ladyofpride replied to your post “What is in your opinion the sweetest or silliest message you've...”
OOC: This isn’t the Past fic I was intrigued about writing. I’m still thinking about the particulars of that. But, anyway, this happened:
The interminable meeting adjourns and Bruce stands, stretching out the kinks in his back with a sigh. Fisher and his endless charts---the tenth circle of hell.
“He would have been done an hour ago if you hadn’t nit-picked the damn things, you know.”
Well. Maybe not quite hell.
Bruce turns to the man beside him and says, wide-eyed with innocence, “I was only giving his hard work the proper attention it deserved.”
Harrison rolls his eyes and turns away to gather his things, but not before Bruce catches the small quirk of a smile at the corner of his lips.
No, Bruce thinks, definitely not hell.
He glances around. The room is nearly empty, the others having bid hasty goodbyes as soon as the meeting had ended---late to various appointments as their schedule had overrun. There’s only Old Man Monty left in the room with them, snoring in his chair and dead to the world.
Leaning close to Harrison, he murmurs, “Did you get my note?”
Harrison tenses, flicking a glance toward Monty. He relaxes after a moment. “I got it.” Laughter and disbelief war in his eyes as he looks at Bruce. “Interesting place I found it. How did you even---”
Bruce grins, waggling his eyebrows. “I have talented hands.”
“Hm.” The sound is low and considering. Molten. “You do.”
Taking a step closer, Bruce prompts, “The note.”
Electricity crackles in the air between them. A flush rises up Harrison’s neck. Bruce wants to feel the heat of it on his tongue.
“---are ridiculous,” Harrison finishes, fond exasperation in his tone, but his eyes---they flick down to Bruce’s mouth and back up. Another step and they’re sharing breath. “I---”
They freeze---and then Harrison smoothly glides past Bruce and says, “Monty? Wake up, old man. The meeting’s over.”
Ignoring Monty’s annoyed grumblings, Bruce keeps his back turned to them. He closes his eyes and simply breathes until he feels a tap on his shoulder.
Turning, he sees Harrison holding his coat out to him. Bruce smiles. “Thanks.” He takes the coat, surreptitiously brushing long, elegant fingers with his thumb. The smile on his face doesn’t falter at all when Harrison draws his hand back a little too quickly. Practice.
Bruce shrugs the coat on and takes hold of his briefcase. “Dreaming about seltzers, Monty?” he asks, as he rounds the table toward the doors.
“What the hell are you babbling about, Wayne?”
“You have to stop falling asleep at meetings, old man. You miss all the good stuff,” tuts Bruce, stepping out into the hallway as Monty harrumphs behind him. He pauses, indecisive for a moment. Then keeps walking and doesn’t look back. Still, he can’t resist calling out over his shoulder, “I’ll see you, Harrison.”
“See you, Bruce. Come on, Monty. Let’s get you a seltzer.”
“Seltzer, seltzer! Stop babbling, boy!”
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There is a unique chaos to thirty children running pell-mell on the grass---screaming, laughing, shrieking in delight. Bruce grins.
“You’re early, Mr. Wayne,” remarks Mrs. Hastings, matronly and gray as she joins him. “It’s good to see you, of course, but we were expecting you at dinner.”
“I had a… complicated morning,” answers Bruce, shedding his coat and draping it over the back of a nearby bench. He starts rolling up his sleeves. “It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Hastings. How has everyone been?”
She doesn’t answer for a moment, giving Bruce that same penetrating stare she gives errant children. He resists the urge to fidget until she finally turns away with a smile. “Just fine, Mr. Wayne. But we can discuss that later.” She inclines her head to the field. “Your subjects await.”
For the next hour, he’s “it”---the children scatter, screaming in glee, and laughing boisterously the few times he lets them tackle him. By the time he’s run the children down to exhaustion, the tight, thorny feeling in his chest has eased. He breathes free and clear for the first time since he left Central City.
Bruce collapses onto the bench with a sigh, breathless with laughter, the muscles in his cheek aching from smiling too much. The children of Gotham City Orphanage may look forward to his visits, but he’ll never be able to repay what they give him---an uncomplicated joy that never fails to remind him why he’s doing what he’s doing.
Harrison does that too, he thinks, smiling to himself. But then the thorn in his chest makes itself known again, and that it hasn’t gone away after all suddenly leaves him feeling more tired now than an hour of running did. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to will it away.
“Bruce?” A small hand tugs at his arm.
He opens his eyes and looks down. “Yes, Ana?”
She climbs onto the bench next to him, six-year-old limbs clumsy, but dark eyes focused and intent. “You promised you’d bring pictures of when you were a kid next time. It’s next time.” She states, as matter-of-fact as only children can be. “Can I see them now?”
Bruce huffs a laugh. “You can see them later after dinner. Aren’t you supposed to be getting cleaned up?”
Ana frowns at him, small face set in a serious expression. “I don’t have to get cleaned up. I didn’t run a lot. See?” She jumps off the bench, twirls, and climbs back on again. “Can I see them now? Please?”
Suppressing a smile, Bruce says, “Alright. They’re in my coat pocket. But try not to tease me too much about how big my ears were, okay?”
“Okay!” she agrees, scrambling for the coat. Bruce closes his eyes again as he waits for her to find it. It’s peaceful here and Ana and the rest of the children make him feel light. But it’s not enough---the relief they give him is fleeting. Running a hand through his hair, he considers excusing himself from dinner and simply going home to crawl into his bed and pull the covers over his head.
Ana gasps and Bruce sits up with a start, eyes flying open. She looks up at him with wide eyes, small body quivering with some emotion. Then she giggles and scoots closer. A piece of paper is shoved in his face and she exclaims, voice high with excitement, “Someone likes you!”
Bruce blinks, frowning in confusion. A closer look and---he breathes in sharply, heart thudding suddenly in his chest. In Ana’s hand is a note. His note. The one he gave Harrison.
Only this one doesn’t just have a question written on it. It has an answer:
Do you like me? X YES __NO
He takes the note carefully from Ana and stares at it in disbelief. Two intersecting lines at the right spot---trust Harrison to be so efficiently and devastatingly charming.
A touch to his cheek brings him back to awareness. Ana’s curious face comes into view and only when she pokes at his cheek again does Bruce realize that he’s smiling from ear to ear. She giggles and tells him, “You’re blushing.”
Bruce laughs, ducking his head for a second, feeling bashful and giddy under the astute scrutiny of a six-year-old. “Am I?”
Ana nods. “Does that mean you like them too?” she asks earnestly.
“Yes,” Bruce answers, with helpless honesty, staring down at the note again. “It does.”
Tipping his head back, he closes his eyes for a moment, the smile on his face growing even wider. Then he stands and takes his coat in hand, drawing the forgotten envelope of pictures from its folds. “Here, squirt. They’re yours.” Carefully tucking the note in his breast pocket, he ushers Ana along and starts walking toward the main house. “Come on. I’m hungry. You hungry?”
“Uh-huh,” answers Ana distractedly, already busy looking through her prize. “Wow, your ears were really big.”
Bruce laughs, too glad not to, as he looks forward to this evening, to tomorrow, and all the days that come next.
