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The realisation that Harley’s left him here to die isn’t a slow one. Unlike most things, it dawns on John as soon as the gunfire starts. There’s no one quite as surprised as him when he’s the one to end up surrounded by corpses.
The gun slips out of John’s hands unbidden and there’s no pain to register as he crashes to his knees. Shoot first and ask questions later seems to be the extent of what these agents have been taught. No questions come as John fights through a fit of laughter, even if he’s dry-heaving seconds later.
Harley’s disappearing act is a familiar one by now, just not one that’s been quite as urgently heartbreaking before. It’s betrayal that makes John grab onto an agent and shake hard, all desperate pleas and erratic movements that he can’t recognise as his own. Someone must still be holding onto their last breath around here somewhere.
John’s hands are sticky with blood, it’s all over him, soaking into his shirt. God, it’s everywhere. He’s going to drown in it. He’s sure of it.
His grip tightens on the agent’s shoulders and he thinks he might’ve seen the man before. It’s hard to tell, lots of people in suits have been hanging around lately, they tend to get indistinct after a point -- a blurry mass now bleeding out on the floor of an abandoned funhouse. John shivers without really knowing why.
It’s nothing like what he’s seen on the little TV in Arkham’s rec room. John’s fought for his life and ended up with nothing but trust that keeps eluding him and a definitive lost chance at love. He’d been so unbearably close.
But Harley had bolted, twice in one day. John rubs at his black eye with the back of his hand and relishes in the dull ache. He’s here, it’s all real.
It’s all real. John’s powerless to stop more laughter from wrecking his body.
He can't go back to Arkham. It’s the one thought that remains crystal clear in John’s mind, a beacon shoved with all the scuttling shadows. Nothing’s wrong as long as he doesn’t go back to Arkham. He can go on like this. He’s going to fix this before Bruce gets here.
Except John comes to find he can’t move and there are already footsteps approaching. He hopes against hope that it’s Harley coming back. She’d be impressed, she might even regret leaving him behind, like she should, like she will if John ever gets out of here. He can almost see it now, the distorted mirror version of the two of them on top of the world.
It doesn’t help. John’s still alone with a warm corpse in his arms, trying to breathe through laughter than sounds like sobs.
The footsteps stop somewhere behind him and John springs up with a flutter of sheer panic, caught somewhere in the middle of making excuse that fall on the deaf ears of an ex-agent.
“Take a deep breath, John. Just calm down,” is what Bruce says, like he actually thinks John’s capable of it. It’s a nice thought, it makes him want to try it.
The exercises Dr. Leland’s showed him don’t help but they don’t make it any worse either. John supposes there’s nothing that can drown out the sheer terror of Bruce’s disappointment, suffocating like the heartbreak.
But this feels a bit like heartbreak too. Bruce claims to understand but as he allows John to stumble his way through an explanation that makes little sense to himself, he finds that they’re on the threshold of something much bigger than either of them. Something that’s going to swallow John whole.
There’s betrayal here too. John wants nothing more than for Bruce to do what Harley did, to show him once and for all that it’s over and he can finally rest easy in the knowledge that he’s lost it all. He stands there, waiting for the next great wound, and gets nothing but Bruce’s clumsy attempts at comfort.
John keeps pushing, bitter with pain and the loss of the little life he’s built for himself out here. He knows what Bruce is, what he can be -- the Bat built with the fire he’d spotted back in Arkham. The lies have to stop somewhere, he wants it desperately to be here.
Logic takes a break in the Bonus Brothers Carnival and Bruce admits it all. John stares, gunshots and screams ringing in his ears endlessly, and nearly cries with relief.
He prods one last time, not as careful as he could’ve been, and asks for trust. Bruce’s trust, John comes to understand in the nerve-wracking seconds it takes Bruce to decide, is as important as stopping Harley.
John breathes like he’s forgotten how to do it and takes Bruce’s extended hand as all the invitation he needs to pull him close.
Maybe they’ve passed that threshold all the same. John tries to burrow deep in Bruce’s chest, safe for this one moment, nevermind that he’s getting blood on a shirt that undoubtedly costs more money than John’s ever seen and the promise of having to talk about this hangs dangerously in the air.
An apology dies on John’s tongue as he pulls back. He’s taken too much, he’s always too much, Bruce is going to turn him in and--
“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Bruce gets out and John’s world shatters again.
Something pulses beneath the fear clenching around John’s heart. It’s not what he’s felt for Harley at all. He doesn’t even notice he’s talking until it’s over. John really is overcome.
“You’re okay, just breathe.”
Bruce’s words cut through the fog threatening to cover him and John nods, jerky as if it’s beyond his control. He feels warm arms wrap around him. Bruce is hugging him. John wonders whether he deserves it and throws himself into it with everything he’s got. Something shifts into place just like that.
It’s only when what must be a kiss is pressed to the top of his head that John gasps softly and breaks the spell. His eyes are still wet as he looks up at Bruce.
“Can I kiss you too?” John asks, feeling stupid. It’s not an uncommon occurrence.
Bruce’s smile makes a shaky, unsure appearance. All thoughts of friendship are instantly forgotten as John gives in to one last impulse. He can’t believe he’s never seen it before.
John leans up, the air thick with things long left unsaid, and kisses Bruce. It’s nothing more than a quick peck that must speak of both fragility and a distinct lack of experience. It means the world to John.
Bruce cups the back of his head, it’s all the reassurance John needs. Nothing’s been ruined, only slightly rearranged.
“We should get going,” John suggests, soft and regretful. They’re running out of time.
It’s fine. They’ve made it this far, John thinks hope alone might carry them the rest of the way.