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Bruce drove past the Presbyterian church with the blood-red brick and the steeple that cut into the horizon like a knife.
Harvey had been a devout Presbyterian, and Bruce went there with Harvey one summer.
Sometimes in church, Harvey would look over at Bruce and smirk like you believe this? That smirk made Bruce want to crawl inside his skin. Bruce wanted to ask Harvey if he believed, if so, what he believed, and how Bruce's life fit into Harvey's relationship with God.
Bruce never did.
Bruce had liked religion the way he liked driving. Bruce turned, savoring the buttery leather of the steering wheel beneath his palms, delighting in the smooth rhythms, how the seamless motions meant everything fell into place the same every time, every turn the same but new. He enjoyed the rush to make it to church on time, the ushers smiling at him, the waves and smiles from Harvey, the powerful chords of the organ. He loved the steady reassurance of hymns, the unchanging, solid Bible, the notes he took picking apart the pastor’s sermon (looking back, he was cruel), the talks with Harvey after the service, and, best of all, how it repeated every Sunday. Sola fide, sola gratia. By faith alone, by grace alone.
He doesn’t believe anymore.
That was the summer he was eighteen. He had just gotten his trust fund; he was a legal adult; he could vote and make a difference in Gotham. The future was a wide open road in front of Bruce. He and Harvey got up to what Alfred called ‘shenanigans’ with a sniff. They snuck into a bar but were too terrified to partake. Harvey had a summer internship with Gotham U’s law library, and they broke in after hours just to see if they could.
The head librarian’s ballet flats were muffled on the cheap carpet, so Bruce almost didn’t hear her until it was too late. He yanked on Harvey’s arm, pointed, and then the two made a mad dash towards the window, wiggled through it, and ran. They stopped running in the Bowery. Two young men—still boys, really—in button-ups and khakis in one of the worst areas of Gotham. A woman with her eyebrows painted on and what could be politely described as a plunging neckline side-eyed them and then made the sign of the cross.
He and Harvey had laughed until they were breathless, Harvey’s eyes crinkling at the corners.
Bruce only ever believed in God when Harvey smiled at him.
They haven't talked in years. Bruce worked to put Harvey in jail.
Bruce was on the street behind the church now. The steeple was topped by a cross with a crown of thorns just visible when the sunlight caught it.
The crown of thorns. Once upon a time, Bruce had been a good little Christian boy in the pews of the Episcopal church every Sunday because he remembered it was what Father wanted. In Conformation class, he had learned Protestant churches were plain because of the Reformation. But the stark white walls, towering ceiling, dark wood pews, and the stained glass windows that blocked any sunlight forced him to think of the plight of Job, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the seven plagues of Egypt, and all those other great and terrible horrors. Original sin. Humans are inherently evil, and thus cannot escape evil and suffering in the world.
Bruce wasn’t good enough to be unbothered by Harvey’s disfigured face, but with time he could have gotten over it. He loved when Harvey would say a snide comment with a crooked smirk. The furrow between his brows Harvey made when he was engrossed in learning. The determined set to his jaw when talking about how the law could be used to better Gotham. Harvey’s lips quirked up when the little kids at the vacation Bible school station he directed told him long, rambling stories. Harvey said he had problems sleeping at home, and his long eyelashes dusted his cheeks when he fell asleep studying at Bruce’s. Bruce used to give Harvey good-natured jabs that it made him look like a sickly Victorian maiden. He liked Harvey’s face because he liked Harvey.
But Harvey didn't want to hear that from Bruce; he wanted to hear that from Della, his fiance, and his father.
Della claimed she dumped Harvey because he became a criminal, but Harvey claimed it was of his disfigurement. Della tried to use Bruce as a pawn when Harvey and Della argued, but she never became a criminal, so Bruce didn’t know who to believe.
There was no kindness in Christoper Dent.
DENT & DAVENPORT: INJURY LAWYERS screamed a faded, peeling billboard. Harvey’s father—that bastard—looked down with that distaining, tight smile he always had. In hindsight, it was all too obvious. How could he have missed it? He and Harvey were talking on AOL almost every night. They were hanging out around three times a week. How did he overlook it? He was talking to Harvey about his parents’ death. Harvey never even had somebody to open up to. If only Bruce had been a good friend, he would have noticed, he would have made sure Harvey received help, he would have rescued Harvey from there, and maybe they wouldn’t be here. Or not. Harvey had been the first person to call Bruce out on his narcissistic tendencies, and Della was the first person to call him out on his savior complex.
If Harvey called him up today and said he needed help, Bruce would do it. He doesn’t know what that says about him.
Bruce only has one picture of them together because he was young and stupid and foolish and thought things would stay the same forever. Harvey’s grinning ear to ear—which he can never do now—one hand on the steering wheel, still wearing the crumpled suit he brought the mustard yellow, beat-up Cadillac in. He had finally saved up enough of his own money to buy it. Bruce is in the passenger seat, smirking, in his stupid all-black clothes and guyliner, hair full of flyaways. That car. The bumpy ride because of the shitty suspension, the musty interior, the stuffing spilling out from rips in the upholstery, Harvey driving with a wide smile. That tinny theme song. Turn away from sin. Turn away from sin was a line in the theme song of Harvey’s Confirmation videos. For an unexplainable reason Harvey found the theme song hilarious, so he somehow managed to track down a cassette tape of it to play in the Cadillac. Original sin. Sola fide, sola gracia. Presbyterian duality. Turn away from sin. Harvey knew he had a choice. The preacher had been telling him that since he could sit through a church service.
How could Harvey choose hate? How could he do that to Della? How could Harvey choose evil when he knew what evil had done to Bruce? How could his friend do that to him? How could Harvey choose hate with what it had done to Harvey?
Still, Bruce has that summer’s moments of simple, uplifting joy. He remembers what it was like to be joyful, hopeful. What it was like to look at Harvey and think maybe things will be okay. Maybe someday he’ll feel hopeful again or, better yet, he'll make someone feel hopeful.