"I am interested in imperfections, quirkiness, insanity, unpredictability. That's what we really pay attention to anyway. We don't talk about planes flying; we talk about them crashing." ~ Tibor Kalman

She doesn't know what she's doing there. Well, she does know what she's doing there, but she's beginning to wonder if her sanity should come into question. Anxiety builds inside her progressively, like lingering drops slowly filling up a bucket of water. Eventually it will overflow, but for the moment being, it is relatively shallow.

Edward Nygma's helpful suggestion did not go unheard to Evangeline Winter. In fact, after he left, she chastised herself for not even thinking of it herself. Not only is Oswald Cobblepot's Iceberg Lounge the number one place for the higher mass of the criminal underworld to take a night off and enjoy themselves, but Cobblepot himself is the most infamous – albeit expensive – black markets dealer in Gotham.

It's the nineteenth day since the deaths of Sean O'Reilly and Alexandra Markovic, and just that morning after the Riddler had long left her modest apartment, had the devastating news broke out. There had been a chaotic shooting between Maroni and Markovic men last night, whilst she was chatting up the certifiably insane criminal. Sixteen mob men dead, eight civilians dead, twelve cops dead, and several more of each severely injured. This is exactly what Eve has been striving to avoid, and to know that she was quite possibly enjoying herself as she conversed with one of Arkham's more colourful characters as this happened made her feel indubitably nauseous. She doesn't have anything against the egregious Riddler, especially now that he may have bestowed her with a new lead, but knowing she could have possibly prevented so much death beforehand instilled a newfound shame within her.

The Joker had struck last night as well. She expected he was going to turn up sooner than later, with the mob war stealing his limelight and all. Yet he's been uncharacteristically tame for a while now, and that concerns the North Carolinian. Eve hardly has the time to focus on the Clown Prince of Crime however, particularly now with all that is transpiring with the families.

The idea that this could still conceivably be a trap has not fled from Eve's mind. Even as she adjusts the white, halter neck cocktail dress with the long keyhole in the middle of her chest, and comes in tightly at the bodice but remains flowy from the waist down to the middle of her thigh, she mulls over the prospect. He could be trying to gain my trust. Trick me. The unforgiving, nippy night air slaps at her partially bare back. He has more to gain out of helping someone like Two Face and receiving a favour in return than helping me free of charge. Then again, it wasn't entirely free of charge Eve has to remind herself. She had to show him everything she had so far gathered in order for the suggestion.

Her equally white strappy pumps click clack click clack against the harsh concrete ground as the bouncer finally permits her entry. She had to call a favour in from one of her old clients to even get into this place at such short notice.

Eve knew she had to look nice, and even with the classy white dress, spotless heels, some stunning silver jewellery to match (her ring being the only real silver and diamond) and her freshly curled, short raven hair with the right half braided, she feels rather out of place amongst so much wealth, gold and designer clothes. A poser amongst queens and kings.

This isn't true, obviously. And her inadequacy is short lived, for others' opinions have never really bothered her much before. Everyone is a tad self-conscious from time to time though.

One thing that she does seem to have down packed more than most of the others in this room is elegance. Each step – no, each glide her long legs take are flawless and effortless. A natural, slight sway of her hips accompany her stride. That is something she is proud of. She may not have the largest breasts or the curviest body, but her slightly toned build paired with a nicely shaped behind has always given her a subtle, alluring sway. Something she doesn't usually pay mind to, but may pay off in an establishment such as this.

No one gives her much attention, only a handful of men glancing her way every once in a while to give her an appreciative glimpse. Her eyes are like a hawk though, and are too preoccupied with deftly devouring each face in hopes to recognise someone of use to her. What she didn't count on, was a face that is still far too fresh and far too familiar to reappear so soon.

"Well, you don't clean up too badly."

Once again, Eve finds herself caught off guard by the Rogues Gallery's arguably brightest mind.

She stares at the green criminal momentarily stunned, grasping at the straws of her composure and modifying it back into place accordingly. "Care to tell me what you are doing here?" Eve politely demands, the new discovery not making her angry per say, just slightly apprehensive. What if he blew her cover? What if he's here to drag her off to a mob man? What if this is trap, just as she had considered?

"This isn't a trap, if that is what you're deliberating," Edward attempts to half-heartedly console her, yet it sounds more exasperated than assuring. "Like I have previously confessed; you intrigue me. And in turn, I am now intrigued by this family feud, as petty as it may be."

The swarming scent of tobacco and perfume lingers in the air like a suffocating haze, fragmenting Eve's perceptive skills for a few moments. She seems to have wondered into the more... mob element of the Iceberg Lounge. Something she was hoping for, but not entirely expected at the current time.

"You're not exactly making this easy for me," Eve tiredly admits, eyeing up the sharp, emerald suit the Prince of Puzzles in adoring. No question marks, she notes. Different. But nice. "Isn't it bad for both us to be seen associating with one another? Could raise questions, ones that I don't particularly feel like answering."

"Has the prospect of lying ever occurred to you?" Edward amusedly recommends, only for Eve to firmly respond with "It has. But I don't like to."

"Doesn't like to lie as well," he notes aloud, face twisted into an expression between entertainment and something akin to what a bitter, foul aftertaste left in his mouth would look like. "I don't know if you're stupidly idealistic or intelligently optimistic."

Eve shrugs, fretful gaze flickering skirmishly around the room. "Bit of both."

"Nervous are we?" Edward doesn't fail to notice her discomfort, but is marginally surprised at the uncharacteristic apprehension. He hasn't known her long, granted, but such a reaction seems rather out of place for her. She had him break into her home and hold her at gunpoint last night for Christ's sake, and still she was relatively collected about it. But this... something here is worrying her, and him arriving as he did seems to have been enough for it to come to the surface. To overflow.

If Eve was capable of it, her look would almost be considered as scathing. "I'm in a room full of men who are primed to kill me at any given moment. Men who are artfully skilled in running and working in tactful crime businesses. I must admit, your presence is only adding to that discomfort."

Normally Edward would grow tired of having to justify himself over and over, but he's in a particularly spritely mood tonight, and finds no qualms in having to reassure again. A bit more convincingly this time. "I'm beginning to sound like a broken record. I do mean it Miss Winter. I currently wish you no harm. You're a puzzle, and puzzles happen to be a favourite past time of mine. Consider yourself safe... for the time being. And most wouldn't try anything with you when you're accompanied by someone like me, so do stop fretting like a sheep amongst wolves."

Eve regards him carefully, astonishingly finding no evident signs of deceit or ulterior motives. Even Edward feels a bit bewildered by his own words, as if he's losing jurisdiction of his own thought pattern and mouth. He hardly knows this woman, and yet he's treating her kinder than anyone of his Arkham compatriots. Perhaps it's due to her infectious, appalling way of remaining kind even to someone like him. Maybe it's because of how certain and honest she sounded when she confirmed that she would save his life, despite all his threats and the very real danger he poses. Edward Nygma is still human, and when one meets an infectiously kind human being, one typically can't help but react at least a little kindly in return. Even if that kindness is in the form of genuinely not being rude for a change, or not threatening someone with a firearm. That does not mean he wouldn't throw her to the aforementioned metaphorical wolves if it came down to it.

A small warmth spreads inside Eve, mollifying her stress to a certain degree. "Eve. Call me Eve."

Already on a friendly first name business? Edward ponders, scrutinising her. That didn't take too long. "So long as you call me Edward my dear," he replies, suddenly jolting up as if he remembered something. Which he did. "That reminds me, I have an... acquaintance I wish for you to meet."

Alarm bells immediately blare out in Eve's head, yet she's deprived the chance to adequately voice her displeasure when one emerald arm, the one that isn't holding the iconic question mark cane, securely links with hers and begins to guide her through the labyrinth of criminals, prostitutes, wealthy men and the occasional corrupted police officer. She made sure she hid herself well for those ones.

By the time the pair arrive at Edward's destination, Eve is just about to lightly scold him for so abruptly dragging her off like that when her hazel gaze finds something that locks her firmly in place. Ice blue. Not the kind of nice blue the Dark Knight owns, but bone-chilling, heart-thumping, ice blue eyes. Sharp. Astute. Hungry.

"And to what, Edward, do I owe this pleasure?" Jonathan Crane drawls in a tone so cool that Eve wonders which is colder; his voice, or his eyes. He hardly glimpses at the dollied up detective, and within the brief, succinct moment he does, it's with a certain amount of... disdain. Like she's some sort of peasant in the immanent presence of a royal.

Eve narrows her eyes sharply at the Master of Fear, her heat enough to burn like sizzling coals into his icy skin. She is surrounded by volatile mafia men who would blast a bullet into her brain quicker than she could utter a syllable in apology should they discover her involvement against their employers. Thirty six people died last night because of the premature squabble easily offended, arrogant mob men instigated. She currently has the Riddler clinging to her arm and threatening her entire investigation with the amount of information he possesses. Both Jim and the Dark Knight – Jim having agreed with the dark clad vigilante this morning – have attempted to discontinue her involvement in the case. It seems the entire world is working against her, and what she doesn't need right now is another Arkham inmate testing, prodding and thinking himself superior over her, purely because of a reputation he earned out of making others fear him.

Jonathan Crane is far beyond unfazed when the detective's petite nose scrunches up in irritation, fully aware of his contribution to said irritation. He can hardly spend one night in this deplorable night club/lounge without one of his Arkham compatriots intruding on him. Although, Edward Nygma is amongst his preferred calibre of rogues, so Crane accepts his victories where he can. He's merely thankful it isn't Harley or the Joker. Both of the clowns inflict such throbbing headaches on him on a regular basis. Half of his pantry is filled with Tylenol because of it.

"Is that any way to treat a friend Jonathan?" Edwards sardonically pouts, making eye contact with the charcoal haired, ex-psychiatrist nonchalantly poised in the booth, mindful of how isolated he is from the main population of the club.

Crane doesn't rise to the bait, monotonously replying "I wouldn't throw such a sentimental term around so carelessly Nygma. Now is there anything in particular you require? Or are you just wasting my time?"

Not once. Not once has the arrogant Scarecrow shown Eve any recognition for her existence since she arrived, bar the momentary flicker of contempt. She is one hundred percent familiar with how terrifying and dangerous the rogue can be – probably more so than the one currently clinging to her arm – but even Eve can't overlook the rudeness of such an indifferent man.

By habit now, Eve has immediately already begun taking mental notes of the frightful Jonathan Crane. Cold. Apathetic. Indifferent. Nearly derisive. Has a superiority complex similar to Mr Nygma's, yet slightly differs from his. Edward strives to be recognised for his intelligence and superiority, yet reports and behaviour suggest Mr Crane doesn't. Superiority perhaps, but instead of intelligence he prefers to be recognised for his power over everyone else. This power is displayed through fear –

"Your pet is trying to analyse me," Crane mockingly informs Edward before the Riddler could respond to the Scarecrow's previous question. Jonathan knows when he is being analysed; he's was a psychiatrist for Heaven's sake. It used to be his job. "Keep it on a tighter leash. Such fruitless endeavours only irk me."

"I wouldn't say they're fruitless Dr Crane," the private detective chimes in for the first time, making sure to keep her tone light and levelled.

"Then enlighten me child," the Scarecrow taunts, spindly fingers crossing over one another like claws. "What have you learned?"

Her full blown smile remains suppressed, but Eve fails to restrain the small quirk of her lips that results from her opportunity given by the ex-psychiatrist. "Your language and observant eyes immediately scream 'psychiatrist', but that's obvious and common knowledge for the public anyway. Nothing too significant." She tries not to reveal any of her discoveries that may provoke him, for she doesn't particularly feel like being gassed in the face tonight. But once her mouth starts moving, she is at its mercy until it stops. "You were working on your formula this afternoon, not by yourself though. You had a test subject with you. An alcoholic she was. I say was because she's dead now, may she rest in peace. You were mistreated by a pretty girl when you were younger, and most likely a religious family member as well. Either way you severely dislike religion, Christianity in particular. You feared crows as well. You're harder to read than most Dr Crane, but not impossible. Not fruitless."

Though his expression nearly remains entirely the same, the room seems to darken with Jonathan Crane's mood with each discovery that spills from Evangeline Winter's mouth. Everything feels colder as well, as if the temperature of the area is attempting to match the iciness of his eyes. Crane's gaze slices over to Nygma, tone low yet still professional "You told her."

"I said nothing," Edward is unmoved by the intimidation technique. If anything, he's amused at the Master of Fear's reaction. I knew I liked this woman for a reason.

"Then how does she know?" The Scarecrow is biting and callous, yet still doesn't pay attention to the North Carolinian. He toys with the phone laid out on the table before him, a more dangerous edge to him now than before.

"She knows because she can observe," Eve intervenes cuttingly, mood not overly sour but not as soft as it usually is. "The smell of chemicals clings to you like a perfume. What else do you work on that involves chemicals? Hence the fear toxin formula. Clearly had a test subject with you because that's not your phone, and she obviously attacked you as well. Criminals like you don't risk having an easily traceable phone, and because you are fresh out of Arkham, you most likely haven't had the chance to obtain a proper one yet. Which is why you're using your alcoholic subject's phone for the time being. How is she an alcoholic? Power connection; tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night she goes to plug it in to charge but her hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober woman's phone; never see a drunk's without them. The other sign that points to you testing on a woman this afternoon is the slight scratch under your jaw on the right hand side. Fresh, not even twelve hours old. Done by long nails, and while some men have long nails, you failed to remove the tiny flake of nail polish that imbedded itself in you as she attacked you. She's obviously dead because I highly doubt you would keep her alive after she attacked you, and that's only if she didn't receive a heart attack from the fear toxin in the first place."

"Simple enough, but how do you know of the other things?" Edward chimes in, enjoying seeing Jonathan Crane feeling immensely uncomfortable at the current time. That'll teach him not to abandon me for the Bat to find next time we collaborate together.

"He took an instant dislike to me the moment he laid eyes on me," Eve explains a tad kinder to Edward, yet doesn't even flinch away from Crane's calculated stare. "I may not be model worthy, but I am not entirely unattractive either. He's briefly looked at a couple other very attractive women in the area with the same disdain, as if he despises all pretty women. I've read nothing on the Scarecrow ever being involved with any women whilst in Gotham, which leaves the option of childhood wide open. She did something to you. Don't know what, but it was far from kind. You passionately dislike religion as well because you took one fleeting look at my cross necklace and despised me even more. That sort of hate only arises from childhood influences, so perhaps the pretty girl was religious, yet it's more likely that it was a family member, for family leaves a more prominent affect on a child than anyone else. As for the crows? Shot in the dark, but when one names himself 'Scarecrow' that leaves room to suggest he was never particularly fond of crows growing up." Eve's head tilts angelically, her curtain of raven hair swiftly moving along with it. "Did I get anything wrong?"

Unbeknownst to the detective, Edward Nygma and Jonathan Crane have been exchanging informative glances for the past several minutes now, their expressions entailing an entire conversation and speaking louder than words possibly could in this instance. Most of these shared looks involve Edward pleading to not gas her yet, whilst Jonathan's patience withers away like a flower devoured by fire.

Annoyed as he may be – and annoyed is most certainly an understatement – Crane stifles his indignation to evenly answer "I had two test subjects with me. One male – an alcoholic – and one female – a hoarder."

"Always something," Eve scolds herself, momentarily staring at the floor as she does so.

"As entertaining as this is, I am parched. Let's sit and order, shall we?" Edward chirpily interjects, suavely sliding into the booth next to Crane and pulling the North Carolinian in along with him. Jonathan's irritation only flares at the Riddler's forwardness, luckily not enough so for him to act on just yet. "Why hasn't Oswald updated his beverages selection already?" The Prince of Puzzles keeps his flippancy and light-heartedness afloat, completely disregarding the uncomfortable glances he's receiving from Eve and the vexed ones from his fellow rogue. "I mean honestly, it's a miracle he's maintained such a profitable business when he refuses to freshen up the available variety of drinks for his customers. This is the 21st century, not the stone age –"

"I don't mean to be rude, but why are we here?" Eve softly intercedes, thinking twice and correcting her previous question to "Actually, rephrase; what are you doing here? You still haven't explained the entirety of your reasoning to me yet, and I am in the midst of a very fragile investigation—"

"Investigation?" Crane interrupts the interrupter, sharp, pointed eyes nailing down on Nygma. "You brought a detective into here? One who is clearly not bought off either?"

"Okay I am sensing a rather palpable amount of tension between you two at the moment," Edward keenly observes, sandwiched between the Master of Fear and the private investigator. "Perhaps a drink will settle the nerves? I did mention how parched I am –"

"Edward," Eve breaks him off again, adopting the tone of a disapproving mother. "Please explain your motives. That will settle our nerves."

The Riddler huffs, reminding Eve of a perturbed child. "If you two weren't squabbling like a couple of brash plebeians, you would've noticed that two booths down and one to the left is where Andrew Murdocca and Seymour Rickman – two of Salvatore Maroni's highest men – are currently sat, chattering with looser lips than acceptable. They're bound to reveal something of importance sooner or later, so keep a keen ear on them."

In spite of not entirely appreciating the way he down talked and practically ordered her to do so, Eve steals a temporary glimpse to where Mr Nygma indicated, finding the two identified men which she has read plenty about to be exactly where he described. After that, she all but blocks out everything else around her, utilizing her selective hearing and efficiently eavesdropping on Andy and Rickman's conversation in hopes of discovering a metaphorical gold mine of information.

Edward grins in a satisfied manner, like a cat that has gotten to the canary. Turning back to Jonathan Crane – who is on the very verge of just gassing everyone to be done with it – he quirks a pleased eyebrow. "So, what do you think?" He asks, dropping his voice a few octaves lower despite Eve being absolutely oblivious to the conversation, too absorbed in her eavesdropping.

Crane just drums his fingers on the table eerily, slowly. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. "I think I'm going to need more fear toxin."

"Oh come now, no need for such a sordid reaction. That sort of response is beneath you," Edward condescendingly chides, nodding at the passing waiter for his usual drink.

"Why are you helping an entirely insignificant civilian? A detective no less?"

"She's a private detective, actually," Edward corrects his fear-loving acquaintance, that all-knowing glint glazing over his eyes.

Recognition instantly floods Crane's expression, and for the very first time, his eyes slide over to Evangeline Winter on their own accord, without being addressed by her first. "You don't say."

For these two men, a private investigator/detective and a police detective are completely different. Police detective means either a) they're bought off by the mob, or b) they're an ethical pain in the ass, like James Gordon. But a private detective? A private detective may not have the same legal jurisdiction that police detectives do, or the same access to classified files and cases, but they are free. They don't have a boss, and they don't have to follow any rules or guidelines – besides the law of course, but not many people care for that in Gotham. Consequently, they can bat for any team. Normally, that wouldn't matter to either Edward Nygma or Jonathan Crane, but this private investigator's particularly observant skills paired with the fact that she can technically side with any team? That may be... useful.

"You hear about an unidentified someone leaking all the juicy details of what transpired nineteen days ago in Crime Alley? And how that certain someone wasn't the Bat?" The Riddler inquires of the Scarecrow, disregarding the existence of the waiter who presents him with his rusty coloured beverage and flees within a matter of seconds.

Crane's lips thin. "You don't mean to say..."

"Found her," Edward smugly declares, glimpsing at Eve triumphantly as he sprawls comfortably in the booth. "Don't tell Dent though."

"Why does this frivolous feud interest you anyway?" Jonathan monotonously asks, accepting the refill the waiter has timidly brought him. "You clearly said it was beneath you."

"I couldn't care less about what enmity exists between Markovic, O'Reilly and Maroni. I'm not intrigued by any of that. I'm intrigued by her," Edward indicates his head towards the raven haired woman, resting his golden cane in his lap leisurely.

Jonathan snorts unimpressed, losing slight interest in the subject. "She's hardly your type Nygma. Not that any woman would be able to tolerate your presence long enough to endure a relationship with you anyway."

The Prince of Puzzles agitatedly scowls, gaze tearing away from Eve and back to the Master of Fear. "Not for a reason as base as that. You've seen how sharp her observation skills are. That's only the beginning. You won't believe how far her discoveries have advanced, and she hasn't even gotten her hands dirty. Not once. Unlike a mutual flying rodent of ours."

"You can't get tangled within the criminal underworld of this city and not get your hands dirty," Jonathan disbelievingly rebukes, yet even he can't deny that everything about this woman screams... nice. Pure. It practically disgusts him.

"She has," Nygma counteracts, idly sipping from his glass. "No one has the faintest idea of her existence, let alone her involvement. All she has done is research then logically piece together all her findings. She knows Alberto Falcone is at fault, and that he cashed in a favour with Jervis to obtain mind control devices to control Maroni. She knows of Emilia Bianchi as well. She knows much more than one should, and she's not even a Gothamite."

"She's a southerner," Crane distastefully agrees, reminding him of his own miseries back in Georgia. Not that she hasn't caused him to reminisce already, by vaguely bringing up Sherry Squires and his Grandmother. I will gas her at some point for that. "She hides the accent well, and refrains from using Southern slang. The accent slips back from time to time however. It's painfully evident."

"Five months. She's only been here for five months, and she's already so familiar with the illegal operations of this city and the criminals it holds," Nygma informs Jonathan with no small amount of astonishment in his tone – and a bit of annoyance as well. "She's dangerous, a threat should the Dark Knight Detective get his burly, barbaric fingers on her."

"Don't tell me you wish to take her on." Scarecrow is beyond the point of exasperated, all hopes of experiencing a quiet night out long gone.

"Of course not, I don't work too well with others when we collaborate on a regular basis. Their idiocy slows me down," Nygma bitterly bites out, reminiscing over the Echo and Query days. "But even you can't deny that someone with her morale, insignificance and abilities is useful."

Jonathan is unsurprised by the Riddler's ulterior motives, and allows it to appear evident in his sarcastic, dragged out drawl. "Ah of course, how could I forget that the Riddler only ever does anything should he receive something favourable in return? Same song, different tune."

"You watch Crane," Edward forebodingly warns, auburn hair like wooden fire in the warm light. "This woman is going to come up out of nowhere and take every single mob family by surprise. My only concern is Dent."

"Two Face is about as observant as a blind, deaf man at the current time. Sionis has him too preoccupied," Jonathan pointedly reproaches whilst a long, pale, elongated finger chillingly circles the rim of his glass.

Edward tsks, the smug Cheshire grin resurfacing. "As preoccupied as our esteemed, violent colleague may be, he is still nonetheless observant, and at least partially intelligent. One of my inside men mentioned he has a man keeping tabs on her from time to time. Apparently this little 'angel' as Jim Gordon has been uncreatively nicknaming her, slipped up whence talking to Robert Mulder."

"Of all of Dent's simpleminded, meat-headed men to interrogate, she talks to and slips up on his sharpest of all? Your private investigator isn't appearing as promising as she was, not nearly worth the effort."

"She's been unknowingly avoiding his detection though," Edward seizes control over the conversation back, casting the Master of Fear an admonishing glance for interrupting. "Even whilst she's ignorant, she's guarded. Careful. She's learning quickly, and when she does take down Maroni and Alberto, everyone will be clamouring to buy her off, kill her or meet her. Amongst all of this, I shall be the one in her good graces. I will be the Iago whispering advice into the ear of her Othello."

Jonathan Crane still outwardly conveys no small amount of scepticism, final tone bringing the topic to an end. "If she's as clever as you give her credit for Nygma, then it may just be the other way around."

***

Harvey Dent is, sufficient to say, always uncomfortable when he frequents the salacious Iceberg Lounge. Two Face loves it, he's in his element here, but Harvey Dent had put many of the men in this room behind bars whilst he was the city's acting esteemed district attorney. A lot of these same men have healthy, thriving business relationships with Two Face now, but still detest Harvey Dent.

It is his turn tonight, he won the coin toss, but Two Face still had to pay the Penguin a visit. Their severe dislike towards the stocky, disgustingly vulgar black markets dealer is one of the only matters on which they agree on, but Two Face maintains this business relationship out of the fact that he is the best arms dealer in Gotham. Harvey can hardly stand the crude man.

Casting their cerulean eyes over to the bar where Rob is discreetly sat, they do the same to the rest of the room until they've found Michael Donovan and Jackson Keller as well. If they're settled and calm, then that's just one less thing for them to worry about.

I don't know why we're still here. Cobblepot left to attend to other matters twenty minutes ago. Harvey makes no attempt to disguise his disdain for the scandalous, indecent environment he's surrounded by, with all its prostitutes and dirty criminals who hold no small amount of animosity against him. Most of them are profusely smoking as well. Harvey Dent hates smoking. Two Face loves it.

We haven't had a good shag in a long time Harvey, and the Iceberg Lounge is one of the only places that has broads game enough to stomach our face and give a good fuck at the same time. Two Face – or Harv as many who are close have come to call him – is in no mood to bicker with his up-tight other half at the moment. After dealing with Cobblepot, he needs something to cool him down and remove that ugly fucking mug from his memory.

The Harvey side of their face concernedly frowns, lips thinner than a strand of hair. Aren't you getting a bit tired of one night stands? For so long now, all Harvey has wanted to do is find a woman who not only tolerates his crass, obscene half, but is devoutly committed and affectionate towards them. Commitment. That's what he wants. Someone he can either settle down with, or is ready to accept the deplorable, illicit lifestyle Harv is leading, as well as the grotesqueness of their prominent scarring. Some warm, womanly company that is at least semi-intelligent, not a criminal and keeps up with matters such as current events and politics. Is that so much of a crime?

Harvey can practically hear Harv's internal groan rousing within. Not this stupid idea of yours again. I'm not settling down with some fucking skirt to live some shitty apple pie life like you had with Gilda. Gilda left, you need to forget about the bitch.

Don't talk about her like that, Harvey growls, their internal altercation becoming outwardly apparent on their shared expression. You can't blame her for leaving. We pushed her to leave. You pushed her to leave.

She was going to leave us anyway Harvey boy. Have you looked at us? She couldn't stand our face the moment the bandages came off. She's worthless. You don't need her, or any other 'committed' fucking broad for that matter.

"Boss."

The familiar voice tears their train of thought off the rails and into a ditch. Lucky for Michael Donovan, Harvey is the one to respond, shoving Harv back for the time being. His agitation from the low blow dealt by Harv is still painfully overt however. "This better be important Donovan."

Mike clearly appears apologetic, and is beginning to wish that Rob or Jack had pulled the short straw instead. "Something may have just popped up. Remember the private detective Rob was determined we look into? Evangeline Winter?"

It takes a few moments for the ex-DA to recall the woman, but he ultimately does so. "Somewhat. She didn't seem that troublesome, but a possible asset. Why? She poking around again?"

Tongue in cheek, Michael Donovan subtly jerks his head in the general direction of a booth. "Bit more than that boss."

Azure orbs once again dust over the establishment, acknowledging the cool colours of the themed lighting and furniture, and the equally cold people encompassing them. When they find a certain charcoal haired woman in a striking white dress sharing a booth with not one, but two Gotham rogues, Harvey is breathlessly startled to say the least.

The fuck? Harv's voice is muffled in the recesses of their mind, yet it's still present. It always is. What is she doing with Nygma and Crane? Did they hire her?

I told you it was a good idea to keep tabs on her, Harvey gloats, despite his heart not entirely being in it. How could it be? A seemingly insignificant woman who was poking around their turf and business has abruptly materialised in a highly active criminal establishment, with two Gotham rogues. Harvey may have pushed to have her monitored more than Harv did, but he still overlooked her as a threat entirely. Hence why he is currently berating himself for it, hoping that Harv doesn't notice.

"Thanks Mike," Harvey appreciatively says, an absent-mindedness tone weaving through his words. Harvey wastes no time in approaching the booth, most of his persistence urged on by the growing ire rooting from Harv. He can feel his worse half impatiently stirring within, like a provoked tiger pacing in an overly confining cage. When I get my hands on Nygma and Crane, I'm going to wring their fucking necks so damn hard I'll stretch them like dough.

Give them a chance. They're intelligent men. They do nothing without cause or reason.

They do nothing unless it's for themselves. Dog-eat-dog world out there Harvey, or have you forgotten that?

How could I? We share the same head. Even when they inwardly argue, each tone they adopt is remarkably different. Harvey is formal. Harvey is professional. Harvey is composed. Harv is harsh. Harv is coarse. Harv is hostile. Comparing their voices is like comparing honey to sandpaper. One is suavely smooth, the other rapaciously raspy. And this isn't just apparent in their heads; it's unduly distinguishable when they speak aloud as well.

Slick, polished black leather shoes slowly make their way over to the table of three, each step similar to a lion ostentatiously prowling towards his kill. The sharp shoes stop before the three individuals at the table, and that instantly garners attention from the two rogues. However, the private investigator seems to be entirely absorbed in her little world, body here but mind elsewhere. That only adds to Harv's flourishing anger, so in some attempt to quell the other man inside him, Harvey 'casually' clears his throat.

"Nygma, Crane. Miss Winter."

***

Incoherent from time to time. Small mumbles, suddenly shattered by raucous ruckus. Drunk men are predictably unpredictable in Eve's opinion, especially drunk criminal men.

They put on a good show – knowing exactly how loud they can grow before it's deemed socially unacceptable. They mainly keep to themselves, only the occasional off-handed lewd comment to some poor woman who has the misfortune to cross their table. Some of them most likely do it on purpose though, for to bed men so high up in the Maroni crime family must be something worthwhile to brag about. I never understood why it's such a privilege and achievement to claim you've slept with such powerful men, Eve inwardly talks to herself, thinking back on her statement and amending it. Well, I do understand it as an achievement I suppose, but not much of one. An achievement would be to continuously engage with them on some sort of relationship level, not a spontaneous one night stand. That way you learn more about them, and become aware of every little detail, tell-tale, secret, button, assurance and peeve that makes them up as a whole. If I was a woman looking into the criminal lifestyle, that is where I would begin. Be a marionette pulling on the heart strings of the most powerful men in Gotham. She shakes her head, deeply ashamed of her thoughts. I should never suggest that aloud. That could harm so many people.

The murmurs continue, swarming her head nearly as much as the detestable smoke. It buzzes more than the alcohol – not that Eve has had much alcohol, only a couple sips of her Jack Daniels. Catches of the conversation has darted in an out of her ears, like trying to catch leaves in the wind. Recently however, the intoxicants seem to be working their magic, and making them bolder than usual. Which – much to Eve's pleasure – means they're talking louder.

"Three days. How the fuck does he expect us to come up with somethin' to execute in three fuckin' days?" The one with palpable stubble heatedly asks, enjoying the long drag of his cigarette. Andrew Murdocca is his name, if memory serves Eve correctly. Otherwise known as 'Andy' or 'Lefty'. Eve isn't entirely sure she wants to know the reasoning behind the latter nickname. Nicknames in the mob generally don't come about by pleasant, friendly means.

"Ey man, careful. Ears. Ears are everywhere, especially in places like these. Or do you want the entire Iceberg Lounge to know that the boss is linin' up for a big hit on Markovic? May as well yell it at the top of your lungs." Eve strangles as gasp working its way up her throat from 'Ricky's' clear announcement, once again praising the lord above for how careless drunk men can be.

Andy snorts unamused, also aware of how blunt his companion's response was. "Now who's the one who needs to be careful?"

Eve leans further into the booth, as if trying to phase through it. If I can just get a little closer –

"Nygma, Crane. Miss Winter."

Even amidst an interruption as brusque and unanticipated as that, Evangeline Winter manages to maintain some of her dignity by suppressing the majority of her spluttering. Unfortunately, she can't help the little jolt that surges through her like a tidal wave, 'subtly' launching her back into Edward Nygma.

If she's going by the deeply amused, rumbling chuckle reverberating off Nygma's suited chest onto her partially exposed back, the little startle didn't look nearly as elegant as she has been the entire night so far. Her hazel eyes fly up to meet the culprit of said startle, and when they do, she immediately regrets it.

Blue. Again, Eve wonders what it is with blue eyes in this city? But so far each pair of blue eyes she's come into contact with have held different amounts of warmth, purpose and history. Batman's blue eyes are light and professional, but also hold a somewhat soft element, even amongst all his intimidating threatening. Jonathan Crane's blue eyes are icy and calculating, so chillingly transparent that she finds them daunting to peer into, like staring into the never-ending abyss of a crevice in the Arctic. Hollow, empty. Both of these men possess striking blue eyes, yet are at bipolar ends of the spectrum with what they each hold.

Harvey Dent, aka Two Face, is something that Eve has never had the pleasure to encounter before.

To any normally unobservant human being, when they spy upon the notorious Two Face – previously known as the White Knight of Gotham while he worked as DA – they would note that he possesses completely normal, azure eyes. His scarred half's eye may appear more irritated than the other, but otherwise they're entirely commonplace.

Nonetheless, Eve isn't a 'normally unobservant' human being.

Just like Jonathan Crane and the Dark Knight, who are unconditional antitheses of each other, each eye on Harvey Dent's face seems to be waging an intramural war with one another, coexisting yet incapable of melding into one agreeable state of mind. Perverse and antagonistic meets level-headed and understanding. And it's not just his eyes that convey that, or the alarmingly conspicuous half-black half-white suit. His scarred face seems to own this permanent scowl and outwardly paint a suiting picture for his more chaotic half, whilst his clean shaven half is impeccably pristine with suavely brushed back, chestnut hair and a demeanour that screams order. Order and chaos. Not versus, but both mentalities coexisting in one body. One mind. One soul.

She couldn't see it before, for photos can never truly convey as much as seeing something in person could, but Harvey Dent isn't Two Face. Harvey Dent and Two Face are two completely different people, contrary to what psychiatrists in Arkham what may think. And yet, who is now standing before her? Two Face, or Harvey Dent? If Eve is to go off the single sentence he had uttered with such professionalism and manners, as well as the word choice, she would guess Harvey Dent.

She hopes for Harvey Dent.

"Now now Harvey, as amusing as that spectacle was, it's rather rude to be frightening guests, yes?" Edward condescendingly chastises, tsking Harvey like a parent reprimanding a child.

If Harvey is put off by such down talk, he doesn't show it. "It's also rather rude to be poking around business that isn't your own," his heart-stopping stare fixes on her, and Eve suddenly wishes she could shrink into the booth or – lord help her – even Edward more than she currently is. "Wouldn't you think Miss Winter?"

She didn't catch onto it the first time, having been so preoccupied with his startling entrance, but hearing her name fall from Harvey "Two Face" Dent's lips nearly renders her immobile, wondering how he could a) possibly know her name and b) know of her poking around his turf.

Edward didn't tell him; at least, I'm sure he didn't. She struggles to collect her thoughts, like trying to catch fistfuls of water. The only possible leaks would be the cameras or when I visited the cafe. Rob was rather suspicious of me. Perhaps he followed up on his suspicions? She suddenly remembers the cashier and barista, and how grateful they sounded for Two Face buying them off instead of Maroni putting up his protection racket. They're scared of Two Face, but they're loyal. They would've told Rob, Mike and Jack of me prodding at them for money. Eve nearly slaps her forehead for her own blatant stupidity. Of course! How could I be so careless and blind? The North Carolinian also recalls a man having spied upon her apartment building a few times, yet thought nothing of it at the time. If Harvey Dent is aware of my involvement in this, then it really isn't so far-fetched to presume that he has someone keeping an eye on me. What's the bet that the man I've spotted on occasion is one of his?

"I meant no offence Mr Dent," Eve calmly assures with a polite smile gracing her lips – well, she hopes she sounds calm anyway. "In fact, I have nothing against you whatsoever. My interest is in stopping Don Maroni and this uncalled for mob war. You have a mighty loyal cashier and barista though, and they do make a damn good coffee. Oh, and say hi to Rob, Mike and Jack for me if you find the time. I understand they were just doing their job, so no hard feelings."

Harvey blinks at the private detective a couple times, her words sinking in. Did she just insinuate that my cashier and barista told Rob and the boys of her questioning, and that they then did a follow up on her background? Harvey's head tilts so slightly in curiosity, it's practically unnoticeable. Not bad for a private investigator.

She's too polite. Too nice. Any other Gothamite would be furious of the boys tipping them off like that. Not to mention we're not nice guys, yet she's fucking treating us like we're long lost pals about to discuss this city's shitty weather. Harv doesn't hold back in inwardly voicing his distaste, the scowl on his side of the face deepening. Put a bullet in the bitch and tell Nygma not to set a private investigator on us again.

She's not here for us. She's here for Maroni, who – may I remind you – we have no interest in protecting or helping. And I don't think she works for Nygma either; we're on good terms with him at the moment, or they're tolerable in the least. He has no reason to hire an investigator.

Then what? She's working for Crane? Gordon? The Bat? May I remind you that none of those names are particularly in our good graces either. And she's annoying me, so I couldn't care less if the skirt is helping or not; she's a liability and a nuisance.

Just play nice for a while. I'm handling it. "Despite it not being personal Miss Winter, you'll have to understand my concern for this matter, and more importantly, who hired you. Which reminds me..." One, long, daunting step is taken, casting a suffocating shadow over Eve, stifling her breathing at the criminal glint that has officially entered his eyes. "Who did hire you?"

Eve seems incapable of breathing, as if she has entirely forgotten the instinctual act. She knows this is him being nice, which is a given considering the company she is currently with, but she is still unable to deny the fright the man bestows upon her.

When watching a movie or TV show, or reading a book, or even hearing of such events in the news and papers, one tends to find it intimidating, but you're still rather detached from it as a whole. You never quite know the feeling of being within such a threatening, terrifying presence until you are in the presence of a threatening, terrifying person. Try as you may to understand the feeling, but it is near impossible to comprehend it until you have done so.

Eve is familiar with intimidation. She's been in Gotham for five months, and within the nineteen days she's been on this case, she has had the pleasure to meet not only the Dark Knight Detective, but as of now, the Riddler, Scarecrow and Two Face as well. To be in the presence of one of these men is petrifying within itself, but now? In the vicinity of all three of the criminals?

The private investigator is aware that she mustn't show weakness in the face of a predator however, and so she stores away her anxiety and possible nervous breakdown for her next moment alone at home, as well as answers the crime lord's question with the propriety of a sophisticated woman and an innocent look to match. "I apologize Mr Dent, but someone with your vast arrange of knowledge in law must be aware of client confidentiality, having been this city's shining District Attorney before your career change. I'm sure you are informed about me personally as well, having read my file and assigned that footman of yours to spy upon my apartment, so finding out shouldn't take you too long. Now once again, I mean no true offence Mr Dent, but during your attempts on monitoring me you have come off, quite frankly, like a man with have the subtly of a brick and the depth of a shot glass. But I'm sure a man of your stature is aware of that."

The silence that befalls the table is so thick it would be near impossible to cut it, even with a butcher knife.

Did I.... just say that to Two Face? Evangeline so desperately feels like downing the rest of her glass in one go. Perhaps there is a formal consent I can sign that asks him not to murder me. This is my best dress after all, and I'm sure Edward doesn't want blood on his suit either.

Meanwhile, in Harvey's own head, he's momentarily rendered speechless. Unfortunately, for Two Face, that is not that case. She just fucking owned you. He snorts, nearing towards a state of impressed, but not quite there either. Pussy Harvey boy got told by a woman so prissy and nice she should have a fucking halo and angel wings to match. Perhaps the broad ain't as saintly and refined as I thought. Would still be easier to put a bullet in her though.

Harvey scowls, impressed by her sharp wit yet unimpressed by whom it was directed at. Shut up, I'm handling this.

Jonathan Crane is still tired of the company that has so suddenly amounted at his table. His evening was so pleasant before Nygma had to come parading in with his new toy. Nonetheless, seeing the astonished expression of a man as proper and adept as Harvey Dent after being put in his place by the wit, manners and innocence of such a painfully nice woman is.... amusing, to say the least. It doesn't stop him from voicing his displeasure though, even over Edward's coherent laughter that has shattered the silence at the table. "I think I'll take my leave whilst Dent still possesses a shred of dignity. Thank you, Edward, for pre-empting my night. Pray we don't meet again Miss Winter, for your question mark guardian won't always be around to protect you." The cold, languid, sarcastic, sharp drawl in which Jonathan Crane adopts as he slickly slides out of the booth and places money down on the table snaps Eve from her stupor, and her response is almost involuntary.

"I don't require Edward's protection Dr Crane, nor a knight in shining armour." Her insinuation towards the Batman does not go unnoticed. "If I was incapable of protecting myself, I would not have got into my profession, let alone move to this city. I'm no damsel."

"You do not need to be a damsel to know distress," the former psychiatrist warns, icily peering at her over the rim of his glasses. "Good evening, everyone." Despite his exit appearing lethargic, the Master of Fear is gone from the table in a manner of seconds, abandoning the three to the currently tense air around it.

Still viewing the entire fiasco as amusing, Edward Nygma devilishly grins and says "Well, this has been quite a night. Thank you for the entertainment you have provided my dear." His last sentence is directed at the detective, an almost childlike glee apparent on his features. "I haven't had this much fun for quite some time now, and unless my ears deceived me, I do believe you obtained what you were seeking as well. Enjoy the rest of your night detective; I still have business to attend to."

Unlike Crane's slow, deliberate movements, the Prince of Puzzles is swift and fast in his movements, slipping out from the booth and slamming some money down as well, and adeptly twirling the golden question mark cane that has suddenly materialised as soon as he does so. "Do try not to frighten the lady too much Harvey, it's a rarity to find an individual with a tolerable amount of intelligence in this city."

As quickly and unexpectedly as it occurred, is Evangeline Winter left alone with none other than the infamous Two Face in a dark corner booth, surrounded by immoral, corrupt Gothamites in a deplorable business establishment.

Harvey notices this too, and regrettably, so does Two Face. My turn. Let me out, I'm going to have a nice conversation with the nice lady.

Like anything that leaves your mouth is even vaguely 'nice'.

What can I fucking do Harvey? I'm in the Iceberg Lounge. I can't exactly blow the bitch's fucking head off in here, Cobblepot will have me tossed out quicker than Quinn when she's pissed off the Joker.

You could, I don't know, scare the poor woman into bumbling heap of stutters and tears. And despite how you may feel about it, I don't particularly enjoy seeing women cry.

Pussy.

Just flip the damn coin.

Eve observes them in awe, noting the way each half of his face contorts in accordance to who is evidently talking to who within their head. Their head even marginally faces side to side, displaying the half that is arguing more prominently. When they abruptly delve into the depths of their pocket and draw out the iconic coin, Eve strangles down another gasp. What do they feel the need to flip for? She doesn't precisely know if she wants the answer to that question.

The coin dances in the air for far too long yet not long enough, a slight ring from the flip bouncing in her eardrums. It lands with a deafening smack on the non-scarred hand, the scarred hand manoeuvring to prevent it from falling off. When the covering hand removes itself agonisingly slowly, the private investigator actually does down the rest of her drink in one shot.

Scarred-half up.

Before her very eyes, does Harvey Dent disappear. His posture slackens from refinement to nonchalance. His face from patience to a permanent scowl. And the most frightening of all, both of his eyes glaze over into a treacherous glint, like a malicious shadow has fallen over them.

He moves like a true predator into the opposite side of the booth, taking his sweet time to sit down and rest his arms on the table. He finishes Edward's drink for him, coarsely rubbing his chin with the back of his hand when some of the drink doesn't reach his mouth, and the entire time, his eyes don't move away from the detective in front of him once. They hardly even blink.

"So, Winter," his tone is gruffer, harsher, raspier than Harvey's. Not as refined. "You're going to tell me every fucking thing you know about this case, or I will personally drag you out the back and put a bullet between your pretty little eyes before pretty boy Harvey can say otherwise."

A/N: Hehe, he's fun to write in. Hell, all Gotham criminals are. Crane is the hardest, because he has an arrogance and intelligence kind of similar to Edward, but it's conveyed in a less egotistical and a cooler/icier kind of way (though, he was a psychologist/psychiatrist [depending on what version you prefer] before his license got revoked - for obvious reasons. So he's rather observant himself).

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L