just_muse_me 16.8.6 Vanity Dies Hard
[Takes place shortly after this. RP thread for arkhams_dr]
Under normal circumstances, Harvey Dent wouldn't be caught dead alone in a room with Jonathan Crane in an instance where Crane had the upper hand. But these weren't normal circumstances - hell, he wasn't even sure of the definition of 'normal' at this point. The medication Crane had given him a few minutes earlier was sinking in, quickly and effectively.
He'd been too weak from the injuries sustained by the warehouse blast to think of a better idea. If the doctors had been able treat him properly, he would have already been on the road to recovery. To be honest, if he hadn't made it to Nadine's when he did the night before, he was pretty sure he'd have been found dead in an alley somewhere. Explain that to the press, Gordon, he thought to himself. Once she let him in, he promptly collapsed, barely able to move by himself.
Rachel was dead, Harvey had killed several people in a quest for vengeance and Gotham was being blown to hell. Plus there were the jolts of pain that kept wracking his body. All he wanted was for the physical pain to subside. And then there was the issue of his face. It wasn't too late to fix it, was it? They lived in an age where medical science could do anything. Up until now, the part of him that didn't give a shit had been making all the decisions. Suddenly, keeled over on Nadine's bed, Harvey's vanity kicked in. His face. His smooth-complected, tan, evenly chiseled face. He couldn't go to a real hospital now. Who better in Gotham's underworld to help him with both the pain and his face than the most notorious doctor of them all?
By the time Crane arrived, Harvey was barely conscious and telling Nadine to call the man for help seemed like a distant, blurry memory. Once the drugs Crane gave him kicked in, he was much less pained but far too discombobulated to think about the implications of what was going on - the golden boy District Attorney begging for help from the infamous criminal doctor.
When Nadine left, Harvey felt no anger or worry about the fact that he was completely helpless against Jonathan Crane. All he could do was look up at the doctor, far too trusting, especially of a man he'd spent the last few months actively despising, and ask, voice slurred, "So--you--can fix my face, can't you?"
Under normal circumstances, Harvey Dent wouldn't be caught dead alone in a room with Jonathan Crane in an instance where Crane had the upper hand. But these weren't normal circumstances - hell, he wasn't even sure of the definition of 'normal' at this point. The medication Crane had given him a few minutes earlier was sinking in, quickly and effectively.
He'd been too weak from the injuries sustained by the warehouse blast to think of a better idea. If the doctors had been able treat him properly, he would have already been on the road to recovery. To be honest, if he hadn't made it to Nadine's when he did the night before, he was pretty sure he'd have been found dead in an alley somewhere. Explain that to the press, Gordon, he thought to himself. Once she let him in, he promptly collapsed, barely able to move by himself.
Rachel was dead, Harvey had killed several people in a quest for vengeance and Gotham was being blown to hell. Plus there were the jolts of pain that kept wracking his body. All he wanted was for the physical pain to subside. And then there was the issue of his face. It wasn't too late to fix it, was it? They lived in an age where medical science could do anything. Up until now, the part of him that didn't give a shit had been making all the decisions. Suddenly, keeled over on Nadine's bed, Harvey's vanity kicked in. His face. His smooth-complected, tan, evenly chiseled face. He couldn't go to a real hospital now. Who better in Gotham's underworld to help him with both the pain and his face than the most notorious doctor of them all?
By the time Crane arrived, Harvey was barely conscious and telling Nadine to call the man for help seemed like a distant, blurry memory. Once the drugs Crane gave him kicked in, he was much less pained but far too discombobulated to think about the implications of what was going on - the golden boy District Attorney begging for help from the infamous criminal doctor.
When Nadine left, Harvey felt no anger or worry about the fact that he was completely helpless against Jonathan Crane. All he could do was look up at the doctor, far too trusting, especially of a man he'd spent the last few months actively despising, and ask, voice slurred, "So--you--can fix my face, can't you?"