.
To anyone who has read Chinese Boxes etc, forget all that story, wind back the canon clock eight years, lower your expectations a few notches, and forgive me. This is the opposite of my "serious" stuff, as I subvert Nolan's dramatic narrative and patch together favourite characters, scenes, and clichés in a two-parter salute to this wonderful fandom before slipping happily into the ranks of the readers. The idea comes from a remark in Plus ça Change, my last TDKR fic. Not sure if a warning is needed for the major slash subplot in the first part, but consider yourselves warned. It is all pretty tame anyway.
I originally meant the characters' ages to be the actors' ages in 2008, at the time TDK was released; thus Bruce would be 34, Rachel 30, Harvey 40, and Selina 25. Then nogood4me wisely pointed out that Bruce was 30 at the time of Batman Begins, which would make him 31 at the "canon" time of TDK, and that Selina' s database file in TDKR has her date of birth as September 21, 1985, meaning that she would be 23 at the time TDK came out. I have my doubts at Selina's status as a master thief at such a tender age; but will settle for Bruce's praise being blatant lust-fuelled flattery.
.
201 days
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June 10, 9 PM
"I love you."
She ends the call and delves back into the controlled pandemonium of the MCU HQ, unable to bring herself to say the words back. She knows Harvey means it, she has heard him say it and has said it herself to him times and times already… but the last time she heard these words they were said by another man, and she feels guilty by association. We can trust Bruce Wayne, she said; good thing Harvey did not see her cheeks burning. She can trust Bruce, but had Harvey known the truth, he never would. Harvey might have been wondering why she has been keeping her distance these past three days, since Bruce's fundraiser party; earlier in the day, they sat through most of the sombre memorial for Commissioner Loeb side by side but did not even touch hands; it was only when the scene exploded into chaos with the first gunshots that Harvey grabbed her, bodily, and led her to the armoured SUV. Caring, honest, dependable Harvey, the man she is considering spending her future with…
None of which stopped her when, after he had charged off to question Lau, practically ordering her not to follow after her close brush with death at the fundraiser, she stayed the night at Bruce's penthouse.
It was gratitude, and the aftermath of the adrenaline rush, that released the pent-up affection she had always felt for him but had been reluctant to show, not wanting to give him false hopes, knowing that his dreams of a life together were as fantastic as the tales of Batman's exploits; more so. It was sweet, and more than a little awkward, being with him; she had not expected herself to be so self-conscious. She certainly had not expected Bruce to be so self-conscious. For all his undeniable skill, for all his publicised conquests, he seemed too overawed by her, and she was too detached, still shaken and feeling guilty already, for their tryst to have held real passion. It felt as if he treated her like a holy relic, and she is not really into relics and pedestals and worship; she is too irreverent herself to be revered, and will take the silly antics she and Harvey get up to over all that, anytime. Worst of all, she knows Bruce can be different; just not with her. Then again, it makes her choice easier.
xxx
"Harvey called. He says Batman's going to turn himself in."
Standing in the stark glass-walled emptiness of the penthouse, she keeps her distance from Bruce, arms wrapped defensively around her chest. She does not want him to come close, let alone try any advances; he has sensed it and stays away, but the pain and longing seep through the sideways looks he is giving her. Is it really her that he longs for, or is it the symbol he has made her into? Don't make me your one hope for a normal life, she entreats him; he won't listen, just presses on with begging her for some sign of commitment. She tells him she meant her words a year ago, when she told him they could be together once he had hung up the cape; but even then she knew it to be a theoretical scenario, not a real prospect; now she only says yes because denying it would be a greater lie. He gets it all wrong, again; and when their lips touch, for a second she thinks that maybe there is chemistry between them, after all; but the kiss is the same as what they shared three nights ago, too careful, too reverent, almost chaste; and when she calls after him and says that they are not going to let the two of them be together, it is a lie; she does not want them to be together. She is almost glad she blundered into spending a night with him; this way, when she and Harvey are married, there will be no regrets.
When she watches Harvey's press conference the following day, reckless, noble, big-hearted Harvey, the regrets are there full force as she hates herself for having been unfaithful to him, even momentarily. Even with Bruce.
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June 12, 9 AM
His raw flesh is burning under the bandages, he cannot close his left eye, and there is an unbearable itch in what used to be the inside of his cheek where the mucous membrane has dried from exposure. At this rate he should probably really be in an airtight chamber and not in a regular ward.
But none of this matters.
It is the voices that are really driving him crazy.
Listen, we don't have a lot of time... Rachel's urgent whisper echoes in his mind. Harvey, just in case, I want to tell you something, OK?.. I don't want to live without you, and I do have an answer for you, and my answer is yes.
Then, when he was about to tell her again that everything was going to be all right, not really believing it but desperately hoping, another voice, that hoarse mumble that had been driving him up a wall in the sick videos, cut over on the speaker.
It sounded like it was coming from the GCPD interrogation room; the interrogator's gravelly inflections left no doubt to his identity, either. Just as Harvey was wondering how in hell the sick freak had managed to get that audio and splice it into his phone line, all the desire to fight, all the will to live was sucked out of him.
You know, for a while there I thought you really were Dent, the way you threw yourself after her… Does Harvey know about you and his little bunny?
And by the guttural roar and the crash of breaking furniture that followed, he knew that he had just heard the truth.
He still wanted her to be the one who was saved. More so, if anything.
Now he does not even know if Rachel is alive. The black beast hauled him out of the warehouse as Rachel's voice came back on the line, and he was still protesting when the air around him filled with fire and then his face was ripped to shreds by the burning oil.
All he knows is that one way or another, he has lost her.
That he never had her.
xxx
"...We wish him a speedy recovery because God knows we need him now!"
They should not have brought in the TV; they must have meant to distract him from the pain but the presenter's emphatic declaration feels like a mockery. Who is we? The nameless people of Gotham? The Mafia, who must be itching to peel the skin off the rest of his body? Surely not the woman who has meant the world to him. There is no mention of her on the news. Maybe she made it. Or maybe she is dead; with all hell breaking loose, it is getting hard to keep track of the body count. The cold horror that engulfs him at the thought is pierced by a sneaky, devilish whisper in his brain. But she never wanted you anyway.
There is sudden commotion in the halls outside, the din of alarms, the clang of gurneys, urgent voices. Someone opens the door to his ward, and before he can ask what is going on, that nightmare mask is inches away from his face, at once mocking and commiserating, ruthless and perversely compassionate.
He tries to lunge for the Joker's throat but it is no use, the Joker is stronger, and healthier, and crazier.
"You know, I don't want there to be any hard feelings between us, Harvey." The same croaky mumble, the busy workings of a twisted mind laid bare. "You and your girlfriend was nothing personal." He mumbles on, about wanting to embarrass the Batman, about his hatred of plans and his desire to "turn their little plan on itself"; all Harvey can hear is the blood coursing through his veins, the roaring hatred that makes his fingers itch for a murder weapon.
And, as if by miracle, here it is, the Joker's hand pressing the warm, heavy steel into his palm.
"Introduce a little anarchy."
It feels… So. Fucking. Good… to be spinning the barrel in this pas-de-deux of Russian roulette, even if the freak is watching him, gleefully unafraid, with eager eyes. He is not sure if he is disappointed or thrilled when pulling the trigger only leads to the hollow click of an empty chamber. The Joker is still alive, but this means it is his turn next; maybe he will get lucky and end this travesty.
The barrel has not even stopped spinning when the gun is yanked out of his hand as the black shadow fills the room.
xxx
He slips into a semi-wakeful daze minutes after the IV drip is stuck into his arm, the painkiller he has been refusing now numbing him into a lull. His initial attempts at resistance, as he was being rolled on the gurney into the waiting helicopter, crumbled before the other man's strength, and the threat of having his wrists strapped to the gurney if he persevered added insult to injury, making him give up.
But he knows that Rachel is alive, his hoarse question, the first thing he said to his shadowy custodian, immediately answered in the affirmative. The man may be a two-faced cheat on an order of magnitude far above Harvey's, but he would not lie about that.
"Where are we going?" he asks when the high-pitched whine of the rotors powering up turns to a stable low hum.
"Airport," is the toneless reply. "You're not safe in Gotham."
"Where are you taking me?"
"I can't tell you yet. It's for your own safety. You will know when you're there."
"What about... this?" He raises his free arm to indicate the bandages and the IV.
"There are doctors waiting to board the plane with you. They've brought all the equipment needed to continue your treatment."
All that is left for him to do, it seems, is to accept his fate as a patient, willing or not. So much for –
"You let him escape," he lashes out at the black hulk. "You let the Joker go."
"I had to choose," is the growled response. "You or him. If I chased after him you would have killed yourself."
Harvey remembers seeing, in his peripheral vision, the freak darting out of the ward as the Batman was busy disarming him.
"You made the wrong choice."
"I don't think so."
"Why do you want me alive? You have her, what do you want with me?"
Silence.
"I heard what the Joker said. Don't try to lie to me."
"I won't. It happened once. It's never happening again."
"I said, don't lie to me!" Harvey barks, the bandage pulling painfully at exposed flesh. If anything, it is Rachel he does not trust to uphold the truth of those words. If she was cheating on him already, why stop now, why choose a disfigured freak, half-insane from pain and concussion and betrayal, over Gotham's superhero symbol?
"I'm not lying," the man growls back. "It is you she loves, and it is you she wants to marry."
"And how the hell do you know that?" Harvey asks; what would normally be a sarcastic grin must now look like a horrible grimace. In truth, he has no right to expect any of that from her now.
The black shadow is still for a second. They have landed by now, the engine noise dying down outside underscoring the heavy silence.
And then Harvey hears a click and a sort of rustle and before he knows what is happening, the hulking figure spins to face him and he finds himself staring – gaping – at Bruce Wayne's face under a mop of dishevelled dark hair superimposed on that superhuman body.
"Because she told me," Bruce says quietly, drops a folded sheet of paper on top of the gurney next to Harvey's hand, and gets out.
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June 12, 2 PM
"I can't tell you where he is right now – "
If she had any less self-control she would have slapped him.
"Where. Is. Harvey. Dent?" she repeats instead, stepping to within inches of him; he is so surprised that he almost stumbles back.
"Rachel..."
"Where. The hell. Is Harvey?" she snaps.
"He's safe." Bruce keeps his voice low. "Rachel, this is too public..."
She finally calms down enough to take stock of their surroundings. Sure enough, the hallway outside the DA's office is not the best venue when it comes to privacy. But then, Bruce himself tracked her down here.
"OK, let's go." She turns to leave.
"Where?" he asks even as he follows.
"Your place. Anyplace we can talk." She spins on him mid-stride. "If you still won't take me to him."
She had to spend the night in hospital, treated for concussion and minor burns on her legs, after Gordon dragged her out of the exploding warehouse at 250 52nd street in the nick of time. And ever since she was released in the morning she had been desperately and futilely trying to find out where Harvey was and what state he was in, and trying to reach Bruce, who she was certain should know the answers, likewise in vain. Until she gave up and went to the office for a bit of crisis management, and Bruce found her there.
They ride in the Aventador in gloomy silence. The moment they are inside the penthouse, she turns on him again, forcing him to put up his hands in a sign of surrender.
"I had to get him out of here. He's OK," Bruce hurriedly adds. "He has some... bad burns on his face and concussion damage from the shockwave, but his life is in no danger. I'm sorry, Rachel, I got to him as fast as I could but he had oil on one side of his face and it caught fire…"
She feels tears welling up in her eyes.
"Where is he?" she entreats, quietly now. She just desperately wants to see him, burns be damned… and was forgetting in the heat of the moment that Bruce was risking his life, too.
"I had him taken to Mayreau." Seeing her puzzled expression, he explains, with a touch of embarrassment, as they walk to the sitting area, a ridiculously long distance in the vast open space; he makes a point of sitting a couple of feet away from her. "It's an island I – own – in the Lesser Antilles, in the Caribbean. It's the safest place I could think of right now, short of the Bat-cave, no one would know to look for him there. I checked the backgrounds of the doctors I asked to go with him, and Alfred flew with them and just called to say they've landed. He should be safe. He couldn't stay here, Rachel," he adds, though by now she is no longer arguing. "When I got to him at Gotham General, the Joker was there already..."
She shudders at the mention.
"I had to get him out of here," he repeats.
She feels her shoulders slump. "I know." He is right, it is for the best. "Can you take me to him?" She will have to come back at once to deal with the mess here, but she wants to see Harvey alive first.
"Rachel," Bruce starts, and to her ears, he sounds scared. "Maybe you should wait a few days until he's more – like himself – "
"Why? I don't care about the burns."
"He – he knows about – us… "
She wants to argue that there is no us between them, certainly not since she gave Bruce her letter, but he puts up a hand to stop her.
"I know," he says, quietly, not looking at her. "That's not what I meant. When I was interrogating him at GCPD, the Joker said to me that he had figured us out, and he transmitted that audio to Harvey's speakerphone at the – "
He cuts off mid-sentence, seeing how she has buried her face in her hands. Just like the Joker to taunt a man on the brink of death with the betrayal of the woman he loved and the man he trusted. And neither of them can say it isn't true.
"I'm sorry." He has moved to sit right beside her but is purposely not touching her.
She shakes her head. "It was my fault."
"No, it wasn't; it was mine. And I told him you love him and not me. I gave him your letter…"
She looks up at him, at the pain welling up in those dark eyes in an outwardly calm face, and feels instantly ashamed. Here she is, finding relief in another's suffering, rejoicing in the knowledge that the man who has loved her all his life has broken his own heart to let her go.
And this time, the kiss is all her doing, and now, when they least need it, that passionate spark is dancing on their lips and on their roaming hands, at the wrong-est of wrong times, until he mutters an unnecessary apology and walks out on her.
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June 20, 9 PM
"In breaking news, the psychopathic villain known as the Joker who has been terrorising Gotham for the past year and whose terror campaign reached unprecedented heights last week with the high-profile murders of Judge Surrillo and Commissioner Loeb, and attempts on the lives of the Mayor, District Attorney Harvey Dent, who is still undergoing treatment for severe burns at an undisclosed location, and Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes…"
Get to the point already, Rachel thinks sourly. By now only invaders from Mars would not know all this by heart and backwards. Maybe even they would.
"…has made a daring attempt at escape when being transported to Arkham Asylum following the conclusive psychiatric evaluation…"
She sits bolt upright. The newscaster did say attempt, didn't she?
"…before he was apprehended by Gotham's famous crimefighter known as the Batman…"
So now he is famous crimefighter, is he? Ten days ago you would have been calling him notorious vigilante.
"…and returned into custody. At present the Joker is in a specially reinforced ward at Arkham under armed guard and heavy surveillance; however, news has reached us of another Arkham inmate, former doctor Jonathan Crane, having escaped in the commotion, now the subject of an extensive search. In other news…"
She tunes out of the broadcast and reaches for her phone. Of course they never mentioned, and had no way of knowing, if Bruce himself is OK, as in, if the Batman made it past the encounter safe and sound, relatively speaking. Good thing she has a line on inside info, as it were.
When she has hit the answerphone message three times straight in the space of half an hour, Rachel gets in her car and goes to the penthouse.
xxx
"Master Bruce isn't here, my dear girl. But do come on in, let's see if maybe I can help you."
Alfred sounds sympathetic, and apparently takes it all in stride; it is as if she was not here just over a week ago saying goodbyes to him.
"Is he OK?"
She is not sure if Alfred's eyebrow rises a fraction of an inch at this avid concern for the fate of a never-quite-boyfriend she ceremoniously dumped, but he makes no other outward sign of surprise. They are, after all, childhood friends.
"For the most part." Seeing her worried face, he continues, "A few cuts and bruises, just as usual, and he twisted an ankle, but no broken bones this time. He's on his way to Mayreau," Alfred adds after a beat. "Maybe it will do them both good to spend a few days in good company."
Or maybe they will punch each other's lights out. "Are you sure, Alfred?"
"Oh don't worry. Last time I saw your fiancé three days ago, he was doing much better. And he thanked me when I was leaving. I don't think he'll be in the mood to pick fights with Master Wayne."
"How is he?" For an instant, Rachel is embarrassed about being more concerned for Bruce than Harvey. But then, it fell to Bruce to fight the Joker earlier in the day.
"Much, much better, as I say, my dear. He had to get a skin graft on his face because of the burns, and still had the bandages on when I was leaving. But the doctors say he can take them off after two weeks. That's a week from now. And he has been following all the news and can't wait to get back here to deal with the RICO case."
"Did he say anything about me?" she asks sheepishly.
Alfred hesitates. "No. But I saw him watching the news once when you were interviewed on-air. You should have seen him watching you. It'll be all right, my dear." He squeezes her shoulder. "Just give him a bit more time."
She shakes her head. "I've created such a mess with them both, Alfred."
"No, you haven't. They have." She is surprised at Alfred's forceful objection, but then he goes on in a much softer tone. "And they both love you very much".
They hug again when she leaves, a much more hopeful parting hug than the one ten days ago. And this time Alfred gives her a spare key and the access code to the penthouse, just in case she needs a safe place to go to in a hurry. She does not know which is greater, her gratitude for the continued trust or the sadness coming from Alfred's certainty that Master Bruce will not be entertaining other personal visitors who might be surprised at her showing up.
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June 20, 11 PM
Dear Bruce, I need to be honest and clear. I am going to marry Harvey Dent. I love him and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.
He knows the letter by heart; there is not much point in re-reading it for the thousandth time, except maybe to see Rachel's handwriting… and to reassure himself that it is, after all, real.
Or was real, at least; he is still unsure, at best, about what Rachel will make of his face when she sees him. He does not know what he will make of his own face when he sees it; it is six more days before the bandages come off. Harvey may have no qualms facing down a Mafioso with a loaded gun, but he is terrified at the thought of what he will see; a glimpse of the grisly death's-head he caught reflected in a chrome tray just before the skin graft operation would have given him nightmares if it had not been for the nightly sedatives. Wayne may have got the best surgeons to operate on him, but Harvey is not sure if that sort of horror can be easily put right.
He listens to the tide crashing on the distant reef, hoping that the sound will lull him to sleep, now that they are weaning him off painkillers and tranquilisers. The island itself is a sort of mega-tranquiliser, he reckons with a wry smile. Small and beautiful, a mere two miles long and less than a mile across, with surprisingly steep jagged hills in the middle and picture-postcard pristine white deserted beaches all around. He has only been on one himself, the perfect palm-fringed crescent of Saltwhistle Bay a few hundred yards downhill from the villa, meeting with the inverted crescent of another beach across a narrow strip of land, widening at the northern end to form a hillock at the tip of a peninsula; but he has seen the photos on the walls. For someone like Wayne, the villa is a surprisingly simple affair, a rambling colonial-style whitewashed house, sensibly built in concrete to withstand hurricanes but with a large wooden veranda overlooking the beach and providing stunning sunset panoramas. He wonders if its owner has ever been here for longer than a day at a time, and what he got up to on those days.
Then again, it is none of Harvey's business.
xxx
He is not sure if it is a dream. Lying half-awake in the tropical darkness, before the first hints of the grey pre-dawn light start creeping up through the window, he feels the feather-light touch, fingers stroking his healthy cheek, followed by an equally light kiss on his temple. It must be a dream; for the only person who would do that, watch over him sleeping and kiss him like that, is Rachel; and she is still in Gotham.
It must be a dream… except that when he hears, later in the morning, that Mr Wayne flew in from Gotham late last night, he no longer knows what to think.
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June 26, 6 PM
"Come on, you can't just chicken out of this."
Bruce may be very sympathetic to his injury, but he is obviously not above taunting when it comes to coaxing Harvey to take the last of the bandages off. Well, if there are no holds barred…
"Says the man who wears a mask half the time."
"That's not fighting fair."
Aha, so now we get all touchy about injustice.
"I didn't realise we were fighting fair."
"I didn't realise we were fighting." And then he kind of shrinks, his shoulders slumping; he looks to be a second away from an abject apology, which is by now redundant, considering Rachel's choice and considering what Bruce himself has done for him since. And yet in the five days that passed since Bruce got to the island he has stayed away most of the time, and when they did meet – the terrace is a real magnet at sunset time – they only exchanged a few sentences, mostly discussing the news from Gotham, where the situation is now back if not to normal, then at least to less insane. It is only today when the two-week term prescribed by the surgeon is up that Bruce has turned from an absentee host to a major pest.
"Listen, they're all waiting for you back in Gotham, you can't stay away forever."
"They?"
Harvey should not have asked out loud, but there is no way he can get over the insecurity. And he does not want Rachel to pick him out of pity, now that he probably looks like a freak on par with the Joker.
"That includes her," Bruce insists. "You should have seen her demanding to know where you were. She practically kicked my ass."
Harvey only has one eyebrow to raise, but raise it he does.
"Well, figuratively," Bruce concedes.
"Pity."
"If that's what you want, now's your chance." Bruce takes a couple of steps to the armchair Harvey is sitting in, but Harvey makes no move to get up.
"I think you've been beaten up enough for now." Bruce is still limping, even though he insists on not using a cane; when Harvey asked him what had happened with the Joker, Bruce insisted that it all went well and that he only got a couple of bruises to show for it, but the way he has been hobbling around, and the way he still avoids using his right arm, and twists his entire torso rather than turning his neck, makes him into a poor liar on this occasion. "And you've got the facial scars to show for it," Harvey teases. It may be just one scar, a thin red line in the middle of his chin, but for now it is plainly visible.
Bruce shrugs it off, of course. "In two weeks, no one will be able to see it."
"Unless they are really up close."
"I have no plans of getting up close with criminals."
Yeah, just with District Attorneys who seem to be asleep.
"Never say never," Harvey taunts him.
This elicits a smirk before Bruce comes back to his masochistic cravings. "Anyway, if you still want to beat me up later, I'm at your service."
"I'll remember that."
"Now stop dithering."
He won't let go; Harvey makes what he can of a sour face. "OK."
Two minutes later, Bruce is back at his side with the lid of an antique dressing table, a mirror embedded in the inside, carried under his left arm; but Harvey waves it away.
"You do it. You take off the bandage and tell me how bad it is first."
He looks so earnest, and worried – and cute, damn it – as he gently peels away the gauze. And if that was a weird moment, it is nothing compared to the ridiculously affectionate way he is gazing at Harvey's face now.
"Well?"
Now that the spell is broken, as it were, a mischievous smile creeps up on his lips. "It looks… pink."
"Pink."
"Yeah. But the doctor said it will fade in a month or so. And it needs an eyebrow, but that can be easily done in a few days. And a hair transplant. But for now…" Bruce unceremoniously ruffles up the hair on the right side of Harvey's head, and he feels it tickle as it falls over to the exposed left side, "you can just flip it over like this."
"Great. I'll look like a punk with a combover."
"Would you rather shave it all off?"
"Shut up and give me the damn mirror." The muscles on the left side of his face are still numb, but not having the gauze stuck on top makes it easier to talk, a small mercy but a mercy nonetheless. Harvey takes a breath and looks up at the image.
It is strange, though, he has to admit, not horrifying. The left side of his face does, in fact, look bright pink; but he does not look like a monster… just a guy with a funny case of sunburn and a missing eyebrow. All in all, Bruce was spot-on. It does, however, bring up an unpleasant memory.
"You know, they had a name for me at Internal Affairs. Two-Face. Harvey Two-Face, for the way I rooted out rotten cops. I guess I've lived up to it now."
Bruce refuses to see the dark irony, or pretends not to. "Better be Two-Face than Half-Face." He takes the mirror away and fixes Harvey with a long, serious stare. "Will you call her now?"
It still gives him a moment's hesitation; but at this point it would really be a case of silly vanity.
"I will."
"Good." Bruce is all businesslike, all of a sudden. "I'll go tell the pilot that we're going to Gotham tomorrow morning."
"What time?"
Bruce shakes his head. "You're staying, I'll bring her here."
He picks up the mirror and hobbles away into the villa.
xxx
The sunset has finished its golden spectacle, the last shades of red and purple have faded into a pale yellow strip under a progression of shades of blue, and Harvey is still sitting on the terrace, alone. Usually at this hour they would watch the evening news and have their bit of chatter, and he misses it today. Instead his thoughts start wandering, tuning out the broadcast still coming through the living room French windows, as he sits there thinking about the man who brought him to this island and is now bringing his fiancée to him. The woman Bruce himself had one day dreamed of marrying. Having known and loved Rachel for a year, he can barely imagine what it must be like, having known and loved her since childhood, letting go of her in favour of a parvenu rival… but he can imagine the pain. He can imagine the resentment that such a rival must surely cause, which does nothing to explain Bruce kissing his temple the night before, to say nothing of the tender look when he was peeling off the gauze. Had anyone asked Harvey what he thought of Bruce Wayne fifteen days ago, he would not have hesitated in delivering a scathing, disparaging assessment of the man whom he thought to be little more than a billionaire airhead. Now he is in danger of going to the other extreme, seeing the extent of his error.
The broadcast ends, and Harvey walks over to the bar next to the kitchen to grab a can of tonic water. He could kill for a beer, but the doctors were very strict in their insistence that he cannot have a drop of alcohol for a month after the transplant.
Well, it looks like someone has been drinking for two… or three or four. He takes in the scene, the tiny heap of ice still melting in the sink, the broken tumbler, and the discarded empty carcass of the whisky bottle on the counter. And two bottle caps, making him wonder how much Bruce has drunk since finishing this one… and where.
Twenty minutes later, Harvey is getting worried for real. He has been all around the villa, including all the bathrooms and spare bedrooms, and the immediate grounds, to no avail; surely Bruce is not so crazy as to have driven away, but then, for a man who never drinks at all, the effects of serious alcohol poisoning may be unpredictable. A check with the security guard, surprisingly laid-back, brings up the notion that I think Mr Wayne went down to the beach, and since the guard is not worried enough to do a search, Harvey himself grabs a flashlight and walks the two hundred yards down to Saltwhistle Bay.
It is surprisingly easy to track Bruce from the bottom of the concrete steps; all he has to do is, literally, follow his footsteps in the sand, and it is reassuring to see that they stay well clear of the surf, leading instead to the dark fronds of the palm trees lining the beach.
Sure enough, there he is, sitting slumped against the palm trunk in a stained T-shirt, glassy-eyed, the half-empty bottle still in his hand.
"What the fuck are you doing?" It is painfully obvious, but Harvey cannot think of a better thing to say.
"Sitting," is the slurred evasive reply.
"Give me that." Harvey reaches for the bottle.
"Ah haven't… finisshed it."
Bruce holds up the whisky, trying to get another swig, but mercifully spills it before he can take it up to his mouth. Harvey kicks the bottle away, out of his reach.
"Come on. Can you get up?"
"Don't know."
"Well, you get up yourself or I'll drag you up. Or if you prefer, I'll call the guards to carry you."
This does the trick; Bruce scrambles to his feet, propping himself up against the tree to try and stop his head spinning, then takes Harvey's invitation to lean against him as they stagger back toward the villa.
xxx
An hour, an ice-cold shower, three Alka-Seltzers, and a strong coffee later, Bruce is close to being human again. They sit in the living room; even with the lights dimmed, he is wearing sunglasses, and Harvey tries his best not to smirk. It is his turn to coax now.
"Come on, if you're serious about flying to Gotham tomorrow, it's time to go to bed."
"Of course I'm serious," Bruce mutters, already half-asleep on the couch, his head tilted back on the cushions. "Now I've lost you both through my stupidity… I can at least bring the two of you back together."
Lost them both?
"See, when I found out about you two, of course I wanted to steal her from you."
OK, maybe Harvey is imagining things.
"Then when I got to know you, I wanted to steal you from her."
Maybe not.
"And now I've lost you both."
"Now you need to go to bed." It is a safer line of reasoning than wherever Bruce's revelations may take them.
Harvey hauls him to his feet and practically leads him by the hand to the master bedroom, taking care to walk slowly on account of Bruce limping; and gets a fresh reminder of his injuries when he pulls off his whisky-soaked T-shirt to reveal the blue-and-purple streaks of scars and bruises underneath; it looks scarily like an abstract painting, and these, he thinks, are only the recent ones.
He is back in the living room watching a late night show, or trying to watch it, unable to concentrate between the anxiety brought on by the reunion with Rachel and the confusion brought on by the time he spent with Bruce, when he hears the cry.
"Harvey!"
It sounds like a cry for help, urgent and desperate, and he is on his feet and in the master bedroom in under five seconds. Bruce is sitting up in bed, apparently safe but clearly disoriented.
"You OK? What's the matter?"
Now he just looks embarrassed. "Sorry. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to – "
"It's all right."
"Had a nightmare. I got to the warehouse and I couldn't get you out in time. And you both were – "
Harvey switches off the light and sits down on the bed next to him; hugging Bruce in the dark does not seem quite as weird. Kind of natural, really.
"It's all right," he repeats. "We're safe, thanks to you, thanks to Gordon. You put the Joker in Arkham. Just try and get some sleep." Whatever new threats there may be – and there surely will be – they really are all right for now.
"Will you stay here?"
Now that's an unexpected request; but then, even superheroes are allowed their moments of weakness. Harvey himself, though far from a superhero, was teetering on the brink of craziness two weeks ago.
Instead of an answer, he leans back against the cushions and pulls Bruce close to him.
"Get some sleep."
And he does stay, and is once again plunged into confusion at the unexpected thrill he feels, with the other man's face buried in the crook of his neck, the muscular arms around him. Harvey has been to college, and been seriously drunk, and been very stoned, all of which makes it unsurprising that he is not completely inexperienced when it comes to men, though the dozen girlfriends he has had since then, including Rachel, would have been surprised to hear it. But this time it is the knowledge of the power wielded by the man now lying next to him, trusting and gentle, that makes his blood run faster; not the billions in the bank but the greater, more immediate power of Gotham's shadowy creature.
When he rubs his eyes in the morning light and the stab of pain tells him that he was not supposed to have rubbed his left eyelid, he discovers that Bruce is gone; and a check with security tells him that he flew out first thing in the morning.
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June 27, 1 PM
"Mr Wayne, Miss Dawes, we have started our approach to Mayreau airfield…"
The attendant need not have bothered; they already see the irregular-shaped emerald shard, fringed with pristine white beaches, rising toward them amid the silver-streaked deep blue. Beautiful and peaceful, but, she thinks, a bit lonely unless you have someone to roam those beaches with. And Bruce has never been known to have brought anyone here, at least no one whose name made it into the society columns. Coming to think of it, with all that has been going on in Gotham since he came back from China, he probably has not had time to come here himself.
"That's Harvey's coin, isn't it?"
His voice cuts into her thoughts, and she catches the silver disc she has been absent-mindedly flipping.
"Yeah." She hands it over to Bruce, who looks at its two sides with a silent chuckle. "He gave it to me when he went into custody as Batman. I'm going to give it back to him, his luck obviously isn't the same without it."
"Maybe it kept you safe," Bruce says, as if distractedly. "I'm sorry."
"About what?"
"I was going to give myself up. When Harvey said Arrest the Batman, I stepped forward but he was ahead of me. I didn't mean for him to take my place, Rachel. If it had been me, maybe none of this would have happened."
She takes his hand across the fold-out table. "You don't need to apologise. I know Harvey, he is almost as reckless as you are. I know you would have done it, Alfred told me how he and you were destroying all the evidence getting ready… And I'm glad you didn't do it." She leans in close to him. "Gotham needs its knight protector. Both of them."
His only reply is a half-smile.
"It is I who should apologise for not trusting you when you got Harvey out of Gotham." Remembering how she shouted at him outside the DA's office, demanding to know where Harvey was, makes her cringe now. "And I never thanked you."
She moves to kiss him on the lips – what the hell, with all the recent goings-on they are kind of past the kiss-on-the-cheek stage anyway – and is surprised when he pulls away from her after a couple of seconds. Not self-conscious, but, for some reason, reluctant.
"You don't ever have to thank me, Rachel," is all he says until they land.
She kisses him again, on the cheek this time if that is all he will allow, just before he takes her to Harvey's room and her eyes fill with tears of happiness.
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July 8, 7 PM
"Hi."
Bruce greets him in the penthouse foyer in person – maybe, Harvey figures, Alfred is getting some well-deserved rest – looking sleepy but pleased to see him nonetheless. Next to his ensemble of black pyjama pants and a white dress shirt that looks like a last-minute afterthought, Harvey is clearly over-dressed in T-shirt and slacks.
"Sorry for barging in on you. Rachel said she was going to stop by here at about seven thirty, so I figured you'd be here… Didn't mean to wake you up."
"You didn't."
Liar; but the grin is wickedly sexy.
"Drink?" Bruce calls over from the bar, and even though Harvey does not really want one, he walks over to join him.
"A glass of red… thanks. Are you off the wagon now?"
This is met with an undignified snort. "You know I don't drink… normally. Just a glass here and there. That was… a special occasion."
It is Harvey's turn to chuckle. It was special, in a way.
"I just realised I never thanked you," Harvey says, raising his glass. In truth, he realised it days ago, from the very start of what had turned into a sort of tropical honeymoon for Rachel and himself, when they found out that Bruce had immediately returned to Gotham without saying goodbye to them, leaving them to enjoy the island until whenever they felt like returning, which ended up being yesterday. Considering the things Bruce had said to him the night before, Harvey could understand his wish to avoid an awkward situation; but he still wanted Bruce to know that all his help had been appreciated. And try as he might, he could not get the memory of the last night Bruce spent on Mayreau out of his head; and his idea of coming to the penthouse before Rachel did may have had something to do with that, though he is damned if he saw it leading to anything.
Until now, when he was welcomed by this green-eyed vision in monochrome silk, in bare feet and with bed-head hair, and he is no longer sure which bets are on.
Bruce takes a step toward him, and Harvey has to put down the glass because his hand is less steady than he might like it to be.
"And you'll never have to." He has an obscenely sexy voice when he lets it drop down a register.
"I want to. I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for you."
It must show in his face, the desire that goes beyond mere gratitude, because Bruce takes another step, to the very edge of what would be a socially acceptable distance between non-lovers.
"But I did try to steal Rachel from you." It is half-apology, half-challenge.
"I know." Harvey grins at him. "She told me about how you'd been in love with her since you were kids." Half acceptance, half challenge in return; but then he sees the flash of sadness in those dark green eyes and is sorry for the taunt. To hell with it; maybe it is time to stop this dancing around. "You also told me something about wanting to steal me from her." It is his turn to take half a step closer to Bruce; a full step would result in their chests touching. "But what I didn't tell you is that before I knew who the Batman was, I thought it would be an interesting idea to get to know him." His words may be relatively innocent, but hopefully his tone leaves no doubts as to what that would involve. He never thought he would confess it, to Bruce of all people, but then he never knew who Bruce was until just under a month ago.
Of all possible reactions, a wistful look is not what Harvey expected.
"Him and not me."
Harvey leans in close to him; by now they have to strain to keep looking each other in the eye.
"Are you jealous?"
And this turns out the tipping point, because the next thing he knows, Bruce has a hand at the back of his neck and is kissing him like the world is ending.
"No." By the time he says it, a minute later, the answer is redundant to say the least.
xxx
Neither of them noticed when Rachel let herself into the penthouse; and by the time she is standing fifteen feet from them it is way too late to do anything about it, considering that they are in the middle of the bed in a position best described as highly compromising in a state of extreme undress. Harvey is sadly contemplating the bitter row and the possible break-up that will follow, and wonders how the hell things got so out of hand so fast, and thinks that at least there is a silver lining to it, when Bruce finally says what Harvey should have said ten seconds ago.
"Rachel, we're really sorry..."
She shakes her head; but then, instead of walking out on them or lashing out with an angry tirade, she takes a step toward the bed, and keeps on walking – sauntering – toward them.
"But this…" she says, in a strange quiet voice, "makes… everything… perfect."
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October 28, 9 PM
"What are you doing?" Harvey is used to seeing Bruce do weird stuff when he comes to the penthouse; if it is not endless push-ups it can be headstands or archery practice; but seeing him crouched under a desk is a new thing.
"Examining print dust," Bruce mutters, half-turning to him, too preoccupied for a greeting. "I've been robbed." He points to the open safe in the recess.
"And this is your idea of sounding the alarm?" Harvey walks up to him and sits down beside him, just in time to see the smirk.
"She took my mother's pearls, tracking device and all."
"She?"
"One of the maids, the temps Alfred called in for yesterday's GCPD fundraiser. I saw her wearing them now that I've checked CCTV recordings from the service elevator. She had a hat on so I haven't seen her face."
But then it should be easy to narrow down the girl's identity. "Why were you dusting for prints?"
"I wasn't. She was." Bruce gets up. "Come on, let's see what we can find out." He motions for Harvey to follow as he pushes the button that opens the concealed passage to the Batcave elevator.
"You haven't been here in a while," Harvey remarks as Bruce wipes a layer of dust off the keyboard once they are downstairs.
"You seem determined to keep me out of work, with all the prosecution."
"It keeps you free to do other things," Harvey points out, and is answered by a salacious grin.
In fact, the three of them have been pretty busy doing other things in the past three or four months. And they have been the talk of the town, despite the continued disappointment of the paparazzi who, no doubt, bemoan the fact that the participants of Gotham's most famous threesome insist on having their depraved fun in private, their joint public appearances consisting mostly of official functions and the occasional low-key dinner. The rumour mill is nothing new for Bruce, of course; but luckily, the fact that Harvey and Rachel are the stars of the RICO prosecution keeps them largely immune to the taint of gossip; the intrepid pair who have put Gotham's notorious Mafia behind bars cannot be blamed for enjoying themselves outside of work.
The surprising part is how easily, how naturally the three of them clicked together. If anyone had told Harvey four months ago that he would be sharing a bed not just with Rachel but with the notorious playboy Wayne, who happened to be Rachel's long-term suitor, he would have laughed in disbelief… except that it works pretty damn perfectly in practice. Rachel loves it, having two men to please her and watching the two of them – her voyeuristic streak was news to him but by no means unwelcome; Harvey himself certainly loves it, knowing what a powerful creature is by his side, occasionally, happily, submitting to Harvey's will and to his whims. And having seen Bruce completely undone, eager, moaning and helpless under their combined caresses, Harvey is sure that Bruce loves it too. Not what he would have expected, but then, he has found out a lot of unexpected things about Bruce in the meantime, starting with the obvious fact that he is much smarter than he lets on publicly; and a lot stronger. And insatiable; that part was not unexpected, but Harvey was surprise to learn, among other things, that Bruce has sensitive hipbones and very sensitive nipples and cannot help moaning when his ears are nibbled. It is probably too much fun, and a bit too crazy, to last indefinitely; Rachel is already talking about kids and Bruce sometimes talks half-wistfully about when you guys are married, but Harvey is enjoying it while it lasts.
xxx
As Bruce powers up the database and uploads the prints, Harvey goes to another workstation to take a look at the CCTV recording, and is at the point where the pearl wearer shows up when Bruce calls him over.
The screen is graced, if that is the word, with the image of a heavy-set Eastern European man. "Unless she's lost a lot of weight, she was wearing someone else's fingerprints. She's good."
"She may be," Harvey concedes. "But you have a trace on the necklace. Try cross-referencing the address she went back to with police data on B&Es."
He goes back to CCTV viewing, but a couple of minutes later, his examination is interrupted by a triumphant "Gotcha!"
"Well?" Harvey asks, pulling up a chair beside Bruce.
"Selina Kyle," Bruce announces, as if introducing a star performer at a concert.
Harvey looks at the database screen. Very attractive young woman; huge, liquid dark eyes, large sensuous mouth that seems to be made for smiling and other, more lascivious things besides. Her recorded date of birth puts her at 23 years old, and she already has quite a record for her age. Numerous speed limit violations, shoplifting charges, resisting arrest; and an intriguing comment from the DSS about the subject being surprisingly strong and agile, to be approached with caution. What sort of a run-in would a pretty 23-year-old have with the Diplomatic Security Service to merit a comment like this?
"Looks like a nice girl," Harvey teases, running a hand up his companion's thigh.
"Stop it," Bruce laughs, but makes no move to swat his hand away, "you're distracting me. She's good, but the ground is shrinking beneath her feet," he observes more seriously, scrolling down the list of offences.
"We should tell Gordon before she fences the pearls."
Bruce shakes his head. "This isn't major crime." True, it would be overkill. "And I don't want the regular cops snooping around my place. You never know what buttons they may push by mistake. She won't fence them," he adds in a beat. "I think she likes them too much, the way she was playing with the string in the elevator. They weren't what she was after, anyway."
"What was she after?"
"My fingerprints." Seeing Harvey's raised eyebrows, he explains. "That was printer toner mixed with graphite on the safe, it gives a good pull and it's untraceable."
"Maybe you should meet her for a chat, swap tips on fingerprints and all," Harvey taunts.
Bruce turns to look at him with a wicked twinkle in his eye.
"Maybe I will."
.
to be concluded (next week) in part 2
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Notes
The general concept and recovery times for skin grafts come from [http www] nlm*nih*gov/medlineplus/ency/article/002982*htm, but I gloss over the details and assume the best, as it were.
Mayreau (/en*wikipedia*org/wiki/Mayreau) is one of the Grenadine islands in the Caribbean Lesser Antilles, as Bruce says; some of its "neighbour" islands are privately owned, so I figured it made sense tiny but beautiful Mayreau got a rich owner as well. Here are a few online photos to get your bearings:
[http www] whereisdave*com/mayreau3*jpg
[http www]extremesailing*it/immagini/galleria_del_giro/grenadine/random/mayreau*jpg
[http] destinationsgallery*com/images/CaribBeach106*jpg
and a map: [http www] paradise-islands*org/grenadines/images/Mayreau-Map*jpg
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