sept cv week: just a little mischief

Life with Harvey Dent had been relatively easy for the last forty-four hours in Harry's estimation. He had managed to attend his meetings, and court appearances with little trouble -- though he was certain there was at least one paralegal in his office who thought Harry had taken to berating himself aloud. To be honest, he was exhausted, but his mind seemed to be unable to shut itself off. It was because of this that he clocked out of the office early, heading home without saying much at all to the staff or his co-counsels. The tension had settled into the muscle of his shoulders, thereby tightening the muscles attached to his spine. It was only Monday, and Harrison Delaney felt every day of his fifty-five years on this earth. It was barely five o'clock in the afternoon when he toed his expensive Italian leather shoes off his feet, sloughing off his suit jacket like a mighty yoke, and literally fell into bed. Despite whiny protests from Dent, they slept.

Through the haze of greasy takeout and whiskey, Harry tried to concentrate on the basketball game blaring from the obscenely large television mounted on the wall. The game was a veritable shit show, and Harry spent the majority of it shouting at the players on both teams equally, finally giving up and taking a shower. The hot water was invigorating, and Harry allowed his thoughts to wander, only they weren't simply his thoughts. No, the persona known as Harvey Dent had taken the opportunity to push his way into Harry's headspace. His mind was flooded with thoughts, and memories, which were foreign to him. Harry braced his hands on the smooth slate walls of the shower, and let them come. The rage was like an inferno, saturating every available inch of his body, burning through it all.

Even as Harry dressed himself in something comfortable, namely a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, he could feel the fury bubbling beneath his skin. It was more than that, though, there was a marked combination of loneliness, bone-aching sadness, and... fear. Was he so angry because he was afraid, or was he afraid of being so angry. It was with that thought in mind that Harry caught a glimpse of something on the television. Grabbing the remote, he unmuted and skipped back thirty seconds. Well, shit, the two men thought simultaneously as they watched the brawl unfold, excitement beginning to tickle his extremities.

The thought had been fleeting, half-formed, but one which took root like an errant seed. The arena wasn't that far away; even on foot, he could easily make it in fifteen or twenty minutes. Just like that, Harry was out the door. It took no real thought as his strides quickened, consuming the pavement as his walking became jogging, eventually running South toward the burgeoning fray. The din of the crowd was thunderous, causing Harry's already elevated pulse to quicken as he rounded on the immediate vicinity of the basketball arena. You could almost smell the blood, the sweat, the fury as he pushed his way into the press of bodies. The first punch was thrown by a wholly unathletic man, his chubby face red with one too many beers, if the scent of him was anything to go by.

The blow was returned several times over, flesh meeting flesh, until Harry could feel the hot rush of blood over his knuckles. It barely registered before he pivoted, landing a fist against another jaw, an elbow to a soft abdomen, another fist to another face, the crunch of cartilage giving way to the force of untethered rage. It went on for countless minutes, Harry marking his time by his breathing. His heartbeat rushed against his eardrums, the riotous sound of the crowed drowned by the static of his own blood. There was no conscious decision making, every movement made solely by adrenaline, and a sense of anger which was not entirely his own. A cackle broke through the static, a sound which set his teeth on edge.

Harry wouldn't be able to say exactly when the sound of the police sirens, and subsequent bull horns, were first apparent, but it was while he took out the knees of a man twice his size, but half as agile, that he finally noticed them. Oh, look, the cavalry's arrived. The thought was manic, almost fucking joyful, as Harry parried a blow with his forarm, kicking out at the offender. "Fuck this shit," He muttered under his breath, using subtle force to move through the crowd, and away from the police officers who were quickly advancing.