#opposite. dr. harleen quinzel. crimeloyalty.

[godblooded]

❝It can’t all be sorrow, can it?❞ 

“ no. it can’t be. it isn’t. ”

the explanation is simple, as fluid as a silken ribbon tied neatly ‘round the stems of an extravagant bouquet. i don’t need to extrapolate on why -- i like to hope she trusts me enough to believe my reasoning without needing ultimate clarification -- but i respect harleen far too much not to further explain my speech. i try to leave her in the dark as little as i can, even when the evening is too dark and i can barely breathe in this little refuge just outside all the rest of the wreckage eternal. i suppose gotham has adopted me, and i am grateful for it. i think that i am a very small percentage. 

@crimeloyalty​ is looking at me. i know because i can feel it without having to think about it. i could explain precisely where she’s peering, i could tell you most of what she’s thinking ; if you asked me to i wouldn’t. i just try to evade the lingering self-consciousness tightening the hinges of my terrible joints. 

momma always said home isn’t a place, if you’re real lucky, it’s a person. i understood it immediately. my brothers were the awning beneath which i could hide when it was too tempestuous. hannibal danced with me on a tuneless night in a red dress he bought for me at harper’s ferry. i loved him, i loved him, i loved him, and i am glad to have him lost to me. i loved him. it’s wrongful and revolting to see his name beside my brothers’, but the undeniable truth burns an acidic hole in my stomach. if i lie to myself, he succeeds in making me do something i don’t do -- accept a falsitude of my own accord. when one’s delusional, the few realities are invaluable. 

“that’s not how life works. it isn’t all sorrow. life is everything in life at once. you know those people -- the ones who collect clippings... national disasters, anomalous damages... -- of things like church collapses? i sometimes think that’s the most frightfully close to understanding humanity anyone ever is. sorrow is sorrow if sorrow is what you set in your sights, isn’t it? if it walks like a duck -- “

i wave a hand with my fingers rolling, etcetera, etcetera, and nod uselessly, and on, and on. quacks, is, etcetera. 

“ i didn’t understand true empathy for another living creature until i understood true pain as a human being. the two experiences were irreversibly intertwined. and i remember, always, the juxtaposition of the thing. how i could love something that had hurt me at the same time it had hurt me. one, and the other. sometimes sorrow feels bottomless. but the opposite of it is joy, isn’t it? so there has to be some of that either not far behind or always attainable. ”

i laugh, because i hope it will brush off all the things i just said and their blatant vulnerability. 

“ i don’t really know what i’m talking about. if i did, i would probably be better at the living thing. ”

[godblooded]

@crimeloyalty​ asked :  i’ll cut you. ( bruce )

“ harleen! ”

my hands are up. she’s wild-eyed and lurching forward and snapping out, surging with whatever venom of the night she’s consumed. i try not to block her swings with my gauntlets alone; i know if she takes a shot too hard she’ll hurt her hand. i know that it can easily take a straightforward connection to shatter knuckles. 

and i know what she looks like when she’s panicking. when all she sees is red, whatever she may or may not be on in the moment. wherever she may be in the moment. 

the slash grazes my arm and i hear the fabric of the suit tear loudly, a trickle of blood compressed around the tight grip of titanium woven fiber. i duck another shot-- and grab her right at the end of the roof before her next swing pitches her over the edge. she winds up to strike again, and i prepare to take a full hit wherever she lands so i can use her momentum to tug her back to safety, to the cold purchase of the concrete beneath us. the wind whips loudly off the river. i prepare to make a fulcrum of us both before her own mania makes her little more than another chalk outline left in an alley. my heart races at the sight in my mind.

“ harleen, calm down! ”

[godblooded]

@crimeloyalty (x)

bullshit. selina thinks love is bullshit. she can’t feel it, anyway. she’s fucked up. she’s fucked up in a way no one can touch. she’s fucked up how only the monstrous can be fucked up. she can’t be repaired, only cracked further, only split and saved by the fact that it’s not down the center.

selina’s like a tree that’s been struck by lightning too many times. it’s improbable, but it’s ultimately happened, and now her skin is all veins and the gummy, bloody red blood makes when it coagulates. blood pours in on every single side of her life and she drowns in it, but sometimes that red is the same shade as harls’ lipstick. that red sometimes isn’t bloody, isn’t painful.

“ harls— “ there’s no protest in the cat’s voice and there’s no protest in those brown eyes of hers. brown eyes she can’t stand; brown eyes she wishes didn’t so openly convey how harls turns her into something molten in her hands. how the second fingers tangle in thick, unruly chestnut hair selina is rendered helpless.

there’s a pain that develops in the dark of a soul. it culminates and blooms like a flower the ugliest shade of a bruise. deep, deep purple in shadow. it’s the kind of thing that cannot bloom outside the dark of its own cave, and a single touch to petals can make such a fragile creation quiver. selina knows that pain, the development of such an insidious desperation. she knows that agony and knows, worse, the way it wilts when touched. the way she does.

“ you’re playing with fire. ” says selina, right before she briefly— almost closes that distance again, lingering with just a touch of a nose to harls’. with just what harls has incited, and now what selina aches not to give into. she’s not good for harley. she’s not a good person. but she doesn’t want to admit that to herself right now. that she’s not a good person. “ and you’re— a little shithoused, harls. ”

her eyes drop to those red lips again, and selina grasps the front of harls’ shirt. everything inside her never stops screaming, and right now every torrential thought swings hard toward harley.

[godblooded]

“ i wasn’t asking if you had a sweater. i was asking if one would be something you could use. ”

she doesn’t understand what i mean, and so i explain myself a bit more clearly. it’s rude of me not to offer, especially because they purposefully keep those stores ten degrees cooler on purpose and i don’t want her to be uncomfortable.

she follows me through tall, big halls that press in around us and stretch outwards into the nothing gotham night. when i open the wide, wide doors, a heavy push of my shoulders, it leads out into lights dimming quietly to life. my preferred car— the classic corvette, my first purchase of my own when i chose what to drive— is sleek and shiny and black and waiting for us both, pointed outward. i make sure to give her a wide berth as i move because i want her to stay safe, but i want her to know i know that. mostly, i want to hold the door open for her.

“ sweatshirt in the backseat. you’re welcome to it. ”

it’s a ‘ gotham wheels and tires ’ crewneck. their graphic design has improved throughout the years. it’s black on a much darker black.

i won’t close the door for her. i’m waiting for it. so that she can understand i’m not something insidious. not something waiting in the wings in the dark, dying to commit the worst atrocities a woman can imagine. i don’t know why she’s entertaining me. i’m not entertaining her.

no. i’m actually having a good time.

godblooded​⸻ 

“ being rich, tolerant, and tolerable is a phenomena i haven’t witnessed. ”

she leaves me and i’m cold where i was warm only a moment ago. the absence of her leaves the presence of sudden discomfort, the comfortably shared blanket losing its tension. it’s not taut, anymore, and i let it sink off my shoulders and bunch into a tremendous pile beneath where i was sat. it’s forgotten into the enshrouded dark of strange, strange spontaneity.

i don’t ordinarily assume my late nights might end up alongside harleen quinzel saying i’d be willing to go to walmart. surely, that’s disturbed. it’s possibly a little absurd even for me.

i walk down the wide, high ceiling’d halls and don’t feel the berth of it towering in on me. i stopped being a boy here long ago, and now there are no words for what i choose to Become. she keeps in my eyeline and i watch her, listening. she has a nice voice— i can map the cadence and pattern of its fluctuations. it’s almost comforting.

dr. harleen quinzel. if i remind myself it means i’m less likely to accidentally say the wrong thing. it’s a neuropathway carved anew into the crevices of a cranial cortex. i was serious when i said i admired her dedication.

“ but your situation got in the way of your graduating. so you finished your residency and went the extra mile, but didn’t get to reap the benefits. ”

‘situation’ is the only way I know how to put it. situation. because between us both i know that we’ve been reborn in ways that break you, but we’ve both broken to jagged weapons. we’ve both Become.

“ it’s downstairs. would you prefer the bike or the car? ”

by downstairs, i mean down a tight spiral staircase my shoulders barely manage to clear. they brush one another, all stuck.

“ you need a sweater. it’s supposed to be windchill-heavy. ”

i break off into the kitchen briefly, entering the yawning expanse to slide open a drawer and take from it a small note, tearing the adhesive free.

will be home soon. will bring breakfast.

-bruce

i know alfred finds my love of frozen waffles ‘disdainful’.

“ i’ll let you know. ”  if he’s tolerant and/or tolerable. i’m not sure yet,  but i think that he might be.  or else he’s just really fucking weird.  or else he’s trying to make me think that so he can lure me down to his basement and reenact any of a dozen horror movies.  i shouldn’t watch those,  by the way – they make me spiral,  every single time,  but i can’t stop. 

he mentions benefits,  and i want to laugh.  i want to tell him about the shortage of physicians in america,  especially in low-income communities.  i want to tell him how inaccessible psychiatrists like me are to the people who live in this city.  i want to tell him about burn-out.  and i really,  really want to tell him about arkham. about how none of the doctors there care anymore.  about how the only benefit to speak of is a state pension.  the salaries are so low there’s no chance of attracting doctors at the height of their careers.  only people who want to spend the rest of their days doing the barest of minimums. 

i’m digging my nails into my palms thinking about it.  it makes me angry.  i don’t understand how someone could become a doctor and then just give up.  it’s so deeply unfair. they took my license,  and i was just trying to help.  i know i fucked up,  but shouldn’t there be a penalty for everybody who stopped trying to help?

he asks me something,  but there’s something that i know i need to say,  i just can’t remember why.  i frown up at him,  wondering what it is about him that’s jarred me to think of arkham. 

“ i don’t have a sweater. ” 

but i’ll be fine.  i dress like this all the time and i haven’t died yet. 

“ so probably the car,  if we can keep the windows down. ”

bad experience with cars and water. always wear your seatbelt,  kids.  

[godblooded]

@crimeloyalty asked :  let me take care of you. just once, need me. ( alana )   ​

how misery sneaks up on her and whispers into her ears until the world fades to a greyscale, how simple it is for it all to just... break. how one day, everything will shatter, and nothing will ever make sense again. alana wishes she could open pandora’s box and it would be so careful harleen need only understand the feeling, blind to the trauma it would inflict. but she can’t ever share that. 

the good doctor stared into the abyss and it did not stare back, but it reached into her body and pulled her into its cavern and now she’s in the in-between for the rest of her life. everything reeks of death. 

the stale stench of cheap beer hangs in the air and the baltimore night is muggy, a thick soup of humidity. every inhale calcifies in her lungs, and her vision rolls hard like she’s in a dryer and it’s been turned on high. she’s going to be sick, she knows. she can’t drink anymore. when she’s unfortunately forced to guzzle the lowest alcohol content there is, it takes much more than she would like. cans of pabst blue ribbon rattle in her head, tin clanging. 

there’s some kind of shameful disgust she feels at herself, running back to old habits with her tail tucked between her legs. and when the old desire to instigate had burnt out, the embers left were just the ashes of total shame. embarrassment. and from there, it became easier to take an alternate route.

abigail’s body stares at her from around every corner. she wants to go to the cemetery. she needs to go to the cemetery. but she can’t bring herself to do it. now she’s at a roadside truck-stop bar, completely flattened off horrible alcohol. if it can be called that. 

making it halfway there was as far as she could manage. the gps 4.6 miles taunted her when she swore, kicked the door open, and wrenched the keys from the ignition. she’d been angry at herself, and she’s still angry with herself, except now she’s angrier. 

in the passenger’s seat is a bouquet of rosemary flowers. they’re vivacious purple. they mean remembrance, and petals scatter uselessly into the footwell. she hadn’t meant to half hurl the thing in her frustration. she feels guilty seeing it. harleen tosses it into the back as she helps alana in, like contorting a scarecrow in a finely tailored black suit that hangs like the ghost of who she once was. her head leans back, inclines, bright blue eyes opening and closing tiredly as the desire to succumb to drifting overtakes. her cheek meets the leather of her own seat and it feels achingly hot. 

“ always need you. ”

she would say it sober, too. but in this moment it’s in beer veritas. her hand darts out to grasp harleen’s, like in this moment it is urgent that she touch. it’s urgent that she keep harleen from moving before she makes it clear. 

“ harls. always. ”

[godblooded]

@crimeloyalty (x)

selina’ll never deny harls that request. she won’t because she knows for harls that one gesture is the world, and for selina it can be natural. for selina, it’s become something that no longer feels weird. it feels commonplace. everything else sends her alarms absolutely screaming, but she recognizes the earnest gesture harls makes. — harls doesn’t ask to hold hands when she’s being a prick. a cynical fh of a puff comes out of her nose. the cat hates laughter. it’s terrible. she hears it come out of her mouth in the way she does when she thinks something just— hurts and she can’t explain it any other way. laughter has only ever meant hurt.

“ you know what i think about, harls? ”

she’s controlling her voice. harls can tell that she’s absolutely restraining the urge to just fly to the idea of hissing predator, trash this, and get the fuck out. and even that’s something that’s about to add to the disgusting things she’s about to admit.

( bruce’s precious little doctor with those sinatra blue eyes says her shit isn’t her fault. so she tells her to go fuck herself and worry about her own problems. free advice, the therapist shrugged. selina had told her to go shrink someone else’s head because hers had already been used for an occult ritual and turned on a heel. your hair is too big for that!! alana shouted. and over her shoulder the cat lobbed and your eyeliner makes you look like a fucking raccoon! )

she sneaks her grip into harls’ the same way she has a thousand times before. few people are allowed to get close to the cat. harls is on a very short list— and what she’s saying means that she wants to stay on it. she’s honestly straight up fucking admitting to shit she’s done wrong. and so selina will respond in the same way.

“ how if i bent my fingers just right i could break your wrist. how this close i could snap your neck— with my legs or with my hands. if you’d tried to shut my ass up that while back in my flat, i would’ve bit your finger clean off. if my bagel is cream cheese instead of butter, i imagine how hard i’d have to hurl it at the guy to give him a fatal concussion. and it’s — i mean it’s more lucid than anything fucking should be, let me put it that way. but it’s always been this way. always. ever since i was a kid. ”

when she shrugs, the both of them do, being the loose handhold.

“ harls, hate to break, but you’re discovering your own fucking flaws. and that’s what’s going on. you’re finding all the bad parts of you now that you’re not crushed under some stupid prick’s size fifty shoe. but you’re just giving the fuck in to them instead of blowing a whistle. yeah. you wanna fuck me. it’s not a secret. but instead of the way you would’ve done it— like this— you did— that. but the difference is still you. i don’t know how to help you get that. but i don’t even have a ged so keep in mind everything i’m saying is just talking out of my own ass. or watching a lot of dr. phil. — which wouldn’t teach me anything, really. but i listen when you talk, too. ”

her knife-heeled boot is jiggling at the knee a couple miles a minute and she’s looking up at the big, glowing screen. hellcat had told her about movie guy and she’d been delighted when a dude with a projector started playing rear window on the side of a peeling toys r us billboard way up on 182nd. it’s a good night for a calm time with harls where they can both be themselves with each other. even if selina is never not herself. harls could use the break from her own stress, and they’re both climbers.

if she shattered her leg she’d be so fucked, oh my god. sorry, movie.

“ we’re fucked up. we’re gonna do fucked up things to each other. do we know how to be any other way? ”

she flicks her hair out of her face. wiggles a little closer as the black and white plays across her face, and selina’s lips are ruby red. her eyes are the least soothing brown there’s ever been. no teddy bear here, no doe eyes. a kind of brown like flint. she won’t look, either. she’s too afraid to witness harls’ disgust with her firsthand. too frightened to see her disappointment or honest to god fear. her grip is loose— allows easy escape on purpose.

“ i don’t give a flying rat’s dying shit if you hurt me. you almost hurt holls. I draw a line there. she’s my kid. if i don’t think about her first who the fuck is going to? ”

that’s my kid.

[godblooded]

does she know what a therapist she still is?

she elbows me so slightly and i wince just a little— closeness and closeness and closeness furthering itself, the gap closing. at this range i’m too visible, but i keep the closeness because she keeps it, too, and we mutually agree on it without words. it doesn’t have to be brought up. some things aren’t needed. i keep that little skitter of a breath to a minimum.

the one thing i can’t hide from my nocturnal outings are injuries. they carry over whether i want them to or not, but no one is around me consistently. no one notices if i disappear for a few weeks or days. there isn’t anyone to notice. the unforgiving purples and jaundiced yellows of bruising carry over night after night. they beat sometimes from my skin like something demanding to be heard.

most say the identity is for the sake of others, but i feel it’s for the sake of myself. because it’s a heavy curtain between myself and the bat, and as long as that’s true, no one has to know me. the bat can exist and i can exist. i can avoid every sensitivity someone has to say about whether i’m alright or not. i answer to no one but myself.

“ i took a handful of online courses. business. ”

a few of them. i hated all of them. it felt pointless in its rigidity and useless in its messages. there’s an element to being bruce wayne that consistently reminds me i’ll receive favorable treatment. that leaves an acidic taste in my throat at the thought. special treatment is frustrating to me.

i don’t tell her my stint in school as a child ended in bloody noses and black eyes. sometimes mine, but mostly others. i don’t mention the jeering children who giggled orphan at me. i don’t bring up a thing about the little boy who called my mother crazy and ended up pinned beneath my knees, my fists a flurry until i was dragged away from a little boy whose features i almost rendered unrecognizable. i was ten years old.

“ no. i have heard they don’t sell walls. ”

it’s another joke. or whatever is the first thought that hits me. i say it because it seems like the right thing to say in the moment. i haven’t been inside. wal-mart. i don’t like such tremendous, open spaces, packed to the brim with people. sardines in a can threatening to burst.

i realize this makes me feel comfortable. i realize this is the most comfortable i’ve felt in a very long time. so i only adjust a little so she can be more comfortable, still careful. she’s right.

my furniture is horrible.

“ i could lend you a car. ”

i can’t understand what possesses me to joke.

godblooded​⸻ 

“ i didn’t go to college.”

the statement will surprise her, because it surprises most people when i say it. i don’t say it often, because it’s either something exhaustingly judgmental or awkward. as though no one can imagine that i haven’t funneled money into the void of institutionalized education willfully just for a doctorate or a graduate degree. i respect those with the patience for doctorates; i respect harley just for having that kind of focus.

there has never been enough reading i can do; there has never been enough writing i can do; i think there won’t ever be enough learning i can do. my desire to understand anything i can is a thing that’s both voracious and insatiable.

i remember one thing very clearly: my father operating on carmine falcone on our long, heavy mahogany table. i remember looking down and peering quietly so no one could see me. i remember my hands grasping the banister, my knuckles white, my eyes tremendous. i remember seeing all the ways human organs and parts come together to make a person and being amazed at the possibility. it was almost incredible to learn that inside of anyone— of me— were all those writhing snakes of intestine. the way a human heart could still beat in a wide open chest.

when my parents asked me if i was scared, i asked them why.

“ there is. ”

i agree, and ridiculously let her drag me toward my own outdoor furniture. she’s completely right: to anyone, it must seem like i’m a hapless, weak man. it must look to the outside world like if the wind blew too strongly i would be on the concrete with my head split open. shiny and slick and the proper end to bruce wayne, too fragile to live.

i sit next to her, anyway, having to awkwardly settle back against the cushion. my knees come up too high, and i still have a few tender bruises leftover from nights before. i try not to wince when i sit back against flimsy plush and wrought iron. i’m never outside. all of this is decorative; just another way to for everyone to turn their heads from my direction. it’s too dark for fading bruises to be visible, and it matters less when i can wrap myself in the other portion of this blanket, huge handfuls of it just pooling and spilling in my lap. it’s much too big for just two people.

she doesn’t know. i keep telling it to myself. she doesn’t know. she doesn’t know.

“ — most would ask why you haven’t robbed me yet. so, there’s something wrong with both of us. ”

it’s a quiet, joking statement i tug back a small smile to make clear at the corner of my mouth. i don’t know if i can joke, and it doesn’t tend to go over well when i do. but for once i feel compelled to talk.

“ oh. why? ”  as soon as i ask it,  i realize i know why.  no parents.  he probably thinks it’s more complicated than that,  but i’d bet that’s at the heart of it.  not that my dad encouraged me to go to school – but i did go to get away from him.  i knew it would be the only way i could get away.  

he sits,  and i tip my head back,  looking up at the stars.  it’s a little easier to see them from here – it’s impossible when you’re down on the streets.  i’m trying to remember the last time j just sat with me,  but i can’t.  it’s like he doesn’t want to be near me at all anymore.  i don’t understand what i’ve done wrong.  why he doesn’t love me anymore.  it must be me that’s the problem. 

“ your furniture sucks, ”  i point out.  i can tell he doesn’t sit out here much – i can’t imagine being comfortable here for more than a few minutes,  and i end up kind of leaning against him to stop the hard back of the chair from pressing into the bruises j left on me.  i hope he doesn’t mind,  figure if he did,  he wouldn’t be sitting here to begin with.  there were other chairs.  i’m sure he has other blankets. “ you need a hammock.  way more comfy. they sell them in the outdoor section at walmart.  have you ever been inside a walmart? ”

he probably hasn’t.  i haven’t been a lot,  either,  but that’s mostly because i’ve never had a car,  so gotham’s suburbs are pretty off limits to me.  i bought pretty much everything from the dollar store on crime alley when i was growing up,  and now i just order shit on amazon. 

“ hey. ”  i elbow him ever so gently in the ribs,  regretting it immediately.  we’re still not familiar enough for me to act like this,  and now i’m petrified ( frozen ) that he’s going to take it as a threat.  “ well,  for one,  i don’t have a car,  so most of your shit’s off limits.  for two,  what would i do with any of this shit?  i’m not a dragon.  i don’t have a lair full of treasure. ”  that is a good idea,  though.  gonna have to pitch that one to mr. j.  i’m sure he’ll oblige. 

[godblooded]

“ i didn’t go to college.”

the statement will surprise her, because it surprises most people when i say it. i don’t say it often, because it’s either something exhaustingly judgmental or awkward. as though no one can imagine that i haven’t funneled money into the void of institutionalized education willfully just for a doctorate or a graduate degree. i respect those with the patience for doctorates; i respect harley just for having that kind of focus.

there has never been enough reading i can do; there has never been enough writing i can do; i think there won’t ever be enough learning i can do. my desire to understand anything i can is a thing that’s both voracious and insatiable.

i remember one thing very clearly: my father operating on carmine falcone on our long, heavy mahogany table. i remember looking down and peering quietly so no one could see me. i remember my hands grasping the banister, my knuckles white, my eyes tremendous. i remember seeing all the ways human organs and parts come together to make a person and being amazed at the possibility. it was almost incredible to learn that inside of anyone— of me— were all those writhing snakes of intestine. the way a human heart could still beat in a wide open chest.

when my parents asked me if i was scared, i asked them why.

“ there is. ”

i agree, and ridiculously let her drag me toward my own outdoor furniture. she’s completely right: to anyone, it must seem like i’m a hapless, weak man. it must look to the outside world like if the wind blew too strongly i would be on the concrete with my head split open. shiny and slick and the proper end to bruce wayne, too fragile to live.

i sit next to her, anyway, having to awkwardly settle back against the cushion. my knees come up too high, and i still have a few tender bruises leftover from nights before. i try not to wince when i sit back against flimsy plush and wrought iron. i’m never outside. all of this is decorative; just another way to for everyone to turn their heads from my direction. it’s too dark for fading bruises to be visible, and it matters less when i can wrap myself in the other portion of this blanket, huge handfuls of it just pooling and spilling in my lap. it’s much too big for just two people.

she doesn’t know. i keep telling it to myself. she doesn’t know. she doesn’t know.

“ — most would ask why you haven’t robbed me yet. so, there’s something wrong with both of us. ”

it’s a quiet, joking statement i tug back a small smile to make clear at the corner of my mouth. i don’t know if i can joke, and it doesn’t tend to go over well when i do. but for once i feel compelled to talk.

godblooded​⸻ 

“ –then there’s no need for police. ” 

she doesn’t even want to hurt me. i don’t know the definition of the word ‘hurt’ anymore. there’s a numb emptiness where once was pain. a shotgun bullet exploding to the chest is more like nothing but a buzz of sensation. my head bouncing off the ground only ends in black and begins again in white. but she doesn’t know that. 

i think she doesn’t know that. she seems like i’m nothing but bruce wayne; someone she thinks of as a helpless billionaire too waifish and tender to take a shotgun bullet or a raging concussion. she thinks i’m weak because my hands keep shaking and i don’t know how to stop them. she thinks i’m weak because the dark circles under my eyes are a hole the rest of me falls into. 

the french doors are wide open. they look like tall, tall windows, shiny brass handles that wink from the firelight inside. 

when she says she won’t hurt me i believe her. the bat and i are one in the same, even if some nights it feels like we’re completely separate. even if some mornings when i wake the night before is a whirl that’s dictated only by the shape of black bruises and red blood. where i have to trace the highways of wounds to discover the events of the night before. my words slashed down on a page, ink-blotted and clumsy and yet legible at once. my words are more reliable than my thoughts. 

“ no. ”

i don’t mean to sound so dismissive. but there’s something in me that’s an involuntary habit. i feel more here, now, the word easier for my mind to wrap around. if i can feel my vocal cords move, rub together to make that speech, i can stand a little more firmly in reality.

“ it would be rude of me. ”

she can snicker at the statement, but this is my home and she’s technically the guest here. familiar manners driven into me always surface, and i start moving before she can protest my actions. it says INDESTRUCTIBLE in a white strip down the back of my t-shirt, still visible despite the logo on the front. it looks like it hangs around me like a spectral shroud in some tiny way, baggy and loose around the collar, fraying. there’s a fat leather ottoman i kneel. there’s a blanket large enough for a california king-sized bed, royal blue, brushed to softness that’s feather-light. i hoist it awkwardly out of the space and bunch it up in my hands, tossing one end over a shoulder. 

(i almost trip on it stepping back outside, half paying attention, half drifting in the gossamer strangeness of insomnia.)

i hold out the other end of the blanket to her, offering it to share in its enormous expanse. the ottoman inside is still upturned, the cushion beside it. i know it’s ridiculous that i’m offering to share a blanket with harley quinn after finding her broken into my home. but i’ve been under much more severe (and much stranger) duress.

it feels like an olive branch.

something big and red and angry swells inside of me,  and i find myself digging my nails into the palms of my hands just so i don’t do anything else that might scare him.  and then i think about it for a second,  and i realize.  oh.  i’m not scared.  i feel protective for the first time since i took joker on as a patient.  bruce wayne has made himself wholly vulnerable to me.  i know i won’t hurt him,  but i can’t say the same for anyone else that’d break in here.  i want to take him by the shoulders and fucking shake him,  because he can’t trust me like this.  he can’t.  his survival instinct can’t be that lacking. 

i don’t shake him.  i just stand there on the balcony,  shivering,  waiting.  i can’t feel the cold,  but my body responds to it,  nonetheless.  i never used to dress like this – in college,  you could always find me in a t-shirt and leggings,  maybe bootcut jeans and a baggy sweater i got for $2 at the goodwill near campus.  in arkham – well.  nobody wants to show any skin in arkham. j’s changed a lot of things for me,  most of them bad,  but i don’t think i mind this one.  i’ve always been pretty,  but i’ve never known how to use it.  it always used to make me uncomfortable,  the way it was so easy for me to get what i wanted.  i’d never use my smile or my ass against anyone.  but j’s taught me that if they’re looking anyways,  i might as well take advantage of that – so i do. it’s probably stupid to not have on a jacket ( or pants ),  but what’s the worst thing that can happen?  frostbite,  organ failure?  it’s not that cold,  and there are worse ways to go. 

bruce comes back outside before i can continue down that morbid train of thought.  the blanket catches on his shoe ( or his shoe catches on the blanket ) and i step forward immediately,  as if i’m large enough to break his fall.  thankfully,  it doesn’t come to that,  and he offers me one side of the blanket.  i wrap myself up in it,  end up standing shoulder to shoulder with him.  after a moment,  i tug him towards the chairs on the other side of the balcony.  i balance on the arm of a chair,  pulling my knees up to my chest,  and wait for him to join me.  

“ there is something wrong with you, ”  i say,  even as i long to rest my head on his shoulder.  there’s something wrong with me,  too,  so it’s not a judgement,  just an observation.  i’m doing it again – the same thing i do when any man isn’t awful to me,  where i just want to get closer and closer until things eventually implode. i’m trying to stop doing that.  trying to see people as more than a way out. it’s weird,  though.  even i’m not normally this quick to cling.  maybe it’s our heightened emotions,  maybe it’s the fact that he just talked me down from a panic attack.  

“ i feel like i know you. did we go to college together? i feel like i’d remember that,  but … ”

[godblooded]

“ being rich, tolerant, and tolerable is a phenomena i haven’t witnessed. ”

she leaves me and i’m cold where i was warm only a moment ago. the absence of her leaves the presence of sudden discomfort, the comfortably shared blanket losing its tension. it’s not taut, anymore, and i let it sink off my shoulders and bunch into a tremendous pile beneath where i was sat. it’s forgotten into the enshrouded dark of strange, strange spontaneity.

i don’t ordinarily assume my late nights might end up alongside harleen quinzel saying i’d be willing to go to walmart. surely, that’s disturbed. it’s possibly a little absurd even for me.

i walk down the wide, high ceiling’d halls and don’t feel the berth of it towering in on me. i stopped being a boy here long ago, and now there are no words for what i choose to Become. she keeps in my eyeline and i watch her, listening. she has a nice voice— i can map the cadence and pattern of its fluctuations. it’s almost comforting.

dr. harleen quinzel. if i remind myself it means i’m less likely to accidentally say the wrong thing. it’s a neuropathway carved anew into the crevices of a cranial cortex. i was serious when i said i admired her dedication.

“ but your situation got in the way of your graduating. so you finished your residency and went the extra mile, but didn’t get to reap the benefits. ”

‘situation’ is the only way I know how to put it. situation. because between us both i know that we’ve been reborn in ways that break you, but we’ve both broken to jagged weapons. we’ve both Become.

“ it’s downstairs. would you prefer the bike or the car? ”

by downstairs, i mean down a tight spiral staircase my shoulders barely manage to clear. they brush one another, all stuck.

“ you need a sweater. it’s supposed to be windchill-heavy. ”

i break off into the kitchen briefly, entering the yawning expanse to slide open a drawer and take from it a small note, tearing the adhesive free.

will be home soon. will bring breakfast.

-bruce

i know alfred finds my love of frozen waffles ‘disdainful’.

godblooded​⸻ 

“ — are a lot more tolerable and tolerant than the rich are. ”

i can say that with confidence to it. no one knows it, not when i’m the element on the ground. the bat isn’t in the suit and it’s just a shadow, slinking in and out of alleys and bars, thrumming inside the heartbeat of the city. i’m impossible to find if i don’t want to be found, and if i want to be found, you’ll never get rid of me. i’ve spent weeks living on the streets and becoming a self i could never be. the version of me before that couldn’t survive, but i forced it to.

“ it’s all nepotism. no one is actually intelligent. if they are, they’re cunning. ”

intelligence and cunning are very different things. intelligence is the ability to put forth into the world a benefit from your mind. it’s meant to be used to help. i believe it should be. cunning is the slimy way the sludge of this city manages to squelch through the deepest depths and come up to the surface through the grates in every putrid sewer. cunning is the way that reporter was capable of slandering my mother without an ounce of thought about the person they were harming. the wealthy are cunning.

“ i admire your patience. doctorate. i considered it. i don’t have a bedside manner. ”

is that a joke or an honesty? it’s partial. it’s a joke and an honesty. ever since that night when i was young i felt the turnings of something inside me that longed to comprehend. surgery, maybe. but i lift my hand a little, slow and careful so she can see, and the tremor is too obvious to be anything but clear. my hands weren’t fit for that kind of delicacy. it’s another thing my parents’ killer took from me.

but it doesn’t matter who killed them, anymore. i looked into falcone’s eyes as he died, and with that everything i knew once died with him. if he had pulled the trigger, if he’d hired someone to pull the trigger. no difference, is what i learned in the end.

he was somehow responsible. and he’s dead now. i still find it hard not to chase ghosts.

i lower my hand back into my lap, lightly grip my pants to try to keep the tremble at bay. i know why i’m telling her all these things, and it’s because this is a sealed, encapsulated moment. this is a snow-globe where for once the snow she mentioned earlier doesn’t filthy to a decomposing brown.

“ — yes. i’ll drive. as long as it’s empty. ”

this, too, is an extension of trust. if she says it…. she doesn’t know who i am. this isn’t a trap. there’s no reason for her to try to lead me into one. if she wanted to extort money from me, i’ve made it more than clear she could ask and i’d cut a check. right now i’m only bruce wayne.

so i’ll agree.

“ i’d rather be rich than tolerable. ” i could’ve done a lot more good if i’d just had the money to fully fund my research.  if i hadn’t had to do my work on my own.  no point crying over it now,  but i do anyways. i lick my lips – they’re dry and i’m nervous – then look away. i don’t like talking about this. it’s the worst thing that j took from me. second worst.  he took my medical license,  too. “ i didn’t – finish my phd. that’s what i was working on when – that’s how i met – gotham u has this program where you get your phd while you’re doing your residency.  that’s what i was doing.  i finished my residency,  but not my phd.  i’m only half doctor quinzel.  i was only half. ”

i’m talking too much,  so i stand abruptly,  almost losing my balance because i’m so tangled in the blanket.  i get the weird feeling that bruce wayne would catch me if i did,  shaking hands and all.  i right myself just before i tumble into his lap,  clear my throat and twirl away until i’m free from the blanket.  then i jerk my head towards the door,  taking a few steps towards it before he’s even gotten up.  i don’t want him to change his mind,  because i don’t want this to end.  i don’t want to go back to feeling alone. 

“ it’ll be empty.  it’s late. ” i’ve got to reassure him so he takes me.  no other reason.  i certainly don’t look into his eyes and feel sorry for whatever i find there.  i tap my foot against the ground,  then,  because i’m incapable of shutting up,  admit that i was completely unprepared for tonight’s escapade. “ i don’t know where your garage is.  i gave up trying to find a floor plan for your house after i couldn’t find it on the first page of google. i could’ve pulled the plans from city hall,  but i didn’t want to go there,  so.  i don’t know where your garage is. ”

i wait for him to start walking,  then step to the side so he can get past me,  so i can follow him.  after a second,  i close the gap between us,  walk closer to his side so at least he can see me.  i don’t want to spook him now.

[godblooded]

“ — are a lot more tolerable and tolerant than the rich are. ”

i can say that with confidence to it. no one knows it, not when i’m the element on the ground. the bat isn’t in the suit and it’s just a shadow, slinking in and out of alleys and bars, thrumming inside the heartbeat of the city. i’m impossible to find if i don’t want to be found, and if i want to be found, you’ll never get rid of me. i’ve spent weeks living on the streets and becoming a self i could never be. the version of me before that couldn’t survive, but i forced it to.

“ it’s all nepotism. no one is actually intelligent. if they are, they’re cunning. ”

intelligence and cunning are very different things. intelligence is the ability to put forth into the world a benefit from your mind. it’s meant to be used to help. i believe it should be. cunning is the slimy way the sludge of this city manages to squelch through the deepest depths and come up to the surface through the grates in every putrid sewer. cunning is the way that reporter was capable of slandering my mother without an ounce of thought about the person they were harming. the wealthy are cunning.

“ i admire your patience. doctorate. i considered it. i don’t have a bedside manner. ”

is that a joke or an honesty? it’s partial. it’s a joke and an honesty. ever since that night when i was young i felt the turnings of something inside me that longed to comprehend. surgery, maybe. but i lift my hand a little, slow and careful so she can see, and the tremor is too obvious to be anything but clear. my hands weren’t fit for that kind of delicacy. it’s another thing my parents’ killer took from me.

but it doesn’t matter who killed them, anymore. i looked into falcone’s eyes as he died, and with that everything i knew once died with him. if he had pulled the trigger, if he’d hired someone to pull the trigger. no difference, is what i learned in the end.

he was somehow responsible. and he’s dead now. i still find it hard not to chase ghosts.

i lower my hand back into my lap, lightly grip my pants to try to keep the tremble at bay. i know why i’m telling her all these things, and it’s because this is a sealed, encapsulated moment. this is a snow-globe where for once the snow she mentioned earlier doesn’t filthy to a decomposing brown.

“ — yes. i’ll drive. as long as it’s empty. ”

this, too, is an extension of trust. if she says it…. she doesn’t know who i am. this isn’t a trap. there’s no reason for her to try to lead me into one. if she wanted to extort money from me, i’ve made it more than clear she could ask and i’d cut a check. right now i’m only bruce wayne.

so i’ll agree.

godblooded​⸻ 

does she know what a therapist she still is?

she elbows me so slightly and i wince just a little— closeness and closeness and closeness furthering itself, the gap closing. at this range i’m too visible, but i keep the closeness because she keeps it, too, and we mutually agree on it without words. it doesn’t have to be brought up. some things aren’t needed. i keep that little skitter of a breath to a minimum.

the one thing i can’t hide from my nocturnal outings are injuries. they carry over whether i want them to or not, but no one is around me consistently. no one notices if i disappear for a few weeks or days. there isn’t anyone to notice. the unforgiving purples and jaundiced yellows of bruising carry over night after night. they beat sometimes from my skin like something demanding to be heard.

most say the identity is for the sake of others, but i feel it’s for the sake of myself. because it’s a heavy curtain between myself and the bat, and as long as that’s true, no one has to know me. the bat can exist and i can exist. i can avoid every sensitivity someone has to say about whether i’m alright or not. i answer to no one but myself.

“ i took a handful of online courses. business. ”

a few of them. i hated all of them. it felt pointless in its rigidity and useless in its messages. there’s an element to being bruce wayne that consistently reminds me i’ll receive favorable treatment. that leaves an acidic taste in my throat at the thought. special treatment is frustrating to me.

i don’t tell her my stint in school as a child ended in bloody noses and black eyes. sometimes mine, but mostly others. i don’t mention the jeering children who giggled orphan at me. i don’t bring up a thing about the little boy who called my mother crazy and ended up pinned beneath my knees, my fists a flurry until i was dragged away from a little boy whose features i almost rendered unrecognizable. i was ten years old.

“ no. i have heard they don’t sell walls. ”

it’s another joke. or whatever is the first thought that hits me. i say it because it seems like the right thing to say in the moment. i haven’t been inside. wal-mart. i don’t like such tremendous, open spaces, packed to the brim with people. sardines in a can threatening to burst.

i realize this makes me feel comfortable. i realize this is the most comfortable i’ve felt in a very long time. so i only adjust a little so she can be more comfortable, still careful. she’s right.

my furniture is horrible.

“ i could lend you a car. ”

i can’t understand what possesses me to joke.

i’m watching him closely enough to see that he winces – but that’s all he does,  so i relax.  let myself smile back at him – not the crazy clown smile that i give people to make them nervous.  a harleen smile – that’s hard to get out of me. 

“ i’d have dropped out,  too,  if i’d have had to study business. those kind of numbers have never made sense to me.  guess that’s why the rich get richer and the rest of us – ” 

i don’t finish the thought,  because he’s definitely in the category that i’m generalizing about.  it’s strange,  though ; he doesn’t remind me of all the other trust fund babies that i went to school with.  maybe it’s the trauma that comes with watching your parents get murdered that brings him down to a level i can relate to.  

he makes a joke.  i’m so fucking sick of jokes,  sick of men who think they’re funny, but this one makes me giggle. i laugh and laugh,  maybe too hard,  but it’s so nice to be around someone who doesn’t expect me to laugh.  it’s nice to be around somebody who doesn’t expect anything of me,  period.  

he’s actively making space for me,  and that’s strange,  too.  i’m used to making myself smaller,  to fitting into the background.  my only good days are the ones where joker doesn’t notice me – and yet i want so badly for him to notice me.  i feel my smile fall off my face,  feel my features freeze over.  i wish i could stop thinking about him. 

i turn back to bruce,  look at him,  take comfort in that his face is not the face that haunts both my dreams and my nightmares.  

“ i can’t drive. ”  i’d never been able to afford a car before i started working at arkham.  even then,  i didn’t have time to get my license – and i didn’t want to be the only twenty-seven year old taking driver’s ed.  joker’s been trying to teach me,  but there’s always a lot of yelling and a lot of crying.  pretty much what it would’ve been like if nick had taught me – talk about daddy issues. “ so you’d have to drive me,  and then you’d know where i live,  so that doesn’t seem like a very good idea.  we could go to walmart,  though.  it’s late.  nobody’ll be there. ”

i have no idea why,  but i’m very serious.  

[godblooded]

" thank you. "

i'm hollow in my ears. i'm hollow in my eyes. i'm hollow in the pit of my stomach. every inch of me is hollow. i can hear within my own torso the sound of a heart rattling in loud thuds. it's the shell of something without a metamorphosis, something that long ago changed and left me empty. lives outside me now that i can't bring back.

where did i leave it? what part of myself did i exorcise? or am i the thing exorcised?

sometimes i don't know anymore. the me out there bleeds into the me in here, but not in a way anyone can see. it becomes a brick by brick build of who i'm not and i end up being the person built in behind the wall, surrounded by the bricks.

when i say 'thank you ' it just feels compulsory. mostly because it is. it's a statement that's made because i want her to understand that i appreciate and feel the gesture. she takes my other hand and holds me in place. she keeps me in the ground without allowing me to move. and i don't know if i should feel afraid of her or of me. i have every reason to assume she could be volatile.

harley is unpredictable in a way she might not be fully aware of, or a way usually underestimated. but my paranoid mind doesn't allow for that. i don't allow for that. leaving my mentality and myself unguarded so blatantly would be stupid.

but dr. harleen quinzel in clown makeup is holding my hands.

she could snap my wrists. dislocate all the small bones in my shaking hands. she could break my fingers, bend them back in a hard, quick motion. she could twist my thumb. break my joints. she could exacerbate nerve damage i've done to myself. she could choose to do any of these things, and i've put myself in the position for her to be able to.

i tell myself it's okay because i'm the one who put out the modicum of trust and so i want to keep it continuing. i'm not feigning helplessness or weakness; i'm just exhausted and caught in a corner i don't usually find myself in. and even though she's touching me, it doesn't feel intended to crush, harm, or hurt. but i can't ever know that.

" life. "

it's simple, even if she won't believe me. even if she has every reason to look at me like a spoiled wealthy child (broooooooooose. waaaaaaaayne. again.), she can't assume i don't have to live through gotham's cruelty, too. but this is my city. my home. the place my father and my mother and their fathers and mothers have called their place to settle since before it had a name. my bones are in its concrete, my blood is in its soil. i shake my head and my mouth opens and closes. i can hear my words past my windpipe but it's an imagined thing. i'm not speaking at all. i'm just forming my mouth around them, but nothing comes out.

it's habitual, unconscious (the result of concussive damage, i know). the slow attempt to speak when nothing comes out. the way my thoughts convince me i'm talking sometimes when i haven't so much as breathed. i look aside to the open, open doors and the hearth inside; a fire that never seems to penetrate how cold i feel.

my hands are shaking, just contained inside the grasp of hers. the constant sound of riddler's voice intrudes in all the corners of my home. the idea of the letter that almost cost alfred his life slipping inside the walls is an invasion, a perversion of an inner sanctum. harming alfred is too close. it means there is no such thing as off-limits, even if in the end he couldn't crack the last code he so desperately needed.

my jaw works and tenses and i finally utter something less choking.

" it feels better out here. --i feel better out here. "

that sounds absurd to her. it must.

" do you? "

i don't know if i mean feel better out here or want to go inside, and it's rare that i don't know, but i don't know.

godblooded​⸻ 

i frown. i fix my face into one, a strong downturn of my lips so she can clearly see my disapproval. because no, platitudes— they’re nonsense. like every time i’m told someone is sorry for the loss of my mother and my father. it’s a useless statement that has no shape to it. it’s spoken and then thrown into the dark with all the other times i’ve been told nonsense. and nothing anyone ever says is going to feel like more than just a platitude.

but it’s hard to explain the honesty with which i mean it when i say it. it’s hard to squeeze out the way i’m not lying when i say it. it’s hard to squeeze out the way i can tell her things without saying them: for example, i don’t want her to think i’ve let the authorities know she’s her, but i don’t want her to not think it, either. i want it to be left up to the unspoken trust between these beats that i don’t understand. if i can hold onto the trust with both hands, she should be able to grip it just as hard. it’s a moment; encapsulated in on itself, but moments are precious things pinned like butterflies. every second matters. (i think constantly: what if i’d been just a little quicker—)

“ someone i respect very much said that to me. it helped, even if only for a few minutes. i didn’t realize how often i don’t think about how i feel. it’s a reminder to gauge. ”

how to tell her i’m always cold. this incredulously faded gotham motors tshirt isn’t adequate in the chill. i hadn’t expected to be hurled outside into the unforgiving reminder of the world i try to hide from. i’m usually away until i can be away, poring over notes and trying to disentangle my nocturnal existence with my daylight self. the bat and i come apart in slow pieces that i have to dismantle— truly a suit.

“ yes. and nervous.”

i remind myself to follow up because otherwise, it’s likely not helpful. even if she can read me with a pointed gaze that i would rather be focused anywhere but on me.

“ for obvious reasons. ”

i clumsily motion to my hurled-open doors. it looks like a poltergeist burst through the room. it had been a little sudden, and the rush had only fed into the adrenaline further and further.

‘ harley quinn ’ has broken into my home. has violated the most important boundary; the singular boundary between me and the swarming masses below. she’s made herself comfortable in the confines of my inner sanctum.

and i only hope she doesn’t know.

from behind me croaks brooooooooossseeeeee. waaaasayneeeeeee—

i shut my eyes and practically sway on my feet for a minute. the way the world blacks out, whites in. the way i’m… suddenly awake. and i’m here, not dissociated, not split into several parts. i’m suddenly standing here with dr. harleen quinzel and my head feels like it’s telling me to just collapse. like it’s saying i can fold in on me and it would be okay. i blink my eyes slowly, use that minute click of my eyelashes touching my cheek to bring me back to the present.

okay ⸻ i may have been a little harsh there,  and i wrinkle my nose back at him,  twist my lips into something that resembles an apology,  though i won’t actually say those words.  there is still a power play here,  and if i’m not careful,  i’m going to lose.  i’m use to losing to joker and to batman,  but i don’t want to lose to bruce wayne.  joker has my unconditional love,  bats has the suit, and they both have about a foot on me,  give or take a few inches.  what’s bruce got on me?  also about a foot,  but none of the other stuff.

i bite back a comment about how he should tell the people he respects to get better lines.  there’s something genuine in the way he talks,  like he actually thinks he might be able to help me.  it’s rich kid delusion if i’ve ever seen it ⸻ bruce wayne might have enough money to actually make the world a better place,  and that makes him think he can actually fix things with his hands and his words.  i’d laugh,  if it wasn’t so damn sad. 

the way he talks reminds me of the way i feel ⸻ i’m always running,  always trying not to be still long enough for my feelings to catch up with me.  half the time,  i don’t know what i’m feeling,  can’t name the emotion taking over my life.  is it rage?  love?  sorrow?  i almost never know,  don’t have that clarity that everyone else seems to.  maybe it’s everything,  all of once.  i shouldn’t ask. it’s not okay for me to ask.  i do,  anyways. 

“ what are you trying to survive? ”

nervous.  i frown.  there’s no way i’m going to hurt him ⸻ not now,  but not even when i came here in the first place.  i’m not a sadist,  never have been.  i don’t get off on hurting like joker does,  not even like the bat seems to.  ( i don’t know why you’d put on a suit like that if you don’t enjoy hurting people,  at least a little bit. )  i’m just bored.  i’m just looking for anything to give me that next rush.  but i am harley quinn ⸻ he has no way of knowing that i’m not about to pull a gun on him.  except that i don’t have a gun.  does he know that? maybe i should tell him,  but then i’m giving him all the power.  he probably doesn’t know how to fight,  so i have an advantage,  but he’s bigger than me,  and,  also,  i don’t want to fight.  i just want to talk.  i miss talking.

bruce stops answering me ( when did i stop thinking about him as wayne? ),  and i frown up at him. i know this look ⸻ have seen it a thousand times on arkham patients.  have seen it a thousand times in the mirror.  he’s gone,  and i have to bring him back. i reach for his other hand,  hold both of his in my own.  i don’t know if this will help him – touch makes things worse for some people,  but he reached for me when i freaked,  so i think it’s a safe bet. 

“ hey, ”  i say,  keeping my voice soft,  even.  it’s my psychiatrist voice.  i didn’t know i could still do that. “ i’m right here.  i’ve got you. ”  isn’t that a scary thought? “ do you want to go back inside? ” 

i offer now,  because i can’t do it for me,  would freeze out here before i’d feel trapped again,  but i think i can do it for him. 

[godblooded]

i frown. i fix my face into one, a strong downturn of my lips so she can clearly see my disapproval. because no, platitudes— they’re nonsense. like every time i’m told someone is sorry for the loss of my mother and my father. it’s a useless statement that has no shape to it. it’s spoken and then thrown into the dark with all the other times i’ve been told nonsense. and nothing anyone ever says is going to feel like more than just a platitude.

but it’s hard to explain the honesty with which i mean it when i say it. it’s hard to squeeze out the way i’m not lying when i say it. it’s hard to squeeze out the way i can tell her things without saying them: for example, i don’t want her to think i’ve let the authorities know she’s her, but i don’t want her to not think it, either. i want it to be left up to the unspoken trust between these beats that i don’t understand. if i can hold onto the trust with both hands, she should be able to grip it just as hard. it’s a moment; encapsulated in on itself, but moments are precious things pinned like butterflies. every second matters. (i think constantly: what if i’d been just a little quicker—)

“ someone i respect very much said that to me. it helped, even if only for a few minutes. i didn’t realize how often i don’t think about how i feel. it’s a reminder to gauge. ”

how to tell her i’m always cold. this incredulously faded gotham motors tshirt isn’t adequate in the chill. i hadn’t expected to be hurled outside into the unforgiving reminder of the world i try to hide from. i’m usually away until i can be away, poring over notes and trying to disentangle my nocturnal existence with my daylight self. the bat and i come apart in slow pieces that i have to dismantle— truly a suit.

“ yes. and nervous.”

i remind myself to follow up because otherwise, it’s likely not helpful. even if she can read me with a pointed gaze that i would rather be focused anywhere but on me.

“ for obvious reasons. ”

i clumsily motion to my hurled-open doors. it looks like a poltergeist burst through the room. it had been a little sudden, and the rush had only fed into the adrenaline further and further.

‘ harley quinn ’ has broken into my home. has violated the most important boundary; the singular boundary between me and the swarming masses below. she’s made herself comfortable in the confines of my inner sanctum.

and i only hope she doesn’t know.

from behind me croaks brooooooooossseeeeee. waaaasayneeeeeee—

i shut my eyes and practically sway on my feet for a minute. the way the world blacks out, whites in. the way i’m… suddenly awake. and i’m here, not dissociated, not split into several parts. i’m suddenly standing here with dr. harleen quinzel and my head feels like it’s telling me to just collapse. like it’s saying i can fold in on me and it would be okay. i blink my eyes slowly, use that minute click of my eyelashes touching my cheek to bring me back to the present.

godblooded​⸻ 

“ you can’t hate everything that becomes ugly. babies. ”

i say the word dismissively with a deadpan to my tone, and i crinkle my brow purposefully to make her see firsthand that it’s meant to be joking. i’m meant to be joking with her. my tone doesn’t reflect it just so, but she seems like she’ll understand. and it feels somehow strange to be talking to ‘harley quinn’, but it doesn’t feel like that’s who i’m speaking to, either. she’s painted into my world in a way that doesn’t fit, shades of red and black and blue embossed against the heavy brass and deep iron i’ve built around me. 

gotham is beautiful after the snow first falls. before everyone is awake. where i can perch from on high and i can become a part of it, too, dusted and frigid in ice. it feels solid and still. it gleams vibrantly. the entire world is dressed briefly in ivory that gotham’s chill exceeds by far. on those nights i always come home later. 

“ you’re not. ”

i won’t give her room to lie to me. i know it shouldn’t seem like i care, and i know i shouldn’t sound like i care, but within me i care. i can hardly restrain it and its accidental desire to help, but it grows bigger. is this what matters? is it more important than what the batman does? i don’t know the answer to that, and i don’t think there is one. but it makes me want to press harder, to find something outside the dizzying moment. 

“ it’s okay to not be okay. ”

words that i’ve heard from dr. bloom and they seem to apply in this moment. my hand is shaking and her grip is tight, but i lower it the way she keeps beckoning me to. my fingers tremble when they do and my hand itself is a mechanism i’m working one digit at a time. my hands never stop shaking. 

“ you’re welcome. ”

it’s practically compulsory. 

“ babies are ugly. ”  babies have to be ugly,  because i can’t afford to hesitate,  even in a crowded bank or subway station.  if i do,  it’ll be my life on the line,  purple-gloved hands wrapped around my neck.  babies have to be ugly,  because that’s one more thing on the never ending list of what j’s taken from me.  i have this period tracking app on my phone – i’ve had it since college.  i’ve got data for the last ten years on there – red circles,  month after month after month.  and then they just stop – the same month he pushed me into the acid.

( i jumped.  oh my god,  i jumped. )

it’s the kind of thing i should probably see a doctor about,  but what am i supposed to do?  if harley quinn shows up at the nearest ivf clinic,  they’re gonna think i’m robbing the fucking place.  and it’s not like i could have a baby right now,  even if i could have a baby.  so i’m just going to wait – it’s better to not know, right?  to be able to hope? 

“ please don’t feed me that suicide hotline bullshit.  it’s offensive. ” 

i used to do this for a living,  so he’s going to have to do better than that,  if he wants to help.  oh – he probably doesn’t want to help.  i’ve let my guard down,  forgotten that i broke into his home.  he’s probably biding his time until the cops get here.  i should leave.  i should really leave,  but his hands are shaking,  and i’m beginning to wonder if there’s something broken in his brain,  too.  this isn’t what people who are afraid of me normally look like. 

“ are you cold? ”  it’s a careful question,  the kind they taught us to ask in school.  i don’t want to put him on the defensive.  i don’t ask him if he wants to go back inside,  because i don’t. 

[godblooded]

“ FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK!! ”

selina is screaming into the gotham night. there are tears pricking her eyes. she can’t breathe. she’s imagining holly cracking her fucking neck off the edge of a fire escape. she’s imagining her laying there dead and lifeless with her head twisted all the way around and her brains splattered in a goopy pile against the brick. she’s imagining holly every horrific way she can before she’s about to do the worst things she can do.

like run the city barefoot in black leggings and an oversized maroon sleep shirt, no climbing gloves, no heels for climbing.

ask her if she gives a shit when she hoists herself on top of the railing and sincerely does balance with the true gift of her own talent. she half kneels to yell into the window at harls, “ just don’t move, okay? if i’m not back in at least half an hour, call bruce. ”

you ever swan dive off a railing and feel all the potential hypothermia you’re just aware you’re going to deal with? the good thing is, the cat is moving too fast to be anything but overheated, slamming into each balcony to reach the ground. and at least two of her neighbors are yelling at her, but selina’s looking for every sign. every fucking sign.

whatthefuckifshe’sfuckingdeadwhatthefuckifshe’sfucking—

“ LINAAAAAA!!!!! ”

no. it’s worse than the cat thought. she’s going to watch her drop to the concrete and become something that’ll never be her holls again; she’ll be nothing but guts and blood. a stain. and selina’ll see it, just the way she remembers her father—

“ HOLLY! Holly!! Don’t you let go you just hold on really tight and i’ll be right there — “

“ IT’S COLD, LINA. MY FINGERS HURT— “

“ we’ll get you a fucking heating pad the second you’re inside, babydoll, i swear to fuck. come on, you can let go. i’m gonna catch you! ”

“ LINA I’M SCARED— “

“ LET! GO! ”

sure as anything, the cat catches her kitten, dropping beneath the little girl like reaching for a sack of bricks. selina can’t think anything but how relieved she is to be looking at holly’s frustrating face. she barely cares that her stomach is killing her and her ribs feel bent in to prep for cooking.

upstairs they go to a waiting harleen, selina‘s grip a vice on holly’s trembling little fingers. she’s never letting go.

she’s taking the stairs. she’s not ready to stop moving yet.

“ honey, i’m home. ”

godblooded​⸻ 

“ what fucking mood, harls? ”

she feels out of her mind the minute words begin to fly from her mouth. which means selina’s about to relinquish all of her sanity in one second to fly off the handle about this. but indignant behavior is her specialty, and losing her mind would’ve been her major in the fake college she didn’t attend. it’s damnation the minute she speaks and there’s no way harls doesn’t know it. because selina is a very specific shade of volatile, and once that’s released it isn’t a cat out of the bag so much as it is a tiger.

she feels the way it clouds her thought. everything settles like a hazy miasma and she’s talking before she can even feel herself making sounds. enunciation all on its own. everything comes from a place of impulse. it’s a shock to her system, no stop.

“ what the fuck are you doing? it’s the middle of the goddamn night and you’re shithoused. you can’t just drop in on me and decide my living room is your fuckfest because you’re in a mood. you don’t want to hurt me but you’re gonna wake up holly, cause a— “

holly robinson is staring at selina. and selina’s still got the remnants of red lipstick decorating the side of her neck, which she doesn’t care about. but the little blonde tears up immediately and bolts out the window, slamming it right when selina attempts to head her off at the pass. so the cat’s palms hit the glass with a thunk and she’s yowling, “HOLLS!” in utter futility. hands smack the glass again with a, “FUCK ME. DAMN IT. ”

the cat doesn’t even have time for a coat in the freezing gotham cold and she damns to hell every session, every parkour lesson, every hop, skip, jump she’s taught holly. it’s working against her because when she ducks out onto the balcony after finally hurling the window open—

“HOLLS?! HOLLS!!!!”

there isn’t a holly to be found.

“ my mood, ” she grumbles,  though that illustrates the entire problem in just two words.  her mood.  not our mood.  not selina’s mood.  she already knows ivy’s going to scold her for this one.  sort of thinks bruce might,  too.  one of those outcomes is way fucking worse than the other. 

( it’s not her fault ivy’s hot when she’s mad. ) 

before she can formulate another thought – an apology,  maybe,  or maybe just digging herself deeper,  she sees holly.  shit.  harleen likes holly – has always tried to be there for the teenager.  she’s spent enough time with the girl to know that she’s going to run the second that she sees the look on her face,  but she’s too drunk to head her off.  too drunk to chase after her.  too drunk to help selina at all. 

this has just gotten way fucking worse.  she can’t blame holly – who’d want to stick around and watch their mom get hurt by the woman she can’t seem to stop inviting over?  harleen’s holding perfectly still,  every muscle frozen into place.  it’s a reaction joker trained into her.  when she’s scared,  she doesn’t move. she has to consciously unstick herself,  walk over to the window.  she stumbles into the coffee table on the way.

she’s not sure what kind of reassurance to offer.  she’ll be fine seems too dismissive.  

“ i’ll wait here,  in case she comes back. ”

it’s the best she can do. 

[godblooded]

“ what fucking mood, harls? ”

she feels out of her mind the minute words begin to fly from her mouth. which means selina’s about to relinquish all of her sanity in one second to fly off the handle about this. but indignant behavior is her specialty, and losing her mind would’ve been her major in the fake college she didn’t attend. it’s damnation the minute she speaks and there’s no way harls doesn’t know it. because selina is a very specific shade of volatile, and once that’s released it isn’t a cat out of the bag so much as it is a tiger.

she feels the way it clouds her thought. everything settles like a hazy miasma and she’s talking before she can even feel herself making sounds. enunciation all on its own. everything comes from a place of impulse. it’s a shock to her system, no stop.

“ what the fuck are you doing? it’s the middle of the goddamn night and you’re shithoused. you can’t just drop in on me and decide my living room is your fuckfest because you’re in a mood. you don’t want to hurt me but you’re gonna wake up holly, cause a— “

holly robinson is staring at selina. and selina’s still got the remnants of red lipstick decorating the side of her neck, which she doesn’t care about. but the little blonde tears up immediately and bolts out the window, slamming it right when selina attempts to head her off at the pass. so the cat’s palms hit the glass with a thunk and she’s yowling, “HOLLS!” in utter futility. hands smack the glass again with a, “FUCK ME. DAMN IT. ”

the cat doesn’t even have time for a coat in the freezing gotham cold and she damns to hell every session, every parkour lesson, every hop, skip, jump she’s taught holly. it’s working against her because when she ducks out onto the balcony after finally hurling the window open—

“HOLLS?! HOLLS!!!!”

there isn’t a holly to be found.

godblooded​⸻ 

selina is wild. she’s unpredictable in ways she can’t predict. did you know that? the cat doesn’t even know what she’ll do. her brain is a toxic chemical drip always saturating her every thought. it’s a cavern up there in her mind, but she doesn’t find solace in it, and she doesn’t have a friendly relationship with her head. so she never settles down. never learns herself. she becomes a different person every other day. she’s disappearing.

her head tilts aside and she shivers, straightens, feels harls brush well-covered cigarette burns, rough little pink patches of skin leading to the dead center hole boring into the dead center nape of her neck. she never wears her hair up. it would be obvious, and the thought of being seen so unashamedly makes her feel dizzy.

what harls wants? harls always seems to get with selina. the way she more than easily knows the blonde will wrap her legs around her waist if she stands. how she’s doing it without thinking, and how she’s also thinking harls feels light as a feather– but selina’s very strong. she’s horribly solid.

“ shut. the fuck. up. you’re gonna wake up holls. you wanna wake up holls? here. i’ll wake up holls. HO– ” selina pretends to shout because she knows harls will shut her up to keep the sound in her mouth. unfortunately, selina’s easy to shut up if she likes you enough. and if she {nondescript hand motion} you, she’s likely to even sometimes be nice about it. in the selina way. the way that would be vicious to anyone. –but harls.

fuck her, honestly.

(that’s not what she means. it’s not an instruction.)

“ jesus,  selina – ”  but it brings harleen back,  at least enough to remember that she shouldn’t slap her hand over selina’s mouth to shut her up.  she keeps her hands at her sides,  stilling so she doesn’t knock the both of them off balance.  she just stares at selina for a few seconds, then unwraps her legs from her waist,  drops to the ground. 

“ way to kill the mood, ”  she grumbles,  taking a few steps back.  she knows by now that she needs distance to have clarity.  that any and all physical touch melts her fucking brain – no matter how good the intention behind it is.  she can’t think if she stays close to selina,  and she probably should think about this for more than a second. “ okay.  point taken. ” 

she has to act offended because she’s harley – because she can’t handle rejection.  she can’t possibly admit that she’s a little relieved.  she wants selina,  bad,  but she can’t quiet the voice in the back of her head screaming that she’s going to ruin everything.  

“ can you just – kiss me? ” that’s fine,  right?  she thinks it has to be. 

[godblooded]

selina is wild. she's unpredictable in ways she can't predict. did you know that? the cat doesn't even know what she'll do. her brain is a toxic chemical drip always saturating her every thought. it's a cavern up there in her mind, but she doesn't find solace in it, and she doesn't have a friendly relationship with her head. so she never settles down. never learns herself. she becomes a different person every other day. she's disappearing.

her head tilts aside and she shivers, straightens, feels harls brush well-covered cigarette burns, rough little pink patches of skin leading to the dead center hole boring into the dead center nape of her neck. she never wears her hair up. it would be obvious, and the thought of being seen so unashamedly makes her feel dizzy.

what harls wants? harls always seems to get with selina. the way she more than easily knows the blonde will wrap her legs around her waist if she stands. how she's doing it without thinking, and how she's also thinking harls feels light as a feather-- but selina's very strong. she's horribly solid.

" shut. the fuck. up. you're gonna wake up holls. you wanna wake up holls? here. i'll wake up holls. HO-- " selina pretends to shout because she knows harls will shut her up to keep the sound in her mouth. unfortunately, selina's easy to shut up if she likes you enough. and if she {nondescript hand motion} you, she's likely to even sometimes be nice about it. in the selina way. the way that would be vicious to anyone. --but harls.

fuck her, honestly.

(that's not what she means. it's not an instruction.)

godblooded​⸻

“ shut up, harls. ” dark places are where selina came from. dark places are where selina goes. dark places feel comforting to her. the darkest. and she loves them. she thrives on the shadow. the bat’s not the only one who lives best when the sun goes down. selina, too, only knows how to hide from the light.

and maybe the problem with it is that harley’s bright. she’s all vibrant colors and smiles that selina thinks are just as bullshit as all the love she believes in. but she’s never seen harley ever experience an ounce of that really, so does it matter at all? because it’s bullshit. she believes it. she believes all the way in her heart that it’s just an emotional fucking scam she can use to grift her way through life.

she kisses harls again, and it’s feverish and table-turned like maybe harley wanted or like selina does, she doesn’t know. selina’s idea of ‘want’ has absolutely no logic. there’s no clarity. nothing she can say stays static from day to day. ‘want’ is for real people. not cats.

“ and don’t apologize to me. ”

unspoken, ferocious, don’t insinuate you can hurt me.

she almost asks,  or what.  she almost says,  why do you get to tell me what to do?  but harley does neither of those things,  because she doesn’t want selina to stop.  this kiss – this has gone so much further than a kiss – is not something she’s anticipated;  she’s considered it,  wished for it,  but has never been able to rationalize it on selina’s part enough for her fantasies to be realistic enough.  ( realistic enough – it’s a low bar,  given that it’s harleen we’re talking about. ) 

clearly she’s lost her touch for reading people.  selina doesn’t want her to apologize?  doesn’t want her to overthink?  fine.  then harley’ll just grin at selina,  lean forward to kiss down her jaw,  down her neck.  she knows what she’s doing.  don’t ask her how she knows what she’s doing.  she has to do something with her mouth,  or else she’s going to end up asking selina if she’s going to hurry up and take her to bed already,  and she thinks that might be a little too forward,  even given that she’s in selina’s lap. 

“ don’t talk,  don’t apologize – oopsie,  there goes rule number one already – what am i allowed to do? ”

[godblooded]

“ i’m sorry that everything is so broken. ”

it feels correct to word it that way, because i don’t want her to think that i’m trying to say sorry for what’s happened because there’s no way for that to mean something. but to address the issue and to bring it into the light— to collar it and drag it and point at it— is different. once alfred told me i was a raw wound and that was why it was so hard for me to put up with the world around me. he told me once that the problem was i was in pain and i didn’t know how to point out where the hurting was.

i think she’s hurting, too. i think this because the way she snaps is angry and half-panicked. she snaps like a cornered animal frantic in the moment, trying to thrash its way out. i don’t blink for a long moment until my eyelids droop too heavily and i blink myself awake. when i’m awake, my fountain pen is in my hand and i’m holding it limply; not like a weapon, but just like a pitiful thing that could be one. it splays across my palm almost clumsily. my pupils tick because i see my vision shudder.

she reminds me of myself if i had a way with words.

“ i am dead. — do you have anymore bubblegum? ”

my hands don’t shake and now i make a lame excuse for the pen i can’t remember even touching. accidental, that’s all it was, my mind leaving my body for a minute. i hate it. i feel that wave of heat hit me and my eyes feel like sandpaper. my mouth moves for words but none come. ( my mind rings with Alfred’s words if you keep lining up concussions — )

“ please. ”

it might be absurd to her that billionaire orphan bruce wayne has manners. i try to be polite whenever i can be, and this extends to everyone. it doesn’t matter if it’s a man with a gun pointed to my head or a woman in greasepaint meticulously applied to the point where i’m only glad she hasn’t caught me in my eyeblack.

( it doesn’t matter. particles of it cling to shadows like bruises pressed into the hollows of my mother’s cheekbones too high on my face. )

“ dr. quinzel. ”

it just feels ruder that i haven’t addressed her directly, and it doesn’t feel like i’m speaking to ‘harley’, so i lamely try to respect her actual title, and the actual work she put in to gain it. i haven’t graduated any kind of college. the idea of that kind of structure makes my molars ache, throb hard if i think about it for too long. narrow halls trigger my fight or flight response. the rigidity of a classroom makes my palms sweat.

i admire that she’s had the patience for eight years.

“ there isn’t any point. people create points. as people, that’s what they do. if they give something meaning, they can make it matter. if it can matter, they can quantify it. people want a point— you have to make it. ”

i can feel her eyes on me and i feel— another hard swallow, the size of a grapefruit right in my throat. i want her to stop looking at me but i’m helpless, stuck in the moment. i’m an animal caught in a trap, ensnared and collared with a noose slipping around my neck.

the pen hits the floor and rolls away but i can feign like i heard it. meant it. just hoping she has a wad of chewable sugar, somehow.

godblooded​⸻ 

my mind corrects and reminds itself dr. quinzel, harleen. masterful in psychiatry and manipulation. manipulated. the contacts leave out the importance of details that i absolutely need to know. because beneath smears of greasepaint and lipstick that shimmers beneath the light no matter how dull it seems that is who she is.

a dangerous person, just like all the other dangerous people that live here. a dangerous person in the clutches of another dangerous person. the phrase goes that people do crazy things when they’re in love, but i don’t believe love even needs to be a part of it. i believe people are just driven to do crazy things– ‘crazy’ things. i believe there is something here that pushes people toward such things. i believe gotham is the leviathan waiting with open jaws to chew up anyone here, resident and stranger alike. 

the answer surprises me. go somewhere no one would find us. the middle of america. family medicine. normalcy. the images she tries to summon to my mind don’t spring for even a moment. the pictures she talks about slip further from my sight whenever i try to summon them to mind. the frayed images of my mother and my father shrivel and blow away in the wind, my template for ‘normalcy’.

“ die. ”

i don’t flinch. i don’t know if the response is sitting in the chamber, preparing to be fired, or if it slips out, accidental and unbidden. i’m unsure if it drops out of my mouth and plops on the floor like something ugly suddenly between two people who have no business having such close familiarity. not two people intimate enough to know one another in a conversation where the word die can be used. 

i blink hard and tear my gaze up so hard that i can hear what is almost volatile in sound. the room rings in my ears. her heels hit the desk and she flounces and primps and fluffs at me; she does something i don’t know how to deal with. i keep my eyes on her shoes and i imagine a stiletto lodging hard in my forehead, a gushing spurt of crimson, and my hand, my thumb, jumps to rub the inside of my index finger for the feeling of the thing. it keeps my feet on the ground.

she lounges like joker, but she’s twice as deadly as he is. it isn’t the same as a big cat stretched out and leaning; it’s the same posture as an animal insisting on taking up all the room in the room. male big cats are lazy. they don’t really do anything but add more mouths to feed and entitlement to that. the female of the species is the deadliest.

my mouth is dry. i feel it when i swallow and my thoughts race quicker than even i’m used to. i can hardly keep my hands around the reins but i have to. people call silence ‘awkward’ but i often think it’s because others fill the silence with expectancy. others are too frightened of the silence. she isn’t quiet, and my head is thudding as i attempt to imagine every scenario that can come from this second. 

option b begins to make itself known. it feels improbable. b begins at something as simple as conversation. b begins at something as simple as her staying still, me staying still, and words. but b has its limits, and i know harley well enough to be positive that staying still isn’t going to last. 

i remind myself where the pen is. 

“ why? ”

i can’t imagine the ideals she starts bringing up. i try again to remember the face of my father, the smile of my mother, and all i can come up with is the mausoleum where they were both laid unfairly to rest. 

i punctuate my question by tilting my head, purposefully making it clear i don’t understand what she’s insinuating. normalcy. 

i can’t help the alarm bells that ring in my brain.  that’s our number one job as doctors – to keep our patients alive.

( it’s not,  actually.  it’s to do no harm.  sometimes,  the kindest thing you can do is let go.  i’m not in the mood to think about medical ethics,  but i stare at bruce wayne,  and i try to figure out if it would be kinder to let them die.  there’s a lot of suffering that can be fixed – through time,  therapy,  medication.  but there’s some that can’t be. i wonder if his falls into the latter category.  i wonder if mine does.  can i walk away from this?  can i be normal again?  i think that this is a question that bruce wayne is wrestling with too,  but why? ) 

“ do you want to die,  or do you want to be dead? ”

because there’s a difference.  i never used to know that there was a difference.  in my before,  at my lowest points,  i had thought about how much easier it would be to be dead – about how i would finally be at peace.  now,  i think about how i’m going to die – driving the getaway car too fast,  charging at a cop,  making j angry.  a bomb exploding in my brain.  there’s a difference.

maybe if i can save bruce wayne,  i can save myself. 

( it’s the first time i’ve allowed myself to think about saving someone other than joker. ) 

he’s nervous,  but he doesn’t react to my flirting like i thought he would.  some people would be on top of me by now. i didn’t peg wayne as that kind of person,  and i’m glad i’m right.  it makes things more interesting if i can’t control this situation just by climbing into their lap and sucking pretty bruises down their neck.  

( i want to die i want to die i want to die i want to die – ) 

i consider pushing further,  saying something more obscene.  inviting them to some small town in the middle of america.  but i think about that playing out,  on the off chance that they’d be receptive to my advances,  think about this encounter ending in a tangle of limbs.  i realize i don’t want that,  because this conversation is making me feel more like a person than any body i’ve been under since j pulled me into his world.  

so for once,  i don’t push.  i let the thought go. i blow another bubble,  but this time,  i’m not trying to make them think about what else i could be doing with my mouth.   

wait,  why am i thinking about it?  i have to shake my head to snap out of it. get your shit together,  harleen. 

they’ve asked me a question,  and here i am,  wrapped up in my own thoughts.  i don’t have enough time to lie – but i don’t feel like lying,  either.  i don’t know who harleen is – i don’t know who harley is.  but as long as i don’t give myself time to think,  i’ll tell the truth. 

“ why?  do you think i want to be this?  do you think i spent eight years becoming a doctor just so i could crawl into joker’s lap and throw it all away? i’m smarter than that. ”  i was supposed to be smarter than that.  i’m irritated now,  struggling to hide it.  i’ve never had a poker face.  “ i’m here because everybody else gave up on helping.  i’m here tryin’ to save him from this goddamned city. ”  

it’s gotham’s fault.  it’s always been gotham’s fault.  “ and once i do,  we’re gonna have it.  a big house out west.  more kids than you can count. ” well,  maybe not.  but two or three would be nice. “ what’s the point if i don’t want that? ”