Familiar Faces (2/?)
Fanfiction
Title: Familiar Faces (2/?) (tentative title)
Author: Avelera
Universe: Nolanverse, post-film AU
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Harvey, Joker, Harley Quinn-Rachel Dawes, Harvey/Rachel
Word Count: 2,011
Warnings: Spoilers for The Dark Knight. Dark.
Summary: Six months after his “funeral”, Two-Face stalks the streets of Gotham, gunning down any criminals that cross his path. Little does he know that somewhere, hidden in the city, the Joker is slowly breaking the will of Rachel Dawes, his new plaything, his “Harley Quinn.”
Author Note: This story’s being written very seat-of-the-pants. Even I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, which makes it fun (if a bit time consuming) to write. Don’t worry, there is an overarching plot, I’m just letting the characters show me how to go about it.
I’m also experimenting a little with writing style. Rather than my usual meandering description, I’m trying a very spare, Hemingway-esque style of writing. I’m not sure if I like it yet, but it is interesting to try.
After you’re done reading, I would love to hear what you think!
Chapter 1
---------
Blood flew, and the mobster shuddered for a moment, suspended as the pain seeped into his nervous system, then collapsed, howling and writhing, to the ground.
“Jesus-fucking-Christ, I told you I don’t know anything!” the mobster said, clutching his hand, which just a moment before had been clutched around the gun in his pocket. Two-Face idly noticed that two missing fingers. The man’s cries grew incoherent.
Two-Face grimaced and cast his gaze about the room. Nothing. A month since she had appeared on the rooftop and no amount of sleep or wakefulness would bring the dream back.
Spinning the chamber of his pistol, he noted that recreating the situation hadn’t done much either. Even the Joker had been absent, making no appearance even though Batman was plastered over every front page, and Two-Face hunted down Joker’s minions one by one.
His mouth set into a grim line, and with an air of frustration usually reserved for those who feel their time has been wasted on some trivial matter, he flipped the coin, removed his hand to see Liberty’s scarred face, and shot the mobster twice in the head.
----------
Her hands scrabbled through the papers that covered the table in disorganized piles. Plans, maps of the city, old newspapers of Batman’s- Bruce’s- latest escape.
“Where is it, oh fuck-God, where is it?” she whispered to herself, her voice breaking as tears of desperation rose at the back her throat. Photos and printouts shifted like sand beneath her flailing hands. A single sheet wafted off the top of the tallest pile and fluttered to the ground. With a low moan of fear, she snatched it before it up and returned it to the chaos. Chaos was good, he wouldn’t notice chaos, but disorder… he had killed over a little disorder in his perfect plans. Her ragged fingernails caught the edge of a yellowing page and the hot wire pain of the edge slicing her finger drew her attention. She sucked on the wound and tried to ignore how the taste of blood was more familiar than it had once been. Pulling out the crinkling page, she saw it was an old memo pad, freshly inscribed with a sort of haphazard schedule, complete with jerky childish writing across the top.
Harvey’s name.
With a stifled cry, she crumpled the page in her fist and tried vainly to find a spot in the red and black smock to hide it. The blood pounding in her ears sounded like clomp-swish of his footsteps. Spinning on the balls of her feet, she took off back to the heavy door of the prison and screamed as she rounded the corner, a shadow in purple velvet and white grease makeup loomed in the door to her empty prison.
“He-llo, beautiful,” he said, sucking at his teeth and giving her a grin like one gives to an accomplice. “As much as I appreciate the sentimen-t-your scream-I didn’t come to scare you. See?” He pulled something from behind his back and she shuddered as her blood turned to ice in her veins. Holding up a gloved hand, he cocked his head to the side as if trying to gauge her reaction as dozen red roses materialized from behind his back.
No, not red roses, at least they didn’t start that way. Crimson greasepaint struck to the petals in clumps, and hidden amongst the bouquet was a diamond design of black painted roses.
“Well, don’t you like them?” he said and she felt herself frozen in place by the sudden change. His voice was soft, as if he was honestly concerned about her opinion, and would be hurt if it were not positive.
Her gaze slid down the thorny stems to the gloved fist that clutched them, without regard for the long thorns. Images of that fist flashed through her mind, and the subtle range of sensation she had learned from it across every inch of her body. The light, dazzling pain of an almost gentle cuff across the temple, the sting of reprimanding backhand, and the full steady drum of a beating, agony exploding across her vision like fireworks of red and black.
Even shame couldn’t compare to that, and her shoulders sank in relief, as if her body had won a battle against her mind, as she took the bouquet from his hand, too terrified of his watchful black eyes to find fingering free of thorns. The barbs pricked the soft flesh of fingertips, one finding the thin slit from the paper-cut and pulling it open like a child’s finger through wrapping paper.
“Thank you,” she said, “They’re lovely.”
He smiled, his scars pulling the flesh of his cheeks back until the curve of the grin stretched in a ragged strip from ear to ear. “That’s my Harley.” He shifted his weight and she thought, for a moment, that he would leave her to another day of darkness and solitude. Instead, his hand came up and the smell of leather and gunpowder assault her senses as he stroked a finger down her cheek. She jerked back, the bouquet falling against her chest and spearing her chest and neck with the tiny spikes. The paint scraped against cheek and the crumpled schedule fell from her smock.
The Joker crouched down, plucked the crumpled page from the ground, and smoothed it out. His eyes flickered across the text like a typewriter. She stood unmoving, the thorns still pressed into her chest, unnoticed.
“Ah, Harve-ey Den-t. It’s been too long,” he said, “I think it’s time we paid him a little visit. Would you like that, Harley?”
She had pressed herself against the wall and her hands trembled as if an electric current had been sent through her body. But her back was still straight, and beneath the white terror on her cheeks, her jaw was clenched and her eyes glinted with something that wasn’t fear.
“Hmm, maybe not yet,” he said. The paper fell from his hand and he took a step towards her, “But this, this,” he swiped his hand in front of his face, “thing you have going, with your, uh, face. I like it.” With that, he turned on his heels and stalked off, muttering and humming as he went.
She stood transfixed until he disappeared around the corner and then, freeing one hand from the nest of thorns and flowers, she placed it on her cheek.
Something sticky clung to it, and looking down she saw what she thought at first was blood but then realized was the red paint from the roses.
And there, like a perfect stamp in the center, a black diamond.
Snatching the crumpled schedule from the ground, she fled back into the darkness, un-bruised, unbroken, a smear paint on her face, and a checkerboard of blood over her heart.
---
The mobster smelled, if possible, worse in death than he had in life. His face had slackened into an unrecognizable mask, mouth frozen in disbelief under eyes that had rolled back into his head, as if staring at the red-rimmed hole in his forehead from the inside.
Two-Face crouched beside corpse and traced his hand down the grease-stained t-shirt until he came to the pockets of his jeans. A stain darkened the mobster’s pants as nature set to work on all the little indignities of death, while Two-Face rifled through his pockets, eventually pulling out a battered leather wallet. Years in a stale evidence vault, where dried blood and semen hung in the air like a dust in a library, had left him without much in the way of squeamishness. The corpse sighed and shuddered like a monster on a slab impatiently waiting a bolt of lightning. Nothing came of it, of course, except a fresh blast of odors from the pit of the mobster’s voiding bowels that could only be described as septic.
Sidney De Luca, announced the driver’s license next to a face that would not have looked out of place on a stockbroker. A normal face like that could take a man far in Gotham’s underbelly.
Throwing the wallet aside, Two-Face reached for the late Sidney’s right hand and persed his lips at the missing fingers. He scanned the ground, squinting in the dim light from the distant street lamp, until his eyes came to rest on the missing digits, and a glint that resolved itself into a heavy gold signet ring. Two-Face didn’t need to pick it up to see it was the Maroni family crest.
So the new Maroni heir was moving in, Antonio, or maybe Tommaso. Someone had made a move, and now Two-Face was back on the list of people to watch, an embarrassment to eliminate. Snoops like Sidney were just the beginning; whoever came next would have more than just a pistol.
Two-Face abandoned the alley and the corpse it now hid, and resumed the short walk to his apartment. Gordon would pick up the mess, one of the advantages of being a dead man, and one that the commissioner wouldn’t dare pursue. The police would chalk the incident up to mob warfare, the body tagged, frozen, and forgotten by all but the Maronis. They would never forget.
The shadows were enough to mask his face, though even if he was seen at this hour, the neighborhood had learned to avoid the man with half a face.
The lights were still on in the apartment, there had been no sense in turning them off when he had seen snooping Sidney from his window.
He considered the door to the bedroom. Would it be worth it lie on the bed and begin the hours long process (almost impossible with one eye always watching) of falling asleep? How long until the Maronis decided to do more than spy on him?
He had only a second to reacts as the room was plunged into darkness. Dropping into a crouch, he heard the rush air above him and fired. Glass shattered and he spun, firing at the dark shape in the corner. The shadow vanished and reappeared at his side, along with a shooting pain in his arm as his whole right side went numb. The gun dropped from his nerveless fingers and against the yellow light of the streetlamp, he could make out the familiar silhouette of the Batman.
With a low growl at the back of his throat, he balled his fist and threw a left hook at the Dark Knight’s mouth. For a moment, he thought he would connect but at the last second Batman sidestepped, catching Two-Face’s wrist and, in a dizzying flurry of movement, had him on the ground, his arm twisted behind his back.
“I’m not here to fight you,” growled Batman.
“Why not? Because you think you can convince me to come back?” Harvey spat.
“No, but maybe this will,” something fell to the rug beside Two-Face head, right into a shard of light that fell on the floor. A photograph. At the bottom corner was a date, the picture had been taken less than a week before.
“Gordon found this nailed to the courthouse door. It had your name on it,” Harvey stared at the photo, wondering if the shifting light was playing a trick on his eyes. “The date could easily have been changed. What I want to know is why, why does someone want you to see this?”
The quality was poor, the kind you see in pictures usually linked with some sort of conspiracy theory. Against the gray, blurry backdrop, it was possible to make out a seated figure, hands bound, mouth gagged, eyes terrified.
“Why does someone want you to think that Rachel Dawes is still alive?”
Title: Familiar Faces (2/?) (tentative title)
Author: Avelera
Universe: Nolanverse, post-film AU
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Harvey, Joker, Harley Quinn-Rachel Dawes, Harvey/Rachel
Word Count: 2,011
Warnings: Spoilers for The Dark Knight. Dark.
Summary: Six months after his “funeral”, Two-Face stalks the streets of Gotham, gunning down any criminals that cross his path. Little does he know that somewhere, hidden in the city, the Joker is slowly breaking the will of Rachel Dawes, his new plaything, his “Harley Quinn.”
Author Note: This story’s being written very seat-of-the-pants. Even I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, which makes it fun (if a bit time consuming) to write. Don’t worry, there is an overarching plot, I’m just letting the characters show me how to go about it.
I’m also experimenting a little with writing style. Rather than my usual meandering description, I’m trying a very spare, Hemingway-esque style of writing. I’m not sure if I like it yet, but it is interesting to try.
After you’re done reading, I would love to hear what you think!
Chapter 1
---------
Blood flew, and the mobster shuddered for a moment, suspended as the pain seeped into his nervous system, then collapsed, howling and writhing, to the ground.
“Jesus-fucking-Christ, I told you I don’t know anything!” the mobster said, clutching his hand, which just a moment before had been clutched around the gun in his pocket. Two-Face idly noticed that two missing fingers. The man’s cries grew incoherent.
Two-Face grimaced and cast his gaze about the room. Nothing. A month since she had appeared on the rooftop and no amount of sleep or wakefulness would bring the dream back.
Spinning the chamber of his pistol, he noted that recreating the situation hadn’t done much either. Even the Joker had been absent, making no appearance even though Batman was plastered over every front page, and Two-Face hunted down Joker’s minions one by one.
His mouth set into a grim line, and with an air of frustration usually reserved for those who feel their time has been wasted on some trivial matter, he flipped the coin, removed his hand to see Liberty’s scarred face, and shot the mobster twice in the head.
----------
Her hands scrabbled through the papers that covered the table in disorganized piles. Plans, maps of the city, old newspapers of Batman’s- Bruce’s- latest escape.
“Where is it, oh fuck-God, where is it?” she whispered to herself, her voice breaking as tears of desperation rose at the back her throat. Photos and printouts shifted like sand beneath her flailing hands. A single sheet wafted off the top of the tallest pile and fluttered to the ground. With a low moan of fear, she snatched it before it up and returned it to the chaos. Chaos was good, he wouldn’t notice chaos, but disorder… he had killed over a little disorder in his perfect plans. Her ragged fingernails caught the edge of a yellowing page and the hot wire pain of the edge slicing her finger drew her attention. She sucked on the wound and tried to ignore how the taste of blood was more familiar than it had once been. Pulling out the crinkling page, she saw it was an old memo pad, freshly inscribed with a sort of haphazard schedule, complete with jerky childish writing across the top.
Harvey’s name.
With a stifled cry, she crumpled the page in her fist and tried vainly to find a spot in the red and black smock to hide it. The blood pounding in her ears sounded like clomp-swish of his footsteps. Spinning on the balls of her feet, she took off back to the heavy door of the prison and screamed as she rounded the corner, a shadow in purple velvet and white grease makeup loomed in the door to her empty prison.
“He-llo, beautiful,” he said, sucking at his teeth and giving her a grin like one gives to an accomplice. “As much as I appreciate the sentimen-t-your scream-I didn’t come to scare you. See?” He pulled something from behind his back and she shuddered as her blood turned to ice in her veins. Holding up a gloved hand, he cocked his head to the side as if trying to gauge her reaction as dozen red roses materialized from behind his back.
No, not red roses, at least they didn’t start that way. Crimson greasepaint struck to the petals in clumps, and hidden amongst the bouquet was a diamond design of black painted roses.
“Well, don’t you like them?” he said and she felt herself frozen in place by the sudden change. His voice was soft, as if he was honestly concerned about her opinion, and would be hurt if it were not positive.
Her gaze slid down the thorny stems to the gloved fist that clutched them, without regard for the long thorns. Images of that fist flashed through her mind, and the subtle range of sensation she had learned from it across every inch of her body. The light, dazzling pain of an almost gentle cuff across the temple, the sting of reprimanding backhand, and the full steady drum of a beating, agony exploding across her vision like fireworks of red and black.
Even shame couldn’t compare to that, and her shoulders sank in relief, as if her body had won a battle against her mind, as she took the bouquet from his hand, too terrified of his watchful black eyes to find fingering free of thorns. The barbs pricked the soft flesh of fingertips, one finding the thin slit from the paper-cut and pulling it open like a child’s finger through wrapping paper.
“Thank you,” she said, “They’re lovely.”
He smiled, his scars pulling the flesh of his cheeks back until the curve of the grin stretched in a ragged strip from ear to ear. “That’s my Harley.” He shifted his weight and she thought, for a moment, that he would leave her to another day of darkness and solitude. Instead, his hand came up and the smell of leather and gunpowder assault her senses as he stroked a finger down her cheek. She jerked back, the bouquet falling against her chest and spearing her chest and neck with the tiny spikes. The paint scraped against cheek and the crumpled schedule fell from her smock.
The Joker crouched down, plucked the crumpled page from the ground, and smoothed it out. His eyes flickered across the text like a typewriter. She stood unmoving, the thorns still pressed into her chest, unnoticed.
“Ah, Harve-ey Den-t. It’s been too long,” he said, “I think it’s time we paid him a little visit. Would you like that, Harley?”
She had pressed herself against the wall and her hands trembled as if an electric current had been sent through her body. But her back was still straight, and beneath the white terror on her cheeks, her jaw was clenched and her eyes glinted with something that wasn’t fear.
“Hmm, maybe not yet,” he said. The paper fell from his hand and he took a step towards her, “But this, this,” he swiped his hand in front of his face, “thing you have going, with your, uh, face. I like it.” With that, he turned on his heels and stalked off, muttering and humming as he went.
She stood transfixed until he disappeared around the corner and then, freeing one hand from the nest of thorns and flowers, she placed it on her cheek.
Something sticky clung to it, and looking down she saw what she thought at first was blood but then realized was the red paint from the roses.
And there, like a perfect stamp in the center, a black diamond.
Snatching the crumpled schedule from the ground, she fled back into the darkness, un-bruised, unbroken, a smear paint on her face, and a checkerboard of blood over her heart.
---
The mobster smelled, if possible, worse in death than he had in life. His face had slackened into an unrecognizable mask, mouth frozen in disbelief under eyes that had rolled back into his head, as if staring at the red-rimmed hole in his forehead from the inside.
Two-Face crouched beside corpse and traced his hand down the grease-stained t-shirt until he came to the pockets of his jeans. A stain darkened the mobster’s pants as nature set to work on all the little indignities of death, while Two-Face rifled through his pockets, eventually pulling out a battered leather wallet. Years in a stale evidence vault, where dried blood and semen hung in the air like a dust in a library, had left him without much in the way of squeamishness. The corpse sighed and shuddered like a monster on a slab impatiently waiting a bolt of lightning. Nothing came of it, of course, except a fresh blast of odors from the pit of the mobster’s voiding bowels that could only be described as septic.
Sidney De Luca, announced the driver’s license next to a face that would not have looked out of place on a stockbroker. A normal face like that could take a man far in Gotham’s underbelly.
Throwing the wallet aside, Two-Face reached for the late Sidney’s right hand and persed his lips at the missing fingers. He scanned the ground, squinting in the dim light from the distant street lamp, until his eyes came to rest on the missing digits, and a glint that resolved itself into a heavy gold signet ring. Two-Face didn’t need to pick it up to see it was the Maroni family crest.
So the new Maroni heir was moving in, Antonio, or maybe Tommaso. Someone had made a move, and now Two-Face was back on the list of people to watch, an embarrassment to eliminate. Snoops like Sidney were just the beginning; whoever came next would have more than just a pistol.
Two-Face abandoned the alley and the corpse it now hid, and resumed the short walk to his apartment. Gordon would pick up the mess, one of the advantages of being a dead man, and one that the commissioner wouldn’t dare pursue. The police would chalk the incident up to mob warfare, the body tagged, frozen, and forgotten by all but the Maronis. They would never forget.
The shadows were enough to mask his face, though even if he was seen at this hour, the neighborhood had learned to avoid the man with half a face.
The lights were still on in the apartment, there had been no sense in turning them off when he had seen snooping Sidney from his window.
He considered the door to the bedroom. Would it be worth it lie on the bed and begin the hours long process (almost impossible with one eye always watching) of falling asleep? How long until the Maronis decided to do more than spy on him?
He had only a second to reacts as the room was plunged into darkness. Dropping into a crouch, he heard the rush air above him and fired. Glass shattered and he spun, firing at the dark shape in the corner. The shadow vanished and reappeared at his side, along with a shooting pain in his arm as his whole right side went numb. The gun dropped from his nerveless fingers and against the yellow light of the streetlamp, he could make out the familiar silhouette of the Batman.
With a low growl at the back of his throat, he balled his fist and threw a left hook at the Dark Knight’s mouth. For a moment, he thought he would connect but at the last second Batman sidestepped, catching Two-Face’s wrist and, in a dizzying flurry of movement, had him on the ground, his arm twisted behind his back.
“I’m not here to fight you,” growled Batman.
“Why not? Because you think you can convince me to come back?” Harvey spat.
“No, but maybe this will,” something fell to the rug beside Two-Face head, right into a shard of light that fell on the floor. A photograph. At the bottom corner was a date, the picture had been taken less than a week before.
“Gordon found this nailed to the courthouse door. It had your name on it,” Harvey stared at the photo, wondering if the shifting light was playing a trick on his eyes. “The date could easily have been changed. What I want to know is why, why does someone want you to see this?”
The quality was poor, the kind you see in pictures usually linked with some sort of conspiracy theory. Against the gray, blurry backdrop, it was possible to make out a seated figure, hands bound, mouth gagged, eyes terrified.
“Why does someone want you to think that Rachel Dawes is still alive?”