Title: Rome Wasn't Burned In A Day
Author: Annie Oates
Fandom: Batman Begins
Pairing: Bruce, eventually Wayne/Crane
Rating: PG-15ish
Archive: Ask.
Disclaimers: Not mine, I'm a nasty little law-breaker.
Warnings: Alternate reality, slashy overtones.
Summery: Their course was set.
Feedback: Is welcome, in all forms.
Page eight. After the mayor’s win, before the state spelling bee. A mugging. Two people dead. One survivor. Unknown assailant at large.
It was simple really. Concise. Twenty-three words to exactly describe the shattering of a child’s world. Bruce wondered if the paper would have given more details if his father had been a wealthy man. If the police would have put in a little more effort. If any of it would have made a difference in the hollow cold he now carried.
Twenty-three words that didn’t mention how his father’s kind voice could soothe even the darkest fears. Or how his mother’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. Or how a young boy was now so terribly, terribly alone. No words to spare for the nine hour wait in a side office that smelled of burnt coffee. Or for the social worker that finally showed up and looked at Bruce just long enough to bark out, “This him, then?” Or for the beat cop who adjusted the worn tweed jacket around Bruce’s shoulders and said, “It’ll be okay, son.” No lines lost on how Bruce didn’t scream then. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the sound was too large. He couldn’t get it out, it’s jagged edges caught in his chest. It stayed there, trapped and the cop looked away, chewing the ends of his ragged mustache.
There would never be enough words.
Four months later, when his foster parents brought in the new boy, Bruce still hadn’t found his voice. But that didn’t matter to Johnny.
Five months later while they were laying on the roof on night, trying to escape the weight of Gotham’s summer, Johnny reached over and took Bruce’s hand in his. Bruce didn’t know what it meant. He knew what happened if their foster father saw a couple of guys he thought were “too close.” He knew what it would mean if he and Johnny were caught. But inside, where it was all hollow, Bruce no longer felt the cold. Slowly, from his palm, up his arm and through – it was all summer. Bruce decided it didn’t matter what it meant – all that mattered was that he hold on.
Two years later gave them the hottest August on record. They were on the roof again, more out of habit than any relief from the muggy air. Bruce reached over and took Johnny’s hand in his. He was tracing constellations with his eyes when Johnny rolled over and kissed him. Johnny drew back and Bruce thought his eyes were the brightest stars in the sky. Johnny kissed him again and Bruce promised himself that he’d never let go.
Four days later and Bruce was wiping the blood off Johnny’s face. In turn, Johnny licked the blood from Bruce’s knuckles. The Tetch boy never looked their way again.
Three and a half years later they were in the boiler room, Bruce wrapped in a blanket, Johnny wrapped in Bruce. Johnny said, “I’m leaving. Going to hop a freight car or a cargo boat. Something. Anything. Anywhere but here.” For the first time in five years, Bruce felt the cold. But Johnny wouldn’t stop talking, wouldn’t stop the two words that held surprisingly more pain than twenty-three. It wasn’t until Johnny kissed him hard enough to make his lip bleed that Bruce realized he’d also said, “And you’re coming with me.” Bruce kissed him again to seal the pact.
Six months later found them at the docks. Johnny trying to look tough, but only looking more fragile and beautiful than was safe, Bruce simply looked… determined. It was one tussle and a lot of harsh words until they spotted a quiet ship to slip onto. Their carefully hoarded rations lasted them a week. Just long enough for Johnny to start coughing. Neither had realized the sea could be so cruelly cold. If Johnny’s hacking hadn’t gotten them caught, Bruce would have turned them in. A lie about their ages and a promise from Johnny that Bruce would do the work of two men (the Captain didn’t buy either – Bruce did the work of three) got them as far as Vancouver.
Six weeks of dishes and floors got Johnny well enough to carry his own. Bruce worked him hard, got him strong. Rumors flew as often as beer bottles and they’d both heard the tales of what lay in Nepal, but only on the darkest nights, when their mops and towels made them invisible, a salt who’d tried to climb a peak and pick a flower to unlock the secret of fear. They pooled their cut of the tips and bought the man a round of the good stuff. He drank and laughed at them, their thinking two little boys could do better than a grown man. Their course was set.
Two months and all their savings had them on a boat to China, forged papers in their clothes. The hold was mostly dry and something that passed for warm. Johnny’s cough didn’t return, but Bruce slept with his ear to Johnny’s chest anyway. Johnny called Bruce his “good luck talisman.” Bruce just held his hand and smiled at the summer inside.
Eight months of careful traveling put calluses on their calluses and showed an incredible difference between them. The journey had taken its toll on both, each dropping ill-afforded weight. But where Bruce took on a leaner, fiercer look, Johnny became huge eyes and unruly hair. When the wind shrieked around them Bruce held Johnny’s hand all the tighter. Johnny put up with it, until they stood at the foot of the mountain. Almost violently, Johnny shoved Bruce’s hand away and turned to face him. While they stared at each other, the mountain waited.
One hour, eight years, 9 months and twenty-five words later, two boys – men, really – turned as one to face their future.
End.