DENT (Part 5/??)

[about_faces]

Title: Dent (5/??)
Previous Parts: | Prologue | One | Two | Three
Fandom: Batman (general comics continuity)
Characters: Harvey Dent/Two-Face, Gilda Dent, Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon, Vincent Moroni
Genres: General, Drama, Angst, Romance
Rating: PG-13
This story contains: Alcoholism, brief mentions of child abuse, graphic violence, swearing, character death, sexual content

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

A/N: Finally, another chapter. Thanks to everyone reading and offering feedback. It's the calm before the storm, with one more chapter before Part Two. Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting so far. Your feedback means a lot to me. As always, special thanks to bitemetechie for her last-minute help in bringing this to life.

---

The limo vanishes around the block, the last trace of special treatment leaving us behind. As she flips the three locks, the door swinging open, that's when the idea hits.

"Hey, know what we should do?"

She flips on the lights, heading into the yellow kitchen, and I follow. With a sly look, she demurs, "I have a couple ideas…"

"Besides that. I think we should finally hang them up. They've been rolled up in those boxes long enough."

She flips the kitchen lights, dropping her bag onto the counter beside the latest Gotham Globe, my face emblazoned on the front, a curly mustache scribbled in marker under my nose. Gilda likes to keep me grounded in little ways.

"Didn't we buy them, what, three years ago?"

"Six," I say. "When you visited, remember? Right before your three year jaunt around the world." "Feels like yesterday." It seems more like a lifetime ago, back when we were still kids, fresh out of college. Our first—and for all we knew, our last—summer fling before our lives went their separate ways. We bought the posters at the old Second Story bookshop, a whimsical splurge to celebrate the three best months of either of our lives. "But we can't hang them up."

"Why not?"

"Because, silly boy, we still haven't gotten them framed. This isn't your dorm room."

"I know that," I say, sounding more snappish than I'd like. "I'm saying, I'm finally going to get them framed. Tomorrow."

"And what about tonight?" she grins, leaning against the kitchen table, that dress wrapped around her body.

"Gilda, it's almost midnight, and I have a very important election to lose early tomorrow morning."

"Don't worry, you'll still be in one piece." Her hand, still in its ivory glove, hooks me by the bow tie.

Letting myself be pulled into her arms, I say, "Woman, you are insati—"

Wait. A flicker. The kitchen window. Movement in peripheral vision. Something rustles in the backyard. There and gone in an instant. On a dime, I'm drenched in panic, spine going stiff. My caress of Gilda's shoulder becomes a savage, protective grip.

"Whoa! Hey, watch it with the Kung-Fu Grip, GI Joe."

"Shhh!"

Another shift of darkness at the window, the sound of rustling fabric.

... no. No, they wouldn't be... they wouldn't. I'm a joke, they wouldn't do anything. Then again, I pointed fingers. I named names. Why shouldn't they try something now, just to make a statement? What's to stop them?

"The bat," I whisper.

"What?" Gilda asks.

"Get me the bat. Now."

She slips off to the closet without a word, returning to hand me her Louisville slugger, branded with the Yankees logo. A memento from home.

"Do you even know how to use one of these things?" she asks.

"Wait here," and I unlock the kitchen door.

"Oh no, I'm coming with…"

"Gilda." The name comes out sharply, but not out of anger. My fingers press against the screen door's mesh, pushing it taut to the breaking point. "Wait here. Please."

There's a moment, and then she nods. Just once. My fingers go white, curled around the polished wood. The backyard is a silhouette of fence and trees in front of a cloudy sky of black and midnight red. A Gotham night.

I hit the lights, and the shadows vanish in all but one spot on the patio. A living shadow. Arguably, a human being.

"Dent."

Jesus. I don't know whether to feel relieved or not. But he's real. At least now I know that he's real. The thing on his head is definitely a mask, sharp ears pointed upward. His body is draped in leather, possibly a robe. Like a Judge of Hell.

"We need to talk," he says.

Thing is, I wanted this. To meet him, if only to see just how crazy this guy really was. Back when I thought I'd win the election, I was actually going to give his actions a pass, but if this is how he thinks he can act, if he thinks he can actually sneak onto our property…

"Who the hell do you think-"

"There was no time," he says, his voice low. A hoarse whisper. "Officer McKay's going to back out. He won't testify against Tony Zucco."

… what? How the hell could he possibly know about…?

I'm about to play it off, but my face has betrayed me.

He says, "Hill may have bought it, but your act never fooled Commissioner Loeb. He's been watching you."

"And you know this, how?"

"Because I've been watching him. He was waiting for you to try something like this. He's going to use McKay to humiliate you, and Zucco will stay free."

As if I haven't humiliated myself enough. "No, that's impossible. McKay's clean. I know that for a fact. He'd never sell out."

"Not willingly. He's being blackmailed. Loeb dug around, discovered that McKay's a closeted homosexual."

He is? "So what?"

"You know what Gotham cops are like. You know what they would do to him."

Of course. Of course I do. My fists tighten around the bat.

The words hiss out, "God damn it." Then I swing, smashing into the side of the garbage can, bursting with scraps of eggshell and onion peel. "God DAMN it!"

Tense all over, I stand over the scatterings. Then I sigh and let it go, my anger dissipating in seconds. Gone.

Ten years ago, I wouldn't have stopped at that little outburst. Amazing how much has changed, which is at least some little comfort. I shake my head at the thought.

"Don't blame him," he says. "He's a good man, as you know. He's just scared. Like everyone else."

"It's not him I'm angry at, it's…" me, it's me for thinking I'd actually be able to pull this off "… them. Loeb. Moroni. Zucco. All of their kind."

"You hate them."

"I just want to see justice done," I say, letting the baseball bat sink down, resting on the patio.

"So do I."

"If you're offering to help, you can forget it."

"I'm not offering. You're getting it, one way or another."

"Why?"

"Because you need it. Because this city needs it."

Shaking my head, "No. You pervert the system. You're…" I'm about to say that he's no better than they are, stick it to him. Instead, I ask, "How are you any different?"

He shifts, almost floating in movement, black tails hanging off behind him. A seam opens, and I can see it's not a robe, but a cape. Half Dracula, half Zorro.

"Unlike them… and like you… I believe in the law. In making it mean something again. But that won't happen until we've loosened their grip."

"You can't save the law by breaking the law. Not even by bending it."

"It's their game. Their rules. They're not giving us a choice."

… It's like he knows exactly where to hit me. In this moment, it's not the mob, nor Loeb, nor McKay, nor even myself that I hate. Just him. I hate him for saying everything I've fought against believing. Everything I fear to be true. That the system is fatally flawed, and that fairness can never exist. Then, the bitter irony hits me, and I find myself laughing.

"I don't know what I'm worried about. Christ, I'm probably not even going to be elected tomorrow."

"Are you saying that because you want it to be true?"

The question catches me. For a second, I wonder if maybe that's exactly what I'm wishing.

"No. I've worked too hard to get here. If I'm stuck as an ADA, so be it. I can still work under Janet Van Dorn. Honestly, she deserves to win just as much as I do. She's fair and honest, not in anyone's pocket. Not even Hill's. The important thing is that I'll still be able to do my job, until it's time for me to run again, and do it my way next time."

"You're not going to let them win."

"No. Not even if I lose."

He nods once. "You won't lose. Trust the people of Gotham."

That's a novel thought, I suppose.

"All right. Let's say I do get elected, and that we magically somehow pull it off and 'loosen their grip.' What then? Will you hang up your cape and let the real heroes do their job?"

"If we can have a city run by men like you," he says, the cape opening to reveal a body clad in gray, with a winged emblem on his chest, "there won't be any need for men like me."

That had damn well better be true, when that time comes.

I say, "For now, I won't try to stop you, since that would just mean turning you over to a corrupt police force. But you know no matter how things turn out, I can't help you."

"It's not me that needs your help. There's a cop you should meet."

"Ugh, no more cops…"

"This one's clean, honest. And uncompromising."

"In Gotham?"

"He's newly transferred in. From Chicago."

"That's not much better."

He tosses a folder at my feet, landing with a flap amid the wet scraps and Fall leaves. Couldn't just hand it to me, no. I scoop it up and peel open the cover, finding photos of a vaguely familiar man in glasses, with a bushy mustache and a rumpled coat. The shots were taken from a secluded vantage point, as the subject climbed out of his car, morning coffee in hand. He didn't know he was being stalked. Something about it makes me queasy.

"His name is Gordon. Lieutenant James Gordon."

"Yes, I know," and I hope he damn well better not be going where I think he is with this. "He's head of the squad charged with taking you down."

"It's a wild goose chase. Loeb's trying to keep Gordon out of trouble. They're wasting manpower and good cops."

"They're just doing their job." Damn it, just say it already. Ask me to sell out. Ask me to do you a favor. To use me to keep the vigilante task force off your tail. "A job, I remind you, that someone has to do anyway."

"Not this someone," he says. "They're setting us against each other."

"Why shouldn't I just let them catch you? I could lend Gordon my full support. Convince the DA's office to do the same. We could bring you in. Tout you before the press. I'd be a hero."

"Yes. But a hero to whom?"

"Y'know, you could just go to Gordon yourself."

"He won't understand. Not yet."

"But I do?" I ask, as if he hasn't listened to a word I've said.

"Yes. I think you do."

The folder fills my hand, with all the binding import of a contract.

"You're asking me to compromise everything I believe in."

"I'm asking you to compromise with me… so you never have to compromise with them."

"But it's still a compromise."

"So is a plea bargain. You make those every day."

"That's..." Not that different, I realize with dawning comprehension. But that's just the way the system works. That's the way it has to work with guys like Loeb in charge. I accepted that much long ago. Maybe...maybe he's right. Damn it. An alliance with an outlaw is more lawful than one with the lawmakers. "All right, you've made your point. But we do this my way."

He gives me nothing more than a stoic nod.

I ask, "Did you know what McKay was going to testify about?"

"Only that it had to do with Tony Zucco. The fact that Loeb intervened suggests that he or an officer in his employ is somehow involved."

"Two, actually. Would you like to know their names?"

He doesn't have to say yes. I put down the bat and pick up a broom, and as I sweep up the evidence of my tantrum, I give him a few names, a generalized location, a time, and other scraps of information that I've never been able to use myself. I give him bits and pieces, to see if he can put them together with the freedom he has. I tell him that getting actual evidence for a conviction would be ideal, but I'm content with him just making a statement.

He says, "You do realize that this will just increase their campaign against me."

Gathering all the trash into one tidy pile, I say, "That's what I'm counting on."

"Is this how you treat all your allies?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," I warn. Now, where's the damn trashcan? I thought it was...

I turn around, and he's suddenly two feet from me, dangerously close, and he hands me the battered trashcan. Like a peace offering.

"You really are determined to help," I say.

"You're welcome." I kind of hate how I don't hate him anymore. I take the can, and damn, I made a hell of a ding. Well, it's nothing that won't pop out again. There. Just like that.

The dustpan bangs against the metal can, the final scraps back into the bag, which I tie shut in a neat bow. I replace the lid, and it's like nothing ever happened.

I turn around. "Just don't expect this to be anything more than a one-time..." but before I even get to "... thing?" I realize that I'm alone. He's gone, as if I swept him away along with the trash.

"Hello?"

Only crickets answer, like there never was a Bat-Man in my backyard.

"Hello yourself," Gilda says, the screen door opening with a creak. "Is our visitor gone?"

"So it'd seem," I say. I hand her the bat—to put it away where it belongs and hope it'll never, ever have to be used—but she takes me instead, our arms wrapping around each other. I don't kiss her any more than she kisses me, but we kiss nonetheless: a long, relieving kiss that, for a few blessed seconds, obliterates everything else.

Pulling away, she puts her head on my shoulder, and whispers, "If you ever leave me behind again, I'll brain you."

I whisper back, "Yes, dear."

"My hero," she kisses my cheek. "My brave, stupid hero."

Another kiss, and we head into the bright kitchen, leaving the outside world in darkness. I stop, but she does not, pulling me toward the bedroom. I don't resist.

"Next time," she says, "don't forget to choke up on the bat."

"Thank you, dear. How much did you catch?"

"Enough to know you were fine," she says.

"Oh good, I'm glad the crazy man in the costume set you at ease."

"Besides," she adds, hitting the bedroom lights. "I figured that my time could be better spent elsewhere."

"Doing…what?"

That's when I see them, hanging over the bed, above our respective sides. The two poster prints, framed and displayed: On the right, Jimmy Stewart in Harvey. On the left, Rita Hayworth in Gilda. The former sits alongside his imaginary pal, while the latter is decked out in her femme fatale finest, accompanied by the film's immortal recurring line: "I make my own luck."

"I wanted to surprise you. You know, give you one less thing to worry about," she confesses, loosely slipping her arms around me. "By the way, you owe me six hundred bucks."

"Sue me." I say, so awed at their perfection that the price tag barely fazes me.

"Eh, but then there's all the hassle of getting a lawyer and going to court and having it drag on and on and on..." She smirks up at me. "I don't have that much patience."

"Well, I'm afraid I haven't got that kind of money just lying around..."

"That's okay," Gilda says matter-of-factly, eyes glittering with a hint of mischief. "Maybe there's some other way you can pay me."

"I don't think my wife would like that."

"Oh." She sounds genuinely disappointed, even as one of her hands creeps up my chest, fingers lazily tracing patterns around the buttons of my shirt as it goes.

"Jealous type, you know."

"Ah." My bowtie comes undone, fluttering from her questing fingers to the floor. "I understand completely."

"Good." My top button is worked free of its buttonhole. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Mhm." Another button, then another.

"I don't think you're listening to me," I say, pulling her into bed.

"Nope." She flips off the light and touches my face, to see me with more than eyes. "Not a word."

---

Her hair spilling over the pillow, Gilda sleeps, curled against me in the darkness. I steal a glance at the glow of the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. It's three in the morning.

It's already here. Election Day, with the polls opening in less than four hours.

Strangely, I'm not worried. Everything feels like it's going to be all right. I briefly wonder why, but the answer softly snores next to me, pulling me out of my thoughts and grounding me in the present.

I shift to kiss her forehead and I feel her smile against my chest, mumbling a little in her sleep.

Losing the election won't be so bad. By sabotaging my career, maybe I saved what was really important, despite my own wishes. I hold onto that thought while I hold onto her, until the hammer comes down. No matter what I want, perhaps this is all I need.



To be continued...