours. He had also talked to you while you worked for two hours. You had re-filled his cup of coffee at least our times and it was starting to affect him. His eyes were wide and alert, and his hands shook as he signed the receipt. The adrenaline fueled solely by caffeine and the fact that he had never even held hands with a woman before urged him to say the simplest “I never got your name,” You liked it. He had been nervous all night and he had slowly become less tense the longer he talked to you. You told him you’re name, to which he replied “That’s quite lovely, I’m Edward,” He reached out to shake your hand and felt like an idiot, all until you shook it with two hands and said “Hello, Ed,” God, it was so dorky and childish but it made his heart felt like it was beating out of his chest like he was going to die at any second because his heart had ripped itself out from his chest and was lying on the floor in a pool of the blood it was supposed to be pumping.
But that was last night, and this was now. He felt like a fool knocking on the door again. Like he was a puppy dog bringing a bird he had just slaughtered to your door. The more nights he came knocking on your door, the nicer he started to look. Although you didn’t start to notice until night thirteen when you told him the green sweater he was wearing matched the color in his eyes. He blushed at that, and walked home like a stupid giddy teenager, like you liking his sweater meant you liked his eyes, which meant you liked a part of him. He wrote on scraps of paper when he got back to the shambles of push pins, red string, magazine clippings, and excerpts from newspapers that he called an apartment. He might as well have been lying on his bed kicking his feet, writing in a diary with a fluffy pink pen when he wrote about you.
The day after he wrote, he called the local library that he often frequented to ask if they housed any old newspapers that he could use for more research on past killings in the city, but when the line stopped wringing, he was greeted by your voice. “Gotham City Library, how may I help you?” He immediately hung up, buttoned up his raincoat, and walked himself down to the library.