Chapter Text
Following his brutal assault on Oswald Cobblepot, Bruce, upon regaining his senses, finds himself in a padded cell in Arkham Asylum, still suffering from the effects of the drug injected into him. He is greeted by an orderly, who lets two of his father’s victims into his cell and gives them a taser. Though he puts up a fight, Bruce is subdued and beaten by the men, only to be saved by another inmate. As Doctor Leland arrives, she asks Bruce what happened, to which he can choose to tell the truth. As they leave for the recreation room, Leland introduces the inmate as their name for him, “John Doe”.
As they are taken through Arkham, Bruce sees how derelict the conditions are due to his father’s misuse of the asylum. Bruce and John Doe arrive at the recreation room, and Leland leaves them to attend to another matter. As John leaves to get the TV remote, he gives Bruce a key. When John returns, he switches to the news channel, showing one of Dent’s addresses to the city. If Bruce tried to use the key, John will laugh, revealing it to have been a fake and amused that Bruce “actually tried to use it”.
Offering to help Bruce escape from the asylum, John asks for a favor, but will go through with his plan regardless of whether or not Bruce accepts. He starts a riot by cutting Victor Zsasz’s cheek and causing the killer to have a psychotic breakdown and attack another patient.
Bruce decides to use the opportunity to escape and use the phone. After calling Alfred to get in contact with the family lawyers, John will appear at the gate and tell Bruce to “ask the Vales”. Shortly afterwards, Bruce is taken by Doctor Leland and an orderly to his cell.
Following the riot, Bruce is questioned on the events and asked to tell Leland what happened. However, in the midst of these questions, Alfred arrives to take Bruce to Wayne Manor, having been able to rally the lawyers to release Bruce on bail. Despite Doctor Leland’s protests, Bruce is released into Alfred’s care and given permission to leave the asylum. As he leaves, he briefly encounters John, who tells Bruce that he will see him on the outside.
Returning to the Batcave, Alfred worries about the effects the Arkham drug is having on Bruce. Using a record of his DNA, Bruce is able to make and inject a cure. After being cured, he decides to follow John’s advice and investigate the Vales as Batman so he can work out Vicki’s plan.
But first, Alfred tells him to rest.
Bruce’s back hurt from how long he had been sitting bent over the Batcomputer, staring at the same image in front of him. The dull ache was just one more item on a long list of things wrong with his body; the cuts on his face, the bruised knuckles that he didn’t remember getting, the still-healing taser wound that had caused so much trouble, the usual scrapes and bumps and cuts that came from being Batman, the bruises from the inmates, and, of course, the fact that his head was still wildly spinning. It must have been a side effect of the drug that had been ravaging his system up until a few hours ago, combined with the bodily trauma that had been inflicted on him and the disorientation that came from waking up and finding himself in a blood-soaked bed in Arkham Asylum.
Arkham. That prison. That nightmare. At just the thought reminder of the place, Bruce’s heart started beating frantically faster, like his body was priming him to run. And the thought of running made it even worse, because now he was thinking about how, in Arkham, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t escape, he couldn’t outfight them, he just had to lay there in the fetal position while they punched and kicked-
But, Bruce remembered, that was only for a few seconds. It felt like it had never stopped, but it was only a few seconds. Then he came with his whirling hands and his manic laughter and his bright eyes, and reached out a warm, soft hand to pull Bruce back into the land of the living.
Arkham was the land of the dead.
Bruce realized that he had gotten lost in his thoughts again, and shook his head, pulling himself back to the present, to where he could enjoy what was in front of him. A picture of him, the only picture that Bruce had been able to find. The same light purple shirt under the same white scrubs, the same wild green hair and too-wide grin. Oh God, that grin. Bruce would never forget anything about his savior, but especially not the grin.
Bruce had been staring at this precious picture of his new friend for four hours, minimum; after giving Bruce the antidote and making a game plan, Alfred had implored Bruce to go to bed and rest his tired, broken body and brain. “In a minute,” Bruce had said. “I just need to stay here and finish up some things first.” And now, in the middle of the night, here he was.
His thoughts were prone to wandering, especially into tunnels and dark places, but he had absolutely no desire to relive the terror that he had felt in Arkham, so every time he felt himself slipping back there again, he redirected his brain back to how he had felt when the grinning savior had reached for his hand; like a lone shining star had broken through the clouds of insanity and blame and fear and sadness and anger. Bruce had been having the hardest week of his life, and Harvey Dent had betrayed him, the Wayne company had abandoned him, Oswald had scorned him, and the public had all but crucified him. He had woken up in the dim, dirty room with greenish white padding that looked like something straight out of a nightmare, and he had been attacked as his world was shifting and blurring, and he had used every ounce of his being to hide it, to put on a good face for the world, even now, when the world had tossed him away, and he knew that he had never felt so trapped and terrified since-
Since the night that he had been forced to see in a new light, now.
And only one person had cared for him. Bruce knew he had blindly followed the madman around like a lost sheep; with his kind words and his help and his unwavering interest in Bruce, John had made it incredibly easy for him to do so. It was rare for Bruce to find someone who was completely willing to follow him through anything, through all the shame and all the mistakes he had made, without holding him to an impossible standard. It was even rarer to find someone who Bruce was just as willing to be devoted to.
John had known that Bruce Wayne was Batman. He had known that Vicki Vale was Lady Arkham. And he had known exactly what Bruce had needed, trapped in that dark, cold, unreal hell, more than anything: a friend.
Bruce didn’t know how to win his company back or make people like him again or keep Selina on the right path or protect everyone from the danger of Lady Arkham. He only knew that John would be on his mind for the rest of his life.
Bruce’s tired, obsessive thoughts were like a record player, repeating over and over. He knew Alfred was probably right about getting some sleep. He also knew that if John Doe ever got out of Arkham, which Bruce wouldn’t put past him, he would follow the madman to the ends of the earth.
Not out of any sense of obligation, or to return a favor, like he had promised in that dark hallway. Simply because when someone saved your life, when someone gave you the world, they also became your world. Arkham Asylum was dark. Arkham Asylum was blurry. Arkham Asylum felt like loneliness and terror. And in his cold, tired, drugged state, Bruce knew he had imprinted onto John Doe like a wet baby duckling.
It wasn’t rational. But Bruce was crazy now, according to the world. Why couldn’t he lean into it a little? Why couldn’t he hunch himself over the Batcomputer in the dead of night, staring into the eyes of someone who would probably never see the light of day again?
A soft bump behind him, and Bruce Wayne jumped up with all the frantic speed of a fighter. He put his hands in a defensive position. He clenched them into fists in front of his chest. He tried his best to purge the terror from his eyes. He would not be beaten again.
“Master Wayne?” a voice said softly from the shadows. “Bruce? It’s just me. Alfred.”
Bruce stood still. He tried to remember how to make his mouth work.
“Oh,” he said finally, in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s understandable, Bruce,” Alfred said, and put a reassuring hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “You’ve been through hell these past few days. I’m worried about you.”
Alfred’s gaze went over Bruce‘s shoulder, to the image of John that Bruce had been staring at; the bright eyes, the wide grin. Alfred’s eyes darted back and forth over the codex entry about him. Bruce had tried to write something objective at first, he had tried to write what Batman would say, but then sometime around midnight he had changed his mind, deleted the objective paragraph talking about debts and drugs and a million other things that had had no meaning in Arkham, and below John’s name he had written one simple sentence:
He saved my life.
“What happened in Arkham?” Alfred said quietly.
Bruce sat down in his chair again with shaky limbs. He started talking, right from the beginning where he woke up in a strange place, in a puddle of fresh blood, with no idea when or if he would ever get out. He took Alfred through the long, winding hallways illuminated only by red lights, he described the other tortured inhabitants of that nightmare with enough detail to make Alfred suck his teeth in sympathy and horror. The words flowed out of him like blood from an open wound, as he described how the actual blood had flown when the man with the tally marks had stabbed someone over and over again. He described how he had appeared in a whirlwind of white and purple and green, and the striking colors of his voice, brown and dark sharp red. He described the false key, the tally marks, the maniacal laughter, the way the blood flew, every moment, every remembrance, in careful detail. He described all the madman had done for him, for no reason other than an obsession cut from the same thread as his own.
“If it wasn’t for him, I would still be in there,” Bruce finished. “Drugged, losing my grip on sanity, waiting until someone finished me off.”
Alfred was silent for a minute. Bruce understood. It was a lot to take in. It was even more to live through.
“Then… I understand why you’ve been fixating on this man,” Alfred said slowly. “I don’t necessarily agree with you, but I understand.”
“He saved my life,” Bruce repeated. It felt like a child’s petulant whining.
“You need to sleep, Master Bruce,” Alfred said gently, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulders (just as he had done). Bruce leaned into Alfred’s arm - he had forgotten in his obsessive reverie, but he was beyond exhausted. A yawn forced its way out of his throat, and he became aware of an ache in his jaw. It could have been from a defense punch from Oz, or a wound from the beating he had received in his asylum room. There was no real way of knowing.
“Let’s turn this off,” Alfred said, pressing a button that made the Batcomputer’s yellow glow go black. Bruce had always thought the gold color was pretty; like candlelight. He had been too lost in the fog of his thoughts to notice it before.
Bruce felt the sting of tears pricking his eyes.
“I know,” Alfred said, running a warm hand through Bruce’s hair. “You’ve been through so much. Now you need to rest.”
Bruce’s chin quivered and his eyes were wet, but he pushed it down. So many things had gone wrong. If he started crying he would never stop.
Alfred stood up, and Bruce Wayne stood up, and Alfred wound his arm around Bruce’s shoulder, walking him up out of the black Batcave and into his bedroom. Bruce laid down on his bed, still in his clothes, and curled up on his side. Wait, no. No. He couldn’t lay like this. Panic flooded through his veins, enough to register through the blanket of tiredness. He had been curled up on his side, helpless, when the two inmates were punching and kicking him-
Bruce adjusted, and rolled over onto his back, as Alfred tucked the blankets in around him. Bruce liked his blankets drawn over him heavily and tightly, and Alfred knew that from years of childhood nightmares. Alfred sat down on the edge of Bruce’s bed, and smoothed his hair tenderly.
“If this man escapes from Arkham,” Alfred said, “if he hurts anyone, you’re going to have to take him back. No matter what he’s done for you.”
Bruce couldn’t meet Alfred’s eyes.
“Can you do that?”
Bruce forced out a barely audible “yeah”. He didn’t think Alfred believed him. He didn’t think he believed himself.
Alfred stood up. “Sleep well, Bruce,” he said, and walked over to the bedroom door, turning the yellow light out, just like he used to do when Bruce had been a timid scared kid. He hesitated, looking back at Bruce. The bright gold light from behind turned him into a silhouette, and beamed a line over the foot of Bruce’s bed.
“I’m not going to wake up in Arkham,” Bruce said quietly, as if to convince himself.
“No,” Alfred said. “You’re not.”
Bruce’s limbs were heavy.
Alfred closed the door.
The room was pitch black, and Bruce’s thoughts flared up, John’s image flared up, in the center of the room like a lighthouse. Bruce saw John, his hands, his grin, his face, his laugh, he replayed every memory until he could recite what had happened to him like a chant, like a prayer.
Again, and again, and again.