ersatzdivinity | It must have been the mistletoe

It's a nice little gesture. Very Sandy, as she's coming to learn, which goes a long way towards restoring normalcy. Is this really normal these days? If it is, it's definitely a normal she could get used to as she grins up at him before filling her own plate. She isn't shy about eating. Why would she be?

"Thanks. You know, don't think I ever knew there was more than one'a them? I mean, we don't get many heroes in this town besides Bats and the family. He's got kind of a thing going in Gotham, I guess. Don't know how your side of things divvies up territory or what. I've only seen the big guy around here maybe once or twice." Which is probably for the best, considering. And anyway, she's out of that life, now.

"I've worked with Batman before. He's pretty professional." He scratches behind on ear. "Didn't have much problem with me. Wasn't too pleased with Geo-Force that time, but the guy's-"

He pauses in a distinct attempt to be polite.

"-difficult to work with and he certainly doesn't forget that he's royalty. All the same, it's really just a matter of specialty with Gotham, I think."

He eats a few bites before continuing.

"Like working on a patient with a lot of separate but intersecting diagnoses. You don't want someone unfamiliar with the chart taking a knife to them. Best for everyone."

"You think Batman's like--a doctor, for Gotham?" She gestures with a samosa. "I dunno. I always figured he was as much a symptom as the rest of us. The rest'a them." The correction is hasty and second nature at this point, though she's not offended or anything, just thoughtful. Popping the samosa in her mouth, she chews and swallows before continuing. "You know, if he ain't as much a patient himself. Don't get me wrong, guy didn't have to give me as many chances as he did, but you don't do what he does how he does it without needin' a little help. But I guess we all got our things, don't we?"

"You say that like doctors don't get sick. Or aren't just as much in danger of catching what their patient has as anyone else," he says as he works through some of his rice. "And he's definitely not the only one on this side of the line with mental illness to go around.

"Starman never really entirely recovered from being part of the team that made the atom bomb. Johnny Thunder went to his grave not entirely there in the head. Everyone knows about Hourman's issues, that whole mess with Sentinel's wife..."

He takes a sip of his drink.

"There's something a little crazy in anyone who does what we do. I guess in the long run, it doesn't seem so far off from the rest of us."

Another couple of bites before he speaks again.

She listens, and the little laugh that escapes is more than a little self-deprecating. "You're right. I mean, god, I'm walkin' proof'a that, ain't I?" No bitterness in it, not anymore. She knows what she is, what she did. Past tense. It isn't her life, anymore. Never mind that little adventure from a couple months back. "Guess we all gotta be a little bit crazy, to put on the capes and tights and go out there to do whatever we do." This time, she doesn't bother with the correction. Funnily enough, she doesn't feel like she has to. Not with him. She can just sit here, and eat, and know he isn't gonna expect her to just...lose it.

Sand, despite being a damned realist, always tries to treat people like the best version of themselves. Always expects the best out of people who he deals with on a personal level. It's gotten him burned more than once, but he doesn't know any other way to be.

"Pretty much. I mean, I chose this."

He takes another bite.

"I mean, I was 14 at the time, but I still looked at what Wes was doing and said 'that's the life for me'."

"Fourteen? That's so young." And yet, somehow she's not entirely surprised. "You don't see that many kids in this stuff. Robin, god, I remember the first time I saw him. Thought he was just a real short guy, until I heard him talk. I remember thinkin', 'god, what's this kid doing out here? He's gonna get himself killed, he can't know better.' But, y'know, fourteen, fifteen, I already had friends runnin' away from home, friends gettin' knocked up--kids know a lot more about the world than most people give 'em credit for. Says a lot about kids like you and Nightwing, you chose to do somethin' like this, I think." To help people. To do good things. Maybe they're all a little crazy, but a little crazy ain't necessarily a bad thing.

Finishing the last of her plate, she leans back, contemplating the containers. "You ever regret it?" It's a personal question, maybe, he can not answer it, but she can't help asking.

His eyes are on his plate as he considers the question.

"You know why there wasn't anybody before Robin?"

He slings a thumb at himself.

"After what happened to me, Sentinel mostly, but the others too, they put their foot down. Didn't want anyone that young involved in things again."

He shakes his head as he finishes the last couple of bites.

"I don't regret it. Even after everything that happened. It was the world's greatest internship with one of the best men to ever live. Wes was the father I never had.

"I can't regret that."

She nods at the words, silent for a moment as she watches him. There's sympathy on her face, in her voice; not the professional kind, but the personal. After all, they're friends, aren't they? They're friends, and she knows what grief sounds like when she hears it. After a moment, she lays her hand on the table between them, palm up.

"Hey. You know, you ever wanna talk about it--you know, just, whatever--I'm a pretty good listener. Not as a shrink, you know, just--a friend." She offers a smile with the words, something small but warm.

It's not often that he won't meet her eyes. Here, he's having trouble with it.

"Not much to talk about. Fifty years in the dark. Trapped in a body I couldn't move. I mean... it wasn't great. But it could have been worse."

He puts his fork down and looks over at her, finally.

"It's the past."

It's not hard to read between the words. Hell, there's stuff that she doesn't talk about. Won't, can't. Things that haunt her dreams, and not always in the way you might expect. But that just means she doesn't push. Instead, just looks at him for a moment, unblinking, then nods.

"You're right. And we're in the present. Future's gettin' closer every day." She won't think about how the idea of him being alone in the dark for fifty years makes her feel, makes her want to pull him in close and not let go. So instead: "So--what do you say? Some drinks, maybe a fire, listen to some carols? 'Tis the season, right?"

"After you teach me how the dreidel works," he says as he starts cleaning up their dishes.

"I know what the symbols on the sides mean, since I had to learn Hebrew a few years back, but I don't know what they mean in this context."

He takes care of the dishes, she cleans the trash from the table. It's the least she can do. "You're already one step ahead of me," she says, following him into the kitchen. "I knew a little--enough to get me through my bat mitzvah, but barely. I don't really got a knack for other languages. But I can teach you how to play the dreidel game, sure. We used to play with chocolate coins, when I was a kid. You can play with whatever. Pennies, pieces of paper--hell, there's drinking games for dreidel, too. I played my share in college."

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.

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