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Bruce Wayne was stubborn, and Alfred was always right. It was because of that stubbornness that he hadn't believed his butler's words. That he fired the man who was the only family he had. For the second time, at that. All because he was a stubborn young man who couldn't control the impulses of his feelings. He hadn't known Alfred was right. Not then. Telling that story, about how he had met Bruce's father... Thomas Wayne, Alfred's best friend, a man who provided a friendship so strong that he was able to overcome his own darkness, the darkness he had because of the things he had done. It sounded fabricated, like a carefully manufactured lie to convince Bruce that what he was doing was wrong and unhealthy (he already knew that it was). He didn't believe it.
Not until he met him
--
It was another night at the Siren Club. A Saturday. He'd gone in with Tommy Elliott and a small number of ladies that had grown exponentially in number as the hours carried on.
The bass of the heavy music the nightclub always had going was hammering in his skull, the alcohol he'd consumed already making his brain swim. Allowing all of the unwelcome thoughts he dwelled on to flow away, allowing him to forget the man he really was, at least temporarily. The stench of smoke was heavy in the air, mingling with the smells of purfumes and colognes. It was overwhelming, yet exactly what he needed. There was a lady on either side of his body, the one at his right tracing undefinable shapes into the lean muscle of his arm, the one to the left licking her way up his jaw, grazing her teeth against his skin.
He was totally out of it.
Until the front doors opened.
In stumbled a man. A kid, really. He couldn't have been more than a year older than Bruce himself. Tall and broad. He looked so horribly out of his element, a fish out of water. There was a terror stricken look on his handsome face as he looked around the joint, taking it all in.
The longer Bruce stared, the more details he could see, and with those details, he could feel himself sobering up, allowing the Bruce Wayne he wanted to shove aside for the night to slip his way through the cracks exposing themselves.
Before he registered what he was doing, he was walking to the front of the club, beelining for this newcomer. A strong, gut wrenching sense of empathy already ebbing through his whole body, all for a stranger he knew nothing about.
"Hey," Bruce said, his voice soft, he wasn't sure at first if the other guy would be able to hear it over the thrumming noise of the club, "are you alright?"
His words turned the eyes of the stranger turned onto him, and this close, Bruce could see his every detail, even in the unnatural LED lighting.
Bruises spattered the guy's entire face, along his jaw, his forehead, his chin. Cuts decorated the skin along the bridge of his nose, a split lip, a gash in his eyebrow. There was blood leaking out from some of them still, in other places it had dried, but it still looked fresh. His brown hair was a mess and his clothes were far from nice, though not rough enough to hint he lived on the streets. He was in an age worn sweater, knit fraying in multiple spots and blood from the young man's face had dripped down the collar. Clean streaks down his bloodied cheeks suggested that he'd been crying at some point.
Bruce's stomach twisted at the sight.
"You look awful," he murmured, trying his best to not sound like the douchebag he'd been all night, allowing the gentleness and empathy he felt to seep into his words, "What's your name?"
The simple question earned the billionaire a surprised blink, the guy's soft brown eyes almost startled.
"Uh, it's Harvey. Harvey Dent."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Harvey Dent," Bruce hummed politely, trying his very best to not frighten the poor guy more than he already was, whatever had happened to him, it seemed to have been bad. Maybe Bruce could do something right by helping him. He extended his hand, "I'm Bruce Wayne."
There was a moment of hesitation, but Harvey's hand met his, and despite the reluctant smile on his split lips, the grip of his large hand was firm, "It's nice to meet you, Bruce."
That seemed reassuring.
Bruce had lead him to the bathroom after that, while people traipsed in and out to fuck one another in the stalls over the span of the two hours they were in there, Harvey was leaning back against one of the sinks. Trusting Bruce to clean up the mess that had been made of his face with several damp paper towels and some hand soap. The sounds and smells were all muffled in here, he imagined that it was at least a somewhat less overwhelming place for Harvey to be.
Once all of the blood was gone and only the bruises remained, Bruce had asked in the most caring voice he could muster, "What happened to you?"
Harvey's breath hitched at the question, his eyes flitting downwards.
His voice came out no more than a mumble, "My father."
This was Gotham City, Harvey could have answered with pretty much anything, the mob, a gang, serial killer, mugger - you name it. But no. It had been his own father. For some reason that answer made Bruce more angered and disgusted than he would have been by anything else.
Tears spilled over the edges of Harvey's eyes. He still hadn't looked back up. His shoulders were trembling, his fingers twitching as his hands shook.
"I- don't want to," he whispered, shaking his head as a grimace overtook his face, "I can't go back there."
"Is there anywhere else you could go?" A desperate shake of his head. No. "If you want, you could always come back with me."
When Harvey said he didn't want to impose, that Bruce had helped him enough already and that he needn't do any more, the young billionaire had insisted. He had an empty mansion with seven bedrooms, welcoming Harvey in was the lease he could do. He didn't mention how lonely he was. Eventually Harvey had agreed. This was Gotham, Harvey could have been a horrible, awful person sent to manipulate Bruce or kill him or something else horrendous, the thought should have occurred to him, he should've been more cautious. But if he'd considered the possibility, he had pushed it aside.
Harvey had ended up staying for a week, at first.
Talking came easy around Harvey, so easy, that he found himself telling him everything.
About his parents, Selina, Jim Gordon, every villianous plot he'd managed to get wrapped up in from Galavan to Valeska. Told him of his fears, his loneliness, told him about Alfred, even about his training (though he left out the vigilantism.) He trusted Harvey more than most people he'd ever met in his life, already. And in turn, Harvey had been trusting and open with him.
He told of how his mother was out of the picture, barely mentioned his father. In his free time, Harvey Dent read the newspapers, watched the news picking apart cases from the GCPD, reading up on what was happening around the city. He rented books from the library on law and justice. Told Bruce about the two stray dogs he fed every time he walked by their alley that he had named Remus and Romulus, affectionately calling them his puppies, said if his father wasn't a factor, he'd have adopted them long ago. He'd even shown him his most prized possession, an old trick coin. Harvey wanted to be a lawyer. He loved Gotham, it was painfully obvious, but he made it plain now much he was disgusted by the corruption in the system, he wanted to fix that. His eyes lit up when he spoke of it. Helping Gotham, saving her from the evil and corruption she faced every day.
It was refreshing, to meet someone else who actually cared about the city and the people in it. Bruce had been convinced Gordon was one of the last good men Gotham had to offer, but Harvey Dent, like a breath of fresh air had proven him wrong.
He was glad.
Every single day that week, Bruce had gotten up early to drive Harvey to school. He needed to study to become a lawyer.
Every day Tommy Elliott called.
Every day, Bruce never answered.
The second week he was at Wayne Manor, Bruce told Harvey about Ra's Al Ghul.
"Bruce," Harvey had said. One of those large, warm hands of his was on Bruce's shoulder, grounding him, Harv was looking him directly in the eyes, that little wrinkle between his eyebrows that showed he was genuine present, "what you did doesn't make you any less of a person. Not in my eyes, and certainly not to anyone else. This Ra's guy, he'd been around for thousands of years, committed so many atrocities and crimes I'm sure it's impossible to name them all. He requested that you kill him, that you put him out of his misery. What you did wasn't murder, it was justice."
In the immediate silence that followed, Harvey's words hung in the air. Bruce hadn't known how much he needed to hear that until then, how much they meant to him.
"If you want to believe you've done something terrible and irredeemable so badly, though, I'm sure a manslaughter or assisted suicide charge could be added on to your case," Harvey added on jokingly, tapping his fingers against the back of the billionaire's shoulder blades.
Despite the nature of it, Bruce found himself snorting. Harvey's jokes were always horrible.
The two fell into easy laughter, and once it petered out, Bruce found himself smiling, leaning in a little bit to take Harvey's hand in his own.
"Thank you," he hummed.
He had contacted Alfred later that week, told him he was right and begged him to come back. It took terrorist attack on a Wayne Foundation charity dinner, and Alfred both meeting Harvey and seeing Bruce's heroism to agree.
As the years went on, Harvey stayed with Bruce, the two of them becoming nigh inseparable. They relied on one another. They were each other's confidants in a city of madness. An anchor in an unreliable, churning sea.
Something to hold onto.
Sometimes that was talking about that weeks problems. Though, sometimes it was also fleeting touches late at night. Hot breaths ghosted over each other's lips. Hands at each other's waists. Loving touches. Bodies slotted together.
They supported one another every step of the way, no matter what the nature of that step was.
Bruce funded Harvey's ventures in law school. Paid for him to take the bar exam. And eventually, many years later, when Jim Gordon was Commissioner and Bruce had been Batman for three years now, he backed Harvey's campaign running for Gotham's District Attorney.
Paid for a beautiful gold engagement ring, and even funded Harvey's ambitions to finally, finally bring Oswald Cobblepot to justice for his crimes against the city and the people of Gotham, as the leader of her gang empire. Bought Harvey the perfectly tailored two-toned black and white suit, split perfectly and seamlessly down the middle that he'd wanted to wear to the trial.
So when the infamous Penguin had smuggled in the acid from Ace Chemicals, when Bruce had to watch as he lost the very best friend he'd ever had and the man that he loved slowly lose himself and descend into a madness caused by a rift in his own mind, he mourned. Watched as Harvey Dent became lost to Two-Face. He made a promise to both himself and to Harvey. It was Harvey's friendship that had saved him from his own darkness all those years ago, and if it was the last thing he ever did, if it killed him trying - he vowed that he would do whatever he could to free Harvey from his darkness as well.