#and this just in... barton decides to cut his losses even though there might've just been a mysterious sound coming from the roof?

[mad-hunts]

though retaliation was something that barton expected from two-face, as he was never the type to take things 'lying down,' from his knowledge — especially when his life was threatened. though for some reason... barton still felt the slightest bit of surprise upon suddenly seeing a gun in the other's hand. he could feel his heart beating against his chest, though he was strangely not afraid right now; the doctor supposed it was caused by adrenaline, in fact, because it just felt different. this wasn't exactly the first time that barton had stared death in the face and it wouldn't be the last after all.

or, perhaps it couldn't be the last, would be a better way of saying it. everything barton had done up till this point would be rendered meaningless if it did. there had to be a reason for all of the madness, besides all the things that those quacks in arkham told him he was quote unquote 'suffering from an extreme and psychologically damaging compulsion.' barton's eyes were just open. it was the rest of the world that was wrong, he kept on telling himself over and over during the years. and people like two-face just needed to be cut out of it because he couldn't be fixed.

barton was glad to see that the hit had at least somewhat landed. he was already sick of seeing the other's face, and sick of having to lie to himself simultaneously about the nature of his relationship with his biological father. now that second thing was something that snuck up on barton. he found himself clenching his jaw to try to maintain the steely expression he had on his face. instead, a bitter look settled in barton's eyes while the rest of his face seemed totally out of line with this: as a blank expression was about the closest thing to it. he huffed under his breath.

❝ i know i'm a bad person. i never claimed that i wasn't. but you don't get to talk as if you know what my father was like, two-face. anyone — and i mean anyone — wouldn't have been able to endure what wesley put me through on the daily without being affected by it somehow. that isn't to say that i'm trying to say i blame him for all of my problems, but that you are just so naive to think i wanted to end up this way. ❞ he shook his head as he announced this as if it was merely a fact.

god's, did barton still want to kill the man, or rather men in front of him with a passion. but if he stuck around here with just a knife when two-face had a gun? perhaps barton would be better off even buying himself a few seconds because that might just be enough to get away from the sanctimonious fool standing just a few feet away from himself. he subtly began to remove his jacket while the other was distracted and could only laugh at the absurdity of two-face's next comment. ❝ you know, i would hate to cut your 'epic crusade against evil' short, but... i actually don't have a death-wish. ❞

barton took his coat then and slung it in the direction of the other's face. now, even if it didn't catch onto it, he'd have time to get a head start from him — the doctor was already running in the opposite direction from them as he turned to say, ❝ and by the way, my daughter would eat you alive if you killed me! so i really wouldn't speak so soon. ❞ barton turned the corner at the absolute closest second he could then. putting his knife away would have to wait, as he just really didn't have the time right now.

"Did he do it like this?"

Of course Two-Face was never that simple - truer to his name than ever, he wouldn't go out if he wasn't strapped - hardly anyone did, in Gotham - and Harvey could hardly blame him. In any other city, the sheer number of handguns would constitute 'a problem', but here it was a day-to-day practice.

In simple terms, Two-Face had a gun. Of course he did. Two-Face always had a gun, always had a second way out, always had a Plan B.

He managed to push himself far enough out of the way that he hadn't been stabbed - though there was a nasty, bloody slice opening up across his chest that was going to need stitches. Blood pooled up beneath his shirt and pushed through the tear.

He didn't have time for curtains one and two - just plain curtains.

Two-Face leveled his gun at the other man's forehead.

"Your daddy was a fucked up piece of shit, and so are you. That's what we have in common. You think I haven't been hearing this 'poor Harvey' shit my whole life?"

Poor Harvey. If only this or that had happened. If only his dear old dad hadn't hated him. If only he hadn't been maimed. Poor Harvey, poor Harvey.

"Maybe your 'kids' will thank me for this coin toss someday, huh?"

He hated it. He had to. He wanted to keep pulverizing this sick son of a bitch - or bastard, rather, but he couldn't do it without the coin, he couldn't.

He imagined he heard something on the roof. Something quiet in the cacophony.

He still had to flip the coin.