Chapter Text
When the white horse on the board was replaced with a black tower, across the small table, Harvey Dent frowned. He looked like the epitome of boredom in that moment, his thick arms crossed over the bright orange Arkham jumpsuit that hugged his broad chest. Those mismatched eyes of his stared absently down at the chess board, only half caring to analyze the moves his friend made.
The room – or cell, more as it was – was small, confined and stuffy. A cot was bolted to the wall in one corner and a metal toilet bolted to the floor in the other. The only table was moved to the center of the room, right underneath a large, arched window. The glass was thick and as an extra precaution there were iron rods barring the outside of it. Wherever he looked, it was a clear reminder that they were in an asylum. A reminder he couldn't visit Harvey the way that he used to.
Rain streamed down the hazed glass, the sound of it echoing through the small space like an uneven symphony.
It was the least someone like Bruce Wayne could do to visit. To just help get his best friend's mind (minds?) off of things, even if it was just a game of chess once a week. Harvey's frown at the chess board hadn't lifted, but he sighed and slid a pawn forward one space.
A useless move, really.
"Hey Harv," Bruce began, speaking as he moved another piece, "there's actually something specific I came here to talk to you about."
Harvey slid the same pawn forward another space, "You're already here, why not just say it," his voice was only slightly gravely, a small reassurance to know it was really Harvey in control at that moment.
"It's about that day, at the court... your incident," his words were hesitant, the sensitive subject causing him to tread lightly, carefully choosing what to say. Talking to Harvey could sometimes be like walking a tightrope.
In the low yellow-toned light of the room, Harvey's left eye shone. A wild look was present when Bruce took the white pawn, moving it off to the side of the table with the other pieces he'd captured.
"Go on," Harvey prompted, an air of annoyance to his tone. He moved another pawn forward.
"Look," Bruce sighed, moving a pawn of his own, "I know you don't like talking about it - I wouldn't either - but even though Maroni's dead, his men are still out there. You were a lawyer, Harv, you should agree more than anyone that they need to be brought to justice. They need to pay for what they've done, to Gotham and to you."
There was a sharp bark of laughter, a dejected little sound that lacked any of the fire that Harvey used to laugh with. His scarred fist had the sleeve opposite to it balled up, a telltale sign of his frustration. He slammed his chess piece down, his last knight taking the place of Bruce's tower.
"And what do you possibly expect me to do about that, Bruce?" he snapped, his voice low, "In case you've forgotten, I'm not the district attorney anymore, and he- he'd have us hunt them down to bring justice our own way. Even if I tried to do something about it, we're locked up in Arkham, so unless you'd like to fund Two-Face and his campaign for vengeance, I suggest you drop it."
The growl that twisted Harvey's voice on the last syllables of his words sent a shiver through Bruce's body. It was the voice he'd heard many times before under much worse circumstances. The voice that wasn't Harvey - at least not the half that he knew. Maintaining his composure the best he could, he slid his queen on to the board a few spaces, a challenging grin on his face, "And what if I did tell you that Bruce Wayne was willing to fund such a thing," he prodded.
For a moment Harvey froze. His eyes had gone wide and the eyebrow that was still intact twisted in confusion.
His voice was quiet when he asked, "Is he?"
Bruce gave a lax shrug, his grin expanding a little.
"In a way, yes," the billionaire confirmed, finally moving another one of his chess pieces forward, "I'm saying I'll pay for your release from Arkham because I think we have a real shot at getting lawful payback. I've heard that Maroni's family has hired a specialist from outside of Gotham. Someone who won't have any ties or loyalties to the crime families in the city. When we find him, we'll have a trial, Harv. We'll finally be able to put them behind bars where they belong. I just need to know that you want that."
"Okay," Harvey agreed, a few of his left hand's fingers twitching, as if they were looking to hold something that wasn't there, "we'll flip for it, leave this up to fate. Heads we go with you. Tails we stay here."
Bruce swallowed heavily, but gave a nod of agreement. With a hand, he smoothed down the front of his suit. It had been pristinely ironed by Alfred that morning and there wasn't a wrinkle in sight. The action was more a compulsion of nerves than anything else.
"Fair is fair."
Harvey's hand dipped into the hole-riddled pocket of the torn side of his jumpsuit, producing that shiny silver piece that he held so dear. Both his eyes were locked on it, no doubt entranced by the power that the small object held over him. His gaze flicked up for only a moment, a slight smile pulling at his lips, his right side looked polite and business-like, while the other was twisted in a mangled grimace. He'd never be able to smile the way he used to.
The thought sent an odd pang of grief through Bruce's chest.
That notorious coin now sat perched on Harvey's thumb nail, his bi-coloured eyes intently locked on to Bruce's baby blues.
Pling.
The crisp, sharp, light sound rang loud through the otherwise silent room. It arched straight up, spinning in an almost hypnotic mannerism. As it fell from its peak, Harvey reached up and grabbed it.
There was an intensity to his stare as he brought the coin down in his closed fist, placing it against the back of his other hand. He grinned as he lifted the scarred palm off, revealing what the coin had landed on...
It was heads.
Harvey would be leaving the asylum with him.
He'd be able to have another chance. They could finally set things right after what had happened, get Harv the justice he deserved. Get him closure. Maybe some therapy, too. And Bruce would be damned, he'd try and find the best therapist out there, the best in Gotham, the best in the country, or even the best in the entire world if he had to. This was good for him too, ever since the incident, he couldn't shake the guilt that somehow, someway, what had happened to Harvey was his fault. It was ridiculous, there was nothing anyone could have done, and he was sure that they both knew that. But that didn't change the fact that he wanted desperately, more than anything to set things right. The extents he was willing to go to just for Harvey almost startled him.
Bruce blew out a small breath of relief, standing from his chair to make the short walk to the door at the exit of Harvey's room. There was only a small sliver open to the outside hall, a window with four bars, each with a space just barely large enough to stick your hand through. Harvey's door was covered in scratches. Bruce rapped his knuckles twice against one of the bars, the sound grabbing the attention of the guard that was posted outside.
"Mr. Wayne," she greeted blandly. It was the only confirmation that she'd heard him, as she still stood as rigid as a statue, facing forward with a stony expression adorning her face.
"How much for bail?"
"Excuse me?"
"Bail. For Harv. How much?"
"I- Mr. Wayne, sir," she stammered, "For Dent? Twenty-five thousand, but this is a mental institution, not a prison, you'd have to talk to the head psychiatrist to arrange everything."
Bruce gave a cold laugh, "Could have fooled me. Let the psychiatrist know I want to see him, then. Right away. And I'm taking Harvey with me."
There was a tired sigh on the other side of the door, but following soon after was the sound of a key clicking in the outside lock, the door groaning on its hinges as it was dragged open. Bruce stepped out of the room first, Harvey following after much slower, his movements hesitant. The guard had a frown set into her face, and once Harvey crossed the threshold, she held out one of her hands. Bruce watched as his old friend didn't even question it, the only sign of his defiance being the angered tick to his browline as she fastened a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.
"Professor Strange's office is downstairs," she informed as the handcuffs clicked, locking shut, "I'll lead you two there. The patient waits outside."
Giving only a nod, Bruce agreed to the terms.
The three of them had barely taken five steps when a loud bang sounded from the neighboring cell. A pair of hands appeared, their knuckles white with a hard grip on the iron bars of the small window. From the dark space inside, wide brown eyes stared out, a look of crazed interest shimmering in their depths. The curiosity in them was crystal clear even from behind the lenses of the glasses that covered them. If the messy question marks drawn haphazardly all over the outside of the cell door in purple marker didn't give away the inhabitant, the plaque certainly did. It read, in bold black lettering: E. NYGMA.
"You know, between the two of our rooms, Mr. Dent and I happen to share a vent." Nygma crooned, a smug smile etching itself into his face as he watched the small group pause in their movements outside his door, "I couldn't help but overhear that you two will be looking for somebody, no? A little manhunt of sorts between old friends. How riveting that sounds. Thing is, I can't resist finding myself intrigued."
Behind him, Bruce heard Harvey groan, the man clearly expressing his annoyance. Batman was annoyed to no end by the Riddler, but Bruce Wayne harbored no similar grudge, so he plastered on his best curious smile, and raised an eyebrow.
"Intrigued? How do you mean?"
From behind the bars, Nygma grinned, fully prepared to give his speech.