Chapter Text
Harvey Dent is falling.
Choking, maybe drowning, in that uniquely cartoony way in which that everyone can see but nobody acts. Some lady just adjusted her sun hat and glasses, clicking her tongue with eyes drifting back to her magazine as the vague silhouette of thrashing echoes in the distance. Some people are playing volleyball, and they even offer for him to join, laughing as they do.
The world moves on as Harvey sinks.
And it’s absolutely fucking miserable, isn’t it? That not a single person has offered him anything to get out? Harvey is aware he doesn’t need most things he desires now to live. No, he doesn’t need a freshly cleaned suit just because he likes how it feels on his skin, because his skin is now so horrifically burnt on one part he is barely aware of the fact that he’s wearing a shirt now. The nerves were fried off.
He doesn’t need a really nice meal, because whatever he’s scavenged out of his pantry and fridge thus far have sufficed, alongside whatever he can afford at the moment to have delivered. Harvey watches his savings deplete, because he can’t be the DA from home, but he also really can’t bring himself to go back out into the real world yet.
But he wants to. He does. But it just so happens that every time he gets to that door, his fingers will grace the knob, he’ll lock eyes with the hand itself, and suddenly the scarred over flesh becomes far too much.
He hasn’t looked at his face since the hospital. Because, frankly, why would he? He’s reminded of it whenever he talks now, whenever he opens his mouth, or drinks, or chews, or sighs. Some of his words don’t come out right anymore. He sounds off. His voice has a sort of deeper grate to it, and he’s been working on dialing it down. He is rebuilding some semblance of normalcy in his life.
But… for what? What does Harvey have left? There’s already someone standing in as DA for him. He’s effectively lost his job. They’ve stopped paying him for sick leave, and really nobody bothers to call him much anyways.
His own family didn’t bother. The thought, despite being there this entire time, genuinely pierces his mind now, and he clenches his fist almost subconsciously. Harvey does not have much family left in this world. As someone with no brothers or sisters, he only really ever had his parents and their family. His mother had a sister, apparently, but they didn’t talk much, so Harvey never saw her. As far as grandparents went, he was told they all died when he was young.
There is exactly one picture of the entire family together, actually. He used to look at it a lot as a child. A single framed photo on the coffee table in the living room. It was him as an infant, being held by his mother, with his father and a few other relatives around. His mother’s parents, his Father’s parents. Harvey wishes he had taken that photo when he left.
His moment of sulking is interrupted harshly by the phone releasing a blaring ring, and he winces before picking it up.
“What.” He really isn’t in the mood for anything more formal. Anyone calling him knows who he is, introductions are redundant and a waste of time he could be using to do literally anything else.
“Hey, Harv. It’s-“
“I know who you are. I’m not stupid.” It slips out before he can really stop himself. The full pause hits him head on, and he takes solid breath, rubbing his face with his free hand. “I…I’m sorry, Bruce. It slipped out I’m-“
“It’s okay.” Harvey has never been so glad to be interrupted before. “So,” Bruce starts, drawing the word out, “how is healing coming along?”
Healing. Right. He’s supposed to be healing. Not quite sulking alone in his apartment, watching his life circle the drain. But it’s so hard not to. He almost feels like an outsider, watching it with the same novelty as everyone else. But he’s not. The news stories about it are almost laughable until the screen blacks out and his reflection becomes visible once more.
Healing.
It’s itchy and ugly and sometimes the blood tries to seep through his bandages, but sure yeah, healing. Healing will ultimately work in his favor, yeah, but still. It doesn’t negate the fact that he is itchy and in pain and tired and would really like to do nothing more than hang up the phone and go back to bed.
Healing! He’s going to get better inevitably, he’s sure of it. Except for the deep seated nagging he feels in himself whenever he dares think the word better. He’s going to get better.
They only released you from the hospital because they can’t help you anymore. You’re broken goods, Harvey. Not even worth the cost of a fresh coat of paint.
It tugs at his brain. He does not bother to listen right now. It’s been incessant since he got home, but Harvey’s grown to be fantastic at ignoring things like this.
Ultimately, he figures he cannot leave Bruce hanging forever, so he clears his throat (despite the pain,) and grits out a lovely,
“Fine. How’s… Wayne enterprise stuff?” He waves a hand, as if he’s being watched. He hears Bruce take a moment to mull it over.
“It’s good. Speaking of, I sort of have to run, but how about I come by and pick you up sometime? I still owe you that suit.” He chuckles, and Harvey tries to ignore the way his gut twists at the idea of not only going out, but going to a tailor.
“Bruce, I’m not sure-“
“I really do have to go, you’d be surprised how up my ass these people are about meetings and being at them on time. I’ll make time though, I swear. See you later, Harv.” The distinct click of Bruce hanging up lingers in his ear for a moment. Of course.
Bruce is a busy man. So busy with his well set job his Wonderful parents left for him. After that, of course, he gets to go back to his manor with his family. Far too busy to visit Harvey. Far too busy to give him a proper phone call.
Harvey clenches his jaw. He knows Bruce is busy, and he knows this is the best he can do. But for some reason it still burns. He runs his good hand through what hair he has left. It’s disgusting. A simple action, a near stress response, suddenly layered into something that permeates his mind as a reminder of what’s wrong with him.
Is your self esteem really so feeble as to be completely smashed inward on itself when you get into an accident? Is your face really that much of your identity?
It’s not. People just… people don’t understand. People don’t see someone with a bizarre feature and assume that they’re a good guy with something off, they assume there’s something wrong. People don’t like the ugly and unusual in their elected officials. They like nice, clean, and easy to look at.
Harvey felt the most remarkable thing about his face before was purely how normal it was. Which, in hindsight, of course he mourns normalcy. He palms at the bandages vaguely, keeping his expression taut. People didn’t question before when he maybe made an odd face.
He wasn’t ugly, is the point. He had been told a few times in fact that he had a nice face. He’d had people compliment his bone structure before, and of course he’d laugh it off and attribute it to his parents.
Genetics is all he really got out of that relationship, which is pretty fair to him. His father always told him he had his mother’s hair and eyes, which based on the photos and memories he had of her, he’s inclined to agree. His mother was a beautiful woman. He certainly carries some traits from his father, which really are ones he is not too severely intent on focusing on.
He didn’t even bother to try and reach out. He knows Harvey’s number, he certainly heard Harvey was in Gotham Central, Hell, he probably could find Harvey’s apartment itself if he wanted. But he doesn’t. Harvey was in a coma for nearly a month and the only people who came to see him were fucking Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon.
Harvey knows his father still lives in the house he grew up in. It wouldn’t be hard to send him a letter or call the house phone. But he hasn’t tried to reach out either. The relationship is stagnant. Besides, the more he thinks on it, the more he comes to see he doesn’t want his father to reach out. He doesn't want to talk to his father or even see him again. He just wants the satisfaction of turning him down.
He wants to tell his father no. But he can’t. He never will, probably. Harvey frowns.
Harvey frowns because his only friend in the world is too busy to see him, his family doesn’t care about him, and his career is effectively choking itself out. He is drowning in it all, and he debates letting it swallow him.
You’re so weak, Harvey. All you’ve ever done is drown. No matter how many boats pass you by, asking if you need help. You’re weak, it’s nearly pitiful.
He clamps his hands to the sides of his head. It’s a grating screech along his brain, like someone is dragging sandpaper over it. He is not weak. Harvey has worked so hard for so long, and now that the… the thrill of it has worn off, he finds himself tired.
So fucking tired. He gets up and clenches his jaw as he walks to his bedroom. His apartment isn’t that large, but at least he has a separate bedroom to lock himself away in.
So, of course, he does. Slamming the door and locking it for extra measure. He takes a solid moment to breathe, because things could be worse. That’s what he has to tell himself. It could be worse. He could be dead. He could still be in a coma. It could be worse.
It could also be better, you know. You could have not been burnt. You could have had a good life.
His life wasn’t bad.
Harvey has to come to terms with the fact that if he had died in that moment, he would have only lived as much as he had. Which, yeah, sounds like exactly that, but it doesn’t feel that way. The newspapers all flashed about the DA: attacked. But if he had died?
Would the papers mourn him? Would there be a nice funeral? Who would bother to go? Would his father attend? Would Bruce? Would the papers instead say DA: Dead! What would they write about him? Because really, it’s not like he ever gave the press much to work with. Nobody has bothered to reach out to him since he got out of the hospital media-wise. The papers and assorted others already got what they wanted. If he was dead? He doubts they’d bother to find his father. Or harass Bruce, for that matter.
He’s sure they’d just open his file, slap menial information in there to make it sound oh-so tragic, and then sell it at a slightly higher price. Because Harvey is nothing if not incidentally a cog in the machine that keeps Gotham both Fucked up and yet still churning.
He imagines it for a moment. District Attorney Harvey Dent dead at 29!
After taking a moment to think about what picture they’d post with the article, he finds himself tired of imagining his own death. He’s probably suffered enough, so he finally bothers to back away from the door, making some deal to dust himself off, as if his existence outside of his room has made him filthy. He’d take a shower, but last he tried his face and hand burned with such intensity he was brought to tears. Later, he’ll figure it out. He doesn’t like his hair getting too greasy.
Whatever hair he has left, that is.
He frowns. The thought is a plague to his mind. He’s different now. Purely against his will. Harvey wishes this wasn’t true, but he’s found lying to himself doesn’t fix anything.
Flopping onto his bed, he ignores the sting from his face hitting the blankets, and he barely has time to think before he closes his eyes and begins attempting to lull himself to sleep.
Maybe if he lays with his head down, he’ll peacefully suffocate through the night (it’s actually 3pm but it’s not like he has other shit to do). Of course, it’s nearly cruel to dream of such things, so he continues his attempt. The pain slowly fizzles out, and vague memories of his everything drift past him as sleep consumes him like a fog.