Polly Solves the Riddler

Part 1

Not the smirk he was infamous for, his Riddler trademark. But one he reserved for her. Soft and full, it reached his eyes and they'd remain, he and she, lost in a moment. Sometimes she'd have the chance to smile back, but mostly he looked away before she could.

Lingering citrus of the cleaner he prefers she use when wiping down every non-carpeted surface. He likes things just so, and she assures they are. Lying belly down on the gold and peach lumpy kitchen linoleum, she presses her right cheek to it and sighs, breathing in that citrus till her eyes sting beneath its strength. Cooling tendrils linger up her face, alleviating some of the heat. The hardness of the floor forces her breathing to stabilize.

She recalls the first time she ever cleaned for him. He watched her like a sweatshop manager would an employee. His long, slender fingers jabbed towards every streak, overlooked smudge and pooled cleaner she left in her wake. Her own fingers shook; not from fear, but from something else. A deep tension low in her abdomen she'd only felt once before. Though never like that and never so frequently.

Soon she cleaned without his supervision. It was nice to be trusted, but she missed his watchful eyes. That was the first day they kissed.

He'd been huddled over that cluttered work bench, glasses pushed back onto his head like a crown, absent-mindedly scratching his forehead.

"Fucking hell," he'd said.

Polly bit her lip, watching him and waiting - hoping he'd ask for her assistance. She'd already proven her intellect matched his, so it would only make sense. He didn't. His pride kept him stumped for over an hour.

When she couldn't stand it any longer, the solution to his confusion so plain, she kept her fingers, hands, arms from trembling and adjusted his mechanism. He squinted at her, but didn't swat her away. She had to lean over to complete the task. It brought their faces inches apart; she could feel his breath pool on her cheek and bare arms.

Gulping, she forced herself to focus.

His eyes lit up, and he gave her the smirk that would soon belong to her. "That's it!"

She straightened, watching his fingers go to work at undoing and replicating. Her chest puffed out and her shoulders squared as she looked on. The anger she feared he'd lash at her never came. Instead, he jumped to his feet, the sudden motion tossing his glasses to the work bench's surface with a clank that caused her heart to lurch. His six-foot height dwarfed her five-foot three-inches as he gripped her shoulders. The neon lights that danced along his features made him look slightly less like himself and more like the Joker.

Something akin to madness.

As she began to shrink back, he pulled her to him. Their lips met briefly. It was rough, emotionless and over before she knew how to feel. Knew how to respond. He glanced at the mechanism while still gripping her shoulders. Then it hit him, what he'd done.

His gaze wandered back to her face, a face that was all wide-eyes and blush. He loosened his grip, running his left hand up to cradle her chin and brought his lips a few inches from hers. He let her decide. They remained separate for only a second because she knew, had known all along, that she would kiss him if given the chance.

This kiss, their second, was longer, slower and sweet. His lips glided against hers like they were old friends. Familiarity and obvious practice made her knees weak. He swung her around, propping her up against the edge of his workbench, without parting from her. Eventually her hands and arms gained action and wrapped around his waist. She breathed him in, noticing for the first time his scent.

Now, lying face down on the linoleum, a tear slides down her cheek. She curses and slams her fist into the fridge. It shakes, its towering form threatening to come down on her. So what if it did?