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It’s two AM, and the night air is warm and balmy. He and Harvey are sitting on the roof of Wayne Manor and talking about life.
They’re trading a bottle of scotch between them that Bruce stole out of his father’s liquor cabinet when Alfred wasn’t looking, though he has the feeling Alfred probably knows anyways. It’s already well on its way to being half empty.
Tomorrow, Bruce turns eighteen and officially inherits the vast wealth of his family’s fortune.
Harvey laughs, raucous and loud, at some dumb joke Bruce just said, and-- Bruce’s heart flutters a little inside, face heating. He blames the scotch, his head buzzing with the alcohol settling warmly in his stomach.
“You ever think about what you’re gonna do after school?” Harvey asks suddenly, turning to look at Bruce as he hands the bottle of scotch back. Their fingers brush and Bruce feels his heart leap into his throat without quite understanding why.
“Dunno,” Bruce answers noncommittally for lack of anything else to say, though that wasn’t to say he wasn’t doing anything . He sorely wanted to do something, that seed of injustice planted when his parents were shot dead growing like a weed since that fateful night until his heart felt fit to burst. He was full of restless energy, aimless and seemingly without purpose. Bruce wanted to fix Gotham, some nebulous need to make things right . Nothing he did as the last living face of Wayne Enterprises ever felt like enough . Bruce takes a deep pull from the bottle rather than risk all that rambling nonsense spilling from his tongue, relishing in the burn as the liquid slides down his throat.
Harvey scoffs when the bottle is handed back to him, knocking playfully against Bruce’s shoulder. “C’mon. Nothing? Really?”
At Bruce’s answering shrug, Harvey only laughs again, light and amused.
“I wanna make a difference,” Harvey declares emphatically, grip momentarily tightening around the neck of the bottle of scotch. “The whole of Gotham is crooked, y’know. I want to change that. I’ll prove to everyone who the dirty people are and get them put away for good.”
It’s an admirable goal, Bruce can admit to that much. He wonders how Harvey will manage it.
“I want to make right what--- what happened to you,” Harvey adds, quiet.
Bruce can feel the scotch inside of him humming as he looks back at Harvey, eyes locking. Bruce feels his throat constrict as his gaze slides down to Harvey’s lips before finally tearing away, an odd sense of guilt settling like a heavy stone inside him.
“I want that, too, Harv,” Bruce eventually replies, resolute as he looks out over the wide, murky expanse of the Wayne estate.
“You’re something else, Bruce,” Harvey says, and takes another swig from the bottle.
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It’s two AM, and the revelry of the Half Moon Club is slowly dying down with the steady approaching of last call.
“ Christ alive , Bruce, we thought you were dead !” Harvey says, voice booming as he crushes Bruce in bear hug with strength that always seemed more befitting of a linebacker than that of an up-and-coming aspiring prosecutor. It was something that always managed to catch Bruce off-guard for as long as he’d known Harvey, continously baffled by his broad shoulders and thick arms but unable to keep himself from staring whenever he thought Harvey wasn’t looking.
“‘We’?” Bruce scoffs disbelievingly, returning the hug and pulling back to see Harvey grinning brightly down at him, eyes shining. Bruce can only withstand the sheer intensity of it for so long before ducking away, unable to help himself from returning Harvey’s infectious smile. “Who’s we ? C’mon, Harv. You and what army?”
“Alright, fine ,” Harvey relents, putting up his hands and rolling his eyes. “ I thought you were dead. Can you really blame me? You practically drop off the face of the earth after college for almost two whole years . What else was I supposed to think?”
Harvey gestures to the bartender to pour them each a drink, and Bruce finds himself with a shot of whiskey as they seat themselves at the bar, but can’t quite bring himself to drink it.
He has a purpose now, as nebulous and indistinct as that purpose remains for the time being. He had spent those two years traveling the world, honing his skills and training his body, learning everything he possibly could all on the off-chance that any of those things might result in finally revealing what he needed to do.
Bruce wanted to avenge his parents’ deaths. He wanted to restore hope to Gotham. Beyond that-- Bruce struggled to grasp anything definite. The scum of Gotham had to be brought to justice, the question was how . Partaking in alcohol in spite of all that felt… disingenuous.
“So-- you gonna tell me what you were up to, or what?” Harvey cuts in, turning on the stool to face him, drawing Bruce out of his reverie. Bruce, in retort, only shoots back with a sly smirk, causing Harvey to groan. “You’re really not going to leave me hanging, are you? Harvey , your best friend?”
“You’re my only friend, Harvey,” Bruce points out dryly, but eventually relents, shrugging. “Just felt like getting out of town for a bit, that’s all.” Which, in a sense, was true, even if he wasn’t telling the whole of it. “Gotham got to be too much. Had to get away for a bit, decided to go sightseeing, got carried away. You know how it is.”
“Can’t say that I do,” says Harvey, mildly chagrined but nonetheless accepting Bruce’s answer for what it was. His mouth split into an eager grin, and he leaned in, clearly excited for what he was about to say. “I’ve actually been busy , unlike some of us. Landed a spot in the DA’s office while you were gone, can you believe it? Finally making a name for myself, Bruce. Next thing you know, that’ll be my office, and then I’ll bring some real change to this city. I’m going to make a difference .”
There’s a fire in Harvey’s eyes as he talks, full of burning determination and single-minded intent. It’s mesmerizing , and Bruce suddenly finds it impossible to look away, heart going a little odd in his chest as a lull falls over their conversation.
“I missed you, Bruce,” Harvey says, then, unexpectedly quiet and soft, almost like he was afraid of admitting something shameful, eyes momentarily darting away to stare down at his drink. It startled Bruce, something in Harvey’s tone awakening a feeling in him he’d long since thought forgotten, an explosion of butterflies in his stomach that has him panicking for a split-second.
“I missed you too, Harvey,” Bruce finds himself admitting after a beat, smiling warmly up at him when Harvey finally looks up, obvious relief washing over him as he smiles back. God, did Bruce miss him.
Bruce raises his drink, and Harvey does the same in mild bemusement.
“To change,” Bruce declares, clinking his glass with Harvey’s. “And to the day I get to see you show Gotham what you’re made of as the best damn District Attorney it’s ever going to have.”
Harvey grins at that, laughing. “Hear, hear. I always knew I could count on you, Bruce.”
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It’s two AM, and suffocatingly sterile hospital room is silent save for the dull, monotonous beeping of a one Harvey Dent’s heart monitor as he lay motionless in his bed, every inch of the left half of his face all the way down his arm bandaged and plastered with gauze. His chest rose and fell with steady, if somewhat ragged, breaths.
It’s been three days since Harvey fell victim to an acid attack by Sal Maroni in the middle of the courtroom. Three days since Bruce has left his side.
Three days since Bruce has slept .
The nurses and doctors had long since given up on making billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne leave, owing his persistence to simple stubborn disregard for authority.
Bruce can still remember Harvey’s screams of pain as the acid ate away at his flesh, soaking through his clothing to burn with just as much ferocity at the skin underneath. Harvey had been in such unimaginable agony, screaming and crying out as though he were being raked over coals, incoherent in the throes of his anguish.
No amount of painkillers could provide Harvey even the smallest modicum of relief, severely traumatized and still panic-stricken as he was, until at last the doctor’s were forced to completely sedate him, and even then his expression still seemed slightly pinched in discomfort.
Bruce couldn’t help but feel it was his fault, the guilt gnawing away at him like some terrible disease.
He’s only been Batman for a handful of years, at most. Surely long enough, Bruce thought, to finally know what he was doing. Long enough that he’d been able to establish a shakily trustworthy pact between himself, Jim Gordon, and Harvey Dent, joined by their shared desires to finally do something about all that ailed Gotham.
It had been Bruce’s idea to go after two of the biggest crime families in the city, the evidence he had gathered as Batman proving to be the key in finally spurring Gordon’s men to act, arresting Sal Maroni and Carmine Falcone to at last face justice in the courtroom.
Harvey’s courtroom, as Gotham’s newest District Attorney, eager to prove himself and already well on his way to disrupting the long-established and corrupt status quo. True to his word, Harvey definitely made a name for himself-- just not the one he’d necessarily hoped for. His refusal to take bribes or deals, paying no heed to threats or talk of blackmail, drawing just as much ire from his peers as admiration.
And now-- gone , all of it, all because Bruce insisted the time was right to move on the gangs, because Bruce’s hubris kept him from paying close enough attention to everyone involved in the case, absurdly confident that he was they had it in the bag.
Gone, and Bruce nearly lost his only friend because of it.
Bruce sighs, burying his face in his hands. Harvey lay there, quiet and still. This was all his fault, and Bruce didn’t have the slightest idea of how to fix it.
Harvey shifts in his drug-induced sleep, mumbling something inaudible under his breath. Bruce looks up automatically, heart stopping. It almost sounded like--
“B… Bruce…” Harvey rasps, the sheer act of speaking sounding exactly as painful as everything else, a single bleary eye fluttering open with obvious difficulty to drift lazily around the room. “Bruce, where…”
“Hey,” Bruce soothes, gentle and soft before he can even think, and he moves his seat closer to the side of Harvey’s bed. “Harv, I’m here. It’s Bruce.”
Harvey’s one good eye settles on Bruce, unfocused and hazy from the drugs and residual pain, and it’s some moments before recognition alights dully within. Clumsily, he reaches out through the tangle of IVs and monitors, towards Bruce, who takes his hand greedily without hesitation, fingers twining and gripping tight.
The hand remains limp in his own, Harvey’s fingers only twitching weakly in half-hearted response.
“What happened…?” Harvey asks hoarsely, the confusion plainly evident on the uncovered half of his face. “I can’t-- I can’t feel my face…” Bruce doesn’t answer right away, but something must shift in his expression to say it for him, sparking muted panic in Harvey’s eye. “Bruce--”
“There was-- an accident,” Bruce says quietly, too quick. He feels Harvey’s hand stiffen in his. “You were attacked, in court. Maroni, he-- he smuggled in acid, somehow. You were hurt badly, but, it’s-- it’s okay, now. We got you here fast. The doctors say you have a good chance at complete recovery.”
Bruce smiles, encouraging, but at Harvey’s non-response it quickly wilts.
He watches in silence at Harvey absorbs it all, reaction dulled as it was by the slew of painkillers coursing through him. Slowly, by minute degrees, Harvey moves to look down at the arm of his afflicted side, stiff and wrapped with gauze. His hand slips from Bruce’s, slowly coming up to trace his fingertips along the edges of the wrappings concealing half his face before returning to his side.
“They’ll pay,” Bruce promises, taking Harvey’s hand again and squeezing in lieu of the sudden overwhelming desire to just take his friend in his arms and hold him tight , hoping to provide the comfort he knew Harvey so sorely needed in that moment. “I’ll make sure of it, Harv.
“They’ll pay,” Harvey echoes, a faraway look coming over his eye, but there’s something different about the way he says it that makes the hairs on the back of Bruce’s neck stand on end; it feels disturbingly like an omen. “They’ll all pay.”
It’s then Harvey finally succumbs to the heavy fog of painkillers and sedatives once more, eye rolling back with a soft sigh as exhaustion reclaims him, and Bruce is left with a sense of foreboding that he can’t quite shake off. He continues to sit there until morning, holding onto Harvey’s hand like a lifeline.
Two weeks later, Harvey disappears suddenly from the hospital without a trace.
Two months later, Two-Face makes his first deadly debut on the streets of Gotham.
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It’s two AM, and the night is roaring with great, thundering claps of lightning and sheets of rain that pummel relentlessly against every window in the Manor. Bruce is awoken by the sound of a vicious pounding on the front door that he can hear even over the squalling storm outside.
And-- to say that it woke Bruce was something of an exaggeration. He hadn’t been sleeping, really, staring up at the ceiling in an insomnia-induced fugue as he was, and the ongoing cacophony crashing all around him isn’t helping.
It’s been a week since Jason’s funeral.
A week , and Bruce has slept not a wink since, wracked with guilt and grief and rage .
The pounding starts up again with renewed fervor, finally rousing Bruce from bed as he throws on a robe over the pajamas he’s already wearing. He meets Alfred on the way down, who hangs back with a wary expression when Bruce waves him off to answer the door himself. If whoever was out there was deeming it important enough to come all this way, in this weather, at this time of night, Bruce felt it was probably important enough to warrant his attention, too.
When the door opens, it’s accompanied by a blustery gust of wind that blows in the rain as well as a broad-shouldered mass of suit and muscle that’s soaked to the skin and reeking of alcohol as it falls straight into Bruce’s arms.
It’s Harvey, Bruce realizes with startling clarity. His hair is plastered to his skull from the rain that’s still running and dripping down his face in thick rivulets, and he’s mumbling incoherently into his chest as Bruce wrestles with helping him stand upright; Bruce can see Alfred standing tense and on alert from the corner of his eye, understandably concerned by the fact Two-Face is in their home, but he ignores him.
“It wasn’t me, was it?” Harvey asks in sudden desperation, both eyes fever-bright as he clutches tight to the fabric of Bruce’s shirt. “The-- the boy . Please tell me I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did that to you. Please, god , Bruce--”
Harvey continues to ramble, words slurring now and then, as Bruce drags him inside, the front door shutting behind them and reducing the noise of the storm around them to a dull roar once more.
Bruce sends Alfred away with a look, who complies, albeit with a reluctant if understanding nod, and leaves them be.
“Harvey, I don’t--” Bruce starts, before something constricts painfully tight in his chest with the horrifying understanding that Harvey was referring to Jason . Harvey--
Harvey thought he was responsible. Or, more specifically, Two-Face .
“I know He’s done it before, it’s happened, I know it, I know it,” Harvey continues, unheeding of how Bruce was leading him to the sitting room, feet dragging. “He killed the Bat’s boy, once-- no, no, no -- almost killed, I-- I think, but I remember , Bruce, I-- I--” Harvey’s shoulders shake as Bruce sits him on the couch, continuing to ramble.
Bruce remembers, too, as much as he doesn’t want to. The one true black mark on their relationship. Harvey isn’t aware of who Robin had been, as far as Bruce knows, but he is evidently aware of enough to have distressed him this much, as worried as he was about having done it again .
Harvey has his face buried in his hands, muttering indistinctly to himself and every so often gripping tight fistfuls of hair. Bruce sits by, patient as he keeps a tentative touch to Harvey’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb in small, soothing circles.
“It wasn’t you, Harvey,” Bruce says quietly, once Harvey’s shuddering begins to gradually subside and he shows slow signs of sobering up. “What happened to Jason, it… wasn’t your fault. I know you wouldn’t do that to me.”
It was as honest as he could make it. He has half a mind to tell Harvey it was Joker , in the stupid hope that it might insight Two-Face’s wrath to finish the job Bruce was too much of a coward to do himself, but-- Joker was gone, anyways, as good as dead. It would have been useless. Selfish .
Harvey goes quiet. As mistrustful of his own thoughts and memories as he can be, it’s no surprise that he might need a moment to deliberate and ensure that what he remembered lined up with what Bruce was telling him.
“Oh,” Harvey breathes, flat and devoid of emotion, though whether in relief or shock Bruce doesn’t know. “Oh, okay. That’s-- that’s good. You know I wouldn’t. You’ve always believed in me…”
It’s rare Bruce ever gets to see Harvey this lucid anymore. Far too often, Two-Face’s personality takes precedence, spitting fire and fury and untold amounts of rage. Bruce desperately wishes to just have Harvey again, well and whole and back at his side, without the haze of sedatives and anti-psychotics through the smudged reinforced plexiglass of Arkham’s visitor’s center.
It’s that desperation which drives Bruce to speak up, then, eager at the chance to pretend things were normal again, for once.
To, maybe , keep Harvey around for just a little while longer yet. Still selfish, Bruce was well aware, but he couldn’t be bothered to care anymore.
So, when Harvey makes to get up, evidently having decided their business was concluded now that he got what he wanted, Bruce reaches out and stops him with a touch to his arm.
“Don’t,” Bruce blurts, flushing when Harvey looks sharply at him, suddenly suspicious. Bruce flounders for a second, but knowing he likely doesn’t have much time to hold Harvey’s attention, he blunders on. “I mean-- it’s terrible out there, right now. At least wait until the storm passes. Take the chance to sleep off whatever’s still bothering without needing to worry about anything. I can get you some dry clothes, even.”
Bruce pleads silently, steadily holding Harvey’s gaze, and hopes that Harvey doesn’t ask for the real reason he wants him to stay. There is a long moment before Harvey responds, cracking a lopsided grin (more so than usual, given the already asymmetric nature of his permanent half-grimace) and huffing a small, hoarse chuckle.
Harvey sags back into the couch in exhausted relief without so much as a thank-you, but the relief Bruce still feels himself is immeasurable.
When Bruce leaves to grab the promised clothes, trusting Harvey to remain where he was, and returns to find him already passed out on his side, Bruce leaves him there, but sets the clothes on the side table before sitting himself at the other end of the couch. It’s not long before Bruce ultimately falls asleep himself, days of fatigue finally catching up with him.
Harvey is gone by morning, which doesn’t surprise Bruce. The only sign that he was ever there was the front door, left ajar, the clean clothes, gone, and the haunting, hollow feeling in Bruce’s chest.
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It’s 2 AM, and for once, all is quiet.
Bruce is going over old case files in his his study, for lack of anything else to do. A minor concussion a few nights ago had him forcibly taken off the patrol rotation for the rest of the week. Yet, as Bruce was often wont to do, he wasn’t about to let something as insignificant as that keep him away from his work, against the behest of Alfred. Several folders’ worth of cold cases were spread over the wide surface of his desk, and he’s absently thumbing through them in the hopes that it’ll take his mind off sensation of restlessness bubbling just underneath the surface.
He can’t sleep, but can’t quite concentrate on the task at hand, thoughts constantly straying despite his best efforts. He might be more reluctantly willing to blame the concussion, if not for…
The fact that his thoughts were about Harvey .
In recent months, Two-Face had become more and more unpredictable, increasingly erratic in a way that made it difficult to pin down his motives or location. If Bruce could just ask him if he was alright...
“Father.”
Bruce looks up to see Damian standing in the doorway, deadly serious as always. The effect is lessened somewhat by the simple fact that he’s still dressed in his pajamas; Bruce can’t help the small, fond smile that turns at his lips regardless.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Bruce says, still flipping though files. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Damian’s eyes narrow into an expression that says, shouldn’t you?
Damian huffs and crosses his arms, apparently displeased with Bruce’s answer, and when it becomes clear he’s not about to leave, Bruce sighs and relents. “Is there something wrong?”
“A man is attempting to crawl through my window.”
Damian states it so plainly, so matter-of-fact, that it takes a second for Bruce to register what his son just said.
“Sorry, you said--”
“There is a man ,” Damian emphasizes irritably. “Attempting to crawl through my window .”
Bruce frowns, confused. “And you’re… coming to tell me instead of, I don’t know, stopping him?”
“ Tt , because he’s unarmed and clearly in no present state to be any danger,” Damian points out like it’s obvious, which only proves to confuse Bruce further. “Also, he keeps asking for you , specifically, Father. I hereby declare it to be your problem. Please remove him from my bedroom posthaste.”
At that, Damian departs, leaving Bruce even worse than he began. Damian, who was startlingly unconcerned with the apparent fact there was a man just… crawling in through his window. Moreover, a man that was asking for him .
There’s a moment where Bruce is left staring dumbly at the space where Damian was just standing, before the reality of the situation hits him with the force of a freight train, and he quickly stands and heads in the direction of his son’s room.
The lights are still off when he approaches, lending an ominous air to it all. Cautiously, Bruce nudges the door open, flooding the room with dim light from the hallway, revealing a lump of a man crumpled on the floor beneath the still-open window, who groans and curls in on himself when the light falls upon him. It takes a second for Bruce to recognize the figure.
“ Harvey ?”
The only response he gets is another groan, accompanied by indistinct, muffled mumbling. Bruce thought he’d be surprised, or startled, or-- something , but instead he only feels resigned, weary relief.
Bruce kneels down to haul Harvey into his arms, who does nothing to resist but similarly does nothing to help, either.
“You know you don’t have to sneak in, Harv,” grunts Bruce in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the situation as he begins the arduous effort of pulling Harvey to his feet and out of Damian’s room, though there is no ire in his voice to speak of. There was no telling the current state of Harvey’s mental health in the moment, whether he was in the here-and-now or years in the past; it varied, whenever Two-Face wasn’t in control, the confusion left the personality’s absence skewing often skewing Harvey’s sense of reality. Falling back on old words of comfort seemed like a safe enough bet. “You know you’re always welcome here. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that. C’mon.”
Harvey makes no indication that he’d heard and continues his soft mumbling as they make their way down the hallway, seemingly talking to himself, though about what was inaudible to Bruce’s ears.
Bruce doesn’t speak up again until they’ve made it to his own bedroom, closing the door behind them, leading Harvey to his bed and sitting them down on the edge of it.
“Why are you here, Harv?” Bruce asks once the silence becomes too oppressive. Not demanding. Not accusing. He just-- wants to know. Harvey doesn’t answer right away, and Bruce is ready to resign himself to the possibility that it just might be one of those days when his friend finally speaks.
“I’m tired,” Harvey admits, leaning heavily against Bruce, and his voice is completely devoid of Two-Face’s gravel, barely even loud enough for Bruce to hear. “Tired of running, tired of fighting . Just… tired.”
Bruce draws him closer, under the guise of simply providing him better support, but there was nothing that could be excused about the way Harvey’s head nestles underneath his chin. God, he could certainly relate, but there was something disconcerting about Harvey-- Two-Face , of all people --admitting he was tired .
“Hey, that’s okay,” Bruce murmurs into Harvey’s crown, chest constricting painfully. “That’s okay, Harv. Happens to the best of us.”
Harvey shudders, lapsing into silence once more before drawing in a sharp breath, as though bracing himself for something.
“Can I stay?”
“Harvey, of course—“ Bruce begins automatically, already mentally preparing himself for the inevitable heartbreak come morning, but Harvey interrupts him.
“No,” Harvey says, oddly hesitant. “I mean, can I—“ he swallows thickly, and looks up at Bruce with such naked emotion that he’s struck silent. “Can I stay .”
And-- Bruce’s heart stops . He doesn’t know how to answer. He stares, mouth gaping, and struggles what to make of it.
The logical course of action would be to say no . Harvey needed help that Bruce simply couldn’t provide on his own-- he needed to be in Arkham , he needed Two-Face controlled by a means that didn’t rely on the random whims of his mind.
Or, it was just as likely that he just needed Bruce .
It’s for that reason alone that Bruce nods, numb, and Harvey’s expression crumples in sheer relief , breath hitching as he collapses against Bruce’s chest, murmuring a long litany of near-incoherent thanks.
“God, Harvey, of course ,” Bruce assures fervently, clutching Harvey tight, throat threatening to close up with burgeoning emotion that he was too afraid to name just yet. “Of course you can stay. As if I’d ever tell you no.”
When they were kids, it was something Bruce thought about constantly, spurred on by all the times Harvey would show up in the middle of the night just like this, eyes wet and sporting fresh new bruises from his dad, crawling in through Bruce’s window and quietly pleading please, can I stay the night ? So many times he’d tried to come up with the courage to tell Harvey that he didn’t have to go back to his father, that he could just stay there, in the Manor, and things would finally be alright .
“You don’t know what that means to me, Bruce, honestly, I don’t know how to thank you--”
“Harv,” Bruce chastises lightly, pulling away to make Harvey look at him. “You don’t need to do anything . I’m just glad to know you’re here. ”
“No, I, I-- I need--”
Harvey reaches out then, oddly intent as fingertips tentatively caress at the side of Bruce’s face.
Bruce finds himself suddenly frozen, heart stuck in his throat and unable to move away as Harvey slowly leans in.
And kisses him.
Harvey’s lips are dry and chapped, and his scarred half warps his mouth in such a way that it doesn’t quite match up with Bruce’s in the way that it should-- but, god , it’s exactly everything Bruce could have ever hoped for.
It’s over just as quickly as it began, and when Harvey pulls away, Bruce feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
Bruce exhales unsteadily, once, and moves his hand to cradle the back of Harvey’s neck before closing the distance and returning the kiss, slow and warm; he can feel Harvey melt beneath him, all the tension in the room immediately evaporating.
“You don’t how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Bruce breathes when they finally separate again, a shaky, uncertain smile tugging at his lips. Saying that felt like admitting a long-held secret. They’re clutching loosely at each other, foreheads touching, as though afraid to let go.
“So why didn’t you,” Harvey grouses weakly, huffing. “I’ve probably wanted to do it for just as long. Coulda save us a lot of trouble.”
“Yeah,” Bruce agrees. “Probably. Better late than never.”
Harvey laughs, a real laugh, ragged and hoarse from leftover damage of the decade’s old acid attack but real all the same.
“Good old Bruce,” Harvey says with a quiet, watery smile. “You’ve never given up on me, huh.”
Bruce smiles back. “Not a chance, Harvey.”
They sit there and simply breathe each other in, holding the other close. It doesn’t get better, not immediately-- but Harvey has Bruce, and Bruce has Harvey.
For now, things are alright.