maskormenacelogs | walking beside the guilty and the innocent

This time, as opposed to last time, Matt doesn't jerk away. Now that he understands what Harvey is trying to do. That doesn't mean he's comfortable with it- he gets the feeling he shouldn't (don't encourage him)- but there's that element of disbelief, of curiosity, that allows it to happen anyway.

It would be hard to express why he doesn't usually do this; he's given up thinking in terms of sight, of color and pattern. Matt knows what things are; surface details are unimportant. He's never needed to touch someone's face to gauge whether or not they're attractive. But, if you happened to care about that, then it would be easy to understand how devastating it would be to have acid thrown in Harvey Dent's face.

"Can you?"

Matt can't allow himself to explore freely. This is too intimate as it stands. But in the end, Harvey got what he wanted.

"A little bit," he admits, since he can't claim full sensation. "It's not good as new, but it looks like it. Good enough for most people."

Harvey doesn't let go of Matt's hand yet, drawing it up the left side of his face from the chin to the hairline. Some of the skin is rougher than other parts, some of it quite smooth, and even his hair -- the lock of it that falls over his forehead -- feels soft and lush rather than brittle, or dead. It could certainly be more intimate; Harvey doesn't draw Matt's fingers over his lips, for instance.

"What do you think?"

"It feels right..."

Awkward as Harvey's prompting is, it does allow him a more thorough examination. It's amazing. If he didn't know it wasn't supposed to be like this, he's not sure he'd be able to tell, even if he's never been intimately familiar with the structure and feel of Harvey's face, before. And to forestall further guidance he presses his hand flat, definitively, palm against cheek and fingers brushing at hair- and it feels fine.

"I think..." Matt chooses his words very carefully, his face subtly turning, so that if he could still see, he'd be looking right into Harvey's face. "If this is what you want...if you're happy...then I'm happy for you, of course."

It feels right. Harvey's mind goes pleasantly numb hearing that, filled with what feels like static white noise rather than thoughts. Just existing, not thinking. He opens his mouth to speak, then second-guesses the impulse and closes it.

"It's supposed to," he says roughly after a minute, looking at Matt with eyebrows drawn close over his eyes. Saying it he's not sure it was what he wanted to say, but much like his face, it feels like the right thing all the same. "I'm taking the Bar Exam."

The layers of meaning pile up. Matt meant his face; what does Harvey mean? That it's supposed to feel- what Matt supposes Harvey would call normal- or that it's supposed to make him happy (and the implication that it doesn't?) This is always the problem with Harvey Dent. He talks, and Matt hears, but he doesn't know how far down the rabbit hole goes.

"Are you?" Matt gently pulls his hand away from Harvey's face, hoping that Harvey won't fight the gesture. Everything about this seems like it should be a good moment, and yet, something about it makes him wary for reasons he can't define. This isn't the sort of conversation you have in the middle of night, when someone has just punched glass.

"Good."

This is good. He wants it to be a good step.

"What prompted you to do that?"

He doesn't fight it; Matt pulls away and Harvey allows it, smirking still but saying nothing as he watches Matt silently in the growing darkness of the evening. There's a dangerous, calculating look in his eyes -- both the working one and the glass one on his left side, thought that's surely just a trick of the light -- and a remarkable steadiness to his breathing for someone bleeding the way he is. There is a lot of blood, though not enough for him to be in danger of much beyond possible infection.

"Inspired," he says after a few moments. "I thought if everyone else was doing it, maybe I could, too. Why not give it a try?"

This isn't a conversation they should be having here. It's the middle of the night, and Harvey's bleeding, and they're standing here talking about career choices. The absurdity of it makes Matt distinctly uncomfortable. If only they could just get off the streets...

"Why not," he echoes, as if in agreement. But he's thinking about something else. How much to get involved, and what to do now that he is, unavoidable as it always was. "I'm sure it'll all be fine. Harvey, we shouldn't keep standing here. Come with me, we'll find a diner or something."

"Lead the way. Or I can," Harvey says, tilting his head coyly to one side. There are a few diners open at this hour as there often are even in towns like this -- most have at least one 24-hour dining establishment, even if it's crap. Harvey casts his gaze up and down the block, scoping out various possibilities.

"But can you help me out of my tie?" He adds, touching Matt's arm with his elbow as he begins to walk. "We can use it to wrap."

See, he does this thing, where he seems to just find excuses to touch Matt. And Matt is not necessarily a "must have personal space at all times" kind of guy, but there is no way to avoid drawing the conclusion that he draws, which is that Harvey really really desires physical contact with him, for whatever reason.

And yet, with the lack of other signals that point to that kind of interest, Matt isn't sure what conclusion he's meant to draw.

"When we get there," he agrees, for lack of any reason to object. "The light might make it easier for you to help me." As though they don't both know that Harvey's help is unnecessary. Or maybe Harvey doesn't know. Matt still isn't clear on that. "It's not bleeding too much now, is it?" All innocent concern.

In some ways, the physical contact is reassuring to Harvey. In other ways, he takes some power in how he can tell it makes Matt tense. He says nothing at first but "Whatever you say," as they walk, fingers lingering against Matt's arm before he withdraws them so that they're just walking side-by-side, their footsteps echoing in the quiet evening.

"It isn't so bad," he adds finally, after a few minutes pass. "It was never that deep, but I think the worst of it's over. You're a good friend, Matt."

Not for the first time, Matt wonders just how much Harvey knows about him. Everybody has made it abundantly clear that Daredevil should no longer be considered any kind of secret, and yet Harvey hasn't mentioned it once. Does he know how Matt does what he does? Is it an elaborate game, all these subtle forced touches, or does it matter at all?

"I worry about you," Matt says, quietly, because that's the truth. It doesn't matter if they're really friends- certainly he hesitates to think of Harvey as a friend. Too many missing pieces. Too much he still needs to know. But he does worry. Genuinely, honestly, with a very real concern for his well-being. "I want to be sure you're all right."

Sly is not a word normally used to describe either Harvey or Two-Face, but he is not a person without an ounce of sense or cunning. He is (was) a lawyer, and if there is anything Harvey knows his way around when he's thinking clearly, it's how to utilize information. How to wield it. Harvey is, of course, not alone in the driver's seat.

But it's always a risk, dragging secrets into the light.

"You worry about me," he repeats, laughing like he finds the sentiment unnecessary. Thoughtful, but unnecessary. He pats Matt's shoulder again, but briefly. "Then I'll volunteer as your good deed for the day. Am I allowed to worry about you?"

"I'm pretty sure some people would say that's the only sane response to me there is," he says mildly, more focused on things beyond Harvey's words. Wondering if he should call Hank, and what he should be making of all this. What does he even think there is to worry about, with Matt?

He's thinking about this a lot more than Harvey is thinking about this, probably. And already he's picking up the smell of floor wax, old stale coffee and the certain scent of people who've been up too late and in their clothes for too long. Their destination.

"Sane is just a word," Harvey says a little flippantly, pushing the door open for Matt to go in first before he follows suit, looking around for a booth or a table. Most of them are open at this hour, and the place itself is only holding a couple other people at this hour. They have their pick of the diner.

"Let's sit," he adds, indicating a booth near a window. "This fine with you?"

"It doesn't make that much difference to me, and you know it."

Which isn't true; strategically, he doesn't necessarily want to be caught sitting by the window. But it's not worth refusing, right now. Instead, he catches at Harvey's sleeve- just his sleeve, not at his arm.

"Tie?"

"Not aesthetically, but everyone has their preferences," Harvey says, moving closer to Matt so that he can grasp his tie and offer it over. Matt can find his way up to the knot from there, if he's disinclined to allow Harvey to guide his hand to it.

"Got it?" He asks, watching Matt carefully as he leans his fingers against the tabletop. The waitress eyes them curiously from behind the counter but doesn't leave her post yet, waiting for them to sit down first.

Matt can't see, but he's well aware that they're attracting attention. It's the gambling between dealing with Harvey and his moods and trying to keep all of this under wraps and under control. He makes short work of the knot, and tugs it off, reclaiming his space from across the table as soon as he can.

"Speaking of aesthetics..." he says carefully, trying to think of a more delicate way to put this. "How well did they manage it?"

Following Matt's lead, he sits and leans slightly against the tabletop, holding his hand out even though most of the blood has by now at least dried. He wipes it with a napkin, thinking he should wash his hands but reluctant to leave Matt here alone. He might just up and leave if Harvey does that.

"You can feel," he offers. "If you want to. It looks perfect. No one would know if they didn't know already."

It would be foolish to run out on Harvey. For one thing, he knows where Matt lives. He's made that clear enough. And while that's not usually enough to make Matt wary, with his reckless devotion to principles and his own emotions, it seems needlessly cruel with Harvey in this state. He's improving. He very sincerely seems to be doing a lot better, and Matt wants to encourage that. The more he does, he thinks, the less problems there will be later down the road.

Until life kicks his positive expectations in the face.

"I did feel it," he reminds Harvey gently. "But I don't know what you looked like before. I'll never know. You have to tell me how this all goes."

"Right," Harvey says, touching his own cheek briefly for his own reminder. The skin, though soft, is still a bit rough. In the end it's just a patch over irreparable damage, the ghosts of his scars still remembered in his fingertips. Visually it's perfect; physically, it's only almost perfect.

"Right, sorry. I know you don't. Even if I could show you, you wouldn't be able to see it." His hands clasp together loosely on the table. "They smoothed down the scarring to transplant unmarred flesh over it. Hair transplants, nerve transplants, a new glass eye... I'm still getting used to how the muscles move now, but I don't think it's noticeable."

Matt feels inadequate to answer this. Harvey needs help and support, and he's turned to Matt for it, but Matt doesn't know what to give or how to give it. If the subtle cues that indicated injury to him still exist, that doesn't mean everyone would see them. That doesn't mean the scars don't still exist.

"Harvey..."

Matt thinks hard about how to say this, hesitating just for a second before he reaches out to touch Harvey's arm lightly. If he doesn't want to encourage, he also can't bring himself to completely leave the other man without some kind of solidarity. He doesn't know, yet. He doesn't know a lot of things. He doesn't truly know why he shouldn't, or why he shouldn't trust this.

"Did they find you someone to talk to about...this? A doctor?" It's said as gently as he can manage. "I'm sure it's something of a shock for you. A huge change."

A doctor. The word makes Harvey tense, then scowl; he's had a revolving door of doctors throughout the years, some he drove to nervous breakdown, at least one that killed himself. An objection hesitates behind his lips, wondering how to tell Matt that there was no one who could really help him.

When Matt touches him, Harvey's hand drops slowly to to brush Matt's with his fingertips as he breathes slowly and uneasily, searching for his vocabulary.

"I have medication," he says finally, in a lower voice. "Therapy never works for me."

The second Harvey reaches back for him Matt regrets it. But this is the dichotomy of Harvey Dent, Matt's sympathy and his unease, making him second guess gestures of solidarity that he wouldn't even think of. Making him consider them entire in the first place.

And therapy never works for me is an unsettling fact that's just been dropped in his lap.

"But you're doing all right," he presses, listening less for the words and more for the cues of Harvey's body, the hesitations and the tics that give people away.

"Better," Harvey agrees with a nod as he withdraws his hand back to his own side, fingers sitting still against the tabletop. Even that is a measure of willpower; he's restless, his hands especially -- too used to having his coin ready to make decisions for him.

"I used to have a doctor who thought he was responsible for what happened to me. The things I did... and things I didn't. I won't put someone in that position again."

There's a certain irony in having this conversation with Matt Murdock, one of the city's lone wolves. Never really an Avenger, at least not long enough to do much of impact, barely a blip on the radar of his career. Team-ups, yes, but mostly on his own. Friends, but no groups, no organizations. Him and his territory. But he's always had helped, when he needed it.

"Only you can be responsible for what you do, Harvey," he says gravely. "But you should still have help, if you need it. You need to have someone to turn to who's at least semi-experienced in this."

...and a name pops into his head, and he says, with a slight edge:

"Please, if you do decide you need someone- not Dr. Sofen. Or Dr. Chilton, for that matter. Come to me if you have to and I'll help you find a doctor."

walking beside the guilty and the innocent

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