Chapter Text
“Are you happy here?” Bruce’s voice is soft, and the uncertainty laced within it is unfamiliar and jarring.
John brings his eyes away from the book to look up at the other man. There’s a moment where he’s not sure how to answer -- the answer is yes, desperately so, he becomes so overwhelmed with the joy he's so unused to that he’s not sure how to process it. He is happy when Bruce takes him to too-bright charity balls to proudly announce that he is still no longer a bachelor, he is happy when Bruce traces his fingers against his lips in the dim light of the slow weekend mornings, he is happy when they are sitting, just as they are, in the library, quiet but present.
He remembers the way Bane’s fingers would flip pages filled with philosophical idealizations, and a cold fear grips his chest.
“I’m happy with you,” John answers, and he knows that Bruce is aware of the word change. He knows that Bruce is aware of what it means. “I love you,” he asserts, and Bruce looks like he’s also all-too unused to happiness, a look of vulnerable surprise flitting across his face that is trying to be dampened.
John stands and crosses the distance between the two armchairs. Bruce lifts his arms as an invitation, and John sits, curling himself into something small on the man’s chest. His head rests on Bruce’s shoulder, and he closes his eyes. “I love you,” he repeats, and he means it.
“Love you, too,” Bruce responds, and it draws happiness from John’s chest, painful and never-ending.
John first meets Bruce Wayne when he's sixteen years old. Wayne is something of a legend at the orphanage, spoken about in reverent whispers. Father Reilly permits it, despite the rumors that inevitably form ("I heard he has access to the President's bunker", "He has so many cars that he can use one for each day of the month", "Did you know that he can buy all of Gotham and still have money left over?", and, the most discussed of all, "Bruce Wayne is the Batman"). John thinks it's because they don't have many chances for a role model like Bruce Wayne. Everyone knows orphans don't get those opportunities -- but Wayne gives them the hope they’ll need when they’re pushed out of the system.
Wayne strolls into St. Swithin’s on August 23rd, at 2:45 in the afternoon. John isn't the only one who can remember the date -- it's engraved in their minds, all of theirs, even the youngest ones. Wayne rolls up in a car that is out of place on the street with a beautiful woman on his arm and drops the largest donation the church has seen since the Waynes donating were Thomas and Martha.
His breath hitches in his throat when Wayne is generally introduced to the group of boys, who're staring at the billionaire with a mix of awe and reverence. There's a smile on Wayne's face -- but it's an edge too wide, an edge too stiff, and John can see through it like crystal. Suddenly, clarity overwhelms him: Bruce Wayne is the Batman. Bruce Wayne wears the mask.
When Wayne goes down the steps back to his car, there's something that compels John to chase after him. He stands on the bottom step in front of the orphanage, heart in his throat when Wayne opens his car door.
"Mr. Wayne!" he suddenly calls. He is aware that his voice is high-pitched and young, but it's too late now. Wayne turns, an eyebrow raising. John pauses, not sure of what to say -- he hadn't expected to call out to him, and he definitely didn't expect Wayne to actually turn around. He takes in a steadying breath. "Thank you," he finally says, a bit lamely. "For everything," John adds. For giving us hope. For protecting Gotham. For looking out for the ones at the bottom. For everything.
Wayne stops, his expression opening into surprise. After a moment, he smiles -- really, actually smiles, which is blinding and makes John's heart speed into overdrive -- and steps forward. He's taller than John, even when he's on a step lower, and he ruffles John's mess of dark hair. "You're welcome," he responds, and the sound vibrates in John's chest. John doesn't move for a long time, his hand hovering over the tingling on his scalp, even after Wayne drives around the corner and is long gone.
Wayne doesn't become Bruce, not for a long time. Not for twelve years. John is hesitant to use it -- here, in the aftermath of things, after the events of the League of Shadows, after he knows Bruce is alive, after he's mourned his death for a year, after he's put the mask on night after night, and he's still hesitant to use it.
Bruce, a dead man resurrected, walks into Wayne Manor-turned-orphanage, kids staring with the same awe that John had when he was sixteen, and John feels the name hammer into his heart.
"Mr. Wayne," John decides to say instead. Bruce looks tanned, healthy, happy, but determined. John knows what he's determined to do.
"Is Alfred in?" Bruce asks, and John nods.
Alfred drops the platter onto the ground and breaks two teacups and gives Bruce an extremely long lecture about recklessness and letting the suit control him and being a damn fool, then gives him a strong hug. Bruce hugs him back, and John has to firmly tell the boys that it's far past the curfew and it's lights out in ten.
"Does that apply to all orphans?" Bruce jokes, and John's voice gets stuck in his throat. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.
"I'll make an exception for you, Mr. Wayne," John manages to respond.
Bruce nods, laughing, and moves across the dining room with ease. His hand traces fabrics that John figures he thought he'd never see again before Bruce pauses at the door. "Call me Bruce, John. We're living together, you don't have to call me Mr. Wayne."
He exits the room then, and just like that, a twelve-year-long infatuation gets blown open into a heavy want.