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John would rather make a Batman doll, obviously, but that would raise questions. Not only about if he really learned his lesson from his own stint in crimefighting, but why he would give the doll to Bruce of all people.
So he's gone with a new Bruce Wayne doll, modeled after the best his buddy's civilian persona has to offer. Bruce is clever enough to get the analogy, and the workmanship proves John's admiration regardless. Instead of mimicking every plate and gadget of Batman's suit, the doll reflects the suit Bruce wore when raising funds for the Gotham City Food Bank. John studied a great photo from the Gazette to make sure he pinned down the details: the number of coat buttons, the right flare on the bowtie, proportional width for the lapels. He didn't have access to pleather or anything for the shiny dress shoes, but he was able to construct them with a point and add stitching for the laces.
And in the end John had it: a doll capturing Bruce's unquestionable philanthropic heroism, made with the love John has for his vigilante heroism. He likes to think that a Batman doll would look as alluringly stoic as this one looks sleek and sophisticated.
He giggles to himself, the doll in his lap, clutched in his fingers. He sits alone on a couch in the dayroom, waiting to be called to the visiting room. It isn't fair to Bruce that so few know the truly amazing things he's done, but being one of those few is still, after everything, the thrill of John's life.
Really, it's for the best that Bruce had to miss last week's visit. It gave John more time to finesse the details, the stitching and the seams. He needs Bruce to see that he put his everything into this.
"Doe," comes Garrison's gruff voice, and John snaps to his feet. His fingers dig into the doll's torso so sharply that he gives himself a silent warning. Don't want any stuffing popping out.
But Garrison's next words come just as fast. "No visit today. Raincheck."
John stands there for a blank second before the disappointment sets in, slumping him back into his seat. Humiliation coils around his shoulders, mocking his eagerness, whispering how silly he looked to anyone who saw.
Well, it doesn't matter. It's not that surprising, is it? At first, Bruce kept up weekly visits for months, long enough that John pushed away any thought of the inevitability: crime doesn't have a schedule, and eventually Batman would have to confront it during their hour. And then he did. Bruce had been visiting the science building at Gotham University when one of the professors fired a gun in a classroom, sending the entire campus into lockdown. The guy evidently had the gall to claim the shot was just for a social experiment, not that John really cared. All John knew was that his afternoon didn't feel quite as bright.
Bruce made the next visit, but he never fell into a real streak again, now that John thinks about it. As if the first time Bruce skipped out cracked his resolve, and he could no longer manage to hit more than four weeks straight.
"... the Batman intervened, allowing the utility workers to escape."
John turns, kneeling in his chair, to face the TV on the other side of the room. The news chyron reads: BATMAN FOILS SEWER ATTACK. City workers were assessing pipes under the Bowery, the anchor says, when an enormous creature attacked from the darkness. They claimed it was a giant crocodile, but also that it was bipedal and could speak, exchanging words with Batman before leading him on a chase into the depths beneath the city.
Well, who else is gonna go after something like that? Dealing with outlandish threats is Batman's whole job, after all. John can't expect to take priority, not unless he decides to terrorize Gothamites and escape into the city's nooks and crannies. That would be awfully exciting— but he doesn't need to do that. It's special enough to be one of Bruce's priorities at all.
And there are fifty-two weeks in every year. John will see Bruce the next one.
The following week, there's no live news story. John doesn't learn what happened with Bruce until his evening tablet time, when the Gazette posts a photo from the Robinson Park skating rink. In the haze of early dusk, a gunman appeared on the band stage, threatening the lead singer.
Someone in the crowd captured the moment when, standing at the gunman's flank with his gloved hand wrapped around the creep's wrist, Batman snapped it back. The gunman's face contorted in pain as his pistol hung suspended near the bottom of the frame, having fallen from his hand.
It reminds John of all the bad-ass moves he wanted to pull off months ago, to show off to Batman, to prove that he had what it took. And he did! For a few glorious minutes, the Joker and Batman fought the bad guys side-by-side, so in sync it was like they choreographed it.
Until John screwed it up, of course. And now the person on screen at Bruce's side, almost hand-in-hand, is the criminal he's fighting.
Another week later, Zsasz breaks out of Arkham, and the next time John sees him is on the evening news, hours after another Bruce no-show. Following an all-day manhunt, Batman escorts the serial killer into GCPD headquarters for processing. Zsasz grins at the cameras, showing off the blood on his teeth. It's smeared over his mouth, too, no doubt from the impact of Batman's fist. He went after a little girl and her parents, the report says, and yup, that would earn a few socks in the face. Bruce is particularly sensitive when it comes to defenseless kids.
But that can't be the only thing that gets you that close to him.
Third week's the charm, and Bruce misses visiting hours again. The perpetrator this time is a real piece of work: a former classical antiquity professor with a penchant for electrical engineering and collecting followers. Manic Maxie Zeus and his cult take over the Greek exhibit at the art museum, but they don't seem to care much for cultural accuracy. Maxie calls for a sacrifice, not of a goat or cow but of a conservator who didn't restore a statue of his namesake to his liking. But before Maxie can zap the cowering woman, Batman dives to the rescue. A still image shows him tackling Maxie from behind, one arm snatching the madman's waist while the opposite hand fists in his toga, unfurling the draping and springing free the lightning broach holding it together. Maxie's eyes are squinted in pain and his mouth parted in a seeming gasp, all surprise and indignation.
If anything, he should be grateful.
And that has to be it. Bruce can't ditch John again. The next week's video clip can't be real, a shot of Batman clobbering some creep who planted a series of bombs at elementary schools. He probably has a name, but John doesn't care who it is. The filmer has a view of Batman's back as he straddles the bomber, sturdy thighs pinning thrashing hips as he leans forward to drive his fist down, out of view. The punishing beat goes on for only seconds, yet it feels unstoppable, breathtaking.
That terrible night in Ace Chemicals rises in the back of John's mind. Most of the memory is hazy, but the adrenaline imprinted the starlit impact of every punch on his brain. He thinks he can feel that burn again as the video repeats, the focus of that indomitable strength squarely on him.
He can't figure out how a doll is supposed to grab that same attention.
"Doe!" Garrison snaps, knocking his fist on the doorframe, and John realizes he's said it a second time. "Visitor!"
John jolts upright in his bed. "Really?"
"The walk over counts into your time."
John scowls, but he gets up and scrambles out of his room, raking a hand through his disheveled hair— only to skid to a stop and turn around.
"Wait, wait," he says and darts back in, jerking open the bottom drawer of his dresser. He retrieves the doll from behind a stack of folded shirts and meets Garrison at the doorway again.
As they head for the visiting room, John has to remind himself to keep a steady pace. Garrison doesn't like when patients get too far ahead of him, but John feels so jittery and his legs keep broadening his stride.
He's anxious because he's happy. Bruce is finally here again. How else could John feel? What else could it mean that his heart pulses in his ears?
Garrison passes John off to the visiting room monitor, and there Bruce is, waiting by a table in the corner. He's wearing neat slacks and a fog-gray cable knit sweater with a high neck. A black peacoat hangs on the back of the chair beside him. His eyes brighten as John approaches, and his smile is as warm as ever, like there's no place else he'd rather be.
John's own grin falters.
"Been too long, buddy," Bruce says, taking a seat as John does.
"Yeah," John replies with a scattered laugh. "I coulda grown a beard if the follicles were there."
"Sometimes I wish I could get away with one."
John laughs again, because he's supposed to, because he's special and knows there are bat-reasons Bruce can't let his facial hair grow. He doesn't really feel it, though, and apparently neither does Bruce, whose eyes get that sad puppy gleam.
"I am sorry, John," he says. "There's been so much going on. I'm sure you got wind of it."
"Sure, sure, you're always big news. I saw."
"Looks like you still kept good company."
John wrinkles his nose. "Oh, yeah, Arnie and Sockface can really lead a symposium."
"No, I meant…" Bruce's eyes flicker downwards.
John realizes both his arms are crossed over the doll, pressing it face-first against his chest. He grabs the doll by the waist and jerkily extends his arm to slide the gift across the table. "For you," he says quickly.
"Oh, wow," Bruce says, lifting both eyebrows. He holds the doll up by the arms, tilting it this way and that. "Is this… The food bank fundraiser?"
"Yes." Of course Bruce gets it, just like John counted on.
Bruce's smile returns as he tweaks one of the doll's laced feet. "Heh. No other Christmas gift will beat this, that's for sure."
John nods mechanically, against a sudden tension in his jaw. Christmas is just a few days off, he remembers. The doll was ready before Thanksgiving.
Bruce sets his little doppelganger on the table. His puppy eyes are still whimpering above his smile. "I haven't had the chance to get your gift yet, though I don't know if any of my ideas are as nice as this. Whatever you need in here, just name it."
"Yeah? How about a nail file in a cake?"
John means to laugh when he says it, a real laugh this time, but his voice is somber. Bruce's face falls again.
"Hey, how about some fresh air?" Bruce suggests.
"Yeah," John answers reflexively. "Sure."
Bruce pulls on his coat and notifies the monitor, who makes a note on the day's clipboard and a call on his walkie. Another orderly leads Bruce and John to the courtyard door and gets John into one of the community jackets. Bruce palms the guy some cash and suggests he take a smoke break, let two friends chat truly alone like normal people. The orderly waves them outside.
It hasn't snowed. Everything is bare and brown, the scraggly branches of the maple trees frozen in their reach. John and Bruce walk slowly along the sparse, cracked pavers that loop around a patch of dead grass and brittle shrubs.
"I'm sorry," Bruce says yet again, looking at the doll in his hands. "But you ought to hear the stories."
Right, yes, John loves when Bruce can get into all the juicy details he can't let other people overhear. "They looked like doozies," he says.
"When are they not?"
And Bruce launches into it, chronologically of course, fan of order that he is. The crocodile creature in the sewer turned out to be, disappointingly, a crocodile man with a full-body congenital skin condition. The attack was an attempt to scare the city workers away from his hiding spot; he's a suspect in a murder a couple states away. Bruce doesn't know if he's guilty or not, but the croc was not very keen on answering questions about it. He left Bruce a bite mark or two for his trouble.
Bruce lost him underground, or that's what John thinks Bruce is saying. As the story tapers off to segue into the next, John's imagination is still with Batman winding through the old sewer system. The glow of the cowl lenses was the only light. He trudged through slime and sludge that slowly seeped into the crevices of the suit. The rankness suspended in the cold, stale air must have made his eyes water, the smell so packed in the tunnel he could probably taste it. He could have been above ground, sitting with John in the bright placidity of the visiting room, where the worst smell was the whiff of bodily fluids under a haze of bleach. But John was not crucial. Pursuing the ferocious crocodile man was crucial.
"John?"
John comes back to the moment with a start. "Uh, yeah, sounds bananas."
Of course that's not a right response to whatever Bruce said. John hears him let out a quiet, sharp sigh.
"I know it doesn't help when I can't make it," Bruce says.
"It helps the people of Gotham."
"You're a person in Gotham." After a pause, Bruce adds, "The most important person. To me."
John stops walking, and Bruce does too. They turn to face each other.
"I'm sure that's hard to remember when I vanish on you," Bruce says, passing the doll to one hand so he can rest the other on John's shoulder, "but it's true. You're the only person who knows the truth about me. Who understands. Even after how our partnership ended, you… You understand that something more has to be done. Why Batman exists."
"What good does that do me in here?"
The acidic words surprise John, too, but he's pretty sure it doesn't show on his face, which feels like it's swelling with heat. His heartbeat is in his ears again.
Bruce recovers from a flinch, leaning in instead of away, squeezing John's shoulder. "I promise you. You are always at the top of my mind."
Those cloudless blue eyes hold steady on John's face. The firm line of his mouth assures no ifs, ands, or buts.
It's amazing how well he can lie.
John has seen it for weeks. There's only one way to keep Bruce's attention.
His arm whips up, knocking Bruce's hand off his shoulder as he goes for that pretty face with a slash of bitten down nails. Bruce stumbles back, dropping the doll, and twists out of the way when John throws his fist.
"John!" Bruce bursts, blocking another punch with his forearm. "What— Stop!"
John lets loose a kick, managing to snag Bruce's shin before Bruce backs up again.
"What is wrong with you?!"
That's for Bruce to answer, isn't it? How somehow everything about John is worth less attention than a sewer mutant, mass shooter, serial killer, cult leader, mad bomber? But John knows the answer. It's because they're out there in Batman's face, because they force his hand.
Which is an idea, and John snatches Bruce's wrist, yanks him forward, and drives a knee into his gut. Bruce folds, and John pounds his fist on the top of his head like a flail, until Bruce whips upright, shoving John away and stepping back again to put distance between them.
Bruce doesn't clutch his stomach or head, but one of his eyes is tearing as he falls into a defensive stance. "This isn't funny!" he bursts.
And John laughs, because no, it isn't, because he can't believe he didn't see this before. All that time he wasted in despair while Bruce fought those losers. All this concern that Bruce is wasting now, not calling for the orderly. He wants to handle this himself. He doesn't want to wreck John's streak of good behavior. He wants to keep John just how he left him.
The patch of shrubs is bordered by large stones, and John picks up one the size of his head. He lets it swing in his arms as he inches closer to Bruce, feinting this way and that. "Ohhh," he taunts, "where's it gonna go?"
Bruce doesn't respond; he follows the rock with his eyes, doing his own feints, ready to dodge. This is what John wants, what he hasn't seen live in the flesh for months. Action, instinct.
He finally flings the rock, and Bruce darts away a tad too slow, cursing when it catches his ankle. John dips to snag a paver from the ground, but Bruce changes tack, rushing forward. He grabs the collar of John's jacket, pulling him upright, and when John slashes at him again, Bruce grabs both his wrists.
He holds John still, glaring at him head-on, demanding seriousness as if he deserves it. "Just talk to—"
John whips his head forward, stars lighting up his vision as his skull thwacks into Bruce's. Bruce shouts, but his grip only tightens, cracking John's wrists. John giggles, shaking away the pain, eager for his sight to clear so he can behold the rage on Bruce's face. But he doesn't get to; he feels Bruce twist both fists into the front of his jacket, heaving him to the frozen ground.
John wheezes with the little breath left in his lungs. Things stop spinning under Bruce, who hovers overhead and huffs angrily through his nose. John grins, and Bruce leaves one hand planted in John's shoulder as the other pulls back, elbow stabbing the air. Bruce's fist trembles in the air, ready to plummet and finally, finally—
The blow doesn't come. Bruce drops his arm and braces himself on either side of John's head. His face comes into focus, and it's twisted with shame. He lets his head hang, shakes it.
"John, I—"
"Don't," John snarls, and when Bruce meets his eyes, John grabs the lapels of his stupid, prim peacoat. "Don't act like I'm not giving you exactly what you want!"
"What are you—"
John surges up, flipping their positions, knocking Bruce's head into a paver, adding a crack. "I understand!" he shouts, and his hands are already so close to that corded neck. "You know I understand!"
He doesn't get a tight enough grip to see if stuffing comes out. An arm slings around his throat, jerking him back. He thrashes, and two other arms hook around his waist, pulling him off Bruce. The orderlies shout at each other as John spits and kicks, one of his shoes popping off as his heels drag on the ground.
"I'll do anything!" John screeches, tears slicing down his cheeks. "Can't you see that?!"
Bruce is still on the ground, propped up on his elbows. Past his shoulder, the doll lies face-down in the dirt. Dr. Leland appears, kneeling at his side, placing her hand on his shoulder, saying something, but Bruce doesn't react. He doesn't look away from John, gaze absent of apology but full of hurt— and alarm. John's no longer in the background. He is to be dealt with, on a level none of those pretenders on the outside can ever hope to reach.
And once John breaks out of here, he'll make sure Bruce regrets ever putting him anywhere but first.