#and it didn't even cross my mind that jervis might be saying it in a negative way so no worries on that (': though barton has a sort-of

[mad-hunts]

there is nothing so cruel as memory — and this not only applied to the jarring snapshot that barton was given of a much happier time in his life through the photograph he found. he couldn't help but start to reflect upon how both louis, as well as matilda, weren't even six months old whenever marceline died. which meant that they would only ever and still do only know of their mother through barton's word of mouth. with that, the level of sorrow that came from knowing that he had everything one day and the next, he only had but a fraction of that was something he was convinced would kill him back then.

but the fact of the matter was, barton knew deep down that that was something he couldn't let happen. because matilda and louis needed him. so making peace with marcy's death was, unfortunately, a harsh reality barton had to face. the doctor did contribute finding winslow, his surrogate father, mostly all up to luck after all. and so giving up on them was not an option. but the toxic point of view that barton's bio father likely would've enforced upon him (to simply 'pull himself up by the bootstraps' as if it were that easy) wasn't going to work. so, therapy seemed like the most viable option to help him cope with the massive amount of grief he felt.

thankfully, going to it was the right decision in the end. the funny thing about grief, though, is that it isn't linear. and like the waves of an ocean... the feeling that you're missing someone fundamental to your life comes back in to hit you when you least expect it. barton flexed one of his hands repeatedly as he tried to get his mind off of it. he supposed that, eventually, doing nothing in this space would end up making him and possibly jervis as well lose their marbles anyhow. barton's work. before he had gotten into their current mess, he was working on a new 'piece,' he thought.

well, the deadline that the doctor had to finish it by before was hopeless for him to reach now. they wanted it in just two weeks time and who knows how long they'd have to be camping out in the old car warehouse? but that could easily be explained away. just like artists couldn't be rushed, barton didn't produce his 'dolls' well under a lot of pressure. nerves and skin alike were delicate. it made him wonder whether jervis still remembered the woman who'd been on his autopsy table when they met.

for even though the horror of it all was something barton was used to by now, even relished in... he was a very empathetic person and so barton could see how it could haunt the other in a way. so the expression 'different as night and day' might as well have been created for them all things considered. barton scratched at the IV in his wrist, mentally figuring out if he could give jervis more pain meds than jack had administered to him. assuming his son had given him the proper dosage. barton hummed noncommittally before deciding to consult jack about it first.

❝ i suppose my son's bedside manner was lacking a bit when he gave you that tea, then. i mean he obviously meant well, but i think it would've been easier for you to drink it with a straw, ❞ an amused snort left barton and pretty much guaranteed that he wasn't mad at jack for it afterward. he was still young after all - and he was still trying to drill all of the 'in's and out's' of medicine that he could teach him into his head. but it didn't seem to be where jack's passion lied, the line the other uttered aloud being what ultimately broke barton out of his thoughts.

the room proceeded to become deafeningly silent at that moment. squinting at the other was the doctor's immediate response, trying to recall where exactly he might've heard that. maybe it was biblical? barton was surprised that jervis would recite it, though, in that case because he didn't peg him as the 'religious type.' it sounded like he was expressing to barton that he supposed he might've felt like he wished his suffering could be quantified, however. categorizing his misery in those years seemed like an impossible venture though... but perhaps that was the point of the whole quote?

barton didn't want to be considered a 'victim' of his father, and from the way this was sounding, jervis almost seemed to be implying that. he could acknowledge that wesley put him through pain but he didn't want to redefine who he was in the process. heat began to rush to barton's head, and it was like he felt like he wanted to jump out of his own skin. ❝ yeah. you don't know anything about me, because even if you witnessed everything my father did? you wouldn't understand how it made me feel because you'd still be separated from it all. ❞

barton admittedly sounded a bit bitter as he spoke, but didn't care to address that right now. jervis was comparing their situations and it made him inhale sharply whilst he covered his face with both palms. he had nothing to say about that, though, but when what he guessed were babies were brought up... he ran his hands down his face to finally reveal it once more. ❝ mm, well, i could discuss how senselessly out of control some of the events that have happened to me and to others around me have seemed all day with you. but i don't want to. its depressing, but yes, my son is adopted but he's still mine. and that's better than what would've happened if the two of them remained abandoned for longer. ❞

barton stated this in a very 'matter-of-fact' tone before he turned over all the cards that he pulled for jervis. then, seemingly right on time, jack came back into the picture with breakfast for dinner for him. that plate was gently set on the bedside cabinet. barton looked over to his son as if to check on him then. yes, he actually did appear to have taken on a pallor. barton tilted his head and promptly inquired to jack about it, ❝ are you feeling okay, punaise d'amour? (lovebug?) ❞ his son scratched the back of his neck and gnawed on his bottom lip.

❝ yeah. i probably just need to eat, like jervis said. i'll be right back, ❞ jack stifled a smile and subsequently left, not even giving barton a second to protest. he shook his head only partially jokingly afterward while saying, ❝ ugh, that boy... if he was feeling bad then i easily could have got it for him. but i guess we're starting with the 'wheel of fortune' card. ❞

Bright domes of blood welled up from the corner of Jervis' mouth; his earlier, absent worrying with his teeth had succeeded in breaking the thin skin yet again. The yuja tea took on a faint ruddy tint, a visual stimuli preceding the taste of iron on his tongue. He tried to lick it away as discreetly as he could behind his cup, still chewing meditatively on the rind, bowing his head and letting his hair cover his profile for the briefest of moments.

Better my lip than my cuticles or my hair. The last thing I need is to start wearing knit caps all the time, or to pick up a fungal infection from this wretched place. One more reason to scrub myself raw and bury every possible inch in a hundred layers of clothing, eh? Old habits died hard; kicking and screaming as they were buried. Some were easier to tame. Others proved more obstinate, harder to shake; their roots sunk deep.

Trauma and time changes us all.

Barton's agitation swirled around him like a dark cloud; foreboding. A marionette with scorching strings, desperately trying to maintain his center of gravity. Those talons he called fingernails were restless; always moving, always touching. Somehow, it reminded Jervis of a hawk keeping vigil. That thought wasn't exactly comforting, if he were being completely honest. He flinched as the memory of their first encounter, so many weeks ago in the other man's workshop, came bubbling to the surface; ripples in a cistern, deep and dark and unfathomably placid. The kind of quiet that said, "Don't look away."

Jervis' stomach pitched as he recalled the corpse Barton had uncovered; what he had done to her face.

The scalpel had glided with precision, following the intricate pathways of the supraorbital and supratrochlear nerves—key branches of the trigeminal nerve, those delicate conduits that carried every flicker of sensation from the scalp and forehead to the brain. Though that was a moot point, considering none of these nerves or even the skin itself were alive any longer.

Just atoms and molecules; a patchwork of bone, blood, muscles and sinew; dregs of various neurochemicals and hormones long halting as the vitality they once sustained shuffled off the mortal coil, grown stagnant. But still undeniably a person. Human. Utterly devoid of dignity in death; an affliction all suffer, in some shape or form.

Each was duly severed, spawning an unseen fire in their wake. Dispassionate. Meticulous. Gloved fingers swept through the woman's hair, clearing the path; dyed a dishwater-blonde, slightly curly.

A miniature gardening knife plowing through equally Lilliputian stalks of wheat.

Jervis swallowed hard, the chill cutting deeper than skin; positively algid. Barton’s boots scraped faintly against the concrete, his IV pole swaying in tandem. Under the flickering lights, his tousled curls caught the gleam, fair strands shimmering like fragile, golden lacework. He paused beside Jervis' own IV, studied it.

"A bit of both, I think..." No sense in hiding it. It was plainly writ in the overwrought cast of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw; the dim light in his eyes. Jervis tightened his grip on the blanket, on the teacup. Cast his eyes about the room. Wary, half-hooded. Dark gray irises shone against the whites, through his lashes, landed on the cards Jack had cut and dealt.

Rabbit feeling the snare brushing against its hind leg, desperate to escape being baked into a pie.

His heart sunk, as Barton spoke of his son. Paternal instinct and empathy flared again; a gleam of recognition, in a sense, too. A soft, rueful, humorless sort of chuckle escaped him, quick as a hiccup.

"'Oh, that my vexations were but weighed, and all my calamities laid in the balance.'"

Barton's hand froze on the IV. The absence of those pearly white lenses or that hideous mask did nothing to temper the intensity of his gaze; a blonde lock fell across his forehead as he tilted his head; scrutinized him, features as blank as if they'd been scrubbed clean of any nuance by unseen hands. Not quite anger, or so it seemed; not quite amusement at his extemporaneous rehash, either... curiosity? Confusion? Consternation? He couldn't tell. But it rolled off him all the same.

Jervis' ears flushing were the only signs he had any blood still circulating in his system, his pallor was so pronounced. He bowed his head; shook it softly. Shrugged in apology. Forget it. It's nothing; I meant nothing by it. Tapping his nails anxiously against the porcelain saucer clutched loosely in his fingers. Bloody hell... did I really just say that out loud? "Sorry... it's the first thing that came to mind... I didn't mean for it to slip out, wasn’t trying to come off..." He sighed, cheeks expanding; breath whistling faintly; eyebrows bunching together.

"... like I told you when we first met, I'm not insulting you. I'm not pretending to know anything about you, and I'm certainly not pitying you." His free hand curled back into the blanket; followed the demarcations of each colored square. "But I do know something about living in fear; of uncertainty, displacement." His lips thinned, twitched; a subtle rictus stretching along Jervis' cheek and nostrils for the space of a couple heartbeats. "People like to say everything happens for a reason, but not all events can be considered blessings; not by any stretch... especially when bairns are involved."

He turned back to the tarot deck. "In any case... scotching the snake, breaking the cycle... that's brilliant."

Silence fell. Barton gave him another long stare.

Jervis stared back and did not move.

Barton turned away, headed to the cards and drew three painted images. A wheel, six swords stretching upwards. A sun. His eyes roamed along their features; sharp, incisive.

Jervis' ears pricked up at another set of approaching footsteps; smelling eggs and jam preserves. Ahh...

"I hope there's enough left over for yourself," he murmured faintly, not unkindly, as he turned his head to look at Jack. "You look a bit peaky."

[like-rain-or-confetti]

Top 5 Him and S/O broke off from a serious relationship and even after 6 months he still feels it. One day he gets a call from the hospital that they were in a car accident and hospital calls because it was their emergency number. After getting there it turns out S/O has a broken leg but other than that it's good. They apologize for still having him as an emergency and promise to change it.

Stay safe...

"Shit..." You sighed. "I completed forgot about my emergency contact."

The Riddler: His gaze flickered to your broken leg. Dared you say it- he seemed almost worried. "I'll change it-" "No! I-I mean don't. It'll be better for your sake." He sputtered. "I mean who else could be knowledgeable enough to ensure you get the right care than myself?" You didn't respond and once again Edward's gaze travelled to your leg. "That's the worst of it." You said quietly. "Good." He ground out. "They wouldn't tell me anything on the phone." "Thanks for coming, Ed." You said quietly. He nodded, swallowing hard.

Scarecrow: "Do what you like, it's your decision." He shrugged with a shake of his head. Jonathan sat on the chair beside your bed. "What are you doing here, Jon?" You asked quietly. "I got the call, I came to make sure you were alright. I figured you wouldn't have anyone to come and see you since you wouldn't have your phone." Jonathan replied smoothly. "I didn't think you'd care so much." You said quietly. He hummed in amusement, a smile grew on his face. His eyes met your gaze. "I want you safe." He said gently.

Two-Face: He crossed his arms. "I'm sorry. I'll change it as soon as possible." You promised him. "I had to flip the coin to decide to come here." Harvey grumbled. "When I got the call, I knew it could have been anything. I knew you were hurt but had to flip the coin to decide if I could face the damage. If you were even going to make it." "I'll change it." You promised again with a nod. "Don't bother." Harv' grumbled. "The coin helped us decide this is exactly how things should be." He continued. Your brow furrowed. "That seems like a lot of unneeded pressure for you." You said quietly. He shook his head. "No...not it's a comfort." Harvey replied. "Because like it or not...you're all I have left." The two of you looked at each other for a long time. "Don't worry." Harvey ground out. "If you're good...then I'm good." There was a pause. "That's how it's always worked." Harv' finished.

Black Mask: "No." He said. Silence filled the room. "No?" You repeated. "Don't change it. Like it or not- you're tied to me. Someone might try their luck. I...I need to know..." He trailed off and never finished his sentence. "It was an accident, Roman." You knew that look on his face. Any and every scenario filled his head. Paranoia runs wild in his mind all the time. "Yeah, so they said." Roman dug into his pocket and pulled out his pistol. "Roman! You brought a gun in here!?" You pressed yourself further into the bed. "Who was gonna stop me? I own this city." He scoffed, tucking it back in his pocket. "It was an accident. Leave it at that." You insisted. "I will, as soon as I know it was an accident."

Mad Hatter: "Language!" He gawked. "Sorry." You mumbled quietly. "You gave me quite the fright!" His eyes gleamed as he grinned. "I am relieved that you are quite alright." "I'm sorry, they called. I forgot to change it and I didn't see this coming." You sighed. "Worry not. I am rather pleased you forgot!" He snickered cheekily. His smile faltered. "I'm so glad you're okay. I was thinking the worst when I get the call." "I'm surprised you answered the phone." You admitted with a small smile. "So am I!" Jervis giggled excitedly.

[reviviscencegruiform]

//YOUR NAME IS JERVIS [redacted or nonexistent] Tetch.

You might be from England, but DC can't make up it's fucking mind so we don't know. You are an old fuck man, by Tumblr standards. 40's 50's oh maybe even 60's if we're feeling spicy, ho ho.

Your entire life you've been bullied. Be it for your big fucking head or being small or being bucktoothed or weird or- look, there's a list. The list is long. Very few things on this list are things you can actually control. You were unpopular and in a traumatizing way.

Your home life is entirely undetermined, but even if it was good your trauma entirely outweighs it. You might not even remember it or know if it was real or something you dreamed the fuck up.

Your mental health is a fucking nightmare. Your worst day is every day and it is a constant unending battle of "is that real? is that right? is that safe? are they safe? where am i? who am i? am i who i think i am?" and so so so much more and every day you wake up you are an entire different version of yourself and those questions. Doctors have failed you at every fucking goddamn turn and so has every medication.

They simply make you feel bad. Maybe it's because of the trauma, maybe it's depression, maybe it's just realizing what you've gone through and done, you don't know. You can't tell. It just makes you feel bad and so you don't necessarily want to take the medicine when you can even remember to take it. You do sometimes though. You want to be good.

And that's what's important here. You want to be good.

You try! You really do. You fucking try so hard and over and over and over again you fail. Sometimes it's your fault. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes people use you and hurt you and betray you to get something or just to see you cry. Sometimes it's not anyone's fault, but every time you suffer for it. You feel so guilty. Even if you don't hurt anyone you feel guilty. Like bread without water it gathers in your throat and chokes you. Guilt. Guilt when you're sane enough to even recognize it. Something to run from when you aren't.

Your personal fucking Jabberwocky, the failure and guilt of your own actions and there is nothing you can fucking do to stop it. There's nothing anyone else can do, but lock you away and that traumatizes you more and makes it worse the next time you fail.

Being thrown into a ward and having everything and every right stripped from you is traumatizing. Let's not go into too much detail here. Google mental health and the trauma of inpatient care.

Then you meet someone.

Someone who sees good in you. Good you didn't even know was there.

And they love you even with all of that guilt and failure. They don't mock you. They're soft and warm in a way you've never known. They're safe. Oh my god, they're safe. You wake up and they're safe, they don't change. They're a constant hug even when they aren't hugging you. They're the safety net.

You start failing less because you had something you never had before.

Support.

They say they love you, they love you in a way you've only ever read about and you feel it. You love them too. You love them so much that you start seeing the good in you too. Like gemstones hidden in a mine wall that you're oh so carefully digging out with your bare hands. Hands that are raw and bloody from the effort and care, but you aren't going to stop. You can't stop. You have to find all those little shiny gems they say they see so you know it's real. So you know you're real. So you know that even under all that guilt and failure there's good. After everything there's still good. In you! Of all people, there's good in you. And it doesn't magically heal you,but it makes things easier.

And then one day they just stop. They ignore you. They cross their arms and turn away. Not even a no. There's no why. Just ignoring you.

What did you do? You don't know! You didn't do anything! You've been good! You've been so good! You beg, you plead, you sob and cry and stomp your feet! YOU'VE BEEN GOOD! You've tried so hard! What did you do!? What? WHAT? WHAT!? Why don't they love you anymore?! Why weren't you enough? Why weren't you good enough?! They don't respond. Not until you're already on your knees sobbing please please love me again!

And then they laugh and say "It was just a joke."

[mad-hunts]

in response to the other's answer in regards to what jervis would prefer on his toast, jack simply nodded. he'd found himself at a loss for what else to say even though that was actually quite rare for him. maybe it was the idea that barton could be outside at that very moment, listening in, that made jack suddenly feel like a fog had rolled into his mind; making it so that he could protect himself without even knowing for sure that there was a threat in the first place.

barton didn't like talking about julien - he'd pretty much stowed away every single picture but one the family had with him in it, in fact. for it still hurt him too much to look at them. therefore, especially considering his father's history of not being able to regulate his moods well, jack might have to perform 'damage control' if that were the case. but crossing the bridge if he were to get there seemed to apply quite well here. so, the farceur chose to move on and it turned out to be wisely, too.

jervis did look very tense lying there with jack visibly appearing to want to curl up into himself and never come out. after going to the nearby trunk in the room, he opened it. this was done as a means to distract the both of them from succumbing to the weight of their own differing circumstances. though there was certainly a good cover reason for jack to, ❝ oh, wow. ahh... i almost forgot that its supposed to get down into the forties tonight so you might need this. its going to be cold, after all, ❞ it was also hitting sundown at that moment as well.

jack could tell by just looking through the crack in the curtains of the one window in the room. while gnawing on his bottom lip, he pulled out the plush blanket inside of the chest only to shake it out a bit. now, as jack tossed the blanket up just enough to cover jervis's body without touching him? something matilda told him a few years ago echoed in his mind during a conversation they had late at night: 'you know, i know you'd like nothing more than to get rid of all your feelings sometimes - but i hope you never change.'

jack just remembered looking up at the tent he was in that day of camping afterward, as he decided he should probably get to sleep. but it felt validating in a way he couldn't explain as well even now. because jack's first instinct upon seeing jervis was that he was struggling, so he should help him; though one could definitely say that sense of responsibility had made him suffer in the past. thank goodness sucking in a deep breath through his nostrils and exhaling could allow jack to quiet his mind then.

he tilted his head at the other's words and squinting his eyes, deep in thought. of course if jervis didn't believe in one, that was fine, but it appeared like he might. these sorts of concepts could trigger whole debates for a reason, however, as spirituality was something that jack affiliated himself with. but religion? he wasn't so sure, so he more than understood when jervis settled for saying his loved ones being at peace was simply something he wanted to believe in. with jack's sudden exit came the arrival of a much less benevolent figure, to say the least, and barton couldn't say he blamed jervis for seemingly somewhat disappointed that his son left.

jack was easy to get along with, and with just a little bit of time spent with him, he might just win someone over with his compassionate nature. barton knew this well along with the reality he had to learn other people's behaviors throughout the years to appear at least 'semi-normal.' how that was going for the doctor would often depend on who you asked, though. barton could only snort derisively at that, ❝ funny. just remember, you'd be in arkham right now if it weren't for me and my daughter. ❞ he pointed a sharpened nail in the direction of jervis as he proceeded into the room.

the same crack in the curtains jack had once looked through was soon closed with a quick 'swishing' motion. barton was personally raised with a very limited exposure to faith, as neither wesley nor winslow were particularly religious father figures. but barton could admire those who participate in it regardless of their level of involvement in it. though it could be used as a force of evil as much as it could be used for good, a lot of humanity existed in shades of gray.

so even if they were under the threat of suffering through something like eternal damnation after death... in barton's mind, it was only a matter of time before someone used a widespread thing like faith to their own advantage. and maybe this was bad of him but thinking about wesley being in such a place somewhat brought him a sense of twisted satisfaction; because at least barton would be getting a form of justice for every fearful moment wesley put him through that way. barton only blinked as his eyes trailed from jervis's face to the teacup that jack had presumably brought him.

shockingly enough, all he felt when he discovered that marty's father was a powerful figure was an incredible amount of disbelief for a moment before it fizzled away. barton was used to things getting worse even if he couldn't have seen this coming. plus, he'd gotten frighteningly good at treating human lives like this police captain's more as obstacles than actual beings. it remained to be seen which one jervis was to barton. he squinted his eyes before standing up and ultimately finding out that, yeah, he had done that too quickly.

barton felt like he was green around the gills all over again, ❝ that is one way to put it, jervis. but don't worry. you just reminded me that, although we're going to have to get creative, there are ways of getting away with it. i'd say pinning his murder on someone else might be the best. ❞ he uttered after swallowing thickly, making a 'turn around' gesture with his finger towards the other. barton talking about murder as if it was light dinner conversation said everything that needed to be said about how he felt about their current predicament.

maybe it was because he was still feeling a lot of malaise, but no part of it bothered him in particular. the doctor was more worried about jervis becoming queasy because he accidentally saw the scars where he'd stitched on yves's arm to his own body, ❝ uhh, just in case you didn't get that, turn around. i'm going to change my shirt. ❞ once that was done, barton slipped his current bloodied one over his head only to replace it with the other. he slumped down in the chair to the table opposite of jervis and looked over the tarot cards laid out before him.

barton, too, knew how to interpret them. ❝ what were you two planning on doing with these? a 'past, present, and future' reading? because i can do it while my son's gone for you. ❞

Jervis gave the barest of shrugs as he glanced at Jack through his bangs, the quiet rhythm of their breathing, the slow drip of the IV, and the faint shifting of the cards against the tabletop the only sounds piercing the air. "Either one sounds perfectly agreeable. I defer to your good judgment." A ghost of a smile, pale and wan, tugged at his mouth for an infinitesimal moment.

Call it the lingering pangs of paternal instinct or projection, whatever you felt was most appropriate, but some flicker of warmth—worry mingling with concern—stirred within Jervis' breast; softening the veneer of exhaustion and discomfort that clothed him like a second skin. Like an invisible cancer that had latched onto him, draining his vitality—a slow-acting poison decades in the making; only this time, the source was external, a reflection of Jack's own unease radiating across the space between them.

Jervis drew in a shallow breath, feeling the tightness in his chest not as his own, but as if their nerves had blurred and grown entangled. He tried to focus, willing his own breath to steady, his hands to unclench. A low chuckle escaped Jervis' chapped lips at Jack's query. The medications in his IV coursed through him, cold and prickling, sending a frisson over his skin as goosebumps rose in response. And yet, somehow, it eased the deep ache within him, dulling the edges of both pain and nausea. He could feel the weight of his discomfort receding, just slightly, as though the medicine were smoothing his raw nerves; coaxing him toward a delicate, unfamiliar calm.

Not quite like ketamine.... not like the cozy, blithesome feeling that coursed through his veins with each dose. Even when most of his prior consumption of the drug hadn't been consensual—thick enough to cut his teeth on, it ensured small pockets of blissful ignorance hardening into a dissociative shell, like callus. (God bless those poor, ministering angels at Arkham... only a trace of spite and animosity there, rage bleeding with sorrow at how his autonomy and consent was completely ignored, snatched... one wrong move, and he was left cowering in a crumpled heap, or otherwise dead to the world... but now? Would the scales be tipped, if they managed to drag him back there? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know that answer.) If Odysseus and his crew had been desperate to escape the Lotus Eaters only to stumble unwittingly into the clutches of Polyphemus, Jervis felt quite the opposite.

For better or worse, the ketamine had left him numb to everything.

The pain, the grief, the anguish that tore gouges in his heart and mind; lacerated his psyche to shreds, in conjunction with the ECT. Somehow, he compartmentalized it... gravitated to the cannabis as an alternative upon his discharge, once he'd regained his center of gravity and emerged from his self-immurement; the fractures left by his losses and lessons grinding him to the bone. Everything it cost him and what he'd earned in exchange. Simon. Arabella. His time in Ireland. Sylvie. The flood. Alice.

The lengths he had gone...

And so Jervis chuckled; the sound dry and hollow, barely touching his eyes. He met Jack’s gaze, his expression tightening as he mulled over the question, tasting the irony in it.

“An afterlife…” he murmured, his eyes drifting. Thoughts and memories broke the surface like apples bobbing in a bucket: Simon and Stephen putting aside their differences over the blessing at Passover; his and Arabella's quiet, but spirited discussions of Heaven and the saints and catechism, the differences between the Old and New Testaments as they strolled along the shoreline. Stories of the witch trials in Ireland, of John Calvin and his legacy in Scotland.

All the old beliefs he’d grown up with circled back and hit like a tidal wave, tied as much to memories of family as to the concept of religious faith itself, all its beauty and diverse forms, yet it left him feeling frigid now. For a little over three decades, he'd told himself that he could appreciate the mythology of it all, even found it strangely comforting at times, but belief? That had always been a different thing entirely.

Jervis' mind tugged him back to reality. He could sense Jack’s curiosity pressing at the edge of his own awareness, a secondary presence so strong it was almost rendered a physical form. "That's.... a complicated notion, from where I'm standing.” He let out a slow, careful breath; curled his fingers back around his necklace as he dissected the question. “But... yes. I'd like to think our loved ones are at peace."

He could map it all in a dozen lines, right down to his own lived experiences, the rules he tried so hard to follow, the ideals that always seemed to warp and fray. There was karma, consequence, perhaps even the lingering shadows of what people might call a curse. But the idea of any higher being calling the shots? It gnawed at him like an old wound. And so Jervis looked back at Jack, almost apologetic, the faint sting of an old ache flickering beneath his words.

He was spared from elaborating with Barton's sudden appearance; lurking on the threshold like a wraith. Poor Jack's confidence and ease withered like a hapless petunia caught in the dead of winter. A few quiet words of dismissal and a pat to the shoulder were all that heralded the reluctant, leery departure of his one potential ally in the wolf's den.

'As phantoms frighten beasts when shadows fall.' Jervis sighed, slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, looked Barton in the eye; as well as he could, anyway, with the lingering gray spots and his missing glasses still impeding his line of sight. “Maybe we each make our own heaven—or our own hell.”

Perhaps that was petty or harsh of him to say out loud... though that was the truth of the matter. Jervis didn’t need religious belief to drive him, after all; he needed only his own peculiar code, that precarious balance between curiosity and cynicism, and the sense of duty he still felt for a daughter who had deserved something far more stable, more secure; safer than the patchwork life he had known. Whatever his flaws, his faults, some small part of him still respected the right to believe—what faith meant to others; its power to inspire, to build, to destroy. The cause and effect of human history, the double-edged promises of faith. And maybe that was the root of it: faith could be a tool, a guide, a balm.

But then the stark, often bitter truths he’d learned through survival would come rushing back. Besides, he reckoned, Barton likely wouldn't give a damn about any of his prior train of thought. In any case, on the topic of hell, Jervis never pictured the vast, cavernous expanse of fire and brimstone that Jonathan Edwards had once preached about in the summer of 1741. No. Hell always conjured up fevered images of a frozen lake in the deepest, darkest part of the center of the earth, untouched by light and warmth and life—the last of Dante Alighieri's nine circles.

'I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.'

He was torn from the thick mire of his thoughts, yanked back outside his mind as if caught in a sudden hurricane at Barton’s next revelation. Jervis shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then reached for the cup of tea Jack had brought him. The liquid within was a warm, golden amber—like sea glass he’d once collected as a child in Bermuda, or the bits Alice would gather along Gotham’s coastline on their rare visits when she was little.

How simple those days were...

"Well." Jervis' voice was completely flat, his brow creasing with incredulity and disgust. Barton’s outline weaved and blurred before his eyes like a will-o’-the-wisp. No more, no more… no room, no room. He felt completely hollow. "Trading one problem for another, are we?" His scarred knuckles bulged as his fingers curled around the delicate porcelain; his grip hard enough to produce a faint, foreboding crack.

He would weep, if he had anymore tears left to shed over their predicament. For Marty and his partner, for the trouble Jack and Matilda had been brought into by association… but none for himself or Barton. He wasn’t certain he was worthy of it; and Barton had no qualms over their actions, he’d freely admitted it at that bistro earlier. Jervis’ hands tingled, as if they were still covered by the bloodied gloves he wore when he dispatched the driver in order to retrieve Alice’s rabbit, wielding his hatpins on pure impulse; there was no premeditation involved, but there was no discounting how surgical his actions had been in their efficacy with each targeted nerve cluster and artery. He wasn’t indulging in self-pity, oh no… nothing so shallow or solipsistic. Not like that at all. Just a pure ant mill of growing dread and horror and regret, one that couldn’t be encompassed by words alone.

His teeth sought the gouges in the corner of his mouth from where he’d previously bit himself in the throes of his nightmares, worrying at the cuts till they began to sting anew.

‘Despair has its own calms.’