#fat riddler

"Riddle me this, Batman...”

Edward lay sprawled across his lavish velvet loveseat with both legs kicked up over the top of the tall armrest on the far end while his head lay squashed into the crook of the shorter armrest on the other end. With his suit jacket tossed to the floor (it no longer closed all the way), his shirt untucked (it threatened to burst open at the seams if he didn’t leave some breathing room), and his pants open at the fly, both the button and the zipper (Christ, did he even have to explain that one?), he glowered down at the pudge that still managed to spill over his loose waistband and pool at the center of his abdomen, a soft, chunky starter belly that was far too big to be contained and far too noticeable to be ignored any longer.

"What probable cause could there be,” he continued, gesturing wildly with one hand swinging through the air as he poked at his chubby middle with his other hand, “in any shape of the word, to possibly even begin to explain to me with logical reasoning why all of my clothes have suddenly become so tight?!"

Of course, there was no one there to answer him. He was alone, thank god, and though he would have killed to have waltzed down to the Iceberg Lounge to drag some poor sucker up here to his apartment so that he could gab their ear off about woes of his life at any other given moment, today, he didn’t dare. He wouldn’t dare. Not like this. Not when he looked so…

So puffy.

Edward pushed himself up a smidge, bracing his weight atop his elbows as he sneered down at himself more properly. He didn’t understand. How in the hell had he gotten so big?

It wasn’t all that noticeable just yet, but was uncomfortable, and if he stretched himself across a bar stool at just the right angle or tried to pull himself through a heavy door sliding shut before it trapped him inside somewhere he didn’t want to be, lately, the results had been much the same.

Oswald would comment on his “new look.”

The doors would nearly close on top of him, and he was left to squirm on his belly and scramble to reach his cane out for something to hook the top of the question mark around so that he could drag himself out the rest of the way to freedom.

It hadn’t always been like this. Edward would have noticed if the men who stared at him in the streets were looking at him in a way that said they wanted to eat him up rather than fill him up. He was always a pretty thing—tall and lithe, striking and smart, skinny as a pole and boasting with clothing that accentuated his appearance. Now, he was getting soft. He was getting fat.

With a pitiful sound, Edward shimmied himself up into a half-sitting position and tried to readjust his slacks. He grabbed both sides of the open waistband and wiggled it up higher until the fabric sat just above his belly button. The worst of his added weight hung low in a dip of his midsection that promised a big old beer belly akin to Oswald’s if he wasn’t careful, so Edward did what he did best while concocting the best schemes in his head to stop this madness from getting any worse—he tried to fix it. More specifically, he tried to hide it.

“Come on,” he said through gritted teeth, his cheeks going pink from embarrassment and exertion as he struggled to tug both sides together and close his pants up again. The zipper wasn’t going to budge, but if he could get them buttoned, he would surely be able to fix that. “Come on, come on… just—dammit, get in there already—!”

With some maneuvering (and some squishing his belly down until it was no longer a visible muffin top over the rim of his waistband), Edward pulled his slacks closed long enough to force the button through the hole and force them shut. He fiddled with the zipper and pulled it shut with shaking, achy fingers, then swung his legs over the edge of the loveseat to stand and reach for his suit coat.

He was going to fit into these clothes, dammit. Whatever disaster had happened earlier when he tried to put it all on and found himself too big to fit properly was over now that he had a new burst of energy. As he sucked his belly in and buttoned the coat up all the way—not missing a single button, even if it made a spectacular statement to leave a few open—he laughed in relief and success at his accomplishment.

Then, the sound of straining fabric followed.

Then, buttons flew. His zipper was pushed down. His suit coat dropped open, his belly forced its way past his slacks, and his feeble attempt at squeezing into his signature outfit was a bust.

“Dammit,” he muttered after the shock had passed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.