For /co/.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, the fingers of her other hand stilling on the keyboard. It figured, of course, that reliving the experience would be what gave her a migraine – worst case scenario when it was actually happening was that she had to smile wider and pretend she was doing something else. Very far away.

Not that all of the dates were bad, no. A fair few were, dare she say it, fun – if the men weren't convicted felons, she'd certainly have given some of them her number. Well, her real number.

Refocusing on the screen, she brought the memories to the forefront of her mind, instinctively placing them in relative order of enjoyment.

Despite the undeniable fact, she would have to say the Riddler date was the best: he was polite, he held the door, he made her laugh (deliberately, and more than once), and he certainly wasn't hard to look at. The perfect gentleman, if a bit stuck-up.

Such a pity...

-

"So this is your…fifth? release from Arkham, yes?"

The directness of the question did nothing to deter his knowing smile – it had been on his face since the date had begun, though, so she didn't look too much into it. "It is indeed. You could say the place has a bit of a revolving door."

Considering the place in question held people like the Joker and Killer Croc, she didn't know whether or not to shiver. She opted for dabbing her mouth with her napkin, and moving on with the conversation.

"Well, what do you do now that the police aren't all over you?"

Nigma leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. It looked for a moment as though he would answer her question with another question (as he had been doing nigh the entire night – she honestly wasn't sure how many more expectant pauses she would be expected to make before getting her non-answers), but he simply waved a hand and smiled wider. "Detective work here, designing electronics there. It seems I've been suited for life outside the box along."

"I imagine the government's certainly eager to keep you busy – "

"Would the two of you be enjoying dessert this evening?" their waiter inquired in his heavily accented voice.

Now it was her turn to smile: her boss had promised to pay for each and every date until this story was completed. It had seemed only fair, really.

The Riddler didn't wait for her to respond before turning to the waiter, answering in rapid-fire French. The waiter bowed at the both of them before scurrying off to complete the order, and Nigma returned his attention to her.

"You speak French, too?" It shouldn't have come as a surprise, as he had proven himself, throughout the course of the night, to be proficient in a great many languages. French, indeed, seemed tame by comparison.

He inclined his head. "I wouldn't be able to call myself 'The Riddler' if I didn't dabble in all forms of wordplay, now would I?"

Her mouth opened to reply with something possibly charming, perhaps coy, maybe witty, but suddenly her date stiffened, focus directed at the front of the restaurant. The smile on his face slowly melted into something positively wicked, and he excused himself.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him approach a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man (she vaguely recognized him as Bruce Wayne) with open arms. Wayne's posture was rigid as Nigma slung an arm about his shoulders, laughing.

Sighing, she dug a notebook out of her purse, and jotted down a single sentence before propping her elbow on the table and dumping her chin into her hand.

'Riddler is gay.'