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Harvey throws himself down on his bed in Wayne Manor with a loud, dramatic sigh. He runs his hands through his hair - one side thick, the other thinning and wiry. Bruce leans his shoulder against the doorway and raises his eyebrows, "I take it the job interview didn't go so well."
"No," Harvey grunts. He sits up, his shoulders tensing, "When I walked in they asked if I was going to rob the place and then all through the interview I had a security guard standing beside me."
Bruce purses his lips. Some people in Gotham may never accept the new, reformed Harvey and it twisted his gut into a deep anger. "Harv, I have plenty of money, you could just--"
"No, no. I need to get out and be productive. It's good for my mental health," he insists. Harvey dabs the saliva that was pooling in his exposed jaw with a handkerchief and turns his face away in shame.
Bruce's face softens at the sight of his old friend in such turmoil. "I was actually just about to hit the gym, if you want to join me."
Harvey glares at him in disbelief.
Bruce looks down at his full suit which completely gave away his lie. "Okay, so maybe I was going to a board meeting, but you're my friend, Harv. I'd do anything for you."
"I don't know..."
Bruce tilts his head, "Come on."
With an apprehensive smirk, Harvey follows Bruce in to the fully equipped gym of Wayne Manor. He didn't know what he expected, honestly.
"Have you ever worked out before?" Bruce asks.
Harvey eyes the huge amount of weight added to the bench press and every other weight training machine, "Uhh, just half of me."
Bruce fights back a smile, but the smile wins. When Harvey catches wind, it turns in to a fully fledged laugh. It felt good to laugh together again.
"There should be some gym clothes in the closet. We're about the same size," Bruce says as he searches his way through variations of Dick's extravagant work out clothes to get to a simple pair of basketball shorts and a tank top. He tosses them to Harvey. "Suit up."
Harvey quickly gets changed, leaving his other clothes in a messy heap on the floor. He can't keep his eyes off his reflection and he visibly cringes. His whole left shoulder was burned and scarred - somewhat from the acid, and somewhat from the amount of skin grafts they needed in an attempt to repair his face. It had failed to make him look anything like normal, of course. He swallows, but it only makes his face look more grotesque as tendons and muscles move without the cover of skin and his exposed yellowing teeth grind against each other.
"Lookin' good, Harv," Bruce remarks as he swaggers himself in to the room in his normal playboy fashion.
Harvey rolls his eyes (his one good eye) at Bruce and takes in his form; his shirtless, only-wearing-sneakers-and-shorts form. He was physically fit - and not just for show, either. The muscles of his body were toned to perfection, the scars that ran under his pectoral muscles were not the only ones on his chest and a few bruises linger along his ribs. At Harvey's questioning look, Bruce answers, "Everybody has their kinks, what can I say? I like when girls--"
"Aaa, okay, okay. Fair enough," Harvey laughs, visibly cringing.
"I keep forgetting you haven't seen me with a flat chest," Bruce says, urging the other forward.
Harvey takes a few uncertain steps towards Bruce and places his hands on his chest, gliding over the scars. "When did you have this done?"
"The first year you were in Arkham."
Harvey chews on the bad side of his lip, picking the dead skin off of it, "I can't believe I missed it. In college you researched the procedure so much, you could have practically performed it yourself."
"I developed my own technique to preserve blood flow and the nerves of the nipples when resizing them," Bruce admits.
"Of course you did," Harvey murmurs. He lets out a shaky breath, his hands lingering on the other's chest for far too long to be considered heterosexual and he knows that Bruce, the known strictly heterosexual playboy, sees it. His hands snap back to his side and he plays it off by shuffling his way over to a bench press. "So... who's going first?"
"Actually, I was thinking we might go jogging together around the house. It's a lovely trail through the gardens," Bruce suggests.
Harvey nods, "Alright. Lets do it."
Bruce leads Harvey out one of the many back doors and in to the garden of the Manor. The sun barely made its way through the many trees that cascaded their way out in to the acreage. Harvey stares in awe at the perfectly kept bushes and shrubs.
"Come on, then, Harv," Bruce says, nudging Harvey with his elbow and jogging on the spot, egging him on.
Harvey takes a deep breath and starts with a steady pace. Bruce strides along beside him with ease, his running form superior to Harvey's. They barely make it halfway around the Manor before Harvey has to slow down. Sweat was dripping in to his bad eye and stinging. His tender, acid-burnt skin was beginning to chafe and he already blistered easily. Half of the inside of his mouth was covered in ulcers from accidentally biting in to exposed skin and muscle in his sleep and panting through his mouth made them ache.
"I gotta stop," Harvey grunts. He rests his hands on his knees and attempts to catch his breath.
The playfulness leaves Bruce's body and is replaced with concern. Drool escapes from the side of Harvey's mouth and he disheartenedly wipes it away. His bad eye is blurry and he blinks what little bits of eyelids he has left together to try and clear it.
"What's wrong?" Bruce asks. He grips Harvey's shoulders and steps close.
"Half of my body is broken, Bruce," he murmurs, "Every morning when I wake up there's drool seeping in to my pillow, down my face, gunk in my eye, my foot aches, my wrist is tight and swollen, my--"
Bruce cups both of Harvey's cheeks in his coarse, but gentle hands. He can feel muscle move under the palm of his hand as Harvey speaks.
"If you're going to say some big--"
"I think you're handsome," Bruce says, adding a shy smile, "I... always have."
Harvey stares in disbelief, "You don't have to say it to be nice or anything."
"No, I do. I really do, Harv. You are living proof that there is the potential to be good in everyone and that mental illness is not a death sentence." Bruce shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest, "I guess I admire your strength."
Harvey smiles with the good side of his face, "Thank you, Bruce. It means a lot."
Bruce wordlessly slips his arm around his waist and walks beside him the rest of the way until they've completed their circuit. Their usual antics ensue on the trek around - both of them seemed to enjoy hearing the other laugh. Bruce fills Harvey in on all that he's missed and Harvey smiles dreamily, lost in a world where Bruce keeps his arm around his waist and they talk forever. They reach the door they came from and the warmth of Bruce leaves Harvey's side, which makes him more upset than he thought it would. Once they're inside Bruce gathers an ice pack from the freezer, wraps it in a cloth, and presses it to Harvey's cheek. "Here." Harvey leans in to the relief, savouring the tenderness.
"Thank you," he breathes.
Bruce gives him a smile, a wild idea brimming in his eyes. He gets that excited look in his face that Harvey had come to appreciate during their friendship. "Lets go to dinner together," Bruce says excitedly, uncharacteristically genuine, "I'll have Alfred tailor one of my suits to fit you."
Harvey laughs in disbelief, "Bruce, are you-- you're serious?"
"I have far too many suits for one man and I've bulked up considerably in the past years, I'm sure we can find something."
Before Harvey can object too much, Bruce tugs him along and in to the enormous room which Bruce called a wardrobe. Back in Harvey's old apartment, he had one or two drawers; it was quite the culture shock. He sits himself down on the padded bench - there was a bench in the wardrobe - and watches as Bruce, a man on a mission, sifts through perfectly labelled and arranged suits.
"Hmm," Bruce hums, holding up a navy suit against Harv, "What about this one?"
"Its my colour," he admits.
Bruce tosses the suit at him, "Try it on, then."
After a few moments of awkward staring, he gets on with it and dresses himself in whatever clothes Bruce tosses his way. Harvey catches himself in the mirror again and this time, surrounded by Bruce's scent, and dressed in a single colour - his colour - he feels whole. He sniffles, his eyes filling with tears from the sheer overwhelming notion that he was getting better.
"Look at you, Harvey," Bruce says, his arm around the other's waist again as they admire his reflection.
"You may think I'm handsome, but the others at the restaurant tonight won't think so," Harvey sighs, "Are you sure about this?"
Bruce pats his shoulder, "Of course I'm sure, Harv, I'll hire out the whole restaurant if it makes you more comfortable."