A/N: After posting "I Think I Got You Beat," I received some very lovely reviews, including a request for more Joan Leland and Edward Nygma stories. Having become quite attached to this underappreciated, albeit exceptionally odd, pairing for the animated Batman series, I present another fine piece of literature featuring the good doctor and our favorite Riddle Master. Please note this is to be read as a follow-up story for "I Think I Got You Beat".

Title: Error in Judgment

Summary: He is nothing if not a genius. She is not if not cunning.

Characters: Dr. Joan Leland, Edward Nygma/The Riddler

Rating: T for some failed romantic inclinations

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters associated with Batman: The Animated Series (1990).

"Don't play games with a girl who can play them better."

~ Author Unknown

There is a phenomenon that exists within this world, lingering amongst all but explored by only the most reckless and foolish. A puzzle complex and mind-boggling in its intricacies. A great span of territory that many a lesser man would dare claim explored, even tamed. Especially tamed. Many a lesser man would like to think himself as great as to have conquered this mess of psychological mayhem, but in the end, none had managed to even come close. And thus, this formidable foe, known succinctly as the woman's mind, has remained without full conquest.

But he, Edward Nygma—Master of Puzzles great and small, Conqueror of Complexities, Master of the Mind-Boggling, Awe-Inspiring Genius of Gotham (hold applause, please)—is about to change all of that.

He is about to embark on this supposedly treacherous venture to conquer the female mind. But not just any mind...oh no, definitely not just any woman. He, Edward Nygma—see previously-mentioned qualifications—was out to conquer the mind of Gotham's single most infuriating female of them all: Joan Leland.

Joan Leland—certified examiner of minds, collector of personal thoughts, investigator of childhood memories and other unmentionable areas of the human psyche. Joan Leland—graduate of Harvard Medical (she's probably still paying back the loans), as stiff and sexless as that infernal white lab coat she always hid behind (or underneath, as the case stands), with a sense of humor akin to a dejected rock on the side of the road. Poor creature, left behind in the dust of other's romantic escapades with none to call her own.

But he, Edward Nygma—Romantic Revolutionary, Calculating Cupid, Romeo to Romance's Rejects—is here to save the day.

Naturally, such a venture is to be taken most seriously. To simply dash forward and sweep the lady off her feet would end in tears; he had a suspicion she might nail herself to the floor. The traditional forms of romantic courtship were also unavailable: floral arrangements had been banned ever since that nasty incident with Miss Isley and the star-struck delivery man, and the "chocolate" served only once every week in the asylum had clearly been made with the bad part of the cow's milk. Ergo, he was going to have to get creative.

But he, Edward Nygma, is nothing if not creative.

Now, he had been locked up for a little too long without proper female accompaniment. If he was to properly succeed in his mission, he would need to research the perfect method. And that is precisely why Life presently finds him in the asylum's library, poring over a considerably sized collection of books. Romance novels, to be precise.

He is quite disappointed in the lacking selection offered here. Most of the novels have only one setting: the beach. For Lord's sake, what is he supposed to do, lug a half-ton of white sand to her office and drop in a palm tree? Surely romance occurred in more modern settings. Perhaps a moonlit balcony in the heart of the city? Maybe a rainy street smack in the middle of downtown? Even a professional office isn't terribly far-fetched, is it?

Alright, maybe a professional office in an asylum for the criminally insane is a little improbable, but not impossible. People need to get a little creative in their literary ventures. Perhaps he shall invest in writing some romance novels as a side career...show people how it was really done.

He shakes his head. Focus.

With an idle toss, he dismisses the book he'd been sifting through for the last half hour and moves on to his next selection. An idle look downward brings his eyebrows up with a grin following suit.

Well now...this looks promising: a cover depicting a star-struck lady, dressed stylishly in a formal gown with her hair in near-disarray, drawn into the arms of a well-built fellow with a dark suit and auburn hair. Clearly, there was meant to be a blatant resemblance to himself; they just mixed up the hair colors. The background set appeared to be an office party of sorts, with a wintery backdrop just outside the window. Yes, this is far closer to his personal tastes. And actually manageable!

...Well, alright, maybe she wouldn't be caught dead in a formal gown, especially in this place. But the suit is relatively doable for him...it simply requires a little venture into the evidence room and a small bribe for the guard on duty. A little rearranging in her office, and it will be just perfect.

Now, the final problem in need of solution: how to make it snow?

An odd mixture of baby powder, flour, and sugar isn't exactly ideal for the romantic setting, and it isn't going to extend much past her window, but it is the overall effect that counts…though frankly, the wretched contraption he'd had to design just to give the illusion of snow was almost more trouble than it was worth. Getting it above the window ledge had nearly cost him a limb, and doing so without a passing guard noticing the shifting shape inside Leland's office had been along the lines of an achieved miracle.

But it is about to be worth it.

He checks the clock: two minutes until four o'clock. Perfect. He makes some last minute adjustments on his jacket to smooth out any wrinkles (appearances were, contrary to popular belief, everything) and settles himself comfortably on the settee. She really needs to trade it out for something modern. White leather is quite unattractive, particularly amidst the white walls, white tile floors, white-washed shelves...

...this place needs color. Badly. But that is a problem to be solved another day.

The office door opens, and he, Edward Nygma, strikes his pose. It is, as they say, show time.

"I can't say I don't understand to some extent why you gave him a full year of Bad Conduct time," Bartholomew comments as he pours a cup of coffee, "but was the solitary time really necessary, Joan?"

"It's only for a week." Joan Leland answers calmly, sipping her own coffee while perusing the newspaper. The faculty lounge is delightfully quiet at this hour of the morning; the overly-ambitious interns haven't arrived yet (which ensures the coffee pot will be full and fresh a little while longer) and conversation between two doctors is much easier to achieve when one does not have to scream over inane chatter. "I'm sure Mr. Nygma will make a full recovery in no time."

Bartholomew makes an unconvinced mumble, and she rolls her eyes, "Really, Joshua, you act like I physically harmed him. The only damage I caused was to his ego. And frankly, it could do with a blow now and then."

"Oh, I suppose you're right." he nods, settling down beside him, "Though I must ask you...you didn't look at all surprised to see that admirable but completely ridiculous setup," Joan could agree only on the second point; there was very little admirable about finding her office furniture rearranged into some haphazard idea of a queen-sized bed, "Did you...suspect something?"

Joan shrugs idly, "I saw him slip into my office earlier. The smile on his face told me quite clearly that he was up to some sort of trouble." She sips her coffee again, "Though I must admit...I didn't expect him to go to such extreme lengths. He really should consider a career in interior design."

"But…why then didn't you stop him right then and there?" the elder looks quite bewildered at her nonchalant attitude toward the whole affair, "The man was working in there for almost five hours!"

She smiles quietly over the rim of her cup, "You don't say."