CONTINUED FROM HERE, @ofcoinflips
oswald cobblepot had been dodging his calls lately. man should be under investigation for about a thousand different crimes ranging from illegal firearm possession, to blackmail, to tax evasion, to coldblooded murder. and, as much as harvey believed in doing things by the book, he also knew when to recognise that the system was rigged against him. half the office he was currently working with was bought over by the mob and everyone with two working brain cells could tell. corruption kept gotham city from freeing itself from the shackles of vigilantism ; his home shouldn't have to rely on a couple of gymnasts in fetish gear to feel safe. but only masked weirdos seemed worthy of his trust --- how was he supposed to tell which cops were righteous and which ones were waiting to dump him in the river?
[ COUPL'A BAD APPLES SPOIL THE BUNCH , BETTER START DIGGIN' A BIG OL' HOLE HARVEY 'N' DUMP ALL 'EM FUCKIN' APPLES SIX FEET UNDER . BECOMIN' WORM FOOD'S THE BEST PUBLIC SERVICE A COPPER CAN EVER DO ANYWAYS ]
he shook his head. the iceberg's lights were making him dizzy. harvey sunk his hand into his pants' pocket. the coin was still there. the gravely voice inside his head would quiet down --- for now. as he walked through the club, he did his best to stay alert. mismatched eyes scanned every face he could. but when he didn't manage to find cobblepot amongst the crowd, he decided to try and slip into one of the back rooms. it wasn't hard keeping his head in the game. but that didn't mean harvey did not notice the group of dancers brushing past him. some did a double take, others waggled their fingers at him --- they must have recognised him from the campaign posters. it wasn't lost on him that this might be a bad look --- a man running for gotham's district attorney, hanging out at the iceberg lounge? not good press. which was why it was so important for him to get his hands on oswald ; that was the only reward worthy of staining his impeccable reputation for. or so he thought until his gaze met hers ; those eyes glistened like a pair of damn sapphires. even in the dimness of the lounge, every bit of light seemed to reflect off of her. bright blond hair, full-lips and a look of surprise which immediately tugged at the corners of dent's lips; she must have known who he was too. before harvey could put everything on the line and introduce himself, a pair of slim fingers hooked themselves on his belt loops and tugged him closer to the dressing room door. well, he liked to think of himself as charming, but this was a whole other level of forwardness. "you know, when i'm campaigning people usually go for handshakes," dent joked, offering the young woman a dimpled smile. "but i guess folks down at the iceberg do things a bit differently." he did his best to keep his hands down where she could see them.
AND IF HE THINKS ALL THE LIGHT REFLECTS OFF OF HER, THAN DOVE BELIEVES THAT'S BECAUSE IT'S EMANATING OUT OF HIM. ⸺ you have to understand, the girl believes in the cause. she knows that in the eventual resection of gotham's ailments, some tumours will be found inoperable, the same way that she knows district attorney harvey dent is just a man, and therefore can only ever be a percentage of what is promised. a knight ⸺ even a white one ⸺ is still just a man in armour, and therefore as pink as the rest of them on the inside. it's only the saint that arrives to the battle naked, and harvey arrives definitively to each public appearance in a well-tailored blue suit. still, she believes in the crusade. in good's eternal struggle ⸺ and inevitable triumph ⸺ over evil. she believes, as the posters implore, in harvey dent.
it makes a very pretty picture, even if one that nobody is meant to see: the way she grabs for him urgency, how in the sudden motion white silk froths around her ankles, spills over his dress shoes. the gossip rags would love it, as would most well-meaning artists. he's handsome. she's well-lit. and in harvey's defense, she is flashing those eyes like a damn pair of wet gemstones.
"is that so?" her voice is slow, and more importantly, soft. it's an old trick, speaking low so as to make the listener lean forward, and no less worn out for it. launched into the fray like this, she is separated from sainthood by only the width of a millimeter, which is another way to say she is wearing very little, kept from nakedness by only the appreciative silk of a pale dressing gown. "and to think, this is how attorney general shaw taught me to shake."
this is either a very clever joke or a very apt anecdote. shaw, ousted five years ago now, left his position in well-known scandal; her expression makes no concession as to which side her response lays its head, but dove's attention is on keeping harvey's. on screwing his eyes firm to her face so that he won't turn and look over his shoulder.
"but we do adhere to... some social convention down here, mr. dent," an incongruous thing, to address a man formally when you've got your hands curled up on either side of his fly. dove's eyes turn down, her fingers unspooling and resewing, light, on the edges of his jacket. straightening the lines. "such as doors, and even rooms, which are meant for staff only."
then her gaze shifts for a moment, nervous, to the dim scene behind them. it's not the door that has her immediate fear, but the man loitering before it: oswald's right hand, close enough to seize the opportunity presented to him or smack it into the marble flooring ⸺ if he recognizes dent. this far back in the club, and the only other passersby are staff. other dancers pass by, the line of their gaze obvious under the wide fan of false eyelashes, like peeking up from beneath feathers. dove is the iceberg's headlining girl, but even under those qualifications, she's never been one to so visibly take what she wants in manicured hand. they're staring at the anomaly as much as the man. she ignores them, but she has no other choice.
"i'd hate for you to see the wrong parts of this place."
case and point: all of them.
