#trustymikh

send me a prompt!

Down below the warehouse front, bass thrummed loud enough that Two Face thought it was a miracle this particular club hadn’t been busted yet. The lights were dark and too bright at the same time, colors flashing across the bodies pressing tight into booths and against others, following the rhythm across the dance floor. Girls flashed clever grins at stupid men in suits and the boisterous laughter of mob bosses somehow made it above the music, piercing Two Face’s silent haze like knives.

As he reclined back in his seat, he dug two fingers into his temples, trying to find the balance between overstimulated and dissociating. He needed to be here to gather more information about the bosses he was working against, but everything felt like he was gazing through smoke, foggy and distant. The crowd was little more than dark shapes, and every sound beyond the music seemed to sharpen the headache pulsing behind his eyes.

Beyond the screen of his fingers, one of the dark shapes peeled off from the others. Red and blue lights flickered around the silhouette of a man, stocky and strong. “My, oh my,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue like cigar smoke, a sleazy smile tucked into his voice. He pinched something between his lips, drawing it away as he leaned on Two Face’s table. “Aren’t you a beautiful creature?”

That damn accent. Even in the shitty lighting, Two Face could make out the shameless way Matches dragged his eyes over him, clearly teasing. There was no mistaking who it was. Few people would ever flirt with Two Face, and fewer still would walk around with a match like a cigarette. The idiot didn’t even smoke.

It drove him crazy, how relieved he felt to see those stupid sunglasses and that tacky mustache. He hooked his fingers into the collar of Matches’s latest ugly button-down, jerking him down so that he had to stumble to land in the booth next to Two Face, rather than fall across the table. “How can you even see in these?” Two Face demanded, reaching for the sunglasses.

“Hey, hey, watch the merchandise,” Matches said, catching Two Face’s hand in his own. “Take me home if you’re lookin’ to get me dressed down, but I’m not that kind of girl.”

It was unbelievably tempting. Just for a moment, he thought about his quiet apartment, with Matches draped across his couch, all loose laughter and easy flirting. But he shook it away, forcing himself to sit up and lean into Matches’s side. “I’ve got a job to do.” His lips brushed against Matches’s ear to be heard over the music. “How much do you know about the bosses that frequent this place?”

The way Matches grinned was sharp. His teeth grazed Two Face’s jaw when he leaned in, his lips pressing against the spot just under his ear. “Whatever you need to know, boss.”

“Cheeky.”

Harvey snorted, glancing over his shoulder at where Bruce sat on the couch, book in hand and leaned into the corner. “Cheeky? Who says that?”

Bruce reached across the arm to swat his ass. “Shut up. It’s a common turn of phrase.”

Harvey started, jerking away from him with a laugh. “If you’re british. Or raised by a british man, I guess.”

“Have I mentioned I hate you recently?” Bruce sank back into the couch, definitely sulking, though he’d never admit it. He looked hilariously like Damian, who never had completely grown out of his dramatics. Like father, like son, Harvey supposed.

“You know, I don’t think you have.” Harvey finally pulled a book off of the bookshelf and returned to the couch, dropping into Bruce’s lap and kicking his feet up to the side. When he leaned in for a kiss, Bruce obliged easily, despite all his complaining. It made Harvey grin against his lips. “That doesn’t feel much like hatred to me.”

Bruce hummed, his palm sliding fondly against Harvey’s hip. If anything, he seemed more likely to pull Harvey closer than push him off. “I’m filled with loathing.”

“Right.” Harvey pressed a kiss into the corner of his mouth, amused. “Is that why you married me?”

Bruce didn’t quite smile, but the corners of his eyes creased, amused and fond at once. “I can’t think of another reason.”

Bruce’s eyes looked so bright in the daylight, unbearably soft in that way that made Harvey want to kiss him stupid. There was gray in Bruce’s hair and an ache in Harvey’s bones that reminded him of his age, but sometimes he still felt every bit as lovesick as he had when they were young, unable to believe he’d ever gotten to a point where this was his life.

Bruce set his book on Harvey’s knee, reaching up to brush his thumb along Harvey’s good cheekbone. It was so goddamn soft, Harvey could feel his heart melt in his chest as he turned into it, pressing a kiss into Bruce’s palm. He heard Bruce sigh, every bit as lovesick as Harvey felt. “Harv.” Just his name, fond and adoring. Nothing else.

Harvey hummed, threading his fingers into Bruce’s and holding his hand against his cheek.

When Bruce kissed him, it was slow and sweet, like he could spend forever doing it- like he wanted to. Harvey melted into it as easily as breathing, his fingers finding Bruce’s hair, his shirt, his skin, tracing pathways he’d already memorized. He’d settled into Bruce years ago, finding a home in the softness of Bruce’s voice and the care behind his touch.

When he pulled back, it was by less than an inch, still close enough to press his forehead against Bruce’s and feel the brush of his nose. Harvey teased, “That felt like hatred.”

“So... if I liked you- I don’t, by the way, but if I did-”

Bruce snorted, glancing up from his textbook where he was stretched out on his bed. “If you did,” he agreed. “As a hypothetical.”

“Right.” The man who looked like his best friend, but wasn’t, looked somewhat relieved by Bruce’s reassurance. His pacing stopped for only a moment, before he spun on his heel and started again, walking the length of Bruce’s small dorm again. “If I did like you, purely as a hypothetical, that would make me...”

“Bi,” Bruce finished.

“Bi,” he repeated, quieter, as though trying the word out. “Because I still like women.”

Bruce hummed, turning the page of his book.

“But what if it’s just you? What if it’s one guy and mostly women? How do you know it’s not just...”

Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t identify as anything for years. I just... was. It’s just cool there’s a word. I don’t think you have to use it if you don’t want to.”

That didn’t seem to be the right thing to say. The man occupying Harvey’s body sat down heavily on the bed next to him, his shoulders in a deep slump. “But what if it’s different? What if... Harvey feels one way, and I don’t? Do I even count?”

“Of course you do.”

He groaned, flopping back across Bruce’s back. “Forget it. It doesn’t even matter. It’s not like I can date anyone, like this.”

Bruce hummed quietly, but not in agreement. After a moment of thinking it over, he said, carefully, “It might take a lot of work, and you’re probably going to have to figure it out with Harvey. But I think you can. And I think there are people who will love you, when they get to know you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, finally, he sighed, rolling over and sticking his face in Bruce’s shoulder. The weight of him was comfortable against Bruce’s back, warm and grounding. Bruce tipped his head to lean it against his, just for a moment, and he felt it when the other relaxed. “Thanks,” he said, finally.

In the yellow light of streetlamps and purple neon glow of signs, Two Face cut a fearsome silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, framed by the tall buildings on either side of the alley. His gun glinted dangerously, his face more shadow than feature. Before he’d even clicked off the safety, Bruce watched the men surrounding him shrink, fear spreading across their faces.

“My, my.” Two Face’s gravel cut cleanly through the night, echoing off the dirty alley walls. His footsteps crunched on the cracked asphalt. “It seems someone forgot whose turf they were on.”

Two of the men stepped back. But the third- a buff, white man with close-cropped hair and tribal tattoos- lifted his chin, aiming for bluster. “Seems like somebody forgot the rest of their gang. You planning on taking us on alone, freak?”

Bruce wasn’t in any place to be picking a fight, but still, he felt himself bristle. The fog of alcohol gave heat to his defensive instincts, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. It’d been years since he’d had any need to stand up for Two Face; a gang boss could more than handle himself. But he still felt the familiar anger, the familiar urge to put himself in between someone else and his old friend, even when Two Face was the one with the gun and all he had was a rumpled suit. He stepped forward, demanding, “Excuse me?”

One of the men snickered. The tallest of them eyed Bruce, his stance uneasy. “What’s it to you?”

The click of a safety going off rang through the alley, freezing them all where they stood. The shadows on Two Face’s face seemed to cut his scars deeper, making them look sharp and raw. “I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll give you two seconds.”

“Two Face-” Bruce started.

The leader of the group scoffed loudly, flicking open a knife. The point of it leveled at Bruce’s chest, but not over his heart. (Inexperienced, or not thinking about going for the kill.) “Going good, freak? Or are you just pissed we got to your prey before you did?”

“Hey, Matt,” one of the men whispered, taking another step back. “I don’t think-”

“You’ve heard what they say about Gotham. Every damn villain here is just a-”

The gunshot cracked through the alley, screams echoing after it. Bruce flinched without meaning to, clapping his hands over his ears. His whole head seemed to be ringing, his vision suddenly unfocused. Somewhere in his mind, he was aware of the men stumbling backward, spinning on their heels and bolting away from the scene. Matt yelled something, but whatever it was, the words were like gibberish in Bruce’s head.

His heart was beating too fast. He’d thought he was past this, but suddenly he was sitting on the ground, breathing hard, trying to remember why.

The light leaking into the alley flickered around him as Two Face moved closer, crouching in front of him. “Bruce?” Even half in shadow, his face was familiar, his brows furrowed with concern.

Bruce’s jaw felt locked shut. But when he reached out, Two Face grabbed his hand, gripping it tight, the way he had when they were kids. It felt steady and reassuring, the pressure of it soothing, somehow. His breathing eased slightly, and he tried to focus on the lines of Two Face’s face, following the familiar scars and the narrow line of his hooked nose.

“There you are, darling,” Two Face said, so soft he almost didn’t hear it. “It’s alright. No one’s hurt. Just take deep breaths.”

Bruce did, trying to ease the panicky feeling in his chest. Two Face’s hand was warm in his, and he reached, on instinct, for more of him, finding his heart under the lapel of his jacket and feeling its steady beat under his palm. The rhythm helped him relax, slowly smoothing over the last of the fear.

When he felt fine enough to move, Two Face helped him back to his feet, pulling him upright again. He stumbled slightly, but Two Face caught him on instinct. “Careful,” Two Face said, squeezing his arm. He paused, and then his nose wrinkled. “Are you drunk?”

“Tipsy,” Bruce corrected, leaning back just enough to look up at him. His jaw felt strange, like it wasn’t used to moving anymore. “Party. You know how it is.”

Two Face sighed, but his expression looked fond. “Alfred’s number is the same?” he asked, taking out a phone and flipping it open.

It’d been so goddamn long since Two Face had helped him get home, Bruce felt suddenly emotional. Even now, Two Face would help him? He squeezed Two Face’s shoulder, stretching up to kiss his cheek. “You’re a dear, Twos.”