Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Harvey meets Matches Malone, he’s sure it’s a joke.

He looks more like a parody of a man than anything, and while that might not be saying much for Gotham-- hell, even Two-Face is aware of his own particular idiosyncrasies to a certain degree --but Matches exaggerates it to a frankly ridiculous level.

His hair is slicked back with copious amounts of product, waves of pungent cologne coming off him so strongly he smells like he’s drenched in it. His suit is garishly patterned, puke-colored, and laying over an offensively plaid collared shirt. Large, gaudy wire-frame sunglasses cover most of his face, and a thinly-styled pencil mustache graces his upper lip. Lastly a match, this supposed namesake of his, dangles loosely from smugly quirked lips.

Shoulders slouched, hands casually hanging his sides with his thumbs hooked into his jacket pockets, utterly unbothered by the dozens of guns pointed at him by Two-Face’s men.

All in all, the utmost epitome of sleaze.

Oh, yeah, and he was actually Bruce Wayne.

Other than that, absolutely everything else checks out, and Harvey is almost willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for that reason alone. Despite seemingly appearing on the scene barely more than a few months ago, “Matches” has a rap sheet a mile long, evidently famed and well-known among the criminal underworld, arsonist by trade, hired muscle on occasion, and freely available for anyone in need of his “services”.

Services he was currently jovially offering to Two-Face, completely unawares of the fact that the only reason he hadn’t been thrown out yet was because Harvey was entirely too baffled as to what the hell Bruce thought he was doing.

“All I’m saying is, Boss,” Matches says in a nasally New Jersey accent that would put the Ventriloquist to shame, sounding more befitting of a black-and-white 1950’s gangster movie; in fact, it sounds exactly like it’s from one, and Harvey is even certain as to which one in particular. “See, you stand to profit a whole lot more if you cut your losses, yeah? Lemme take care of that warehouse of yours, nothin’ but a pile of ashes before ya know it. Them cops won’t be able to find anything funny, and you get a nice, fat insurance check for your troubles. All I ask is a small compensation fee, y’know, and I’ll be good as gone.”

Matches grins, laying the flattery on thick, and Harvey can’t help but admit he was almost convinced. Two-Face was certainly sufficiently satisfied, and that alone was often more than enough to sway most of Harvey’s decision-making, even if the ploy in question was plainly evident.

(Short term gain versus long term investment-- counting on him being more allured by the prospect of a large sum of immediately available cash rather than the far greater profit the contents of the warehouse stood to earn him in the future. No doubt it worked without a hitch on countless scores of Gotham’s more gullible criminal element-- by the time they’d figured out they got a bum deal, if they ever did, things had already long since worked out in Matches’ favor.)

But then-- there had been that odd, sudden flutter in Harvey’s heart the second he had realized who Matches actually was.

Since the accident-- since Two-Face --Harvey hadn’t seen Bruce anyplace other than from behind the smudged and cracked plexiglass of Arkham’s visitor’s center, memories fogged by the sedatives used to keep Two-Face placated. Even the dark shadow of the Bat served a poor substitute, the crack of a gauntleted fist against his jaw a weak replacement for an amicable arm thrown around his shoulder that he suddenly so sorely missed.

(And yes, Harvey did know. Had known. For how long, he wasn’t quite sure. In any case Harvey hadn’t known Bruce as long as he had to be fooled by nothing more than a voice modulator and a mask that didn’t even cover the bottom half of his face. Harvey guarded this secret jealously, protective of the person he considered his only friend even now, and thought it his greatest achievement to have kept the knowledge out of Two-Face’s reach for as long as he had, who would have only been all too glad to crucify the man he blamed for his creation.)

The coin rolls between Harvey’s fingers, the scarred and unscarred sides glinting in the light of his hideout as he contemplated Matches’ offer from where he lounged at a desk. Regardless of what Harvey or Two-Face thought, the coin still had to decide.

Harvey flips it wordlessly, watching Matches’ smile grow tight as the coin sails through the air. It lands in Harvey’s palm, the face hidden from view.

“Well?” Matches asks, nervousness bleeding into his tone for the first time that night.

“Congratulations,” Harvey says in reply, his pleasant satisfaction evident even through Two-Face’s rasp. “You’re hired.”

His expression splits into a wide, macabre grin of its own, his scarred half for a split-second no longer locked in its semi-perpetual sneering scowl, one that Matches eagerly returns in visible relief.

Never mind that Harvey never declared what it was, exactly, the coin flip was meant to determine.

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Harvey can’t begin to guess why Bruce chose this as a method of what he could only assume was a means of checking up on him, but he’s not particularly inclined to complain just yet.

He can see the logic behind it, somewhat.

Bruce Wayne couldn’t be seen with Two-Face, simple as that. Harvey couldn’t blame him. Bruce was handsome, a media darling, well-known and well-liked, and Harvey simply-- wasn’t. The complete opposite, in fact, and far too late to do anything about it.

Similarly, Two-Face refused to cooperate with Batman. It wouldn’t matter how much control Harvey thought he had on himself in that moment-- the sight of Batman always prompted a near-immediate, visceral reaction of distrust and suspicion, a fight-or-flight reaction that more often than not tended to lean towards fight.

This Matches, all things considered, appeared a clever compromise. It’s nice to be reassured Bruce still cares, in his own way.

They can never really be together, and that’s fine. Harvey is willing to take what he can get.

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It’s another month before Matches shows up again, waltzing into Harvey’s current hideout like he owns the place. There’s something to be said about his confidence.

Harvey had only meant this association with Matches to be a one-time thing. Something merely meant to sate his and Bruce’s curiosities, even if all it ended up being was a bitter reminder of all that stood in the way of just seeing each other. He never intended to run into Matches again.

His outfit is just as atrocious as the last time, hair just as oily and grin just as smarmy; Harvey spares a moment to wonder if it was all on purpose or if it was just that bad of a disguise. He wants to be annoyed over the intrusion, but the feeling is unexpectedly tempered as Matches approaches his desk.

“I’m afraid I’m not in need of your services at the moment,” Harvey addresses curtly, forcing himself to focus on the message he was currently trying to draft to Black Mask, warning him that such-and-such threats would not be tolerated, and the territory Two-Face had laid claim to in Gotham was not up for debate. It was all terribly pedantic, and Harvey would much rather have the message sent in a far more personal manner, preferably on the body of one of Black Mask’s own lackeys. The last thing Harvey needs on his hands, however, is a gang war, so he’s willing to be mildly diplomatic for the time being.

“Who says? I heard you got a problem that needs solving,” Matches declares, grinning smugly as he leans against Harvey’s desk. “And boy, aren’t you lucky to know Gotham’s premier problem solver.”

Annoying, but Harvey’s interest is nonetheless piqued. “What makes you think I have a problem,” Harvey growls, jabbing his pen in Matches’ direction, “What makes you think I want it solved, and what’s in it for you?”

Matches puts his hands up placatingly, backing up a step. “Hey! Be cool, Boss. I promise, no tricky business, cross my heart.”

Harvey grumbles, but leans back in his seat and gestures for Matches to continue; he’ll indulge him for now.

Matches looks entirely too pleased for his own good, clapping his hands together in eager excitement to plead his case.

“‘Kay, see,” Matches begins. “I have information. I know just about everything about everyone. Ain’t nothin’ I don’t know about that goes on in this city. I have my sources, I got my people-- and they say you have a problem with a certain someone wantin’ to muscle in on your turf, yeah?”

“Perhaps,” Harvey admits, narrowing his eyes. “But it doesn’t explain why you would choose me over this… someone.”

Because he’s Bruce. Because he’s Batman, and siding with Two-Face is obviously the lesser of two evils.

“Risk assessment,” Matches replies with a slick grin. “See, this, uh, unnamed third party, I’m betting he wouldn’t even be as willing to hear me out. But you, Boss? Hell, I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I? I want to avoid trouble just as much as you do, see, but this other guy just seems to want to shake things up for the fun of it. I like my stability, I like to keep things kosher. All I ask is that you put in good word to your friends about me, and maybe keep me in mind for any future problems, yeah? How’s that sound?”

It’s… surprisingly sound, and Harvey is tempted if only so Black Mask is no longer his problem.

“All right,” Harvey relents slowly. “And how, exactly, do you propose to solve this problem?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Matches quips with a wink; or Harvey imagines he does. It’s hard to see past the sunglasses. “Just lemme work my magic. Trust me, I’m a professional.”

Harvey considers it, and procures his coin. Its appearance doesn’t faze Matches any, not like it had the first time.

But, instead of flipping, all Harvey did was silently regard it. After a long silence, he simply folds it back into his fist, looking back up at Matches.

“Fine,” Harvey says, waving him off. “Do whatever you have to, just get it done.”

Matches’ grin somehow stretches even wider. “Thanks, Boss. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

Harvey remains impassive as Matches takes his leave, and-- wonders.

He should have flipped the coin. He doesn’t know why he didn’t. That makes the second time he’s disregarded it in recent memory.

There was something about Matches--

(Something about Bruce.)

--that was affecting him, and Harvey still couldn’t be sure whether that was good or bad.

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It’s late, and Harvey can’t think.

Two-Face shrieks and howls from within the confines of his mind, feeling like an icepick being driven straight through his temple, splitting his skull and setting his blood on fire.

He’s pacing back and forth in his apartment, gun gripped tight in his fight and pressed up against the side of his head in the vain hope the pressure could stave off his unbearable headache.

Tomorrow was Tuesday (two’s day), the twenty-second of some month (two, two), the second anniversary of some well-to-do business (more goddamned twos), and Harvey’s skin feels like it’s being stretched too tight, crawling with the desire to do something about it--

(Do it, do it, do it, DO IT, DO IT).

Harvey growls, eyes screwing shut until stars burst in his vision. He’s not sure why, exactly, he’s fighting so hard against it this time. He’s usually only all too glad to succumb to Two-Face’s control, entirely willing to lose himself to the dissociation and let somebody else take hold of the reins for a while. It wasn’t without its risks-- Two-Face was brash and impulsive, his arrogance and overconfidence often leading to a straight ticket to Arkham.

Normally, it doesn’t matter. Normally, Harvey doesn’t care.

But-- now, Harvey wants to avoid Arkham. He doesn’t know who he’s trying to prove himself to, he doesn’t even know why.

He’s not even sure he wants to know why.

The door opens, the sudden noise like thunder against Harvey’s eardrums.

“What part of do not disturb do you ingrates not understand--” Harvey snarls, cocking the gun and whirling around to face the intruder, only to come face-to-face with Matches, the barrel leveled squarely at his nose. Matches, for his credit, looks tremendously unbothered, maybe only the slightest bit startled by the surprise rather than the gun itself.

If he was really Bruce, he would have been scared, wouldn’t he? Bruce didn’t like guns--

But, if Bruce was also Batman, he wouldn’t be scared. Batman wasn’t afraid of anything--

And, if there was the chance Matches actually wasn’t either of them--

Harvey abruptly shook his head as though it would be enough to dislodge the thoughts; he’s learned he can’t trust his own mind whenever Two-Face was vying for control, the threat of potentially slipping into a dissociative state at any one moment making his grip on reality more than a little strenuous.

“Woah, hey,” Matches says casually, putting his hands up. Harvey can’t see past those ever-present sunglasses, but it provides a marginal moment of consolation to imagine his eyes crossing as they focused on the tip of the gun. “Not the kinda welcome I was expectin’, but--”

“What do you want,” Harvey grits out, his free hand clenched at his side. Something hard digs into his palm; the coin had found its way into his fist at some point, and Two-Face is crooning into his ear to use it. Heads to let him leave with his life, tails to…

“Hadn’t seen you around, Boss,” Matches offers by way of explanation, shrugging, like he didn’t still have a gun pointed right at him. “See, uh, I was curious, is all. So I thought, y’know, why not check things out? See what’s up, if you might have a job or anything…”

Harvey lets Matches ramble, finger hovering over the trigger. It’s-- odd. He would have expected the accent to grate on him, for Matches’ tendency to take to take up as much space as he could through sheer presence alone to rub him the wrong away, and yet…

Two-Face had gone quiet. Harvey lowered the gun. Matches was still talking.

“...Its just, it’s been a while, and I gotta protect my investments, y’know? Say the Bat or the fuzz snatched you, and I’d be out of a job. You’re a good boss, Boss, best there is, in fact--”

“What do you care?” Harvey demands flatly. He’s overcome by the sudden, desperate need to know. If-- if this is the truth, or just another trick his own mind is playing on him, putting meaning into Matches’ words that just isn’t there.

It’s that that apparently finally catches Matches off-guard, that perpetual slick grin of his falling away to a mildly startled frown. He gapes for a second before swallowing and finally finding his words.

“I just… wanted to see if anything was wrong,” Matches answers, slow and cautious, the most painfully honest Harvey’s ever heard him. Like he actually, really cares. Something in his chest constricts.

(Because he does, Harvey wants to think, he’s always cared.)

Harvey lets him hang for a beat, watching Matches glance between the gun at his side and the coin still grasped tightly in a white-knuckled fist.

“A headache,” is all Harvey eventually says after a long pause, finding himself relaxing by degrees. His head is still throbbing, and that damning obsession with the number two hangs in the back of his mind like an itch that can’t be scratched-- but Matches, somehow, makes it that much more bearable. Harvey tries not to look too deeply as to why.

Another beat, then Harvey silently presents the coin, showing both faces to Matches.

“Heads, you’re free to keep running your mouth,” he declares. “Tails, you leave.”

Matches nods, confused. The coin flips. It lands. Heads.

“You… want me to keep talking,” Matches asks, still uncertain. Harvey can understand why. A supposed headache, yet a deliberate request to have the second most annoying man in Gotham after Joker to keep talking. Anyone would be confused by that.

(Bruce’s voice had always been a secret comfort to him, in a way that he’s never admitted outright. Even if it’s not really him, it’s close enough where it counts.)

Harvey trudges over to a nearby armchair and collapses into it, handgun carelessly discarded on the nearby end table and coin once more swallowed by his fist, a comforting pressure. He closes his eyes and rubs at his temple. “I want to hear something other than my own thoughts. Keep talking before I change my mind.”

When Matches doesn’t speak up right away, Harvey nearly barks at him to get lost despite the coin’s decision on the matter, but then he takes a breath, and launches into rambling story apparently involving some time Penguin was hosting some bigwig event at the Iceberg Lounge only to have a party crasher in the form of the Joker, and the organized chaos that occured from then out.

Harvey sags deeper into his chair, and lets Matches prattle on, that horrible New Jersey accent proving to be an unexpected balm against his pounding skull. Two-Face’s demands fade away to the background, losing their urgency.

Perhaps it’s not so bad to keep him around, after all.

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Matches starts to come around more often, after that, showing up unannounced in his home or whatever hideout he’s holed up in at the time. Harvey lets him. Matches is undeniably useful, holding a wealth of knowledge concerning the goings-ons of Gotham’s criminal elite that no simple arsonist that occasionally subjects himself to gruntwork should feasibly know without having more resources than he lets on.

It’s selfish, Harvey knows, to allow himself to so freely trust this man who is Bruce-but-not-Bruce. Matches isn’t Bruce, not really, but Harvey is so desperate to have that closeness again, to just have a friend, that he’s willing to overlook it.

Truthfully, it’s an easy problem to fix. All it would take is Harvey simply telling Matches that he knows.

Each time, Harvey flips for it. Each time, the answer is the same.

He would rather live a comforting lie than face the unfortunate truth.

(The truth that he can’t bear to be with Bruce as he is now, as Two-Face, because he isn’t deserving of someone like Bruce, not anymore. Matches isn’t Bruce, and if Harvey continues to convince himself of that, he’s sure he’ll soon believe it.)

It’s no better from Bruce’s side, either. Harvey is aware of that much. It would be just as easy for him to drop the facade, to just go Harvey, it’s me, good old Bruce. Perhaps they both thought this lie, this pretending, was easier, as though nothing had ever gone wrong in the first place, instead of facing the ugly truth of what had become of them.

But, for now, Harvey can pretend. In some aspects, they really do act as though nothing has changed. It’s the Iceberg Lounge instead of the Half-Moon Club, it’s Harvey’s unassuming apartment on the edge of the city instead of Bruce’s glitzy manor on the hill, it’s Two-Face and Matches instead of Harvey and Bruce, but-- it’s so, so close to how it used to be.

(How it still could be, if only Harvey would own up to needing help, to let himself be treated for the mental illness that still plagues every living second of his life, to even let his scars be cared for by an actual, certified doctor. This glimpse of an almost-life fast becoming more tantalizing than Harvey can stand, wearing away at the denial he’d worked so adamantly to build up.)

But, for now, Harvey can pretend. He can close his eyes, and for a second can almost believe half his face doesn’t still burn and itch with the after-effects of acid, that Two-Face isn’t a constant presence in the back of his mind, and that Matches is the one person he wants the most.

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On the occasions where Harvey wants nothing more than a quiet night in, the incessantly howling demon in his mind leaving little room for coherent thought, Matches is usually there, too. He seemed to have a knack for knowing when it got bad. It works, for them. Harvey can’t find it in himself to complain, and if he’s being honest, it’s a mild comfort to know he’s not alone.

Matches talks, and occasionally, Harvey talks back. Conversation is halting at first, abrupt stops and starts here and there as they each learn to find their rhythm. It takes surprisingly little time to begin talking as though they had been friends for as long as Harvey knew each other truthfully to be.

Most of the time, it’s just gossip provided by Matches-- who was doing what, which boss was preparing to make a move on someone else, when the police where planning their next raid. Rarely does Matches provide anything personal.

Harvey is usually content to listen, but curiosity wears at him the longer it goes on.

He wants-- he wants to know how Bruce was doing. Matches provided little more than a horribly warped glimpse, and Harvey knew more than anyone that the Bruce Wayne the public knew was nothing like the Bruce Wayne he knew.

“Matches,” Harvey spoke up nonchalantly from his chair, interrupting whatever diatribe Matches had been in the middle of as he’d paced back and forth across the living area. “You said you know everything about everybody, right?”

“Yeah? I mean, yeah, Boss,” Matches answers, brows drawing in minor confusion but the suddenness of the question. “Of course I do. I told ya that, didn’t I? What did ya want to know?”

“Tell me about Bruce Wayne.”

Matches freezes like a deer in headlights, and for a moment Harvey worries he’s played his hand too obviously. Matches soon enough collects himself, but does a poorly job of hiding his surprise. It would be comical were it not for the flash of suspicion Harvey can see even from behind those nearly impenetrable sunglasses.

“Wayne?” Matches asks, understandably wary. Harvey can’t blame him. Two-Face is undeniably a threat to him in more ways than one. “What about him? Just some pretty rich boy, ain’t he?”

“Call it a professional curiosity,” Harvey says, shrugging. “He and I, we used to be…” he trails off. Best friends. Brothers. Inseparable. “Acquaintances.”

Matches regards him in dubious silence, as though trying to discern whether or not Harvey meant anything nefarious by his claimed curiosity.

“He… visits you in Arkham, doesn’t he?” Matches says, careful.

“On occasion,” Harvey relents with a wry twist of his mouth. “You understand, the Asylum tends not to be the best environment for meaningful conversation.”

“Yeah,” comes Matches’ distracted answer, looking away.

It’s okay. Harvey is patient. He chooses not to prod or press, allowing Matches to come to the decision to trust him in his own time.

Soon enough, it pays off.

“Wayne’s… good,” Matches starts, slow and cautious, still eyeing Harvey somewhat skeptically. “Four kids, all boys. Keeps to himself, mostly. Still head honcho of that company of his.”

It’s not much, but Harvey’s grateful for it all the same. He’s suddenly and terribly homesick the friendship they used to have. He looks away, staring absently out a dark window. “How is he?”

(How are you?)

Silence, again. Then, “He’s making do.”

“Good old Bruce,” Harvey murmurs, quiet. Matches must hear it; his shoulders sag ever so slightly.

“I can keep tabs on him, Boss, if you’d like,” Matches offers suddenly, casual if not for the way he’d blurted it out. “Y’know, to give ya updates anytime I stop by. No trouble at all, I promise.”

Harvey looks back at Matches, surprised and unsure what to make of it. There’s that odd flutter in his heart again once he registers what all Matches had said.

“I’d like that, actually,” Harvey says after taking a moment to collect his words, daring a small, relieved smile; it stretches at his scarred half uncomfortably, but all he’s aware of is the warmth blooming in his chest.

Matches grins back, eager to please.

It’s not quite the same as simply talking, the veil that was Matches’ layered identity shrouding them both, but it’s more than close enough to count. Matches provides his “reports” whenever he stops by, as promised, and things get that much closer to just being normal again.

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As their relationship becomes increasingly casual, Harvey can’t help but find himself wanting more.

It’s the same precipice he can remember finding himself on just before the accident. He and Bruce had always become close, but-- something had changed, after he became District Attorney. Soon after Bruce had become Batman, Harvey later suspected.

Bruce’s smiles had become wider, his bright blue eyes startlingly brighter, his warm touches lingering longer. Harvey could remember thoughts of wanting more then, too.

After Maroni’s arrest, thanks in part to information the GCPD had acquired that had been provided by none other than the Batman, Bruce had asked him to dinner to celebrate, at a date following Maroni’s then-inevitable conviction.

Bruce had been uncharacteristically nervous, in that moment, cagey in a way Harvey had never seen him before, like he intended it to be more important than he was letting on.

They never did make it to that dinner. Harvey can only guess what all Bruce had planned to tell him, that night.

Harvey can see the same changes happening in Matches.

He’s less-- closed off, no longer hamming up the schtick as much as he used to. His grins less sycophantic, his nerves less pronounced. He sounds more genuine, honest. Still as eager to please as ever, but less facetious about it.

Harvey hadn’t recognized these feelings for what they were the first time around, but now he knows-- an attraction, and an undeniable one at that, one that he’s possibly harbored for as long as he’s known Bruce.

One that he feels just as fearful acknowledging now as he did back then.

Because-- Bruce can’t possibly ever want him back. Even if he may once have, when Harvey was young and handsome, such a feeling couldn’t possibly be reciprocated now. Not when the years left had Harvey older and world-weary, horribly and irreversibly disfigured.

Harvey swallows these feelings down and ignores them, longing for a time gone by.

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They’re on a balcony in some high-rise on the far side of town. One of the properties Harvey had managed to acquire through some less-than-legal dealings. It’s where Harvey likes to unwind in between jobs. Matches is with him.

(Sunglasses even at night, it’s silly.)

As are a few other of Harvey’s men, security, milling around as they await their orders, but Harvey pays them no mind.

“Nice night, huh,” Matches says, leaning against the railing alongside Harvey, who hums his acknowledgment noncommittally, aimlessly flipping the coin over and over as he stares over the city sprawling around them. They lapse into a comfortable silence.

Harvey soon decides he’s had enough of it. There’s a curiosity he can’t quite quell. The coin goes away, and Harvey instead procures a cigar from the inside of his jacket.

“Here,” Harvey says simply, holding it out. “Why don’t you put your name to some actual use and light this for me.”

Matches stares for a moment, as though deliberating something, then seems to decide there’s no problem in it after all. He plucks the match from his lips and strikes it, igniting the flame with a burst of sulfur in Harvey’s nostrils.

Harvey places the cigar against his lips and leans into Matches’ space, over the lit match, slowly puffing at it until the end is smoldering to his satisfaction, embers burning bright in the cool night air. When Harvey looks up, he sees Matches holding himself still, face utterly impassive, betraying nothing. Harvey straightens with a deep drag, blowing it out with a satisfied sigh. Smoke leaks through the exposed side of his face, curling through the gaps of his skin and teeth. Matches shakes the flame out and flicks the used stick over the balcony, busying himself with digging around for a replacement match with stiff, overly-casual movements.

“Cuban,” Harvey breathes contentedly, stilling Matches out of his sudden bout of fidgeting. “One of the few real luxuries I have left.”

“Didn’t think you could get ‘em here,” Matches says.

“Amazing what you can do when you know the right people,” Harvey replies easily, then pauses, and offers it over amicably. “Would you like to try?”

He’s not sure what makes him ask. Bruce doesn’t smoke, but-- Matches isn’t Bruce, after all. It would be the polite thing to do in any other case. It’s no skin off his back if Matches declines.

Matches looks as though he was caught off-guard, surprised by the offer. All he has to do is say no.

Instead, Matches appears to gather his resolve all at once, and accepts the proffered cigar. After a small moment of hesitation, he takes a drag.

Nothing seems off, initially, and Harvey is handed back the cigar. He is surprised, and very nearly startled when Matches then suddenly explodes into a barrage of hacking, full-body coughs, choking on the smoke he’d willingly inhaled.

As Matches goes red in the face, struggling to breathe, Harvey can hear the beginnings of snickering from the few of his men that were out there with him. In an instant, all he sees is red, and he whirls around with roared orders to leave them. They scatter like cockroaches in the face of Two-Face’s wrath, and once they’ve gone and left them alone Harvey turns back to Matches, expression still pulled into a fearsome scowl but his eyes livid with concern. Matches is still choking, beet red with exertion, coughing like he’s trying to hack up a lung.

Idiot, idiot, Harvey hisses to himself, more concerned that he ought to have been for someone who was supposed to just be another grunt.

“Hey, breathe,” Harvey snaps, struggling to keep the worry out of his voice. It’s a failed effort, compounded by the hand giving comforting pats against Matches’ back and words that inevitably softened the longer he spoke. “Just breathe, pal. Took a bit more than you can handle, it’s fine. Honestly, all you had to say was no. No use nearly killing yourself.”

“Didn’t-- didn’t want to be rude,” Matches managed to gasp in between breaths. Harvey had to fight not to roll his eyes. “Sorry, I, uh-- just don’t smoke often. It’s-- very flammable, my line of work, y’know.”

Harvey patiently stayed by him until he calmed down, close, hand settling at the small of Matches’ back until the shuddering had stopped and his breathing was no longer so labored. Upon regaining his composure Matches straightened back up, smoothed his hair back into place, and took a deliberate step backwards. The match had fallen from his lips at some point during his fit, but he made no move to replace it.

“I-- should probably go,” he says, the facade sliding effortlessly back into place as though nothing had happened.

“It is late,” Harvey agrees flatly after a pause, and doesn’t quite know where the disappointment he’s feeling is coming from.

Matches shuffles off with a muffled thanks, and Harvey is left alone. He still holds the lit cigar between his fingers, regarding it silently.

Slowly, he puts it back up to his lips, and finds his thoughts swimming with images of meeting Matches a little closer than a simple shared cigar.

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It had seemed like a good idea at the time, to invite Matches back to his apartment for-- Harvey’s quite forgotten what. He’s sure he had a reason, at one point. Not that it had mattered. Matches had agreed, without hesitation, without even bothering to ask for the occasion.

Not that they particularly needed one. They had been at the Lounge, previously, one of the rare few nights Harvey had no immediate pressing concerns. Two-Face was complacent; amicable, even. No growled threats or angry outbursts to speak of, no unceasing demands to hold the place up or make anyone answer for perceived slights.

Harvey, for lack of a better term, could relax. It didn’t hurt that Matches was at his side, a constant presence in recent weeks.

(Just like old times.)

They had been at the Lounge, enjoying the entertainment and talking like the old friends Harvey knew they really were, up until the point the Joker decided to crash the party, wearing a poorly-fitted dress of all things, shoving the singer off the stage and sending the band scrambling, demanding that he be given the spotlight he so clearly deserved before launching into a downright horrible caterwauling rendition of Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend.

It had been nothing short of chaos. Harvey had never been so glad to have Two-Face wrench control, both sides of himself filled with nothing but seething, frothing hatred for that damned clown, having the gall to ruin his night--

Matches was hustling him out before he could even have the chance to unholster his weapon, away from the havoc and into the cool night air before he had any sense of what was going on. Bluntly asking Matches if he wanted to finish their drinks at home felt like a natural progression of things.

Which led to where they are now.

Harvey isn’t drunk, he’s barely even buzzed, but he’s certainly had enough to lower his inhibitions. Matches has yet to touch his own drink.

They’re still talking, aimlessly, directionless conversation about nothing, if only because neither man had yet to admit to themselves they just like listening to each other.

Harvey is distracted by Matches’ lips, eyes lingering a half-second too long every time he glances over. Matches doesn’t appear to notice. In truth, he’s distracted by Matches’ everything, and Harvey--

Harvey wants.

The temptation has never been stronger than it is now, spurred on by the glass of whiskey he’s been nursing since coming home and a lifetime of missed chances. Matches barely even notices he’s gone quiet, regaling stories about all the times he’s henched for the various crime bosses of Gotham City. He doesn’t notice, either, when Harvey suddenly rises from his chair and stalks across the room to him, until his looming presence becomes impossible to ignore.

Matches is startled, predictably, and Harvey watches the surprise flit over his face before schooling it back to something neutral; in the reflection of Matches’ sunglasses, all Harvey can see is himself, expression grimly set with determination.

“Boss…?” Matches says, apprehensive, throat working as he swallows nervously. He makes no move to take a step back, however, when Harvey dares to draw himself even closer. Closer than Harvey has ever allowed themselves to be.

“There’s-- something I want,” Harvey starts, uncertain, voice roughened by some emotion he’s afraid to quite name. “From you.”

Matches gapes and stares, then licks his lips. Doesn’t ask what it is that Harvey wants. “O-of course, Boss. Anything.”

This is his last chance to back out. Last chance to change his mind, last chance to decide whether or not this was a mistake after all. Harvey’s fingers itch for the coin, but he steadfastly ignores it. He wants this to be his decision, not anyone else’s.

Harvey barrels forward.

Before he can talk himself out of it, before Two-Face can talk himself out of it, Harvey reaches out touch lightly at the side of Matches’ face. A gentle, cautious caress.

“I want to see your eyes.”

Harvey hears Matches’ breath catch. He knows what he’s asking for, knows Matches thinks he still doesn’t know who he really is, knows there is no turning back. Harvey waits, silent and patient, heart beating rapidly in his chest. Matches swallows again-- once, twice --then gives a tiny, nearly imperceptible nod of assent.

With a delicacy that even Harvey thought himself incapable of, he reached for the thin wire frame of the sunglasses, and slowly slid them off Matches’ face.

Startlingly bright, blue eyes stared back.

It was one thing to know, but another to be faced with the unavoidable truth of the fact.

Matches looked back at Harvey, steadily holding his gaze, determinedly refusing to back down despite the apprehension etched deeply into every line of his face, the flash of uncertain fear as the glasses had been removed not escaping Harvey’s notice.

“There’s one more thing I want,” Harvey says, still too close to Matches, voice still low and rough. He surreptitiously tucks the glasses into Matches’ front pocket.

“Yeah?” Matches says, a hoarse whisper.

Harvey’s broad palm curls around the back of Matches’ neck. He leans forward, closing that already short gap between them, and kisses Matches Malone.

It’s an awkward fit. Harvey’s scars leave half his face a gnarled, twisted mess, his left side pulling his mouth into a permanently snarling grimace, lips burned away to practically nothing, flesh and teeth exposed for all the world to see.

Matches does not move, at first, frozen in place, unresponsive as Harvey kisses him. It’s more disheartening than Harvey can admit. Maybe, this was a bad idea after all, maybe he was wrong--

And then, Matches starts to kiss back.

His movements are uncertain, at first, decidedly awkward until he manages to make it work and match up with Harvey’s rhythm, hands fisting tightly in the fabric of the sides of Harvey’s suit jacket as the kiss suddenly deepens with heated intensity.

When they separate, they’re both panting, the air between them hot with their mingled, labored breathing. Matches’ face is already flushed, blue eyes nearly swallowed by black, and Harvey wonders if he must look the same.

“Oh,” Matches breathes, looking dazed. “Oh. That’s. What was it that you said you wanted?”

“You.”

That simple, flat statement is what finally manages to snap Matches out of his reverie. He looks sharply at Harvey.

“Boss, I don’t-- are you sure?” He asks, voice oddly tight. He looks liable to bolt. “You’re yourself, right now, right?”

“I’m only going to offer this once,” Harvey says, definitive. “Now, or never again.”

Ultimatum delivered, Harvey waits. He watches as Matches digests what he’s been told, considering his options. All at once, resolve seems to settle over Matches, slick grin sliding right back into place.

“Well. I’m not one to turn down a good time,” Matches says, a tentative attempt at recapturing his flirtatious reputation even through the clear notes of nervousness still in his tone.

It stings, somewhat, even if Harvey is well aware he was never going to get the real Bruce. Matches is all he has, and Matches is all he’s getting.

It’s Matches who takes the initiative, then. He hesitates, perhaps, for half a second, before pulling himself close to Harvey again, capturing his lips in a kiss that was slower than the first, but with just as much deliberate intent. Harvey melts into the embrace despite his earlier flash of disappointment, and lets himself forget.

It’s not long it before they’re kissing at each other hungrily, desperation driving them to clutch at each others clothes, fingers twisting into the fabric and holding tight, as though each were suddenly afraid of losing the other. Teeth drag across his bottom lip, and Harvey growls, pushing at Matches until he feels him bump against a wall. Matches grunts with the force of it, but it dissolves away into a breathy moan when Harvey begins to drive an insistent thigh in between his legs.

He feels Matches thrust against him, grinding down against his leg, and arousal spikes sudden and sharp in the pit of his stomach. Matches is already half-hard, Harvey can feel it through his hideously-colored slacks, and it only serves to drive that spike plunging further. He moans into Matches’ mouth, and sets to work at undoing Matches’ belt with hurried, frantic movements.

Matches makes a plaintive whining sound in the back of his throat, and dares to reach for the tucked-in hem of Harvey’s shirt, who jerks back at the first deadened sensation of soft fingertips against scarred skin.

He-- he wants this, Harvey knows he wants this, but sudden realization of what would inevitably happen as these activities progressed, strikes him through with an abrupt, all-encompassing fear.

He hasn’t allowed anyone to see him in any state of undress since the accident. Gnarled swaths of skin, scarred by acid and the tragedies of time, cover the entire left side of his body. It wasn’t how he wanted to be seen-- by Bruce or Matches or otherwise.

There’s a questioning noise as Matches finally notices Harvey has pulled away, one that trails off in a way that Harvey can only assume to mean Matches has pieced it all together from the stricken look on his face alone.

Cold feet? Two-Face sneers mockingly in his mind. Harvey doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until he hears Matches speaking to him.

“Hey, it happens to the best of us, it’s no big deal--” Matches is saying, oddly calm about it all.

“No,” Harvey grits out, eyes squeezing tight, deliberate against the opposing forces within him. His fists remain in a white-knuckled grip in the lapels of Matches’ jacket, and it sounds as though he’s trying to convince himself as fervently as he is Matches. “I want this. I want this. It’s not His choice, it’s mine…”

“Hey,” he hears Matches speak, so much softer than Harvey expected to ever hear, so much softer than what Harvey expected out of what he’d only intended to be a quick fuck. Harvey looks up, lips curling into a snarl that wilts just as quickly when confronted with the naked sympathy on Matches face. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, Matches is Bruce but he’s not supposed to be Bruce. They still have their roles to play, they still have this illusion to safely give both of them the benefit of the doubt, and Harvey knows he stands no chance if Matches chooses to abandon the act in this moment, barely managing to hold it together as it is. Matches’ hands are resting at Harvey’s hips, featherlight. He slowly brings one up to touch tentatively along the disfigured side Harvey’s face, tracing the gnarled path of a scar that travels the length of his jaw. Harvey doesn’t stop him, and doesn’t have the heart to admit that he can’t feel much more than the ever-present tingling numbness of nerves burnt away to nothing. He pretends he can, and leans into the touch just slightly before he can stop himself. “It ain’t a problem,” Matches continues, still soft but still unmistakably Matches. The illusion remains in place. “Just keep telling me what you want.”

Harvey is quiet. He considers what it is, exactly, he wants. He pulls himself close to Matches again, close enough that their foreheads touch, uncharacteristically gentle; he dares to inhale, and the stench of cologne burns his nostrils. “I just want tonight,” he says, hushed, and pulls Matches into a crushing kiss.

They stumble their way to the bedroom.

Suit jackets and ties are abandoned carelessly on the floor, shoes and socks left behind and forgotten somewhere along the way. They’d started tearing at the buttons at each other’s shirts when the back of Matches’ legs hit the bed frame and he falls back against the mattress, staring up at Harvey with wide eyes and cheeks flushed.

Harvey is on him in an instant. Matches’ shirt is done away with, but Harvey spares no attention to all that’s revealed there, to the skin littered with scars of its own that no one mobster ought to have. To the scars Harvey knows he’s put there himself. He can’t afford to stop, to think. He can’t risk having second thoughts. He can’t give Two-Face even the smallest opportunity to present himself. Harvey wants nothing more than to take his time, to drink in the sight before him and feel-- but this is his one and only chance, one he can’t afford to lose now that he’s gotten so far.

Matches kicks off his pants and briefs on his own accord, a miraculous feat in and of itself given how fervently he’s taken to kissing Harvey with single-minded intensity, a hand fisting itself in Harvey’s hair and pulling. Harvey can do nothing but succumb until he’s forced to break for air. He shoves Matches further up the bed and straightens, steadily keeping Matches’ heated gaze as he disrobes completely, two-toned dress shirt sliding off his shoulders, pants shoved off and away. Harvey’s hears Matches’ breath catch, faced with a sight known to nobody but the Arkham doctors and Harvey himself.

The acid had left its mark across much of the upper left half of Harvey’s body, splitting his face near perfectly in half as a matter of cruel chance. The scars, initially, hadn’t extended much farther than his shoulder, perhaps a ways down his arm. Subsequent bouts of self-harm and general neglect for the half of himself now permanently etched in his psyche as other had spread them across the entirety of that side of his body. Physical proof of the hold Two-Face gleefully had over him. Harvey’s greatest shame, and here he was willingly presenting himself for the sake of a selfish pursuit of a memory.

Matches doesn’t react. Harvey doesn’t expect him to. His eyes travel slowly up and down Harvey’s body, methodically taking it all in, before looking back up at him. His expression is unreadable, that nearly perfect mask of Matches threatening to slip for a split-second. The moment passes just as quickly, the mask neatly back in place as though nothing had happened at all. Matches grins, indulgent and suave. “Wow,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded as his gaze travels back down, settling very obviously on Harvey’s cock, prominent and hard between his legs. “Look at you.”

It’s all the incentive Harvey needs.

He climbs up the bed to meet Matches, swallowing his satisfied hum with an aggressive and heated kiss. Matches gasps into it, clutching at Harvey with renewed fervor, nails digging in and leaving behind tracks of red lines as they scored along his back. Their hips roll together, cocks brushing with an electrifying intensity, gasping into each other’s mouths with each drag of flesh against flesh. Harvey keeps going. Incessant, demanding. The fear that he could lose this, even now, crawls along his spine like a prowling spider. He can feel Two-Face waiting, sneering, calling him weak-- Harvey ignores it all, as steadfastly as he is able to, and focuses instead on the high keening sound he’s able to elicit from Matches as his teeth skirt along the strong column of his throat in a string of biting kisses.

“B-Boss--” Matches gasps sharply, arching as Harvey bites along his collarbone. It’s the first real word he’s said since the start of all this; the accent must to be difficult to keep up under duress.

“Don’t call me that,” Harvey growls. “Not here.”

Matches obliges by saying nothing at all, gnawing at an already red and kiss-bitten lip to stifle a moan. Harvey thinks he should be glad for that. He swallows whatever emotions he may have, only to have them lodge painfully in his throat, a lump he can’t quite work past. It soon enough forces him into silence, too, until the only sounds between them remain their shared gasps of pleasure, sharp and loud in the quiet of the room.

Illusions on top of illusions. Harvey, pretending like this man who is Bruce and isn’t Bruce at the same time is a worthy enough substitute for the real thing, like Harvey pretending his skin doesn’t burn or itch, pretending he can feel Matches’ nails dragging down his back just as fiercely across both sides. And Matches-- no doubt Matches was pretending, too. Had to be. He couldn’t possibly have wanted this with Harvey as he is now, with Two-Face.

Harvey rocks his hips down harder, chasing that sweet friction, Matches’ cock sliding against his, and Matches thrusts up eagerly to meet him. It’s fast becoming too much, too fast.

Matches hooks an arm around Harvey to haul him back up so that can kiss again, hard and deep and just shy of painful, and Harvey finds himself falling over the edge.

He comes with a shuddering, strangled noise, clutching with a desperation at the body beneath him, gasping into his mouth. It’s enough to send Matches following right after him, holding tightly to Harvey, whispering something hushed and indistinguishable into his ears as they ride through it together.

They come down slowly, relaxing by degrees. They’re still holding each other close, the air hot between them, panting as they fought to catch their breath.

It would be easy, Harvey thinks, to just-- let his eyes slide closed. He can already feel the temptation, the late hour combined with the bone-deep exhaustion that accompanied what they’d just done. He never trusted anyone to take to bed, could hardly trust anyone to sleep in the same building as him. Pretend he wasn’t who he really was, pretend Matches was exactly who he really was, and-- just. Sleep.

Harvey rolls off to the side, but keeps his good arm slung loosely across Matches’ bare, sweat-dampened chest; an illusion, is all it was, and a poor attempt to keep it up. Matches remained on his back, chest still heaving slightly with his labored breathing, eyes closed but still aware of his surroundings. Harvey expects him to get, to leave, to make his excuses-- something Harvey himself should be doing, to keep up the act, to stick to the plan he already knows he’s long given up on.

The minutes stretch on, their breathing gradually calms, and neither of them move. A hand slides up, cautious, and intertwines Matches’ fingers with Harvey’s, warm and present. Something aches in Harvey’s chest.

--------------------------------------------------

It’s morning, and the air is heavy with things unsaid. For once, Two-Face is quiet, and Harvey is left alone with his own thoughts for possibly the first time in months. Matches is dressing himself by the far side of the room, his movements stiff and forcibly casual, clothes rumpled and wrinkled from a night spent in disarray on the floor. Harvey watches him from he’s still reclined on the bed, nothing but a sheet keeping him decent, regarding Matches pensively in between deep drags of his cigar. Matches studiously and dutifully avoids eye contact all the while.

When Matches finally pulls on his jacket, looking at himself in the mirror and trying and failing to smooth it down with quick, perfunctory movements, Harvey breathes out with a slow sigh, the sickly-sweet scent of tobacco smoke curling around him in ephemeral whisps.

“I wish things could have been different, sometimes,” Harvey says, catching Matches’ eyes in his reflection of the mirror.

Matches freezes, entire body going painfully tense until Harvey takes pity on him and looks away, taking another long drag of the cigar and tapping away into an ashtray to his side. Silence settles over the two of them once more, and Harvey finds himself resignedly content with it.  Matches isn’t Bruce, not really, and that’s fine. Harvey has no desire to ruin the illusion for either of them, but it’s the closest he’s ever permitted himself to come to letting on that he knows.

Matches lingers, staring at himself in the mirror, jaw fixed and tight, those large and ever-atrocious sunglasses masking the rest of his expression as effectively as Batman’s scowling cowl.

“So do I,” comes the delayed response some moments later, so quiet that Harvey very nearly misses it.

By the time Harvey looks up, Matches is already on his way out, door closing behind him. The oppressive silence remains. Harvey lets his eyes slide shut with another, ragged sigh, and allows himself to wonder if things being different would have even changed anything at all.