ersatzdivinity | It must have been the mistletoe

He reaches up to a cabinet in the kitchen to pull out a little treasure chest. He walks over and presents it to her with a flourish and a grin.

"I didn't want to put it out until we'd had dinner, but-"

There's a 'treasure' of chocolate coins inside.

"Can't play without betting money."

She's curious as she looks first at him, then at the chest, before finally reaching out and opening it. Surprise morphs into sheer childlike joy with no restraint. Harley's never been one to hold back emotionally, and there's definitely no reason to start now. Beaming, she looks up at him again, and takes both his arm and the chest with a laugh.

"Well, look at you! Aren't you practically a boy scout here, all prepared. How long have you been planning this?"

"Since Thanksgiving," which they hadn't actually spent together. But he'd decided, as he carved the turkey over at the Brownstone, that he'd want to do something special for the rest of the winter holidays.

"And I wasn't about to give you a dreidel without some gelt. Even I know better than to do that."

"Huh. Well, aren't you full of surprises," she muses, looking up at him as she takes the chest in her arms, cradling it. "Like every time I turn around, there you are, doing something sweet again. God." A shake of her head.

"Alright, let's go get settled in. Hey, why'd you have to learn Hebrew in the first place? A work thing, or...?"

He pulls the the chair he usually sits in over towards her little alcove with a shrug before settling in to play with her. He shrugs again in answer to the question about Hebrew.

"I was under Wes at the time, and he always wanted to have a full understanding of a subject. And the only real texts were in Hebrew so... I learned.

"It's a little rusty but I remember a decent amount of it."

"Well, let's see what I remember," she says, sliding into her chair and drawing her legs up to fold them under her. It's one of the reasons she's partial to this chair. Why sit uncomfortably when you can curl up, or sit cross-legged, or drape your legs over an arm, or just hang upside down, honestly. Picking up the dreidel, she turns it in her fingers. "My mother wasn't real big on cultural heritage, as it were. Did the bat mitzvah mostly because Granny wanted it. I just never really kept up after."

Spinning the stem between her fingers, she shows him each of four sides in turn. "Nun, Gimel, He, Shin," she recites, the Brooklyn in her voice accenting the words more than ever. "Stands for "Nes Gadol Hayah Sham. A great miracle happened there." Her pronounciation isn't the best, the words a little stilted, but that's to be expected when she hasn't said them in at least a decade. "First things first. We each take coins. Can't play without something to bet, right?" Reaching into the chest, she starts divvying a pile for each of them.

"So, you do a lot of that? Research, learning other languages?"

He carefully stacks his coins into similarly sized tiny towers before nodding.

"Yeah, it was part of being his sidekick. He wanted me to be worldly. To be aware of the world around me and how complex and fascinating it was. He never wanted me to go out and do something about it just because it was fun and exciting."

He holds up a coin thoughtfully.

"When we traveled, I sucked up whatever I could get for languages, culture. When I was home, I attacked his library like an invading army. Part of that was Wes, but part of it was me. I wanted to be the best out there. I never wanted to let him down."

He glances over at her.

"Had a bit of an ego as a kid, I won't lie. But I got over it."

"Eh, little bit of an ego's not a bad thing to have," she answers, building her own stack of coins. "But it sounds like you had a pretty good life. Like Wes was a pretty great friend." She doesn't say dad, because for some people those words are more difficult. Parents are difficult. But it's important to have somebody in your life. Otherwise...well, she's seen how they turn out. She's lived it.

"You did a lot of traveling? I've never been outside the country. Always wanted to go to Paris. Cliche, maybe, but I always thought it was beautiful." She clears a space in the middle of the table, setting the dreidel point-down. "Ready?"

Well, now I know what to get you for your birthday. Two tickets to Paris, so she could bring Pamela with her if she liked. He'd have to make sure that they weren't on some sort of no-fly list, considering Pamela's extreme political positions.

"Wes did a lot of traveling, and we did a lot of traveling for the mission," he says with a shrug as he tips his chin towards the dreidel. Go ahead.

He'll talk while it spins.

"Then, after I got out of the cage, I did some traveling with him, some on my own."

"Where's your favorite place you've been?"

It's the kind of gift she'd refuse, if she knew. She isn't friends with him because he's got lots of money and a fancy house. She's friends with him because he's never once talked about her like he knows her, never mentioned who she was for those endless years of her life. Because he does things like this for her, Hanukkah even though they've only been friends for a short time. Because he didn't turn her away that first night, even though he could have. He's a good guy, Sandy.

Although he'd probably be a good tour guide if one did decide to do some traveling.

"First, we each put one coin in the pot. Beginning of every turn. Then..." Placing a coin from her stack in the center of the table, her fingers spin the dreidel, watching as it whirls. Eventually, it lands on Nun. "And that means I don't put any more in, but I don't take any out, either." Palm up, she offers the dreidel in her hand to him.

It's the kind of gift he'd give her because she said she wanted it, and she asked for so little. And if he can make her happy, he'd really like to.

He nods as he takes the dreidel, puts the stem between his fingers, and puts it to the table. Then it's spinning.

"Favorite place?" He shrugs. "I'm a hometown boy. The brownstone is probably my favorite place in the world. Even if they did have to rebuild it after everything."

Brightest day, blackest night, biggest construction costs. Ugh.

"Really? Huh. Woulda thought somewhere far-off and exotic. But, yanno, no place like home. That where ya spent Thanksgiving?"

Her elbows propped on the table, she watches him as much as she does the dreidel. It's weird, doing this kind of thing with someone. Someone who actually looks like they're enjoying themselves. It's not much to some people, maybe, but to her, it's everything.

"Yeah, we do Thanksgiving every year, with the JL when they can swing it too," he explains easily enough as the dreidel drops onto shin.

"That's the one where I put the coin in?"

He'd looked it up but he'd been arranging a few things at the time. It hadn't quite stuck.

"You got it. 'Shin, shin, put one in.' Some places it's three instead, but that's better for more players, I think. Or else the game's over too fast." And what's the fun in that? She's enjoying this. Another coin goes in the middle, she spins her next turn.

"It's nice you guys got a tradition. It's good, spending holidays with friends and family." Good for him, too, getting out of the house, being around people. He could do with more of that, and she makes a note to invite him out again, maybe next week. The dreidel topples, lands on Shin for her, too. She makes a face at it, wrinkling her nose as she drops another coin in. "My luck ain't much today, I guess. You spending Christmas up there, too?"

"I was invited but I'll have to see how I'm feeling," he admits with a shrug. "Unfortunately, Christmas tends to... well, it's a busy season for me. Sometimes I'm feeling up to it, sometimes I'm not."

And sometimes it hurt too much seeing everyone together for a second time in as many months. There's a lot of reasons he stays away. Some of them are selfish.

"And maybe your luck is just building up the pot. Wouldn't do to hit it big with only a single coin in there."

"Busy as in League kinda busy?" She could see that. Holidays make everyone a little crazy. She remembers that first Christmas, during everything. It's still vivid, even if sometimes she maybe wishes it weren't. But then, she's always been a sucker for the holidays. Even if they aren't always how you remember them being.

"Let's hope. But I think you might be more optimistic about my luck than me, these days." There's at least a smile that goes along with the words. She isn't bitter. Things just are what they are.

"More like murder busy," he says with a sigh and a rub to one temple. "Pressures are high, more people are out unexpectedly...

"It's not a huge uptick, but it's enough that I have to work faster."

He takes the little dreidel, spins it, and frowns as he get to do nothing. Then it's passed back.

"Work faster--to stop them?" It's a dumb question, maybe, but she hasn't yet connected the dots. But then, he did mention nightmares, that first night, she thinks, even if the recollection is a little hazy and colored by the strangeness of the situation and the lateness of that hour. Her fingers pick up the dreidel, turn it briefly between them before she sets it to spinning. "Because of your dreams. You know--I don't think you ever said what you do. 'Sides being made of sand." Which she's still not exactly sure about--after all, he hadn't felt like sand when she kissed him, earlier.

The dreidel lands on He, and she perks up a touch, collecting half of the twelve coins in the center pot so far. "Hey, there we go! Dreidel lands on He, you take half the pot. Not shabby."

"You mean for a job? Or the thing with the dreams?"

He watches her collect her winnings, bows his head in acknowledgement of her success, and spins the dreidel for himself.

"Job-wise, technically I'm the main bankroller for the JSA, I maintain the assets Wesley left me, and I curate and maintain the JSA museum in the lower levels of the brownstone. I'm also a legally licensed private detective. Most of my real 'work' is in that area."

His eyes stay on the dreidel. It's easier.

"The dreams are given to me by the Lord of the Dreamlands. Wes used to talk about it when I was younger, when he had them. Honestly, I never expected to get them myself. I thought they were just his thing. But I started getting them after he died."

He looks up then.

"When I'm unconscious, my mind connects with all sorts of deviants, psychopaths, sadists. See what they see, feel what they feel, think their thoughts." There's a brittleness to his expression as he talks about it, because it's... it's not pleasant. "When I wake up, I get to try and piece those things together, find out where they are, what they're doing. When I'm lucky, I get to try and prevent terrible things from happening. Stop them. When I'm not, I get justice for the dead."

Okay, so he's an accountant, and a librarian, sort of, for the JSA. That's--fine. Respectable. And so is being a PI, really. Lost things found, cheatin' husbands caught. No shame in that, and no harm, either. Hell, you'd make a killing in Gotham, long as you keep an eye on the local crime and stay on your toes. She isn't worried about any of that. That's not why she's frozen, eyes fixed on him as he talks. That's not why there's surprise on her face, shock as she assembles all the words, lets them process.

The idea of connecting with deviants and psychopaths isn't a shocking one. After all, she is a trained and educated psychiatrist, when all is said and done. In order to help patients, you have to connect with patients, and that means a certain amount of empathy, of understanding if not condoning, no matter how horrible the actions. But that same empathy is what had gotten her in so much trouble in the first place. She'd connected too well, understood too much. She'd let her emotions get in the way of what was reasonable, what was right, what was safe, sane, and consensual. You'd think that would mean she keeps her walls higher, now, that it makes her more guarded and less likely to let herself make those connections again--but you'd be wrong. Despite everything, she still feels everything strongly, and that's why when the tears well in her eyes, she doesn't try and stop them. The dreidel is forgotten.

"Every night? Every time you're unconscious?"

It's just so--unfair. Here he is, such a nice guy, so kind and considerate and well-intentioned, just a real good guy all around, and every night--every night he has to have that in his mind? God. He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve any of that. And despite it, despite having that in his head, he's still like this? She knows better than most that life isn't fair, that it'll kick you in the ass while you're down just as easy as blinkin, but this--this isn't fair. Her heart breaks a little more the more she thinks about it.

He's not looking at her, his eyes distant as he answers her question for the moment.

"Pretty much. I get a break usually, after I solve a case. Maybe a night or two where I don't dream at all. But-"

And he stops because that's when he looks at her, that's when he sees the tears welling up in her eyes, sees... dammit, she's worried for him. That's not at all what he wanted. He leans in a little, tries to catch her eyes, gives her what he hopes is a comforting sort of smile.

"Hey, hey, it's... it's bad. I won't say it's not bad." The only person he's ever lied to about this is Wes, and that was... extenuating circumstances. "But it means I can stop more of them, catch them, saves people from the kind of stuff I see. And that's a good thing. If the only person it happens to is me when I'm asleep..."

He shakes his head.

"I'll take that deal. Every time."

It's not hard to catch her eyes. They're just--watery, that's all, brimming with tears that spill unheeded down her cheeks, as she watches him. It isn't just that she's worried, though that's part of it--the human mind can only take so much before it starts to give, first in little ways, then in bigger ones. The psyche can be the most fragile part of all of us, she knows. There's a selfish part of her that wants to ask about sleeping pills, ask if he's considered pharmaceuticals to put him in a sleep so deep he can't dream, or can't remember it--but no, he'd never do that. Hell, tights and capes aside, he's still one of those hero types. Just listen to him. Putting them, complete strangers, ahead of him. His own well-being, his own mental health, his own--everything. He's just so damn good. What the hell is she even doing here, with someone this good?

But--that's another thing, the thing that has her leaning forward, too, hands clasped in front of her. "Your friends. The JSA. They know about this?" Do they know about the dreams? And if they know, if they know at all, why do they leave him alone like this? Why do they let him just--say he's fine, and not push? Maybe that's why she's here. How could she just pretend all that's fine, when she knows damn well how much it's not? She's never been able to not push. She's never been able to not be loyal.

He has. There are bad times when he's tried everything under the sun. He doesn't know if it's because he's made of sand or because (more likely) the dreams come from the Lord of the Dreamlands, a power greater than any pill or draught. There's only been one being that had been able to overrule that, Gog, and the price he'd paid was to be in a perpetual coma. He'd gotten a dream of flying... but the price had been far too high.

He looks surprised at the question, though.

"Yeah. Of course. They knew about Wesley's dreams too. Alan threw a bit of a stink about it but the dreams are important. They can warn everyone about threats to come." He winces a little. "Unfortunately, some of those psychopaths think bigger than others. And anything related to Johnny Sorrow usually goes across my radar first."

You'll excuse him a shudder there. There's history.

The surprise on his face, how matter-of-fact he sounds about the whole thing is what brings her back, what turns sorrow and empathy and a heart full of sympathetic pain into outrage. Oh, sure, the heartache is still there, and so is her empathy, but the sudden warmth of anger adds a furious glow to those bright blue eyes. So they know. They know, and--

"And that's just--okay with them? They just leave you here alone??"

The pitch of her voice rises, accent all soft consonants and harsh vowels. They know, and they just say, well, as long as we know about what the bad guys are up to...well, she sure as hell ain't gonna let that stand. Nevermind if he thinks he's fine. Nevermind if he says it, they're his friends, for Christ's sake, they should know better.

"No," he says quietly, his eyes dropping down, "they don't. Karen calls pretty constantly. Ted... we have a standing movie day, though it's gotten crashed the last three times so we might have to change theatres."

He shakes his head, as if to emphasize the point.

"They don't stick me in a corner and ask me for answers, Harley," because that's just... no. That's not how this works. "But my work isn't... it isn't what they do, most of the time. It's stake outs and research nights and long coffee breaks trying to remember where I've seen something. My hours are all over the place and my cases can take me anywhere. It's not easy to be my friend, and I'm not going to ask anyone to deal with... everything I have to deal with anymore than they choose to."

He spreads his hands towards the door, towards the outside world.

"Most of them have lives, families, significant others. I'm no one's babysitting assignment, and I shouldn't be. I'm not fourteen anymore."

It must have been the mistletoe

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