'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.
They're mostly fleeting, moments like this. In real time, spread out flat like the page of an atlas, it's only a few hours between when they get inside the apartment and when everything goes to hell—again. But, it's not that simple, and it's difficult to categorize, and, like everything, nothing is as it seems.
John has the keys, and he unlocks the door, but Bruce crowds him, standing too far inside John's personal space to be ignored or downplayed. Then, John swings the door open, but, instead of walking in, he turns, looks over his shoulder, and smirks—and Bruce pushes him forward with the palm of his hand, closing and re-locking the heavy door behind them, sealing them inside, if only for a little while.
His memory is good, and he's almost always able to reconstruct events with few to no gaps, replay and examine them and pick them apart into tiny, miniscule pieces that, by themselves, are almost meaningless. Sometimes, it's painful. Sometimes, that's just the way of things.
This moment won't be like that, though, not at all—light on the bitter with the sweet like heavy cream in his mouth, coating everything, a backwash that paints it all shades lighter than it really was, a smooth glaze on reality that makes him think to himself at one point, clear as day, "But, it's led me here, now. . . "
John makes to head to the bedroom, but Bruce steers him towards the bathroom instead. He hates that bed, and he'd have John on the floor if he weren't such a wreck himself, but water is splitting the difference. Under water, everything seems cleaner and brighter, happier maybe. He'd like them to be happy.
John's easy to strip. His coat and shoes and socks disappear like a magic trick, his shirt coming off with just raised arms and his pants sliding down slowly, pushed down with index fingers, thumbs, and that smirk again—a striptease just for him, and Bruce smiles.
He's more difficult. Getting himself undressed these days often requires a stationary position and a second pair of hands, which right now runs the risk of somewhat killing the mood. There's still the bandage to worry about and, after the "run," the modestly repaired brace as well. So, by tacit agreement, they wait until they're inside the bathroom itself, and then Bruce leans back against the sink and vanity, and John stands in front of him.
"Let's get you undressed, Mr. Wayne," he says, and it's deadpan, making Bruce cock up an eyebrow. So that's how he's going to play it?
"Thank you, Nurse Blake," he replies in the same blank tone of voice, apparently catching John off guard because he snorts—before dropping to his knees and going to work on Bruce's shoes. It's impossible to resist, so he offers quietly, "While you're down there. . . "
John just huffs out another laugh, shaking his head as his fingers unknot the laces. Then, it's a tug to Bruce's left, a tug to his right, shoes and socks pulled off and flung away, and suddenly John's fingers are curled around the elastic waistband of the pants Bruce is wearing, and he's on the floor kneeling, completely nude, and still smirking.
That one's going in the memory bank, that moment like a snapshot.
"See if we can't get you into something a little more comfortable," John says, and it's light but quiet. Then, with one careful pull of his hands, he strips Bruce from the waist down completely—well, almost completely. His eyes a foot too low for Bruce's liking, John says, voice suddenly too loud in the small space, "What the hell is that?"
"Just a knee brace."
John's eyes dart up to his face, his eyebrows high and his mouth compressed into a thin line of—what, disapproval, confusion? Bruce isn't positive what all is encapsulated in that expression, just that's it overwhelmingly unfavorable. And it'd been going so well.
John drops his eyes, stares at the brace a couple seconds more, and then comes to some sort of a decision because he pushes lightly on first Bruce's left leg, getting him to lift his foot so the pants and underwear can be pulled away, and then his right.
"So, does it come off?" John then asks, and it's a completely different reaction than Bruce had anticipated, had readied himself to address and navigate around.
It catches him by surprise, a little.
"Yeah," he eventually answers, "it can but doesn't have to." Again, John's looking up and meeting his eyes, so Bruce adds, "Sure makes standing and walking a hell of a lot easier." John apparently hears the unspoken "as well as other activities" after that because he cracks another smile and gets back up on his feet.
"Glad to hear it," he then offers Bruce, equal parts sincere and teasing. Next, though, it's the battle of the shirt, and there's no adrenaline now to soften the strain and stress of lifting his arms, and bending forward presents its own set of problems, namely residual pain from his back and unwanted pressure on the stab wound. They've got a system though, and not for the first time Bruce thinks he really needs to get some shirts that zip, button, or snap up the front, just so they don't have to go through this every time he wants to change clothes.
John carefully rolls the bottom of the shirt up until it's just below Bruce's arms and shoulder blades, and then, as Bruce ducks his head, John quickly pulls the shirt forward towards himself, over and off, and then he slides it down Bruce's arms—no fuss, no muss, just a little dent in his pride and vanity, but that never really hurt anyone. Bruce has no delusions about the state he's in, physically, can't afford to.
He could still, even as he is, take down just about anybody, many people if it came right down to it. He might not make it out alive afterward or be able to move, but he can do it. And, with the way things are going, it's likely to come to that.
Bruce reaches out, slides his arm around John's waist, his hand low on his back. He pulls him closer, and John lets himself be led, moved. It becomes almost a game between them. Bruce next stands up straight, sliding to the side and walking backwards to the tub, tugging John along with him. He reaches back behind and fumbles for the knobs, cranking the left for any hot water there might be in the building. And there is, shockingly enough, steam bursting up around them like a smoke machine.
"Wait," John says suddenly, a hand on Bruce's waist just below the hole there. His palm feels heavier, hotter than normal, significant. "Should wrap that up. Not supposed to get stitches wet, right?"
Bruce pulls him closer, and he has to bend down just a little, just a few inches. It's easy to kiss John, easier still to make it count, give it meaning and feeling. It's always easier and simpler without words. Bruce just kind of hates talking; it needlessly complicates things.
Warm, slick with sweat and steam, smooth and scarred and pocked, hard and unforgiving, and Bruce doesn't make him work for it, just gives everything he can, pulls him along.
"It's fine," he eventually says, responding to John's distracted attempt at taking care of him. "They're due out in a couple days. Water won't hurt them now." Then he dives back in for more, just as he drags his arms up to John's shoulders and braces himself there enough to step back into the tub. The hot water is already disappearing slowly but surely. No more steam, but there's still some warmth to it. He's connected to John just with his mouth and his hands, and when John goes to climb in the tub with Bruce, he slips a little, his left foot sliding along the porcelain.
"Fuck!" John says, pulling back with a deep laugh that covers his whole face, his entire body, making him loose and relaxed and sloppy, showing that he's. . .
It's uncomfortable and foolish, but nonetheless Bruce quickly pulls John forward and spins him around, pushing him back against the cracked and slightly mildewed tile of Selina's shower—and, Christ, she's going to just laugh her head off when she gets back and sees them—and then he reaches back and slides the rolling shower door shut with a muted bang. He presses himself flush against John and just takes everything, his mouth, his hands, his cock, his leg between Bruce's own. He takes it and keeps it and locks it all away to unfurl again some other moment when it will seem like he has all the time in the world.
John grabs him, just locks his hand firmly around Bruce's dick and slides, pulls, tugs, and that's a great idea, so he braces himself against the wall with one arm and finds John with the other. The difference in height works to John's advantage then because he latches onto Bruce's neck with his mouth, lips, definitely teeth, and all Bruce can do is pant into John's hair and twist a little on the down stroke with his hand.
"Oh, Jesus," John breathes into his neck, and that's hilarious for some reason, so Bruce smiles and waits, waits, waits and does it again a few seconds later. John's left hand, the one not currently busy manhandling Bruce's cock, is resting against Bruce's back, and it was okay for a little while, but he finds it distracting the longer it stays there, low, unmoving, light—too careful. It bugs him, so he shifts his weight slightly from his right leg to his left, and John must get the hint because he moves his hand higher up around Bruce's shoulder and then his neck, and then John's pulling Bruce's face down, not so he can kiss him—just to look him in the eye as he comes in a burst of wet heat over Bruce's hand.
It was fast, and now it's slow, and Bruce closes his eyes when he gets close. It just rolls right over him, nice and smooth, and he lets his forehead fall against John's as he simply lets go.
"Fucking hot water," is the first thing either of them says afterward, and it's John, and that's when Bruce notices that, yes, the last traces of warmth are long gone, and what's left is fast approaching glacial in temperature.
Bruce says back, "Soap," and John gives him this look like he's insane and irritating and adorable all at once. And Bruce smiles back.
Hours later, John's left to go check things around the neighborhood, and Bruce is working on some modifications to the equipment John and Selina had retrieved from the bunker out at the docks, when there's suddenly a knock on the front door of the apartment.
Bruce gets up from the floor in front of the sofa and coffee table, careful to avoid stepping on any of the pieces laying around. Just before he makes it to the door, the knocking abruptly starts again, and that tells him a few things—clearly impatient, obviously not John or Selina, likely someone young, perhaps one of the boys from the home John looks out for.
And when Bruce actually peers out the peephole, a combination of strange feelings rises up. Two young boys at the door he's unlocking and answering makes him think of John and Alfred, and it's almost wistful.
He would have loved taking care of John.
Bruce pulls the door in and studies the boys a little, and they seem to study him in return.
"Yes?" he then asks politely, when neither opens his mouth to say anything.
"Uh," and that's the one on Bruce's left, medium height, maybe 10 or 11, pale, smart eyes, "is John here?"
What's going on? If these two aren't messengers from John but are instead looking for him, why come here? Or, alternatively, who is the sender if not John?
Bruce has a very bad feeling about this.
"No," he says in response to the kid's question, "I'm afraid he's out in the neighborhood somewhere." Bruce waits a moment, watching as their expressions fall and they shift from one foot to the other, and then he adds, just in case this is a test of him, of this mysterious guy answering the door they'd expected John to answer, "Have you tried any of the shelters yet? I'm sure people actually out there have a better idea than I where John's helping out."
Judging from the way the second kid looks at the first, Bruce passes the test, but there's still some kind of problem because they're not leaving. They are, in fact, now looking closer at Bruce—and that is not good. This is a beautiful example of why he shouldn't answer the door.
He needs some sort of disguise. . .
"Was there something else?" Bruce then asks, moving the door open a little more in a mild show of trustworthiness—not too far because with these two that would likely send up predator vibes but just a couple inches wider, enough so he doesn't look like he's trying to hide most of his face behind the wood.
"Well, uh, yeah," says Boy Number One, and he's fidgety but meets Bruce's eyes a couple times, "we're s'posed to tell John here, uh." He shares another look with his friend then goes on, saying, "She was pretty clear on that." Back to looking at Bruce, the apparent spokesman of the two thankfully clarifies, telling him, "We're s'posed to tell John Blake at this address because he'll be here, but if he's not, then I don't know. . . " He finishes with a shrug.
Bruce blinks then smiles, relaxing his body and leaning against the doorframe. "Selina sent you, right?" he is careful to ask, not state. He's already certain, but if they're smart, then these two are still suspicious of him, and sometimes being harmless is faster and easier than being terrifying. Not to mention, they're two kids.
Sure enough, both laughably release huge sighs of relief, and Bruce just nods in agreement. The next part's tricky, though. He can't seem too eager, but if he plays it wrong. . .
"If it makes you feel any better," he says with a slight smirk, "I won't tell if you go find John and give him the message wherever he's at." He waits a beat then adds, "Selina can be a hardass sometimes. . . " And it's all about the tone of voice. He thinks he pulled it off, but then these are not only kids but likely street kids, maybe not even John's. Maybe Selina has her own set of underage runners.
Bruce is again reminded of why solitude is so much easier. There's none of this constant planning and playacting when it's just him and Alfred. And he's grown almost spoiled here with Selina and John, hasn't had to mask or fake anything since they started this almost two weeks ago.
He keeps looking at the boys, and they keep looking at him, and this is the deciding moment. To them, does he look like someone Selina trusts, or is he another in a slew of bad guys? Maybe he's the guy Selina'd been trying to avoid in getting them to go to John first. Maybe he hits Selina or, Christ, maybe these kids are thinking Bruce is her pimp. Maybe he's a cop or a dirty cop or a mark she's blackmailing. Waiting here, waiting while these children assess him is less nerve-wracking though than frustrating and—worrisome.
Why is it she hadn't just come herself? What's keeping her away? It's nearing dusk, less than an hour away, and Selina sends out two kids, never mind how capable or clever they may be, instead of coming herself. This is serious, and Bruce doesn't think they have time for games like these where he puts on his bland, safe, innocent front and tries to trick a couple of kids into seeing he's not the same garbage they're used to encountering around here.
He wants to quit the act, but can he afford to? If he pushes it too far, they'll just run off and tell John, and it could very well be hours until Bruce finds out what the hell is going on and what's happened to Selina.
The two boys are trying to communicate with each other silently with a series of nods and jerks of the head and exaggerated facial expressions, but when Boy Number One finally turns back to look at him—he drops the mask.
"What's happened?" he asks them point-blank, and as he'd expected they're a little taken aback by the change but not nearly as much as some would be, he'd wager. It's hard to resist analyzing them, checking the columns and figuring them out. Normally, it'd be something to distract himself with while he fakes nice, a way to keep his mind busy so this exact scenario doesn't occur.
"She, uh," and this time it's Boy Number Two, darker, shorter, quieter. He's the one to watch out for, and he's looking at Bruce a certain way that probably isn't safe for either of them, but it's Bruce's own fault. "She got hurt," he says. "Doc said it was just some jerks tryin' for scares, but– but I don't think so." He swallows, still meeting Bruce's eyes steadily.
"You don't think so, huh?" he repeats, letting his breath out slowly. He's still leaning against the doorframe of the apartment, but neither kid is fooled, and it's a lost cause anyway, so he straightens up into a more comfortable stance. "Doesn't happen that often, does it?" he asks, rhetorically. Then he huffs a laugh, thinking of a certain party where a certain someone stole something of his right in front of him—again. "Usually, she's the one coming out on top." He waits a second, saying, "Am I right?"
Both kids nod, the second one before the first, and now it's crunch time. "She was hurt? By whom? Where? Where can I find this scumbag?"
It's a risk but a calculated one. He's shown he knows her, knows John, is comfortable hanging around her place when she's not here, and is concerned and angry about what's happened, whatever that might be exactly. Details will come later. Right now, these kids know something, and he's going to find out what.
"She's over at Doc Thompkins'," Boy Number One confides, "that one near the train on, uh," and he looks at Boy Number Two for help.
"110th," Boy Number Two supplies quietly.
"And what exactly is the message you're supposed to give John?" he asks, going in for the kill.
They look at him, and it's scary what he sees there.
"Said to," and here the first boy uses air quotes, which are never not absurdly amusing, "'keep a close eye on the place. Bad guys in the neighborhood.'"
He drops his eyes down. The boys are both wearing tennis shoes, and they're not damp, not even the soles, and they've also got coats but not especially heavy ones and with no hats or gloves. The light is vanishing outside; night's all but here.
"Thank you," he finally says, ignoring Boy Number Two opening his mouth to say something or ask a question he doesn't want to answer. "You should get back now, though—not safe out there."
Then he pushes the door closed and turns around and goes into Selina's bedroom and over to the safe she keeps tucked back in her closet. He taps in the combination sequence, pulls open the door of the safe, and the parts are still there waiting for him.