Chapter Text
“Are you sure you don’t want to use my car?” Bruce is standing in the driveway of the glasshouse, shrugging a jacket over his grey sweater as he watches you wrestle a navy blue barrel duffel bag into the trunk of your blue and slightly beat-up 1979 Volkswagen beetle. You merely glance at him with a pointed look, nearly bumping the trunk lid overhead. You stand straight, hands on your hips as you huff out in exhaustion. “No. I’m not letting you do things for me anymore. It’s my turn to shine.” Stretching your arms out, you gesture your hands in a ‘gimme’ motion towards a worried-looking Alfred with Bruce’s luggage within his grasp. Alfred hands it to you hesitantly. “Plus, are you underestimating this sexy beast of a beetle?” you continue, wrangling the remaining luggage into the trunk. Bruce lets out a soft chuckle, face hinting slight amusement by your choice of words. “No, I’m not. But it’s hard to forget how things turned out the last time I was in that car with you.”
The day after graduation. Your ingenious yet weary eyes from the constant reading of textbooks just to pass your exams wanted to see the world had in store. That brief period before real work began and after the time you finally know what freedom feels like. Never mind not being able to get out of the country, you just needed to get out of the filthy city you call home—Gotham. So, you packed your bags just enough for a thirty-hour road trip to Roswell, New Mexico; the city of alien beings, and Area 51. An alien-themed road trip, one might say. You forced Bruce to come with you and after much convincing, he finally obliged although a little unhappy about you driving an old beetle all the way to New Mexico. He had every right to be upset because the two of you ended up pushing your broken-down car for about ten miles in the summer rain somewhere along Route 44 before bunking out at a motel for the night.
You never made it to Roswell, quickly figured it wasn’t exactly worth it. It’s not like you were about to see an actual UFO anyway.
Bruce never got in that car with you since that day.
Hell, it was the last time that you and Bruce spent time together as proper friends before things went downhill and you moved to Atlantic City for many years. You got out of Gotham; it’s what you wanted for the longest time. Same state, different city. You got out of Gotham; it’s what you wanted for the longest time. You once promised yourself you would never come back to this shithole and now you’re still wondering how if you’ll ever know the reason you’re back to square one.
You finally close the trunk lid after much of a struggle and a mutter of another round of profanities that made Alfred red in the face from secondhand stress. Tugging on the sleeves of your sweater, you distract yourself by sparing a hard look towards Bruce who seems to be quite pleased by his teasing ways. “That was just once and it was years ago. I don’t need you to come to the rescue with your fancy cars this time. I’m way more responsible now. Plus, it’s only a two-hour drive, we’ll survive.”
Bruce snorts, ambling his way towards the door of the passenger seat. “If you say so.” He raises his hands like he’s admitting defeat in trying to convince you. Your lips curl into an emerging smirk as you throw the driver’s side door, reaching your hand in as you turn on the ignition. The whirring sound of the rolling mechanics of the engine reminds you of the reality of this trip. Last week, there was this moment, lips almost touched and it lives in your mind like a vivid memory. And now, Bruce is just acting like nothing ever happened. So are you, for apparent reasons. You hold too much pride to admit anything or even mention it.
You slipped behind the wheel just as easily as Bruce does, almost having to crawl his way in and plant himself in the seat next to yours. While he’s wrestling with the wonky seat belt, you wind down the window to his side, peeking from behind him as you direct a small wave and a grin towards Alfred. “Goodbye, Mr. Pennyworth.” The man merely nods, returning a smile as Bruce raises his hand in a somewhat half wave, hand out of the window. “See you on Sunday.”
“Good luck, Master Bruce. Don’t let me end up finding you two in a ditch somewhere in Reno.”
You snort at this, suppressing a laugh as you yank the clutch before sliding the gear stick into reverse. You hear Bruce scoff in response, still looking at Alfred. “Way to lighten up the mood, Alfred.”
With a steer, you’re pulling out of the driveway as Bruce flicks the switch on the dashboard to roll up the windows and with one last wave, your blue beetle drives around the corner and out of sight. In his gut, Alfred knows something is bound to go wrong now that it’s only the two of you with no one else to help but perhaps, it could turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Time will only tell.
Route 30 is like an indefinite highway, worn-out rubber against asphalt concrete adorned with darkened streaks of skid marks. The moon is the size of your thumb as it tracks up inch by inch with every passing truck that obstructs it from your view. The cars pass you by replicating the sound of an amateur whistler—its whooshing resonates along with the rhythm of the guitar strums and the vocalization of Chris Martin as the song Sparks seems to drown in the night. The car window is down on your side, wind running through the entangled mess of your hair feels like the caress of the fingers of a mother through her child’s hair.
It almost lulls you to sleep as you struggle to keep your eyes focused on the road ahead.
Bruce is asleep, forehead slumped against the window with his hands tucked on either side of his torso as he fights to constrain the warmth from leaving his body. The two of you decided that the air conditioning was too cold—that was an hour ago.
Another long one to go.
Philadelphia feels so far away now.
You wonder what made it seem like a clever idea to drive in the night but with your hectic schedules, there was no other choice. With the fall semester coming to an end and the deafening thought of preparing tests for the approaching mid-terms in about a month, it’s impossible to get time off work, especially at an earlier time. Bruce had a chaotic day at the office, noting the prominent silence when you pulled onto the highway only to realize he had completely knocked out when you were telling him about the time you met Batman.
Sleep is for the weak, a mantra you’ve been repeating for the last ten minutes although your eyelids are begging to be closed. Maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to just close them for a while.
The moon disappears behind the clouds and for a moment you let sleep subjugate, your mind in a daze. That very same mind thought it was rational and possible for the existence of an autopilot switch somewhere in your body. There’s no switch but your brain doesn’t think that.
If you listen closely, you’ll be able to hear the rustling of leaves as your car whooshes by.
Then, a terrible sound shakes you to the core, a roaring cry of a hundred French horns intrudes your drowsy state like a profanity. It’s piercing and your heart leaps when you finally register that your car is between the fast and the middle lane, with just an inch to spare the massive truck that skids past you with another blare of the horn. You shriek, hands trembling as they grip the wheel until your knuckles turn white, your mind and hands out of control.
Bruce is now awake, calling out your name like you’re about to die. His hands fly on yours as he swiftly steers the car back to the center of the lane. Your eyes are wide, leaning forward as you try to catch your breath. You’re muttering a flurry of curses under your breath, your grip still weak under the strong grip of Bruce’s hand on yours—you feel the warmth flow through your arms and somewhat calms you down enough to focus on the road ahead.
“What the hell happened?” You know he’s freaking out but Bruce has a knack for hiding his anxieties rather well in times of trouble. You appreciate it because right now, you really don’t need someone else completely losing it if the two of you are going to overcome the situation. “I-I don’t know. One minute I was looking down the road and the next; my eyes were goddamn closed,” you’re yelling so loudly because you can’t hear yourself over the sound of your thrumming heart, ringing in your ears.
Bruce sighs from beside you, hand shifting the back of your shoulder blade while the other points to the glimmering fluorescent of a gas station ahead. “Look, it’s okay. We can stop at the gas station because you need to rest. I’ll drive for the rest of the way.” You swallow the lump in your throat, nodding in agreement as you glanced at the fuel gauge—The pointer needle is within the red zone of the scale. “Okay, I’m running out of gas too,” you announce, breathless, feeling the tightness in your chest begin to fade.
The station is nearly empty, a single green Volvo parked by the corner as an older lady in a pink sweater cleans the wing mirror on the driver’s side with a handkerchief that matches the color of her outfit. Bruce volunteers to pump the gas—you slip a wrinkled ten-dollar bill you had snatched from the glove compartment, into his palm as you wait in the car. You just need to…catch your breath. Turning off the ignition, you let your head fall back against the headrest of the car seat, feeling relief that you’re out of the dangers of hitting another truck on the road. The window is still down, the smell of faint scent of fuel flows through the crack as you watch Bruce walk towards the counter, a pair of shades sitting on the bridge of his nose. Ah, the apparent form of disguise. You wonder how wearing sunglasses at night is supposed to detract attention from oneself.
Time goes by quicker than you expected compared to a few minutes ago on the never-ending highway. You climb over to the passenger while Bruce clambers behind the wheel, the blare of the horn makes you jump as his knee hits the horn button by accident. Bruce vigorously pushes the seat back as you eye him with a raised eyebrow. In your peripheral vision, you can see the cashier glaring your way from behind the smeared and uncleaned glass that makes up the windows of the store.
Bruce finally settles in the seat and turns on the ignition. Nothing.
He turns it again. Still nothing.
“You have got to fucking kidding me.”
Motel 30’s lobby smacks you in the face with its unapologetic frontier motif, geometric shapes that range from the colors of vomit green to fuchsia pink. There’s a horrendous yet evocative smell of dampness and age that seem to come from the carpeted floor with peculiar large stains. It reminds you of the toilets on the third floor of Gotham High that were never renovated since the 1970s. You can’t help but feel this place owes an apology to everyone who has had the adversity of stepping foot inside this motel’s hellish doors.
You’re leaning against the reception desk, tapping the call bell for what feels like the hundredth time. You watch its silver dome rattle as the bell dings, echoing through the surprisingly spacious lobby. In its distorted reflection, you see Bruce pacing about the pavement of the motel’s entrance, phone pressed to his ear—he’s probably on with Alfred to get a tow truck. A car can only arrive tomorrow morning to take the two of you to Philly.
This is disastrous.
To say the least, your Beetle might well be on its way to becoming the equivalent of James Dean’s cursed Porsche. The two of you have gone full circle and around thirty minutes ago, you found yourself pushing the very same blue vehicle to the gas station’s parking lot. Well, at least it isn’t ten miles this time.
You press the bell once more, sighing. The last thing you need right now is a receptionist missing in action. Turning over your shoulder, you watch Bruce flick an empty crushed soda can across the pavement with his foot, catching a glimpse of black stains on his fingers as he had stuck his head and arms under the bonnet of your car. After minutes of fiddling around with you sitting in the driver’s seat with one foot out of the door and tirelessly trying to get your car to come back to life, Bruce concludes it’s due to a faulty starter among other alarming issues. You blanked out as he began listing everything else that’s wrong with your car, you can’t hear him over your internal screaming. Fuck, your car hasn’t been to the mechanic in years. It’s a miracle that it was able to last this long.
He can’t help you, and there’s no else around here to help.
Bunking it out at a dingy motel seems to be the best option.
Your gaze shifts to your fingers that clench the decorative molding that lines the edge of the front desk. A blackened smudge on the knuckle of your index finger—it’s amusing how with an accidental brush of his fingertips against yours, you’re being marked despite its lack of prominence. It represents the intimacy the two of you share, how comfortable you are in his presence that the touch of your hand on his, even for a mere second, goes by unthinkingly. You have no memory of it, and you were sure you were never near the engine, and yet, it remains clear under your gaze. A black spot, like a mark of death. A death of what? You aren’t sure.
Conceivably, it’s the imminent death of you because you are about to do something that’s certainly frowned upon.
Your eyes flicker across the room, darting along the cornice of the ceiling. No cameras. You lean to your right, peeking down the hallway. No one. What kind of motel is this anyway?
In a surprisingly swift moment, you prop yourself on the desk and reach over to snatch the key with a dangling wooden tag, the number seven scrawled on top. As graceful as one could be, you push yourself off the desk, landing on your two feet. If it weren’t for the situation, you would gag at the way particles of desert flung through the air as your feet came in contact with the carpeted floor.
You feel like you’re fucking seventeen again, reckless and dauntless.
Snatching your bag off the ground with renewed spirit, you hustle out the door, grabbing Bruce by the wrist as you haul him down the pavement. The motel consists of three two-story blocks that make up a semi quadrangle. You can tell he’s looking at you, bewildered as he fastens his pace to match your quick ones. He catches sight of the way your cheeks are flushed to the ears.
“You stole a key, didn’t you?”
You steal a glance. Bruce looks vastly amused.
“Sure did.”
He laughs and you immediately shush him for being so loud, halting at the center of the quadrangle that acts as a parking lot. Your shadows are stretched and long against the road. You’re trying to figure out which block would room seven be. Bruce is still laughing from beside you, just quieter than before.
“I thought I’d never see the day you’d actually do something this…immoral.”
You glance at him once more, with a fierce gaze this time. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just a room key, Bruce.”
“What will your mother think?” The question has a tone of hilarity, and he’s gazing at you with affection but you’re too busy looking around to even notice. “As long as you are with me and that we get to that wedding tomorrow, she really doesn’t care what I do.”
You smile up at him, the harsh street lamp casts Bruce in an ominous light. He’s already smiling at you and for a moment, you allow yourself believe that maybe, the day is supposed to end this way. Just you and him. In a motel. Nothing can go wrong.
Then, you’re back to hauling him across the parking lot. Your hand never left his wrist.
Room seven is thankfully empty and well, the interior isn’t as bad as the lobby though there’s no escaping the vile retro motif with a color combination that makes you want to gag. Curtains of yellowed lace, low false ceilings made of paperboard squares supported by metal strips. Nothing dirty or fishy looking although it does ironically give off the smell of fish. The sheets are floral, they remind you of the flowers in your grandmother’s garden.
Oh, and there’s one bed.
Well, nothing new. Other than the fact you can’t stop thinking about wanting to kiss him.
This is going to be a long night.
You’re sitting by the edge of the bed, feeling like you’re about to be swallowed whole by the mattress. The muffled sound of gushing water, beating against aging porcelain tiles provides similar comfort to the rushing of the wind when you were driving with the windows down. It’s white noise that seems to heal the wound of anxiety and the aftershocks of yet another near-death experience. You almost hit that truck but you’re done thinking about what could have happened if you did. What is done is done. You’re alive, in a motel, in the outskirts of New Jersey. You hadn’t told your mother about it when you rang her up to tell her about the delay to your arrival although you did still sound pretty shaken, she never addressed it. Maybe, you are great at hiding your emotions after all.
Yet, with Bruce, it’s becoming impossible to keep secrets from him. This constant conflict of wanting to show how you feel whilst suppressing it deep into your soul that even God is kept out of its sight. You’re struck with another thought—a question that begs your brain to rotate the gears of its machinery; why on Earth are you even keeping this a secret? Was it because you’re scared of rejection or the reality that may strike you like a crack of a whip against your cheek, reopening that wound you tried to mend for so long? Was the wound ever mended? You aren’t sure anymore.
Desperate to talk, but also, desperate to conceal.
It’s stupid how you let yourself end up in situations like these; A wrecked heart and a wrecked car. For years, you’ve judged strangers’ karma, but now, karma has come for you for not thinking things through. You are now being judged, put on a pedestal as the judge utters the words, “How do you plead?”
How do you plead?
You just want love. Is that so hard to ask?
Bruce is in the bathroom, and you’re here, feeling absolutely miserable once more like you’re the protagonist in a love tragedy—Dramatic and nearly absurd. Shakespeare would have written a play based on your story, pontificating stories of the fool you are. Hell, you feel like Prince Hamlet, struggling to grasp upon your sanity.
Through the gaps of the lace curtains, there’s a flash followed by the rumbling of the skies above that shakes the ratty window pane. A storm in November, you let yourself fantasize the heavens are weeping for you. You snort at this thought.
All this thinking is making you hungry, the rumbling of your stomach matches the rolling dark clouds above. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast, skipping lunch because students just kept coming to you with questions during your lunch break. You remember seeing a vending machine at the corner of the block, filled with an array of snacks. It wouldn’t hurt to just buy a pack of Cheez-It just to fill your empty stomach and maybe the empty void in your heart.
So dramatic.
The pathway isn’t as lit as you would like it, a little too dark for your liking. And the way one of the fluorescent lights flicker accompanied by the rumbling of an arriving storm, it feels like you’re in a horror movie and the devil is about to jump out at you from the shadows and drag your soul to hell. You scurry towards the machine that glows like a goddamn angel just about a foot away, the falling of your feet echoing against the walls of repeating doors.
You have a premonition that something is about to go terribly wrong. After all, bad luck comes in threes.
The vending machine looks like it’s been here since the 80s but the colorful packets of snacks make you even hungrier than you were before. After seconds of slipping in five dimes, you’re finally punching a combination of numbers just for a packet of cheese crackers.
You watch the silver coil spin in an almost hypnotic way.
Then, a door slams open from a couple of rooms away. A man stumbles out, disheveled hair and irregular steps indicating he’s drunk. A woman trails behind him, clinging to his arm—she laughs at something he drawled under his breath. In this poor lighting, they’re two silhouettes, two shadows that seem to sway to music you cannot hear.
“Hey, what you lookin’ at?” The man’s voice is deep and sounds beyond repair. He’s facing you.
You freeze…quiet…listening. Shit, your mind is blank and you’re staring at the turning silver coil.
“Hey!” he calls out once more, voice tinged with rage. He moves closer to you. “I’m talkin’ to you.”
The Cheez-It finally drops into the pick-up box. You bend down to snatch it, feet ready to run when you feel the sleeve of your coat being yanked back, and now, you’re face to face with the man. His eyes are like fire and so is the scar across the curve of his left cheekbone, gazing at you like he’s about to hurl you across the pavement till you bleed out. “Get off of me, man!” you shriek, tugging your arm away from his but his grip tightens, nails digging through the fabric of the coat.
“What do you want?” He’s screaming at you with crazy eyes. Your stomach churns, all you smell is the sickish odor of cheap whiskey and cigarettes from his breath. Your heart is beating loudly, ringing in your ears that you don’t hear the sudden downpour but you feel the wind through your hair, strong and fierce. It keeps you grounded, a reminder that you will not let fear consume and paralyze you. You aren’t afraid, you’ve been held at gunpoint once.
But, there’s no Batman to save you now.
Then, you hear your name, called out amidst the rain beating against the pavement from behind you. It’s loud and clear—a cry. You don’t even have to look; you know it’s Bruce. The stranger’s eyes flicker behind you, expression splitting into fear for a brief moment that you almost don’t catch it. His grip on your sleeve slackens and in a flash, you’re reminded of the self-defense classes you took at university; something about the throat is one of the weakest spots.
Maybe, you do have at least one stroke of sanity left.
Swiftly, you thrust your right fist out and struck him in the throat. He staggers back, nearly stumbling to the ground, gasping as his hands flung to his throat. His breath is heavy, and the woman yelps, backing away from the scene. Your knuckles are throbbing in pain. The man’s gaze finds yours, and he’s angry. Very angry.
Oops.
He launches himself at you and as you’re moving away from him and into the rain, Bruce makes his appearance, launching his fist against the man’s jaw. Hard. He yells as Bruce seizes him by the neck and violently thrusts him against the wall. The man sank to the ground but dragged up to his feet, Bruce’s grip around his bloody jaw.
“Fuck off or I swear, I’ll fuck you up.”
He’s hurt and definitely sober now. You can smell how scared he is. So, he lets him go, scrambling to his weakened knees as the two run past you and into the rain like teenagers on drugs, fleeing from the cops.
You’re still standing, in the rain, just staring at him. The rain pelts down heavier and your hair is already as wet as his, fresh from the shower.
Yet, you don’t move. You can’t move.
Where the fuck did Bruce learn to do that?
The punch, that grab to the jaw—it’s all so familiar to you. It’s the way he moves, he reminds you of…Batman.
Wait. No. Hang on just a minute—
“What the hell are you doing out here?” He sounds different, you’re not sure what to make of it. It’s the aftermath of adrenaline coursing through his veins; you see it in the way he breathes. Heavy and ragged. Not from exertion but anger and frustration.
There’s rainwater trailing down your forehead. You blink, lashes kissing your cheeks, forming droplets that continue to trail down your face. They look like tears—you’re terrified and confused; the expression doesn’t help.
“I was hungry,” you say, gesturing towards the vending machine. Your Cheez-It is still in the pick-up box, waiting for you, but you’re not hungry anymore. “And you went out alone without telling me?”
You’re taken aback by his response, it’s insulting and it stings. “Excuse me? I am not a child—”
“But anything could have happened to you.”
He’s right in front of you now and honestly, you want to smack him.
Forget your hunger, forget the pain in your knuckles, forget the aftershock of seeing Bruce punch someone in the face. This is beyond outrageous, he’s treating you like a child and you have every right to be mad.
“I don’t need your fucking permission to do shit. I’ve been on my own for so long, and you know I can handle myself. I don’t need you coming in and saving me with that money and charm,” you shout, to be heard over the rumbling of thunder.
He scoffs, it’s insinuating.
“Oh, so this is what it’s about? About me actually caring for you.”
“I’m just trying to understand why you care so much. I’m a fucking mess and you know it because if it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t be stuck here in the middle of nowhere,” you punctuate your words with a wave of your hands, gesturing the motel’s complex.
“I care because I—” He cuts himself short, recognizing the possible mistake he’d be making if the conversation continues. However, you press on, stepping closer to him. There’s a blaze in your eyes, you’re hurt but have every intention of provoking. “Because of what?” your voice resonates through the patter of the rain against the tarmac, cutting through like a knife.
This is the worst time, but he now knows, there never will be a right time. It needs to be now.
“Say it.”
“Because I love you.”
Oh shit. You weren’t expecting that.
“I love that you drive with the windows down. I love that you still drink chamomile tea even though it never works. I love that you can never resist a single goddamn bagel. I love the smell of your hair even though it’s all over my face when I wake up. I love that you’ll do anything for your students like they’re your own. I love it when you kiss me, half-drunk even though it drives me mad. And I hate myself for never telling you how beautiful you were when we first met. I hate myself for sleeping with you, for using you—”
You can’t hear anymore, heart gasping, mind spinning, and ears ringing. All you can think about is how he’s so irritatingly charming and how you’re so stupid. You hate it. You hate this game—this two-player game that’s gone on for years. It’s more than you can bear. There’s no winner and you know it. You both know it. You hate it because you want to kiss him. You don’t want to kiss him in bed, half drunk. You want to kiss him like you mean it.
And so you do. You kiss him before he can even finish his trail of thought. There’s no taste of wine or whiskey. No concealment or suppression. It’s out there in the open. It’s real, tender, and true. You don’t feel so numb anymore in your drenched coat. The way he holds you close, hands-on your neck and the small of your back. This feels natural. This is what you and Bruce should be—intertwined in each other’s arms.
“So…I’m guessing the feeling’s mutual?” he mutters against your lips, breathless and grinning.
You laugh, smile matching his. “I love you, Bruce. So, just shut up and kiss me, God damn it.”
“Gladly.”