A/N: On one of the tumblrs I run, Twinings and I offered ourselves up for one full week of filling fic prompts for our readers, varying in length from a hundred to a thousand-plus words. The project has been dubbed the Free For All Fic For All—or FFAFFA for short. This is one of those stories—and this is the boilerplate author's note you'll see on all of 'em.

Prompt: Harvey Den't last really good day.

Notes: The Gilda Dent in this piece is greatly inspired by the wonderful canon mishmash of the story Dent, by about-faces, which I encourage you all to go read and not just because I'm its editor.


The engine cut out.

"Gilda, whatever you're up to—"

"Shh!"

Harvey heard the driver's side door slam. On instinct, he turned his head in the direction of the sound, even though he was blindfolded. From his open window he heard the click-clack-click-clackof Gilda's high heels on the pavement outside (ah, so they were still somewhere in civilization) and then the creak of the passenger door as it was opened.

"Come on," his wife whispered (whispered—he logged that information and tried to narrow down where they might be that such secretive measures might be necessary) and grabbed his hands, pulling him out of his seat and to his feet.

The late summer air was balmy, thick with the humidity of a threatened storm. At first, all he could smell was the exhaust from the parking lot, but after about twenty clumsy steps, the odor of flowers and freshly mowed grass overpowered everything else.

"Can I take off the blindfold?"

"Not yet!"

They started uphill.

"The ground is a little uneven here," Gilda said quietly. "Watch your step."

"Well, I would, but a crazy woman blindfolded and kidnapped me, you see."

"Oh, a crazy woman, hm?" Though she didn't do more than whisper, a giggle was most definitely implied.

"The unbalanced artistic type, you know." Harvey stumbled just a little, but maintained his balance.

"Ah," was all she said in reply. "There are a few steps here. Ready? Up…"

One.

"Up again…"

Two.

"Once more."

Three.

The ground felt different, suddenly—less smooth and sure. Almost like…

"Cobblestone?" Harvey asked, noting that their path had ceased being straight and started to wind in gentle S curves.

"We're almost there."

Plants brushed his trouser legs, slightly damp with dew, and after a few more turns and stairs, they at last came to a stop.

"Okay, stay right there."

For the first time since this mad endeavor began, Gilda released his hands. He felt her sweep behind him and push him forward—he was so alarmed he nearly fell on his face—and then she said, "Don't move."

The blindfold came undone in Gilda's hands. Harvey blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the just-past-twilight darkness.

In front of him stood a stone gazebo amidst the Gotham Cathedral gardens that he recognized immediately. In every windowsill a single lit candle stood, and within its walls, there was a blanket spread on the floor, held down by an ice bucket, chilling a bottle of champagne.

Harvey turned to ask Gilda a question, and lost his voice. The little red wraparound number she was wearing wasn't very dressy, and it didn't show much skin, but she'd obviously taken great care in picking it out for the way it fit her curves alone.

She looked at him, obviously amused by his stunned silence. "Yes?"

"I…uh…" Harvey cleared his throat. "What are we celebrating?"

Gilda took his hand and pulled him into the gazebo. "Your impending victory."

He started to protest but she put a hand over his mouth.

"Don't give me some garbage about jinxing it. You know I don't believe in luck," she said sternly, softening her words by pecking him on the cheek. "Besides, how could you lose? You've got Moroni dead to rights."

"That's what they said about Tony Zucco, too," he mumbled from behind her hand.

"Ah," she replied, snaking her arms around his neck, "but the brilliant legal mind of my husband wasn't on thatcase."

He sighed, "Gilda."

"The brilliant, handsomelegal mind of my husband."

"I'm pretty sure my brain isn't handsome."

"I say it is." She kissed him lightly. "Champagne?"

"I shouldn't. The trial starts tomorrow morning at nine, I have to be in the office by six thirty and out of the house by five—"

"Yeah, which is why I'm doing this." She let him go and scooped up the bottle, grabbing one of the champagne flutes that had been hiding behind the bucket. "The most I'm going to see of you for the next few weeks will be a flutter of subpoenas and a walking stack of legal books on his way out the door every morning. Also, all the dirty socks and underwear you'll leave behind on the bathroom floor."

Harvey stayed silent as she poured him a glass. It was true; he'd be out of the house just as she woke up and back from the office shortly before she'd go to bed, and who knew how long it would take for the trial to drag itself out. This might be the last time for a long time that they'd get to spend more than ten minutes together.

"Now," she said, offering him the glass full of crystal clear fizz. "Champagne?"