Disclaimer: Batman belongs to DC. NOT ME.
Summary: Gotham needs a hero. Harvey Dent in three quotes. Dark Knight spoilers.
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My answer is yes, Harvey.
His first thought upon waking is of Rachel, where she is, what she's doing, and how worried she's going to be once she learns what's happened.
And then it hits him, the hammer to his pane of glass: there is no Rachel, not any more, and his last clear, pain-free memory is of the smell of the gasoline slicked to his cheek, Batman's arm an iron band around his chest, and Rachel's voice over the radio, Rachel's voice so quiet and resolute, saying "It's okay Harvey, it's okay."
He takes a deep breath and realizes that the entire left half of his face, from the crown of his skull to the jut of his collarbone, is in terrible and searing agony. When he blinks, only one half of the room vanishes from sight. He cautiously moves his tongue, exploring his own mouth, and his teeth feel so cold, all of a sudden.
He turns his face into the pillow, presses it there with all the strength that he can muster, feels his skin slough off and the nerve endings in his cheek burst into flame. Sees the coin upon the table, his father's lucky coin, and bites back the scream that wants to rip apart his throat.
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You where a schemer, and look where it got you.
When the Joker comes to his bedside he cannot say that he is terribly surprised. Seething with barely contained rage, yes, but not surprised.
But Harvey has always prided himself on being able to play all sides of the game. Gordon knew it, at one point. That delightful little name they came up with. Two-Face. How appropriate, especially now.
So when the Joker talks of plans and anarchy, Harvey thinks of revenge. For him, for Rachel. For Gotham.
Once freed, he lets his fist fly, fully intending to give this madman a broken mouth that will last for the rest of his life. But his arm, when halted, falls limp and ineffectual, his hand pressed to the Joker's smooth cheek.
Oh his eyes are green, green like witchlights in a swamp, like peridot, like acid, and below them his tongue swipes out across lips painted whore's red, lips that glisten in the fluorescent hospital lights. Harvey looks, cannot help but look, and his fingers curl in an almost-caress around the curve of the Joker's jaw. And the son of a bitch has the nerve to smile, scars tightening spit-smooth lips, peeling them back, ferocious. Insane.
Later, Harvey looks down and notices that his right hand is covered in smears of paint, jizz white and blood red. He doesn't wonder if it means anything, because he already knows.
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You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
Harvey never considered himself a hero before. Never really thought of himself in that light until recently, until Batman and Bruce Wayne pointed it out to him.
Now he holds his father's coin in one hand and a loaded gun in the other. His elbow is locked in a chokehold around the neck of a boy who can't be more than eight years old.
His face feels like it's been rubbed raw with sandpaper and dipped in vinegar, and the only thing that penetrates through the thick haze of pain and revenge is Rachel, Rachel, Rachel who he loved and who loved him, darling Rachel who finally said yes.
So maybe it's not his crusade against Gotham's shadows, but rather what he does right now, that is the greatest indication of what he truly is.
Harvey Dent never sees the sun rise as a hero. But he tastes it in the moonlight, in the white paint on his fingers and the trembling of the boy cradled in the trap of his arm.
Gotham needs a hero. And Harvey doesn't give himself a choice.
