Summary: He thinks it shouldn't be this easy for someone to lay his heart on the line. It shouldn't be this simple.
Special Dedication: This is my entry for the Cutest Love Confession contest of the BatFlash Clan. Also, I would like to thank TheLunaticWhoCares/CodenameEternity, for Beta'ing it for me and always helping me out when I got stuck (which I did a lot). Thank you very much! Have some Belgian chocolate.
Warning: Slash. I love Oxford commas.

Love Feels No Burden.

… Thinks nothing of trouble,
Pleads no excuse of impossibility…

. . .

The steam from the hot cup of coffee placed on the desk dances up into the air elegantly. It is cold in the Cave at this hour, causing the steam to be clearly visible. For a second, Bruce just stares at the cup, idly wondering how it got there.

He looks up and around, but there's no one there. Not a sound but the cold sound of leather against leather as the bats brush against in the dark. Not a soul but him and them.

He frowns and studies the stuffed animal leaning against the cup. It takes him a few moments to realise it's a manatee. He feels the frown deepen at the same time as a confused, but amused smile spread over his face.

A manatee hugging a coffee cup, he thinks, sure makes for an original start of a Monday.

Slowly, as if it might explode by touching it (which wouldn't even surprise him) he stretches out his hand to touch it, but wavers a mere inch away. He notices a little piece of paper sticking from under the manatee and takes it. Opens it and reads.

It is Monday, and I like you.

I always have, maybe since the first time you saved my sorry (yet incredibly well-formed) ass. I just want you to know. I just want you to know that to me, you are the reason to be so much more than I can be. I hope the manatee, or perhaps, if I'm really, really lucky, this letter as well, made you smile, because it's the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed in my life.

You should do it more often. All the time would be ideal.

X. Your (not-so-very) secret admirer, WW.

He doesn't take his eyes away from the letter as he reaches for the coffee. He takes a cautious sip, feeling the strong taste of coffee, softened with sugar and milk. There is no poison, he no longer doubts that, only the comfortable warmth, spreading through his chest.

. . .

Bruce stares into the huge, blue-rimmed buttons that are the stuffed manatee's eyes and wonders who would leave such a thing in the Cave. He pulls off a glove with his teeth and strokes the soft fur, as if it holds the answer, thoughtfully turning the little animal through his fingers.

WW.

Initials of…

Wonder Woman. But Diana never refers to herself like that, frowns upon the name even. No, Diana is Diana, plain and simple. Diana from Themyscara. Diana is straightforward, honest, open.

It's not Diana. Can't be. Shouldn't be. Won't be. It's not.

WW.

Wally West, he thinks and tries to picture him. Pictures Wally, concentrating above a piece of paper, probably biting the tip of his tongue or chewing on the end of his pen, thinking of what to write. He can picture Wally laughing at the idea of a stuffed manatee in the Cave.

Wally West.

It makes sense in a way that doesn't make any sense at all. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking of the worst kind.

He presses the little manatee against his cheek, feeling the softness of it against his cold skin. Smells the scent of pancakes and maple syrup.

Wonders if Wally smells like that. And smiles.

. . .

There's a knock on his window and Bruce blinks the sleep out of his eyes, staggering to the balcony in a not so elegant manner. He opens the glass door and feels the cold morning wind sweep in his face.

There's no one there. Just a bouquet of Pansies, Primroses and Violets. Attraction, first love, faithfulness. The three most important stages of love, he smiles. Someone thought it through.

On top of the bouquet lies a stuffed butterfly, with colourful wings, the antenna wrapped around a scroll of paper.

All sleepiness flees from his system in a heartbeat as he realises it's a second love letter. He stares at the flowers, unable to move, unable to even do as much as think straight.

He can't let himself know what's on the paper. He can't let this continue.

He should tell Wally to quit.

He takes the paper and presses the butterfly against his chest, feeling it through the silk of his pyjamas.

It is Monday, and I like you.

I know it's a little early for this letter, but I happened to be around. That sounds so casual, doesn't it? Like it's coincidence. Well, it isn't.

You are my rendezvous point. You are the point I return to. The constant in my (rather chaotic) life. I don't remember when I started noticing. But I return to you, no matter how far I go.

One day, I would love to be allowed to think of you as the centre of my world. But for now, I want you to know that you are my very own law of gravity. Your smile is my sunrise.

X. Your (not-so-very) secret admirer, WW.

Bruce sighs once more, smiling while he does it. He tosses the butterfly on his bed, takes the bouquet and goes downstairs to put in a vase, puts it on the kitchen table and stares at it some more.

Feels the letter burn in his hand like safety. Burning, burning without hurting. Looks at the green of the leaves, traces his fingers over the edges.

Thinks of equally green eyes. Green eyes, a light all by themselves, shining like the sun. Tells himself that tomorrow he'll tell Wally to quit this nonsense.

He smiles wistfully as he realises how good he is at lying to himself, because the flowers smell like love and springtime and all he wants to do is close his eyes and let the scent intoxicate his mind.

He doesn't have to go anywhere. He doesn't have to make a decision just yet.

. . .

"Good morning, Batman," the voice next to him says cheerily. He recognises the voice. Wally's voice.

His heart takes a strange leap, from his chest all the way up to his throat, making him unable to answer. He simply nods back, doesn't dare to look at him.

He's not supposed to feel like this. He can't let himself feel like this, but he can't help but think of the manatee, of the butterfly, of the bouquet on his dinner table, of pancakes and maple syrup.

"Care for some company?" he asks brightly. "To take away from the epic dullness that is called The Watching of the Monitors?"

The rookie mistake Bruce makes is to look up at those words and right into Wally's eyes (is it that difficult to wear to goddamn mask?). The most demoralising syllable of the English language dies on his tongue, as if it never existed. As if, even if he would try with all his might, he wouldn't for the life of him remember what it was.

He simply lost the ability to tell him that this doesn't make any sense at all. To rationalise.

Because Wally's eyes are green and bright and the monitors cast dancing shadows on his face, as he smiles. In Wally's eyes he sees everything the man is, nothing held back, and if he needed anymore prove that Wally was indeed the sender of the love notes, it's right there. It's love and devotion and joy and beauty and how can he not want to be around that all the time?

"I suppose there's no one else in the entire Watchtower to bother?" he manages to say, in a futile attempt to somehow remind himself of what he's supposed to be like.

The smile Wally gives him only makes it worse. Maybe it's in the little wrinkles he gets around his eyes, or maybe it's in the way his lips curl up so elegantly, maybe it's the way about how they seem to fit around perfectly white teeth, maybe it's about the way his whole face just lights up, about how bluntly honest it is, but he finds himself unwilling to look away.

Can't. Won't.

It scares him to death he can actually have this.

"I just like bothering you more than anyone else," Wally replies and Bruce thinks that shouldn't sound as much as a confession as it does.

"Yes, I do have that effect on people," and he manages to sound positively annoyed, but Wally doesn't seem to care.

Bruce thinks of the softness of the manatee, the sweetness of the coffee, the cuteness of the letter. Thinks of the butterfly and the scent of fresh flowers, pancakes and maple syrup. He looks at Wally, his feet on the panels, careful not to hit any buttons, arms folded behind his head, eyes flicking over the screens. The simple rest he radiates, infectious like a fever.

He won't think about anything else. Can't. All he can think about it what it would like to be loved by the man next to him, to be the reason for one of those beautiful, beautiful smiles, to be the man who brings out the best in him, to be someone who's liked on Mondays.

He averts his eyes right before Wally turns his head and looks at him and stares solemnly at the screen. Feels his chest tighten in mindless fear.

Perhaps what frightens him the most is how badly he wants this.

. . .

He stares at the monitor, but he doesn't see. The flowers are withering on the kitchen table and he forgot the exact scent of pancakes.

It's Monday, but there's no letter in sight.

Which is exactly like it should be. He bites his lip and continues the work, banning all other thoughts.

It doesn't matter. It's just a silly love note from a childish fool. It doesn't matter at all. Just useless words and stuffed animals and he doesn't need any of that.

His life is complicated enough as it is. He doesn't need love to make it any more difficult. He doesn't have time for love notes and flowers and stuffed animals.

He leaves those behind in dark alleys, somewhere around the place where he buried his heart.

He looks up when he hears a noise. He turns his head to the source of the noise and feels his eyes widen. Riding towards him, in a clumsy manner is a little, plastic version of a Batmobile. A purple monkey is driving it, the love note tucked away in his tux.

(It has to be Wally, he instantly decides. He's the only one who could think of something like that. He's the only one.)

He follows it with his eyes, though from the corner of his eyes he can see a silhouette in the shadows, handling the remote control. The monkey collides with his feet, retreats a little and then does it again.

Another noise fills the cave for a moment and it takes him another hit to realise it's his own laughter, instantly ceasing it.

He leans forward and takes the little monkey in his hands. Feels a slight shiver creeping over his spine as he touches the paper, as if he's struck by lightning.

It is Monday, and I like you.

I hope one day, you will answer one of my letters. It's okay if you don't, though. That might be a strange thing to say in a letter like this, but it's the truth. I don't want you to feel obligated to either reject me or love me. That's a cruel choice, isn't it? Everything or nothing.

No, I can't define love like that. All I want is for you to know. All I want is to make your Mondays a little less horrible, a little more fun. All I want is to make you smile for time to time. To shine a little light upon your life. If I can accomplish at least that, I'll consider it a good day.

I am in love with you, but it's no crime if you don't feel the same way about me. I don't want love to be defined as something that only makes sense when returned.

You make me fall in love a little more or all over again every single day, and it's the most awesome feeling I've ever experienced in my entire life (and hey, I live a pretty damn awesome life.)

Thank you.

X. Your (not-so-very) secret admirer, WW.

. . .

Love can't be that simple. He can't believe that, won't accept that.

Everything is complicated, everything needs a quadruple take. There is no such thing as simplicity, Occam's Razor is a blatant lie. There is nothing easy about love, nothing harder than trying to keep a promise.

It's everything or nothing. It always is. It's never the way in between, it's never the easy path. It's the bloody one, littered with sorrow, the one that drops guillotines where you stood only seconds before. The one where monsters jump out from the shadows, where you can't see anything through the mist.

Wally's a moron for thinking otherwise. A foolish attitude that will most likely get him killed.

There are so many reasons he can't allow this to happen. Even as a one-sided crush, he can't allow this to continue. Yet he does. Monday after Monday he waits for the letters, keeps the stuffed animal in his bed, names them and wonders why he's so weak, why he keeps going back on his decisions.

But he can't stop thinking about Wally's eyes, can't stop thinking about the unique way his mouth curls up in a smile, can't stop thinking about the kindness he shows to everyone, can't stop thinking about him at all.

He thinks about a gun pointed at Wally's head and a finger on the trigger. He thinks of Luthor and of shiny costumes. He thinks of blood in alleys, he thinks of boys underneath rubble, he thinks of women with bullets through their spines.

He remembers. He remembers why love never really works, why getting attached to people always ends up badly.

He throws the withered flowers in the trash and makes a decision.

. . .

It is Sunday afternoon and Wally West hums over a letter as he strokes the stuffed panda over its head. He leans back and thinks of what to write, chewing on the end of his pen, a pancake with maple syrup in the other.

He leans backwards on his chair as far as he can, leaning his head in his neck, still humming.

"Wally…" a voice starts almost hesitantly and Wally recognises the voice. Feels his heart stop, drop and it won't restart. He holds his balance on his chair and leans forwards again, turning around as casually as he can.

"Hiya," he smiles.

Bruce looks almost awkward in his Armani suit and despite the fact he knows that this is where the love letters and the stuffed animals and the childish dreaming ends, he's still slightly amused by that. He managed to make the Goddamn Batman look awkward.

John owns him twenty bucks.

"Wally," Bruce starts again, his expression changing.

Here we go, Wally thinks and he freezes the smile right there, refuses to let it go. He anticipated this. He's a grown boy, he can handle this. He can take this. He will. Like a man.

He got his fun. It lasted longer than he thought it would anyway. He got to deliver twelve letters, twelve Mondays of hope. It's more than he bargained for.

But when Bruce opens his mouth, he does feel the corners of his mouth drop. The words he says don't make it that much better.

"You and I could never be," he wrinkles his nose, in what could either be revulsion or thought, "romantically involved. There is no way that would ever work."

Yeah.

That still sucks.

Wally takes a deep breath against the wave of sickness spreading over him, and watches Bruce turn around and go for the door. He wants to rush towards him, grab his arm and beg him to stay. Beg him to love him back.

But there's dignity, right?

He doesn't think there'll be much of that left when Bruce actually closes the door after him, though.

When Bruce halts in his tracks, Wally feels his heart restart, racing at the speed of light, jumping around like a excited dog's tail.

He would give all he has to make Bruce turn around.

And then he does. He turns around and gives him the smallest, most beautiful smile and Wally falls in love all over again.

. . .

Maybe he should go in through the front door? It's the middle of the day, and he knows that if he just knocks… but he doesn't think he can handle Wally's kindness, his cheerfulness at the fact he's right there just to tell him they can never be together.

He sneaks in, like a burglar, like he always does. He watches Wally write something down, humming. He wonders what the song is. Wonders how he can say no to this.

But he has to. Has to.

He smiles at the pancakes on the table, dripping with maple syrup. Takes a deep breath. Talks.

"Wally…"

Forgets what he was about to say. No, he doesn't forgot, but he… He feels a lump in his throat and his chest is aching as if he can't breath. As if he's breathing fire and poison. As if he's opening Pandora's box.

Wally stiffens, turns around. Smiles.

Bruce wishes he didn't. Because that smile is everything he wants and everything he can't have. His lungs are burning from the inside and his head spins and spins, faster than the world.

He's so close, why can't he just take it? Why can't he just have this?

He doesn't have to ruin this. He doesn't have to fear this. He doesn't have to run from this.

But he does.

"Wally."

"Hiya." The voice makes it even worse, even though Bruce hadn't though that possible. He feels the strength leave his knees and it's all he can do to not just cross the two steps he's separated from Wally and pull him close. Never let him go. Smell the pancakes, taste the maple syrup. Stroke his hair, no doubt as soft as stuffed animals.

He wants this. He wants this so badly. And he could have it.

Wally is so beautiful, he doesn't have to stain it.

But.

"You and I could never be," he pauses, finding it nearly impossible to deny it out loud, "romantically involved. There is no way that would ever work."

There. He has said it. He has crushed his heart once more and he should seriously start consider giving lessons but all is well now, all is restored. He turns around and walks across the room towards the door. He can go back now, to where he was, to where the bats swarm around his head, to where all is dark and death and destruction and where he's all alone, and, and –

He doesn't want that. He's so sick and tired of that. And Wally is still smiling, but now his eyes are so desperate, so sad, so broken, so shattered.

Wally should always smile. That's the way the earth should function.

He turns around. Watches Wally's face lit up with hope. Loves.

"You're a fool for believing otherwise," his voice goes on without his permission and he barely recognises it, yet knows that this is him and him entirely. That this is the truth.

He smiles. Makes the right decision.

"But that's exactly why I want to believe it too. If you believe enough in me to think that I can actually love you as much as you deserve then I want to be that person. I really want to be that person you wrote to in your letters."

He crosses the distance and traces the lines of Wally's jaw, feels him shiver underneath his fingers. Feels the warmth.

"Everything in my life has always been so complicated, except falling in love with you. I did that every Monday morning all over again and you were right, that is the most awesome feeling I have ever experienced in my entire life."

Wally smiles and blushes at the same time, making a helpless gesture. "It's not Monday yet, though..."

"I got tired of waiting," Bruce confesses. "It's Sunday, and I love you more than anything."

Wally covers the hand that's on his cheek and Bruce can feel his lips moving underneath the top of his finger as he grins and says: "I still want a stuffed animal to go with that confession."

"Yes, well, I don't have that, but if you want to hug something…" Bruce trails off, and Wally doesn't need a second more.

Bruce can feel his heartbeat through his shirt and smells mango-scented shampoo and wonders how he could have ever made himself believe he could live without this warmth. He holds on tight and doesn't plan on letting go for a long while. This is simple and this is all he wants.

He looks one more time in Wally's eyes before closing the distance and kissing him softly on his lips; he's sure he can taste happiness.

It tastes like pancakes with maple syrup and coffee and Wally, exactly like it should.

. . .

. . .

So, yes. I officially suck at fluff. XD I know, I know, it's horrible. It just didn't go at all like I wanted. Bruce is slightly OOC, but I tried to write him as best as I could and still make him somewhat cute. Wally, on the other hand, is just the personification of cuteness... so naturally, I don't focus on him. XD

Thank you for reading. Comments are loved.

- Jazyrha.