ersatzdivinity | It must have been the mistletoe

"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's not about babysitting, it's about being a good friend!" It's about recognizing when someone isn't really okay, it's about knowing when 'I'm fine' is a lie, sometimes even before the person saying it does. It's about knowing when not to take that for an answer. Okay, so she doesn't really think they just shake him like a Magic 8-Ball, but hell--they're in New York or wherever else they end up, and he's here, and phone calls and movie nights and justifications don't make up for the fact that they aren't here, and they let him separate himself like this. They let him convince himself that this is just how things are, that this is fair and right, and she just will not stand for that at all.

One hand lifts to stave off any protestations about just how good of a friend any of them might be as she continues. "I get it. I get you don't wanna get anyone else caught up in stuff they don't wanna be. You won't ask. But you shouldn't have to, and it shouldn't be about choosing to deal with the parts they don't like. Way I see it, there's only one choice you make--whether you're friends with somebody, or you're not. If you're friends, you accept 'em, warts and all. That don't mean just pretending the bad parts don't exist, or bein' too busy to deal with 'em."

She reaches out then, with both hands, reaches for his own, and if he lets her she'll take his in them, twining their fingers together and squeezing. If not, well, she'll just let that part be, because she's got something more to say.

"You and me, we've known each other, what, a little over a month now, right? Maybe two months? But you knew who I was long before that. You know all about who I was, the things I did, the things I might end up doing again, because nobody's perfect. Things happen. But the point is, Sandy--the point is, you made a choice that first night. And like hell I'm not gonna make the same one."

He won't hold himself back from her, will happily let her take his hands. He imagines there's a few people who might flinch away from her and having been on the other side of that, he'd never do it to her. He'll even squeeze back a little.

"I'm glad to hear it, Harley, I am. I..." he breathes in deep. Closes his eyes. Breathes out. "I'm happy when you come by. I don't know what it is but... it's not as hard, spending time with you, talking to you. I don't feel like I have to be, well, anything with you. Just myself."

He grins a little.

"Oddly enough, you seem to like it."

He glances at the door again though.

"I keep them away, Harley. Me. I distanced myself because a lot of the time, I just... I can't. Some people say that dealing with Superman or Batman or Wonder Woman is stressful because as neat as it is, those are still their heroes.

"I'm lucky enough I get to work with mine. All of 'em, the old ones and the new. But it's not always easy for me outside of a professional context."

"Of course I like it, you goon, I like you>. I like bein' here. Hell, just bein' yourself--you're a better man than any of the other ones I ever met. And me--well, you better just get used to me bein' around, cause I don't do distance," she tells him, and despite the tears still drying on her cheeks, she's smiling at him. Maybe the rest of those friends of his let him distance himself, and maybe he just says all that's fine. She still doesn't think so, and in her opinion, they're pretty shitty friends if they just accept that, but nobody's askin her. "I'm just--glad I can help make you smile." And she is. She really is. There aren't a lot of people out there who are happy to see her, to know her. Knowing he does--well, it means a lot to her, too.

"You always manage that," he assures her before reaching over and picking up the dreidel again. He wiggles it a little, and there's a definite attempt to keep her smiling as he puts it to the table.

"Mind if we play a little until I've got some chocolate winnings too?"

He won't address him and his being a better man. In his estimation, he's not half the man Wesley or any of the others were. He couldn't lead, like Carter or Alan. He wasn't good at being a confidant like Pieter was. He never could quite pull off panache likd Dinah or Jack or Ted. And he definitely couldn't raise spirits half as well as Karen or Jay. Michael was an organizer and his tech skills were unmatched. Courtney, for all her youth, was shaping up to be another leader, and Jesse had a soft touch he wished he could manage. And with all the things that Rick had dealt with, he was a hero just for being there.

He wasn't anything special. He was a freak with a talent, more blood on his hands than most people knew, and more money than he knew what to do with most times. He was convenient. Except, maybe to Harley. That raised his spirits a little.

She knows it isn't over. Not that easy. Not that he doesn't believe her, but it takes a hell of a lot more than one voiced opinion to change a lifetime of thinking a certain way. But he's smiling at her, and she thinks, I can make that happen, at least, and it's something. It's enough. Not forever, but for now. He is special. Freak or not, blood on his hands or not--they've all got that, hell, she's both in spades--he's special. He means something. And that's why she smiles back, why she finally wipes the tears away and sits back up, offering a slightly shaky laugh.

"Yeah, I guess I could manage that. You know, you could probably convince me to share, if you tried hard enough. Ask real nice, you know how it goes."

"I could," he says thoughtfully, or perhaps closer to 'mock' thoughtfully, before giving her a lopsided smile and shrugging. "I guess I just figure a lady's entitled to her winnings. Now, if she decides to take pity on a poor loser..."

"A lady might, if the gentleman in question got her a drink," she answers, in that same mock-thoughtful tone, the benevolent lady bestowing a favor upon a supplicant. It's impossible to not follow it up with a grin of her own, though, eyes bright once more.

He tilts his head towards the kitchen, a room she's been welcome to since she first came in. But for now, since he's hosting-

"Eggnog, hot chocolate, coffee, tea... and any of those can come out with a kick."

She does feel comfortable in his house. It isn't shyness--no one would ever accuse Harley of being shy--but it's fun. Part of the teasing, and also, it's just nice to know he's willing to play along. "Whatever you'll have, too. Like eating chocolate, it's not really fun if you're doing it alone. Like a lot of things, really." Stretching her legs out and draping them over an arm of her chair, she holds up a couple coins with a grin. "Might even come with a tip, if you're lucky."

He doesn't drink alcohol, considering what he does most nights, but he does do all kinds of warm beverages. He gives her a nod, stands up, and then finishes it with a playful bow before he heads for the kitchen.

When he comes out, it's with damn fine mocha for her, a black coffee for him, and a little bowl for collecting the wrappers.

"Quick enough for a tip?"

Mocha is totally fine, more than fine even, and she takes the mug and inhales deeply with an appreciative noise, eyes closed. "I'll even make it double, if this tastes as good as it smells," she teases, holding up two of those golden coins between her fingers. "This is perfect. A hot drink, chocolate, games, good company. What do you usually do for Christmas? If you aren't working." She's got some ideas of her own percolating, but never hurts to ask, anyway.

"Usually, I read or I watch Christmas movies all night," he offers with a grin as he sips at his own drink. The coffee is good, because he is a picky picky man when it comes to his caffeine, the company is better, and the night is warm with the fireplace going.

"There room for one more in that marathon?" Before, she would have figured he'd spend the holiday with the rest of them. With someone, anyone else. But they won't ask, or if they do, he won't accept, and she's not letting that be a thing that happens anymore. It's too sad, and he's too...well, that's it. He's too. And so she's gonna be that way.

He glances over at her.

"If you don't have anywhere else to be."

It's his usual way of letting people off the hook, making sure they weren't just being nice or putting themselves out.

It must have been the mistletoe

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