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Two-Face x Oc

A/N: Takes place before and during Arkham City. Harvey and Two-Face are written as two personalities in one body, as presented in the game.


Chapter 1: Patience


He couldn't remember the point in time when it'd all developed into debauchery and unavoidable self-loathing. When everything Harvey Dent had maintained ended up crumbling into something much more inane and complex, reforming what was once a powerful, considerate man into something selfish and despondent.

When 'I' officially became 'we' and 'he' finally became 'they'.

It was confusing. Although (as peculiar as it may seem) being confused was something he'd openly admit to; that modest side still somehow intact after four long drawn out years.

The last 1,460 days had been admittedly difficult...consisting of a legal system that brushed past the guilty and pointed an accusing finger towards the innocent. A life of scavenging, control and bitter revenge to those who opposed or challenged him. Of planning, heists, Batman and Arkham; usually in that particular order.

This life, of supposedly 'illegal' activities (again consisting of four slow, painful years), was more than he'd initially expected. Slower than it should be; longer than he'd anticipated. It just dragged on as though every hour was spent watching a damn clock and waiting for the bomb to blow at an unspecified time. He figured it due to his insanity rather than the lifestyle, but...there was also the idea that the lifestyle led to the insanity. To or fro, he assumed.

But it sometimes bothered Harvey...living, that is. What had once been Gotham's shining salvation, placed on a people-made pedestal of aspirations and hope, was now a part of it's everlasting turmoil...deformed by tragedy, loss and corruption. The moral of the city was faded, its destruction just as defined as the burns on his face. Seeing an idol, a man they thought was destined to change their lives, rot from the outside in had been a slow growing tragedy burning Gotham by the tips of its grimy fingers and watching the ache spread slowly to its hands and arms. A catastrophe...a decision.

Looking in the mirror he sees himself, a man split between rage and contentment at the sight of his own face; at the equal division of his entire body. He struggles to still his right hand, a fist clenched with white knuckles...itching to collide with the reflection of corruption presented as a physical form.

Harvey snarled instinctively at his own irritation, turning away from the insane expression of his ruined eye as if in a beginning stage of denial. Yet Two-Face was past that, and he'd already settled at the final stage of acceptance...beyond his counterpart's rage. As the second half of a divided man it was plausible to notice Harvey's flaws, acceptable to point them out and reasonable to attempt to get rid of them. Dent was still pointlessly angry, still keen on revenge and pain and the past that (stated so frankly now and again) should be forgotten. Perhaps he should 'cut his ties': kill his wife, Falcone, the Commissioner, Bruce Wayne. It was adequate...more than responsible when considering his line of work.

At the thought he's disturbed, and though Harvey himself is still mentally in tact, he looks back at the power he'd previously maintained with an expression of outrage. The people he could have easily controlled...the money he'd been offered. The beautiful wife, the office, the friends, the ascendency. Why hadn't he relished in it? What morals and virtues (obviously deteriorated with the left side of his face) had prevented him from taking advantage of what he had?

Plain disgust.

"Let it go." The blatant words of the experienced and the wise, yet Two-Face has only existed for a fraction of Harvey's life. Since Falcone and his personal acid bath, to be precise. But the echo is faint in the tiled restroom (accompanied by an annoying overhead light that flickers every so often) and he's fighting something internally destructive with his mind. A self-loathing that's impossible to dominate, a constant whisper that makes his mind throb with aggravation.

"Why should I?" It comes out shaken, angry and hardly a rasp that his other half can barely understand. His body language is exposing pain, hatred and grief in its physical tension. And in an instant it changes, just as abrupt as the inconsistent light above his head.

"We can have all of that again...just with force." Two-Face tells him with genuine appeal, but it's beginning to seem mockingly repetitive with how little they've actually achieved. Murder, control, and money. The three points of interest anyone in his line of work strive for, all leading back to each other to make an endless circle.

He's interrupted at a point of tragic realization, a balanced scale caused by disruption suddenly calming 'both' men. The door is knocked on twice with a steady tap of patience that he recognizes keenly, and Two-Face drops the topic entirely. Harvey growls at the mirror a final time, hands clutching at either side of the sink before showing the counter an unintentional mercy by releasing his grip. Dent turns to leave in disgust...along with Two-Face and his content (as content as it could appear) expression, mutilated in appearance.

Four years...sharing a body. He contemplates the experience briefly as he opens the door. Considering the pros and the cons as he noted to shoot that flickering light bulb later with a .22.

It's not so bad.

"Two-Face." The voice is too sweet, too accepting...too familiar. Sometimes he chooses not to trust her just by the amount of loyalty the girl's embraced. But it's been four years; how long does trust take?

She stands there, waiting for him in the usual position of intertwined fingers resting at her front and wedged heels placed together closely. He liked her dress today...an odd thing to observe but somehow casual to think. It made her look young...too young.

He changed his mind.

Tuesday was one of those odd people born to be patient, and was too quiet to be considered normal. Kind, considerate, trigger happy. She spoke rarely, always with good reason and little volume. But she sees his expression and feels the need to say something, exhibiting this look (whether it be of caution or concern he couldn't decipher) which was etched into the glossiness of her vision and the slow acting quirk of her lip. It was in the movement of her jaw as she bit down on the inside of her cheeks, and the furrow of her brow as she looked at him with an unmanageable sympathy she knew he despised.

They shove past her, inconsiderate of why the brat had sought them out in the first place. Ignoring the steady glances of observation on their back.

As they continue walking she follows obediently, pacing behind them slowly, like some kind of assistant who awaited a command. But, as unfortunate as it was, Tuesday wasn't anywhere near that level of indentured servitude. They treated her with some awkwardly formed respect, and in return she brought them a form of companionship they argued they did not require. A Cheap Scandal, The GothamTimes would headline. The screw over of a lifetime, Vicki Vale would say. He could distinctly hear the muffled laughter the reporter would hide behind her words should the knowledge of his henchgirl ever get out. The bitch.

"What do you want?" Tuesday quickened her pace to catch up with him, heels clicking in rhythm against the tiles.

His tone is strained and annoyed, enforcing caution. She's aware Two-Face is dominant for now, and in some odd way Harvey's been pushed to the back of their mind as if dormant until stated otherwise. For now it's 'he'...not 'they'.

"..." Her brow creases slightly as she demands his attention with a tug of their sleeve, lips pursing in concern as Two-Face wonders how this 'partnership' even began. How an information broker (formerly a secretary) and a crime lord managed to join forces without the same goal.

He wasn't even banging her (which implied that neither was Harvey)...so how the fu-?

An indistinguishable groan escaped Two-Face's coarse vocals as a reply...and she assumed it'd meant 'okay', though the assumption itself was indefinite. He looked down as she stood in front of him, quick to place herself in their path like some high-and-mighty caretaker. He flipped his coin, glancing at the clean end despondently before providing her his full (but hardly cooperative) attention.

"Your career?" She questions and he's tempted to deny the coin's choice and hit her anyway just by the rather accurate guess. She bats her eyelids and the temptation to just send a fist into her adorable little eye was nearly overwhelming.

"Yes." A gruff hiss of a reply, irritated and tired and sore. Her hands raise to his chest, fingers fixing the buttons of their suit. She slowly smooths out the good fabric before raising their right wrist and adjusted Harvey's cufflink. She was always gentle; never struck with momentary hesitation or edgy with visible discomfort. She fixes their tie as a final touch and he groans as though impatient.

She just smiles. Because she knows they both enjoy the attention.

Even when she thought about it Tuesday didn't mind their face...their scarring, nor his burns. It gave them character, she said. It made them look distinguished, intimidating, experienced...powerful. She never looked away, never avoided their gaze. It was always honesty, always consideration towards their already deteriorating health. Always upturned lips with a painfully optimistic attitude.

She didn't mind much at all, now that he thought on it.

But she did mind Harvey's painful self-hatred...and Two-Face's frequently erratic temper. And she'd scold them repeatedly if it never ended with a one-sided argument; meaning he's yelling and she's just waiting out the storm.

It was frustrating since Two-Face enjoyed frequent compliance, though the rare moments of defiance were always arousing.

But she'd never seemed interested; the brat. She's once claimed being 'asexual'...whatever the fuck that means.

"Two-Face?" She's worried, and it's odd because he hates her expression when she's so blatantly concerned. It looks gloomy and weak and honestly there's enough of that bullshit around their life.

"What?" Still gruff, still spoken without change in personality. It'd taken her a while to get used to asking Two-Face a question only to have Harvey respond. After a year it was hardly confusing...usually expected.

"Let me talk to Harvey?" She winds her arm around his, her free hand resting on his mutilated wrist as she did so; Tuesday toys with his overpriced Rolex out of brief fascination, more of a physical distraction. And he notes how that's the longest sentence she's said in days, her responses usually quick or simple nods of the head.

"No." That request to change personalities always pissed both of them off, though she apparently never realized exactly how much.

"..." His unsettling eye exchanges a look of tiresome anguish, narrowing before once again denying her unspoken request. Like a stubborn kid who took glee out of contradicting someone else's demands...but without saying anything. It was annoying.

"He's not in." She rolls her eyes, still nowhere near as frustrated as she should be. Still patient, even with Two-Face and Dent.

But she sees how deleterious they are...how horribly destructive Two-Face is and how self-extirpative Harvey tends to be. How endlessly different and continuously difficult they make sharing a body, and how often there's an inner debate over something as trivial as what to eat (though always ending with the decision of his coin). Tuesday notes how morbidly ugly the situation of fate is, how horrendous every expression seems to be when he flips that damn cent. And it's become unhealthy...it's made them sick in their obsession for duality and the flip of chance. Not fate...chance.

But, she also fears that she just doesn't understand. And she remains opinionatedly equitable in his luck-induced decisions.

It's been that way for four years.

"Rest." She says it strictly, a tone still bleeding of concern and dispute, making his mood heavy with irritation. She didn't mean sleep, or a break. She meant everything else, like flipping the coin and looking in the mirror with adamant abhorrence. Gazing at themselves (though she'd directed the comment at Harvey) with a hatred he reserved only for his other half. Not defeating his own moral with personal criticism, brought by the assumption that he was a partial monster of an unavoidable demise.

It was funny (not at all in the comical sense, but more peculiar than anything) how his mood changed when referring to himself as 'we'. How, in the presence of Two-Face, they were on agreeing terms without much quarrel.

Her eyes wander as he stops abruptly, and she suddenly bites her lip at the livid discomfort he creates with his exposed aggravation. It's a dusty look of stilled consideration, very blank as he looks forward down the hall and stiffens into her hold.

"We're fine." A low rumble, threatening to escape as a relentless yell.

"Please..." But she says its so damn sweetly. The second time the word 'please' is uttered tonight, though both for very different reasons. And she holds her breath as the coin is flicked up by the quick, practiced motion of his thumb. A movement she'd seen a million times, a movement she felt was less than practical despite its ability to make her insides flip inharmoniously.

It lands to rest in his palm, out of her sight. And before long she's faced with expeditious anger and atrocity, a bare hand and scarred flesh at her throat with the sudden pressure of the wall against her back. For a second she's frightened, but the moment passes as it always does–quick to dissipate through her endless supply of equability. And suddenly...it strikes him as odd. It makes him wonder...it beckons thought.

Her hands, small in comparison and delicate in appearance, lay gentle over the tense grasp placed over her neck. The hold of rigid fingers sent a throbbing ache along her soft complexion and insinuated the beginnings of splotchy blemishes; though bruises were the least of her problems. He's close, inches away from her face...close enough to see the little cracks of burning dry skin on her lips and the small specks of long healed scars decorating her right cheek. Supposedly she'd been nicked by shrapnel on her first government heist, barely dodging death with a wide spread grin and the adrenaline of a wild animal. She'd been caught due to carelessness, a rookie mistake.

He'd taught her better by now.

With a careful passiveness Tuesday smiles sincerely. His very blatant frown seems ineffective, only enhanced by the growl of momentary disdain caused by his stress-endured outrage. An upturn of lips in such a situation always managed to cause confusion, and often if made Two-Face angrier than he already was. But she couldn't help it...it was endless—much like her patience.

"Just for now." It's a gentle request this time, Tuesday having noted her error of demanding anything she did not deserve. And upon his softening expression she runs a careful hand through the thick salt and pepper stands of his hair, a look she enjoyed more than the girl let on.

He glances briefly at her lips for the third time tonight, sighing under his breath at the comforting action and relaxing into the slow graze of her fingertips. He groans as though aggravated as always, presenting another sneer that made the bridge of his nose scrunch in irritation.

"Whatever, brat." As he released his hold she exposes another quiet smile...more at the hushed comment of dismissal rather than the momentary freedom. He quickens his pace and she runs to catch up like before, heels clicking into a slow rhythm at his slouched and defeated side. Her arm wraps back around his own, hand resting as always on the tattered skin of his wrist (as though he were to escort her somewhere nice). And she softly hums an unfamiliar song as they walk, because she knows she's won...and he snarls because he's aware he's caved.

"Thank you, Two-Face."

He ignores her, fighting back the 'you're welcome' that'd nearly escaped his throat.


There will be another chapter. Sort of a snippet fic, but maintains a vague timeline.

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