[Look. Just because that's probably true doesn't mean you need to say it, Harley. He didn't crawl his way out of his grave to get psychoanalyzed, thanks!!!
In particular—he scoffs sharply at savior complex, like she's said something pretty funny. But the thing is, he lived in places like this as a kid. Sometimes you holed up and fell asleep to the backdrop of gunshots and shouting and just had to hope it didn't come around to you. Sometimes you weren't that lucky. So, y'know. Personal reference enough.
Apparently unconcerned with the state of his emotional health, he shrugs. Though it's enough to earn her a longer look. It's dark, just barely enough reflected light from the walls and the windows and the sky to get the gist. He doesn't recognize her, he's sure. But there's something about the airs. (It's the accent, mostly. Right neck of the woods for nostalgia. He'd been away from Gotham for a long while, even before he ended up here.)
Either way, he seems to settle on ditching the knocking entirely in favor of getting the lay of the land. Like any well-adjusted guy his age who definitely doesn't need psychoanalyzing, he keeps a set or two of lockpicks stashed in the lining of his jacket. He fishes for one in his sleeve. And as he does, conversationally—]
Maybe I just like trouble.
[(This...does not rule out the poor emotional health.) But hey, maybe he's just taking advantage of the commotion. Maybe nosiness is just its own reward. You don't know.]
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In particular—he scoffs sharply at savior complex, like she's said something pretty funny. But the thing is, he lived in places like this as a kid. Sometimes you holed up and fell asleep to the backdrop of gunshots and shouting and just had to hope it didn't come around to you. Sometimes you weren't that lucky. So, y'know. Personal reference enough.
Apparently unconcerned with the state of his emotional health, he shrugs. Though it's enough to earn her a longer look. It's dark, just barely enough reflected light from the walls and the windows and the sky to get the gist. He doesn't recognize her, he's sure. But there's something about the airs. (It's the accent, mostly. Right neck of the woods for nostalgia. He'd been away from Gotham for a long while, even before he ended up here.)
Either way, he seems to settle on ditching the knocking entirely in favor of getting the lay of the land. Like any well-adjusted guy his age who definitely doesn't need psychoanalyzing, he keeps a set or two of lockpicks stashed in the lining of his jacket. He fishes for one in his sleeve. And as he does, conversationally—]
Maybe I just like trouble.
[(This...does not rule out the poor emotional health.) But hey, maybe he's just taking advantage of the commotion. Maybe nosiness is just its own reward. You don't know.]