Description: Surely he couldn't have forgotten, right?

Words: 2325

Notes: This one has been in my drafts for a LONGGG time...

Keywords: Bruce, time, yours.

_

19 Years Ago

You try to silence it, even if that doesn't make sense. No one is around to hear you. No one wants to hear you, frankly, but regardless you muffle your sobs with your hands and don't retract them. It's all ridiculously childish, so why cry? They forgot your birthday. So what? A simple mistake that you could have made too. But it's not like you hadn't been buzzing about it for weeks. You were sixteen now, and you'd be getting your license soon. Not to mention it would mean that you and Bruce would be dating for an entire year.

Bruce Wayne had been a special case, an exception for almost everything within your life. You didn't show anyone that you weren't always your bubbly self (but for Bruce, who you had cried and mourned with), you were never vulnerable and insecure (unless you finally gave in and showed Bruce just how you were feeling), and you certainly would never find love—but for Bruce Wayne. (You'd also never make stuff up about yourself to sound cooker, except when Bruce pointed it out and you got to pinch him in the arm for ruining your fun).

And yet even after all you'd given and shown him, he couldn't remember it was your birthday. Simple mistake... right?

You released a shuddering sigh into your knuckle, which you had bitten to silence yourself. But then your insecurities bubbled to life and began to feed off your source of sadness and enrichen it. Tiredly, you swept a lock of hair from your eyes and, just for a moment, let each anxiety consume you in turn.

Bruce Wayne was everything; passionate, righteous, (stupidly) brave, intelligent, empathetic to no foreseeable end and stubbornly determined. He was a lover of the world regardless of when he got angry, regardless of when he said things he didn't mean and let his rage cloud him. He donated his time and his life to do the right thing—and he was just sixteen.

The world had never, ever been kind to him even if he had shown it so much generosity; it stole his parents from him, bathed his heart in tragedy and drowned him in it, then granted him a curse that would eventually he would abandon... you.

You weren't as pretty as certain angles suggested. There would always be someone better in Bruce's life that you'd pray he'd choose over you. He deserved someone better, like the independent and confident Selina Kyle, or the beautiful Silver Saintcloud. Someone who wasn't you.

The wind roars through the distant trees surrounding the Manor's property, playing the branches like an enraged flutist would with their instrument. You draw your attention to the sounds of the breeze, to the world around you, and are pulled from the depths of your own misery and into the cold reality. But it becomes warmer as something slips around your shoulders.

"There you are," Bruce greets.

He places his jacket over your shoulders without your request, and as warmth envelopes you so does his scent of fine leather, expensive cologne and something else that takes a moment to recognize—something almost odorless, but distinctly damp, so you conclude he'd been down in the cave. Work. That explains things.

"Alfred said he thought you were in my room. What are you doing out—?"

That is when Bruce catches your tear-caused hitch of breath, and then the stuttering exhale that follows. He connects the dots in moments, gently taking you by the shoulders and turning you to face him. When he sees that you are crying he instantly seats himself on the porch-stair. There, he attempts to reach out and wipe one away, but his hand retracts as a result of his own fear of making you uncomfortable, "Are you... crying?"

"No." You try and joke because you are obviously weeping, but your humor diminishes long before you even begin to speak. Bruce watches, confused and apprehensive as you swipe at your own tears, and once more his hand reaches out to touch you. Instead of aiding in your battle with your teardrops, his fingers smooth over your knee and study the emotion showing on your face. He feels misery's thick roots plant in his mind at your sadness.

"What's wrong?" Bruce asked, voice gritty and already swelling with self-blame.

You only shook your head and released another fractured sigh, one that made his frown deepen and his touch take action. Slowly, his fingers curved with the shape of your back, pulling you into his side and continuing his affections. Knowing better than anyone that you probably didn't want to speak of why, Bruce added, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I will listen if you do."

You tried not to smile, and when you did it swiftly faded. Your reaction time was so slowed you had only now noticed you had fallen against his shoulder, your cheek on his sweater-covered collarbone and your brow resting lightly against his jaw. You pulled back a little and questioned, "Do you know what day it is today?"

"Yes...? Why?" Bruce questioned calmly. He had no idea. No idea at all. Your stomach churns in response.

"Bruce, this is going to make me sound so dumb," You sighed miserably, "but today is my birthday. Today is my birthday and no one remembered."

Bruce's expression contorts. His frown tightens and his brows furrow deeply, half like he's trying to keep it on his face, and half because he's distraught. He conflicts over something, withholding a deep breath as he considers whatever had taken up that steadily expanding mind of his. You stare at him numbly and feel your bottom lip quiver when his hand slips off your back. Bruce sighs, turning to dig through his coat pocket. Your frown deepens questionably—when he raises his gaze to meet yours once more, he is smiling, and brilliantly so.

"Alfred is going to kill me for doing this," Bruce deposits a small box into your lap. "But I did remember. How could I ever forget?"

"I—what?" You inquired.

Bruce simply gestures to the present encouragingly. Heat conquers your face, painting your cold-chilled ruby nose and cheeks impossibly more scarlet. It is taking too long for the gears to turn in your mind, so your hands do most of the work for you. Your thumb smooths its way down the squeaky wrapping paper, which coats the palm-sized box in which you carry. Your fingers twist the edges of the bow it is sealed with, finding a simple, card-stock note between the ribbon's folds. You glance at Bruce once before you read it. His smile is widening in the stupid I-know-something-that-you-don't way that infuriated you, and he whispers, "Happy Birthday, my sweet girl."

The card echoes his words; Happy Birthday, Y/N, it reads in his tall, fluid cursive, Yours always, Bruce Wayne.

With another glance to your boyfriend out of the corner of your eye, you see his foot eagerly bouncing (as he tries to reign it in, his motral enemy being physical tells), and his eyes caught intently on the box in your hands. To ease your shared stress, you free the ribbon by its ear, the silk pooling in your hands. You wipe away another stray tear and giddily realize there had been no need to cry at all. As per usual, Bruce had been the devoted young man he promised he be.

"I wanted to get you something meaningful," Bruce begins.

You inched the lid from the caramel colored box, left unlabeled with nothing to hint at its contents. Bruce pulls his slipping sweater higher on your shoulders. And then you are staring down at a beautiful golden necklace, Bruce written in his own handwriting and working as the chain's only charm. You lift it from the box with careful hands; the chain feels almost like the silk bow, and the necklace is so clean you can see your own distorted reflection within it.

Bruce finishes, "So I figured you should have my first name while you wait to have my last."

"Oh, Bruce." You whisper, tearing your gaze from his gift and to him. Your cheeks flare not only with the sentiment, but with the promise of you receiving his last name. And there's only one way to do that...

"Alfred and I were going to make dinner, and then I'd give it to you before you went to bed," Bruce confessed.

You bind your arms around him and breath in another shaky, broken breath that's accompanied by a chorus of tears—but these ones are out of joy, and the way he can tell is by the large grin pressing into his neck. He doesn't hesitate to press you deeper into him.

"I would have loved anything you got me, but this..." You trailed off in wonder. You lifted the necklace into view once more, shyly gesturing to your neck, "Could you...?"

Bruce doesn't hesitate to unlock the chain, reach his arms around your shoulders and clip it into place. Your faces come close when he does this. Before he has the chance to kiss you, you duck down and stare at the gift in awe. Your eyes return to his, still watering.

"Thank you." You whispered earnestly, "For this. For not forgetting. For always... being. Here. With me."

"You're welcome." He splayed his hand at the bend between your shoulder and neck, where his name now rests on a sparkling golden chain. Bruce glances down at your lips once, then twice, then three times, and you both snicker as you pull him into a deep kiss.

Somewhere in between kissing and returning inside does Bruce promise. "Forgive the cheesiness, but since I may not always be here," he gestured to the house, but pressed his fingers to the slope where the necklace sat over your heart, "I want you to know I will always be here."

And he is.

Sixteen Years Later

"You come out here whenever you're sad," Bruce says, "so I hope it isn't anything severe."

You hear his boots squeal against the porch's wooden decking, and then you feel the aging stairs bend with his weight. The air is not nearly as chilly as Bruce pretends it is. Regardless, you find a thick, black wool sweater pulled around your shoulders. Your comfort and warmth always seems to be his first priority, and the thought makes your thoughtful smile turn into something sweeter.

You shake your head lightly, pulling your left hand into your chest as he sits down, hiding it in the depths of his coat and holding it to your heart. It is instinct to lean into his side, and it is instinct for Bruce to welcome you into his embrace. You feel his large palm smooth down your back as you laid your head on his sweater-protected collarbone. Some things never change.

"It's funny you say that, because I'm feeling the exact opposite." When you look up at your Bruce, your eyes are shining. You smile, "In fact, I feel like the happiest person on Earth."

Bruce lowers his face so your noses are closer. When his fingers smooth down your spine again, there is a hard metal accompanying it. A ring.

He hums, "Second happiest." Bruce pressed a kiss to the space under your eye and beside your nose, "I'm the happiest."

"And why is that?" You wondered, planting your hand on his chest. It's bliss to see him even look happy.

Bruce plays with the rusted metal around your neck, tracing the loops of his own name, "Because you're not going to need this anymore."

You protectively clutched the necklace. Nostalgia washes over you like the wind bathes the trees, just as they had when you first got the treasured jewelry.

You smiled, "I'm still keeping it. I've got your first name and your last name now." You wiggled the ring on your finger against his jaw, and Bruce snickered. Snickered.

"You want everything I've got, don't you?" Bruce asked playfully.

"Yep. And I'm going after your money next." You joked, cracking a grin.

Bruce shook his head when you began to laugh. You covered your mouth and giggled into his side, which made the smile ease back onto his face. Your laughter fades gradually, pressing out with a breath of contentment, something that never seems to stay for too long with how your lives are now.

Bruce lays his hand on your knee and husks into your ear, "I know one more thing I could give you..."

You swatted at his arm to distract from your reddening face, but Bruce always seemed to know. He smiled against your lips, and you both melt into the kiss, until he's lost the playboy attitude and you've both become teenagers again. Not like you weren't acting like that prior to such a kiss.

You are forced to break apart when the porch door shrieks open so harshly the glass wobbles, and then the spell is broken and screaming erupts in the yard. Jason bounds onto the porch, leaps over a table, rolls to the ground and leaps over you and Bruce. You watch, bewildered as Jason dashes straight for the woods. His cackling echoes with a startling clarity that reminds of the rambunctious little boy you used to dance with in the living room.

Damian stomps through the doorway and performs a similar—but angrier—version of Jason's maneuvers. The only exception being that the boy is caked in what appears to be either whip or shaving cream, either one making him appear to be a very short, very enraged Santa Claus. He roars an insult in Arabic that makes Bruce's expression tighten. Your husband stands to break up the argument, and his pace quickens when Damian picks up a very sharp stick and advances on Jason. You watch in confused amusement as Bruce tries to solve the problem. Somewhere in between the mess, the stick is thrown across the lawn like a javelin, heading straight for you.

Cassandra darts out of nowhere and plucks the branch from the air like it wasn't just a bullet about to kill you. She gives you a sweet smile before she breaks the (fairly thick) branch over her knee. Silently, she offers one to Dick and then the other to Tim, then wags her fingers in a roll out gesture. The three join Bruce in defending Jason, who is shaking with laughter as Damian attempts to murder him.

You sigh, and it's at peace. "Back to the daily grind, then."