he's not dead, he's gonna live
Characters: Two-Face, T.E. Lawrence, Tony Stark and who knows. It could even be... you!
Rating: PG-13?
Time Period: Modern
Location: Castle, Sitting Room
Relative Date: after getting knocked out and tied up by Jack (yes, yes, i know), and well after Jack and Reinette have left the sitting room.
Status: Fin!
Two-Face didn't like sleep much. Very occasionally the sedatives they forced into him at Arkham would open up a pit of blackness that he'd willingly fall into, there being nothing to remain conscious for in a life like this. But most of the time they didn't do the job, or worse, the combination of drug dosages would create nightmarish dreamscapes, jumbles of nonsensical and disturbing perversions of reality he'd have to fumble his way through, clawing desperately, until he woke up.
Most of his dreams were, strangely enough, not about her, or the accident, or even the Joker. They were about the Batman. Gordon. Harvey's days in Internal Affairs. The nurses at Arkham who refused to look at him. Ramirez. And his father.
It was his father now who sat in a chair directly across from him, endlessly flipping a coin. His face was entirely in shadow, but Two-Face knew it was him, the way you could only know in dreams. The coin caught the light at just the right moments, like a fish jetting just under the surface of the water, back and forth. Mesmerizing him. Two-Face looked down at his own hands then, realizing he was holding something. His hands were a child's clutching a comic book that was dogeared and torn-- Donald Duck flipping his own coin, making his own choices. "Life is but a gamble. Let flipism chart your ramble!"
As he read the words his father leaned forward slightly, just enough into the light that Harvey (for he was truly Harvey again, now) could see that half of his face was gone. Not burned, not torn away, not disfigured. Just black nothingness, the alien chill of empty space, and it was his own face now. Harvey screamed.
Two-Face woke abruptly, kicking out at nothing. The pain was almost excruciating, and he tried to bring his hands up to his face several times before it sunk in that some bastard had tied them behind his back. That ruled out getting to his medications. Great. He leaned back, stunned, trying to get his bearings. His bad eye was almost completely blind now, and itched like hell, but he was vaguely able to make out that he was no longer in the hall but some sort of parlor. Tied to, he was guessing, a couch. A hazy memory flooded back to him, of the encounter with Jack and the two women. His coin, gleaming in the darkness and just out of reach.
My coin.
"No," he muttered, suddenly truly panicked. "No, no, NO!" He struggled violently against whatever was holding him to the couch.
Rating: PG-13?
Time Period: Modern
Location: Castle, Sitting Room
Relative Date: after getting knocked out and tied up by Jack (yes, yes, i know), and well after Jack and Reinette have left the sitting room.
Status: Fin!
Two-Face didn't like sleep much. Very occasionally the sedatives they forced into him at Arkham would open up a pit of blackness that he'd willingly fall into, there being nothing to remain conscious for in a life like this. But most of the time they didn't do the job, or worse, the combination of drug dosages would create nightmarish dreamscapes, jumbles of nonsensical and disturbing perversions of reality he'd have to fumble his way through, clawing desperately, until he woke up.
Most of his dreams were, strangely enough, not about her, or the accident, or even the Joker. They were about the Batman. Gordon. Harvey's days in Internal Affairs. The nurses at Arkham who refused to look at him. Ramirez. And his father.
It was his father now who sat in a chair directly across from him, endlessly flipping a coin. His face was entirely in shadow, but Two-Face knew it was him, the way you could only know in dreams. The coin caught the light at just the right moments, like a fish jetting just under the surface of the water, back and forth. Mesmerizing him. Two-Face looked down at his own hands then, realizing he was holding something. His hands were a child's clutching a comic book that was dogeared and torn-- Donald Duck flipping his own coin, making his own choices. "Life is but a gamble. Let flipism chart your ramble!"
As he read the words his father leaned forward slightly, just enough into the light that Harvey (for he was truly Harvey again, now) could see that half of his face was gone. Not burned, not torn away, not disfigured. Just black nothingness, the alien chill of empty space, and it was his own face now. Harvey screamed.
Two-Face woke abruptly, kicking out at nothing. The pain was almost excruciating, and he tried to bring his hands up to his face several times before it sunk in that some bastard had tied them behind his back. That ruled out getting to his medications. Great. He leaned back, stunned, trying to get his bearings. His bad eye was almost completely blind now, and itched like hell, but he was vaguely able to make out that he was no longer in the hall but some sort of parlor. Tied to, he was guessing, a couch. A hazy memory flooded back to him, of the encounter with Jack and the two women. His coin, gleaming in the darkness and just out of reach.
My coin.
"No," he muttered, suddenly truly panicked. "No, no, NO!" He struggled violently against whatever was holding him to the couch.