Syncopation: Chapter Three (of Six)
The Dark Knight seemed disinclined to move. "What's wrong with Dent?"
Gordon sighed. "He's working himself too hard, and the realization that this is an inside job--he feels betrayed and angry. He's determined to bring down this guy no matter what it costs him." He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at his feet. "I just hope it doesn't cost him too much. We need men like him here in Gotham. Like both of you."
He looked up again to find that this time he really was alone.
: : :
Clark Kent took a moment to admire his boyfriend from across the room. His boyfriend. He didn't often allow himself to simply enjoy the sight of Bruce Wayne in public, to revel in the fact that this paragon was actually his lover. But tonight, as the charity casino rattled and jangled around him, Clark indulged himself in letting his eyes run over Bruce's form, from the powerful legs hidden by the tuxedo, up along the lean torso and to the dark, wavy hair.
Bruce turned as if he could feel Clark's eyes on him and smiled. It was a small, tired smile, and Clark's heart turned over in his chest. Bruce looked exhausted. He needed a good night's sleep, and Clark was going to see he got it tonight, even if he had to hold his lover down until he fell asleep.
As he planned out his strategy, Clark noticed Harvey Dent and Grace Lamont entering the casino, arm in arm. Grace looked lovely as usual in a silvery-blue dress, but she didn't meet his eyes as they swept by. Harvey glanced over at Bruce, then met Clark's eyes as they walked past. Clark felt an uneasy qualm go through him at the sight of Harvey's drawn, tired face. He looked strung out. He looked like hell.
Actually, he looked a lot like Bruce.
For his part, Bruce was having a hard time focusing on the conversation going on around him. The personnel records for the District Attorney's office still swam in front of his eyes--he'd spent most of last night poring over them in search of something that would tip off who might be using the information for their own personal vendetta. He laughed somewhat belatedly at a joke and earned himself a glare from an attractive young woman. The chaotic sounds of slot machines and shuffling cards made it hard to concentrate. He tried harder to focus until he felt a soft hand on his arm. He turned to find Grace Lamont standing next to him, her gentle blue eyes troubled. "Bruce..." she started, then stopped and bit her lip. "Could you--I think there's a problem--"
Bruce frowned. "What's going on, Grace?"
It was the roulette wheel.
: : :
Harvey Dent was winning. He had a large pile of chips in front of him by the time Bruce arrived at the table. As Bruce approached, he put a stack on red 16, then another stack on black 38. Both won. He lost the next two, but red 13, red 29, and black 31 all won in quick succession after. The stack of chips was much larger now. Harvey was winning big.
He didn't look like he was winning big. In fact, Harvey looked frightened. There was sweat on his brow, and he was chewing his lower lip savagely. Each time the wheel spun, he shoved his left hand into a pants pocket and fiddled with something there, like a good-luck piece. When it came up on his number the next time, he grew even paler. He was starting to look angry, as if his good luck was a personal affront.
Bruce walked up to him and clapped him on the back; Harvey spun as if Bruce had struck him. "Awesome luck, Harv!" Bruce exclaimed. "The children's hospital will be indebted to you forever.
Harvey stared at him, breathing heavily. "Luck," he said as if it were a curse. The roulette wheel landed on red 5--Harvey's number had been black 30. A few of his chips disappeared, and Harvey sighed in incongruous relief.
He won the next two, and the crowd which had started to gather whooped and hollered. "It's like he can't lose!" said a young woman admiringly.
"Can't lose," Harvey echoed hollowly, shoveling another pile of chips onto red 11. "Can't lose, can't quit." The ball dropped: red 11. The crowd went wild.
Harvey stood in the crowd, his hand in his pocket, glaring at the wheel. Grace put a tentative hand on his arm, and he gave her a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring but was instead ghastly. "All right, then," he muttered, almost to himself. "We'll leave it up to fate. One turn of the wheel, all or nothing. You bastard." Then he abruptly raked all of his chips into a gigantic glistening pile, and shoved the entire mass onto one number. "Everything, everything I've got on black 22. I bet it all," he said, his voice shaking.
"Whoa there, Harvey," said Bruce, "That's a bit radical, don't you think? Wait, wait--"
It was too late. The wheel was in motion.
As the wheel clicked, Harvey reached out and grabbed Bruce's arm, holding on to him. "It'll be okay, Bruce," he whispered. "He can't win all the time. He just can't." Bruce didn't know who "he" was, didn't know why Harvey was suddenly trembling and pressed against him, all he knew was that the wheel was turning and slowing, inexorable, unstoppable, and the ball was dropping with a tiny clink into the waiting, breathless silence.
Dropping onto black 22.
In the sudden pandemonium, Harvey Dent stood staring, his face blank and disbelieving. Then he lunged forward, sending chips scattering everywhere. "It's rigged," he snarled viciously. Bruce pulled him backwards and Harvey took a clumsy, wild swing at him. "Cheaters, you're all cheaters, it's all rigged," he ranted.
Bruce dodged. "Harvey, what the hell..." Harvey shoved him aside and strode angrily toward the men's room, but not before Bruce saw his eyes. "I'm sorry," Bruce said to the crowd, "Let me go talk to him, I'm sorry." He saw Clark's shocked face in the crowd and threw him an apologetic look, then hurried after Harvey.
By the time Bruce entered the restroom, Harvey was splashing water on his face at the sink. Any tears that might have been there were washed away beyond recall. Harvey looked at himself in the mirror and his mouth twisted. Then he gripped the edges of the sink, leaned forward and brought his forehead sharply against the mirror, hard enough to bruise, nearly hard enough to break the skin. As Bruce stood aghast and paralyzed, he did it again.
Bruce leapt forward and pulled Harvey away from the mirror. Harvey stared at him as if he hardly recognized him, and his knees buckled. They went down on the floor together, Bruce trying to support his friend as he collapsed with his head on his knees.
"He always wins," Harvey said as if he were explaining something. "He always wins. He needs to control everything and he always wins." He made a choking sound. "Bruce. He's stronger than I am."
"Harvey. We'll get you help," said Bruce. "We'll get you some help, okay?"
Harvey flinched at that and made a low growling noise in his throat, his eyes closed, sweat on his temples. He snarled something like a laugh. "Help him?" His voice was low and hoarse, almost a whisper, and full of loathing. "Help him? Jesus, you're even weaker than he is." He fell silent again and responded to no one, not even when Grace stood beside him and called his name, her voice choked with tears.
Bruce, Clark, and Grace got him home and into bed, still unspeaking. "I'll stay with him tonight," said Grace softly. "I called the mayor. He'll put Harvey on a temporary leave of absence until we...get this figured out." She leaned on Bruce, and he put his arms around her slight form. "Thank you for the doctors' referrals, for the help. I swear he hasn't been this bad until tonight. But I should have seen it coming. It's my fault."
"We all should have seen it coming," said Bruce bleakly. In the other room, Harvey groaned something in his sleep that sounded half-angry, half-despairing.
: : :
Bruce was too upset and exhausted to protest when Clark insisted he go to bed when they got home. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, dark hair spread across the white pillowcase.
Clark slipped into bed beside him and wrapped his arms around the warm, solid form. He lay awake and held his lover through the night, waiting for the lines of worry to smooth from Bruce's sleeping face, but it remained drawn and tense. Now and then Bruce's legs twitched and his breathing came fast.
Fighting demons.