Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Quiet. Dark. Dusty. Still. Close. Confining. Painful.

Blake's mind processed this information like a computer rebooting, sensations blinking and fading into place. It was slower than his thoughts could get a grip on, still colored they were with a leftover panic.

'Where...'

A sputter of recognition. His hands were bound behind him...and he was on his knees. He blinked once, twice, waiting for the darkness to tell him something. Edges formed reluctantly in the black, a picture bleeding outwards into shapes he could recognize. Smooth walls. A stone floor, dirty and bland, broken only intermittently by a nondescript table or a cot. A large sack shoved under the bed. A pair of boots against the far wall. A door to the side of his vision ajar, light falling through the crack in a weak, fine line of yellow.

"...am I?"

He coughed. Licking his lips, he tasted dry skin and blood. More sputters of thought.

Gordon. Bruce Wayne's manor. The kidnapping. Selina Kyle.

It was all scrambled out of order-he could hardly remember his own name for the throbbing that had decided to wake up alongside his five senses. An attempt to wriggle his arms was rewarded by pained chafing, his wrists having been rubbed raw from the braided rope cruelly wrapped around them, making his hands feel like swollen, meaty gloves. Distantly, a memory of being shoved against a brick wall by men in red bandanas resurfaced, then sank beneath the more current concern of pain.

It didn't distract him for long, though. His legs were unbound.

Moving away from the wall where he'd been propped like a decoration (just a few feet from the bed, he noted sourly), he stood up.

Bad idea.

He crashed to the floor, needles shooting up his legs with a ferocity that seemed unreal. 'FUCK.' Without his hands to catch him, his jaw and shoulder took the abuse. He bit his tongue. Blood trickled down his chin.

'...Great.'

Panic rose through his chest, something he wasn't used to, not even as a rookie cop. He swallowed hard, metaphorically linking it to his fear. It was like swallowing gravel. Laying on his side parallel to the door, he bit back his curses and shifted his legs in an attempt to wake them.

While the needles chomped and scrambled up and down his body fitfully, he racked his brain for more information. Red bandanas? What got him to that point in the first place? He had been…walking. No, driving. No, walking. Through an airport. He found Selina Kyle. She was trying to escape, dressed in a slick suit and wide-brimmed hat. Classy enough to command respect, minimalistic enough to blend in anywhere. He'd spotted her in an instant.

"Girl's gotta eat."

"And you've got an appetite."

He tried to move his hands again. Anything, even rubbed raw bloody skin was better than these damn pins and needles-

"Maybe it's not you I'm running from."

"Then who are you running from? Bane?"

He used his shoulder for leverage. There were bruises, but he couldn't figure out where yet.

"What do you know about Bane?"

"That you should be just as afraid of him as I am."

He stopped squirming. Bane.

The men in red bandanas...explosions. Running through an alleyway. He was going to report to Gordon. He had seen what the terrorists were planning. He got intercepted. A gloved hand grabbed him, his elbow connected with their face, he kept running, a gun went off, it might have been his-

He struggled to sit up. The pins and needles had ebbed, but were replaced with an infuriating weakness, like his bones had been replaced with jello. Gordon had spoken of a masked man, an underground army...

"Oh, shit."

Nobody believed him. Even with his astonishing record, they'd laughed at him, and asked him sarcastically if he'd seen giant alligators, too.

They wouldn't be looking here. He was the only one that could report back with concrete information, back up Gordon's claim. With a new surge of will he pulled himself up onto his knees, yanking at his bonds. The dark filled with his short, harsh pants. There was still time. He hadn't heard a single guard outside of this cell, or room, or wherever the fuck he was, and even though he was disarmed, he still had his fists...

One wrist pulled through the rope, the stiff string dragging clinging flesh. He ground his teeth and paused, briefly, horribly, then tugged again, with wild abandon.

It was almost a minute before he noticed the room had darkened again.

Blake stopped. Someone stood in the doorway.

He held his breath.

"...John Blake."

Chapter Text

A massive form flooded the doorway, light struggling in vain to capture and distinguish the silhouette through the cracks. The only sound following his name was a slow, hoarse breathing. Like a deer in headlights, Blake was stunned stiff in his uncomfortable half-upright position on the floor. He couldn't make out his face through the shadow, but he knew who this was.

"What are you doing down there? There is a perfectly good bed to your right."

Blake gaped at him. But only for a moment.

"…Why the hell am I here…? Why didn't you kill me? Where the hell am I?!" He hated the shrill rasp of his voice, but tried to make up for it in sheer anger and indignation. He wasn't afraid. Mostly.

Bane's chuckle filtered through his words. Blake clamped his mouth shut, attempting to sit up straighter.

"Good questions, detective. I, however, cannot answer them all."

He walked inside. The man was tall, but it was more than that which made Blake recoil, despite every instinct clamoring to attack. Every movement, every step was a lesson in fluidity, hearkening a big cat slinking through its forest. All he was doing was making his way to the cot, and yet, Blake couldn't shake the feeling he had just survived a near-death experience.

Bane settled on the edge of the mattress with a barely audible grunt. Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he set his gaze on the man before him. The light fell across his face and torso now, giving Blake a good look at the person responsible for Gotham's current grip on terror.

The mask...he'd never seen anything like it. It was designed like the twisted jaws of a dead animal, wrapped down his head and over his mouth and nose like a silver and black muzzle. An appropriate metaphor, he would later realize. Shaven bald, the only hint to his bulky physique were his broad shoulders and thick, gloved hands peeking out of a high-collared black leather jacket.

What really grabbed his attention, though, were his eyes. Never in a million years would he have guessed a terrorist, a murderer, a mythical masked man, to look so...somber.

"You are here because a friend found it a more useful fate than your death."

Blake swallowed, carefully, in case he needed to use his voice again. He was already thrown off. This man was full of contradictions. Those sad, soulful eyes warred with a voice he could only describe as...disturbingly posh.

"So a psychopath can have friends. I've learned a lot today."

Bane smiled. Supposedly. His eyes crinkled, then he fisted a hand beneath his chin, not unlike a child observing an amusing plaything.

"You may learn a lot more, if you want."

Blake sat up, sliding onto his butt and crossing his legs. His chin throbbed plaintively as he spoke, and he tried to ignore the slight slur of his bleeding tongue. "Sure, I'll bite. So a friend of yours thought I'm more useful tied up in a room? Who's this friend, then?"

"Oh, she is a friend of yours, too."

Blake's mouth twisted. Mind games. Typical.

"You know, for the leader of a terrorist organization, you aren't very unique."

"Hm?"

"You're going to have to try harder than cryptic nonsense to distract me."

"So you do not know Miranda?"

"Miranda wh-"

Blake froze. Miranda...Miranda, why did that sound familiar? The word 'event' tickled at the corner of his mind. Not even a week ago, he had met Gordon at one such event, so the precedence in his mind was still sharp. They discussed Batman. Gordon had been touching the broken spotlight, fondly. It wasn't just an event, though. It was a ball...a masquerade ball? No, a charity ball. Some sort of rich, stuffy fundraiser used to fuel the one percent's ego. Not his thing. That much he caught in passing during his nightly rounds. The head of the ball, he recalled his co-worker having to keep an eye on her...A Miranda...Tate? She was influential. Chair of some powerful board. Could she be...?

His detective's mind pieced together the puzzle with deft hands, even though he couldn't quite make out the picture. He threw out a line.

"Miranda Tate?"

"As you know of her."

"Then who is she?"

"...A friend."

Blake wriggled his hands surreptitiously. The bonds were starting to loosen, thanks to his frantic struggling a few minutes prior. He knew he couldn't take Bane. The man was too big, huge even, he was injured, he had no idea where he was...but he also knew that he could beat him further, starve him, torture him and he would be in even less shape to fight back and escape. He had to act now.

"Well, that's good to know. So, did she save me? Or is she in on it, too?"

"That is up to you."

"...Maybe."

As Bane's brows quirked, in an expression he couldn't read, Blake tore his hands free from his bonds and bolted toward the open door.

Chapter Text

He ignored the weakness in his legs, the bruises pounding a rhythm into his brow and neck and stomach, the fear that had taken residence in his chest like an uninvited guest. He ran. He tore through the corridor, past guards too surprised to do more than shout at him and ready their guns, a single thought in his head.

'If I don't escape now, Gotham will burn.'

Hallways and crooked rooms and rubble greeted him in a smudged blur. He had no idea where he was going. There must be an exit somewhere. Somewhere. He almost turned into a closed room, stumbling and spinning on the spot at the last second in order to keep his momentum. A gun went off. Curses joined the ricochet's echo. He spotted an armory, filled with guns, explosives and probably much worse, if he stayed around to inspect. He nearly clotheslined himself on a tank's cannon, poking out of a dark hole seemingly blown into a wall just to house it.

It was a minute of more running before his boot slipped in a puddle as he rounded a corner, nearly unbalancing him facefirst into rushing water. A sewer? So he was underground, then. That made sense. Perfect. He could figure out where to go from here. If it was too 'useless' to kill him, then he could bank on the guards exercising restraint. It was his only hope at this point.

The gap across the sewer was six, maybe seven feet wide. Risking a few steps backwards, toward the voices and footsteps echoing down the hall in his direction, Blake double-checked over his shoulder. He had only seconds. With a lunge, he took the leap of faith over the chasm of rushing water.

He didn't make it.

Blake's feet slipped on the edge of the other side, his grip compromised by water and grime and sending him sliding into the sewer water. Flailing and gasping, he scrabbled at the stone as the water grabbed his jacket with cold, angry hands and attempted to drag him down the hole.

"No! Fuck, no!" Nails caught and tore in an effort to slow himself down. The water was too fast, the stone too slippery. It was sheer dumb luck in the last moment, when he saw the arc above him and the darkness just inches behind him, his elbow managed to hook in the corner between the ground and the corner of the stone arc. Where he would, at any second, slide and fall and drown.

Panic became his friend. It gave meaning to his grip in a rush of adrenaline. He ground his bleeding fingers into the grooves of wet stone and yanked his body forward, upward. He pulled himself out of the water and onto his side where he gasped and sputtered and tried to edge away from the roaring spray. He looked across the water at the dozen or so thugs that gathered, their guns cocked and faces contorted in anger and hurt pride.

Okay. Time to keep running. He rolled over and stood, leveling inches away from Bane's chest.

Blake jerked backwards, barely suppressing a scream. The man's hands rested along the collar of his jacket, as if he were adjusting it. He wasn't breathing heavily, or moving, or giving any indication he chased after him. In fact, it was like he had been waiting there the entire time.

Anger fed power into Blake's arm as he swung.

His fist connected with the side of Bane's face. Pain screamed into his knuckles as he hit the mask instead, the dull thud sounding off like a chime. The guards murmured and shifted from across the chasm. A few cocked their guns. Blake ignored them.

He swung again and again. Bane's head snapped from side to side. His step faltered. 'He's a punching bag. A big, masked punching bag. You tore a hole through one in basic training. You can do it again.'

His knuckle snagged on one of the silver tubes on his mask, the skin tearing and dotting Bane's face with blood. His eyes were open, and staring, through his punches. It sent a chill down Blake's spine.

'Why isn't he hitting back...?'

Blake was wheezing now. Running, swallowing water, his bruises...they were taking a toll on his stamina and fast. Bane still hadn't retaliated. He swung again, and to his horror, felt his body following. Bane's shadow, flickering against the opposite wall, shifted.

"You hold nothing back. Ah, the resolve of the young."

He switched tactics. Jumping back just an inch, Blake whirled forward in a flying kick, connecting with Bane's chest. It was like kicking an oak. Bane snatched Blake's ankle and flicked his wrist, sending him spinning and slamming onto his back. Air rushed out of his lungs. Bane stood over him. "You leave yourself wide open. Don't compromise your strength with impulsivity." Like a teacher admonishing his student.

Blake shoved his hands on the floor beside his head and flipped onto his feet. He whipped his fists in front of his face. He wasn't going to listen to the cooing advice of a madman-he did, however, forget to keep his guard up. He ran a hand along his mouth. More blood.

"Good! You learn fast. How fast, I wonder-" In a blur, Bane was in front of him again, grabbing his arms and shoving them out of the way, his knee coming up through the open space into his stomach. Blake's mouth opened, but no air came out this time. He overcompensated in violent hacks and coughs, falling backwards in a clumsy stumble. Where his opponent should've taken the chance to hit him again, while he struggled to see three inches in front of him, Bane tut-tutted instead, circling him slowly.

"Hands up. Always up."

Blake wheezed. He held an arm up, cautiously, the other still gripping his sore stomach.

"You'll never save your city like that."

"Fuck you." Blake hissed.

A moment of silence. Even the thugs on the other side of the drain seemed to be holding their breath. Then Bane struck him again. One moment he stood, his hands upon his collar in the mockery of a gentlemen, then he was in front of him, driving gloved knuckles into his windpipe and sending him choking to the floor. It's like he had been trained to hedge bushes, for all his rigorous academy practice was serving him right now. He'd cough and stumble to his feet, letting anger build up inside him like a furnace, only to be struck down again by Bane's calm ferocity.

Two. Three. Four times he fell. Blood spilled from his nose. His head rang. Vaguely, in the back of his throat, he could feel a tooth. Bane stood, as still as ever, and held a hand out to him.

"Come on, then. Rescue your city. Be the savior that everyone sees while they huddle in their destroyed houses and quail from the riots that tear your streets apart with bitter teeth."

Blake felt dread drip cold down his spine. He was out of his league. And so was everyone else. His purpose faltered, and to his unending disgust, one that would follow him for days to come, he took a shivering step backwards.

His enemy shook his head mournfully.

"...Already?"

Blake tried to steady his breath. He balled his fists. The fear warred with anger. He didn't know what to do.

So he charged again, for the last time.

"Shame."

Bane sidestepped gracefully, grabbing him and holding on tightly. Blake twisted his arm in an effort to dislodge him, but to no avail. The man's hand was like a vice. No matter how he wrenched and twisted, he stayed right where he was, half-suspended by his shoulder.

Fingers dug with purpose into the tender, bruised skin between his neck and collar. Blake stifled a scream.

Then, to his horror, another hand took his elbow, and he felt the bone and tendon connecting his shoulder to his arm begin to pop.

He tried kicking at his legs, grappling at his bulky arms. Torn nails clawed ineffectually at leather. He pulled. He tugged. Nothing happened. The man's grasp had reduced him to a breached fish, flailing and gasping on the wet floor.

Bane tilted his head.

Blinking through the water dripping from his hair and the pain hazing his vision, the last thing Blake saw were sad, still eyes glittering down at him. Eyes that, in the next moment, blurred into a red fog as his shoulder separated from his arm and sent every nerve in his body screaming.

"...Sleep now."

Chapter Text

...Years.

It had been many years since Bane held someone in his arms like this.

As Blake's head thumped limply on his shoulder, as he made his way down the tunnel and past each room and through his subordinates who whispered and shifted in confusion, his vision flickered in the slow burning flame of memory. It curled and licked at his mind, his very sight, until he could hardly see three feet in front of him. The gray and black stone transformed into a delusion-what he thought he left behind long ago.

The pit. The plague. Dirt and sweat. Disease and the dying. Fights. Riots. Blood. Chanting. Crying. Hope. Grief. Deshi. Deshi. Basara. Basara.

It crashed into him so headily he almost stumbled. He barely lay the young man down on the cot before stepping away into the dark and taking in a deep, steadying breath. The drugs that filtered through his mask and numbed his system couldn't touch the whirlwind of emotions that had been kicked up like dust within his mind. Fear tumbled into regret melted into sorrow chilled into dread. In and out...in and out...he breathed.

Blake's cough turned his gaze again. He curled up on the dirty mattress, his back rising in painful and unsteady breaths, his subconscious minding his dislocated shoulder.

Black hair shifted to a fuzzy barely-brown. The damp police uniform faded away into a ragged, dirty shift. The coughs became thin and reedy and weak.

"Banen...? Banen, I'm thirsty..."

Bane knelt by the bed.

He pressed his hand to Blake's cheek. His fingers fell on the bruise that puffed his eye.

Just as soon as it started, it ended. The cold sensation snapped him to his senses, alerting him to the guard standing in the doorway. His brows were furrowed, trying to decipher the scene before him. Taking in a long rasping breath, Bane offered a warning he rarely granted.

"Leave."

He vanished, and Bane was alone.

Chapter Text

"Good to see you, Blake. You enjoying the non-stop thrill ride of being a Gotham beat cop?"

"Yeah. It's better than filing papers all day. In fact, no. I think that'd be more exciting. Got any paper?"

Banter was one of the few things that kept Blake sane during those long uneventful hours of patrol. There were only so many comments about the weather and the current roster of big-budget action flicks you could make in a day. It's not that his partner was a bore. Not at all. In fact, maybe it was him, for steering clear of deeper topics to begin with.

His peer pulled out a cigarette and lit it sneakily. He wasn't supposed to smoke, but Blake pretended he didn't see anything. It was freezing, the snow falling early for a September, and a quick light, if nothing else, warmed you up. Cars pushed sluggishly through half-paved roads of slush and ice. People huddled together at bus stops, their hands permanently in their pockets, their bags, in the gloves of others. The atmosphere was sleepy and defiant. There were places to be, but the chill that settled in everyone's hair and bones made everything an ordeal.

Rubbing his hands, he reached inside the car and grabbed the warm thermos in the cup holder. He had no idea what was in it, but it was damn cold out.

He brought it to his mouth. Earl grey.

"Hey, is this yours, Jeff?"

"Yes. From my own crop."

"You...grow tea?"

Blake licked his lips slowly. The heat moved down his throat like a warm kiss.

"...I didn't...know that..."

A cup tilted to his mouth. Porcelain. Not plastic. Strange. Without another thought, he drank, floating between consciousness and the buzz of a lucid dream. A robust fragrance reached his nose. He blinked a few times, without seeing anything. Weights dangled from his lashes. It was too difficult to fight, so he let them sink closed. The only thing that didn't seem hard was drinking. He was so thirsty. He leaned his head forward, plaintively, taking a bigger sip than the last. He couldn't move his arms again. ...Again...

...Again...?

With a start, he jerked. Drops of hot liquid hit his face. They stung harder than usual. Everything came into sharp, dizzying focus.

Bane's face hovered before him.

"You can learn more if you want."

Blake coughed and gulped, trying to keep the liquid from making a home in his lungs. He was back in the room again, that much was clear. What wasn't really clear was seeing Bane on a stool pouring tea into a mug. The image was so bizarre he was reduced to staring stupidly, his mouth open slightly. A small fire cracked and popped in a furnace he didn't notice the first time around, its orange light bouncing sharply off a stained kettle that'd seen better days. Bane dumped old tea out of a strainer into the fire. Everything smelled of leaves and wood and dust.

Once he was sure he could breathe, he cleared his throat and attempted to speak.

"Y-You...gave me tea...?"

He laughed, though it sounded more like a giggle. Goddammit. Even his own voice was screwing him. Bane observed him over his shoulder.

"This gets better and better, doesn't it...?"

"Tea is good for you."

"Thanks, but I prefer coffee."

"Jitters and bad breath won't heal your wounds." Bane knelt before him again and held the mug steaming before Blake's mouth. The young man leaned away, but kept his eyes on him. A growl crept into his throat.

"...Heal me?" He rolled his shoulder experimentally. A slow, stiff burn responded. "This is a pretty shitty way to heal someone." Bane's eyes crinkled again. Although Blake's throat cried for liquid, anything to soothe the sandy texture that got worse by the minute, he soundly ignored it. "So, you like tea? You're not drinking any. You gonna poison me?"

"That would have been a lot of effort. You were already doing a very good job of drowning yourself."

Blake moved his hands. They were tied above his head, attached to something on the wall. It wasn't comfortable, but as long as he kept still, the pain in his shoulder was next to nothing. This time, they were chains.

"You didn't answer my question."

"No."

"No what?"

He sounded thoughtful. "I am not poisoning you."

"Then drink some. Give me a little peace of mind here, huh? I'm tied up to your fucking wall, I'm a bloody pulp and I need to take a piss. Least you can do is savor the moment with me." In the back of Blake's mind, he noted his sarcasm was coming on a little strong. Better than confronting the uncertainty he was starting to feel. He messed up bad. Really bad. He should've braved that sewer. He should've held his breath and dove in and hoped he didn't hit his head too hard on the way down. He should've-

"Later."

Bane set the cup down on the floor and stood, reaching over his head to work out his bonds. Blake stiffened in anticipation. He was going to let him go? Already? Now? He didn't have a plan in mind! Fight? Flight? Both worked out great last time. So great he ended up in chains being fed tea by a terrorist. But he had to do something. This could be his second, and last, chance.

"There is a bathroom to your right."

Blake blinked. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he didn't hear him. His arms fell to his sides, suddenly. He clapped a hand to his shoulder.

"Mmph. What?"

Bane peered at him.

"Out the door...to your right."

Blake watched him edgily, rubbing the bone. He could move his arm, at least. The bruises and scrapes were starting to get nasty, but nothing was broken, so far as he could tell. He took a moment to flex his legs, wincing at how his knees popped, then made his way to his feet and began to walk down the room. He could still run. Would he expect it?

He was almost to the door when Bane's hand snatched his chin and spun him around. Blake stumbled. His face was dragged upwards and close, so close he could count the lights reflected in the man's eyes.

"Run again...and I will do more than dislocate your shoulder."

Blake's breath shook erratically, each pant fogging and fading the metal of his mask. The man's fingers slid down his jaw to fully cup his face. There was no doubt that with one motion, one tireless effort, one afterthought Bane could snap his neck and leave his frothing body on the floor. Blake's temper quailed in light of self-preservation. He nodded. Just barely. Just enough to keep his pride.

Bane's thumb moved beneath his eye, almost imperceptibly, and lingered over the bruise that swelled there. Blake's focus was dragged unwillingly to his eyes, as much as he tried to look at the mask instead, or the wall behind him, or anything else. Bane wasn't looking at him. The moment hung in the air, awkward and strange and more frightening than anything he cared to recall. Then Bane's fingers fell from his face and he turned to the furnace, stoking the fire silently.

In a numb daze, Blake walked out of the room and made his way to the right of the hall. The guards didn't so much as glance at him, preoccupying themselves with cards and muttered banter. Ever cautious, he kept his footsteps quiet and stayed in the shadows. He found the stall, more a dirty hole in a closet than anything else, and unzipped his fly. It was at least a minute before he went, and it felt like a few minutes until he took another breath.

He lost count of how long he stared at the dirty stone wall.

Chapter Text

"You give so much to Gotham..."

Blake wasn't sure how many days had passed.

Then again, he spent a lot of it sleeping. Bane had stopped tying him up, once he figured out that running had moved down his list of priorities, and left him alone for hours at a time. His thugs would occasionally peer inside the room, shove food in or stand about on watch. Blake had taken these quiet opportunities to doze into sick, fitful sleeps. He was no stranger to these slow, agonizing situations; he'd never forgotten having to wait out a hostage situation in the bitter cold for over a day, only to end up breaking into a bank in order to catch the kidnappers. Gem, that one. This exertion was nothing new, or even unwelcome. It kept him sharp. But this...

"...When it has only failed you in return."

This was bizarre.

Bane had taken to visiting him every day (night?), often when the light filtering through the cracked ceiling of the sewer walls was dim. And he would talk. No beatings or torture, no threats or even interrogations. He'd sit on the mattress or lean against the wall by the door, and, in that strange perky voice, talk. He'd ask questions that were more base musings, rather than the top secret information he'd expect he'd want. One time he even asked how he was doing.

Blake nursed a cup of tea in his hands, propping up the wall as far away from the masked man as he could. He refused to get complacent; escape was always on his mind. His injuries, however, took center stage. His body was a swollen, throbbing mess and any attempt to deny it was swiftly reprimanded every time he moved. So he sipped, savoring each moment of relief, and allowed those thoughts to sit on the backburner of his mind and simmer quietly.

"That a question or a statement...?"

"An observation. You have been in the force for years, which means you have seen firsthand how little the city has changed." He wore a different coat now, some sort of sheepskin material, with a wide white collar that would've looked charmingly rustic on anyone else.

Blake huffed, keeping the mug to his face where his expression could remain indistinct. "Yeah? More like it's because people like you keep finding your way in." He drained the contents, then poured himself another cup. Bane still didn't drink any, instead taking the kettle and filling it with more water before hanging it above the fire. "You want to call the kettle black, that's your business. But you start blowing up sewers and attacking people, it becomes mine."

He sighed out a hot breath and ran his nails along the rim of the cup. A question nipped and bit. It was pointless to ask and he knew it.

"...Why are you doing this?"

A clink. Two. The man stokes the fire ritualistically. Occasionally flicks an ember that lands on the wooly coat ruff. Somehow Blake can tell he's musing over his question rather than ignoring him.

"...Justice."

Blake scoffs, then immediately regrets it as pain flares in his chest. The bruises were starting to die down, but they would still ache at the slightest provocation. Taking a big gulp of tea to numb its bite he repeats the word, bitterly.

"Justice."

The man glances at him over his shoulder, brow quirked.

"A word you should be familiar with." He murmurs, not quite mocking. "Officer." Definitely mocking.

Blake raises the cup to his lips, then frowns when he's greeted by air. Shifting upwards with a groan he reaches for the kettle. It sits just outside of his reach, silver sheen taunting him with each flicker of the fire. "You're dodging the question. Again. You're not exactly mysterious, Bane." He allowed a dark note to enter his voice. "Just weird."

With a shift the hulking man plucks the kettle from its stand and holds it out to him. Hesitantly the younger man reaches for it, never taking his eyes off that terrible mask, its ugly little details and polished sheen. Where did he even get such a thing? Bane's bare fingers brush against his own as he grabs the kettle, so brief as to be unnoticeable but sending a jolt up the man's spine. He grips the handle harder than he means to, tries to ignore the trembling in his arm as he doses the steaming water into his ornate little teacup and watches the leaves rise to the top.

"It seems you have a different idea of what justice looks like, John Blake."

Blake raises his eyes tiredly. The man loved coaxing him down verbal rabbit holes, asking questions just vague enough to perk his interest and keep him crawling. It was fucked up. He was no doubt his plaything in-between arson and murder, something to grab his attention when he had to wait out some situation from somewhere within the ruined confines of a chaotic city. Not that he had any damn clue as to the details. He had been in his cell for days now. Not nearing weeks, not with his sense of time...but getting there.

Which made it worse that he was curious.

He'd sooner dip his head into the furnace three feet away than admit it. The fact the man had sneaked a small army into Gotham, high-strung and heavily patrolled though the city was, was no small feat. Doubly so for the fact he had somehow constructed himself as a sort of folklorish boogeyman, even putting Commissioner Gordon in the spot of looking like a doddering fool chasing shadows. His stomach clutched at the memory. He hoped the man was okay. He had barely gotten a look at him before one of Bane's goons struck him in the head. His hairline ached as if in response.

Gotham had been through plenty of shit over the past few decades. Fear was as common as the smoke in the air. No, what really worried him was the denial.

He spat out a leaf. What was there to admit, anyway? It was the same curiosity a person got when flipping on a documentary about the world's most notorious criminal minds or opening up a dimestore mystery book. Wanting to know where the rabbit hole lead, the basic human failing of being unable to see more than their hands in pitch black. Psychology 101 shit.

That was all.

"You're not even going after the people that need to be put away. I have a different idea of what justice looks like because I don't preoccupy myself with fearmongering and TMNT-style hideouts." He muttered, running fingers through his hair. It'd have to do until he got his hands on a comb. If he ever got his hands on a comb again.

"True...it seems you're far too busy distributing parking tickets and arresting the homeless for lingering where they're not allowed." Bane responded lightly.

Blake froze in mid-sip. "Look, that's not-"

"Such hard workers...yet so much destruction." He continued to crouch on that small stool, sounding almost bored. "From a toxic underbelly do more children spawn, only to become the progenitors of another generation of hazards and vagabonds. Evidence doesn't lie, John Blake." Like a punchline to a joke. "You and your brood make poor mother hens." Bane finished, chin in one hand.

"Kiss my ass. You don't even live here." He wanted to hit himself, but the situation was too strange not to be honest. The city had always been notorious for its crime scene and constant creation of identity-conscious criminals. Even people who had never visited knew about Two-Face and his fall from grace. The Joker, his masked lackeys and the destruction they caused in a matter of days. The 'mysterious' cat burglar giving anyone with more than two pennies to rub together a run for their money. Literally.

A part of him wondered if Selina Kyle could take Bane. Another part of him cringed at the thought. He could only imagine how easily the man could crush her skull in. Make it look like a minor accident. No wonder she chose the high road. His stomach churned guiltily. In retrospect, he should've let her run.

"Gotham has been floundering in dark waters for decades." Bane mused as he tossed one last chunk of wood into the fire. It spat and darkened almost immediately. "It has nowhere else to go but down."

"And where's this pessimism coming from?" Blake muttered under his breath. His temper was taking a beating. Wherever the man was going it couldn't be good.

"Your optimism is refreshing, if misguided." He said with a grunt, pushing his hands onto his knees as he stood up.

Blake's shoulders stiffened. He was treading on touchy territory. Bane's eyes glittered in the heat's glaze as he stood up, fading into the shadow as he made his way to the far end of the wall. There was something unnatural about the way he filled up a room. It made him shrink back into his corner, even though the man was feet away.

A vague click and light flooded the cramped space, crushing his eyes momentarily shut. There was a television in here the entire time? It flashed in a sudden block of white, so foreign to his underused eyes that the light seemed to burn.

Windows shattering. Doors being kicked open. Chaos so frantic it was hard to make sense of the blurs and shadows clipping the screen. Crowds clogged the streets, a human traffic moving slowly but with purpose toward the City Hall. Signs in the air like flags, video editing too shaky to get a good read. Voices raised in fury. Bane leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, face indistinct where the fire's glow couldn't reach.

"Not much, in the grand scheme of things." He murmured over the fuzzy audio. "But it is a spark that will create a great fire." The detective hardly heard him for the roaring in his ears, staring at the television in a stupor.

"What are you doing?" Blake whispered, the cup almost dropping from his hands as he read the headlines. 'The Force A Fraud?' 'Where Is Commissioner Gordon?' 'Is This The End?'

The man didn't turn away from the TV, his back flickering like a ghost. The reality of Blake's isolation hit him like a brick. The knowledge he should've brought to Gordon. The people floundering without a clue of just what they were dealing with. The fact he might die without anyone having the faintest clue to where he is.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Chapter Text

"Bane."

Only when she spoke his name did it hold deeper meaning.

He hardly remembered his birth name. There was nothing he could have used it for, deep within the confines of the pit where each breath was better spent fighting a losing battle. Names didn't connect him with his fellow prisoners, resigned they were to being as meaningless and cold as dust, nor to a family that had no use for him since the day he was born. His mother had viewed him a piteous burden, obligated to his care out of some mysterious duty he never fully understood as a boy. Talia liberating him, descended from the great white circle like a crow onto his still-living body, was when he had finally found use for such a thing.

Behnam had been nobody. Hardly more than an animal, later another mouth in the pit, beholden to air and water and food and nothing more. Behnam, in the clumsy and honest tongue of a child, had become Banen. A protector from would-be assailants and disease alike. When he stepped out into the light and encountered the outside world for the first time in a lifetime, Banen had become Bane. And so it was.

"Bane means to ward away in English. Ra's told me." She didn't call him father. Not yet. "Be the bane of good or evil." Talia had said to him as he recovered, wise beyond her years as she sat on a stool beside his cot, feet dangling just an inch from the floor. "Whichever is needed in this messy world."

She stood amid the mercenaries on the damp sewer stone, careful not to step in any of the grooves or puddles the darkness held as she observed their work. They were respectful toward her, the urgent candor of their voices fading whenever she drew near. Barsad said little and permit her draw close to their weapons storage without the slightest hint of fuss. Even Salim's propensity for chatter died down to a suggestion, his smile careful as he sat on a pile of discarded clothes and gradually reloaded each assault rifle. Only the occasional nod or tilt of the head revealed her thoughts. Then she turned to him.

"You look well." Talia said, walking through his gunman to where he stood. They parted like water, careful to avert their eyes.

Bane looked down at her as she folded her arms in her coat, shivering just slightly in the chill of the sewer. Her hands moved anxiously, as if warring with some inconclusive decision. It was another moment before he realized she was inspecting his mask with darting eyes.

"It functions as it was meant to." He said. Her gaze steadied and she smiled, just a little. An expression that no doubt haunted the waking dreams of the men and women she worked with.

"Come."

She walked past the cluster of mercenaries with a brisk pace, heading down the dark, winding tunnels to one of their many makeshift storage rooms. "Bane..." Salim started, attempting to sit up even with his project still in his lap; the man was flanked by his peers, anxious and stiff at the young woman's sudden appearance. "We're ready to start whenever you-" He halted when Bane glanced at him, walking after Talia with purpose. With her schedule so thoroughly entwined with the fates of thousands of Gotham residents, she was kept from his company more than he liked. They could wait.

"How is the council faring? The company must be quite stifling." He said as they entered the room. It was a sparse enclosure, housing hastily gathered scraps of information, supplies and anything that may prove useful beyond a glance. A single lantern sat atop one of the boxes, flame flickering from neglect.

Talia crossed her arms, letting out a haughty sigh now that they were out of sight. "Indeed. A single conversation more about high taxes and I would have poisoned all their drinks at their next great party. Knowing them, it would be the following evening." She paced back and forth, her anxious energy not quite cutting into her composure. "Daggett is growing impatient. Like any politician he is less inclined to think of the long-term good and more about how fast his pockets can be lined in time for his company's upcoming investments. Nothing you didn't already see in South Africa." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Still...his greed has purpose. He will be hungry for options."

"And I shall be his savior at his most desperate." Bane finished, idly moving a hand throughout one of the wooden boxes by the wall. Books, folders, a Bible. He saw Talia smile again out of the corner of his eye.

"Let him continue to think you are partners. His money has been a reliable way of filling in the gaps." She said. "I look forward to his death. It will throw everything into disarray. His investors will scramble to pick up the slack, his businesses will jump ship and search for smoother waters." It was another moment before she spoke, staring at something on the wall. "Smoother waters that will never come."

Bane closed his eyes, welcoming the brief exchange of darkness as he reviewed scenarios in his head. Indignant howls, revving engines, the crunch of bones. Gotham slipping into its signature brand of chaos when faced with thinning options and too many questions without answers. A cacophony ever building to its crescendo. He also looked forward to crushing the man's head in his hands.

"The scientist?" He asked.

"Doing well enough, all things considered."

"And John Blake?"

"That depends."

He opened his eyes, watching her brush hair from her face as she observed her reflection in a dirty mirror. The company of self-styled elite had no doubt instilled conscientious behavior in her. He remembered when she kept her hair as short as possible. Now it swayed past her shoulders, curled at the ends.

She noticed his silence.

"...Are you well?"

"Of course."

She stood to her full height, hardly reaching his chin, and looked him over. It was difficult not to smile. His Talia. He couldn't hide anything from her if he wanted to. She reached a hand up and touched his mask, running delicate fingers along each groove and cord.

"...Do you remember Samson?" She asked, softly. Bane narrowed his eyes.

"I could never forget."

She moved her hands away from his face, reaching into her coat and pulling out something dark and thin. Was that what she had been fussing with before? With a flick of her wrist it glittered in the faint lamplight.

"You still have it." He breathed, staring at the old, chipped knife she held between her fingers. It was a brutal, inelegant thing, somehow fitting and completely inappropriate for a woman of her stature -- made of stone, carved from desperation's hand. It was markedly clean of blood now, but memories had a way of seeming virulently real even after years of neglect.

"I never thanked you."

"You were young."

"I want to thank you now."

Bane touched the blade's ragged edge, fingers too calloused for consequence. Samson was a name forever etched burning in his mind, somehow even more worthless than Behnam -- a haggard man infamous in the pit for his seething nature, he had marked Talia as proxy when she scratched him one day. He claimed she had tried to steal something of his when Banen intervened, screaming loud enough to attract the attention of others nearby. She claimed the same. The word of a child held more weight in his heart, so he had shielded her from retaliation, even as Samson promised to see both of their throats slit come the following morning if his item was not returned. Other prisoners watched in dull fascination. None lifted a finger to help.

She later confessed she had stolen from him, an old pen that still bore trace remnants of ink. Likely a discarded affect from one of the stationed guards above. He bade her hide it away, even as she squalled and defied him, trying to draw patterns onto her palms with varying degrees of success when she thought nobody was looking.

That night Samson had found a way into their cell. Banen had been jerked out of a fitful slumber by Talia's muffled squeaks, making out her thin form hunched against the wall as the man hissed his threats and clamped a hand over her mouth. Even maddened by disease and hunger he was no fool, dragging her through the damaged door to where his fellows slumbered. Taunting Bane into following and risking a riot. His and her life.

Prisoners weren't allowed weapons. Nothing more than their fists and the will to kill. It didn't stop them from trying, however, fashioning objects from hard stone and the clothes on their back like a tragic mockery of history's first cave humans. Banen had attempted a knife from a loosened chunk of stone, using other stones as well as the bars on his cell to wear it down to something thin and sharp. It had taken him many days, perhaps months; he never counted time on the wall in scratches like some of the others did. Unlikely fantasies of digging his knife into the grooves of the wall and hauling himself up to freedom had kept him full when his stomach was empty, the concept of using his captors' own tools against them a haunting philosophy.

He had given that knife to her, Samson's shivering form trapped between his bulky arms in a chokehold as his peers continued to sleep. Instructed her on where to cut to make it look like an accident. He let her keep it. He never wanted her to feel powerless again.

As she stood before him, chin held proudly, he took solace in that he had achieved at least one of his deepest wishes. Vengeance had long since made a home in her eyes. Maybe someday the fanatic light would soften to something darker. With Batman chasing shadows and Gotham slowly following suit, it was another dream that could be realized.

She could tell he was unbalanced by the sentiment. A troubled look overcame her.

"You gave me a knife. More than self-defense. A threat for those who wish to ignore temptation." She said, moving her hand up to touch his cheek. "I took that as a lesson. Whenever my resolve wavers, I take this out..." She tucked it somewhere into her sleeve, a final gesture. "...and remember who gave me the chance to make the world a better place. While a stone blade won't do much in a world of technological marvels and politicians, the threat of a bomb laying Gotham to waste will do just fine."

The dirty mirror was set aside now as she gathered her scarf around her shoulders. "Bruce Wayne had actually showed up to the party." Talia murmured. The masked man looked at her. She had a smile on her face, though it was anything but sweet. "A good actor...but not nearly as good as I am."

"How fares Blake?" She asked as she opened the door. "Besides threatening you with all the crimes you'll be charged with when caught."

"Idealistic. Brash. Likely an impressive fighter to anyone who hadn't already cut their teeth on death." Bane turned away from the musty books. "Commissioner Gordon would have been a more fruitful find, but we'll make do. Insider's information has been easier and easier to come across." He paused, running a hand along the worn leather of an old tome. "I will find out just how good of a replacement he is soon enough."

"Just like you to toy with ego." She said, thoughtfully. "It would be easier for him to tell us what we need to know, seeing as we're so short on time. But to say he's indispensable would be dishonest. ...I trust you'll know what to do." With a wave of her hand she turned on her heel and left. Activity increased outside the room, a ripple of commentary and shuffling feet. They were growing restless.

The cop leaned in the doorway of his cell as he walked by, rubbing his knuckles and staring at the proceedings with a surly eye. Mercenaries leered at the man, amused and irritable in turns. They stood to attention the instant Bane stepped within their periphery, some straightening and others saluting. Only Blake remained unchanged.

For how long, well...they would have to see.

Chapter Text

"Mind your posture. A shaky foundation will always crumble, no matter how sincere the intentions."

Blake gritted his teeth, moving hands in front of his face and spreading his feet apart ever so slightly.

They were sparring now. While it had only happened a few times over the past handful of days, it was already a routine his mind could cling to -- it wasn't unlike his training sessions during recruitment, shaving off excess weakness with his fellow students and preparing him for 'the worst' in bite-sized intervals. It certainly beat being stuck with little to do besides claw at his own face and count the minutes until his inevitable execution, though the downside was having to listen to a murderer's philosophical ravings. It bothered him just how open Bane was. Anyone else would've been thrilled that Gotham's current demon was willing to spill necessary details to the wrong person, but Blake had long since become used to bad jokes.

Espionage in Kazakhstan, raids in South Africa...the man had really been around. Every fighting session, and subsequent round of questions, were answered either flippantly or with dark humor, drawing him further and further into a spiral of paranoia. Had he really destroyed an entire mining operation from the inside out? Was Gotham honestly going to see the worst social upheaval since Harvey Dent was exposed? Miranda Tate being a member of Wayne Enterprises and being involved with a mercenary gang was still a plot twist he hadn't fully wrapped his head around. Maybe these were lies to distract him. Maybe it was all true.

Either Bane didn't think he was in any position to stop him or he was going to kill him soon.

Every other evening the masked man would walk inside, shrugging off his heavy coat and prompting him to fight with a haughty flick of his hand. Visceral memories of just how he had been humiliated by the sewer's roaring waters would flicker uncomfortably in the back of Blake's mind every time he did, though the mental image was now distant enough he felt an equal amount of anger alongside the fear. Coupled with pent-up energy (there were only so many times a man could punch through blank space to keep himself occupied) it was a demand he was all too happy to meet. Even though the last round he had nearly been knocked out cold with an elbow to the head.

He had never seen a fighting style like the one that had been literally pummeled into him that day. It wasn't quite a martial art, nor was it the flailing violence of a wild animal. The closest he could compare it to were street criminals -- too conscientious to be desperate nobodies, too brutal to have had formal training. It brought up memories he'd rather not recall.

"I'm glad you were brought to me in lieu of the Commissioner. I doubt he would have pranced quite as well." Bane said, muscles glinting in the firelight as they sparred. The man never turned his back to him, at most sidestepping like a panther to better size Blake up every time he moved so much as an inch. His gaze was scrutinizing, impossible to avoid. It was all he could do to keep up with his pace -- even eating decently and getting plenty of sleep fatigue was always nipping at his heels. Whether or not it was the onset of existential depression was, well. Yet another something he'd think about later.

"So you want to kill the Commissioner and me and everyone else and throw the city into chaos. Get in line, pal." Blake said, dropping to the ground as Bane swung a haymaker right above his head. His hair rustled menacingly. "The Joker tried something similar and ended up hauled out like a bad stage act." He struck back with a low jab. It was like hitting the side of a van. Not so much as a flinch. He still had no clue what the guy was made out of.

"Ah, I heard of the Joker." Bane said as he aimed for his stomach, deceptively slow. Blake hunched out of the way. He harbored no delusions -- the man was toying with him. "A wild card in a loaded deck."

"More like a symptom without a cause." Blake responded, flexing his hands; they were starting to stiffen from overuse. He feinted a punch to Bane's right. Swift as a snake the man ducked through the open space and elbowed him in the ribs, eyes never leaving his. Blake had learned a few times prior the man was notoriously hard to fool. Even with the consequences left throbbing in his side it didn't stop him from wanting to try.

"Batman saved us a lot of trouble with that one." He coughed, feeling his side for anything broken. Bruce Wayne's alter-ego was a subject he had tried not to broach in their brief conversations. It was hard not knowing just where the hell he had vanished to, especially since Selina wasn't exactly forthcoming with where or how she had last saw him. Hope was a tenuous little thing, but aside from the clothes on his back and the fireplace he was starting to talk to it was all he really had.

"The Batman." Bane said with a roll of his neck. The word sounded strange on his tongue. He still couldn't place the man's accent. "And just where is he now?"

He was circling again, back to the fire. His form blotted out the light, dampening the already dark room. He swallowed a dry chuckle. It was only a matter of time before Bane started interrogating him. Little did he know just how little he knew. He had ran countless scenarios in and out of his head day in and day out when he didn't have sparring or food to distract him, piecing together scraps of the puzzle and forming the best possible picture he could with jack shit. He'd already come up with a few false trails. Something to get him sniffing in the wrong direction and buy Bruce a little more time to act.

Blake moved to get in view of the light. "Last I saw him he was working with-"

Bane's voice darkened. "You're not a very good liar."

Blake froze in mid-step. ...Shit. He hadn't even finished. The room suddenly felt very close. He couldn't see Bane's expression in the shadow, though the twitch of his silhouette suggested it was the least of his problems. He balled his hands into fists and covered his head as Bane swung. The impact was enough to send him reeling backwards, forearms screaming from the impact.

"Don't be so easily startled, John Blake." Bane sounded suddenly detached, almost bored, swinging again, much closer. Blake leapt backwards, feeling the air move and his back thump against the cold wall. Nowhere else to run. It was all he could do to roll of the way as another swing aimed right at his head. "If you only manipulate the weak-minded, your tactics will remain about as successful-"

He scrambled as far away as he could, jumping back to his feet and staring past Bane at the fist-sized crater now in the wall. The firelight flickered weakly. Bane flicked dust from his knuckles, turning to look at him with crinkled eyes.

"A poor swimmer...and a poor liar."

Blake felt the tingle of sweat on his neck. While the man had hardly landed more than the occasional bruise on him, it wasn't for lack of trying. He was a mouse tangling with a cat, a particularly cruel one, to boot. Bane looked over the wall, the floor, eyes traveling the length of the cramped space. As if figuring something out.

"Your posture is marred by excess." He said, ponderously. Blake pushed down the helpless anger that threatened to overtake him. He opened his mouth to speak, but it hung open at his next comment.

"And yet a survivor's pragmatism remains. Where was this when you were braving the sewer waters?"

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you..." He managed to say, suddenly breathless. He wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to these constant brushes with death. Bane raised his eyebrows for an answer. An honest one.

Scrapping with the local boys. Fighting off stray dogs. Occasionally getting into an 'altercation' with an adult who should know better. Blake may have trained at the academy for eight months before being taken on, but his real knowledge had always been drilled in by poverty and rejection. Shit, he'd almost gotten kicked right back out for fighting too hard. Too desperately. Like even a minor back-and-forth session was going to be his last. It was a wonder he had been kept on for a career. Then again, maybe not. His superior's voice rang in his head.

'The hell is wrong with you, rookie?!'

He had taken too long. Bane moved toward him, menace clear in every step, the faint wheezing of his breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand rigid. Blake hunched instinctively, curving arms in front of his face and preparing for more punishing blows should his feet fail him. The man was a wall of venom and muscle, precise as a predator, knowing where to hit and where to feint and waste his energy. Blow after blow he struck at his sides, his arms, his head. Blake's breath heaved in steady pants as he ducked and weaved, convicted not to let his stamina fail him, too.

"The one upside to being an orphan." He panted, wet hair clinging to his brow. "I guess."

To his shock, Bane faltered.

Preparing for an uppercut he paused, so imperceptibly it'd be missed by any casual viewer, the faintest hitch in an otherwise flawless machine. To Blake it was a lifeline.

A crazed energy overtook him. With a frustrated scream he rushed the man in a tackle with the full force of his weight, hoping to stagger him enough to get a blow right in one of those staring eyes. Maybe smash his head on the back of the wall, strange mask be damned.

He had no such luck. Bane hefted him over his shoulder, using the force of his momentum to send him flipping, flying bodily and hitting the floor to skid into the wall.

Blake gasped with no air, curling into himself fully winded. Bane rolled his shoulders with a grunt.

"Close."

Shuffling feet approached the door. It took him another few moments before he realized how much the place echoed.

"As is your wont, never close enough."

"Fuck." He hissed, rising to his feet, staggering as the full force of his bruises shot red hot through the rest of his arm. The damn thing was just starting to fully recover, too. A grizzled face peered in through the grate on the door; from the sudden smell of tobacco that wafted through the room it was the guy that had been bringing his food lately. Bane waved a dismissive hand and they vanished like they were never there. His stomach dropped a little -- another routine he had gotten used to.

"Rest now. I will be back." Bane said, tone final, walking over and picking up a small log to toss into the fire.

"Give me a damn break. We've been at this for hours." Blake panted, suddenly and horribly feeling like throwing up. He swallowed bile as the man moved through the growing light to his coat by the door.

"A break..." Bane mused. Aside from the mechanical thrum of his mask, he sounded like he hadn't even started breaking a sweat. "When did the citizens of Gotham ever get a break...?"

Adrenaline had fizzled out. Everything was truly starting to hurt now, bruises throbbing like a heartbeat, though they competed impressively with the burning in his legs and arms.

"You asked me what I did." Bane continued. "Let me answer with another question..."

The door opens. Blake shivers at the sudden cold.

"What did you do?"

His brain was scrambled with pain and information overload, trying to figure out the man's puzzling tone, why he had faltered during their brawl, if this was an interrogation session or a cruel joke...then he sees it. The scar on his back, a mess of knots and bumps traveling the length of his neck and spine. A knife couldn't have done it. It holds his gaze in some horrible mix of fascination and pity. Whoever had made that hadn't wanted him dead -- they had wanted him to suffer.

A flash of brown and it vanishes. With a creak of the door and without another word, so does Bane.

Chapter Text

The sewer carried with it a chill that made Gotham's nine-to-five weather hazards feel almost welcoming. It was always wet, the air uncomfortably close and making him feel like he could never take in a deep enough breath. All Blake longed for was a cigarette. Even though he smoked rarely, the comfort of a faint buzz would do wonders for his aching body and sore pride. He crossed his arms and leaned as far away from the group of mercenaries as possible, watching them work and hyperfocusing on the feeling of a joint between his fingertips.

He couldn't think about Gordon's status. The department. The orphanage. Even a fleeting thought in their direction and the panic that had always flickered in the back of his mind would take over, clouding his vision and making his chest burn as if it were on fire. Focusing on the present was the one thing that stood in-between him and dissolving into a nervous wreck. He kept the television in his cell off the majority of the time. Filled up the empty spaces with mock-sparring, letting the short-term fantasy of shattering Bane's mask motivate him.

Dying wasn't something he was afraid of. Dying for nothing was something else entirely. Knowledge of the outside world wouldn't do him any favors. It may as well not exist at all until he was out there again. God, he needed a cigarette.

A scatter of stones shook him out of his reverie. The mercenaries moved in an orderly fashion, checking one another's weapons and gear when they weren't analyzing what seemed to be a detailed directory pinned next to a lantern's light. From the looks of it they were commands on guard routes and traffic patterns, though he couldn't make out the hasty scrawl. He would almost be impressed with the precision in which they functioned if he didn't want to shoot them all in the back of the head. The way they talked about trashing the city, his city, was enough to make him sick. He may have kept the television off, but he hadn't forgotten what he saw. It was only going to get worse.

Radio static flitted intermittently throughout the tunnels, though its details were also just out of his reach. He chewed on his lip fervently, trying not to listen regardless, hardly noticing when he was ushered toward the middle of the hall where the others were starting to gather. A hand pushed his lower back. He slapped it away.

The hired guns showed him only the barest minimum of respect, their muttered Arabic and Kazakh arrogant to his ears. One, strangely, had repeatedly given him the time of day, a curly-haired man often waving at him from where he always seemed stuck polishing or loading weapons of various shapes and sizes. Blake had looked for signs of other prisoners earlier and found little besides discarded clothes and the occasional spurt of betraying English. He heard Batman's name once. His gut roiled at their tone.

He stood amidst the mercenaries on what seemed to be a gathering area, the sudden company and contact jarring after his constant isolation. Bane had brought him in as little more than an audience member, no doubt, some further attempt at psychological pummeling. Watch the proceedings at work and become properly demoralized. It was an offering, admittedly, Blake chose out of a near manic desire to get out of his cramped cell. "Get some fresh air." Bane had said, jovially. "Or wither away in your cage."

The air seemed to grow thicker when the masked man stepped out of the shadows. Everyone dissolved into outright silence, nodding or gesturing or simply standing at attention. Even with his physique blurred behind a black leather jacket and combat fatigues, the casual arrogance in which he moved would make it clear to any casual observer who was in charge.

"Good of you to join us." He said, lavish tone doing little to disguise his dark humor.

"You going to blow up more sewers?" Blake replied as he moved through them toward the directory. "Your justice?"

Bane's eyes glinted over the heads of the mercenaries. He almost looked tickled. His men glanced at each other, brows furrowed in expressions that could only be read as, "Who is this little shit and how's he talking back to our boss?"

"It wouldn't do for your patience to run low." Bane's voice was quiet as he read the paper, little more than a rumble. A pale man lingered closely by his side, likely a second-in-command. "You've worked so hard." The younger man's lip curled, but he held his tongue. He didn't want to keep pushing his luck. Bane turned as he was handed another sheet by one of his men, which he only seemed to glance at before handing it back.

A mercenary cut into the silence, accent almost as thick as the smoke on his breath. Food Guy. "You talk justice, but you can't even swim." Blake ground his teeth together to keep from quipping back -- they really thought that was funny. Another man made gargling noises, flailing in pretend water much to the barely constrained snickers of his peers.

They sank into silence again at a glance from Bane -- the only sound that could be heard was the faint drip drip of condensation. Blake had to admit, he wished he had the same ability to command respect with a single look. He held back a shiver when Bane's hand rested on his shoulder, the same one he had pulled from its socket days ago. Brief as a thought.

"Come."

Multiple vans waited in the shadowed alleys outside the sewers, just wide enough to house them. Blake had to fight the instinct to run and hope the darkness would buy him enough time before they figured out where to aim -- he was shoved unceremoniously into one of the vehicles, sandwiched between two men whose expressions made it clear they were tolerating him out of command. The dim lighting made it hard to tell who was who. That is, until one spoke.

"You are morally bankrupt, but you can fire a gun, yeah?"

"Shh, Salim."

'Great. I'm next to the chatterbox.' Blake thought sourly. His mood lightened when he realized the guy might just be talkative enough to slip up and tell him something. Maybe it'd pay to be a little friendly for once. It was damn hard not to think of the kids. How they'd feel seeing him like this.

'Tell me the elephant joke again. You're really funny.' The kitchen smelled powerfully of garlic and pepper. They were cheap but tasty, enough zest to let these kids fantasize about a meal that was little more than dollar store basics. Joel tried to help, though he often became distracted and would run out of the room at random. The third time he had taken the sauce with him, leading Amir and Finn on a merry chase throughout the building.

'Come on.' He laughed, tossing a few more spices into the pot. 'I just talk too much. So, an elephant walks into a bank and ask for twenty bucks...'

'...Blake?'

'Yeah?'

'Why don't you visit more often?'

"Yeah, I can. So where are we going where that'll matter?" He answered, rubbing his hands together and trying to ignore the sour looks aimed his way. The man looked somehow youthful and old all at once, his shock of curly black hair falling over large eyes and bushy brows.

"Visit a, uh." He snapped his fingers as he attempted to figure out a thought, eventually nudging the man next to him. A quick exchange in Kazakh and he turned back to Blake with a grin. "A 'businessman'."

"Let me guess. You're the funny one." Blake responded with a sigh.

The guy chuckled. "Not many think so. But you go and name the others." Blake took the bait, looking throughout the interior and trying not to look anyone in the eyes too long lest they think he's being onery. "Well...that one's Grumpy." He said with a nod of his head; the guy in question had more scars than regular skin, it seemed. "That one's Sleepy. That one's Dopey." He coughed as the man blew a big puff of smoke into his face in response. Clearly he spoke English, too.

Salim sucked sharply between his teeth. "Ooh, that last one is..."

Blake snorted and made a smoking gesture with his fingers. "I meant drugs, not stupidity. Don't know him well enough for that. Or you, for that matter."

"True. All I know is you trade your soul for a badge." He responded.

"...No. I have standards."

"Oh?" He laughed. "Do your friends?"

"Sometimes." It wasn't a question he could answer easily, despite asking himself the same thing in his almost year of being in the force. The doubt must've shown on his face, as Salim leaned back with a satisfied grin.

"You got family?" Blake asked after the silence.

"All dead."

His chest sank. "...I'm sorry." Salim shrugged, folding his arms behind his head.

"Everyone here is my family now."

"Even Bane?" He asked before he thought to stop himself.

"Especially Bane." Salim responded, without the irony or blandness Blake would expect from hired muscle.

The ride continued in silence. They pulled up behind a massive building, someplace ritzy and barely familiar. Only when they walked up the steps, past a pair of guards who didn't even look twice at them, and were greeted by a shimmering gold interior did it click.

Bane was working with Daggett? The man had been hungering after Bruce Wayne's inheritance for years. Blake had found out the hard way when one of his orphanages started to struggle under recent financial strain, unable to buy so much as an extra pair of jackets thanks to a sudden drop in donations. Good samaritans with deep pockets who were beginning to have second thoughts about their reputation.

Blake looked between them, trying to put the pieces together. Gordon had told him about the guy, though it wasn't the first he'd heard of him. Indeed, he wasn't exactly subtle in how badly he wanted Wayne Enterprises. Everyone did. What set this man apart was his very real chance of actually following through with his promises (as well as his propensity for temper tantrums). He remembered how he had hassled Miranda Tate at the charity ball. The charity ball...

"Who the hell is this?" The man seethed, looking yet not looking at him. Figures -- he was still wearing his old jacket and jeans, stained though they were from repeated misuse. "Didn't know you made a habit of keeping that sort of company around."

Blake cringed and glanced sideways at Bane -- even he knew better than to take that sort of tone with the man. It was just like a suit, treating anyone and everyone as either an obstacle or potential extortion scheme. If not an ant to be crushed outright.

"No one you need to worry about." Bane said. He hardly seemed to notice the man's sneer. That or he didn't care. It was unsettling how easily he slipped into one of composure when he could turn savage at the drop of a hat. He wondered if Daggett had any clue.

"Then let's cut to the chase." Daggett brushed past them and pointed to a massive screen. Multiple news channels were playing in tandem. One reviewing the rising and falling of stocks. Another a constant survey of one of the downtown squares. "Bruce Wayne's out of the picture but I'm not receiving the benefits. That's a problem, Bane."

Blake's blood ran cold. Out of the picture? What did he mean by that? He had spoken with Bruce Wayne not even a week ago. Two weeks, maybe. Just how much time had passed since he was captured? The room swam uncertainly. The mercenaries didn't even bat an eye. Salim even looked bored. They knew something he didn't.

"In due time." Bane replied, smoothly, hands folded in front of him. Blake looked at him, trying to keep his face from betraying his horror. Did he...?

"If you can't even follow up properly, the least you can do is get rid of the competition. I mean, work with me here." The man spoke to Bane like he was a janitor, agitated at some overlooked spill. "Rile up the stock exchange, destroy their assets, waste their time. Anything to get them out of the way so I can get to the forefront before the holiday season rolls around."

"How's that going to help?"

All eyes turned on him. Bane's expression was neutral, hands still folded.

"You realize how many people depend on Wayne Enterprises?" He said, voice quavering in his anger. Finn, Joel, Tiya, Jay, Amir. Their faces expanded in full force in his mind, no longer held back by caution. All he could think about was where they'd end up if the man before him got anywhere near Wayne Enterprises, one of the few entities that seemed to give a shit about the homeless and at-risk populations of Gotham. "Did you even consider how many you'd be displacing by screwing over his assets or does empathy not match your three-piece suit?"

"Can it, officer. You're barking out of turn." He sneered. "What are you, Bane's pet?"

Blake stiffened as Bane put a hand on the back of his neck.

"Gotham will bend the knee."

He pushed him down. Blake stumbled onto the ground, wincing as his knee hit the glittering stone floor. Muttered laughter filled the room, though he could hardly hear for the burning in his ears. His instinct was to twist out of that deadly grasp, pull the knife he keeps in his boot out and slice the man's arm open. He knew better. He knelt.

"Wayne Enterprises is a monumental influence spanning the length of Gotham. A mere setback will not see an intergenerational corporation unraveled. Words are better heeded when the listeners have no choice but to pay attention." He paused to take a long breath, that faint mechanical thrum that had started to creep into Blake's more troubled dreams. "Our plan will proceed unimpeded."

Blake gasped as he wrapped his massive hand around his neck, curving fingers into his throat and almost cutting off his air supply. Just barely.

"Well, if that isn't a perfect goddamn metaphor. I love this guy." Daggett laughed with a nod to his subordinate, a greasy looking man that had seemingly materialized out of nowhere. "I didn't hire him for his showmanship alone, you know." He waved a hand. "Then get to it, Bane. I want to hear those filthy sons of bitches howling on my answering machines within the week."

Bane dragged him back to his feet. Shoved him to the door. He coughed and stumbled, lagging behind a few steps as he tried to regain his bearings. The guards eyed Bane carefully as he passed by.

"The hell happened to Bruce Wayne?" He wheezed in the open cold. Bane ignored him, gesturing idly to each mercenary as they filled the vans again. Two discarded their outfits, changing briefly before heading in a different car Blake hadn't seen pull up.

"You kill him?" He asked again, starting to shake as Bane continued to gesture and murmur to his men. One of the vans pulled out of the alley, blending into the traffic a few feet beyond and vanishing. He as well have been invisible. The horror of all that had come to pass right under his nose was starting to drive him crazy.

"A friend, huh?" He hissed. "You fucking Miranda Tate to get onto the Wayne board? Get some juicy details when your goons don't work out? Thought someone like you would-"

Crack.

He hit the ground so hard he saw stars. Blood spurted from his nose, melting the thin snow on the ground. The man stood over him, the faint hiss of his breath clouding the air in a puff of white.

"You talk too much."

It was a long ride back. His nose didn't seem to stop bleeding, puddling into his lap despite his best efforts to stop it. The mercenaries didn't talk this time around, even Salim, content to look out the window or close their eyes for a moment's peace.

The familiarity of the sewer's sunk in his chest like a brick. His new home away from home. He gazed morosely at the dark walls, the glimpses of light beyond the upper walkways and rails. Shadows that seemed to move in the water. A fish, maybe, or a hunk of trash. Shadows that followed his limping steps as he made his way back to his cell, his fireplace and his cot.

Shadows that swallowed him whole when he slept.

Chapter Text

Dark eyes. Honest eyes. Too honest for a passionate mouth, even as its bitter curve intrigues him more than he would care to admit.

Sparring sessions had proven a small spark in the physically and intellectually draining weeks. A knife to sharpen his mind when the humdrum of crunching numbers and cracking heads threatened to dull it. His men were too deferential for a challenging round, unfortunately, just a touch affectionate in their respect for his stature. An appreciative trait for any leader, but woefully lacking for training. They would spar just enough, fear and respect culling the fire that had first caught his eye during recruitment many months ago.

John Blake, on the other hand, was a pleasant diversion that continued to draw his attention. Each session was intended to be a lesson in humility, a subtle tampering with a rigid worldview and, subsequently, soft body and moral outlook. Dangle the elusive nature of hope in front of his nose, the merest idea that he might be smart enough or sympathetic enough to deserve escape from an unexpected prison. It had been a fair fit for Batman, blatantly more accomplished in frivolous escapades and short-term solutions than his little officer.

Unsurprisingly, an equally fair fit for an agent of the state. An attack hound (terrier, perhaps) for the supreme moral failings of a precious few -- the pressure of a life built around mindless obedience had begun to crack him delicately, then intensely, showing in the lines building around his eyes and the scathing tone of his voice whenever he addressed him. No, he wasn't too shaken by this spectre of a man. But he liked his ferocity. The self-sacrifical nature. Appreciated his honesty, however foolish. A bundle of contradictions he returned to every other night, then every night.

Bane was curious and, for once, he didn't have an easy answer.

"So you asked what justice meant to me." Blake had said, moving lightly on his feet. His brash nature had hardly budged an inch -- he was ever eager to vent his spleen -- but the man matched Bane's movements more closely. Beginning to anticipate where he might go. Early he had even managed to dodge a swift right hook, meant a sequel to the black eye he sported for the better part of the week, and struck him back beneath the chin where his masks' straps held firm.

"What does it mean to you?" He had asked when Blake propped himself up from the floor for the third time, leaning on his elbow and rubbing his chin.

"Protecting what's important." The officer responded with a roll of his jaw.

"And that is?"

"I got twenty-seven kids."

Bane hadn't seen the man smile before. Indeed, he had very little to smile about as of late. It made him look gentler, the helpless wrath that always seemed to be boiling beneath the surface momentarily corralled.

"Would you die for them, John Blake?"

"Absolutely."

A crack. A thud. Bane turned away from his thoughts and glanced down at the proceedings below. His men continued to spar amongst themselves, their petty rivalries proving a decent enough battleground for rare free time. Rojo had struck the ground for what seemed like the last time in the evening, licking his wounds with a few curses as he slinked away from the training pad. With a flick of his hand Bane chose the next combatants, making sure to pair weaknesses with strengths to reduce any potential for future failings. The next round he pitted Salim against Blake.

The man had sat as far away as possible, though he watched with rapt attention. When they called him up he looked hesitant, glancing at Salim with a less than enthused gaze that was returned. It seemed he was closest the officer had to an acquaintance amid the poor and abused who held little love for in their hearts for law enforcement. He didn't miss the glare in his direction, nor his steady transition into a fighting stance.

The fire had to be carefully minded. Blake was still unused to the sewer chills. Bane saw it in how he always trembled, the sallow hue that sank into his skin. It was his turn to clear the coals and re-fill the wood -- he completed the task a touch slowly, his movements stilted. Bane stretched his stiff back as he waited and reflected he may have hit him one times too many.

A halting lapse in noise. He looks over his shoulder. Blake's gaze was on him, lowered a touch, throat working uncomfortably. It was another moment before he met his eyes, brows knitting into a frown as he turned back to the now roaring fire.

"Didn't realize someone could actually land a hit on you."

"Flattering."

"Shame they didn't finish the job." Even his harsh tone couldn't hide a tinge of admiration. The man would sometimes stare when he thought Bane wasn't paying attention. Sizing him up. Studying.

"Are you impressed?"

A scoff. "What gave you that idea?"

"I wasn't lying when I said you weren't a good liar." Bane pulled the poker from its stand, startling the man into backing away a few feet. "Your gaze lingers guiltily."

He stares him down, stiffly, and doesn't say more.

Brown eyes that glared at him through the paper, leered through the meetings. An illusory palinopsia that flickered invitingly every time he closed his eyes. It wasn't often Bane was too distracted to work. Talia had questioned his focus again during her brief visit earlier in the day, not even attempting to hide her concern to this uncommon behavior. Even Barsad seemed less inclined to sink into obedient silence and idly wondered out loud as to the status of John Blake's health.

"You're surrounded by weapons. Why do you shy away from them?" Bane asks. The fire is warming the room now, embuing them both with a natural energy.

Blake glances at the poker. The cot. Looks back to him. Irritated and tired.

"Because it won't work."

"Why?"

A huff. "Too easy. You know better. Because you wouldn't just give me the means to kill you. The hell is this, homework?"

Quieter than before. Salim and Blake feint and swing, uninterested in causing damage, landing barely blows. A remark from one echoes uncertainly along the vast walls, but the humorous tone is unmistakeable. Barsad barks a command. They go quiet, reluctantly, and continue to fight. Once Salim pushes Blake closer to the water's edge. He curses and makes a rude gesture, but he's grinning.

"You hate injustice yet eat from corrupt hands." Bane says as he holds out the poker. It smokes lightly from the fire. Blake's eyes are drawn to it, cautiously, as the point is held level with his face.

"I thought I could change things." He answered, slowly. Held his hands up as Bane advanced.

"I may want to kill you with this poker. What will you do about it?"

He stabs through air. Blake rolls and grabs the last log of wood beside the fireplace. Holds it in front of him like a shield, gasps as the poker pierces through and stops just an inch from his chest. Flings both log and stuck poker away from him to clatter onto the floor, holding his hands up in preparation for retaliation. Lowers them when nothing comes.

"It seems we're back where we started."

A scream tore through the sewers, ricocheting off the walls like a bullet.

Bane stood swiftly, peering over the edge where the mercenaries were backing away from the water, aiming their guns and shouting at Blake and Salim to move. A dark shape thrashed in the water. A tail whipped through the froth, slamming into one who tried to grab it and sending him screaming into the darkness.

"What is that...?" He hears Barsad whisper beside him, peering through his scope at the chaos below. He cocks the rifle, only pausing when Bane holds up a hand. The man who had fallen crawled out onto the other side, calling out to his peers.

Salim's leg was submerged, one hand on the stone and the other gripping Blake's. "The hell are you doing?!" The man screamed up at the mercenaries, slipping on the uneven ground and almost falling in his attempt to keep Salim in his grasp. "Shoot it!"

Their hesitance was understandable -- the water was too murky and frantic. A stray bullet could have the opposite effect. A dark hand reached out of the water and clamped onto Salim's back, yanking him back.

The force dragged both men down. Blake grabbed a stray chunk of rubble as he slipped halfway into the water. Salim's head went under, coming up again a moment later with a hoarse gasp. A dark head, round and glittering in the poor light, loomed over his shoulder. Then another howl pierced the room, distinctly strange. A spurt of blood darkens the ground. Blake raises the stone in his hand and strikes again and again and again.

Another scream. A few more splashes. Then silence.

The man heaved himself over the edge to lay on the stone, coughing and sputtering as blood seeped through his shirt to mingle with the cold water pooling around him. Another moment and Salim crawled out to collapse next to him, clothes shredded and sticking wetly to his skin. Bane nodded to Barsad. With a rush of activity he descended the stairs surrounding the enclosure, rushing to the water's edge followed closely by his peers.

"They were right. Heh..." Blake wheezes, starting to laugh, still coughing up water. He lifts his torn arm, flexes his fingers weakly. A wink of white responds. The skin was flayed as if from an animal's bite.

His men shuffled from foot to foot, murmuring softly and turning on their flashlights to peer into the water. Salim was only mildly injured, pushing sopping hair from his eyes and attempting to help Blake to his feet. The sewer was silent. Wherever the creature had vanished to, it was deep and far away.

"You win this round, Gordon..."

His men turned from the water momentarily to stare at Blake, now howling, staggering as if drunk as he was lead down the steps and toward the hall.

"Should we search for it...?" Barsad asked as he returned from where he had been searching. "I only caught a glimpse. It was...no animal I had ever seen before." The gunman was not easily shaken. He kept turning back to the water that now ran smoothly, as if expecting whatever had attacked Salim and Blake to make a return trip.

Bane made his way down the hall to the med room.

"Giant alligators, ha ha!"

Chapter Text

Bane is in his dreams.

He's always in his dreams.

Sometimes stalking him through the shadows when he tries to escape the sewers, appearing when Blake least expects it and making him scream with no sound. Other times they're fighting, slowly, every tell coming a mile away and still sending him spinning to the floor. This time the masked man is sitting by the fire, drinking tea from a little porcelain cup. How it goes past his mask is anyone's guess, but Blake is the silly one for not joining in.

"I thought you were going to beat me up today. Maybe even finish me off." Blake murmurs from his cot. Is it a lucid dream? It's hard to tell, but his body feels like lead. He just wants to rest.

"Presumptuous, John Blake."

"How?"

"You died a long time ago."

He starts to pull the mask from his face.

"Get up."

Something pokes his back. It feels like the butt of a rifle. Blake groans and covers his head. He's prodded again, harder this time. The heady scent of tobacco and rainwater fills the room, mingling with a few muttered words he can't grasp. His exhausted brain somehow manages to stitch sensory input together before he's opened his eyes. He's needed for something. It's important, but not urgent.

"Just...give me a second." He mutters, sitting up as smoothly as he can, even as his aching muscles make him catch unconvincingly. Bane's right-hand man (Barsad, he recalls) and a man he doesn't recognize stand at the bedside. They're bundled up and heavily armed. It's quiet outside the open door. The pain in his arm has all but dwindled down to a faint ache, but he tries not to push his luck.

"Get dressed." Barsad's soft drawl cuts through his stupor. He complies as quickly as he can, though he's sluggish -- he had been either sleeping too deeply or waking up every other hour.

"Don't know why Bane spends so much time on this lazy trash." He hears the other man huff under his breath as he pulls on his jacket, quite noticeably in English. One eye is marred by a deep gash, rendering the pupil a milky white.

"Neither do I, buddy." Blake mutters as he leans down to tie on his shoes. Granted, he did have his suspicions -- it was all but impossible not to when he had one-on-one time with the guy on a near daily basis. The bandage on his arm just about confirmed them. It was another moment before he realized he'd indirectly agreed to being lazy. A glance at Barsad's smirking face revealed it hadn't escaped his notice either.

After crushing out the leftover coals in the fireplace ("Sorry, hothead.") Blake follows them out of the room, cringing at the wash of cold air. They're greeted by one other man, also armed to the teeth and sporting a thick scarf. His stomach begins to sink when he doesn't recognize him, either -- the aftertaste of sleep had completely vanished, replaced with a growing sense of dread. Were they going to haul him out of the sewers somewhere dark and empty and finally shoot him in the head? He tries to hide his relief when Barsad instead hands him a small two-way.

"Bane is still occupied. He has tasked us to look in the sewers below for evidence of the creature that attacked you and Salim." Barsad says, immediately turning and walking a brisk pace down the steps, past the hole-in-the-wall rooms and the training pad. The sting of a new environment prickles the back of his neck. He hadn't been this deep in the sewers before. It was unsettlingly quiet, none of the banter and barked orders filling his periphery. Aside from the flicker of a few cigarettes above, most of the mercenaries were also out.

"The sewer line travels another twenty feet below." Barsad continues mechanically. "The upper levels are manned, so wherever it disappeared to it will likely be somewhere within these depths." He's quiet for a moment, then continues. "...You apparently have detective training, so you were deemed a suitable addition to the search." Blake raises his eyebrows, even though he knows he can't see. If he didn't know better he'd say the guy sounded bitter.

A flashlight is shoved in his hands. Before he can turn it on he's pushed toward the darkness that's started to flank them in their descent -- a yawning hole stretches out before him, pitch black as anything he's ever seen, and a faint rush of water echoes throughout the space. Condensation occasionally drips from above to soak into his hair.

"Start looking." Barsad says as he brushes past.

"Do I get a weapon?" Blake asks, staring into the depths and trying not to shiver.

"Of course not."

"So if we get jumped I'll have to fend for myself."

The scarred man nudges him to start moving. "Bane doesn't want you dead yet." He says with one last puff of smoke. "We'll protect you."

Turning the light on to its lowest setting he begins to creep through the tunnel, mindful of the rushing water just inches to his left. His nose is freezing, too cold to smell anything, and his arm starts to throb from the exertion. There had been no infection, thankfully -- their doctors were well-trained -- but the stitches were already starting to itch horribly. It took all his concentration to focus on the single foot of visible space in front of him and not shove his hand up his sleeve to scratch like an addict.

"It might not act like the average animal. I didn't get a good look, but it was...weird. Wasn't any bigger than a large man." He began, even as his subconscious railed at him the sheer strangeness of what he was saying. "Even...shaped like a man." The scarred man snorts and glances at Barsad, still stone-faced in the poor light. Blake grits his teeth together. "I know what I saw. I'm the one that got bit, remember?" He holds out his bandaged arm for emphasis. This didn't seem to sway them, the one with the scarf even quipping.

"I know Gotham has Batman..." He says the name like a curse. "...but Lizard Man would seem a bit much."

"Am I going to need a witness?" Blake responds dryly. The water starts to get a little louder and he inches away. "Salim, maybe?"

"I doubt he would vouch for you." Barsad says as he crosses a small bridge over the water. The man with a scarf follows him, the other remaining nearby and inspecting the walls. Blake continues to analyze the cold cement for clues, though his thoughts are dragged unwillingly to the talkative mercenary. Salim had gotten off pretty lightly, all things considered, but he had seemed a little shaken by the whole ordeal. Hadn't spoken to him since it happened. He tried not to read too much into it, even as he felt an inappropriate pang of guilt. Maybe he had inadvertantly made the guy look bad in front of his peers. Embarrassed some survivalist's code of honor. It was either that or get eaten, though.

"...Why did you save him?"

Barsad's voice barely carries over the rush of water. Blake can hardly make out the gray edge of his body against the black. He tries to keep his voice low, though he's not sure if the man can hear. "I try not to let people die if I can help it."

The man seems to pause. A few hoarse chuckles down the tunnel. Another utterance of Batman's name. He ignores the angry heat in his chest and continues to search. At the very least detective work was a perfect way of keeping his attention. It had always acted as a sort of salve for a frantic and angry kid-then-adult, something that could efficiently narrow down his energy and make him feel worthwhile. He first learned this almost otherworldly obsession through old mystery films in the orphanage. Even with the sound turned off as not to wake up the other boys he'd pick apart every last detail, silently congratulating himself whenever he would guess the twist before it happened.

He cautiously rounds a corner. Double-checks to make sure the mercenaries are still in sight. There was little to reveal but more smooth, damp cement. Aside from the occasional rat dropping and weak mold growth there was no sign of life any bigger than the palm of his hand. Then he sees something black and glittering.

He picks it up. It's smooth and hard, just a little pliant.

"What is it?" Barsad is close to the water's edge, flashlight lowered as not to ruin Blake's vision. He holds it out where he can see.

"A chunk of plastic, maybe. Not sure." He says, wincing as the water's cold spray flecks against his arm. "Keep an eye out for more."

The scarred man goes back down the tunnel to double-check. Blake continues forward, Barsad following along the other side.

"Didn't seem like it cared how many were watching. Tried to sneak in when we were distracted." He mutters, more to himself than anything. Even with the new stimuli his mind feels like an underwhelmed machine, starting to creak from disuse. The feel of teeth in his arm, the pitch of Salim's scream, the inky blood. Details are brought to the surface and then discarded.

He finds another a few feet away. Then another. The third has an odd texture around the edges, rough and crusted. He's reminded of lizard scales. He's beginning to pick at it when he hears a low bark of Arabic far behind him.

"Omar says he found one. Small like yours." Barsad says, moving ahead and vanishing. Blake tries to keep up while inspecting every inch. With a start he hears the man's low drawl around the corner. A glow too bright to be from his flashlight illuminates the water. They must be near a ceiling grate. "Here is another."

Blake's memory of the incident was erratic and blurred by panic. Nonetheless he tried to sift through the mess of imagery and find some sort of clue as to what they were dealing with, anything that could satisfy both these men and his own curiosity. The encounter had sat obsessively on the backburner of his mind ever since he was hauled into the medical room and drugged into a stupor for the impromptu surgery. What they were faced with wasn't natural, his gut knew. His logical brain disagreed. It was a bad day when those two came into conflict.

He stays just outside the circle of light, wincing even at the weak trickle that filters in many feet above. His stomach continues to gnaw at him as he observes his find in the better view. They look like scales. Feel like them. It wasn't an alligator, not with that weird shape, but it was reptilian. Somehow. Reptiles didn't usually lose individual scales, not unless they were hurt or sick. There had been no blood surrounding his find, as best he could see, so the former was already unlikely.

Barsad turns around for a moment, holding up his hand. Something glints between his fingers. Blake narrows his eyes, a pattern starting to form in his mind. Where would it be going down these tunnels? Why so many scales on hard ground? Even at their most exhausted water reptiles stayed in the water whenever they could help it. The creature certainly had when he slammed a rock into its eye. The only way they'd be finding bits and pieces scattered at random like this is if they were being led into...

"...a trap."

Barsad doesn't hear him, nor the shape that was descending from the ceiling like an oily shadow.

"Look out!"

The mercenary looks up just in time. He ducks as a massive clawed hand swipes down at his head. A bullet goes off, ricocheting and whizzing past Blake's ear. He drops to the ground instinctively, almost falling into the rushing water in the process. A thud. Something incredibly heavy had hit the ground. The detective looks up to see Barsad flung into the rushing water like a ragdoll.

Blake cries out as he vanishes into the spray. The man with a scarf doesn't fare much better, struck across the face and hitting the far wall with a sickening crack.

It's shaped like a man. The glittering, textured skin is anything but. Its hunched posture shadows its face, but the claws curving from its hands and tail sweeping behind its legs are enough to make Blake's spine quail.

A rush of footsteps. "Get down." The scarred man hisses, suddenly standing over him and aiming his rifle. Blake covers his ears right as he fires two shots. Then the man says the worst four words he could hope to hear.

"Where did it go?"

Blake finally gets to his feet, stumbling backwards, grappling at the wall to steady himself. He's surrounded by darkness again. He feels his pockets, only just realizing his flashlight had fallen from his hands in his shock.

"We have to flank it. We outnumber it." He says, breathless. "We can-"

"Where is Barsad?" Omar interrupts. The low growl is coarse with terror now.

"It got him." He says, looking at the empty space where he used to be. "Threw him into the water. I don't know if..."

"Where is Sadiq?!"

The man with the scarf. Blake looks wordlessly at his limp body halfway in the light and halfway in shadow, propped against the wall with his neck at a strange angle.

A patter of feet. Blake turns just in time to see the man running back down the tunnel.

"Where are you going?!" He yells at the man's vanishing back. "We can't split u-" A flash of gunfire. A following scream that confirms his worst fears. He manages to move his trembling legs across the gap, back toward the light. His hands twitch fitfully as his mind tries to wrangle with slipping time and come up with a plan. Bane's soft drone filters through his mind like a spectre.

'You're surrounded by weapons. Why do you shy away from them?'

A few beats of silence. Then a flicker in the dark. A low scraping.

'You wouldn't just give me the means to kill you.'

He tears off his jacket as the creature lunges out of the black, seizing it around the clawed hand that reaches for his throat. Its strength far exceeds his own and it's all he can do to grind his heels into the slippery tiles, heaving to the side to yank it off balance. A scrabbling of claws and it slips, striking the ground in a tangle of limbs and dragging Blake down with it.

He cries out as he hits his arm, the stitches splitting from the abuse. A frustrated hiss responds, followed by something slapping the ground. Blake lets go of the coat and rolls away, away from the rushing water, scrambling onto his feet to reach into his boot. The knife is small, only a few inches long, but he feels a rush of adrenaline when his fingers curl around the hilt.

A shredding sound. The jacket is flung into the water to be swept away in the spray. One round, green eye stares at him.

Then he hears a laugh.

Blake stares in horror at the rows of glittering teeth that come into view. "That's all you got?" A husky voice says. A slow blink, now in the safety of shadow. "A nail file?"

It doesn't click. Blake holds his knife out, moving his feet in a fighting stance and watching that pale eye drift back and forth. Pacing.

"The rock was better."

He finally finds his voice.

"You...speak?"

A guttural snarl. The wrong thing to say.

"Of course I speak."

It lunges forward, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him close. Instinctively he slams the knife into the hand, earning a shriek and a swipe to the face. He feels his ear slice open, splattering hot blood down his neck. He yanks the knife out, swiping at the face wildly. He's flung away, hitting the ground and almost rolling into the water again. It's one frantic moment he thinks of jumping in. Then...

"There you are."

The creature whips around at the smooth voice. The spikes on its back undulate fitfully as Bane steps into the light. His hands rest on his vest's collar, mask glinting like fangs.

"Come now. Surely you can hold your own against someone your own size."

Blake hardly has time to react. Swift as a shadow he's in front of him, grappling the creature and shoving it away. He leans up on his elbows, watching the two silhouettes thrashing in his haze, the pale light only occasionally bouncing off the creature in a glitter. It bites the man, sinking teeth into his shoulder -- Bane doesn't even flinch, whirling around to slam its head against the concrete wall repeatedly.

Blake feels his stomach clutch as the creature's claws scrabble against the mask, aiming for Bane's eyes. He wants to help, but his instincts tell him to stay on the ground.

The creature's grasp is split apart by a swift counter, Bane's elbow flashing through the gap to strike it right in the mouth. He strikes again and again, each crack and crunch reverberating in the closed space and echoing down the tunnels. The creature realizes it's out of its element, its one good eye round with horror. It turns tail and attempts to dive into the water. Bane lunges down, grabbing it by the back of the neck and wrenching it back onto land.

He pins it down through force of weight. Raises his fist. Another crack. The alligator man lays in a tangled heap on the floor.

"...Fuck." Is all he can say. Breathless, the knife clattering onto the ground from his shaking hands. Bane looks at him for one long moment, then to Sadiq. Kneels and checks his pulse. A few halting footsteps down the end of the tunnel and Barsad slinks into view. He's sopping wet, a nasty gash across his cheek and jaw.

"Where is Omar?" Bane asks, hardly glancing at the man.

"He ran." Blake responds before Barsad can speak. "Guy was armed to the teeth and he ran." Now that the adrenaline had worn off he's realizing how angry he is. The man's scarred face fades into view as if summoned. He pointedly avoids his gaze, standing to attention as the masked man rises to his feet and approaches him.

Bane's voice is low. "Did you find me to secure back-up or did you flee out of fear?"

Omar swallows visibly. Keeps his eyes lowered. Murmurs something in Arabic.

Like a snake Bane's hand whips out, grabbing the man by the throat. Omar gags and chokes for a few horrible seconds, then goes limp as a fish. He drops to the floor, Bane flicking the man's froth from his hand and walking over to where Barsad is standing to attention.

For one terrible moment he's afraid he'll kill him, too. A few muttered words. A quick response. Then he waves a dismissive hand and the mercenary goes over to where the creature still lies unconscious. Blake didn't even notice the other men standing in the dark nearby, now joining Barsad in tying down its wrists and ankles.

He stares as it's lifted and hauled into the darkness. Reaches over and pinches his arm a few times. Weird, horrible reality.

He doesn't notice Bane standing just an inch away, peering down at him, until he speaks. "What are you doing?"

Blake blinks. Looks at him, then his hand. "Oh. Making sure this isn't some fucked-up dream brought on by anaesthesia." He looks at the bite mark on Bane's shoulder. "Looks like you could use some."

He ignores this. "You are already hurt. What would pinching do?"

"I don't think I know anything anymore."

Bane reaches over and inspects his bloodied clothes and cut ear with a casual hand. It's bizarre how gently he glides his fingers across the torn skin, then his ruined arm. The sensation doesn't gel well with the very recent memory of the alligator man's thrashing. Omar's execution. His brain and gut start to argue again when he takes his wrist, turning it this way and that in the light to observe the stitches. A few silver scratches glint across the black of his mask, otherwise looking no worse for the wear.

"Come."

It's a different medical room this time. Smaller and more cramped. He blinks a few times in the much brighter light, feels his spirit lifting just a little at the familiar scent of oil and cigarette smoke. It may not be a medical room, he realizes, more of a bunk that's been refurbished to handle different needs. It has a bed, a small dresser, radio equipment.

"What are you going to do with it?" Blake asks as he peels back his ruined sleeve.

Bane pulls out a chair and sits down in front of him, beckons him to hold out his arm. Blake sits by the small table on a spare stool and complies, watching with muted fascination as the man starts to work.

"Have it share your cell."

Blake's jaw drops. Then he snaps it shut when Bane lets out a short wheeze that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. He's messing with him.

"It will remain in captivity for now." He continues, wiping the wound clean with solution and pulling out a needle and thread. Whatever he uses to numb the pain works incredibly fast. The desire to tell him it spoke to him (taunted him, no less) floats to the bottom of his exhausted mind where the rest of the day lay in a messy pile. He lets his eyes observe Bane's thick fingers working at the wound, the needle weaving in and out of his skin with deceptive ease.

The numbness relaxes him. He finds his attention wandering in the close heat of the room, the monotonous tugging of his skin being gradually pulled closed. His voice sounds far away, like a stranger speaking.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?"

A soft hum.

"A long answer."

"I've got time." He stares at the wall, trying not to close his eyes. "I barely survived an encounter with...whatever that was. Twice. You knocked it out in ten seconds. Thought I had learned a few things getting the shit kicked out of me by you, but..."

"You survived an encounter out of your element." Blake turns back to him. He's pulling out another thread. "Took someone with you, much to everyone's surprise."

"I couldn't let him go like that." He says, suddenly weary and feeling his shoulders sag in spite of the compliment. "You all think I'm a lot more heartless than I am. Like I'd just let people die for the hell of it."

"Respect is earned. Your occupation has done little to inspire confidence in the minds of others. You expect this to vanish in the wind with temporary camaraderie?"

"No." He sighs, trying to keep his skin from twitching as Bane mops off excess solution. "Benefit of the doubt would be nice at this point, though."

"...Perhaps."

A note of concession. It's a strange feeling, reaching an impasse with someone he fears, loathes and respects all at once. The masked man seems to feel it, too, if his brief pause is anything to go by.

"I expected you to turn tail. Engage in sabotage despite Barsad's attempts to involve you in the job. Instead Omar revealed himself a coward and you demonstrated further backbone. Either I have witnessed true potential or you are more stubborn than I realized." This actually makes Blake chuckle. Bane's eyes flick to him momentarily before returning to his arm.

"So I am your little case study." Bane tugs the stitches closed and reaches for a pair of scissors. "Glad to know I'm keeping you on your toes."

"You're a clever one." He says, snipping off excess string. It's a clean job, considering the hectic nature of the wound, though he knows it's going to hurt double come morning.

"You've hardly asked me for any information. You haven't killed me yet. You keep coming into my cell to, uh, spar with me..." Both hands do the finger-quotes, though he has the wisdom to keep his injured arm at steady. Bane shoots him a look regardless. "The only other reason I can think of is you think I'm cute."

Silence. One last snip. The man pushes his arm off the table and starts to peel off the gloves. A thin, breathable bandage wraps around the stitches, barely visible in the gauze. Exhausted as Blake is he can't shake the feeling he's got the potential for something better in his grasp.

"All right." He says, leaning forward. "Let me do you."

Bane stares at him.

"Your shoulder." Blake grumbles, pointing for good measure. "It's a mess. Let me close it before it gets an infection."

For a moment the masked man almost looks suspicious. Then he tosses the gloves into a small bin by the door and shifts slightly to the side. Leans his elbows on his knees. Pulling his chair forward Blake reaches over and digs around for where the man had pulled out a pair of gloves. There's a lot of equipment, enough to make a nurse aid jealous.

He occasionally glances at Bane's face as he makes sense of the shredded flesh, the flaps of skin curling and sticking to drying blood. No sign of pain or discomfort. He's starting to think the man isn't human. Aside from the faintest twitch of his bicep when he applies solution (massive and littered with faint, silvery scars now that he was so close), he hardly seems to care. So Blake keeps his gaze on his work, even with the temptation of getting a better look at his scar nipping at the back of his mind.

Slowly but surely the wound starts to close, though his handiwork wasn't nearly as elegant. It had been a while. He's so focused on wiping away excess blood he doesn't hear him.

"...for now."

"Sorry, what?"

Bane looks over his shoulder.

"You will rest for now."

It's a gesture of some sort. His brain tells him to silently accept this, wrap up the wound and march right back into his cell like a good captive. Make up for the past few nights of troubled sleep and mull over his next escape plan. His gut suggests something else.

"...Got any of that tea left?"

Chapter Text

She's worn down when she visits again. He can see it in her eyes. There's no attempt to cultivate an elegant air around their hired guns -- Talia tells both Barsad and Salim to leave her alone with him with the barest hint of decorum, running an agitated hand through her hair when the latter nearly drops his bundle trying to flee out the door.

Bane sets down his thread, giving her his full attention as she begins to pace.

"He still struggles to adapt the reactor, even with the generous time limit we have set for him. I have reminded him exactly what will happen to his children, but still he hits roadblock after roadblock. I begin to wonder if he is stalling for time, attempting to wait out some ludicrous rescue fantasy." She looks at him. "Torture may slow him down, but..."

Bane nods to show he's listening, mulling over the positives and negatives of tasering or strapping wires under the captured scientist's nails. Injuring his hands would be detrimental, affecting his ability to type or take notes. Psychological torture may harm his productivity, as well, reducing him to a catatonic state when they need him at his mentally fittest. He would have to attempt a mixture of physical and emotional pain, enough to stretch him to the breaking point and bring closer to his reality the threat of death.

An unfortunate and necessary evil. They didn't have time to spare. The people needed their weapon before outside forces made up their minds and decide to intervene. All their hard work could end up with disastrous consequences -- torture was but a small blip compared to what would happen to an entire city if they failed. One that has held strong for this long.

Bane reaches past his chair into the little box by the mattress, pulling out the brandy he occasionally dips into when he has a spare moment. He beckons her to sit down. She complies, tugging off her heels and tossing them to the side.

"I can hardly stand another minute with the board. I would almost seek out Bruce Wayne's company again, if only for the fact his jokes have better punchlines." She opens her mouth to continue, then shakes her head with a humorless chuckle. "I'm complaining again..."

She gratefully accepts the half-full bottle. Waves away the offered cup and drinks from it straight. It's another few minutes before she calms entirely, nestling in the crook of his arm.

"Sometimes...I just want to see it all go up in smoke." She murmurs. "Watch the fire rise in one last blaze of glory."

Bane keeps his expression neutral. It's not the first time she's expressed such a sentiment. He recalls the light that flickered in her eyes when she first encountered the nuclear reactor, how she found it to be the one thing separating Gotham from redemption. 'I jest.' She had said. 'Nothing can redeem Gotham, but we're going to try'.

Despair. Their personal hellhounds, birthed alongside them in the pit and trailing after their steps year after year with a tireless pace. Maintaining an ideal hadn't been easy. If anything it was the opposite of a good habit, becoming more wearisome and prone to cracking with every new challenge presented down their long, tumultuous road. Even when she escaped the pit she had to contend with a father who was rarely happy with her. Never happy with him. A world that she dreamt about endlessly, only to have it resent her at every point and turn.

Showing weakness around the League Of Shadows had never been an option. Wavering resolve would divide their militia. So she only let herself rub her eyes and grimace in his presence. He reaches out and strokes her hair. Talia reaches up and holds his hand to the side of her head, closing her eyes.

She's allowed moments of weakness. After all she'd been through.

"It will, in a metaphorical way." He starts as she leans against him, leg brushing against his. He ignores this. She has become more physical as of late. It's troubling, but he doesn't push her away.

"Gotham's...law and order..." Bane says, appreciating the disgusted click of her tongue. "...is bending at the seams. Your work in the Wayne Board continues to be an impressive wedge in an otherwise flawless machine. However long it will remain standing during this barrage." He tells her about the last two raids he conducted as the mysterious hired mercenary, one at a long-standing real estate firm on the south end of the city and the other at a stock market. How Daggett had later frothed and floundered on the ground after an embarrassing display of arrogance. She appreciated this detail, though it did little to further her mood.

"Ra's would have admired your patience." He murmurs.

The name rarely crosses his lips. She looks up at him with a hard gaze. "He didn't appreciate yours."

Her anger on his behalf had always been touching, if unnecessary. With Batman rotting away in the pit he was finding the rage a little easier to let go. A spectre of what it used to be. Stalking the edge of his consciousness whenever he came across the man's handiwork, still stark in Gotham's daily culture, but nothing he couldn't keep at bay.

"May I see?"

She gestures to his half-finished pattern on the table. He leans back, allowing her to reach over and pick it up. Settling beside him she picks up where he left off, fingers as delicate as any needle.

"When the city has been returned to the people...I want you to find something that makes you happy." He says, watching her work. "Not satisfied. Happy."

The look in her eyes haunts him the rest of the day.

--

The officer had been given free reign to go to and from his cell as he pleases, required to stay only in the dead of night when sleep was a must. John Blake didn't appreciate his newfound freedom like a conventional prisoner, however -- he was anxious, sniffing around for clues, eyes darting back and forth even as he blended in with his surrounding company and attempted to adopt their mannerisms. Sometimes he would be challenged to a fight by the other mercenaries, too brutal to be training -- he performed impressively, putting on a good enough show to earn him the nickname 'Crocodile Hunter'. They found this amusing. He did not.

Barsad tells him this as they inspect the armory outside of Gotham, a new location just far enough out of the way to make casual detection difficult. The open air is a welcome reprieve from the stifling confines of the city, one Bane allows himself to enjoy even as he crunches numbers amidst their decaying stock.

"He sometimes joins the men over cards." The man continues, occasionally leaning down to pick up a weapon and ensure its authenticity. "I found him trying to look at the creature earlier. When I asked him what he was doing he said he 'lost his way to the bathroom.'"

Bane kept his chuckle to himself. Blake had a sense of humor he was starting to appreciate, even if it only put a sour tint to Barsad's tone.

"...It is rare to keep a prisoner so long and hardly give him anything to do." He eventually says, setting the rifle down with a nod and walking down the narrow hall.

"He does plenty."

"Productive things to do. His help tracking the creature was a good start." Barsad stops himself, as if he's gone too far. Bane offers him an opening.

"You want him to do more?"

A haughty sniff. All but a confirmation from the prickly mercenary.

"Speak your mind."

"I may have died had he not warned me." He almost sounds apologetic. "Unlike Sadiq all I had to deal with was a soaked jacket and wounded pride."

"Ah. So that is what happened." Bane had only shown up when Blake was wrestling with the alligator man, low on options with but a small knife to protect himself. He had been careful with too much praise, not wanting to indirectly soften his spirit, but he appreciated he wasn't the only one noticing sparks of potential. Barsad was a reasonable man -- his thoughts would always be considered.

How John Blake would fare in the League Of Shadows, well. It was a shell of its former self, still alive in secret through him and Talia and their ideology. Should he survive the upheaval of Gotham he intended to breathe new life into it, to mete out justice the world over and inspire later generations to carve out their own future.

The man could no longer be an attack dog, that much was for sure, but their conversations had long since revealed his doubt over his profession. Being kidnapped and fed terror almost daily had hardly broken his spirit (even as he temporarily snapped after he and Salim were nearly dragged underwater to their deaths). He mulled over this while tallying each weapon and marking where supplements needed to be made.

John Blake could be remarkably hardy. A fervor that carried over to compassion. Honesty. He was a survivor with an ideal, however flawed and warped from an ugly city -- the kind of person the League Of Shadows had always sought out. Perhaps it was more than an absence of spite that was influencing his and Barsad's opinion of the man.

Fondness was a sentiment Bane rarely felt, so he hardly recognized it for what it was as he moved through his cold little pocket of the world and worked tirelessly to both hurt and protect Gotham.

--

John Blake kept the television off. He can tell by its uncharacteristic sputter when he checks the weather during a reprieve from sparring. It was a wise tactic to stave off the slow crawl of existentialism -- Bane wondered, idly, if Batman was practicing the same wisdom in the pit. Knowing his arrogance, it was unlikely.

Their conversations balanced on a thread. Like changing tides the man would show sides both calm and fettered. He could be amicable, almost warm, when touching on topics of family, only for his words to become barbed concerning philosophy. This bundle of contradiction whose company was becoming more and more a tempestuous element for the warlord -- even as he was physically limited to the storm drain, their temporary home, Bane's true control over the man was fickle at best.

He liked it.

They had conversed about krav maga earlier. The man had a surface knowledge of the art, garnered through on-and-off sessions with a mentor at one of the orphanages he grew up in. It was a detail Bane grew curious about -- he himself had grown up around individuals without parents, families or even a bare minimum knowledge of community dynamics. In self-preening civilized societies a lack of family was a mark against character, a designated flaw that would fester like mold upon a person. An existing family that didn't fit archaic standards potentially more so. Even if a child managed to reach adulthood the sickness would remain dormant, eager to rear its head within the next relationship they formed.

Blake agreed with this assessment when he shared it, mouth twitching in a show of vulnerability.

"I would watch videos and copy what I saw when Phil got married and moved out of the city. Was hard when nobody wanted to scrap with me. Sometimes I'd fight the other boys for the hell of it. Needed someone to blame, I guess. I got kicked out two months later after a particularly bad fight." He had sat down, reaching his hands out to the fire to warm them. "Guess they got tired of the angry little Jewish kid tarnishing their pretty Christian image."

He's sipping tea by the fire now, idly rubbing a bruise on his forearm from their match -- he's learned rather fast the less flesh used to block, the less broken blood vessles contended with later. He reaches for the kettle. Bane holds it out for him. He doesn't shy away this time, instead meeting his gaze as he steeps his cup.

"Why do you wear that?" He asks, staring over the rim.

"I was wondering when you would ask." Bane grunts as he sits down across from him.

"Sure. Just doesn't seem like the best topic to break the ice with."

"Tell me why you wear yours and I'll tell you."

It's an impressive reaction. Those curved brown eyes widen as if struck. Then they narrow as he lowers the cup to speak. Shuts his mouth when nothing comes out and searches his face as if for jest.

"You may not be able to lie to me..." Bane leans down and pulls out the small box of tea leaves. It's running low from their repeat meetings. "...but I know a farce when I see one."

Blake sounds stung. "I think your punches have hurt less."

Bane waves an impatient hand. "A mask is survival. Do you disdain yours?"

A troubled look overcomes the man. "I wish I didn't have to."

"Then take it off. What else do you have to lose?"

He's quiet for a few moments. Deliberating. "...Share my true feelings?"

Bane shrugs. Pulls out his handiwork and continues where Talia left off. Even in her absence going over the steps she made was a calming reassurance. Blake stares at his hands, a little unbalanced, then lifts the cup to his lips again.

"I'll escape." He says, slowly. "I'll kick your ass. I'll find out what the hell you did to Batman then stick you in a cell 'til your mask peels off from the fucking rot."

Bane smiles as he takes another sip of his tea, then leans forward and watches him work.

"Though I suppose you could teach me how to do a cross-cable, first." A wry smile in return. "I'm a little low on therapy these days."

--

He pulls a muscle the next time they spar, hard enough to make his eyes water and his stance falter. The man puts on a decent show ("It's nothing. I've had a Charlie horse before."), but Bane bades him sit. Blake pushes damp hair out of his eyes and slumps on the side of the cot with a grimace -- it's grown noticeably longer and the length seems to irritate him. Bane stands beside him, pressing fingers into his back to find the offending muscle.

He can feel it almost instantly -- the stress has knotted a muscle between his neck and his shoulder blade. A small part of him is frustrated. The man should know better than to forgoe stretching.

"I can undo this."

"Great." He replies, looking over his shoulder. "Do I want you to is a good question."

"It is up to you."

He tries to move his neck, then winces.

"...Sure."

Bane sits behind him, pushing a thumb into the spot. Blake gasps and jerks back.

"Ow. Shit, you trying to make it worse?"

"...You are bony."

"I'm not a hulking tower of muscle like you, you mean."

"Turn around."

He huffs and complies, though he rolls his shoulder for emphasis. "Just...try not to break my back in the process."

Bane tempers his grip to what he sees as near comical levels of gentleness. It seems, however, to work. Blake begins to relax as he kneads at the tension, rewarding him with easy, halting breaths. His skin is still slick with sweat, making it easier to roll his thumbs over each bump and dip. He feels the man shiver when he brushes a hand along the back of his neck -- a sensitive spot.

He's careful to alternate all over, letting the neighboring muscles create a domino effect to impact as much of his body as possible. Physical therapy is a familiar subject for Bane, though one he was approaching less and less these past hectic months. Perhaps he should take his own advice.

He soon finds himself less interested in technical details and more so in the faint moans that are starting to pepper the man's breath. The texture of goosebumps beneath his fingertips when he moves his hands to a favorable spot.

"Damn, Bane." It's the first he's heard his name without an acidic tone. "Ever think of hanging up the terrorist mantle and becoming a masseuse?" His voice is hoarse, head lolling forward on his chest. Bane slides a hand along the back of his neck again, letting his fingers curl to address the tendons by his throat. The muscles have relaxed somewhat, but are still filled with troublesome crooks.

"Were I to..." He murmurs as he rolls his fingers rhythmically. "...you would be an interesting repeat customer."

Blake leans back, just an inch.

"Shit." He sighs. "That's nice."

Bane tries to ignore the quickening of his blood. The man is quiet for a few minutes.

"It was an honest question, by the way." He says. He doesn't pull away from his touch, even though his back has now since loosened up. Bane slides his hand down his spine, down to where the muscles grow thicker. "...You're going to get pretty fucked up when you're caught. Why spend all this effort on something that just makes people hate you?"

"What have you learned, detective?"

"Do you ever answer a question straight-up?"

"No one grows without a struggle." He rotates his thumb against another knot, prompting a hard shiver. "Certainly not you."

"Now that sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Bane considers the implication of sharing personal information with the man, as well as the way Blake lays back once he's done and makes himself comfortable on the small cot. His breaking point had been a goal from day one, a sequel to Batman's psychological thrashing, but he was becoming less and less sure. The man showed promise. More than some of his actual recruits. Maybe it was that which made Bane take vital time away from his work to see him.

The way he looked up at him through his shadow, low-lidded eyes relaxed and critical all at once...maybe it was more.

It's unfamiliar territory. He can feel himself becoming frustrated again, something that burns slowly deep inside him. Blake's next words pull him back into the moment.

"Everyone here is loyal to you. I can tell they're not working for a paycheck. You've worked pretty hard to get Gotham shaking in its boots. People here fear you and also love you." He stifles a yawn, slides a hand down his face. His hair glints in the firelight, orange on black. "Not entirely unfounded, I guess." A chuckle. "Closest you're getting to a compliment from me."

Bane gazes down at him. "You are intrigued by my reputation." He moves his hand back to the man's neck, the crook between neck and shoulder. The muscle is tender, pulse jumping beneath his fingers. Blake's throat bobs as he starts to rub again, in slow circles, circulating the blood beneath the skin with a swaying motion. Soon his pulse slows and his breath steadies.

"I have been bred in the art of war for years. An ancient practice found me worthy of molding in their image, carving my body into a living weapon like an artist would stone." Bane says. "What you see in me is the effort of a collective that see the same dream through different eyes. A dream of justice, slumbering to the hymns of hungry mouths and sore souls. To credit me is to credit thousands who existed before and thousands who seek existence now."

His eyes are nearly closed now, though the conviction in his voice is untouched. "I've thought about this more than you know."

"Good." Bane murmurs. "I would be disappointed if you didn't."

Chapter Text

It was a good day.

Sure, his dreams were starting to seriously trouble him as of late. Sometimes he would be drowning, swirling down some dark abyss miles beneath Gotham with no land in sight. Other times he was back at the orphanage, but no matter how many doors he opened and times he called Reilly and the kids they never showed. The latter had terrified him into waking, coated in sweat, his reality in confinement infinitely better than seeing that cold, empty St. Swithin's. Then, like usual, Bane would show up.

Except they weren't like usual. His subconscious was starting to trade echoes of their past sparring matches with echoes of other details. Warm, rough hands sliding along his back, his stomach, a fire flickering somewhere in the distance, nowhere near as warm as the man's chest. He would touch him back or press into him, even, encouraged by Bane's murmured words, though meaning was difficult in a dream. Sometimes the man's hands would slide lower, never low enough, leaving him hard and frustrated when he woke up again.

While his body was starting to toughen up from the exercise (he'd sometimes jog around the hallways to get his blood pumping), his hair was starting to fall out from the stress. Food Guy had even caught him tossing small handfuls into the fire when he visited with more than just a reminder for breakfast -- he asked if he wanted to spar with the others, small smile just a little awkward. It was a bright spot in his wet little Hell and Blake accepted gratefully.

Mock-fighting with the occasional round of checkers in-between had proven surprisingly invigorating. With the masked man temporarily out and the mercenaries left to their own devices, it was a chance to remember what it felt like to live beyond adrenaline and isolation. Whether they were celebrating the results of a mission or simply enjoyed having some time off once their boss wasn't breathing down their neck, it was clear some things never changed, questionable occupation be damned.

His mostly-healed arm and Bane's brutal lessons had made anything less feel like a walk through the park. Something almost hearkening to respect had glinted in some of the men's eyes when he fought a man named Rubio, then another named Ali, sending them both to the floor with a swiftness he didn't remember having. It was clear they had all mentored under the same regimen, favoring practicality over flourish much like Bane did, but they were nowhere near as vicious. It wasn't until he went toe-to-toe with Barsad did he get humbled again -- he could barely land a blow on the guy and ended up on the ground himself after a chokehold he couldn't twist out of.

Rubbing his throat and trying to catch his breath, he ended up humbled again when the man reached a hand down to help him back to his feet.

Food Guy had given him a cigar after he slumped down beside him to take a break -- it tasted like heaven on his tongue and hell on his chest. The quiet man snorted as he struggled to take in a deep enough drag, hacking and coughing into his hand, though kindly kept further commentary to himself. It reminded him of his training days in the academy, waking up at the crack of dawn to drill, shoot the shit over a smoke, then drill again. Not a bad day, all things considered.

As Gordon would say, "This is Gotham. Could be a hell of a lot worse."

Starting to relax from the mixture of endorphins and tobacco, his gaze is dragged unwillingly to the video playing on the man's tablet. A glimpse of the outside world. He doesn't want to look. He kept the television off precisely to numb the bite of his situation, fool the majority of his brain into thinking he was on some elaborate vacation. For the most part it had worked -- those psychology 101 classes he took a few years back were proving far more useful than he'd ever imagined. Nonetheless he glances over and over, eventually surrendering to his curiosity when he hears a familiar voice.

A clip of Amanda Waller speaking with a reporter about recent events. He had met her only twice, briefly, but they were enough to cement in him a deep respect. She was a powerful presence, legendary for her harsh tongue and ability to silence a room with a mere look. Called 'The Wall' because nothing got past her, be it corporate bullshit or criminal activity. He puffs on his cigar and continues to watch. More protests. These are clearer, suggesting a professional broadcast rather than the video clips hastily strung together last time. The headlines discuss a local psychiatric ward recently havings its doors and windows blown apart, with speculations attempting to link to the 'mysterious masked terrorist'. His eyes flick quickly across the text. No notable injuries, multiple patients escaped.

He recalls an old memory of one of the older St. Swithin's boys. How he had aged out a while ago but never quite adapted to the everyday world, having long since been pushed to the brink by depression and part-time jobs that never paid enough. Blake was twelve or thirteen when he started swinging by the orphanage for a place to sleep or a bite to eat, visits rising in direct correlation to his dipping health. He was later committed to the very same ward, coming out worse than before and ending up fired by his superiors. It had been a Sunday morning in April when he found out the man had 'slipped' off a bridge to his death. Blake hated the place ever since, determined not to let any of his kids sink so low as to have no other options. Seeing it filled with holes was both jarring and satisfying, something he stared at until the screen suddenly darkened and the man stuffed the tablet back into his pocket.

His heart lifts uncertainly when Salim waves him over. It's the first he's interacted with him since their dip in the sewers. He sits next to him and hands him his cigar, trying to push what he's seen to the back of his mind.

"How's your back doing?" He asks lightly, not wanting to come on too strong. The man is drinking something hot in a tin mug.

Salim gives him a noncommittal shrug. "Better. Your arm?"

"Healed up for the most part. Bane had to put it back together again after we ran into it...again." He chooses his next words carefully. "Glad it won't be a problem anymore."

"Yes, it is in chains. You see it, Crocodile Hunter?" The man asks. It startles him how easily he broaches the subject. Maybe he had misinterpreted his sudden distance.

"One, don't call me that. Two, I've tried. Every time I go over there Barsad snaps at me like I'm a kid with a hand in the cookie jar." He has to explain this saying, which makes Salim's eyes widen in delight. Clearly he had been that kid in the past. "Have you?"

"I give food so he does not starve. He want you dead, I think." He says, apologetically, as if he holds any of the blame. "I say your name and he make this face..." Salim bares his teeth. "Like to bite you again."

'So he hasn't heard it talk yet.' Blake thinks, nervously. 'Starting to wonder if I was imagining it.' "Where do you think it came from?"

"Gotham is strange." He takes one last swig of his drink, then a deep puff of the cigar. "Your city make many awful things. Many things that want to kill you."

"Well, you're not wrong." He knows he's generalizing, but it's hard not to feel a little put upon. "I think the only guys who don't want me dead here are you and Bane." Blake sighs. "...Somehow."

"I am jealous." He admits as he passes him the cigar back. "He talk to you a lot."

Blake coughs out a cloud of smoke. Food Guy chuckles again down the hall. "I don't want that! He's..." He struggles to find the words, patting his chest a few times. "...he's..." Salim raises his eyebrows and observes his reaction curiously.

He's terrifying and incredible. Somehow. Blake's feelings on the warlord are a tangled mess, with every attempt to unravel only rewarding him with more frustration. What does he say? 'It's just Stockholm's Syndrome. Give me another week and we'll practically be married.' He definitely wasn't about to tell him he was starting to have sexual fantasies of the man. Knowing his admiration of everything Bane did and stood for he was probably in a similar boat. The question already puts a damper on his mood. It's time to change the subject.

"Seriously, how'd a guy like you end up with a crowd like this?" He says instead once his coughing fit subsides. "Sometimes you seem too normal to be here."

"I tell you, you tell me." He says with a chuckle.

Blake huffs. Bane really did rub off on everybody here.

"Well, I got kidnapped for starters..."

He snorts when Salim wrinkles his nose. "No, no, I know what you mean. I applied only a year ago, actually."

He offers him the last chunk of the cigar as he speaks. The man accepts it gratefully.

"I originally went to college for computer science. Dropped out when it got too expensive. Thought I could make a difference catching hackers or creating better technology, whichever came first." He continues, far more casual than he feels. "I've been on the wrong side of justice before. Arrested a few times growing up. Seen it happen to my friends. Some didn't...make it, though. When college didn't pan out I thought I could be the one that changes that. Even if it's just looking the other way. Giving people a second chance."

"Did it work?"

"...Sometimes." He admits with a drop of his shoulders. "Other half of the time I got reprimanded for not finding an unpaid fine worth sending someone to jail over."

"Small dream." Salim says, matter-of-factly. "Small results."

Blake snorts. "The dream was plenty big. So were the obstacles. I saw what Batm-" He stops himself, remembering the vitriol in which the hired guns spoke his name. Nobody is listening except Salim, however, wrapped up in conversations or their media. He leans forward, conspiratorally, and whispers, "You like Batman?"

Blake rubs his hair. Now the conversation is really killing his buzz. "It's not a matter of liking. He just got things done. He wasn't concerned with soothing ruffled feathers or following every last line of red tape to a dead end. He wanted to make sure nobody got away with the shit they did, no matter how rich or protected they were. He made sure that whatever happened to the victims wouldn't happen again. It's...something I wish I had when I was a kid."

That knowing look in his eyes again. Sometimes he gets the feeling the man knows more than he's letting on. Salim leans down and starts to rummage in his bag, pushing his curly hair out of his face and not saying anything else. Blake tries to look him in the eye.

"What happened to him?"

He frowns a little, though still doesn't look at him. It's clear he can't say. Blake decides to ask a simpler question.

"Is he dead...?"

A twitch of his head. He pulls small strips of jerky out, smiling nonchalantly when one of the others looks over at them. "Eat." The moment they look away Salim catches Blake's gaze and twitches his head again -- a shake.

His shoulders slump in relief. He was alive. "Thanks." He whispers, taking the offered strip and chewing on it. Salim pulls a little toolbox out of his bag and begins to clean weapons again. He's incredibly efficient, hardly even looking at each part as he scrubs and tweaks a pistol's barrel into a better version of itself.

"My mother and sister die in the war. I work a, uh. Meat shop, after. With my dad. No leg and he can't fight." Salim begins, balancing the weapon on his crossed leg. "Little shop, next to train. I like to watch the people." He hands him a gun. Blake pulls a machine tool out of the bag and cleans it absent-mindedly, studying the man's expression. There's a vulnerability he hasn't seen before and he doesn't want to let him down, even if it's just giving him his undivided attention.

"I shoot birds for dad." He continues. "Bad birds. Keep the crops safe. Dogs, sometimes. For the shop. He always tell me I sleep too much. Tell me I don't pay attention. I try to help, but all I want was to get on the train and leave. I hate the shop. Hate the smell. Bad memories. Dad later is sick and the, uh, doctors say he has problem with his lungs."

Blake's chest twists. One after another. No wonder they were kindred spirits.

"I can't carry shop. I try. Not many people come. I shoot all the birds now. All the dogs I see. Sell them so I can eat. Sleep in the shop. I watch the train but where do I go? I leave and I have no money. I stay and I am stuck. ...Then Bane arrives." His expression grows fond, even with the old pain clear in his eyes. "'Good aim', everyone say. 'We need that'. They want a worker, someone to protect the vans when they travel. But Bane, he..." The man pauses in his work. "He ask why I am alone."

"What did you say?"

"I tell him everything. I tell him I can't get out." Blake realizes, horribly, the man might be younger than he previously thought.

Salim goes quiet and sets the finished pistol down, reaching for another.

"...Bane promised you a future?" He says when he doesn't continue.

"No." He says. "He promise everyone."

Then Barsad walks over. Blake wipes the smile off his face as the lean mercenary glances about him with purpose. While he learned as much as he could with his newfound freedom, this man eluded him more often than not. He was practically Bane's shadow and, even worse, seemed to be constantly watching him.

"Nice work." The man's lazy drawl cuts into his thoughts. Even doing something as mundane as polishing weapons he feels like a student caught lagging on his assignment.

"Uh, thanks." He says. "I'm a little rusty."

"You will come with us."

"Sure." Blake sets his work down. "What are we doing?"

The man hands him a thicker coat and a scarf without another word. He puts it on dutifully -- he wanted to stay on someone's good side for once.

"Oh, I know." Salim says in a hushed tone, pulling on his own jacket. "We guard a meeting."

"Will Bane be there?" He asks, pushing his scarf into his coat to keep the cold from seeping in.

"Miss him already?" Barsad quips, almost making him jump. Blake grits his teeth and hopes it comes off as a smile. "Just need to know if I should be more afraid of stray bullets or stray punches, is all." The man turns and speaks in rapid-fire Kazakh to the mercenaries gathering around him. Blake looks to Salim for a translation, which he obliges.

"We cover Bane. They disrupt shipment. We keep safe. Stop, uh..." He snaps his fingers as he tries to find another word. Barsad casts him an annoyed glance. "Workers. Nearby workers. They can't interrupt."

"Uh, what if they do interrupt?" Blake asks under his breath. Salim makes a gun gesture with one hand.

"Wait, we're not going to-!"

"Knock out dart."

Blake breathes a sigh of relief.

Like last time the trucks have tinted windows. The deeper details of the mission are left out of his reach, just that Bane needs nobody walking in on whatever he's doing. After a somewhat long and cold ride they arrive at what seems to be a shipping operation, pulling up on the upper levels where leftover crates and equipment are piled high enough to hide their activity. Despite the workers' apparent best attempts to clean snow layers stubbornly on every inch of machinery.

"All right." Barsad says over the speaker. "Get to your positions."

The driver and his partner head to their post without another word, leaving him and Salim alone. They have a decent view of the city, even though it's drenched in wet fog and he can't make out the furthermost buildings through the gray. Another minute and the following van pulls up below, two mercenaries wearing deceptively mundane clothing stepping out and checking their surroundings before opening the side door.

Bane cuts an eerie figure moving through the snow, rugged sheepskin coat billowing in the freezing wind. It's the kind of image folklores are made out of, he thinks, just a little surreal. Perhaps that's why he wears the mask -- psychological terrorism. A way of striking fear in people before he even speaks or lays a hand on them. The man glances around him for only a moment, breath puffing out of his mask, before walking up the steps into the building and vanishing.

"Eyes open, Crocodile Hunter. We move now."

Blake stifles a groan. Even Barsad.

Salim is perched between a forklift and a crate, hands steady on his rifle and scanning the environment. The cold doesn't seem to bother him at all, though he's vindicated somewhat by the man irritably flicking snow trying to settle in his hair. Blake makes sure his receiver is off before asking.

"Why here...?" He asks. "Why not somewhere less obvious?"

He shrugs. "Hide in plain sight."

A faint scuffle makes them turn. The mercenary motions for his silence. Blake looks to where he's pointing -- a worker had walked into view below, rubbing their hands together and inspecting one of the forklifts.

Salim's gun is completely silent. The worker pats their neck curiously for only a moment, then slumps against the wall.

"Shit." Blake breathes. "They weren't kidding when they complimented your aim."

The man beams at the praise. "Hide him."

Blake makes his way down to the lower level, keeping his head low as he moves down stairways and in-between carts and lifts, in case the employee has any co-workers nearby. He finds them halfway propped against the wall where they had fallen to one side. The feathered dart sticks out of their neck, which he pulls out and slides carefully into his chest pocket. He's about to pick them up when they cough, suddenly, and twitch.

"Ungh..."

...Shit.

He doesn't have any time. They look about the same weight, despite being a little taller. He kneels and lifts them from their underarms, dragging them away from the forklift and looking for somewhere they're least likely to get run over.

"What...where..." They slur softly, head lolling on their chest.

It's a good while before he finds what he's looking for, an empty corner between a stack of boxes and an out-of-order lift. There's a long, winding groove in the snow where he had been dragging them around -- at least people will have no trouble finding them. They're still not fully knocked out, looking up from where they lay with glazed eyes. His stomach twists guiltily.

"Salim." He says into the receiver, panting from the exertion. "It's really cold. You sure it's okay to leave them here?"

"They are fine. Drug is one hour."

He frowns.

"They could freeze to death."

Whatever Salim says is cut out by the receiver beeping again. Barsad.

"Update me."

"Uh, just one person so far. Salim knocked them out and I'm putting them somewhere safe."

"Good." A click. He huffs and mutters under his breath, "You're welcome."

They've passed out now. The concrete overhang shelters them from the falling snow, but he doesn't like how hard they're shivering. He pulls off his jacket and lays it over them, careful to tuck their hands underneath.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

He stiffens. 'Easy, Blake.' He stands and turns as calmly as possible. Another worker stands just a few feet away, eyes narrowed in confusion. "You're not supposed to be down here."

She's not screaming or blanching, so it's clear she hasn't seen the unconscious worker right behind him. Blake tries to keep it that way by putting on the best imitation of innocence he has in his repertoire. "Oh, shit. Sorry about that." He says, a little apologetically. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"I'm not startled. I need to know what you're doing here." She says, crossing her arms. Not a security guard -- her blue jumper suggests she works in the same department -- but she may as well be just as suspicious.

It takes him another moment to realize Salim can't see them both behind the overhang. If he moves she'll see her co-worker and no doubt panic. Or slug him. Whichever comes first. He'd have to risk trying to snag her attention.

"I, uh, found someone lying here." He starts. "Just didn't know who to call..."

It has the intended effect. Her eyes widen. "What?"

He steps aside as she rushes over to look. His morning's pummeling at the hands of Barsad plays like an instructional video in his head. Hook an arm around the esophagus. Squeeze enough to make them dizzy, soft enough not to crush the delicate muscle around the throat. Hold a moment longer for them to pass out. The moment she slackens he lets go and lays her down, hurriedly checking her pulse and heaving a sigh of relief when he feels a faint flutter. Hopefully neither of these workers had heart or lung problems.

"You still here, Blake?" Salim asks over the receiver.

He stares down at the two workers, shivering. "...Yeah."

"The fuck am I doing." He mutters to himself when he returns, sitting down beside the man and trying to forget about what transpired just a few minutes earlier. "The hell am I doing this for?"

"You do this for Gotham." Salim says, chin in his hand. "You will see."

"...I don't know that. I don't know that at all."

Salim breaks his gaze from the horizon to look at him, eyes a little wide at his tone. "All I do know is that everyone who needs me is out of my reach." He finishes, suddenly exhausted by it all.

They sit in silence for nearly an hour. Only one other worker shows, knocked out like the first and tucked with the others -- he figures the shared body heat is the closest they'll get to not catching the flu once they're found. Salim doesn't look at him when he returns and slumps against the wall, rubbing his temples.

His receiver beeps again. Barsad's voice carries calmly in the quiet. "We are almost finished. Stay sharp."

Then...

"You save my life, back then." Salim shifts a little where he sits. "I forget to thank you."

Blake stares at the falling snow. "Don't mention it."

"...You know, you remind me of him."

Blake looks at him. "What?"

"You come out of nowhere and save me." He chuckles, softly. "You try to save everyone." Snow has peppered his hair with white now, but he doesn't notice it. "What is the saying? You learn something new each day?"

"All we have is each other, at the end of the day." Blake responds. Salim nods slowly, as if realizing something.

"Everyone's future."

It's not hard to follow his train of thought. "Yeah." He says, looking out into that impassable sheet of gray hanging over Gotham. "Everyone's."

"...Knock out."

"Huh?" He looks over the railing. "There's nobody there."

Salim makes a gun symbol with his hand again, against his neck. "Knock out." Looking at him now with a small smile. "So everyone think you escape."

He couldn't be.

"What...?" Blake gasps, sitting up. "No. No, I can't do that. What if everyone finds out? What's going to happen to you?"

"League kill cowards." He shrugs. "I am not a coward." Reaches over and gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "You know."

He does.

"We move in one minute." Barsad says over the receiver. He looks down at it, then to Salim.

"I won't forget this." He whispers.

He has Salim stomp around a bit to invoke the appearance of an organic struggle. Weeks with these men have made it clear anything less would screw both of them over. He's not confident with the rifle, the light weight odd in his hands, and almost panics when he hits the man in the neck with the dart. Salim waves him away as he staggers against the wall.

"Better go." He says, drowsily. Laughing a little. "Good luck, Crocodile Hunter."

Blake chuckles. "Right back at you."

Throwing down the rifle and turning off the receiver, he makes a run for it.

It takes all his willpower to slow himself down to a brisk pace. The last thing he wants to do is attract any suspicion, even though the only sound that greets his ears is the air winding its way through the concrete walls. They were higher up than he thought and he rounds level after level with no seeming end in-between parked trucks and supplies, most of the stairways locked.

His breath comes in short, tense pants. He has less than a minute left. He racks his brain for a lie should he run into another mercenary. Maybe say Salim had asked him to double-check for more workers because he ran out of ammunition. No, that was unlikely. Maybe he'd have to take his chances and fight them. Unarmed and so cold he was starting to lose feeling in his fingertips, he was up against some fair odds.

It feels like an eternity before he reaches ground level again. There it is -- an alleyway leading out of the factory. A shape moves at the corner of his vision. He whirls around, fists instinctively raised. A bird perches on wall lamp. A pale gray ball, the only thing distinguishing it from the snow the splash of orange on its collar.

"Hey." He pants. "Wanna get out of here, too?"

It twitters and takes off into the air. With one last look over his shoulder he follows it through the alley and into the outside world.

Chapter Text

Gotham was freezing.

The wind strikes his face like a whip, cracking his lips and blistering the sweat on his brow. Every breath was as heady and involved as if he had just ran a marathon. Whoever invented the saying, 'When hell freezes over' must've been referencing the cursed city of ten million.

Blake had never loved the cold more.

The sun beats down on his bare face and he can hardly see for squinting. Snow crunches and water sloshes in off-beat rhythms. Cars screech and honk from all sides. The sensory input is almost overwhelming. It takes all his willpower not to turn and jog right back where he came from.

He needed to call Foley. Tell him he's the furthest thing possible from a corpse. Maybe he could call Jeff. The man was no doubt put on constant duty to pick up the slack in his absence. Or he could try and phone the orphanage. Finally check in on his kids. His heart lurches painfully in his chest. He could just go to the orphanage now. He was so close. A few blocks, a trip on the bus...no, he needed to eat first. Eat and get somewhere warmer.

Thoughts flitted random and uncertain as he made his way downtown. It was like walking through a funhouse, picking out what was normal and what wasn't. Bane's influence was clear -- smashed windows were more common than usual, the ground littered with trash too fresh to be typical city sludge. The most shocking element was not the charred truck he saw smoking in an alleyway nor the disturbing video feeds playing in the square. The air felt different.

He walked past a bus filled with and surrounded by what seemed to be homeless individuals. A woman with curly pigtails danced and hollered on a tipped over car nearby. Everyone huddled together over fire bins, attempting to warm bare or barely gloved hands. With his stained button-up and messy hair he must've blended in quite nicely -- haggard, tired and probably needing a drink. The woman on the car even called out to him to join in on the fun.

"C'mon, darling!" She laughs, beckoning him. "More than enough fun t' go around!"

He gave her a weak smile and shook his head, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him.

He stops by a food truck before he realizes he has no money -- the vendor curses under his breath as he pats his pockets sheepishly. So he walks down furthermost Central Avenue. Past downtown. Crosses street after street, up to the Commissioner's apartment where he knocks on the door and tries not to lick his dry lips.

Gordon's slack jaw would have been funny if it weren't so painful.

"Where the hell have you been?" He gasps. Blake could only imagine what he must be seeing. He had hardly glanced at a reflective surface as he made his way through the city. Granted, the looks passerbys gave him told him plenty. Someone had even done a double-take. He thought they only did that in the movies.

"Glad to see you're okay, Commissioner." He says, a little weakly, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

"We searched everywhere for you. Everyone was convinced you were dead and floating in the ocean somewhere. I called-" He stops abruptly as Blake pushes past him, walking inside and pressing his face against the man's leather couch. Something normal. Something right. Gordon gawks at him from the doorway, eventually shutting it and walking over to the kitchen. The scent of coffee soon fills the air. The man thinks he could weep -- he had no idea cheap Folger's could smell so damn good.

His chest quails when he sits up again and catches his reflection in the mirror on the far-end wall. He looks terrible. Like a zombie he makes his way over, staring at a reflection that didn't seem to belong to him -- his skin was pallid from the cold, a nasty scar dented into his hairline and a new scar on his lip. Lighter patches clash with his dark hair where it had fallen out. With a weak sigh he reaches up and touched the spots, sliding his hand down to stroke the uneven stubble growing along his jawline.

Would Bane track him down? Or Barsad? Surely he wasn't that important. Then again, it seemed like they were attempting to rub off on him. Get him to switch sides. Hell, it almost worked. Maybe they'd see right through his and Salim's little scheme. Trail him right over to Gordon's apartment and choke them both to death. A thread of panic winds through him, making it momentarily hard to breathe.

A soft clink snaps him back to reality. He turns to see two cups of coffee and toasted bagels set on the table, Gordon pulling out a pack of cigarettes and sitting down.

"A lot has happened since you were gone." He says, softly. "Eat."

Gordon tells him how the department has been scrambling to meet the demand of a city struggling under the weight of constant raids and counter-protests. Recites to him just a few of the events that have happened -- Blake already knows about the destruction of the psychiatric ward. He didn't know Daggett was recently found with his neck broken in his own home. Bane and his mercenaries have stirred up enough trouble to catch the eye of Waller, but not enough to garner the support of neighboring districts.

"'Why don't you get Batman to help'." Gordon quotes with a snort. Puffs on his cigarette. "They're a little out of touch."

Huddling on the far end of the leather couch and staring at the television without watching he in turn tells the Commissioner everything he can recall to memory. His original attempt to find him, only to run into Bane's mercenaries and ending up captured. The beating he took trying to escape. His housing somewhere beneath Gotham in a storm drain, surrounded by mercenaries from all over the world. Bane visiting him in his cell. Fighting him. Talking to him. Sitting with him on the cot and looking at him in a way that was...

Well. Almost everything.

"Miranda Tate..." Gordon whispers, twisting his dry hands together as he so often did when he was puzzling a situation.

"He could be lying. Trying to get us fighting amongst each other." Blake offers around a mouthful of food. Gordon doesn't seem convinced.

"Do you think he'd lie about that, John?" It's odd to hear his first name as is. "Especially when he had you held hostage with no means of escape?"

The man had always trusted his intuition. It's why he so often asked him for assistance, just shy of being an actual detective associate. The more Blake considered Bane could be telling the truth the more his gut twists, warning him of deeper details swimming beneath the surface. He downs the bitter coffee and reaches for the pot.

With a start he realizes he hadn't brought up the alligator man. Maybe it was better if he kept that a secret for now. He didn't want Gordon thinking he was more fit for a mental institution than active duty.

Doubt starts to worm its way through him. Maybe he had planned on letting him go all along. Maybe he didn't. Every time he got an answer he got another question. Blake's mind was a mess, scrambling up and down like a cat on curtains. He needed to sleep. Caffeine and his jumped up nerves probably wouldn't let him. He takes another deep drink, then reaches again for the near-empty pot.

"I don't know. He said something about exposing Harvey Dent, too." He says, rubbing his eyes. "Like he's got a finger in every pie. No clue if it's legit or not, but the man's done his homework, if nothing else. You'd think he'd read a compendium or something." Gordon goes quiet and flicks his cigarette against the ashtray. Doesn't speak for a few moments.

"We'll...have to be careful who we tell this to. Can't stir up a panic. Not with everything already hanging by a thread." He rubs his beard. "You're sure you didn't see evidence of Batman? Any sign that he was there."

"Just...that he's alive." He thinks back to the conviction in Salim's eyes. How he couldn't get any more detailed. His head is starting to hurt. "I'm pretty sure, anyway."

"I need specifics, John." He presses, leaning forward. "Anything will help. Anything that can-"

"Look, for fuck's sake...just give me a minute!" He snaps. "If I had all the answers I'd tell you, don't you think?"

Gordon pauses. Blake's hands are shaking. A few drops of coffee hit his knees.

"Shit. I'm...I'm sorry." He whispers. "I didn't mean to yell at you."

The old man shakes his head slowly. "No. You've...been through a lot. I shouldn't be pushing you right now." He stood up, gathering his silverware and heading to the kitchen. "You can stay here or I can give you a ride to your apartment. You should get those cuts looked at, though. Check up with the clinic to make sure you didn't get any diseases from that dip in the sewers." His voice lowers. "Or the beatings you've been taking."

He scratches his mustache, as if wanting to say more. Instead he turns away, voice muffling as he headed into the kitchen. "After I call the department and let them know you've returned I'll look into South Africa and Kazakhstan. See what they have on recent raids. I might get some information linking to the man's identity and any associates found finagling with him."

Blake didn't remember responding. The walk up the stairs, through the hall and into his superior's free room was simultaneously the longest and shortest handful of steps he'd ever done. He collapses on the bed, sighing into the sheets and feeling the world's concerns dropping like a brick in the water.

Chapter Text

"Amir, hey! How are you? Oh, I'm fine. Trust me, more than fine. Better than I was. You draw anything new?"

It's one of the busiest afternoons the department has seen in months. The front receptionist has been doing an admirable job juggling calls and requests to transfer information, but a recent deficient in staff has her struggling to carry the extra weight. One caller is convinced they've seen the masked killer at the corner store, another is begging for more surveillance in their neighborhood after a raid -- it's all she can do to soothe their fears, much less her own. As if mocking her the day also sent her a man who decided to use the public phone for nearly an hour, frequently and suddenly yelling in bursts loud enough to distract her and everyone within hearing distance. Even sharp glances his way were met with little more than a small smile.

"He's not the only one who needs to use that." She mutters to her co-worker when he brings over coffee. "Out of all the days in this shitty week we get this guy." He follows her gaze, nearly dropping the drinks in the process.

"That's Blake. John Blake. The guy that went missing a few weeks ago?"

She pauses and looks back to the man now laughing into the receiver.

Blake glances over his shoulder, then at his watch before turning back to his little corner. Both receptionists are staring at him now, which means he's starting to overstay his welcome. He didn't recognize them -- they were either new hires or transfers in an attempt to beef up the fluctuating staff.

With Gordon still talking with Foley he took the rare spot of free time to contact St. Swithin's. Reilly and the kids had all gathered to talk to him on the other end, voices tumbling over one another in the most beautiful clamor he's ever heard.

"It's a miracle." Reilly had said before handing the phone to the kids. "It's a goddamn miracle."

It took a few minutes for them all to calm down enough to take turns talking. Tiya had gone first for good behavior, asking about his safety before talking about a lizard he found beneath the floorboards the previous night. Amir was eager to share his new work, though he grew remorseful recalling how the rain had washed away most of his chalk drawings. Finn had finally managed to find an odd job shoveling snow, though he didn't seem too pleased about it. Blake gives him some encouraging words -- he's just glad he's trying.

The boy changes the subject with a joke he heard from a pun book, entirely corny and still making Blake laugh hard enough to double over in his chair. The receptionist looks at him again, mouth in a thin line. She really wasn't happy with him. He puts his hand over the receiver and opens his mouth to apologize when he hears another voice, tinny and excited, filtering through the hubbub.

"Blake? Blake?"

"Joel? Joel?" He says, earning an excited laugh. "You sound good, huh?"

"Blake, why did you go so long? I miss you. Reilly cried."

He swallows thickly, smiling in spite of the heat rising in his chest. They probably hadn't told him the truth. "I'm sorry, Joel. I got caught up in some...things. I'll tell you about it when I visit. Might not want to, uh, tell everyone about Reilly crying, though."

"Maria said it's okay to cry."

He chuckles. "Yeah, true. Very true. I need to remember that." Being checked by a six year-old. He couldn't be prouder.

"Maria gave me three stars 'cause I did all my papers and she give me this book and it's super good and I wanna read about the best breads."

"Wow, that's amazing! You going to try out a new recipe?"

He sounds uncertain. "No...I just wanna read it a little."

Blake's voice softens. "Hey, that's okay. I'm glad you got something you like. Show me when I come by, yeah?"

Joel sounds happier than he's heard him in a while. They all do, despite everything in the city going to hell in a handbasket. The Swithin's boys were a difficult bunch according to the average psychiatrist and landlord, but nobody could call them fragile. That they had managed to last through the past hectic weeks is almost too much for the man. It's a white-hot burn now, one that makes breathing a little difficult. He pulls the receiver away from his mouth, still listening as his throat threatens to give him away.

"The pictures are good. This bread looks like a person, though. Why does Santa like cookies that look like people? Is that normal?"

Blake smiles at the precocious question. How he had missed hearing their voices.

"Blake?" Joel sounds worried. "Where did you go?"

"Don't worry." He manages to say, rubbing his eyes. "I'm here."

"When are you coming home?"

"As soon as I can. I promise."

Reilly returns, much to the disappointed moans of the boys in the background. "Sorry, Blake. Gotta take Tiya and Joel to therapy. Wanna leave early 'cause of all the snow." He's not a sentimental man, so Blake is touched when he mutters, "Take care of yourself, all right. The city's a mess."

"Tell them I'll visit soon." He says, though he can hardly hear his own voice for the clamor of farewells in the background. "Tell them I love them." It's hard to put the phone down, much less compose himself for meeting up with his co-workers. There's no reflective surface for him to look into so he makes sure his face is dry and hair is tidy before standing up with a deep exhale. Looking around at the smooth walls of the department he didn't know if he'd see again. Back to the grind.

The man turns around and jumps a little when the receptionist holds out a tissue box. He takes one.

It's hard for him not to feel a little sheepish walking into a room full of applause. It's as gray and uniform as the last, but decorated with last-minute balloons and curly strings. A small potted plant sits on the middle desk with a half-open greeting card, no doubt filled with signatures and well-wishings. Jeff gives him a hug when he walks in. It's awkward, considering their working relationship, so he returns it reluctantly. Puts a smile on his face as co-workers and visitors alike pat his shoulder or clap him on the back, repeating what he's been hearing almost non-stop for the past day and a half -- social niceties about his wellbeing, barely restrained fascination with his brush with Gotham's terror of the month.

Jeff eventually pulls him to one side, still dressed in uniform.

"You look good."

"Thanks."

Blake takes a moment to thank Martha for the plant, glancing at its tag -- 'Wandering Jew'. He laughs good-heartedly even as he wants to pick it up and fling it across the room. Back to the grind, indeed.

"Seriously, I'm surprised you're not missing any limbs. I've heard stories..." Jeff starts when they find a place to sit. Blake doesn't take the bait, raising his voice for both him and the co-workers peering over his shoulder and doing a stellar job of concealing their interest.

"With weather this bad I expect we'll all be missing a few fingers by January."

They take the hint. The air in the room changes, more lukewarm than excited now, and he resists the urge to rub his temples. He's been conservative with just how much he knows about Bane and his mercenaries. The knowledge is too odd and filled with too many details that could prove more distracting than applicable. It's a card he wants to keep in his deck for now -- he knows if he spills all the beans preemptively he'll be detained for who knows how long and wrenched dry of any information, eating away at precious time to actually do something.

"I know a thing or two about holding onto information until the right time." Gordon had said before they left that morning. "It's not ideal, but...do what you have to do."

He jerks himself back to attention. Jeff is catching him up on the department's recent inner workings, sharing with him a trend that's starting to crop up across the city. Self-titled anarchists had been ransacking and taking hold of courthouses, using them to mete out vicious justice toward politicians, investors and anyone who lingered even a little toward the upper-class. It was something he had only just learned -- yesterday he had spent hours browsing site after site to figure out where Bane's reach had extended and where it ran short. Multiple high-profile individuals had mysteriously gone missing, with many linking it to the same occupied city halls.

Technology was a powerful tool. Where public news stations did their best to dampen the masked man's influence, social media showed another picture entirely. Some people were terrified, sharing the damage that had been done to their cars or windows in the chaos. Others were thrilled, donning cheap Batman masks and posing in front of the destruction. Any other city would have been complete chaos by this point. Gotham residents were used to a different kind of normal, he thinks.

"We've managed to shut down one. Arrested a lot of loons. The other, though...it's heavily armed." Jeff sounds a little out of breath. "Anyone who can hold a gun seems to go there, hence why we've spent more time planning for it. I've heard rumors Bane visits, but who can trust a rumor nowadays?"

"So what is everyone going to do about that one?" Blake asks, politely refusing a slice of cake one of the interns offers him.

The man leans in eagerly and lowers his voice once they're out of earshot.

"We're going to blow it up." He grins. "Foley has already ordered the dynamite. Take back our city one blasted bit at a time."

"What about the people inside?" Blake hisses back.

"Criminals." He responds, exasperated. "You know, the shitbags who've been smashing up buildings and mugging people?"

"Not all of them. That's not worth the risk."

"Give me a damn break, Blake. You're such a softie." His voice wavers, something like pity or revulsion in his tone. "You've been gone for weeks. A lot has changed since then. You haven't seen the shit they've been pulling. The people they've been killing."

Blake narrows his eyes. "There's a better way to do this."

"Of course there is." Jeff says, flatly, no longer whispering. "I'm sure you'll be the one to come up with it. You going to tell Foley about your master plan?"

He just got back and he's already being indundated in the latest of shitty decisions. Blake rises from his seat, pointedly refusing to acknowledge all the eyes starting to turn to him.

"I appreciate you all coming today." He says, mechanically, grabbing the plant and walking out as calmly as he can.

--

"We can't send you."

It's a terse conversation Blake and Gordon have in the car, hands stuffed into their arms so they don't freeze as the heater struggles to warm the chilly leather interior. They both grow hushed whenever someone walks by, even though the windows are thick and tinted.

"Of course not. She apparently was the reason I wasn't killed outright." Blake says as he puffs into his hands. "What about you?"

The Commissioner shakes his head. "No. You've been associated with me for a while now. They could make the connection."

"Yeah. They were going after you originally, not even me..." He sighs through his nose and taps the back of his head on the car seat, racking his brain for a solution that feels like shrinking time. "We could have Jeff interrogate her."

"Jeff?" He sounds doubtful, pulling out a cigarette. "That arrogant spunk?"

"Yeah, he's a prick, but he's been here longer than I have. He knows the drill. According to him and everyone else the department's been playing Where's Waldo all this time. If anything can narrow it down, even if it's a hint of doubt in her voice or a faster pulse on the lie detector..." The heater is chugging reliably now -- he reaches out his hands and feels his fingertips tingle in response. "You think they'll do anything drastic if we press?"

"That's if she had anything to do with them in the first place." Gordon says, sighing out smoke. "Did you even see Ms. Tate while you were held captive?"

"No. Not even a hint."

"Well, that's all we have, then. Either she had nothing to do with it and we cross off a lead on our list or we've been onto something this entire time." He settles back in his seat. "No need to overcomplicate." The man's practicality is appreciated. He's ever grateful he was signed to work with him from day one.

"You know about their plan to blow up the city hall?"

"They're not blowing it up, technically. Blasting out the doors and gates. Something to rattle them a little and get them to disperse." He chuckles dryly at his expression. "I know. It's not very comforting. I've already offered alternatives and they didn't want to hear a word of it."

"Bombs aren't always predictable. If something goes south a lot of people will get hurt." Blake says, hating how useless he feels. "They always go for the flashy shit."

"You know what you signed up for." He peels down the window and flicks ash onto the snow. "We're just here to keep things going from bad to worse."

--

Miranda Tate sits by the desk, dressed in a cream fur coat and soft beige heels. Even through video it's surreal to observe her so candidly, a somehow public yet elusive figure who frequently headlined everything from tabloids to thinkpieces. A prodigy who studied at multiple institutions around the world before being hired to teach at Gotham University, graduating before she was able to legally drink. Her past was a mystery, her family even more so. With her work on the Wayne Board she was practically Gotham's darling.

"...Ms. Tate."

She turns and smiles politely at someone off-screen.

The click of a door shutting. The smile fades a touch. "If you don't mind, officer, I have a meeting that is already ten minutes late."

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little longer, then." Blake shifts in his seat. Jeff only got polite when he was about to get serious. Couldn't he at least reel her in a little more? Perhaps there was no gentle way to ask what he needed to ask.

"We've received reliable information that you may have a connection with someone we're trying to find."

He sits down across from her.

"Tell me what you know of Bane."

"The terrorist?" She frowns. "Only that he hasn't been caught yet."

"Can you think of any reason why Bane would cite your name?"

"Perhaps he has an interest in clean energy." She says with a laugh.

It's unsuccessful at best. Each question is answered carefully and with poise, the only sign of her discomfort the implication she would be involved in the city's recent events. Her curfew over the past few months matches up perfectly and the lie detector shows only the faintest hints of fluctuation, a disappointingly common result in anyone brought in and interrogated. Jeff, for all his bluster, dissolves into apologism whenever she narrows her eyes or flicks her fingers in frustration.

Gordon looks to him with a soft frown when the interrogation ends. "It was worth a shot."

Blake stares at the screen as everyone recites the usual pleasantries and legal jargon before heading out the door, trying to sort out the unease hanging over his head.

--

His apartment is chilly and a little dusty from disuse. He's pleased, but not surprised, to see it hadn't been ransacked in the past weeks. He lived in a district closer to downtown, considered just shy of middle-class, and the most he's had to deal with is the occasional stolen mail and dog shit on his front lawn. It was his second year now, as close as he could get to St. Swithin's without actually living there. A few of his classmates had asked him why he didn't live in one of the 'nicer' neighborhoods -- backhanded compliments insinuating he was too good for the place. Little made his stomach churn more than people who thought money gilded character.

He recalls these details a little desperately throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening, trying to situate himself in an old reality that feels just out of his grasp. He does dishes and vacuums, throws out a few clothes he was too lazy to recycle before. Time alone stirs up thoughts he was too busy to pay attention to.

It's been so long since he's spent time with anyone. His kids have been feeling his extended absences for a while now. A drink or two with Gordon had become more rare with their busy schedules. Even Shia had been sitting pretty in Metropolis for almost a year now -- the last time he'd seen her was months back during another awkward office party. He thinks of calling her, then hesitates once the phone's in his hand. He's not even sure where to start catching up.

"Guess I'll have to give you a name." He says after he finds a nice spot for the potted plant on the dining room table. "Foley-age?" He chuckles and rubs his eyes tiredly. "I need to get laid."

He calls Jeff while idling on the couch with a cup of tea -- he forgot he had a stash in the back of his cabinet, some black and green blend that sits pleasantly on his tongue. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to switch it up now and again.

"I appreciate you doing this." He says. "I know a dead end doesn't look good, but you're helping a lot in the grand scheme of things." The guy's feeling frustrated after the failed interrogation, ever a glory hound, but Blake tries to smooth things over with him just the same. He's had his fill of obstacles.

"Hey, listen. I didn't mean to ruffle your feathers at the party."

It's not much of an apology, but he takes what he can get. "Look, whatever. It's not exactly news I don't like how things are run-" A knock makes him sit up. "I'll call you back. Someone's at the door."

He glances through the peep hole and tenses as Miranda Tate looks back at him.

What the hell was she doing here? Why now? His brain and gut are starting to disagree again. He takes a moment to pick up his phone, turning on the record button and pushing it into his jacket pocket. He keeps his expression neutral as he steps out, shutting the door behind him and crossing his arms in the cold.

"John Blake?" She asks politely. She's wearing gray fur and tall boots now, high enough to disappear past the hem of her coat.

"Yeah. Miranda Tate, right?"

"I apologize for the abrupt visit." She shivers as a breeze hits them both. "It's a little chilly. Could we step inside?"

He makes a show of glancing over his shoulder. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

She opens her mouth in mock shock. "You'd make a lady stand out in the cold?"

"It's just a mess, that's all."

"I know a thing or two about messes." She says with a chuckle. "Like the one you found yourself in just a few weeks ago."

"Yeah." He responds lightly. It's hard to place her age -- from what he knows she's in her early twenties, but her eyes hold the weariness of someone in their fifties. "Come on in."

He shuts the door, but doesn't lock it.

"I heard what happened to you." He hears her say. "I'm sorry."

Blake turns on the spare lamp. "I'm alive. That's more than what some can say."

He turns and freezes at the knife not even an inch from his neck.

"We'll see, anyway."

He slowly holds his hands up in surrender. She smiles appreciatively.

"Sit."

He doesn't search for a seat so much as he's guided by the knifepoint, stepping backwards until the back of his legs hit the couch. He leans down, leans back into the cushion, trying to get as far away as he can as she settles on the footstool in front of him.

"I imagine you must be quite tired of being put in your place." The knife glints horribly in the lamp light, her expression as gentle as a mother speaking to her child. "Rest assured you won't have to worry about that anymore."

'Bane wasn't lying.' He thinks, frantically, even as he sits calmly and stares into her cold blue eyes. 'He wasn't lying about any of it.'

"It was a much-appreciated effort attempting to slander my good name today. Of course, all you did was waste my time." She crosses her legs politely, the knife not moving an inch. "My men will be here in exactly fifteen minutes. In twenty-five minutes your still-cooling body will be deposited into the lake, the only ones mourning your loss the insufferable hounds who make up your pack and the fish feeding on your corpse." She tilts her head. "But I am nothing if not considerate. You have been through quite a lot, so you deserve to know exactly how Gotham will burn."

"We have fed your city hope on white wings for months now. 'Clean energy will revolutionize the divide between class and bring us closer as a people'. 'Despite the tragedies you've faced year after year the future has never looked brighter'. So on and so forth. Told them everything they want to hear to keep them looking in the wrong direction. Much like how your force says one thing while doing another." A condescending smile. "I'm sure you can relate."

"Despite all their efforts, all their meaningless well-wishings and yearnings and dreams, the fire will rise, courtesy of that very same source of hope. Gotham is a scourge on this Earth. Only something as vast, as heartless, can hope to tame its influence."

"How the hell is that justice...?" Blake whispers, pulse fluttering beneath the knife and just a hair's breadth away from splitting open. "You and Bane are already going after those responsible. I've seen what you've done..." He tries to take in a steady breath. "...why isn't that enough?"

"Justice is a sweet song..." She sighs. "For the gullible. I find this unbecoming in someone paid to read between the lines."

She snatches his hair, twisting his head back and exposing his throat. The skin of his neck is as taut as paper beneath the knife now -- one wrong breath and the point makes a home in his jugular vein.

"You distracted him from what's truly important." His stomach lurches in some horrible mix of shame and shock when she says, "Don't think I didn't hear about those little visits. You were merely a diversion. A tool. He is a visionary, but one who often seeks out hope in the wrong places."

Her expression changes, then, into something regretful. Even sad. It's startling and almost makes him forget his life balancing on a razor's edge.

"He has always wanted to see a better world rise." She says, softly. "I suppose he'll see soon enough."

She pauses when she hears a soft beep. His recording is about to end.

He takes the moment to twist to the side, grabbing her wrist to turn the knife away and sending it flipping out of her hand. She tries to wrench out of his grip and nearly yanks him up with her, stronger than he'd give her credit for. He leaps to his feet, striking her in the face and earning a sharp cry. She lashes back, her nails raking across his cheek and peppering blood into his eyes.

He hardly makes it a step across the room before she grabs him, yanking him forward and kneeing him in the stomach -- it's almost enough to bend in his ribs, but not enough to incapacitate him. He slams his head into hers, her neck snapping back from the force, even as the uneven momentum leaves him stumbling and nearly taking her down with him. She's quick. Too quick. Just like Bane. He turns to run only to have his legs kicked out from under him -- he turns around just in time to lash out as she grabs him, kicking her away. She's not even trying to kill him, he realizes. She's wasting his time.

"You'll live a tool and die a tool." She says, wiping blood from her nose. Her permed hair is a mess now, falling over her eyes but not quite enough to hide the seething disdain. "Nothing if not consistent."

Blake wipes his cheek as he rises to his feet. They'll be here any minute. Even disarming her everything is still in her favor. He needs her off her game and fast.

"What, upset your dad wanted to spend more time with me?"

It's only a second he sees the cold rage on her face before she rushes him.

To tackle him or claw out his throat, he'll never know. He grabs her, using the force of her movement and his weight to flip her in a mirror image of how the masked man had countered him. She lands on the floor with a hard thud, fully knocking the wind out of her. Miranda lays there, stunned.

"You..." She gasps, furiously, attempting to rise up on her elbows. "Where did you...?"

A car pulls up outside, almost silent save for the crunching of gravel. He turns and bolts through the kitchen. Bursts through the back door and across the complex yard. He climbs fence after fence. He doesn't stop running.

Chapter Text

The man is not well-acquainted with hopelessness.

The energy project, nearly ten years of his life, had been built on the opposite.

It had net him plenty of hope. Hope that his children would grow up removed from the poverty that he and his mother had enjoyed most of their lives, even as many critics raised concerns over the years about the exclusionary results of his clean energy project -- its unavailability to poorer populations, the fallout of available jobs in light of more modern replacements, the rare yet very real possibility of unstable compounds. Miranda Tate had cited these when she and her men had first appeared in his office, armed to the teeth with an ultimatum he couldn't refuse.

Perhaps this was God's punishment for his short-sightedness, sent in the form of a devil's angel and an angel's devil.

He sits at his desk for hours coming up with his next excuse as to why he can't quite make the final push with transforming the reactor. The first two had been rather apt -- the pair had even looked pleased with his assessments that rushing would risk detonating the bomb prematurely -- but the third was when he had seen a glint of suspicion in Bane's eyes.

He knows Bane won't believe him this time. He also knows that a 400 megaton bomb in anybody's hands spells doom. He puts the most conviction he can in his voice when the masked man steps into the room. Repeats the excuses he had been reciting in his head until they almost sounded real enough to be true.

"I just need more time." He finishes, struggling to maintain the man's unwavering gaze.

Bane nods, slowly, and reaches into his pocket.

"I'm afraid we don't have time, Dr. Pavel." He says as he pulls out a long, thin wire. "And neither do you."

--

It's impossible to sleep. Every time he manages to shut his eyes he sees shadows standing by his bed, if not in his dream chasing after him with tireless footsteps, always just an inch away. After the third time jerking into wakefulness he gives up, throwing off the covers and slinking into the hallway with only the barest natural light peering through the windows to guide him.

Gotham has been his home for thirty-two years. He knows it like the back of his hand. It pulls him in with its signature suffocating shadows and active steam vents, shields him as he flees for his life in the only way that's available to him. It's only when he's passed the downtown district and zig-zagged his route enough to give a certified track hound an aching nose does he slip behind a corner shop and phone Gordon.

"Miranda Tate just tried to kill me."

"What?!"

"Just...stay low. Don't go into your house alone. Arm yourself. She said she had men on the way, I've been running...for blocks..." He's wheezing, leaning both on his knees and the brick wall beside him, struggling to keep the phone steady in his trembling hand. Customers leaving the store give him uncertain looks.

"Are you hurt?"

"Mainly my pride." He chuckles weakly. "Nothing new."

Gordon insists he return to his place, though Blake equally insists he avoid picking him up on the off-chance he'd been followed. The old man waves away his apologies when he arrives after a rather long walk and bus stint, peering over his shoulder before shutting the door behind them and punching in his security code.

"There's a lot going on, rookie. I'm just glad you made it out in one piece again." He gives him a rough smile. "Someone's been watching over you."

"Tell them I could use an actual break next time, then." Blake says, slumping his back against the door. "I don't know how this could get any worse."

"This is Gotham." Gordon responds, flicking on the kitchen light and putting a kettle on the stove. "Could be a hell of a lot worse."

He takes his time pulling himself together in Gordon's guest bathroom. He trims after a long shower, putting off shaving and doing his best to tousle his hair until he can get to a barber that knows what they're doing. It's shaggier than he's ever had it, almost covering his ears. At this rate he'd never meet a guy, though a part of him wonders if he's finally touching on the 'wild casual' look that's popular in some circles. Another thought, small and betraying, reminds him of how Bane's eyes roamed every time he pulled off his shirt to spar. How gentle he was when patching up his arm. He runs a final frustrated hand through his hair and shoves the razor back where he found it.

Maybe he'd been gullible all along. That the man had only been buttering him up with sweet nothings to better use him later. His gut instinct was reliable, but it wasn't magic. It had to peter out sometime. Naturally, it happened when he needed it most -- a murderer with apparent standards and a hero who vanishes when he's needed most while some everyday schmoe caught in the middle does his best to keep his head attached to his neck. It was like a play that got more and more unfunny with each swing of the curtain.

Gordon listens to Miranda's recording with a trouble gaze.

"This may be enough to arrest her." He whispers. "Maybe even convict her."

"I...I don't know." Blake responds, holding up a hand when Gordon looks at him sharply. "Hear me out. You know and I know we work with trigger-happy assholes. This is vital, but they could absolutely jump the gun here. Pardon the pun." He chooses his next words carefully, even though his brain is now fully melted after his brush with death and marathon through Gotham. "This runs extremely deep. Just going after her won't solve the problem. With Foley still in charge, we'll have ten more to contend with."

"What are you suggesting, John?"

"We need to take this to Waller."

Mornings are unbearably chilly, but he bundles up in a spare jacket and smokes on Gordon's porch regardless. There's something about almost being offed three times in less than a month that makes the sky seem more blue. Once the horizon starts to brighten he gives Foley a call -- while he couldn't outright stop them, the least he could do was try.

"Little early, don't you think?" There's almost no background noise, suggesting his daughter was still in bed.

"Better than ringing you up at the last second tomorrow." He says, trying to sound apologetic even though he feels anything but. "I'm going to visit city hall before you detonate it."

"Why's that?"

"There are a lot of rumors about the masked man visiting there. I could question some people undercover. See if I can't unearth anything useful before the place is blasted apart and walled off by security tape."

A snort. "Why not just wait until after we're done? It won't exactly be going anywhere, you know."

"It's going to be pretty different before and after, sir. It's worth a try."

"Huh. Well, we'll be at the city hall at eight sharp. Get it done before then." A pause. "Oh, and tell the commissioner to stop worrying already. He already has enough grey hairs."

Blake holds his sigh until after the man hangs up. Foley was difficult on the best of days and he has to run the conversation in his head a few times over before he accepts that he's actually been given a chance to warn the inhabitants inside. Bane definitely wasn't wrong there -- it was much easier to lie to the weak-minded.

All he had to worry about was potentially being found out if his superiors don't get the answers they want when the occupants 'mysteriously' leave. If a bunch of strangers took his advice in the first place, that was. What will he say to the city hall goers that's even remotely convincing? He mulls over this as he heads into the kitchen, eager for a cup of coffee to get his day started off proper. Dosing the grounds he jerks to attention when he hears Bane on the television, turning around to see him on the screen holding up a picture of Harvey Dent.

"...who has been held up to you as the shining example of justice..."

He can only just make out the prison in the background. The reporters filming him. For the most part the man's moved around in secret -- seeing him being filmed in public is jarring and immediately puts him on edge.

"...let me tell you the truth about Harvey Dent, from the words of Gotham's police commissioner..."

The masked man looks over the bundle of papers in his hand, as if right at him.

"...James Gordon."

The commissioner is sitting on the couch, hands folded beneath his chin and watching intently. He's dressed casually, without his trademark jacket, as if he was interrupted halfway through. Blake's stomach continues to sink as Bane reads the incriminating note, brows furrowed as if the writing on the page disgusts him to his core.

"The Batman didn't murder Harvey Dent, he saved my boy..."

He looks down at the man that had almost become like family to him.

"...but I can no longer live with my lie..."

Tries to figure out what to say.

"It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth and it is time for me to resign."

"All those men locked up for eight years in Blackgate...and denied parole on the Dent Act...based on a lie?" He asks, softly. The man jerks and turns around. The information could be completely false. Another red herring to send them chasing after shadows, but he knows the truth before Gordon even opens his mouth.

"Is it true...?"

--

He doesn't use his car. It's less conspicuous to blend into the crowd on foot.

The city hall looks much like it always does, save for the casual activity mulling around the stairs and lingering in the doorways. He can see the logic. Open doors meant anyone can come in, provided they pass a brief patdown and visual once-over. The downside may be the occasional dissenter finding their way in, but it's not much a group of armed, angry people can't feasibly handle. Its brief reputation already speaks for itself -- it's trust that's being promoted as much as vengeance. A little inspiring, if he was being honest with himself.

It's still dim out, the surrounding black buildings starting to flick on their lights in a pale imitation of the starry sky vanishing above. He lets a cigarette keep him company as he plans his method of entry. Miranda's recording sits uneasily on his phone and private repository now, a spark that could easily go any way once unleashed. It would be so easy to just take it to his superiors. Give them something tangible to chase, be heralded as a hero for a week or two before being shoved back into his box.

With so few people to trust his entire world feels like a tightrope. He can't find confidence in the impulsive jackasses at the top of the ladder. Not in his glory hungry colleagues. Not even Gordon, somehow. Yesterday had been incredibly frustrating -- the man was convinced he'd done the city a favor, however regretfully, but even now the betrayal that sat in his chest felt like a knife. He stares at the million possibilities before him, each one more uncertain than the last and still tinged with bitterness and leftover fear. He tosses his cigarette in the trash. First things first. He was going to deter anybody in the building from lingering before Foley enacts his raid. Then he was going to try and find Bane.

Nobody looks at him twice when he approaches (he's starting to see the wisdom in letting his stubble remain). The patdown by the self-appointed peacekeepers at the front is brief, almost careless -- his chest clutches when the man touches the gun in his holster. Lifting his jacket to check, they wave him in after a few seconds' muttered words.

"You let that go off and it'll be a dozen barrels to your head." The guy says with a chuckle. "Welcome to city hall, brother."

The dark wooden interior almost entirely swallows up the mingled light of matches and cellphones, the casual hubbub innately bizarre in the normally hushed prestigious building. He keeps his head low whenever a mercenary walks by, their scarves and armor easy to spot, even as he doesn't recognize any of their faces. He idly wonders where Food Guy could've gone to lately. Barsad. Salim. He soon loses track of the hundreds of people and it's all he can do to squeeze between them and make his way to the main room.

Some sort of court hearing is being held there, a man with a tattered suit sitting amidst towering stacks of papers and speaking imperiously to someone in the middle of the floor. Daggett's second-in-command is sitting stiffly in a chair, he sees, pleading with the judge to spare him.

"C-Call Bane." The man stutters, much to the sneers of the surrounding audience. "I am...I am one of you."

"Bane has no authority here." The impromptu judge replies. "This is merely a sentencing hearing."

He's offered two choices -- death or exile. The man chooses the latter, then marched out to the frozen lake just outside and told to walk as far as he can. Blake peers over the cluster of eager heads and sees the man is flanked by a few others shuffling precariously on thin planks of white ice.

"Hopefully his cool don't crack out there!" Someone yells from the crowd. A few hearty laughs ripple around him. It's the woman he saw on the tipped over car back when he escaped -- she's wearing the same odd pigtails, though is now more bundled up with what seems to be a long metal bat strapped to her back.

Bane's name crops up here and there as he makes his way around, pretending to be a wide-eyed new recruit and asking basic questions. Sometimes Batman. "Why does Bane wear that thing, anyway?" He asks a younger adult texting on their phone in the corner. "I mean, it's gotta be for more than just show."

"Honestly, I don't think anyone knows." They respond after a moment's deliberation, eyes not leaving the screen. "It looks way creepier up close, though..."

"Oh, I know!" One of their peers say, sitting nearby on the ground with a laptop open. "It's 'cause he's missing half his face."

"It's to conceal his identity, you numbnut." Another says, wearing a similar scarf to the mercenaries. "Kinda like the Joker did?"

They finally look up from their phone, irritated. "You know, why don't you go upstairs and ask him yourself, smart aleck?" This escalates the hubbub to indiscernible levels, though it almost makes Blake's heart skip a beat. He knew it. He's here.

That strange woman walks over then, flanked by two large dogs and popping gum. She gestures to their little impromptu circle. "Why y'all so curious, anyway?" She asks, a twinkle in her eyes. "Think he's cute under all that?"

A few chuckles. A scoff. Blake feels heat rise to his face and pretends to be preoccupied with something on his jacket. She lowers her head and peers up at him with a smile. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere...?"

"Uh, yeah. Might've seen you around." He gestures to his head. "Don't see many people wear pigtails nowadays."

She grins. "We all gotta stand out somehow, darling." She holds out a hand. "Call me Harleen. Everyone does."

He reaches out to shake it. "Uh, Rob. Nice to meet-"

A bizarre yelp has him leaping back and reaching for his pistol. They're not dogs -- they're hyenas, as large as shepards and now sticking their heads out from behind her with their jaws bared in what could be a yawn or a snarl.

"Relax, buddy." The guy with the scarf says. "They don't bite unless she says so."

Harleen clicks her tongue chidingly, pulling something out of her pocket and holding it out to them. They eat straight out of her hand, suddenly as docile as any domesticated pet. "Sorry, darling. They still get a bit edgy around strangers."

"No kidding." He breathes, wiping his forehead.

"So, why're you here, Rob?" She asks, looking him over. "Just checkin' out the show?"

As much as he wants to ask about how the hell she got her hands on two full-grown hyenas, he decides to save it. "Yes and no. I heard the cops have their sights set on this place today." That gets everybody's attention. "Thought I should spread the word."

Harleen cocks her head. "Where d'ya hear that?"

It's time to tell a white lie. "Did a little hacking. Got this." He pulls out his phone and clicks play, turning up the volume over the clutter of voices surrounding them.

"We'll be at the city hall at eight sharp."

"Who's that?" The woman with the laptop asks, leaning forward to better hear.

"From the sounds of it, Foley." He replies, playing it again. "Head of the department, last I checked."

"You sure that's him?"

"Is it worth being wrong?" He stuffs the phone back into his pocket. "I don't want to see anyone get hurt. Gotham's dangerous enough as it is without taking unnecessary risks."

Murmurs of curiosity. To his surprise a few others had leaned in, listening to their conversation with rapt attention. A few doubtful glances are exchanged in the silence, Harleen idly stroking her hyenas' heads all the while. He feels a trickle of relief when one finally says, "Well, they did raid the municipal court last week..."

"What're we supposed to do, then, huh?" One interrupts. "Just keep running 'cause some guy tells us to? I don't think so."

"It's better to run and live to fight another day." He says, as mildly as he can. The last thing he wants is to start a fight. "Crackdowns are only going to get more common from here. Just spread the word, all right? It doesn't hurt to be careful."

Harleen smiles. "Well, ain't that nice of ya." She pats him on the shoulder. "We'll keep that in mind, doll."

It's better than nothing. He glances at his watch. It's almost 7:30. He bids the group farewell, hyenas included -- Harleen tells him he can pet them, but he politely refuses and cites his current need for both hands.

One story. Two. Three. It's bigger than it looks from the outside. He doesn't have a lot of time to linger for details as he climbs each staircase and occasionally ducks behind a corner when he sees what seem to be guards patrolling and checking for suspicious activity. It's rare, however, with the upper levels receiving far less foot traffic than below. It's only when Barsad walks by, reading something in a notebook, does he pay rapt attention. Bane must be nearby.

Once the man is out of sight he backtracks from where he seemed to have been walking, peeking into rooms and skipping the ones with locked doors. It's at the furthest end of the hall does he see a room slightly ajar, though the light isn't on. It's hard to place why he feels the man would be there, of all places, but the creeping feeling up his spine is impossible to ignore.

The door doesn't creak whatsoever when he opens it and steps in, likely due to the meticulously clean nature of the building even after its takeover. The room is entirely washed out without artificial light, almost as dim as the dusk outside. The faint glow from the windows provide just enough of a clue to tell him it was a repository of some sort, shelves of books reaching the ceiling and filling the air with a musty scent.

Bane sits on the far end of the room, bundled in his worn sheepskin coat and weaving a long, red thread. He's wearing an armored vest, layered with what seems like plates, mesh and fabrics in some homespun touch on military might. Menacing, yet practical. Blake shuts the door and locks it carefully.

"Still didn't teach me how to do a cross-cable." He says when the man looks up.

Bane's eyes crinkle into a smile.

"Speak of the devil." He purrs.

Blake takes a step forward, even as his heart lurches in something resembling exhilaration.

"Missed you too."

"To what do I owe this visit?" He asks softly, the air in the room almost unnaturally still.

"You've been fucking with my life a lot lately, Bane." He replies with a shrug, pulling out his pistol and pointing it at him. "I'm just here to return the favor."

Like usual he had to give the man credit. He doesn't so much as blink, staring at him as if he had asked about the weather.

"It is a credit to your character you are still standing." He murmurs, gaze still on him, fingers still weaving the thread into some pattern he can't quite parse out. "Not many pull a gun on me and elude consequence."

"Come on. You know from personal experience I pack a punch."

"I also know from personal experience our matches were a little..." Those dark eyes wander a little before settling again. "...wanting."

Blake swallows the dry patch in his throat and puts his other hand below the handle to steady his aim. 'Easy, Blake.'

"Your escape was well-timed." Bane continues amicably. "I was most bereft to find you had slipped between my fingers without so much as a farewell."

He doesn't know about his and Salim's collaboration. He's careful to hide his relief. Bane studies him for one long moment, then pockets the thread with a soft hum. The canny bastard.

"Ah."

"Don't hurt him. It was my idea."

"I had my suspicions, but you did not seem the type..." A short laugh, almost a wheeze. Shit, he actually sounds impressed. It almost puts a smile on his face despite it all. The masked man holds a very precarious and dangerous spot in his life. He's going to stop running and figure out exactly what it holds.

"So this newfound freedom has your path crossing with mine once more." He says, affable tone suggesting a conversational gesture. Knowing Bane, it could very easily be the opposite.

"What can I say, you almost had me going there with all your talk about justice and accountability." Blake says, slowly crossing the room, stopping when he's close enough to count each silver wire on his mask. "I've finally seen what you've been up to all this time. Saw what you did to the psychiatric ward nearby. Daggett's lapdog, just now. Hell, you even outed Gordon in front of everybody. Made me think you were onto something."

"Have you figured me out now, detective?"

"It's what I do."

"And what have you learned?"

"That you're a real piece of work."

Another chuckle, not quite muted by the mask. He's never heard him laugh this much before, even if the sound itself could be confused for a cough.

"Gotham's never lacked for people wanting to make a social impact, for better and for worse. So, for old time's sake..." He finishes. "...why are you doing all this?"

Even with a gun to his face he doesn't play along. "You said yourself my handiwork is clear." His gaze becomes searching now. "Where does this doubt come from, John Blake?"

"It comes from something interesting your friend told me." Blake's voice darkens. "Something about blowing up the entire city?"

The good humor in Bane's eyes flickers.

"Who is this friend you speak of?"

"She's a friend of yours, too."

The humor vanishes. He rises to his feet. Blake cocks the trigger -- Bane pauses, but only just.

"Explain." He growls. "Or I won't hesitate to end this now." Maybe it's a sense of duty to see things through to the end that he even bothered coming to find him instead of leaving him at the mercy of a pack of dynamite. Maybe it's his own damned curiosity that keeps him from pulling the trigger and tying up a loose end. All he knows for sure is he doesn't like the look in the man's eyes -- something too close to grief.

"...Who?" Bane repeats, hardly a whisper.

"Miranda." His finger trembles on the trigger. Something wasn't right. "...and she sounded pretty confident with her knife to my throat."

"No."

"'Gotham is a scourge on this Earth'.

"That is not the plan."

"'We've fed your city hope on white wings-"

"Cease your lies-"

"I know what I heard!"

His voice cuts through the silence of the room. Bane is only a few feet away, staring him down -- the gun is the closest Blake has to a physical compromise with a man that could make short work of humans and beasts alike, and even then he's not so sure. Fear and confidence attempt to reason themselves rapid-fire in his mind.

He knows doubt. He knows denial better. Bane is dishonest out of pragmatism. He learned this early on. When he lies, it's rarely and with purpose -- more out of omittance or toying than a straight-up falsehood. Bit by bit, everything falls into place. Not only is he telling the truth, he's horrified.

'He's always wanted to see a better world rise. I suppose he'll learn soon enough.'

A blast turns both their heads. He hunches instinctively to the ground.

"What the hell." He whispers. He looks at his watch -- it's only 7:45.

The floor trembles. Muffled cries erupt below, erratic and growing more shrill by the second. They're too high up to see anything, but even then flashes blink just beyond the windows. "No..." He breathes, breaking his gaze from the masked man to look about him. "Goddamn it...!"

A thud he feels in his chest. Another that sends him to the floor. Windows shattering just beyond the door. Somehow, he knows the building is starting to come down. Bane grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him to his feet.

"Is this your doing?" He rasps into his face.

"No..." Blake gasps, trying to pull away. "No, I tried to warn them...!"

Someone is pounding on the door. Barsad's voice attempts to cut through the chaos.

"They have us surrounded. Three explosions have been-"

Bane lowers him, slowly, the serene fury in his eyes somehow more deadly than the explosions going off outside. Blake holsters his pistol with fumbling hands, runs over to the door and yanks it open. The mercenary stops yelling mid-sentence, freezing at the sight of him. Bane's booming voice snaps them both back to reality.

"We can't stay."

There's no time to ask questions. In a flash the three of them are running down the long hall, though Blake can hardly see anything for the dust and sheet rock falling like clumps of snow. He leaps down the first stairway in a bound, hitting the ground rolling and tearing across the following floor as fast as his legs can carry him...only to skid to a halt at the gaping hole where the second stairway used to be. He could make it with a running start, but only just.

"Get them to safety." Bane yells to Barsad, who bolts past them both and clears the gap in a single bound. He disappears into the smoke billowing up from below. A second later another beam falls right through the ruined staircase, sending sparks and splinters scattering over him. The hole is even bigger now -- there's no way down or across without risking a pair of broken legs. He turns to warn Bane, only to hear an ominous creak above.

He curls into a ball and covers his head to stave off the worst of the damage, but the debris never comes. Blake looks up to see Bane hunched over him, sheets of white scattering from his back onto the floor.

"Sh-Shit." He tries to say, coughing as the kicked-up dust tries to make a home in his lungs. "Shit, are you okay...?"

Bane shakes off the rubble like water, grabbing him and pulling him up with him. Fire is making its way up the aged wood with a vengeance. He can't see more than a foot in front of him, nothing but the massive glass windows lining the walls like searchlights through the hot fog.

"You fuckers. That's not a few packs." He whispers, walking backwards into the hallway. "Why..."

Bane grabs him again, shakes him. "You may mourn the immorality of your department later." He hisses. "We go through the window."

Blake's eyes widen. "That's a huge drop!"

Bane lets go, turns and makes his way down the hall. "For you."

'A leap of faith', he thinks hysterically as Bane grabs a wooden bench and lifts it like it weighs nothing. 'This one may just kill me.'

With a heave he slams it into the thick pane. Once, twice, it shatters, raining glass into the air. The next second he jumps through the open space. Blake leaps after him before his brain even has sense to pause. Wind whistles in his ears as he falls like a stone toward the freezing water and ice below.

Chapter Text

Ice so thin it shatters like glass, water so frigid it burns. He screams upon impact, regretting it immediately as the cold claws its way down his throat and turns his brain to stone. He stares at the silent, dark world he's found himself in, as vivid as a nightmare except for the fact he's horribly awake. He barely registers the chunks of rubble trailing through the water, nor the body of Daggett's second-in-command bobbing like a fish in the sea.

Somehow his head breaks water, hair instantly freezing to his face. One second he's scrabbling for purchase on slabs of ice. The next he's in a van, massive and strangely empty. He shivers so violently his very bones seem to rattle, swaying and bumping against a leather seat as it rounds wall after white wall. A hot hand on his cheek. Flames flickering in the grill of Bane's mask like a furnace.

'You're...you're on fire...' He's panicking now. He wants to sit up but his body won't obey. He's no longer cold. Why won't he wake up?

'Breathe.' The hand leaves, then returns. 'You're going into shock.'

"I can't, I..."

"Breathe, Blake. My god, what the hell have you been up to..."

Reilly's here...? How? He shouldn't be at his apartment. Miranda could be back with her men at any minute. He's in danger. Hell, they're both in danger. The man's not a fighter -- she'd gut him. Him and everyone else at the orphanage. Something damp pats his brow and the relief washes over him like a wave.

It's only temporary. There's an unbearable, tight pain right behind his eyes. He's too hot to pass out, too weak to move. Everything hurts. He tosses and turns in-between lucid dreams and bouts of retching, even though there never seems to be anything in his stomach. Time loses all meaning and every moment he opens his eyes it seems to be a different part of the day, sometimes a different place entirely. He wishes he were back in that freezing water. Anything would be better than this terrible heat...

He wakes up again to find three boys by the bed, talking to each other and occasionally looking his way. Even with his vision blurred he can pinpoint Tiya's high-pitched candor, Amir's soft murmur. He opens his mouth to speak, but he's not even sure what comes out. He thinks they show him things. Something colorful. He doesn't remember what they tell him, nor why Reilly comes in and urges them to leave. Why? He hasn't seen them in a while...

Dreams of floating. Drifting on a white blanket across an endless gray ocean. There's nobody around for once, not even following him from a distance, and it's as disturbing as it is welcome. The gentle rocking from where he lays is jolted and he opens his eyes to familiar cream walls -- Reilly has settled onto the bed. The light by the window is bright now. He must've fallen asleep again.

"Thank heavens you're awake. I was starting to wonder if I'd have to tube feed you."

He lets some of the boys visit him again, though he's still urged not to move too much. There's a pile of gifts by his bed. A handful of candy bars, a get-well card, a hat. One is a pencil drawing of him with bat wings, signed by Amir. He hugs him as best he can and tells him it's going up on his wall first chance he gets. They're pulled out by Reilly again after what seems like no time at all. He fights the sleepiness as best he can, if only to figure out the massive gap leftover in his mind.

"How...did you get here?"

Reilly squeezes excess water from a rag before pressing it to his forehead. "You showed up on our doorstep in the middle of the night a few days ago, freezing and speaking in tongues. Explosions or Gotham being set on fire or...no, don't try to sit up."

"You guys shouldn't...be at my place..." He murmurs, everything growing pleasantly dim. "It's just..." The rag pats his forehead again. "...not safe..."

He vaguely remembers Reilly staring at him sadly before everything goes dark.

Sleep gives him just enough strength to move, though the only traveling he does the next day and a half is back and forth from the bed and bathroom, alternating between dry heaving and sipping lukewarm water. Once he doesn't have the strength to make a return trip, all but carried by Reilly back into his room. His fever breaks the same night, leaving him weak but finally coherent. With the returned awareness comes the backwater of the past few days and all the free time in the world to mull it over.

Screams. Explosions. Wailing sirens. Glass dancing on wooden floors. Smoke in his lungs. Bane staring down at him through shadow and plumes of white.

He'd been set up. That much was for sure. Somehow, that was the least of his problems. He should've been killed by now. Sheer dumb luck seemed to be the only thing nipping at his heels, though his pride railed at the thought. What was left of it, anyway, and he was starting to wonder how durable it had been in the first place. Did everyone think he was dead again? Did anyone there even care? What about the bomb? What about...

If he were more reasonable he'd take it all as a sign to lay low and bask in his good fortune. Instead he couldn't shake off the feeling he was on the cusp of something horrible and incredible all at once. That he had to stick out the chaos of his life just a little bit longer. It wasn't a hopeful predilection. He didn't know who to turn to. He was sick of being sick. Sick of being injured. Running. Hiding. Plotting. He wants to rest. He's fed up with being bedridden.

He had long since forgotten how to pray the uncertainty away. His mother would've chided his faith, ever so gently, and encouraged him to send a few honest words above. He stares at the beige ceiling, pulls at his hair, and struggles with himself.

Father Reilly returns with a small pot of broth. The scent makes his empty stomach ache.

"We had a break-in earlier this week. I try to keep the news off." Reilly says, visibly relieved when he drinks the broth and keeps it down with little effort. "Especially for the youngest. Don't, uh...want them worrying too much. They got enough on their plate as is." He shifts in his seat. "They hear anything from kids at school and I just twist the truth a little. 'Bane's a garden-variety robber'. 'Slow news week'. 'Focus on your studies'. You know."

"Yeah..." He sighs, the soup relaxing his sore muscles. "That's...that's good. They'll find out sooner or later. Might as well let them live in the fantasy a little longer." His subconscious gnaws at him. 'What good did that do you? What good did that do anybody?'

He chews on his lip and immediately regrets the coppery taste. "Maybe I should tell them." He says, sitting up. "Go easy, though. Not too...detailed."

"Woah, take it easy." Reilly pushes him down. "You've been through a lot."

"Just let me talk to them." He says, even as his strength already threatens to leave him.

The man frowns. "How are you supposed to get better if you keep moving?"

Somehow he feels even more helpless than when he woke up bound in a cell. Blake tries not to sound pleading, even though it's the only emotion that makes any sense. "Let me see them before something else gets in the way. Please."

Reilly watches him from the edge of the bed, concern thinning his mouth. With a sigh he turns back to the pot. It's another few moments before he speaks.

"I get it, Blake. You've had a lot on your plate, too. But there's something about getting old that makes you hone in on what's important." He refills his bowl and holds it out to him. "You've, uh...been at this for a while."

Blake takes it, leaning against the wall and watching the man attempt to sort out his thoughts. "You're trying to do some good. But maybe you're overlooking the good you've already done." The old man runs a hand through his fine white hair.

"It's been rough without you. Gotham's going through another damned crisis and it's all I can do to keep them out of trouble, much less encourage them to get grades decent enough to get into one of the cheapest colleges. These boys need a role model. Television and computers aren't a good substitute."

He opens his mouth to say more, then shakes his head.

"They just...don't get a lot, Blake. And I'm not much."

He knows what he means. It's an aspect of his life he's had to reconcile with every time he woke up and went to work. That, despite all his good intentions, he had become little more than a spectre in the only family he's had for years.

"Don't say that, Reilly. You're plenty." Blake responds softly, running a thumb along the rim of the bowl. He forgoes the spoon and drinks the rest straight from the bowl.

"Thank you for taking care of them, Father." He says as he lays down. "...and for taking care of me."

--

A movie plays on the television when he walks out into the living room the following afternoon. He recognizes the characteristic screeching of tires and manic laughter.

"You guys watching Arkham Asylum: The Beginning again?" They whirl around from where they're sitting on the couches, floor or spare chairs. "Still can't get over the guy they picked to play Batman."

"BLAKE!"

He staggers and laughs as they flood him with hugs. Either they knew he was sick from environmental reasons or they didn't give one shit about potentially catching the flu. Either way he's happier than he ever remembers being, ruffling their hair and squeezing them each in turn.

"Are you sure you're feeling better?" Amir asks, brows knitted with worry. "You were really sick..."

"Yeah. Nothing Reilly's soup can't cure."

"I helped a little." He hears Joel say from the cluster of bodies. "I opened the window so the air wasn't stuffy."

He picks him up and hugs him tightly -- he's still the smallest kid in the room, but his curly hair is starting to grow out.

"Have you grown?" He asks, holding him on his hip. "You're almost up to my knee now."

Joel wrinkles his nose. "It's 'cause I'm wearing shoes!"

Blake whispers conspiratorially into his ear. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm real short without my shoes on."

Joel whispers back, though his voice is anything but indoor level. "We can buy you bigger ones."

Reilly offers to make them lunch, so he hangs out in the living room with the boys and watches movies -- only Finn is absent, Jay informing him he's out working on his car again. They ask him what he's been up to, sitting closer than they normally would and suggesting they want to know about more than just his daily rounds.

It's a little easier to relay his cluster of near-death experiences with the exaggerated danger fantasy playing just a few feet away. He starts with waking up in the sewers somewhere beneath Gotham, keeping the plot elements of the past few weeks as organized as he can with his brain still feeling like mush. He doesn't butter up the more gruesome elements, trusting his boys to keep relevant information to themselves.

"Did you see Bane?" Amir asks, eyes round with horror. Blake chuckles.

"To say the least."

"What's he like?" Tiya pipes up from across the room.

How succinct can he be without lying?

"...Scary?"

Their voices suddenly raise in a chorus, pelting him with question after question -- how he survived an encounter with the man, why he wears his mask, whether or not he could best the Joker in a one-on-one match. He idly wonders how Bane would respond to that last one.

Joel crawls into his lap while they're talking, new cookbook under his arm. Blake settles into the couch and starts to read it with him ("Aww!" they all moan in unison), helping him with technical words he doesn't understand yet.

"See...Seh...See..." He stammers, poking at a word on the page as if to prod the meaning out of it.

"Sieve. It's a tool for separating some parts from others."

Joel looks troubled. Blake looks up to the ceiling in thought. "You know the spaghetti strainer we have?"

The boy's eyes light up with understanding. He looks down at the page again, sounding the word out carefully. Blake's chest is warm with pride -- the kid was a dogged learner. "You can use a sieve when making different batters. Gets all those little chunks out and makes the final product nice and fluffy."

He turns page after page, skipping the ones that don't interest him, only to suddenly stop and stare at a rather brilliant photo of blueberry muffins surrounded by stylishly placed kitchen utensils and potted flowers. Blake puts his chin on his shoulder. "You like those?"

"Yeah...I wanna put lots of berries in mine so it all looks blue." He touches the picture, quiet for a moment. "...Can you help me make some?"

Blake tries not to look startled. This is the first he's asked to participate with cooking since he arrived. "Of course. We'll have a baking day this week." He puts on an affected sigh. "I mean, I don't know if I'd put in enough blueberries on my own..."

Joel giggles and pats his arm. "I'll be real good at that. You can do the sieve."

His face falls when his phone buzzes. Blake gives him a squeeze before getting up. "I'll make this quick." He checks the number -- Gordon.

'Real quick.' He thinks bitterly, leaning in the doorway to the living room with his back to the background noise. A few of the boys sit next to Joel and pick up where he left off.

"John, tell me you're in one piece."

"Last I checked."

"What the hell were you thinking visiting city hall?"

"I was thinking I could do some good for once, that's what."

"Look..." He can almost hear the man scratching his mustache agitatedly. "I did what I had to, Blake."

"Yeah, that's what you said. Not sure what good it did the hundreds of people in Blackgate, but from the looks of it they won't have to worry about it anymore."

Silence on the other end. For a second he thinks he's hung up.

"Where are you now?"

"Swithin's."

"I see. Well...lay low for a bit, all right? It's all damage control at this point."

"That's the plan. Have you met with Waller?"

"I was going to wait for you. I'll be straight with you, rookie, we need all the help we can get right now."

His stomach sinks -- even when he was pissed at the guy he still took him into consideration. "Well, I guess I'll be straight with you, too. I can't do this anymore."

He looks over his shoulder at the boys. Amir is curled up on the far end of the couch, only occasionally looking up from his sketchbook. Tiya is too close to the television, chattering over the dialogue much to the groans of the other boys. Joel is now covering his face with his hands, hiding from the fight scenes starting to erupt on the screen.

"I'm...not doing any good there. All I got to show so far is a voice clip in legal limbo and the clothes on my back. Shit, not even that. They all think I'm just some hothead who wants to break rules for the hell of it, anyway. I know I haven't been around for that long, but I just can't take this anymore. I want to fight injustice...not contribute to it."

He can just make out Gordon's soft sigh over the television.

"I figured as much." Another pause. "You know me. I won't start telling you what to do with your life now. Understand that Gotham is going to need people who give two shits about where this city is going, no matter what it says above their name tag. Whatever you do, go all the way."

He shuts his eyes tight, trying to sort out the cluster of relief and misery in his chest.

"I'll be in touch."

"...Be careful, John."

Although his illness was finally dying down, its aftereffects make themselves clear when he starts feeling hot and tired in the middle of the next film. He asks the boys to give him five and goes outside for a smoke, as much for the cold air on his skin as a light buzz. It's not snowing, but the lack of padding makes everything extra chilly. He's already considering heading back inside when he remembers.

He walks through the back alley beside the St. Swithin's main house to the small lot Reilly owns, leaning against the building to watch him work. He's bundled from head to toe in winter wear, gray cap pushing down his shaggy hair over his eyes.

"Hey."

Finn pauses in the middle of wiping the windshield. "Blake! I didn't know you were awake yet." He grins. "You look like shit."

Blake coughs out a laugh. "Thanks. I'd say the same thing, but I don't pick on people below five foot two." He snatches the rag out of the air when Finn flings it.

"Five three, thank you very much. And give me that back, I'm not done yet."

He tosses it over the car hood. "So, update me. How's your new job going? I know it doesn't seem like much, but they'll put a good word in for you."

The boy shrugs and continues rubbing at the glass doggedly -- even in the dim light it's shining. Blake takes a long drag and observes the additional touches on the car. New wheels, by the looks of it. A glance in the interior and he sees a pair of fuzzy dice.

"You, uh, pay off the rest of your bail?"

"...Yeah."

Blake raises his eyebrows. "That's convincing."

"I said what I said." He fiddles with the rag in his hands, suddenly surly as he gets when he feels he's being ordered around. Blake knows better than to try to soothe his feelings -- he gives the kid some space and takes another drag.

"I just..." He starts, uncertainly. "...I just have another thousand to go. A thousand and fifty, to be exact. It's like I want to hurry up before it vanishes, you know? Buy it before something else gets in the way and has to make me put it off again." He says in a rush. "I know that doesn't make sense, but..."

"No, I get it." Blake gestures to the gleaming Corolla. "You're just not going to be able to drive it 'til your record gets cleaned up, that's all."

It's been a while since he's been put in the role of big brother, he realizes. He may have helped pay off some of his bail from his little shoplifting escapade, but it's clear a foundation didn't actually stick. He watches Finn fight down the shame behind a mask of stubborn defiance, twisting the cleaning rag in his hands. He really had been away too often and for too long.

"...You know I used to be a bike courier?"

"No." Finn walks over and leans against the wall beside him, hands stuffed in his pockets. "I bet you hated it."

"Yeah. Constantly risking my neck to bring mail or take-out just didn't seem worth it. Did it for almost a year to pay off student loans and because I still couldn't afford a car. Got caught for running a red light to deliver a late package and taken in. I ended up asking them for a new job while they were debating whether or not to fine me or stick me behind bars." He chuckles -- the memory almost seems absurd now. "They laughed in my face, gave me a ticket then handed me an application for basic training."

"So...is the moral of the story I gotta stick with what I don't like 'til it works out?"

"More like go for what you want and do it smarter than I did." He flicks his cigarette and looks around for somewhere to throw it away. "I don't ever want you to quit on what you want."

"So when are you quitting smoking?" Finn snickers, plucking it out of his hand and walking over to a small can in the corner of the alley.

Blake snorts. "When I stop being stressed. So, never." Finn turns back to him, then freezes in place. He opens his mouth to ask him what's wrong.

"Listen to the kid. You'll get lung cancer before you know it."

Blake stiffens and turns at the strange voice. Two men are standing in the entryway to the alley. He jerks his head for the boy to move closer to him. Finn glances at the car then complies, slowly walking over to where he stands. The original speaker's expression is hard to discern in the shadow, but he picks out the feigned hurt in his voice.

"C'mon, don't be like that." They move out of the shadow, bundled in heavy jackets with their faces partially obscured by thick scarves and drawn hoods. For a second he thinks they're mercenaries, but the colors (and their stance) are all wrong -- everyday joes. "We just want to chat."

"Yeah? About what, my smoker's cough?" Blake responds dryly. Finn barely conceals a laugh, hastily looking at the ground when the humor doesn't translate. The two men split, moving to stand on either side of them.

"You're a little cold, buddy." He pats something in his pocket, a thinly-veiled threat. "Think finances."

Blake studies them. "You the guys that's been giving the orphanage a visit now and again?"

"Not a clue what you're talking about." The man gestures to his person. "Empty your pockets."

Not a dull damn moment. Righteous anger burns in the pit of his stomach, less for his sake and more for the sixteen year-old attempting and failing to glare the two thugs down. He starts to reach into his pocket, only for the other man to snap, "Stop!" He slaps his partner's shoulder. "He could have a weapon, dumbass."

'Their brains had to kick in sometime.' Blake thinks sourly. He changes his expression to something a little more nervous.

"Look, I don't want any trouble." He says. "My wallet's in my pocket, just...don't hurt the kid."

The first speaker pulls out a knife.

"Won't have to if you comply."

He starts patting him down, the knifepoint held his way to discourage any action. Blake glances around him. He'll have to apologize to Finn later.

"Where the hell is your wal-"

Blake stomps on the man's foot -- his yelp of pain is cut short when he grabs him by his hair and slams his head into the side of the wall.

He's not a seasoned fighter -- he can see his tell coming a mile away. One sloppy swipe and Blake snatches him by the wrist, twisting his arm to send it from his hands and striking his face into the cold brick again. He sees Finn reach down and snatch it out of the corner of his eye, backing away to stand by the car.

"Get inside, Finn!" He yells.

"But...!"

"Get insi-"

He's cut off when the other man wraps his arms around his neck and yanks him away from his partner's barely conscious body. He squeezes hard, attempting to choke the life out of him. Blake twists his neck to the side, freeing his windpipe and gulping in as much air as he can before ramming his head back into the man's face. A nasty crunch and the spray of hot blood on his hair confirms good aim on his part. He lets go and he stumbles forward, trying to get as much space as possible between them.

He has no idea where the guy got a crowbar, only that one swing from that thing could crack his skull open like an egg. The cramped arena of the lot doesn't give him much wiggle room -- there's no choice but to face it head on.

Blake drops to his knees as the man runs forward and swings in an arc. Both he and Finn barely dive out of the way as he swings again and hits the car's side window, shattering the glass. The man whirls around, eyes round with rage, and goes straight for him. Blake ducks the menacing whip of the bar just inches above his head, launching himself into the open space to tackle the man to the ground.

They wrestle viciously with the bar, desperately trying to tug it from each other's grasp. Blake risks losing his grip by grabbing a handful of gravel and snow and flinging it in the man's eyes. It has the intended effect -- he immediately claws at his face, leaving him wide open for attack. It's tempting to send the iron straight through his head and reduce him to little more than a bad Sunday memory. Instead he shoves the crowbar against his throat, kneeling against the man's chest with the full force of his weight.

"Maybe you and your friend there should call it quits." He pants, the blood in his hair dripping down to mingle with the mess coating the man's face.

"Fuck you, pretty boy." The tang of the man's sweat and the nervous flick of his eyes to the crowbar against his throat doesn't give much bite to his words.

"I've been called many things, but certainly not that." Blake eases the crowbar down, enough to make the guy gurgle and twist anxiously. "Maybe you should tell your friends about me, then."

"Come on, you're not gonna kill me over this." He wheezes. "We weren't gonna hurt you or the kid. We're just broke. That's all-"

He gags as Blake presses down.

"I'd have been a bit more sympathetic if you didn't threaten my kid." He snarls in the man's face.

It's hard not to think of what Bane would do. What Batman would do. The former would've likely snapped the man's neck already, though not after talking him to near madness first. The latter would beat him to within an inch of his life and send the guy off with a warning. Maybe make an example out of him and his peer. With his head throbbing like a drum and Finn still shifting nervously from beside the car, it's hard not to see the wisdom in both.

"...Get the fuck out of here." He says as he pulls the crowbar away. "You come near St. Swithin's again and I'll break your goddamn neck."

The guy almost looks confused, even when he stands up and takes a few steps back. Another second and he scrambles to where his partner is starting to wake up from where he had been half-propped against the wall, shaking him by his shoulders. Blake watches him as he pulls the man's arm over his own and stumbles out of the lot, not turning away until they're well out of sight.

"Hey! What's going on?!"

He turns to see Reilly running through the alley, flanked by two of the older boys. Blake reaches up to wave, then hastily wipes his hands off on his jeans. Looks like another trip to the washer and dryer was in order.

"Just a little tussle." He says, wearily. "We're fine." They're looking around them, expressions relaying they feel it's anything but. Blake drops the crowbar and walks over to Finn, standing and staring morosely at the car's shattered window.

"Hey." He turns him around, looking him over for any damage. "You all right...?"

"I didn't help at all." Finn whispers, visibly shaking. "I didn't do shit."

"That's not true." He points to the knife still in his hand. "You made it harder for them to stab me." He frowns. "Even though I did tell you to run."

The boy avoids his gaze. Blake sighs.

"Look...I want to fight so you don't have to." He wants to give him a hug, but the kid's uncomfortable stance signals he needs space. "I'm just glad it didn't get worse." He catches his gaze before pulling away. "That you're okay."

Reilly and the boys are picking up the worst of the broken glass, calmed down now that it's clear they're no longer in any danger. Other than the car's ruined window it looks no worse for the wear -- he'll have to have another talk with Finn about budgeting, though for now all he wants is to get warm.

"I mean, there's at least one good thing that came out of all this." Blake says as he and Finn head back inside.

"What's that?"

"I am definitely quitting smoking."

Chapter Text

It's been almost five days since the city hall went up in flames.

Coverage on the event is frustratingly limited. The media circus is aflame with news of the city hall bombing -- the police department remains characteristically vague from interview to interview, while station after station spins tales of sabotage, terrorism and anything catchy that could secure higher ratings. He seethes with each click of the dial and every glimpse of Foley's false concern. Swallows the anger and changes the channel when one of the boys walks into the room and tells him breakfast is ready.

It's almost impossible to avoid Bane's masked visage flashing from screen to screen, each blurred snapshot as menacing and surreal as a cryptid.

He borrows one of the boys' scissors and chops at his hair in the bathroom after breakfast, uneven ends be damned. He clips at the hair starting to cover his ears and works at the bangs that have been straggling in his eyes, ruffling his thick locks until they start to tumble over one another respectfully -- the patches are starting to grow back, he's glad to see, though it's one of the few elements that barely keeps his reflection from being a stranger. He studies the dark eyes gazing back at him. The freshly healed lip, the stubble along his chin.

He had walked into the living room earlier that morning to everyone clustering around something on the couch. Turns out the boys had chipped in weeks ago and bought him a new coat as an early birthday present, later stashing it when they thought he was missing, dead or both. It was a rather nice dark blue bomber jacket, the only sign of previous wear the somewhat frayed bottom. Blake had put on a show of preening and primping, earning a few good-natured groans in response. It was better than showing off how he really felt, he thinks as he pushes clumps of dark hair into the side trash -- a mottled and bruised shadow of who he used to be.

When he thinks about it, he's gone through more jackets than he has cigarette packs. His standard issue coat didn't last long in the sewer waters and he left the one Barsad gave him on the stunned workers. He's lacing on snow boots and thinking about how he'll do his best to hold onto their gift when he notices the strange lapse in activity outside the door. He walks out to the boys gathering quietly in the main room again with Reilly. "C'mon, don't tell me you got me a matching pair of-"

Blake halts when he sees the massive form standing on the front door steps.

"John Blake." Bane says, hands resting on his collar. "You look well."

The only thing that could be heard was the faint shuffle of shoes and a car alarm somewhere nearby. The man's biker helmet was still on. He had no weapons and no accomplices. Nothing but the sudden chill from the once open door. Blake slowly closes his mouth, not realizing it had been hanging open, and looks at Reilly. The man's brows were furrowed, looking to him for an explanation. Movement at the corner of his eye sees Finn reaching into his pocket. Blake puts a hand over his, shaking his head.

'It's fine.' He mouths.

"...How did you find me?"

"Twenty-six...one absent." The man says with an apparent glance at his small audience. "You told me."

Of course the guy would've put two and two together. He stands a little straighter -- he couldn't show unease in front of the kids. "...Let me rephrase that. Why did you find me?"

A tinny voice pipes up behind him. "Finn...? Blake?" The pitter-patter of little feet. Joel walks up to them, tiny dark head just reaching the shortest boy's shoulder. The detective winces. Naturally a bout of mild silence would wake the kid up. The place was normally noisier than a barrel of hyenas.

"Wow..." Joel breathes, pushing past his peers to run up to the masked man. One of the kids reaches out to grab him, shrinking back uncertainly when they near the giant stranger. Amir looks up and mouths at Blake. "Can you get him...?"

Bane seems to notice none of this. He's looking down at the boy, expression masked by the tinted visor, hands still folded over his collar. Joel was a little too young to pick up on the nuance of the room. Probably thought Bane was a weird mailman or a particularly large friend.

"You're enormous!"

He raises his hands to be picked up. Everyone seems to hold their breath. A few look at Blake, then Bane, then Blake again.

Joel's voice grows thin. "Please..." He didn't understand the hesitation. He stomps in place a little, trying to secure what he must be seeing as a lack of attention. Bane's breath was even, mechanical. Staring at the kid that barely came up to his knee.

"Mmm..." There it is, the telltale sniffle. His heart sinks -- the kid was sensitive to feeling unwanted. Just as he steps forward to assure him it's nothing personal, Bane reaches down and scoops the kid into his arms. Joel goes from near tears to squealing in delight, kicking his feet and clutching the man's head as he's placed on one shoulder. The boys and Reilly all slowly turn to Blake. The car alarm stops.

"We need to talk."

The walls were paper-thin, so he took it as a minor blessing his spare room was on the uppermost floor. Joel had only just managed to be distracted by the other boys, though it was a temporary truce at best -- he'd already taken a huge shine to the masked man, now thoroughly convinced he was a new member of the family.

"Now Father Reilly's the shortest!" He hears him laugh as he makes his way up the stairs.

Bane stands by the door as Blake digs around for another chair, as still as a statue in the ramshackle little space. Finding him a place to sit was less a formality and more a way to buy himself a few seconds to think of just how to address the man that had held him hostage a few weeks ago and saved his life a few days ago. He was no doubt keen on what he said about Miranda. Perhaps wondering what else he heard or saw. They hadn't exactly had a lot of time to finesse details with a building collapsing on their heads.

Maybe he was interested in taking him back. Using the boys as proxy if he doesn't cooperate. It seems unlikely. Blake pulls out a metal folding chair wedged in the corner and yanks it open, gesturing Bane over with a flick of his head. The man is careful not to step on the scattered clothes or toys on the ground -- with such a cramped space, even his spare room was used as an occasional repository for knickknacks. With a grunt he sits down, leaning on his elbows and giving him a once-over.

Blake sits across from him on the bed, squaring himself up and doing the same. A high-collared leather jacket this time around, coupled with dark jeans and leather boots. Thick, black gloves and his helmet now resting at his feet. If there was one way Bane could blend in with the everyday crowd, it was passing himself off as a biker with particularly broad shoulders. A good look, though he wasn't about to say so.

"If you're here to threaten my kids..." Blake begins, keeping his voice low.

"No."

"Good. Then what do you want?"

"Clarification." He folds his hands in front of him. "How fares your health?"

Blake shrugs. "Just working off a fever."

Bane nods, as if satisfied. It's a sincere question and he can't help but feel a little warmed.

"What about you? You took a pretty big hit back there..." He offers, tentatively. Aside from a few well-healed cuts, the man doesn't look any worse for the wear. Indeed, he's amazed at how unscathed he looks after escaping a collapsing building and a fall into Gotham's frozen waters. His memory's still fuzzy. Didn't he get hurt...?

"A minor hit." He responds. "Minor injuries."

"With all that armor you were wearing you should've sunk like a brick!"

"Your concern is misplaced."

"I'm just..." Does he say worried? Maybe it didn't make sense to be worried about someone who always seemed to have everything under control. "...trying to figure out if you're secretly Superman or something." He finishes weakly. Bane's eyes don't crinkle, but there's a glint of amusement in their dark depths.

"I assure you, I am naught more than flesh and blood." His expression flickers, hard to read. "You would do well to consider your own limits."

Flashes of Bane curling over him and shielding him from chunks of falling sheetrock blink in his mind. He tugs at his hair anxiously. He wants to thank him. He's just not sure how to go about doing it, considering he still can't quite figure out if he's an enemy or not. Should he even broach the strange relationship they share at this point or does he quietly thank his stars he doesn't have a square-shaped hole in his head?

"What happened at the courthouse?" Bane asks, jerking him out of his thoughts. Blake takes in a deep breath -- here they go.

"They...my department...had planned on blowing it up for a while." He starts. "Supposedly it was meant to be a harmless scare tactic, but that's clearly not what panned out. I went to warn everyone inside, best I could still being part of the force, anyway." He shakes his head. "I've been trying to figure out what's going on in the meantime, but I'm still a little out of the loop."

"A significant portion left before the explosions went off." Bane says. "Rumors abound that a still unidentified third-party may have tipped off the residents inside. This is, of course, contained to a mere rumor."

His heart lurches hopefully. "What about the rest?"

"Some suffered grievous injuries. A few were arrested, though how many remains to be seen. No casualties, as far as I know." A long, slow breath. "The building is gone, but the people endure."

He leans back against the wall. "...Thank god."

Bane's eyes flick up and down, studying him again. If he's relieved he doesn't show it. Then...

"Miranda visited you."

Blake stiffens. That was his line. "She attacked me."

His gaze is unblinking. "Who have you told about this?"

"...Just one."

"Good."

The implication is enough. He was here to make sure he didn't talk. While the man looks as calm as ever, Blake keeps himself on edge -- neither of them are out of hot water yet.

"That could change, though." He says. Maybe it's a little foolish to taunt him with the information when he's just three feet away from throttling him. "So you should give me a good reason not to let everyone know your daughter wants to lay the whole city six feet under."

Bane nods slowly. "So you know."

"What can I say, I'm good at putting two and two together." He replies with a shrug. "She's not your meal ticket. You just raised a damn terrorist."

"Mind your tongue."

There it was. That dark energy that seemed to rise from nowhere, a force that could make any space suddenly feel too small and too close.

"Why the hell should I?"

"Because you gain little by antagonizing me, John Blake." His fingers twitch once, twice. Already at the end of his rope. The man's patience always seemed to dry up whenever she was the subject at hand. He still hadn't forgotten the man backhanding him when he asked if he was sleeping with her for power.

"You want to get mad at someone? Look in the damn mirror." He hisses back. "You're a smart guy. I'm surprised you didn't figure this out sooner."

"It is not new knowledge."

He knows he's not lying. Somehow that makes it worse. "Then why the hell didn't you do something about it?"

"Would you give up so readily on your children?"

"My kids don't want to blow up the city."

"Precisely." Blake pauses. The man's voice is low, hardly more than a rasp. "What would you do if she were yours?"

He opens his mouth to speak, then slowly shuts it. Not an easy question.

"Light is dismaying, but it casts large shadows." He says. "I have seen the goodness in her."

Doubt and denial. Damn if it didn't have its claws in everyone. "Then maybe you need to hear what I did." He pulls out his phone, flipping open the dark video and turning up the volume with a slide of his thumb. The rustle of his pocket filters over the audio here and there, but her voice is just as crisp and malicious as when he first heard it.

'Justice is a sweet song...for the gullible.'

'He is a visionary, but one who often seeks out hope in the wrong places.'

'I suppose he'll find out soon enough.'

Neither of them budge an inch as the recording plays. Bane's expression is haunting, staring past him at seemingly nothing.

His own voice, shaky with panic. The scraping of feet, a sharp thud. It's only when Miranda cries out in pain does Bane glance his way, a terrifying look that makes his hair stand on end. Then the clip ends and the room is silent again, save for the occasional muffled yells of the boys roughhousing below. How interesting that this, of all things, was the closest he could get to payback. He wasn't enjoying it as much as he thought he would.

"I'll concede that it's not easy to put family away. You still brought her here." Blake says as he pockets his phone. "If anything happens it's partially on you."

Bane's eyes are on him, but they still waver as if looking at something else entirely. They focus when he speaks again.

"Why a bomb? Why Gotham?" He pauses as it hits him. "...Why didn't your own daughter tell you?"

He expects the man to start waxing philosophy about the bomb being a metaphor. Maybe give him some more denial. Not... "A weapon of the people to strike fear into the hearts of their oppressors, something that cannot be tamed, reconciled with or slowed once unleashed. Gotham may very well see its future surrendered to the fire's rise, but only if it is a vision the people share in tandem."

Even sitting on a cheap chair in a cramped room he's a little staggered by the man's sheer presence. His brutal and silky words.

"Your city has long since been a victim of its own neverending cycle of circumstance. There is little you do not already know." He takes in another long, wheezing breath. "A beaten populace, deprived of power and agency, will be gifted a four hundred ton megaton bomb once I am through. So long as you remain a resident, so too will it be yours."

"And Miranda was ready to use it."

He doesn't speak for a few long moments. Then...

"...Talia." He corrects softly. "Talia al Ghul."

His heart aches -- that somber note in the man's eyes he originally found so startling makes more sense now. A public menace, freedom fighter and worried father.

"Her desires are clouded to me. I still doubt the veracity of her claim, one that could have easily been made in the heat of the moment or through irrational spite. Irregardless, your warning is heeded."

Blake sighs and rubs his temples, trying to take it all in when the man suddenly stands and scoops up his helmet in one fluid motion. Shit. He can't be going already. Not yet. Blake stands up, even as he's unsure how exactly he'd stop the man from leaving.

"Wait, stop." He says, wincing at the headrush. "We're not done, I have more ques-"

"Thank you, John Blake." He says, infuriatingly polite. "You have been most helpful."

"Helpful?" Now his patience snaps. He rushes between him and the door, placing a hand on his chest. "Don't fucking patronize me. This is my city. My home. I'm not just going to sit by and let anything happen to it while I'm still breathing. Why don't you take a goddamn step back and listen to someone who knows far more about Gotham than...you do..."

He leans forward a little, catching his breath -- he's starting to get lightheaded again.

"That...can't be it."

Bane's chest rises and falls slowly beneath his hand.

"What do you want it to be?"

'I think I want a lot of things from you, Bane.' He thinks as the man gazes down at him, serene and intense all at once. 'And it sort of freaks me out.'

"You said you want to save Gotham, right?"

He gestures to the room. The tossed clothes, the overflowing boxes, the bike with a missing wheel in the corner.

"This is Gotham."

To his surprise Bane's gaze follows the sweep of his hand, as if seeing the room for the first time.

"When you outed Gordon you talked about the people. You're always talking about them. ...Us." The still-fresh hurt rises when he says his name -- he pushes it down. "I'm starting to wonder if an idol is what the people need right now, considering one's down and out and the other looks more like a villain."

"What are you trying to say?"

"That...I want to trust you." He almost has to grit the words out. Bane tilts his head in consideration.

"I will send my men to secure the necessary elements while I assess the situation. You may be right and you may be wrong yet, detective. In the meantime..." He rests a hand on his shoulder. "I will contain her, so do not attempt to seek her out."

"Okay? What if she seeks me out?"

"Were I not a man of my word you both would then fight and I would have no choice but to hurt you quite badly." He raises his eyebrows. "Which would not be ideal for either of us."

"No kidding. Not after you went through the trouble of saving me."

He rubs his head and turns to the door.

"I, uh, didn't thank you yet..."

He's underestimated how woozy he is. One step and the ground wobbles beneath him, making him stumble and grapple at anything within reach as not to hit the floor. Bane catches him at the last second, pulling him back up. Blake doesn't notice bumping against his chest, too busy rubbing his eyes and trying to blink away the gray fuzz chewing at the edges of his vision. Then the man's thick arms shift around his waist.

"...Careful." Bane murmurs.

His throat doesn't seem to work as it should. He turns around in his grip, looking at the mask, then his eyes. Even this close he can't tell if they're brown or gray. They're beautiful.

"Haven't gotten anywhere doing that." He manages to say, breathlessly.

A soft chuckle.

"So it seems."

He should pull away. By all rights neither of them should even be in this room, much less so close he can smell the outside on him -- snow and exhaust and a familiar, earthy scent his tired mind can't place. Yet, somehow, this is exactly where he wants to be, with Bane's eyes searching him in a way that makes him want to do something incredibly stupid.

"You didn't answer one question, Bane."

"Hm?"

"Why did you choose Gotham?"

The man pulls back to rest his hands on his sides.

"...A long answer."

Blake's heart pounds in his chest. This is...

"Trust me...I've got time."

He can't kiss him. Not with the mask. With Bane everything is roundabout and a little strange -- a person doesn't adapt, he's learned, so much as improvise. So instead he leans up and presses his lips between his jaw and jacket collar. The man's entire body stiffens and for a second Blake's convinced he's just crossed a line for good.

Then Bane lets out a low, husky sigh.

He's almost dizzy with relief, leaning up to better mouth at his neck and delighting at the taste of sweat and musk that meets his tongue. Bane's hands slide down from his sides to his hips, pulling him flush against his chest. Lust kills any leftover hesitation and Blake bites, hard -- he can feel Bane's responding growl through his skin, a reverberation that travels through his entire body. The man doesn't stop him when he pops open a button and moves to his collarbone, nor when he presses closer to him.

Even with his thick, clingy outfit he marvels at the solid muscle that meets his hands. The heady scent of leather filling his nose and making him ache all over. Probably more thrilling is how fascinated Bane seems with him. Even patiently enjoying his ministrations his hands are roaming along his back, his hips, his ass, the front of his mask gliding against the side of his neck as if wanting to taste him. He's about to ask him to take it off and shove his tongue in his mouth before the man suddenly grabs him by his jacket collar and pushes him against the far wall.

'Okay. We're doing this.' He thinks vaguely. The slide of his jacket zipper cuts through the room, there's a brief pause, and before he knows it Bane is back to exploring him greedily. Blake's skin jumps when he moves beneath the jacket and shirt both, trying to reason with these powerful, calloused hands as capable of snapping a neck as stitching up a wound. It's not long before one wanders between his legs.

Day after day of illness and stress and exhaustion has him almost manic for human touch. He wants to undress him, pull him into bed, desperate for the clash of hot, bare skin and tangle of limbs. Bane lets out a throaty chuckle when he tugs at his jacket, pushes down his hands when he attempts to fumble with his belt.

"Would that I could..." He rasps as he slides his hands up his legs and squeezes his ass hungrily. Even in his lust he sounded so damn formal. Somehow the sexiest detail in a sea full of them.

"Hell, I wouldn't stop you." Blake moans, only to feel his thoughts short-circuit as the man tugs his hips to his and grinds. Even through his pants the man is huge, the outline of his cock stretching the leather just enough to make it clear exactly how long he is. Shit, would he even be able to suck the guy off? He was sorely out of practice and he wasn't exactly in the mood to disappoint.

Bane answers this by pulling off one of his gloves, meticulous even when rutting him up against a wall, and yanks at his pants with two swift movements. Pulling him out. For a moment he thinks the man is going to get rough, is not even sure he'd mind if the guy treated him with the delicacy of a yoga mat, but any and all concern melts away when he curls careful fingers around his stiff cock and slowly, agonizingly, drags his grip up.

"Oh, fuck."

His legs go weak. He has to hook an arm around Bane's wide shoulders to keep his balance, pushing his forehead into his collar as he rocks desperately up into his hand. The click of a belt and the man is sliding his cock against his own. The man's breath is ragged in his ear, distorted by the tangle of metal and wire, as eerie as it is arousing.

Olive skin has darkened where he kept biting, but he's long since realized the man doesn't interact with pain the way a normal human being should. A smaller, animalistic part of him wants to gnaw until the mark never fades -- a reminder that, out of all the people he could have, Bane wants him. Fuck, the thought alone could have him coming prematurely.

His hand is more slick than rough now, grip gliding smoothly from base to tip. Blake reaches down to return the favor, only to have his hand pushed away again.

"Jerk." Blake manages between pants. "I can't even tou-ah." Bane rolls a thumb between the base of his cock and his balls, making his back arch like a bow.

"I have wanted to do this for quite some time." He murmurs, voice downright ragged in his ear. "Let me savor you."

Shit, that does it. Blake is trying not to bite his cut lip, but he has no other way to stop the moans bubbling up through him. He starts digging his nails into the man's leather jacket, cutting off groan after groan as heat builds deliciously in the pit of his stomach. Surrendering doesn't feel so bad, he realizes distantly, not when it's pure fucking fire licking its way up and slowly driving him crazy. He bites Bane's neck again to muffle his cry when he comes, probably way too hard, but he can't help it, he's lurching forward and jerking through the orgasm like it'll be his last.

Through the buzzing in his ears and the rubbery feeling in his legs he registers how Bane's breathing is coming in heaving pants now, where he'd only sounded winded before. Blake stares in wonder as he pulls his hand away and down to jerk himself off. In-between staring at the head of his cock rising and disappearing in his hand (leaking like milk over his fingers to drip onto the floor, what must he taste like-) and glimpses of his mask he catches the man's hooded gaze. As brief as a spark.

He knows, somehow, that simple motion is what tips Bane over the edge.

Then he's pressing him against the wall, as heavy as a fucking truck, and shoving up his shirt to come on his bare stomach, with a hoarse groan that he's sure goes straight through the floorboards.

They lean on one another against the wall in a shared daze. Like they belong to someone else his hands move up and start to aimlessly wander along the man's hard stomach and broad chest. Slow and wondering. Blake runs a lazy tongue along the sweat beading on Bane's thick neck, the high of his orgasm just keeping the nervousness concerning whatever the hell just happened at bay. Then his release starts to dribble down and soak warmly into his jeans, jolting him to attention.

"Ah, damn it..." He sighs when his lip stings -- he's opened it again. Holding his loose jeans in place with one hand he leans over and grabs one of his spare shirts off the top drawer, using it to wipe them both off. Only now can he finally touch the man, finally feel how damn thick (and still stiff) he is. Bane's pants ring strangely through the front of his mask, the only other sign to his exertion the faint flush to his skin.

"So...you do think I'm cute." Blake chuckles as he dabs at the smears he left on the man's jacket, then balls the shirt up and tosses it in the basket in the corner of the room.

"Mostly insolent." Bane responds, voice still a little scratchy, leaning off the wall to hook his belt back into place. "Impulsive. Arrogant. Blunt..."

Blake licks at his bottom lip and is met with a coppery taste, warm and tingling and feeling a little smug, despite himself. Bane's eyes are still dark with lust as he slowly buttons up his coat all the way to the collar. Somehow scary, somehow incredible. Once he's finished he reaches over and moves a slow, indulgent thumb along his mouth, pushing away the blood welling to the surface. For a second it looks like he's about to say something else. Then he moves away, quick as anything, pulling on his other glove and reaching for his helmet.

Blake decides to speak before he loses his nerve.

"...Bane."

He glances over his shoulder at him, clicking on the helmet strap. He swallows back some of the leftover throatiness before continuing.

"Thank you for saving my life." He says, softly. "If you hadn't I never would've seen them again."

"On the contrary." Bane replies. He's looking elsewhere now. Blake follows his gaze -- he's observing Amir's gift art on the wall.

"What...?"

"Thank you."

Bane pats Joel on the head before walking out the door and to a motorbike on the curb, as ordinary as any person in Gotham. With Reilly watching him anxiously from the kitchen and the boys already gossiping to each other in hushed tones, he realizes that ordinary is a feeling he's long since taken for granted.

Chapter Text

It's a rage that couldn't have been beaten down.

A rage that challenged his control.

Bane was a logical man. Emotions were, at best, a guideline. Something to be fervently trained like the mind and body. Tethered by reality and tempered by distance, they were punished if they took even a small step outside their bounds.

Could have exaggerated. Could have lied. Could have told the truth. The man despises these could haves and should haves. He's unfamiliar with vague sentiments and wants nothing more than to take them by the throat and throttle the life out of them every time they rear their heads -- heedless and spectral they gnaw at the corners of his mind, ever threatening to shred his carefully built foundation and drive him mad. Only the white-hot burn of his muscles and the heaving effort of his lungs keep them at bay today.

He needs these physical and mental distractions more than ever. Overseeing morning drills with his men had been a useful one. Analyzing the tangle of Gotham neighborhoods for his next appearance slightly more so. The only one he finds himself wanting is Blake.

To fight, perhaps. See firsthand just how his recent experiences have shaped him for better or for worse. A deeper desire stirs beneath the surface and makes a mockery of the thought, a knot of insistent heat in his stomach.

He closes his eyes as he stretches, urging the temperamental and worried nerves along his spine to relax. The masked man envisions things clearly in the dark. It's a skill he's honed to a malicious edge over the course of his life, able to expand and contract possibilities before him as vividly as a painting. His will the composition and violence the brush, no detail was left unturned on Gotham's broad canvas -- a tool forever perfect for subtle sabotage or an immediate threat both. It's not a battle strategy he's envisioning now. Not even bat-shaped silhouettes creep their way unwelcome into his mind.

Dark brown eyes curving into half-moons in the shadow of some private enclave they've temporarily made their own. The man's chest rising and falling in a staccato rhythm. Arresting images as contradictory as their subject matter. Frustrating him. Motivating him.

He can so easily see Blake being consumed by silence or rattling off quips as he explores his chest, his stomach, his sides. Twisting beneath him when he reaches lower, suddenly a little coy. The feel of his hot mouth roaming along his neck. The sharp bend of his back when he's inside him. It's a patchwork fantasy stitched together from their hasty coupling at St. Swithin's, woefully threadbare. It was a strange time when he was distracted from his distractions, he thinks irritably as Salim adds an additional weight to the barbell.

He lifts and lowers repetitively, his harsh breath the only sound that could be heard in the cold, dim chamber.

"Rest does you as much good as training."

Bane narrows his eyes and continues to lift as Barsad walks in -- he was becoming more and more a mother hen these past weeks. A part of him wonders if Talia put him up to it.

The man walks over to replace Salim as his spotter, bidding the younger mercenary instead remain outside the door and ensure they aren't interrupted. The walls were thick, unlikely to invite any eavesdropping -- as lovely as the thought of being able to intrinsically trust each and every individual under his command was, they both now knew the young man was willing to disobey at the whim of his own moral compass. It was not the first time Bane had been defied -- it was nearly impossible to ensure consistent behavior among hundreds of individuals -- but this was a rare instance where it worked in his favor.

Too well.

Circumventing punishment was never an option for disobeying. Neither was he able to ignore the direct and indirect hand the young man played in the past week. Death was not a fitting response to what he had done, nor were the League's traditional methods of correcting disobedience in light of the circumstances. Back and forth over the past few days he had struggled with the proper reprimand, his displeasure clear enough to make even Barsad give him a wide berth.

A sparring session to establish dominance. A dance as old as time, perfect for packs of wolves and the League Of Shadows both. The young man hardly holds up to the onslaught, though his effort is clear, caving under his brutal blows in a matter of minutes.

"Your stance is better than it used to be. You are not quick enough, however. Your fast eye has not translated to fast feet."

His reprimand is brief. The young man would admonish himself harder than he ever would.

"Why did you set him free?"

Salim doesn't wipe the blood from his mouth or look away. Bane demanded honesty from his men at all times -- an averted gaze could be just as much an admission of guilt as a sign of respect, with all their mingling cultures, so he cuts to the chase. Stares him down to pull the truth forward whether it wants to reveal itself or not.

"Because...he was like a friend to us."

He doesn't elaborate further. Bane studies him in the faint light.

'You, too.', his eyes say.

Salim sets down the rag he had been holding and accepts this new task quietly, walking out of the door and shutting it behind him. Barsad slips off his coat and hangs it by his equipment, settling into the familiar rhythm without a hitch. He updates him on the status of his men as well as any news that may have slipped past his notice -- Bane listens closely, eager for another distraction. Unfortunately, there isn't much he doesn't already know.

Their creature has remained a tumultuous prisoner, enough to make Blake look well-behaved by comparison. It growls through any gesture to communicate when it's not attempting to chew through the bars and escape -- while Barsad had attempted to interrogate it one day, according to him the most he got were some rather impressive death glares and sulking silence. Rubio had recommended they use it as a weapon, one that would have bore weight if not for the intelligence in those bitter green eyes. Between the first encounter in the storm drains and his attempt to pull meaning out of their interactions, it was clear it was no mere animal to be trifled with. It made even less progress when Bane visited its cell one day, shrinking back as far as its chains would allow and baring its teeth like a scared dog.

"Commissioner Gordon is still facing backlash. Although his superiors seem keen on forgiving him, too many are demanding accountability after you read his speech." He holds the barbell steady as Bane catches his breath, then pulls away once he continues. "It looks like they'll tear themselves apart from the inside before we can even lay another hand on them."

"The downside of a rare honest man, I should think." Bane pants.

"Perhaps Talia could give him a master class in deceit." Barsad says idly. Bane feels that same uncomfortable twist in his chest at her name.

"Talia will visit Metropolis tomorrow, meeting with scientists hailing from around the world." He responds, finally giving in to the fire blistering through his arms and chest and pausing for a breather. "She is yet to lack for opportunities."

"Does she still want to find a replacement for Pavel?"

"He and the reactor will be gone once she returns."

"...I see."

His word was final. It doesn't push away the man's concern, however, and the slight furrow to his brow remains steady throughout the session. Bane isn't interested in detailing exactly why he was suddenly and quietly shutting out Ra's Al Ghul's heir from their eight year plan -- betrayal was still a fresh hole in his chest. Barsad's trust, however troubled, was appreciated.

It did, after all, go both ways.

Bane adjusts the wires along his mask, tempering the amount of analgesic flowing through its inner cords -- he puffs out air methodically as he continues to lift, making up for the lowered drug with focused bursts of energy.

"How is your back?" Barsad eventually asks.

"Manageable."

"Your mask?"

"Functioning."

There's hesitance in the man's voice. Bane finally sets down the weight and sits up panting, pushing sweat out of his eyes and fixing the man with a hard stare. "Speak your mind or hold your tongue."

Even estranged from his wife and children for multiple years his tendency toward acting the part of a family man peeked through. Part of being a leader was cultivating an air of invulnerability, however fabricated and fantastical -- genuine concern or fear on his behalf risked cracking that veneer, a sentiment that could spread to others and something that couldn't be easily replaced once broken. Maintaining the balance between community and idolatry was never an easy dance. Neither was that of leader and follower. As if summoned Blake's sardonic smile flickers in the corner of his mind, permanently disrespectful.

Perhaps he simply did not want to admit to a lack of control.

"I would not bother you with these concerns if I felt there was no reason." Barsad says. "I'll stop if that's what you wish."

"You fret too much." He grunts after a moment. Barsad takes this invitation to continue with a slight incline to his head.

"The men have noticed you have been off lately." He keeps his gaze casually averted as he puts away the weights, sensing he's done. "They whisper concerns to one another when they believe me out of earshot. One common fear caught my attention."

"What are these suppositions I should know?" He asks as he mops sweat from his chest.

"That Bruce Wayne may have been spotted outside Gotham."

Bane pauses.

"Doubtful."

"There is always a possibility."

"From Gotham's beloved trust fund child?"

"It was worth mentioning-"

"Then I will see it with my own eyes rather than the bored musings of a stressed collective." It is tempting to dip into irritation, however minute, and use his position to silence the matter further. It's through contemplating this moment of weakness he realizes the man may have had an earlier point. Barsad is fitting the small tube onto his water.

"This will be looked into." He says, eventually. "For now I am trusting you with something more immediate." The man seems to relax a little at this. He hands him the bottle, which Bane takes a deep drink of -- it's carefully designed to fit through his mask, affecting neither the medication or speaker that resides in the grill.

"It will be done."

"...I know."

Trust. Perhaps the most finicky weapon of all. Barsad puts his coat back on and pulls out his phone.

"You fight for everyone's happiness." He says, softly. "For Talia's. Remember there are many who want the same for you."

Bane adjusts the wires on his mask again, correcting their flow back to their default. Natural endorphins and analgesic make an addicting mixture, one that attempts valiantly to lift his mood.

"Ever mouthy."

Barsad puts on a rare smile.

"Someone must keep you in check."

--

Cream, white and gold glitters playfully in Talia's penthouse suite. Light catches and reflects off of what seems like every surface, creating an environment of permanent decadence that makes his head ache. He tries to keep his expression polite as he waits beside the door and watches her prepare for her trip.

She turns in the mirror, observing the tumble of her hair and adjusting the scarf tucked into her pastel winter coat. Merle boots brush just beneath her knees, the heels tall and impractical, lifting her up to come up to his chin. A thick layer of foundation blends her skin together, covering the small cut on her nose and cheek.

"Excessive...but excess is what they know." She turns around with a small frown. "How do I look?"

She had always been beautiful to him, even coated in the panache of high society. Bane rises from where sits, walking over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and out of the way of the delicate necklace he clips around her neck. He can almost see the ragged, dirty little girl beyond the glamour. The fire she keeps mitigated behind feigned submission.

"Are you okay, Bane...?" She asks as he adjusts her collar and ensures her hair isn't snagged. "Sometimes your silence worries me."

"The absence of sound is not silence." He corrects gently. "You know this."

Her blue eyes remain stony with disbelief. He knows what he has to say to her. It simply would have to wait. He was a patient man. He had to be. He had to...

"Let him go. He's done enough!"

Her shrill voice cuts through the clamor like a knife. He takes the spare moment to stagger to his knees, still suspended halfway upright by the chains, and take in a few unchallenged breaths. Sweat stings his eyes. The surrounding chants start to fill his ears again, monotonous and droning, encouraging him ever on. He has never more wanted to lay down and let the darkness overtake him for good.

"The League never settles for less." Ra's calls from above, invisible in the stone archway's shadows. "Continue."

The jackals were smart enough to sense when they were given permission. They veer closer, sniffing and whuffing to one another in their language. Bane slowly rises to his feet as they attempt to make good on their scavenging.

"Father!"

A hand on his cheek pulls him back into reality.

"Bane." She whispers as she runs her fingers along the straps of his mask. She was familiar with the ins and outs of the past. How it could take hold at a moment's notice. "I'm here."

"Of course." He smiles, just for her, even as the memory crawls up his skin. "You always are."

She returns his smile, but it's fleeting.

"...You don't have to carry this weight all by yourself." He can see her attempting to rule out possibilities as she studies him. "Maybe you should take time off. Have Barsad take over for you. Gotham will still be corrupt a week from now, after all. He's proven himself more than capable."

"Yes...he has." He says, much to her surprise. "Perhaps I will take your advice."

"You mean it?" She asks with wide eyes.

"It has been a while since I cooked for the men. It could be a good opportunity to reconnect."

"Since you have cooked for me." She adds, teasingly, though there's actual joy in her smile now. "I look forward to it."

She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close. He holds her, closing his eyes and running a slow, somber hand through her hair.

"...And who will take care of John Blake?" She murmurs against his skin.

It's a deceptively casual question, one that didn't quite hide the leftover rage. Circumstances had deprived him of witnessing what must have been a terrible wrath after she confronted Blake days ago -- Barsad had been the one to attend to her in his absence. It was difficult for him to sort the mingled pride and fury inside him at Blake's swift escape and the injuries he left on her. So he does the one thing he never thought he'd do to her: he lies.

"In due time." He pulls back, observing her outfit once more in the bright light. "For now we have more important elements to focus on than a rogue individual." Talia frowns in thought.

"Well..." She says lightly. "...if anyone has experience disposing of rogue individuals, it would be you."

Her phone rings, turning her attention to her papers. She gathers them quickly, sliding them into a folder and pushing it into her purse. "I would exercise caution, Bane, when you do go after him..."

He watches her as she walks through the door and heads down the stairs.

"He has a few tricks up his sleeve."

--

Visiting a store chain isn't an option, but they had long since made acquaintance with smaller farmers on the outer fringes of the city. He only takes what he needs as he walks through the stands and selects a little bit of everything, even as they're eager to give away their wares -- an elderly farmer reaches out and takes his hand gratefully when he browses their display, a gesture he returns despite Barsad's frown. Nobody here would reveal that Bane was out shopping for groceries. Not when they shared the same cause.

St. Swithin's is an old building, possessing an age he can sense even beyond its peeling paint and refurbished windows. Collective history was an interest he gained over the years, perhaps cultivated by the significant portion of life spent in isolation. Even observing it he doesn't miss the elderly man that makes his way out of the front gate before he's even parked his motorcycle.

Father Reilly gives him the man's address with little prodding, though he can tell he's still wary of him. The orphanage seems to possess no other adults around, with the older children filling in the role of mentor or protector as best they can around their younger peers. A soft tap-tap turns his gaze from their stilted conversation -- Joel is quivering with excitement in the window, patting the glass with a tiny hand to get his attention. He's eager to help bring in the produce Bane brought as a well-wishing gift, squeaking about recipes as he peers inside each bag in turn and names the different vegetables.

While the thick lines around his mouth remain firm, Father Reilly's tone betrays a hint of relief.

"It's been pretty tight lately since our investors went belly up. Wayne vanishing and his support with him, then our donations following suit..." He doesn't finish the sentence, glancing sideways at the boys starting to mill around them. "...was beginning to think we were cursed after a while. Just seems like anything can go wrong at any moment. Anyway, your donation is much appreciated, uh..." He frowns. "I didn't catch your name, sir."

Bane watches as Joel attempts to pick up a heavy bag only to set it down again with a frustrated huff.

"Behnam."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Behnam." It's odd to hear his old title through a Western accent. "So, you're a...friend? Colleague?" There's doubt in his voice. Perhaps a touch of discomfort. It's likely he caught a hint of their activity above last he visited. That or he was simply haggard and overworked, as desperate to obtain an acquaintanceship as denounce someone a threat out of necessity.

"Yes."

The St. Swithin's boys are eyeing him curiously as they move up and down the stairs. One with dark, neatly trimmed hair studies him so intently he doesn't see two of his peers attempting to navigate the slippery ground with their arms full, nearly bowling him over in the process when they slip predictably. Another, taller boy snickers from the doorway, only to suddenly sober when Reilly barks at him to help.

"Can you tell Blake to come over and live with us?" Joel asks as he tries to walk up the steps and hesitates, attempting to look around the last overflowing bag to gauge his footing. "You can live with us too."

They see him off, waving until he is well out of sight and back on the open road. Bane wonders how he would broach such a topic when he parks again, making his way through the well-tended grounds of the apartment complex only a handful of blocks away. He nods politely to a pair of neighbors sitting on the next door porch before knocking at his destination, the last bag held steady in one arm.

"Oh." Blake says when he opens the door. "Hello."

An acoustic song plays from somewhere inside. He glances over his shoulder much like he did at the orphanage. His suspicion is pragmatic, though a strange hint of disappointment runs through him -- perhaps it was too early to hope for a different reaction. The man waves him in, attempting to push boxes out of sight as he makes his way to the kitchen. It's a humble abode, small and somewhat cramped due to the furniture still wrapped or boxed throughout the corners.

"Wasn't easy finding another place." He says as he picks up a potted plant from atop a stack of boxes. "Most landlords are too spooked to accept new tenants. I can't remember the last time I actually had to use more than two references." The man's hair is more neatly arranged now, still longer than it was when they first met. His clean-shaven face and long-sleeved gray shirt make him look much different than usual -- almost soft. "Sorry about the boxes."

"A strange thing to apologize for." Bane says as pulls off his helmet and hands him the bag. Blake peers inside and squints.

"...Vegetables?"

"You're still recovering."

Blake takes it and rummages inside. "How did you even get these? Most stores are locked down..."

"Your concerns should be focused on removing any traces of weakness left in you by recent events and subpar administration." He glances at the open pantry doors stuffed near to bursting with instant noodles and bread. "...and subpar food."

"What can I say, it's cheap." He says as he pulls out an eggplant, admiring its sheen in the light.

Bane looks around him. Even in the disorder there were touches that could only be from Blake. The pragmatic organization of boxes along the side walls contrasting with impulsive piles of clothes and bags sloppily tossed. The fluffy plant he's now carefully watering with a small can. A photo propped on the kitchen counter halts his roaming gaze -- a smiling boy with a gap in his teeth holds up a small, white fish in front of a harbor. He's flanked by two adults with thick scarves almost covering their mouths, their glittering eyes instead showing off their good humor.

A soft crunch. Bane turns to find him eating the eggplant raw.

"...My parents." He gestures with it -- the bitter taste doesn't seem to bother him. "First time fishing."

He doesn't need to ask to know they've passed. Growing up around death had long since acquainted him with these old wounds, though he can tell by the tone of his voice Blake's had yet to heal. The detective leans against the kitchen counter and continues to eat quietly, not looking at him. The air is still a touch terse. No doubt his sudden appearance isn't sitting entirely well.

"Thanks." He says after a moment.

"Of course."

"You, uh...want a cup of coffee?"

Bane gives him a rueful look. Blake almost smiles.

"Right. Tea."

He waves a polite hand and chooses instead to lean in the doorway. "Your orphanage seems to be doing well."

The man pauses in mid-bite.

"Yeah, they're...good." He bobs his leg idly. "...Really good, actually. I thought all the stuff going on would scare them, but they're handling it pretty well. Then again, they deal with enough shit during the week. Break-ins, vandalizing, school security. It's just another Thursday."

Like a dam he's talking now -- about the recent animal shelter built a block away from St. Swithin's and the joy it brings the boys, the young ones in particular who crave a sense of normalcy. They plan on saving up to adopt one of the dogs, he says, a protector as well as someone for them to play with when the older boys were out at school or working. He's smiling again, that rare warmth he's found himself wanting to witness more and more. Like a passing star he attempts to engrave this glimpse in memory, though Blake takes his silence for something else.

"This is probably boring you."

"Not at all."

Blake chews on his lip and watches him. For a moment it seems he's finished talking. Then... "Just don't want the dog to get sick or lost or something. They've already lost a lot." He sighs. "I'd hate to add to that."

"Your funds are insufficient." It wasn't quite a question. Blake looks ashamed.

"Not as much as I'd like. Still paying off the downstairs renovations and the rest of Finn's bond." He responds. "Joel might need another round of counseling, too. He's doing really well and I don't want to halt his progress now, of all times."

He recalls the wide-eyed wonder the boy had shown not an hour ago. "Joel seems a brave boy."

The detective nods. "He's...well, yes and no. He's afraid of a lot of things, but that's because he's seen more than a kid his age should've."

"...Yes." Bane imagines Talia. How she hadn't even the faint luxury of growing up around other children her age. "I can imagine."

Blake studies him, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Whatever his question is, he doesn't ask it.

"He, uh, asked about you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Asked how you got so big." His eyes curve mischievously as he takes another bite. "I told him it was all the hot air."

Bane chuckles. "That doesn't explain why I tower over you."

Blake's eyes narrow. "All right, smartass. Let's get this over with."

"Hm?"

"Come on. You didn't just come here to chat me up." Suspicion again. More curiosity. Something else more guarded, carefully tucked behind that mask and well out of his reach. "If you're wondering about the other day..."

He hesitates. Indeed, Bane wants nothing more than to pick up where they left off. He's made no attempt to hide that desire, still relishing in the pleasant cut of the man's shirt. Now that he's closer he can see the faint sheen glinting on his skin as well as the cling of his dark hair along the side of his neck, suggesting a recent shower. Blake's throat bobs slowly from the scrutinization. A trait he would have found unnecessary otherwise became strangely endearing all of a sudden -- it wasn't often the man was tongue-tied.

"Things are, um, pretty weird right now. I'm not...I'm not harboring any bright ideas about-"

"I came to recruit you."

"I...what?"

"To the League Of Shadows."

He's unbalanced. He chews slowly, glancing to the bag on the countertop then back to him. "...you're bribing me with kale?" Bane raises his eyebrows. The man had a tendency to crack wise when he was nervous or angry. Blake's eyes widen a little when he realizes he's serious. "Oh. Well, uh. I appreciate the offer..." He finishes the eggplant, tossing the stem into the sink. "...but I don't exactly know what that entails."

"A repository of battle tactics, martial arts and medical practices older than all of us combined, a veritable wealth of knowledge at your merest whim." He answers smoothly. "An opportunity to be on the right side of history and an overall far better proposition than the one you curry now."

Blake frowns curiously -- he can tell his interest is piqued. "Now...? Oh. No, I quit." He sighs. "Well. Am quitting. I still have to go grab my shit from the office..." He's become rather adept at reading his expressions through the mask, he thinks, because he suddenly frowns and points an accusatory finger at him. "Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. I've been thinking of quitting for a long while."

"Then we both won't have to worry about what your department may think of this little liaison should you accept."

"What is Mira-...Talia going to think of it, though?"

"That will not be an issue."

"It better not be. I'm a little sick of everyone trying to do me in." He scoffs. "Join up with some ancient fighting organization, huh. That'd be a great way to..." A thought seems to hit him. "You...never did tell me what you did to Batman."

Bane pushes aside his irritation with some effort. Even thousands of miles away the bastard found little ways of interfering with his life.

"I removed him from the equation." He replies. "Replaced him with one of superior skill, social standing and foresight."

"Let me guess. You?"

"Of course."

The more familiar anger flickers in Blake's eyes. "How the hell can you be so cold about it?"

"On the contrary, John Blake." He takes in a long, slow breath. "From where I stand you seem far too warm concerning a man you don't even know." It doesn't escape his notice the man's still-confident reaction -- he must somehow know the vigilante is still alive.

"I know what good he's done. That counts for something. Even if his methods don't always mirror yours."

"You also overlook everything else."

"...Yeah. Maybe."

A painful concession, one that now leaves Bane a little unbalanced. Blake reaches into his pantry and pulls out a small tin of coffee grounds. He measures them carefully, dosing water in a black coffee maker and working at the knobs with his back now turned to him. He sets a mug down and watches the coffee's trickle for a while before speaking.

"Why me?"

Bane gazes at his back. Rolls the loaded question over and over again in his head, even as his mind's eye envisions him crossing the small gap and pulling the man flush against his chest. 'You're a chaotic element I haven't figured out yet.' He thinks. 'I don't know how ready I am to let go of your influence.' "...Why not?" He says. "Our goals align closely, if not quite ideally, and you have already shown to me you are genuinely invested in your city's future. Gotham needs all the help it can get."

Blake looks over his shoulder for one long moment before turning to the stove. It would be days before he figures out the man's strange look.

"Got it." He responds curtly as he pulls out a cup of noodles and digs around in the bag, eventually pulling out one of the small cabbages and taking a knife to it. "Well, I have to leave in a few. Errands won't run themselves."

"Of course. I do not expect an immediate decision." Bane pulls his helmet back on and adjusts his coat. "Think on it."

"...You'll get my answer in a day." Blake calls out as he steps back out into the snow.

It's a long ride back to the base. Bane considers the day's small successes and misgivings as he passes through lesser-traveled streets and circumvents the ever watchful eyes of local enforcement, wondering idly to himself who had truly captured who.

Chapter Text

Barsad is used to changing his role at the drop of a hat. Even throughout his steady years as a mercenary and sniper he's had to fulfill the role of strategic adviser, mentor and even counselor to keep the League Of Shadows going strong after Ra's' untimely death. This morning he and two others have to masquerade as everyday delivery drivers -- the reactor is an ideal size, able to fit in a standard loading truck with little effort. Winding through the thin and poorly-tended roads of Gotham's countryside he still finds himself missing the soothing routine of a day-to-day desk job. Some things would never change.

The snow-topped mountains and gray sky hearken to his earlier days in Russia, however distantly, and make him crave something warm to drink. It's more the feel of the chilly air on his skin than the monotonous drive that slows his pulse and allows him to more easily slip into his thoughts.

The distribution of power from Talia to Bane will be a little tumultuous, mainly for those that personally knew Ra's when he was alive, but his past brushes with intercommunity strife knows it could be much, much worse. The man was almost a father to his men. He wasn't some warlord or puffed-up politician issuing commands from a lofty tower -- he fought alongside them. Bled with them. It inspired a loyalty that even money couldn't buy.

Bane and Talia's relationship was made clear to anybody who joined early or late -- while rumors would crop up here and there of something more controversial beneath the surface, as was standard in any large group, it was clear to him the bond they shared was that of a father and daughter that had walked through flames together. While he never personally met Ra's, his influence on both of them was stark in nearly everything they did.

Nearly.

He still didn't know why Bane had asked him to act behind her back, though his suspicions ran the gamut of vague to startlingly specific. Talia was a brutal woman, one of the few that could match Bane in both intellect and ruthlessness. It's possible they came to a disagreement so severe he had no choice but to demote her without her knowledge. It's also possible the rumors were indeed true and they were much closer than he gave them credit for. The only comfort he had was knowing it wasn't a request Bane would make lightly.

The pain in his eyes had been too raw, a rare glimpse behind the virtual matryoshka of masks the man wore to cultivate his image. He and Bane were not friends (indeed, the man didn't seem to have any relationships resembling the sort) but the years they shared had started to move them past just leader and worker. A confidant, at the very least. A brother, Bane would perhaps call it during a distracted moment, his easy tone the only clue to the deeper trust they shared.

"I don't mind the snow so much anymore. I just pretend it's cold sand."

He glances into the rearview mirror. Salim is idly polishing his rifle while gazing out the window, even though its gleam could put even Barsad's well-tended stock to shame. Ali isn't quite so interested from where he lays on his back with a magazine draped over his eyes, but he had always been less inclined to thinking and more so to fighting.

"Good. Your taste is improving, then." Barsad says, holding up a hand in a generic wave when another truck passes him by -- standard protocol. "Stay focused."

Their base of operations was well-hidden, hardly more than a series of rocks to the casual eye and concealing an interconnected bunker where they worked tirelessly to convert the reactor alongside smaller explosives for additional projects. It's not easy to move off the road in a truck of such size, so he navigates the treacherous ground as best he can until he's close enough to see the markers that only make sense to those on the inside.

"Rubio. Update me." He says into his speaker when he parks and steps out into the cold.

A flicker of static. "Pavel is sleeping like a baby."

"Good. Keep it that way. We'll be in and out."

He hears a different voice, indistinguishable over the crackling audio. The older mercenary grumbles over the line. "Be honest, brother. Bane didn't tell you anything about why we're moving this on short notice? It took us forever to convert this frozen hellhole."

"Progress doesn't happen overnight." He responds, a touch short. "Your complaining will ensure it takes longer, however."

He leaves Salim and Ali in the truck to prepare, walking through the thin snow and, with a cautious glance around him, making his way into the bunker. It's only marginally less chilly than outside, converted to be as functional as possible while showing traces of the human condition -- a couch and a table fill the room the scientist has stayed in, with a few visual embellishments to distinguish it from a cell. Rubio's task had always been to guard him as well as communicate with him when necessary, a human element to keep the man from slipping completely into madness from the isolation. Like Salim he was a talkative sort, though a little less agreeable.

Even with his basic knowledge of nuclear physics (the reactor still has about as much explosive power as a handful of sand) they handle it delicately -- the last thing they need are any cracks that could potentially risk the finicky chemicals inside. Ali double-checks the straps that hold it down with a bored expression, Salim standing atop a nearby hill and looking out into the distance. He holds back his impatience with the young man and keeps his attention on the reactor.

"There's no need to dose Pavel overmuch." Barsad stresses, giving it a once-over for his own sake. "Should he wake prematurely take care to relax him and inform him of the switch. If he shows any signs of nausea try to stay off medication and let it pass naturally. He needs to get back to work as soon as possible."

A click.

"Will do."

He turns and looks into the barrel inches from his face.

"...Rubio...?"

"I'll give you a chance to walk away, brother." The man shrugs apologetically. "For old time's sake."

--

The department feels abandoned in the early morning hours. Only a few voices ever echoed down the halls, primarily receptionists and clerks handling the previous days' backlogs, and the fluorescent lighting always made the place look incredibly dry. Blues were more a suggestion than a reality along the gray carpet and white walls -- even his own footsteps were muffled, making the place feel just a little dreamlike. While Blake was grateful for the lack of human contact (he wasn't interested in any more empty pleasantries), nostalgia nipped at his heels spitefully as he dug around in his locker for anything worth salvaging.

He tosses trash (a surprising amount, he notes with mild embarrassment) and crumples up photos he doesn't want, the majority that only serve to remind him of the giant cluster of wasted time he's created. Pictures at office parties, candid snapshots he didn't know about until after they developed. The only one he saves is the one where he's being sworn in with Gordon at his side -- he winces at the sight of his closely cropped hair and ill-fitting outfit, though it's hard not to eventually smile at just how proud he looked. Memories hurt, but he remained a sucker for them.

"Sad to see you go." He looks over his shoulder at Jeff leaning in the hallway, a paper cup of the department's drip coffee in hand.

Blake shrugs and turns around again. "Not really. Now you won't have to go cleaning up my mess when I screw up."

"Come on, that was the fun part." The guys responds lightly.

"I didn't join for fun, Jeff."

"It'll be less interesting, that's for sure."

He instinctively steels his face into pleasant complacency as Foley walks up and stops just in front of him. It's all he can do not to slug the man in the stomach and run off before Jeff can tackle him.

"I'm sorry to see you go, truly. You were a pain, but you were our pain, right?" The deputy says with a laugh to Jeff, who returns the smile with only the barest hint of embarassment.

Blake had never liked the man. He was a blowhard with a shiny public image and a nasty jealous streak he loved to take out on anyone even a notch beneath him. He still hadn't forgotten how he was more interested in catching Batman and improving his street cred than letting the guy catch the bank robbers they were both pursuing. If he were any more petty he would announce his departure a giant prank and stick around just long enough to make the guy's live hell for indirectly trying to get him put out of commission at the city hall. Instead he would have to try and live by the saying that revenge was a dish best served cold and make the city a better place whether he wanted it or not.

"Well, now I'll be someone else's pain." He responds with a smile. "Good luck catching Bane." He adds as he slings the rather meager pack over his shoulders. "You're gonna need it."

He takes the man's strained smile as a victory.

It's a long walk to the coffee shop, but it feels good to get out and stretch his legs after a morning he still wants to crumple up and throw into the trash.

The scent of roasted beans in the air when he arrives makes his mouth water. If not cigarettes (though he keeps the box in his pocket as a physical reassurance) he could at least have his caffeine fix. 'Out with one addiction, in with another', he thinks as the barista across the counter flirts with him in-between commentaries on the daily news. People laugh a little too hard around him, talk a little too loud -- Gothamites' particular way of muscling through crises like a plow through snow. The woman slides his receipt to him with a note, giving him a rather charming wink before attending to the next in line.

He's musing over the nicest way to turn her down as he finds the quietest part of the store and checks in with St. Swithin's.

"Amir just got accepted to an art reception downtown. Pretty big for a kid his age. It'll be tough finding time to help him move paintings, so I'll have to ask to borrow a friend's car..." Reilly says over the phone. "Finn finally put some of his work money to his bail, but he's moodier than ever and won't talk to me. I swear to goodness, it's just one thing after another. If your friend didn't help out I might have actually lost it."

"Don't worry about it." Blake says, glancing at the counter so he doesn't accidentally miss his order. "I'll talk to-wait, what? Who?"

"Tell him he's welcome to drop by anytime. Getting them to eat healthy is like pulling teeth, but at least I got something to work with now."

"I have no clue who you're talking about."

Reilly makes an impatient noise. "That big guy from last time. Behnem, I think? He brought over a bunch of fresh produce for the boys. Real good stuff, too. Can't remember the last time I had radishes."

Blake blinks.

"Really? Uh, yeah, I'll let him know." 'So that's how he figured out my new address.' He thinks as he reads the menu. 'You trying to butter me up, Bane? Because this isn't a bad way to do it.'

"Where did you meet him? He was very polite. Not at all like I expected. I know I shouldn't judge by appearances, of course, but I was half-convinced he was a mob boss or something with that get-up."

"Oh, yeah. That's...uh, he's a..." Damn it. What lie would sound even remotely convincing?

Blake thanks his rare good luck when the Commissioner walks in through the front door, pulling off his gloves and searching over the cluster of heads. The baristas wave eagerly at him, calling out his usual of an Americano with a shot of cream.

"Sorry, Reilly. I gotta go. We'll still do Wednesday, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course. Just be careful." Gordon catches his gaze, gesturing to a small table by the window, far removed from the cluster of people milling in front of the main bar. "They miss you."

Blake collects their drinks at the back counter and makes his way to the table. It feels like ages since they've made small talk. While it would've made a little more sense to go somewhere more private, he was aching to settle back into some sort of mundane routine. The Commissioner is bundled in heavy winter clothing -- even his near-inhuman tolerance for the weather can't hold up to the recent onslaught of wind and ice.

They talk idly about the latest game, pausing only to drink their coffee. It doesn't take long for them to reach the subject of Miranda Tate, however, and Blake has to push away his disappointment with some effort.

"You're asking me to put off telling her? Again?" Gordon asks, sprinkling sugar into his cup.

Blake sighs happily as he finishes his drink -- it's been too long since he's had a quality latte. "I can explain in a few days. Just give me that."

Gordon frowns at him from across the table. "We might not have a few days."

"I think we will." It's an enigmatic response, about as helpful as a kick to the shin, he knows. The old man's thin-lipped mouth makes it clear he's enjoying it about as much.

"Then what do you know? Christ, John. I thought we could..." To the man's credit he stops himself, running a hand through his grey hair and staring at him.

"You said yourself we were just here to keep things from getting worse. That's exactly what I'm trying to do now."

"Listen. What I did was not a personal affront to you. You can stay mad at me until the moon sinks out of orbit. This, however, is something you and I agreed upon." Blake's chest aches a little when he leans forward and fixes him with a worried stare. "You're not...in trouble, are you?"

"No. If anything it's going way better than I thought it would." He doesn't reach out and take the man's hand or arm like he would a close friend, still feeling the weight of his leadership despite recently quitting, but he makes the sentiment as clear as he can in his tone. "Please just...give me a few days. I think it'll work out. I've got a lead that could make it so we won't have to do anything drastic."

"You realize you're asking me as someone who recently quit the force?" He says, a touch wryly, clearly aware of the irony.

"No, I'm asking as a friend." He chuckles. "Even though I'm going to stay mad at you until the moon sinks out of orbit."

Gordon leans back in his seat and rubs his mustache, waving a polite yet impatient hand when the barista checks in with him. He was old-fashioned, but he was practical. Even if it sometimes ended up biting him (and others) in the ass.

"Come on. He's practically family at this point, even though he never visits."

Blake can't help but smile when Barbara walks over. Her red hair is up in a messy bun, a bundle of books under one arm and a coffee in the other. She returns his smile with a vibrant one of her own.

"I have no idea what you're both talking about, but Blake's already got my vote." She gestures with her cup. "Can I join in?"

Gordon lets out a sigh that can only come from a doting grandfather and pulls out a spare chair.

"Just talking about how Bane is still eluding us." He says. "Nothing you haven't heard me rant about before."

The voices around them flicker. Blake glances to the side and sees a few customers peering their way. Maybe the coffee shop wasn't the best idea. Like a staged routine they return to small talk until their surroundings show less interest, stalling until the hubbub picks up again. Barbara is pretty good at it for a teenager, engaging in a just loud enough diatribe about the latest scientific advancements in audio technology, pedantic enough to make even an audio engineer's head sink in boredom. Then again, she had always been clever.

"How does he manage to show up in public constantly but nobody can catch him?" She asks into her cup once they have their bubble again.

"One half of the city is terrified and the other half is getting a real kick out of it." Gordon grumbles. "Bane isn't exactly a lone wolf here. Even the Joker's fanatics were far less populated and...embraced..." Blake can't help but perk up -- while they both lived in Gotham since childhood, Gordon was the one on the front lines when some of the most notorious criminals came into power.

"Maybe he's got doppelgangers. Showing up in public all the time but the real one is hiding somewhere." Barbara offers with a glance to Blake -- everyone knew he had a 'brush' with the man, but only Gordon came close to knowing the extent of it.

'The truth really is stranger than fiction'. Blake thinks idly, turning back to the menu politely and earning a disappointed huff from Barbara.

"Well..." Gordon mutters. "...apparently we'll have a pretty good answer as to what exactly is going on in just a few days." He gives the barista his empty cup when she walks by again, speaking once she's out of earshot. "If I feel you're impeding the search..." He looks at Blake. "Just...remember you're a regular citizen now, John."

Blake picks up his mug to get a refill. "Trust me. I haven't forgotten."

--

A few hours of job searching has him burnt out when he gets back home. His college experience sees him overqualified for basic programming gigs in his area, while his relatively short time in the force has him a little underqualified for positions he more deeply wants -- although the easy money of a security guard gig is tempting, he knows he'd hardly last a few months before wanting to move on. Dipping his toes in social work now has everything else feeling half-assed, even if he knows in his heart it's an essential part of the city's cogwork.

Now that his life's chaos had died down (for the most part) he had time to think clearly about what the hell he was doing. Jobless, aimless, in a new apartment and relying on the good graces of a vigilante who was raising an army in Gotham's storm drains. He chuckles dryly to himself as he pours himself a drink and looks around for his watering can. Why the hell he kept it he still didn't know. Surely he wasn't that lonely.

Thoughts about justice and the future itch at him, enough to distract him from even his favorite silent film when he winds down for the night after some chores. He pulls out his phone during a slow scene. Regrets not asking for Bane's number, then wonders how the hell he would confront something so bizarrely mundane with the guy.

"Hey, just want to catch up with Gotham's newest vigilante." He mutters to himself as he sets it down again. "How are you doing? Wanna spar? How about a booty call?"

He gets back up to water his plant, thoughts starting to get more nervous and itchy. The mere idea of a fight between Batman and Bane still sends a chill down his spine. Contemplating the fact Bane had gotten the upperhand and seemed no worse for the wear almost didn't make sense. Batman wasn't some random schmuck with a death wish -- he was an incredible fighter with one hell of an arsenal on his side. About as literal a definition of weaponizing one's money one could get. He had gone toe-to-toe with some of the world's most legendary maniacs. Did that make Bane the most legendary one yet?

The fact he didn't kill him was even stranger (provided Salim hadn't been yanking him around for kicks). The masked man was an unapologetic murderer -- there were no two ways about it. Seeing him casually throttle one of his men was just a taste to what he'd no doubt done to countless others who got in his way. It was an average moment Blake was questioning what managed to spare him, of all people, the man's unique brand of brutality. Even with their now mutual understanding he was thoroughly convinced the guy had been spat up from the pits of Hell and was dedicated on haunting him.

Blake is so lost in his thoughts he almost overflows the pot. He hisses in frustration and tries to tilt the excess water into the sink, slopping wet fertilizer all over his dirty dishes. He turns on the faucet and watches it swirl into the drain.

He locked him up for days on end. He toppled Batman and removed him when everyone needed him most. That should be enough to make him hate him outright. But he didn't. Hell, he far from didn't. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment. It's what he keeps telling himself as he washes his hands and goes back into the living room.

"The hell have you done besides kidnap me, give me wide-awake nightmares and drive a wedge between me and a good friend?" He says to nobody as he slumps on the couch. "By all rights I should've pulled the trigger."

It was easier said than done. He'd only killed one person in his life and it still haunted him years later. Snuffing out someone's potential was something he thought about a lot, particularly during his (now defunct) line of work, even though he never went quite so far as to say it wasn't necessary. Bane made death look easy. He made everything look easy.

The screen blinks fuzzy white and gray. They could have easily offed each other without a clue (though his subconscious notes, chidingly, he would have stood far less of a chance than the other way around). It was fascinating and horrible how something so simple could have grown into something so complicated. Fate was a tricky topic for Blake, one he found himself wanting to believe in despite his propensity for doubt.

He rubs his temples. There was no use lying to himself at this point. He had seen what the man had to offer the city, however terrifying. The right people were inspired. The right people were scared. Maybe he was trying to make it all seem worse than it actually was. Punish himself for being selfish and wanting to see what, exactly, the man wanted to offer him.

It grows harder for him to focus on the film. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to relish in their touch-and-go just a few days prior. How even for something downright impulsive it was clear his, their, attraction ran deeper.

"I have wanted to do this for quite some time."

Blake slides a hand into his pants, stroking himself softly to repeat sensations of the man's hoarse breath in his ear and the feel of his powerful hands sliding up every inch of his bare skin. Commanding as he presses him against the wall with his body, not yielding to Blake's attempt to get them on equal footing, even as he suddenly switches to tender when he drags a hand up his cock and milks him for all he's worth.

He strokes himself faster as he imagines Bane pushing off his clothes. Imagines himself attempting to do the same and ending up pinned again, wherever they found themselves -- against the wall, on the floor, maybe even in an actual bed. He sighs shakily at the thought of the man taking him then and there, still clad in leather and too impatient to undress. Blake was nothing if not a sucker for the way his outfits tended to hug every curve, infuriating in how much and how little they showed. He imagines vividly the feel of his thick thighs beneath his hands as he kisses down the man's hard stomach, the clip of a zipper and the weight of the man's cock in his mouth.

They're scattered sensations, his hungry mind honing in on details faster than he can linger. The masked man reclining lazily as Blake dips his head as far as it can go, the stretch of his throat as he attempts and struggles to satisfy a size he's not used to. The almost painful tightening of his scalp when Bane grips his hair and starts to thrust. He wonders how he would say his name. How the mask would distort the words into something husky and alien. Blake's mind is starting to blank from the pleasure and he grips himself frantically, holding onto these thoughts like a lifeline.

He hasn't forgotten how the man ran a thumb over his lips, somehow the most lustful thing outside of straight-up frotting. The mere thought that he didn't just want him, he's wanted him...

"Let me savor you."

Blake gasps when he comes, grinding one hand into the couch for balance. Bane's amused gaze flits in the recesses of his mind, mocking him for his haste. The movie flickers on ignored as he cleans up after himself, somehow feeling better and worse than before.

The answers weren't easy. They sure as hell weren't going to get any easier.

Chapter Text

Gotham always had a strange relationship with mornings. Hell, daytime in general. If it wasn't smog blotting out the sun it was overcast clouds and snow warnings, like the Earth itself was hellbent on proving a point nobody was even clued in on.

Because of this the city didn't sleep so much as take a lunch break, nothing at all like a small town that actually had a natural relationship with the passage of time. Blake can't remember the last time he had a full night's sleep and he was willing to bet he could throw a rock and hit a person who felt the same. It was probably going to kill him at forty-five, if he was lucky enough to even make it to that age. 'Another good reason I'm weaning myself', he thinks as he lights his single daily cigarette on his patio. He breathes in slowly, trying to last it as long as possible.

Rubbing the weariness from his eyes he turns on the television when he goes back inside -- it's too late to go back to bed, too early to feel like doing anything yet. He flips through channels, warring with watching the daily news and putting on another silent film, and halts when he sees Bane's familiar silhouette on a local channel.

The man is standing on what looks like a retrofitted tank (somehow familiar, though he can't place how), gesturing to hundreds crowded before him in a shifting black and grey mass. While many were young adults, there were quite a few who were older and even a smattering of kids near the front. Barsad is nowhere to be found, a man he doesn't recognize instead standing near Bane and observing the proceeds while occasionally lifting a hand to his ear. The audio is blurred by the commotion -- it takes Blake a few moments to realize Bane is speaking in Spanish. He leans forward in fascination, the man's words flowing like water through the speakers.

"Siempre la gente." He says, still sounding like an aged gentleman despite his sinister appearance. "Siempre el futuro."

His college French classes only catch a few words and false friends, but the fire the man ignites in the crowd is unmistakable. They howl with approval as he sweeps his hands through the air, as if beckoning them and commending them all at once. It's an immigrant district, he recalls distantly, one that was hit the hardest after recent institutional changes. One of his first tasks as an officer involved crowd control during a protest involving low wages -- he still couldn't rub off how dirty he felt when he was commanded to pin down a middle-aged mother when she attempted to break through the police lines, sobbing about being laid off of her job and the tenuous future of her daughter.

"Siempre la gente." They chant. "Siempre el futuro."

Multiple cars pull up in the peripheries. The mood changes from eager to agitated -- the camera starts to shake as it hones in past the swiveling heads, veering closer on the officers that step out and yell indistinctly at those gathered. Like sheepdogs nipping at the heels of livestock they try to corral the audience, many of which are starting to yell angrily and make rude gestures. Neither side budges for a few shaky minutes. Blake's throat clutches -- it's going to get ugly.

A fight breaks out. Bottles and rocks are thrown, smashing into the faces of officers and sending them scrambling to the ground. They retaliate with batons and, to Blake's horror, aim for faces as well as stomachs. Children are hurried out of the crowd. A shot is fired into the air, cutting through the chaos of bodies for a hot second -- any other group would have dispersed or backed off at that, but this district had been through far worse. Bane's presence, as already demonstrated in what was becoming countless videos and snapshots, was like a match on a bundle of kindling.

"Siempre la gente." They roar. "Siempre el futuro."

The masked man watches the proceeds from atop the tank, coat flapping in the wind.

--

It's a common concern of many how he manages to slip right under the nose of authorities despite his size and appearance. It would never be a concern of Bane's.

The masked man would watch carefully edited interviews and awareness campaigns on his off time to learn more about the tall tales being spun about him and his followers, even as they tended to bore him with their redundancy. Some claimed him one of many false leads, a virtual conga line of stunt doubles while the one pulling the strings remained hidden. Others suggested, much to his endless amusement, he was Batman risen again to turn on the city he once loved. He had long since learned people simply don't see what they don't want to see. What they considered one of his many talents was merely a backfiring on their willful ignorance, one he was willing to exploit for as long as possible.

With shots fired and the people justifiably enraged he decided to take his leave, as much to work behind-the-scenes as to encourage them to fight on their own terms. He never meant to be a sole deliverer -- rather, he wanted to help them learn how to help themselves.

He doesn't need a uniform to tell him who's who when he departs. An excess of power and deficit of responsibility has a way of leaving its mark like slop on a pig. Trading his sheepskin coat for his leather jacket he catches a glimpse of a man leaning inside a patrol vehicle, just outside of the main square where the protest continues to rage, whispering hurriedly into something in his hand. Bane studies the holster on his waist, then beckons his two men to move on without him.

"I think there are more productive uses of your time than failing your citizens, officer."

The man whirls around, face blanching when he realizes who's speaking to him. He fumbles for his gun, hardly drawing it out before Bane slams a fist into his throat. While he chokes for breath he reaches in and crushes the in-car camera in one hand. Picks the man back up by his neck with the other and pushes him against the side window.

"I am nothing if not generous." He says as the man writhes ineffectually. "Walk away now and live to see a better Gotham." He tightens his grip. "Or die a coward that would not even let the masses assemble peacefully."

"They're gonna c-catch you." He wheezes, arrogant even in terror. "They're gonna fuck you up. I have a tracking device that will le-"

"Duly noted." He says as he twists the man's neck.

The throes of a beautiful and terrible city.

He unlocks his motorcycle and puts on his helmet. It's difficult not to marvel at it sometimes, this temporary home of his. Ugly in its permanent deceit, all but a stain on his conscience for years, he's nonetheless grown to appreciate it over time. Only through witnessing the hardiness of its communities first-hand did its core brilliance start to truly peek through -- he allows himself to soak in the mingled rage and pride at which the city's residents fought back at the square as he drives deeper into the city.

Blending into traffic is easy -- he slows down just enough to move to the outer roads where cars are less congested before speeding up. Barsad hadn't yet contacted him. It was troubling, considering his strict punctuality, but he wasn't about to dwell on what-ifs. Not with so many already threatening to cloud his vision. At the very least he was going to find out if John Blake was interested in helping them break the cycle.

A strange circumstance he found himself in, but he was pragmatic. The man, with a little more fine tuning, could very well be an asset to their cause. Perhaps more so. After double-checking with his men at their rendezvous he pulls up to the man's apartment complex, staunchly ignoring the nagging pull of hope .

The door is unlocked when he arrives. Strange. The detective may be impulsive, but careless wasn't an adjective he'd yet subscribe. He walks in without another word, silent as death, cautious of something wrong just around the corner. Clipped voices filter in and out of one of the rooms and he can see a scattering of papers on the small table in the kitchen. His fingers twitch as he prepares for an intruder or trap.

Then he sees it.

Despair.

The radio is off and the television plays unheeded on low volume. Half-open boxes litter the floor. Blake is sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. He can tell he's been there a while. He halts in the entryway. The man's head whips up in alarm, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. "Not now." His voice is scratchy as he lowers his head again. "...Please."

Bane watches as the man wipes his eyes and struggles to pull himself together in light of company. Caution roots him to the spot -- he's mindful of the strange thread that holds them together. How easily it could strengthen or snap.

"What troubles you...?"

"...What the hell doesn't." He shuts his mouth suddenly, as if he's said too much, then stands up. He doesn't leave, instead fidgeting and rubbing his hair furiously. A few seconds of silence, then... "Was going over my resume for applications today. Lead me to my resume of failures. You've had a front row seat to those."

Bane folds his hands in front of him. "I'm afraid I don't."

It's a manipulative answer, one that earns him a sharp look, but he knows from experience one of despair's greatest enemies is distraction.

"Oh, give me a break. You're a smart guy. Smart, brutal, fearless. ...Everything I'm not." The man starts to quiver with anger as Bane continues to stare him down calmly.

"Again you credit me with too much."

"You know what I mean." He almost spits these words at him, but it's a helpless anger, one without direction. "You may be a motherfucking menace, but you got Gotham in the palm of your hand in just a few months. I've been spinning my wheels for years. Spinning my damn wheels and having shit to show for it. The city is falling apart all over again and I'm not helping anyone. Not my friends. Not my kids. Thought I could blame you, but it's always been like this. You just popped the top off a shaken bottle. I saw everything just now..."

He laughs, bitterly, and clutches his hair in a white-knuckle grip.

"What, you're here to ask if some nobody former beat cop wants to help you turn the city around? I'll have to double-check my busy schedule and pencil it in-between aimless wandering and fuck up number twenty."

The man is breaking down. All Bane can do is stand and watch, knowing that even a benign wrong move could make it worse.

"The boys thought I was ditching them. They're still worried I'll just...up and leave and not show up again. Again. I can't even blame them. I'm not around enough. All for a career field that did more harm than good. I barely kept those fucks from killing a bunch of innocent people. I barely made a dent in the corruption that Gotham is fucking known for. I barely did...anything. Been here all my life. All my life..."

His arms drop helplessly to hang at his sides.

"Done everything wrong when all I wanted was to do just one thing right." His voice wavers, then cracks. "My parents would've been proud."

Bane stares. There was no true despair without hope and the detective had held hope firm in his heart for years. What he was experiencing was the fall that came from suspending too much for too long, a drop that could see him swallowed entirely with no chance of climbing back out.

"...John."

The more familiar title feels strange on his tongue. Comforting. This jolts the man out of his reverie momentarily.

"Your orphanage looks up to you. Your city craves a genuine soul. Failure is a harsh teacher, yes, but one you choose to listen to."

He's no longer fidgeting. His eyes are glinting -- hurt and exhausted and attentive and hopeful and despairing and so many things he could get lost in. In his mind's eye he can see himself reaching down and out, pressing a thumb and pushing the tear away, mindful of the scars dusting his cheekbone. He watches it trail down his cheek, disappearing into the fine hair along his jawline.

"You survived experiences that would have killed or debilitated anyone else. You made the choice to seek out the truth instead of giving in to ego. Do not be so quick to lambast what you've done for the city, as small as it may seem from your vantage point."

Blake's mouth twists and he looks away, unconvinced and miserable. Vulnerability isn't easy for Bane. He has to collect himself for a moment before continuing, even as every word is a struggle he's not used to.

"You are...not the only one who has failed." He responds with a deliberation he doesn't quite feel. "I could have indirectly sentenced Gotham to a premature death."

Blake looks back at him.

"I was wrong about you...and I fear I am not the only one."

More come. They roll down his cheeks now, his hands shaking as he tries and fails to push them away and control himself. He grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes and fails to gulp back heavy breaths.

Bane had long since learned that what he wants he can't always have. He couldn't have a childhood, sentenced to the pit for a crime he never committed and almost doomed to a life of plague and isolation. He wouldn't live out his years peacefully on farmland or on the outskirts of a small town. He couldn't live without his mask, nor would he want to. Never was an impassive force he had long since made his peace with.

So why now, of all times, did it feel like a brand new horror?

He walks through the doorway, closer to the man emotionally crumbling before him. The masked man reaches out, hesitates, then presses a hand to Blake's cheek. The detective stares at him in shock.

"You have made it clear you don't need to be me or anyone else." He says, softly. "You need to be you."

Blake stares at him with glistening, dark eyes. Then he leans forward and presses his forehead against his collar. Bane stiffens, momentarily stunned. The moment hangs in the air, as tenuous as he suddenly feels, and it's all he can do to just place an uncertain hand on the man's shoulder.

"Tell me to leave." He says, looking down at his mussed black hair. "And I will go."

Blake slowly pulls back, letting out a wet, weak laugh.

"It was always that easy, huh?" He responds wryly, only to suddenly sober and turn away. "I'll...I'll be right back." He disappears down the hall. He hears a door shut a second later.

So Bane stands and waits, still struggling to figure out what exactly transpired. The muffled rush of water just barely carries into the living room -- he's taking a shower. Bane's eyes catch hold of a small bookcase. He kneels and browses its contents, as much to learn more about the man as to provide him a distraction. There are quite a few thriller novels, only occasionally broken up by an encyclopedia or old magazine. He pulls out a dark book thick with dog-ears.

He flicks through it, frowning at the ruined pages -- it's a mystery tale about a boy whose parents disappear in the night. With nobody willing to help him he searches the abandoned outlands that surround his home for clues, slowly becoming more obsessive and vengeful along the way. He reads it out-of-order, instead following each dog-ear in an attempt to figure out what Blake is holding onto and why.

The creak of a door pulls his gaze up after what seems like no time at all. Blake leans in the doorway ruffling his hair with a towel -- he's wearing that same blue and black jacket, a sharp contrast to his light gray jeans and thick boots.

"Let's get out of here."

--

The wind howls defiantly as they glide down the road. The detective directs him toward further backroads, either under construction or needing construction to avoid any potential run-ins with traffic officers or guards. He's mildly impressed by Blake's nerve -- while he would occasionally clutch his jacket during a sharp turn, he otherwise seemed unbothered by the speed. Even comfortable with how easily he leans into each motion.

They pull up along one of Gotham's harbors, partially swallowed by leftover morning fog and the ocean's spray. Bane parks well out of sight beneath an overhang, locking the motorcycle with a thick chain before following the man up a rocky outcrop and across an old dock. The city before them is just distinguishable through the haze.

"Forget masseuse. You'd make a better monster truck driver."

"I'm flattered. My head may no longer fit in my helmet now."

"Then can you hand it to me? Because I think I'm going to puke."

It's an empty threat -- there's a healthy flush to his cheeks and the man stretches languidly before leaning his elbows on the rails. He pulls a bottle out of his pocket, using the cap opener on his keys to pop off the lid and take a deep drink. Bane watches as the wind tosses around his black hair and occasionally spackles it with white. He wonders how beer would taste on the man's lips.

The occasional long horn of a distant boat cuts through the ocean's omnipresent hiss. A city of ten million, yet Gotham somehow had a way of making residents and visitors alike feel as though they were frozen in an abstract limbo. Thick fog drapes around them in sluggish curtains, pushed away by the cold wind only to close back in again with a life all their own. If not for the distant spires peering through the gray the average person could easily confuse the bridge they were on for an island.

The isolation makes it easier to talk, even as the icy breeze clips his throat and churns his stomach. He was never much for cold climates, though Blake's presence continues to have a way of warming him. It's been too long since he's simply enjoyed the company of someone outside his small and very immediate circle. He asks simple questions, indulging in the close space they share and the way Blake's eyes keep flicking back his way with something deeper than curiosity.

"...we were supposed to have a place up on the hills." Blake says in-between sips. "Nice little Jewish community with roots in Gotham's first immigration wave. We had relatives who had been there awhile and planned for us to...well. It didn't happen. Mom got killed in a car crash when I was seven. I think we were on our way to a birthday party. Yeah, it was a party. Can't recall whose. All I can really remember is waking up in the hospital room with my head in bandages being told dad was going to take care of me from then on."

He takes another drink, deeper this time. "Dad never...really recovered from it. Youth is good for one thing, I guess, and that's being too wrapped up in everyday life to really dwell on things. You get older and that flexibility just sort of fades away. He got into gambling after a pretty long addiction to Oxycontin, which he was using originally for back pain...just never found the right resources to pull himself together again."

"My grandmother did her best to get through to him...she was my mother's mother...but it never panned out. She'd babysit me when he was out or cook dinner when he got sick from a bad dose. He got shot one day when he wasn't able to pay off a debt he owed from his favorite ring. I was a little older. I remember that one...pretty well."

His eyes harden, briefly, then go back to the vacant stare of memory.

"She offered to take me in afterward, but I was...messed up at that point. She wasn't exactly healthy and I was just..." He sighs. "...blaming her for everything. For not getting through to him and getting him to stop. It was stupid. It wasn't her fault in the least. She checked on me as much as she could while I went from boy's home to boy's home 'til her illness caught up with her. Never told her I was sorry."

He glances at Bane, as if to make sure he's listening. The man returns his gaze, urging him to continue with his silence.

"I already told you about going through different orphanages 'til Swithin's took me in. I kept..." He laughs, suddenly, and shakes his head. "I kept thinking I was going to find the guy and kick his ass for what he did to dad. Like something out of the movies, you know? Show up on the guy's porch one day, deliver a smart one-liner and blow his brains out. Later find out who crashed into mom and do something similar. Batman was pretty much the fantasy I had when reality didn't line up. A fantasy for everyone, really, but it kept me fighting when all I wanted to do was stay down."

'Well, Bruce.' Bane thinks. 'I suppose you were not entirely useless.'

"College didn't pan out...then there were all those odd jobs afterwards, bumming around St. Swithin's, trying to figure out what the hell to do with myself...the academy was the closest I'd been to finding direction and now? Ha. When you want something for so long, it doesn't really matter what happens. If you don't get it, everything in-between just feels like a waste."

"That is why you stayed." Bane says, hunching forward a little as the cold wind continues to strike them with heavy hands. The motion moves him a touch closer to Blake, their shoulders almost brushing. "Despite your reservations."

"...Yeah." He answers softly. "Nobody wants to think they put in all that work, all that time and effort and blood and sweat, for nothing."

The bottle is almost empty. Bane watches him swirl the remaining contents around in thought. "...What about you?"

Bane glances sideways at him.

"I mean, you do mysterious pretty good...but I've earned a few tidbits about you, I think." The alcohol seems to be relaxing him, though it could be something else causing that telltale twinkle in his eyes.

"Very well." Bane responds. "Shoot."

"Where'd you learn Spanish?" He starts, only to hold up a hand for his pause. "Actually, wait, let me rephrase that. How many languages do you speak?"

"An interesting choice to start with." He responds mildly. "Seven."

He whistles softly. "Where'd you find the time to learn so many?"

Bane tilts his head in a shrug. "There was little else to do where I grew up."

"Where was that?"

"I was raised in a pit."

Blake smiles a little. "Guess we can relate on something new now."

"Fifty feet tall and twenty feet wide."

His face falls.

"...Oh."

"'Hell On Earth', many called it." He continues mechanically. "All the prisoners within could see is the sky. The only reprieve from dry stone and drier air, as hopeful as it was impossible." He looks about him and resists the urge to sigh. "So much ocean still feels alien to me. Nothing moved quite so much where I came from."

Blake doesn't respond. He turns to see the man's eyes wide with horror. In spite of the hardening experiences he's been through he's still soft. It's an impractical reaction and it gives an edge to his next words.

"...Shall I stop?"

He's jolted out of the feeling. He shakes his head.

"No, please. Continue."

"I was there for a significant portion of my life." He folds his hands over the rail and watches the play of gulls on the breeze. "I did not see the outside world until I was a man."

"How did you get out?"

"Talia came back for me."

He stares him down, watching for any sign of spite or doubt that could rise from the declaration. Blake instead looks troubled. Even confused.

"How?"

"She was born there...and the only one known to escape."

His brows crinkle. "Were you...also born there?"

"No, but I might as well have been." Bane relaxes, just a little. "I was placed there for a crime my father apparently committed when I was very young, one my mother and I paid for with our lives. I never found out exactly what that was. Ten different stories, all with wildly different details. I would not learn the concept of closure for many years."

Blake doesn't speak, listening with rapt attention, the pain in his eyes far more fresh than Bane's own.

"The only hint to my mother's place of origin, as well as my own, was through the lilt to her words. Once I reached the surface I made it a mission to find traces of her again. Anything to burn away the past and create room for something new to grow. To Portugal, to Spain, to Brazil, I wandered as best I could in-between my obligations to the League Of Shadows. I eventually found myself in a port town in Mexico. Las Salinas De Los Soles. An old and small place on the cusp of a larger city I spent as much time in as I could."

His memories churn like an aged recording, some details crisp and others weathered.

"My search only found me a distant relative, a cousin that claimed my appearance the work of the devil." He could remember the disgust in their eyes as clear as if it were yesterday. "I did not wear my mask everywhere yet."

He rolls his neck -- the strain of the day is starting to catch up with him, even with the analgesic working tirelessly. The detective's eyes furrow in concern, full of questions, but he stays silent. He allows himself a few deep breaths before continuing.

"Turns out I would find the darkness to be a soothing lullaby for the evils that lurked without. The pit was honest. Unyielding. The light held deception and disease. Even as I wandered the city, a now free man, I saw the pits that held everyday people in their thrall. They may have no cloistered walls, no parched sands, but every time they would try to climb out...they would sink back in."

"Full-time employment, academic acknowledgement, fame...nothing could free them from their torment. I then realized I had left Heaven and rose into Hell. What does a man do, then, with that knowledge?"

He looks down at the detective staring up at him.

"That he had done all that breathing...for nothing."

"At least you escaped." Blake says into the potential silence. "Got the opportunity for something better."

Still soft.

"...I never escaped."

Blake's voice is almost inaudible through the call of gulls and the tumultuous rush of the sea below them.

"Do you...ever want to go back?"

Bane frowns. It's not what he expected to hear.

"...It's fine. You can dodge this question." Blake downs the last of his beer and stuffs the empty bottle back into his pocket. "No wonder..." A thread of irritation courses through Bane at his tone.

"What, exactly, do you wonder?"

"I just...I can see why you view the world the way you do." He bites his lip. "That's really fucked up."

"Your pity is unnecessary." He replies, brusquely. "You have satiated your curiosity. Do not sully it with sweet nothings."

"I don't feel pity, Bane." Blake stresses, watching the car lights blinking in the distance. "You deserved better than that."

"Had I gotten better I would not be here."

"...Maybe." He pulls up his coat a little. "Does that mean you shouldn't ever want better, though?"

Bane says nothing.

The air between them settles into something not quite close and not quite distant. Together they watch Gotham in silence, the sun through the fog dipping below the buildings to make way for the blues on the horizon.

--

It starts to snow when they head back out, the wind twisting and snapping unpredictably. The flow swirls around them from all sides, broken only by the play of wheels and the occasional obstacle. The sky is choking with dark clouds -- a storm is around the corner.

Blake settles behind him. "You mind if we take a small detour on the way back?" He asks as he starts the engine. "I really should pick up some firewood."

"Yes." His skin prickles pleasantly when Blake wraps his arms around his waist, resting his cheek against his back. "Lead the way."

Bane follows Blake's directions beyond the highway and through to a small neighborhood peppered with what appear to be independent businesses and repair shops. Despite the ride being a touch more hectic than before the dark does little to dissuade his sense of direction. He immediately misses the feel of the man's soft grip when he hops off the bike and jogs into the shop. Judging by the enthused greetings that meet him he's a regular.

Bane takes the spare moment to stretch his aching back and neck, trying to sort out the mixture of emotions brewing beneath the surface. Talking had proven almost therapeutic -- he was a secretive man, as he had to be, yet there was a strange sense of ease letting someone in, however briefly. How far was he going to go with this? Perhaps the answer lay in the next few weeks and what, exactly, Gotham would do with his dangerous gift. How Talia would respond to a forcible changing of her views.

Afterwards...

The soft crunch of footsteps signal the detective's return. He turns to see Blake holding a large bundle of wood logs and studying him curiously.

"You all right?" He asks, giving him another once-over before setting it down on the motorcycle's small rack. "Bad back?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"You got me a bag full of vegetables after my romp with pneumonia. I can't even ask if you're okay?" His mouth is quirked as he straps it down, but the worry doesn't leave his eyes.

"Old aches and pains." He says, reaching out and flicking snow from the man's hair. He bats his hand away with a playful smile.

"There's plenty more where that came from. Come on. Let's get out of here before we're walled in."

It's starting to snow more heavily now. Blake grips his waist nervously when they slip a few times along the roads, the downside to their lack of activity the neglected build-up of snow and ice. Despite the biting cold Bane finds himself enjoying the tempestuous darkness surrounding them. That is, until a siren blares. He glances over his shoulder to see a blue and red light following them in the fog.

He can just hear the man curse over the wind.

"Ah, damn it. I knew I should've brought my bike helmet." Blake grumbles. "Just let me handle it, maybe it's someone I know-"

Bane shifts gears. They're just far enough ahead.

"Wait." He feels Blake grip his jacket. "You're not going to-"

He cries out as Bane suddenly swerves to the right and lurches forward, risking the thick layer of snow to slide down the dirt hill into the next road.

"Oh god oh god oh god-"

It's slippery, but years of training have made it little more than another exercise for him. He lets the motorcycle weave its way through the snow, occasionally grinding his boot into the ground to maintain direction and keep them from tipping over entirely. They hit level ground with a hard bump, Blake clutching his waist so hard he's sure he'll leave an imprint in his jacket. He has to navigate a few more uneven hills before they're back on smooth gravel. Once he's sure the path is clear he punches the gas and heads straight into the growing hail. He doesn't slow down until the officer's pursuit is a mere detail and more familiar neighborhoods rise in his peripheries.

"Warn me first." Blake says once they pull up beside his apartment, not even trying to hide his shaking legs. He leans his hands on his knees, panting white into the air. "I wasn't even wearing a helmet."

"Not my fault." Bane responds lightly. "You should have been more prepared."

"I don't think I was prepared for you." He says with a shaky laugh -- Bane doesn't miss the color rising in his cheeks. "You're gonna have to tell me where you learned how to do that, too."

Bane leaves his motorcycle beneath the meager roof and leans in the doorway, watching Blake as he heads straight to the fireplace at the far end of the main room and starts to push blocks of wood inside. Bane looks over his head and pauses at the sight of a small chess on a nearby shelf. He's not sure how he missed it before.

"...You play?"

"What?" He asks, following his gaze as he strikes a match. "...Oh, yeah. It was a therapy thing when I was younger." He frowns curiously. "You're not challenging me to a match, are you?"

"No." Bane says. Blake turns back to the fireplace only to freeze when he adds, "It would not be a challenge, per se."

He holds back a chuckle when the man's shoulders stiffen. He tosses the rest of the matches into the growing fire and rises to pluck it off the shelf.

"Sit your ass down."

Bane kicks the door shut with one foot and follows him. Blake flicks on the light in the kitchen and sets it down on the table, opening it and spreading it out carefully. It's a quaint little thing, just a little old, and looks like it was handmade. The pieces are the original designs rather than spin-offs or artistic interpretations.

"I'll make this quick." Bane grunts as he sits down, leaning forward and watching Blake set up the pieces. He settles across from him when he's finished and picks up a white pawn, only to pause.

"You can go first."

"I insist."

"Who doesn't like going first in chess?"

"Those that know better."

"Flip a coin?"

"You stall."

"Fine." He pushes it across the board, a competitive glint in his eyes. "I'm beating you either way." He rests a chin in his hand and scans the pieces. "Other players used to call me the 'Nightwing' because of how I'd suddenly swoop in with a killer move. You won't even see this coming."

Blake loses in six turns. The man sits and gapes the board in shock, eyes flicking back and forth in an attempt to assess where he went wrong. Bane turns the king this way and that in the light -- he missed this game.

"Okay...okay, rematch. That's ridiculous." He says, clearing the board. Bane glances out the window.

"The snow is starting to rise."

"You can stay until the blizzard dies down. The roads aren't getting any better." He says, moving from the table to go back to the furnace and pick up another log.

"I have braved worse." Bane responds, reaching over and picking up his helmet.

"...Let me rephrase that, then." A creak as Blake opens the grate. "I want you to stay."

Bane pauses in the middle of latching on his helmet strap. Blake hasn't turned around, now prodding at the wood with a poker as it starts to darken and sink into the growing flames.

For someone so blunt he holds out his honesty like a delicate thing. It slowly dawns on Bane that the man wants more of him. Not just his strength, but his weakness, too. It's a startling realization, one only shaken away by the disappointed sagging of the man's shoulders at his hesitance.

"...I mean, it's not a big deal." He eventually says, smooth tone not quite hiding a hint of regret. "I get you're busy."

The masked man sets his helmet back down and rises from the table. He can feel his previous inhibitions slowly and fondly melting away between the time it takes to cross from the kitchen to where Blake is now standing in front of the hearty fire with his arms crossed. He slides an arm around the detective's waist from behind, mindful of his cold mask and keeping it pressed against the clothed crook of his shoulder.

"You don't have to lie, John." He murmurs against his hair. "Not to me."

The detective had stiffened at the sudden touch, only to slowly relax, a shudder that has him leaning back against him. Bane raises his eyebrows curiously when he twists around in his half-grasp to kiss his cheek -- despite being a rather chaste gesture, it makes him ache for more.

"I won't lie, either." Bane continues as he lowers his head so Blake has better access. "I wasn't exactly prepared for you."

He can feel the man smile against his skin. A pleasant little sensation. "Guess we're both a little out of our element, huh...?"

There's no scent for him to latch onto, no taste of the man to linger on his tongue. Instead he focuses on the scratch of his stubble as Blake curls arms up around his shoulders, now eager from his reciprocation, and kisses his cheek and jaw and neck again and again. Bane's leather coat crinkles beneath his hands as he attempts to work off his jacket is somehow loud against the crackle of the fire -- he shrugs it onto the floor, flicking off his gloves before makes short work of the detective's thick jacket.

Blake's breath shakes. Nervous, maybe. Quietly excited. Bane squeezes his hips, then drags his hands up his lean form and makes short work of incomplete fantasies. Categorizing every bump of lean, sinewy muscle. The detective gladly obliges when Bane urges his undershirt off, tossing it onto the floor and nearly sending it straight through the fireplace.

Bane lets out an appreciative growl when he then goes for his belt, pushing his hands down and instead unbuckling him.

"Okay, you need to tell me what's up with that." He sighs as Bane slides a hand between his legs. "I feel like you're messing with me."

"A brace for my back." He says, squeezing gently and making the man swallow back a groan. "I prefer to keep it on as long as possible."

"Okay..." He says, biting his lip and grinding into his hand. "You could've just said so."

He would say he doesn't make a habit of detailing his mobility issues when the detective pulls his hands away from his crotch back to his ass. The heat building in his loins reaches a fever pitch -- even with the obvious implication Bane asks, only because he can barely trust himself not to strip off his jeans and fuck him against the wall then and there.

"Come on." He chuckles. "I didn't shower just to condition my hair..."

"Planning ahead?" Bane says with a chuckle of his own, though it's coarse with lust. "Who are you and what have you done with John Blake?"

Blake laughs again, harder this time, and it's one of the most brilliant sounds he's ever heard.

The room he's lead to is barely furnished and similarly slapdash, but Bane only has eyes for the detective. He lifts him and tosses him onto the bed (much to his surprise) and drags off his briefs, then his jeans. The force of the movement slides him down and he pushes him right back where he wants him, drinking in the sight of him through the dim lighting -- the scattershot, silvery scars flecking his chest, the thicker and more erratic one along his forearm. A map of sporadic violence he follows with his hands in lieu of his mouth, even as he wants so badly to bite his soft skin and leave another.

"Wish I could kiss you." Blake murmurs huskily, moving his mouth up his chest to run along his collar. Exploring his boundaries bit by bit, shying away from the mask still. Bane is not so inhibited, moving two fingers along the scar starting to fade along that brilliant, expressive mouth. His breath hitches, then grows ragged when Blake kisses his fingertips, then draws them in and sucks softly. He would have to feel that mouth around his cock someday.

Sex had been forbidden during his time in the League Of Shadows -- learning how to engage with his pleasure years after the fact had been a thrilling expedition, something he rode to its peak once the organization was all but defunct. He lay with men and occasionally women to work off excess energy after missions, his mercenaries eager to please him in any way possible by offering themselves in private as well as the battlefield. Bane would later become more conservative when these flings created ugly conflicts with unseen consequences down the line, learning firsthand the obsession or resentment that could follow an intimate night between leader and follower.

He would later turn to sex workers to stave off the encroaching loneliness that even fighting couldn't dampen. They were formal couplings, as impartial as a meeting and ending far more quickly. He was familiar with the fear. The way eyes would cling to his mask during a cold and efficient session, and that was if they didn't maintain a long, silent gaze away from him.

Bane knew fear, in all its hues. There was none in Blake's eyes. Fear for reputation, perhaps. Sexual self-consciousness. But not of him.

Bane's other hand moves to steady his hips, only to halt and curiously thumb the small tattoo he finds there. Three birds in an arc. Blake's mouth quirks against his palm, lashes framing his dark eyes so thoroughly as to make them seem closed.

"Come on. I can't have a secret or two...?" He says, only to sigh and twist beautifully when Bane trades hands and pushes a now-slick finger into him.

"I suppose, now that I have you where I want you."

"Ah, shit." Blake's entire body goes as rigid as a pole, breath quickening as Bane spreads his legs and puts his pleasure first. More mutual sexual encounters have been a fleeting occurrence for years, so he's rather pleased when it doesn't take long for him to find exactly what reduces the man to bucking helplessly in his grasp -- one touch and Blake is gasping like a breached fish, eyes popping open only to crush shut again. He curls his finger just so and digs in with gusto, savoring each moan as if they were his own.

"O-Oh. Oh. Damn." He pants. "Don't stop. Please for the love of God don't stop."

"Begging again." Bane growls into his hair, hoarsely, growing harder by the second with each thrust of his finger. He's not sure how much longer he can wait, not with the man so stubbornly tight even through his attempts to stretch him open. He attempts another, only for Blake to grip his shoulder with an urgent hand, the other twisting into the sheets as he attempts to seek purchase and his pleasure both.

"Wait, wait. Got stuff in the drawer." He grits out, face flushed. "Right over there."

Bane grinds the tip of his finger into that soft spot once more, earning a sharp curse before pulling out and reaching over him to the drawer. Blake leans up and bites his collar with a growl.

"Jerk."

Bane pulls it open, flicking away a notebook and pulling out a small tube. The man tempers his bite, kneading at the skin in almost-kisses. Just a little coy.

"Haven't, uh, been with anyone in a while." Blake murmurs against his skin. "Don't have anything. If you do I have condoms..."

"No..." Bane says as he pours a generous amount and slicks himself from base to tip. Blake leans back a little, dark eyes following the motion with interest. "I cannot afford the irresponsibility."

"Good..." Blake murmurs, throat bobbing visibly as he looks from him to his hand and back again. "That's...good." His mouth quirks in a half-smile. "Not, uh...sure they'd fit you, to be honest."

Bane smiles a little, then leans forward and slowly straddles him, erect cock brushing against the detective's. He reaches up and adjusts the flow of his mask, knowing the pleasure will provide a trade-in for the reduced analgesic. A series of soft clicks and the thick brace that wraps around his lower abdomen slides to the mattress, then the floor, his jeans quickly following suit. The man slowly moistens his lips as he watches, then moves eager hands up Bane's thighs as he positions himself.

It's only when he starts to prod against him does he suddenly stiffen and pull back.

"Yeah, it's really been a while..." He starts, a little hastily. For a moment Bane wonders if he's getting second thoughts. Then Blake urges him up, just a little. Bane leans on his elbows as he shifts beneath him and rolls over onto his stomach, letting the new position speak for itself.

For a moment all Bane can do is stare at the handsome man spread out and vulnerable beneath him. The back of Blake's neck grows red as he runs a slow hand along the back of his thigh to rise along the swell of his ass. Travels his fingers up his spine. Marveling at every little detail. Blake starts to shift beneath his touch, an endearing little squirm that has him peering over his shoulder with an expression caught between impatient and something much shyer.

So different. For them both.

"Uh...hey." He starts, voice as soft as the dark, and Bane has a sudden, primal need to be as close as physically possible. "You can-"

Bane can hear the man's mouth snap shut with an audible click when he drapes himself over him, bulky form fitting over his smaller frame with appealing ease. With one hand he hikes up his hip to level with his aching cock, nuzzling his dark hair with the front of his mask before leaning inside.

Blake gasps sharply, the oil working a little too well and slipping him in almost to the hilt. He has to catch himself on one hand and pause for them both. It takes every last ounce of Bane's willpower to give the man beneath him time to adjust -- even as the clench around him is bliss, he knows he could hurt him if he's not careful. Indeed, he can feel him tightening fitfully around him, instinctively trying to figure out his girth, and his breath is sharp and ragged.

It doesn't take long for the detective to grow deliciously impatient, though, bending down like a cat and arching back into him. Bane moves from his hip to grip his ass with both hands and sink as deep as he can into that silky heat.

"That's..." Blake breathes, almost a choke, clawing his fingers down the sheets and leaving hollows in their wake. "...fuuuck..."

It's been too long. Every maddening stroke lays waste to his poise, pleasure almost painful pulling up his spine with every roll of his hips. Steady rocking bleeds into fast, hard thrusts, a rhythm that creaks the bed and dances the headboard off the wall. Much like in the upper levels of St. Swithin's the man tries to control his volume, gasping and hissing into the curve of his arms as he's fucked -- unlike last time, however, they're well and truly alone.

"I can't see your face." Bane rasps against the side of his neck, pleasure-crazed. "I would hear you instead."

He digs fingers into his hip, hard enough to bruise, and pulls him into his next thrust. Blake yelps sharply and grinds his forehead into the mattress, a last-ditch effort to compose himself that barely lasts a second before he's crying out again. Bane can feel his climax aching up and through him, stuttering his thrusts and blanking his mind into nothingness. His rhythm turns brutal as he chases it.

Then Blake suddenly convulses around him so tight he's dizzy, his alarmed howl dissolving into an almost plaintive whimper as he comes along the blanket in erratic streaks, Bane fucking him straight through it. By the time Bane is groaning through his own release he's loose-limbed and exhausted, only just held halfway up by his firm grip. He just barely remembers to lean off him a little when he slumps forward to catch his breath through his mask, chin hooked over the detective's shoulder.

The muffled activity of people below the floorboards jogs him out of his stunned reverie. Bane wants nothing more than to linger inside him, still eager for that unnatural closeness, but he knows better than to ignore his body's needs. He can already feel his spine complaining from the workout, angry little itches that make him twitch as if shocked. So he pulls out with some reluctance and leans on his elbows to better allow Blake to roll over from under him before slumping on one side.

He takes in a slow breath and feels along every pleasured, exposed nerve thrumming through his body before it's swept away by the analgesic. Blake pants softly alongside him, the aftershocks of his orgasm twitching through the bed.

"...Fuck." He blows out a sigh -- he's on his back, limp and shiny with sweat, one arm thrown over his eyes. "I'm not walking tomorrow."

Bane closes his eyes, briefly. He can feel the shadows of bruises on his neck and collar, waiting to reveal themselves properly come morning. The bed dips and rises. Blake has rolled over. He opens his eyes just as he moves his mouth along his chest and laps at the sweat that's gathered there. Bane watches appreciatively through hooded eyes as he makes his slow way up to his throat, close enough that he's leaning over him but still leaving enough space for air to sift between their sticky bodies.

"Good...?" He asks. Bane grunts his agreement, letting the exhausted timber to his voice say the rest. It seems to be enough, because Blake's mouth spreads in a loose, crooked grin. "...Good."

The silence grows weighted. He waits through it, knowing the curious man wasn't one to leave questions unasked.

"Will I...ever see your face?" Blake asks after a moment, tentative, as if the question alone is consequential.

"When I am dead."

A soft snort is his reply. Bane studies him, every detail carving itself into his mind like a beloved line in a book -- the sardonic lines that angle around his mouth, the way his hair now tumbles over his brows and almost hides the pleasant exhaustion in his eyes. The sweat that sticks the downy hair to his neck's nape.

"Great pillowtalk, Bane."

While Blake changes the sheets he tosses on his jeans and boots again to go chain his bike, still mostly sheltered from the roof. A quick flick on his mask and analgesic starts to pump tirelessly through the wires, drifting through him much like the snow peppering the air. He returns to find him curled up and rapidly falling asleep on the now clean bed. Bane watches the rise and fall of his back from the doorway, the reality of the night starting to sink in.

"Hey..."

Blake shifts under the blankets, dark hair peering over the mound of blankets.

"...Room enough for two."

Chapter Text

Blake glares at his coffee maker when it doesn't start.

He couldn't have more than a cigarette a day now. The last thing he needed was a lack of caffeine to top the miserable twitchiness that was already starting to settle in like a disease. He fiddles with it in the cold light of the kitchen (as well as gives it a few smacks), eventually forcing himself to focus his energy more productively when he considers a morning without coffee. Reaching behind and unplugging it he pulls it apart and immediately spots the problem -- the wires are worn out, crooked at an angle that suggests the machine isn't getting the juice it needs. It's an old thing, a past birthday gift from Reilly, and he can't bear to replace it yet.

He takes a few minutes adjusting it, using his rubber kitchen gloves to avoid an accidental shock as he tweaks the wires individually. A faint ree-ri ree-ri sounds somewhere outside the window -- spring might be closer than he thinks if songbirds are getting this active in the morning. Blake breathes a sigh of relief when he turns it on again and it lets out a weak but consistent whirr.

Reaching into the cupboard and pulling out a tin of coffee grounds, he scowls when he peels back the lid and is greeted by air.

Blake opens his eyes to a cluster of silver. The man even wears it when he's sleeping.

He had half hoped Bane would take it off and set it to the side. Instead he just climbed into bed after checking his bike and rolled over like nothing happened. He's starting to wonder himself if the mask is more than just for show. The wires look as decorative as they do functional, hooking in and out of the black like thread, and every breath the man takes is accompanied by that almost-mechanical wheezing. There were inner workings, definitely, though for what completely eludes him. A mic to enhance his voice? Maybe he did have a facial injury that would mark him even more than the mask would. Despite his tired stupor the curiosity gnaws at him and he reaches out to graze his fingers along the front.

The material is far from cheap, further from ordinary. There isn't even the faintest hint of rust, suggesting either a good amount of chromium or some serious upkeep. He's so focused on the handiwork he doesn't notice Bane awake and staring until he speaks.

"It won't bite."

He jerks his hand back. Bane doesn't seem bothered, shifting from where he lays on his side with a soft grunt and observing him with half-lidded eyes. Even naked and tired Blake feels like he just prodded a bear.

"Sorry." He breathes, trying to focus in the weak light. "I was being creepy."

A long, slow breath.

"Good to know the detective never rests."

Blake can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. Come to think of it, he rarely can. He studies him in the blue haze peeking through the blinds, self-conscious of how close they are. This was the part where he should be cuddling close and talking about the previous night. Then again, Bane wasn't exactly some lonely schmuck from the bar. Anything conventional seemed inappropriate, somehow, which wasn't helped by his own vulnerability the night prior. It's still hard not to feel a little embarrassed at his meltdown. He often felt like things were out of his control, but one thing he didn't do was bawl like a baby in front of people. Shit, he didn't even shed a tear when the guy had him locked up with no hope of escape.

Well, it happened. The least he could do was ride the wave out, but now he's tongue-tied and he's not even saying anything. Does he kiss him? Snuggle? Bane could go from gentle to lustful to distant in a heartbeat, and that's when he wasn't making him squirm with brutal honesty.

Roundabout and a little strange. Still wasn't quite used to it.

A few voicemails and a cluster of useless e-mails greet him on his phone once he's settled down with a mug of green and black tea. His stomach rumbles plaintively, but he's already starting to grow tense with apprehension and needs to start his day off proper. There's a lot to get done in the week and he's making up lost ground, to boot. He deletes spam and skims through anything that seems remotely important, smiling at a friendly e-mail from Barbara asking him if he'll be visiting for the holidays.

He reads it out loud in her typical candor. "'Just because the city came down with the flu doesn't mean we can't get drunk on eggnog.'" He reads, trying and failing to pitch his voice. "'Don't tell grandpa.'"

He must have been sleeping right next to the man before, because he starts to shiver from the lack of body heat. Blake shifts a little closer, as tentative as anything, not wanting to inadvertantly screw up something as amazing and nervewracking as Bane sharing his bed.

"I'm pretty curious..." He admits with a shrug. "...but if it's none of my business I'll back off." Under the blankets the masked man feels like a furnace and he wants nothing more than to curve into him and be held. His throat feels thick when Bane's dark eyes flick up and down, assessing their proximity.

"Fulfill your end of the bargain first." He eventually says. "Then ask your questions."

It takes him a moment to realize what the man's referring to. Their exchange all the way back in his cell from what feels like years ago, that weird little moment where they had temporarily become more than casual enemies over tea and an open fire. It's a good feeling knowing the guy's still curious about him and hasn't grown bored over what's become their second fling.

"Yeah, fine. It's only fair." He's close enough for their knees to touch now, as much as he wants to make short work of even that minor distance. "I'm a really pissy person who has to put on a smile so people don't avoid me entirely. Your turn."

"How glib." Bane responds dryly.

"Can't be more interesting than yours. Not every day you see someone walk around with a giant muzzle on."

His eyes suddenly narrow. "Muzzle."

He winces. "That's just what it looks like. Not implying anything..."

Bane watches him silently, the space between them as suddenly wide as a chasm.

He's halfway through his mug when his stomach starts hollering at him with the veracity of an elderly man attempting to get kids off his lawn. With a sigh he takes the hint and gets up to start breakfast, acutely feeling Bane's absence and the still-bare feeling of his new apartment. Should he make something for him when he comes back? If he comes back? Now that he thinks about it, he still hadn't seen the guy eat or drink. Maybe he shouldn't tarnish his reputation with instant noodles and toast.

He's not exactly sure where he rubbed the man wrong, but he does know he wants to apologize for it. Stomach twisting a little he finally throws caution to the wind, taking the initiative and leaning forward to kiss the man's jaw. Bane doesn't move, but he doesn't shove him off like he's halfway fearing. Good. Now for part two.

"I...didn't want to be alone all the time." He says against the man's skin. "I learned that telling the truth often meant you were friendless, at best. A liability at worst. I'll admit, I was pretty surprised when you said that back there. I thought it was foolproof after a while."

Blake can tell he's listening. He takes it as a good sign when he reaches over to move a slow hand across his leg.

"You know that saying, 'You keep making that face and it'll stick?'" The man shakes his head. "Parents say it to their kids as a way of disciplining them. Give them something a little fantastical to make them stop being rude, like sticking out their tongue or crossing their eyes. Silly stuff kids do." Bane looks a little intrigued by this and he has to hold back an impulsive laugh -- it's not particularly funny now that he knows what he came from. Or rather, what he didn't come from.

"I took that phrase to heart because I didn't want the pain of dropping the mask and, inevitably, dropping a friend. People didn't like the angry me. Not adults, not kids, not even the counselors paid to deal with it." His breath hitches when the man traces his hand up from thigh to hip. "So I learned what put them at ease and did it until I didn't know how to show the real me anymore. Smiling when I didn't want to. Joking about everything. Keeping shit to myself."

"Fissures have started to appear." Bane murmurs, knowingly. "You've grown tired of it."

"I really have." He shivers when the man's hand reaches his ass and kneads appreciatively. "Just tired of all the effort, but I do it anyway...never been good at doing what I need to."

"What are you afraid of?" Bane asks, moving his other hand to his hip when Blake props himself onto his elbows and leans in, the air between them much different than it was a minute ago.

"Believe it or not..." He sighs. "...a lot."

"Really." He sounds surprised. "That's one thing you hide from me quite well."

Blake chuckles. "Are you my barometer?"

"I am for most people." He says, tone a little challenging as he moves a finger between his cheeks and strokes him. "Feel free to contest me."

It clicks when he realizes he has actual groceries to work off of now. It really has been a while since he's cooked for himself -- hectic schedules and what he's realizing is encroaching depression made him more deeply acquainted with Chinese takeout and microwaved coffee than he'd care to admit in polite company. He pulls open a drawer and digs through the produce still leftover from Bane's last visit, mulling over the different recipes he could whip up with a tinge of excitement.

Upon finding a yellow onion and a bag of button mushrooms Blake pulls out his laptop and opens it on the counter, scrolling through the first page results on basic omelette recipes. A thought suddenly occurs to him -- he opens up a new tab and enters 'League Of Shadows' into the search bar. He's immediately met with talk show links and the occasional news article, but what pulls his attention is a lesser-traveled conspiracy theory site buried past the conventional first few pages. One on the League Of Shadows and its mysterious reputation over the decades, cobbled together with a fervor by someone who clearly thought they were onto something good.

He turns on a video and gets to work chopping vegetables, glancing over and making sure not to cut himself in the process.

No...surrendering to Bane definitely didn't feel so bad.

There was a strange sense of peace in giving temporary control to someone else, even as a part of his subconscious still railed against the trust he was bestowing this powerful and intimidating man. 'Come on.' He tells his paranoia when Bane slides a finger in him, sending pleasure flickering up his spine. 'The guy might have a thing for me. That's at least a different type of scary.'

"Sorry for waking you up." He bites his lip when he strokes him from inside -- he slides up and drapes himself across his broad chest, enjoying the steady rise and fall of his breath. His thick cock bumps against his leg and he moves his thigh against it teasingly. The guy's hard as a rock and he considers vaguely that control wasn't a one-way street.

"You'll just have to put me back to sleep." Bane purrs, an almost throaty croon that makes Blake's head spin. He leans on his knees, hands on either side of the man's head as he rocks up and down on his fingers. Bane slides against him, matching his movements easily, and it's not long before he's urging more.

"Over."

He obeys (a little eagerly, he notes with some humor) and the man spoons him, warm and heavy and running a hand over his stomach. He missed the feeling of someone's chest against his back, something that cuts so deep in him it nearly takes him out of the moment. Their talk is kicking up all sorts of old concerns he kept sweeping under the rug in light of more immediate obligations -- why he hadn't dated in a while, why he couldn't even work up the nerve for one-night stands anymore. The isolation that chews him up.

He knows he's coming off as clingy with how he twists to kiss him still, molding against him like a lonely cat. Bane doesn't seem to mind, even as he can't return the gesture, holding him firm against him and sliding his thick cock between his thighs. A silent question.

"Yes..." Blake sighs, rocking against him. "...but you have to tell me what's up with the mask." A soft snort is his reply, one he can feel ruffle his hair. Bane spreads him out with one large hand and rolls the slick tip against him, prodding gently.

"I've already agreed, John." The use of his first name sends a tight thrill through his chest. "You can save your bribes."

Oh, he remembers. He also remembers the rather detailed threat he gave the guy afterward. If only Blake from a few weeks ago could see him now. The sheer strangeness of his situation makes him a little nervous all of a sudden and he welcomes the distraction of slicking him up, even more so the tense stretch when the man pushes into him. He's still just large enough to make his stomach tighten with instinctive unease, but he's adjusting quickly.

"I wear it for many reasons." Bane groans against his ear, not quite drowning out his own. "For privacy. For health."

A tiny note of pride sings in his mind at the confirmation, though it's all but muffled by the heat filling him up and making him glow all over. He's glad he got the man to talk, because there's something about the pleasured strain of his strange voice that shoots straight to his cock. Every time he speaks it's as if his voice was traveling the length of the world. One accent blending into another.

"I imagine you drew similar conclusions. How similar..."

Another twist of his hips and Blake is almost writhing, leaking helplessly all over the sheets. Every time he comes close, so close he can feel his cock throbbing, the man eases up. Pulls out almost all the way, then slides back in so slow he's grinding his teeth in frustration. Still toying with him. Blake leans into him plaintively, physically begging, and only seems to amuse the bastard.

"For image, still." He continues as he presses his arm beside his head, raw strength evident even in the careful way he curls his fingers around his wrist. "One that works well for sparking imagination...what was it you called it..."

Blake's breath comes out in tight, agonized pants, trying to push down onto him and unable to budge more than an inch. He might as well be trying to rut against a mountain. In a last-ditch effort he tightens himself around him, a gentle squeezing that draws a sound his frazzled mind can only describe as primal. It's a small and almost painful victory when the guy grips his arm, a bruise he can already feel.

"A muzzle."

He leans in, as deep as he can go. Not enough becomes too much and Blake has to twist again to grind his face against the sheets and muffle an embarrassing whine. He's not thrusting, not quite, simply rocking their bodies together and mercilessly grinding the head of his cock right into his prostate and making him see stars. Bane was too sharp to not know exactly what he wanted, how to get him almost whining with relief with less than a breath. Blake had to work for his secrets and this was one he was all too happy to give up.

It takes longer for Bane to climax. Blake comes no less than three times. The first has him yelping a little too loud, almost definitely waking up a neighbor. The second has him hitting his head back into his chest and cursing him out. The third...he's not entirely sure he didn't pass out for the third one. When Bane shudders inside him he almost doesn't process it, a contradictory and sweaty mess of numbness and nerves. Everything is a cluster of input in his high -- the dampness of the sheets, the slick trail drying on his thighs. The man's husky whisper against his messy hair as he gulps each breath.

"I like your anger."

The onions lay half-cut on the wooden board. Blake watches intently at the images flashing by on the monitor, old newspaper clippings and ancient scripts and brief vignettes from a few decades back mushing together into a visual overload. It would be easy to dismiss it as eager propaganda by a bored part-time news editor, but his mind is already drawing conclusions that wrack him to his core.

Bane talked about an ancient league that found him worthy. While he'd be hesitant to call himself an expert on martial arts, it was more out of respect for the craft rather than lack of trying. He'd studied different fighting forms for years -- a combination of desperation and genuine curiosity -- though it wasn't until he first glimpsed Batman on the news he felt his interest could actually go somewhere. He'd since been hesitant to give it up, even if it was practicing alone or obsessively studying every video he could get his hands on.

He watches a clip of two fighters dueling in a small room, their age and gender indistinct through the video grime and their heavy clothes. They're a flurry, a whirl of violence chaotic to the casual eye and viciously precise to the trained. It's more than their impressive form which glues him to the screen. He can recognize some of their movements in Bane. Even scarier, he can see some of their movements in Batman.

His skin suddenly crawls. He pulls open a drawer and snatches the pistol he keeps there, whirling around and pointing it at the shadow that's appeared in his doorway.

"...Holy shit." He didn't even hear him come in.

"Quite a show." Bane says, amused, eyes curved just so at the corners.

"I could've shot you."

The masked man tilts his head. His arms are crossed, already acting the part of the casual guest even as he still comes off, at best, deeply intimidating.

"If I've learned anything about you, John, is that you're more hesitant to fire."

"Yeah, fine. Maybe knock like a normal person next time, anyway?" He turns and hastily lowers the volume. "I swear you're trying to give me a heart attack."

"It keeps you sharp." The bastard actually sounds indignant.

"Keeps my blood pressure through the roof."

"It was quite calm this morning." He responds, a touch smugly. Blake runs a hand through his hair and looks to the side.

It wasn't exactly going to stay that way. Not with the man wearing cargo jeans, rugged boots and a long-sleeved black shirt that hugged every last muscle like a coat of paint. It was hard enough pretending he didn't find him attractive when they first met. Now he really has no excuse not to let his gaze drag down his broad chest and hard stomach to the faint bulge in his jeans. Bane definitely doesn't seem to mind him staring, his casual stance contrasting with a heated gaze that travels up and down with deliberate pauses. Blake turns and hurriedly goes back to working away at his neglected breakfast.

"So, what about yours?" He asks as he starts the stove. "Blood pressure, that is." Bane doesn't respond. It's likely the guy thought he was still asleep when he left. Blake didn't remember much, that much was true. Little more than seeing him stretching stiffly beside the bed, the knotted scar down his spine twitching like a snake and accompanied by the faint wheeze of what sounded like pain. It didn't take a chiropractor to know he had a chronic issue beneath the bluster.

"Just noticed you left. Hope the bed wasn't...uncomfortable or anything." He adds. It's a weak cover-up. The masked man isn't fooled.

"Nothing you should worry about."

Blake holds back a scoff and flips his eggs. Even sharing with him the nature of his brace and mask (somewhat, anyway) the man was jealously guarded of whatever physical issues he was battling. Maybe it was too much to show he cared. He didn't like to think so. He was the furthest thing from an expert on relationships, but he knew not showing you gave a shit was the surest way to go ass forward.

He chews on his lip at the thought. 'Don't get ahead of yourself, Blake.'

Bane continues to stand in the doorway. Blake glances sideways at him. His eyes are flicking back and forth in thought, looking at nothing in particular now.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He says as he pulls out (old but still good) breakfast sausages and doses them into the oil one by one. "Whatever you have, I'm not going to use it against you."

"I have no reason to think so." Bane responds coolly. Anyone else would take it at face value, but he can feel the dismissive arrogance behind his words -- "You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to." Blake knows the comment shouldn't sting, not with their interactions still tinged with uncertainty, but it does. The eggs cook quickly and he ignores the still-firm texture of the vegetables when he takes a test bite, sitting down at the table and beckoning him to join him. The man obliges and sits across from him with a soft grunt, draping a shiny, coffee-brown leather coat over the back of the chair.

They play chess while he eats. He likes the delicate way Bane simultaneously plucks a piece and replaces it with his own, somehow ginger despite the thick gloves. It was better than focusing on the fact he was losing again -- to his very paltry credit, not as quickly this time. He manages to stall him, even if it's a transparent maneuver he quickly works around. An occasional glance his way and the man seems unhurried, even distracted with his gaze wandering a little before each move.

"Damn, you're good." He growls around a mouthful of sausage when he takes his king. "You'd wipe the floor with regionals."

"I have little doubt. Strategy is more than a game to me." A flicker of dark humor passes his face as he holds up his queen and observes it in the light. "Though I find it enjoyable regardless."

"Enjoyable?" Blake repeats with a frown. Bane sets up the board again, as quick and efficient as a robot.

"Yes. The wear and tear of fighting and sabotage may threaten to pull a man under, but the results make it something I would not easily replace." He picks up a pawn. "No, I do not find it akin to a fantasy romp." Blake's face grows hot with embarrassment -- clearly his time in law enforcement was still raising his hackles.

The next game is a touch slower, as much to analyze his personal failures as to get the man to linger. It's selfish, he knows, but each little mundane moment paints a bigger picture than he's ever had of him. Someone larger than life temporarily brought back to human by the way he keeps his chin in one hand, slowly tapping the side of his mask with a finger in deliberation during each turn.

There's an old affect to the way he takes things in, like he's seen everything before and is just coming back around to reaffirm what he already knows. Come to think of it, he's not sure how old he is. The skin around the mask is relatively smooth, with the crow's feet that build whenever he smiles the only allusion to the years tucked away other than his crafty, somber eyes. If he raised Talia since she was a kid and she had recently come into adulthood...he was definitely older than him, that much was for sure. Bane catches him staring, raising his eyebrows mildly before pushing a piece across the board with one finger.

Blake takes a deep drink of his now-cold tea and gestures with the mug.

"So, has anyone ever beat you at this game?"

"One."

"Who?"

"Talia."

Well, think of the devil. Somehow that's scarier than her knife to his throat. He rubs his neck in remembrance. Bane glances at him, then looks back to the board.

"Speaking of which. Have you...uh..." How does he phrase it? Captured? Subdued? Lectured? Thankfully the man saves him the trouble.

"She returns in two days. I still await my men's return." His expression flickers, troubled, then relaxes back into his usual cool when he catches his gaze. "As well as your answer."

No use delaying the inevitable. He had a one-of-a-kind, limited-time offer to join the League Of Shadows. Even an attempt to do his homework he was met with far more questions than answers, something that kicked his detective's mind into fervent overdrive. An organization of assassins and martial artists that was apparently behind some of the biggest coups in history. Something that's apparently been around for centuries. A group that Bruce Wayne somehow came into contact with over the eight years he's been active. Then again, it was the Internet. There were stranger things put on the average website on a good day.

"It's a pretty interesting proposal. Been doing some reading on it, though I can't exactly say your, uh, league is pretty forthcoming about what it does. I mean, starting the Black Plague? Sacking Rome? You have quite a few funny rumors floating around. I worked my ass off to get under my superiors' skin and all I got was 'hothead'." The laughter dies in his throat when the man just watches him steadily.

"...You're kidding."

"It has a tumultuous past."

"What the fuck?"

Just when he thought things couldn't get any stranger. "You showed no qualms about joining with a force with its roots in silencing dissent from the poor, cultivating warmongering attitudes and even slavecatching." Bane responds, sharply. "I fail to see the foundation for your shock."

"I..." He lets out a hard sigh and looks him in the eye. "No, I know my history. You've got a point. So what's your special reason for getting involved with something this crazy?"

"I originally had no choice."

"So you eventually did."

"Yes."

"And that's different from what I was trying to do how...?"

"Because I chose to kill it." Blake stiffens at his blunt tone. "...and succeeded. I would then attempt over the years to revive it from the ground up, a tree laid bare with its upturned roots and its future naught more than a decaying thing. Only when I realized its potential was secure in its best and worst student did I turn away and decide to reinvent it instead."

'How can you be so frank and still leave me with a thousand questions?', he thinks, feeling a little wild at this metaphorical peek behind the mask. 'Was Batman a student, too? Your classmate?'

"The fanatic and egocentric nature of the League were akin to tumors, each one I cut without regret as I climbed my way to power. You were content to be the omega in a pack that would sooner chew off its own legs than feed its pups. Quite unlike your department, the League Of Shadows had a few elements worth salvaging. The rest, as you have so clearly found out..." He glances at the laptop on the counter. "...is history."

Still rubbing salt in the wound. He tries to sort the flurry of questions in his mind, even as he knows he won't have them all answered over breakfast and chess.

"I mean, Gotham's not the biggest city around. If all that stuff about Rome and London and goodness knows what else is true then why not elsewhere? The world is literally your oyster." Bane's expression quirks. Blake rolls his eyes. "I mean, not literally, literally."

"Change comes from surprising places." He responds enigmatically. "Your little city wields influence far beyond its size. Dwarfs even Metropolis in sheer personality. Host to some of the world's greatest terrors in less than a century. Indeed...why not Gotham."

'That's pretty convincing, Bane.' He thinks. 'You're still not telling me something. Talia's been here for at least two years, from what I remember looking up. You've been all over the world, but chose to actively stay here, of all places, and carry out this massive social upheaval. You must have a deeper reason than the goodness of your heart.' He doesn't like the way the man's gaze bores into him, as if reading his very thoughts.

"So if I joined I'd be your subordinate." He starts.

"Of course."

"Taking orders from you."

"Unless you could prove you're fit for different duties."

"You, uh...usually fuck your subordinates?"

"No." He sounds irritated now. "Do you not take this seriously out of fear or has your past conditioning truly blunted you to better?"

Blake opens his mouth, then snaps it shut shamefully. He wants to tell him he's not trying to be disrespectful, but he's not sure how to phrase it in a way that doesn't sound supremely selfish. That whatever this was, he doesn't want it to end yet. Intention isn't magic, he knows, and he takes a few moments to think out his answer before speaking again.

"No, I do. That's why I left. I left because there was too much shit." He fiddles with the tag on his teabag. "Corruption, power grabbing, just nothing I could stay apart of and still have a clean conscience. Following people's orders, good and bad, still had me doing things I shouldn't have been doing. I respect you, Bane. That's more than I can say for a lot of people. But I don't know everything that's going on beneath the surface. That's not good enough. The truth is the goal. It's always the goal. If I want to be a detective, that's what I'm going to have to focus on. No matter how badly..."

He pauses and deliberates over the truths and half-truths swimming to the surface.

"No matter how badly I'd like to join."

Bane sits impassively with his arms folded over the table, fingers knitted together. Even the songbirds outside seem quieter than usual.

"There's a lot I need to do and joining an ancient martial arts organization is still a little low on the list. I need to be with my kids more. I need a better foundation under my feet. One of my own." He can tell Bane appreciates this callback, the crow's feet around his eyes wrinkling in a hidden smile. "It's not a permanent answer. Far from it. But for now..." He holds his gaze. "I'll have to turn you down."

"...I understand."

Blake shakes away the sudden flood of relief. He's not sure why he thought Bane might be pissed or disappointed. Or both. Maybe it's old conditioning rearing its ugly head, like usual. That or Bane composes himself with care and doesn't let a single thing escape when he feels like it, looking as subdued as if he just woke up from a nap.

"What do you plan to do for Gotham in the meantime?" He asks.

It's hard not to smile at that -- he doesn't miss those last three words. "I still want to do my part to create a better world. It's just a matter of figuring out the best way to do it. For now it's the little things that'll have to help. Keeping my orphanage safe. Honing my skills where they'll be appreciated and not squandered. Eating better." Blake cocks one shoulder in a shrug. "You know, little things."

"A noble goal. Let's see what comes of it in the coming weeks." Bane stands up swiftly and pulls on his coat, careful not to disturb the chess pieces before him, then pulls on his helmet and hooks it in place. Blake's throat suddenly grows dry. Was this the part where he asked when they'd hook up next? Does he just straight-up ask him to come back? He figured he would. That's what he did. Until he wouldn't, disappearing into the muggy void of Blake's past like everyone always did after a time. He suddenly feels closed off and miserable, stranded on an island of his own insecurity.

"I'm expected." Bane says, as if that sums up their strange evening and morning, and walks to the door. "As are you." He opens the door and without another word walks into the glaring morning sun to get on his bike, shutting it behind him. Blake watches him start the motorcycle from the cracks in the blinds, then rubs his hair. He would get ready for the day and fuss over what he should've done or said later. Dropping his dishes into the sink and putting on another pot of water for tea he goes to find himself an outfit for Amir's art show.

It's two and a half boxes he digs through before he finds some of his older clothes, still fitting his lean frame nicely. It's been a while since he tried to look more than just presentable. Amir at least deserved a guardian that fit the atmosphere visually, if not socially. Shit, that means he'd have to brush up on his art terminology, too. Outside of silent films (which nobody watched anymore) and folk music (which often earned him a sneer or two), he was a bit of a scrub when it came to the arts. He appreciated them, absolutely, but it wouldn't stop him from crumpling under a pop quiz. Snobs loved that shit.

He pauses in the middle of trying on a button-up when he hears a sharp knock on his door.

Bad memories creep up into his mind. Thanks to Miranda (Talia, he reminds himself sourly) he's going to associate the doorbell with thinly-veiled murder and fox fur for the next six and a half months. He pulls the kitchen knife off the table and checks in the peephole, stuffing on his shoes.

He opens the door and frowns curiously up at Bane's towering form.

"...Leave something?"

"Of a sort."

Blake pushes his hands under his arms, shivering at the sudden cold. "What?"

"We need a form of contact."

His chest lurches hopefully.

"Uh, you don't exactly have inhibitions about just showing up. I got at least three heart attacks with your name on it." He can't see the man's face, but he can feel frustration wafting off of him. The joke isn't appreciated. He was beginning to realize the guy had more than one short rope -- somehow this makes him more curious than unnerved. "Whatever you want to say, just say it. We're kind of past the whole strong, silent routine. At least, I think so." He shrugs. "I'm not sure what to call...this."

Bane doesn't seem quite sure either. Not with that generous pause.

"A liaison." He eventually says. "Perhaps."

Blake chuckles in spite of himself. "A liaison it is."

The man pulls a pen and a slip of paper out of his pocket, pressing it against the door above Blake's head and scratching something down. The detective shifts from foot to foot awkwardly between his outstretched arms, trying to ignore the stares of the neighbors chatting on their porch across from him. He was still new here and hadn't any reputation besides 'I think that guy's a cop or something', if gossip at the laundromat was anything to go by. Now he had to add 'hangs out with bikers' to the list.

'Reputations are tiring'. He thinks to himself as Bane writes, breathing in the scent of old leather and fresh smoke. 'But they can't be helped, can they?'

"Is this in case I change my mind?" He asks.

Nothing but the faint honking of cars in the distance and the soft scritch-scratch of the pen against wood and paper. Then...

"I wish to see you again."

He can see his attempt to hold back a smile in the reflection of his helmet. "You...asking me permission?"

"Yes."

There's additional weight in his words, one that has his mind scrambling to find a foothold. Honest. Careful. Perhaps a hint of apology. They got off to a rocky start, which Blake would later reflect upon as the most incredible understatement he's ever made. Now they stood at the crossroads of something more, even as the path could so easily lead to a roadblock, a dead end or somewhere else entirely.

Polite to a fault and presenting it as mundanely as a mailman delivering a package, there's a sincerity to Bane's words that makes his breath a little short. Whatever this was, this liaison, wouldn't be easy. He knows. But he made the decision to stop taking the easy way out and he was going to follow it through, wherever the hell it lead.

He takes the slip of paper, gently catching Bane's fingers in his own and holding his hand firm for a fleeting moment. The man doesn't return the gesture, but he doesn't pull away like he's halfway fearing.

"Yeah." He says with a small smile. "I'd like that."

Blake watches him walk down the stairs and rev down the driveway and out of the complex with a lighter heart, which he still partially attributes to the caffeine. He turns and only now sees the paper on his front door. "I've officially settled in." He snorts to himself, suddenly bursting into laughter and clapping a hand to his forehead as he pulls off his first noise complaint.

Chapter Text

Gotham's chill beckons with pale light just outside his window, urging him into action with its usual smug indifference. He swipes a hand across his brow and sorts his bangs into place. Adjusts his cheap suit with a flourish and tries to ignore the scuffing along the sleeves. The daily ritual was a necessity to keep his sanity as well as remind himself of his importance, even when others pretended they didn't see it.

He loathed using the bus, but he wasn't exactly in a position to complain. It was certainly more freedom than the ward afforded him, though he still couldn't say much of the company -- squalling children, rude teenagers and the omnipresent funk of body odor were like sand in his gears, threatening to grind his careful progress to a screeching halt and finish him off. The best minds in Gotham had been his compatriots for years, brilliant environmental scientists and genius architects who had long since earned the privilege of his companionship. Even Ms. Quinzel had been decent to talk to, more for her (enviably, though he'd never admit it) intricate knowledge on the human psyche and less her peculiar sense of humor. She seemed to view everything and everyone as a joke, him included, and it was one of the easiest ways to get on his bad side.

Walking into the firm, he thinks about how he would give almost anything to have just one conversation with someone that could keep up.

Greeting everyone at his meager job is a droll affair, but his reputation no longer precedes him. The receptionist at the front desk offers him condolences on his 'sick weekend', which he responds with a false amount of gratitude, and his superior insists he should have had his work done a day earlier regardless. The man was easily threatened by him and it was little surprise why -- he was the typical slovenly middle management, someone who frequently was reminded of his place and took great pains not to take it to heart. He swipes a hand along his brow and adjusts his collar once the man leaves. None of them would know importance if they were literally dipped in gold.

The work day crawls by with a vengeance, defiant even as he sinks into his work arranging meetings, calling clients and filing insurance information. He pretends to be sympathetic to the thugs and foreigners that make up a notable portion of his clientele, due in large part to Bane's little ongoing coup. Though even he could hardly call it little anymore -- the city hall may be out of commission (he didn't even have the dramatic deaths of former co-workers to look forward to now), but their self-righteous violence had yet to abate. If anything it only made them angrier, resulting in congregations that cropped up around the city like a plague of locusts and took about as much effort to dissipate.

It wounded him to indirectly participate in the slow molding of Gotham from a technological and cultural paradise to a chaotic, grimy, savage landscape more fit for the third world than a hub sharing a sea with Metropolis. The ward had been a physical and emotional barrier from this truth, but now that he was in the thick it was hard not to recall his lavish lifestyle from before. The one he still deserved. He'd deign to rub shoulders with the city's despondent and wretched for now, if only because he was yet to climb out of the pit himself. Once he did...

The main phone rings. He puts on his smoothest candor and rolls preemptive refusals in his mind.

"South Gotham Insurance."

"Good afternoon. May I please speak to Mr. Crane?"

His skin bristles. He peers through the crack in his office door, then glances at the window. There was no way they could have found him. Not when he went through such pains to sink into the fray.

"My apologies. I'm afraid you have the wrong num-"

"There's no need for that." He recognizes her silky smooth voice even before he can recall her name to memory. "You worked with my father a few years ago. I'm here to ask you about your services."

He stands and goes to shut the door to his office, reaching up to adjust his meager collar with a trembling hand.

"You see, I've come across a rather large problem that could use your talents once more..."

--

"Impressive for his age."

"Kids are a lot more talented than we give them credit for."

Blake shoves his shaking hands in his pocket and puts on a stiff smile for yet another viewer attempting to take a selfie with the painting. His yet-to-be-smoked daily cigarette is hollering at him and he's craving a moment's peace outside, but he was going to stick it out if it killed him. At the rates at which the gallery's primary audience were testing him, it might happen a lot sooner than he thought.

Amir's pretty polite as a rule, but even he's having a hard time keeping his cool under the onslaught of stuffy art critiques and jealous parents. He's sitting in a corner now, nose buried in his sketchbook in the hopes he'll avoid a few more questions in favor of his 'burgeoning artistic career' (an excuse that's worked rather well so far). Blake puts on a grin for everyone that walks by his art corner, as much to ease down his own hackles as to keep Amir calm. He would take extra steps to make sure they went easy on him, but overall people seemed more impressed than critical.

It wasn't hard to see why. He had spent nearly three months on these paintings and Blake couldn't be any prouder. Every time he dropped by Amir would always be working on his craft, hunkered over a spare chunk of concrete and diligently scratching away despite the biting cold. Some of his drawings were quick, little sketches scribbled on the side of St. Swithin's behind a pipe or wooden leaning to spare it from the snow. Sometimes Blake would take a stroll around the building, just to see if there was a hidden gem tucked away out of sight. Others were daily affairs -- abstract portraits on the front sidewalk, the occasional cityscape on walls down the street (if he could get away with it).

Even more increasingly...bats.

Blake strolls past a drawing, lingering momentarily before moving on to the next. It's amazing how much his work captured his personality -- he was straightforward, considered by many to be mature for his age, but was still very much a dreamer. Somehow he found a way to nail Gotham's atmosphere with just a few strokes of chalk, standing out among the other kids without even trying. A friend of Reilly's helped him take some high-quality photos with their camera weeks ago and, before any of them knew it, his work caught the eye of a curator.

"Very minimalist." He hears an older woman say next to him. He nods vaguely, scratching at the insides of his jeans and counting each dot on the surrounding wallpaper to focus his attention. Did the decor have to look like cigarette burns?

"Yeah." He responds mechanically. "He's good at using blank space." She nods in approval and he quietly thanks his impromptu art study on his phone during the bus ride over. A glance over his shoulder and Amir's dark eyes are peeking over his sketchbook -- quiet as he was, he was still curious what people thought of his work.

"I'm an art history teacher myself." She continues, adjusting a handbag that could probably feed an entire neighborhood block. "Master's."

"Yeah?" He didn't recognize her, but he was a self-admitted plebeian. "What school?"

"Gotham University."

"Cool. I have a friend who goes there." It's not an impressive answer, but his well for small talk is starting to run dry.

"Not every day you see such an unconventional medium." She presses, tucking her purse carefully under one arm and leaning forward at what seemed to be his most popular piece -- a black and white rendition of Gotham's clock tower surrounded by a halo of bats, drawn on a plank of wood he found left behind the orphanage.

"Well, chalk is cheap." He has to hold back a chuckle at the pun. She doesn't appreciate it, instead looking him up and down and sniffing.

"You mean chalk pastel?"

"...Yeah."

"Soft or oil?"

He's tempted to bring Amir over to answer -- it'd be good practice for future showings -- but the lady's already grating on his nerves and he'd feel like a prick shoving her off on him. It's been nearly four hours and he's seen the crash and burn of an introvert right before his very eyes, with visitors either grilling the boy on his art history (which he addressed with impressive accuracy) or patronizing him with questions more suited to a five year-old than an eleven year-old (which neither of them appreciated in the least). He deserved a break.

"Dry. I mean, soft. I'll ask if he'll get into oils, though."

"Are you his parent?"

"Guardian."

Her thin eyebrows raise predictably. Most of the Swithin's boys were used to such reactions (only three had regular contact with biological family members), which makes him wonder how they would eventually handle an additional parental presence in their lives. Reilly may have stopped asking him about his dating success (or lack thereof), but he would occasionally sneak in a benign question about his social life. He could see the logic -- another adult regularly involved in the orphanage's comings and goings would be good for everyone involved.

With a start he imagines him and Bane jogging through the park downtown in the fashion of a wellness commercial, Joel swinging from their outstretched hands. She gives him a look that's more than a little affronted when he starts snickering uncontrollably and he has to assure her he's not laughing at her expense.

They go back and forth over his work, as much as he can both out of his element and feeling rather soured by her judgmental jibes. What seems to be her husband finally walks over and hooks an arm in hers, nodding at the wall. "Not everyday you get chalk doodles at La Montagne. Most kids here are taking oil painting lessons." He laughs heartily. "Points for creativity, right?"

'What, the ones only snobs like you can afford?' His skin is seriously starting to itch now. 'Luckily for him, money doesn't buy talent.' "I mean, the best art is the most honest kind, right?" He responds cheerfully. "I'd say he's way ahead of the game."

They visibly shape up at someone over his shoulder. Blake turns just in time to see Barbara walk up in a sharp pencil skirt and thick sweater, messy up-do suggesting she's either going to class or taking a break in-between. "He really is. I could see him headlining at the Gotham Gallery in a few years' time."

"Barbara Gordon?" The lady asks with a gasp. "I didn't know you were involved in art, too!" Blake doesn't miss the almost accusatory glance his way, as if he were obligated to detail all of his contacts at the drop of a hat.

He stands to the side gratefully as Barbara gradually titters and preens the couple away with societal niceties and humble-bragging. Being the granddaughter of the city's Commissioner and a borderline child genius had its way of making people fall in line, even if it was only to preserve their own self-image. "Where's Reilly?" She asks once they're out of earshot. "He must be beside himself right now."

"Oh, he's sick. Came down with the flu. It's a shame, he really wanted to go." Blake gives her his best pout when she frowns sympathetically. "Now I have to make the famous Reilly soup." Amir moves his hand below his neck as surreptitiously as possible from where he's sitting, earning a snicker from Barbara.

"Oh, come on! He can't be that bad." Amir stifles a laugh and she looks to Blake, scandalized.

"Yeah, I'm a little out of practice." He admits. "I'm gonna have to consult the book. Gonna be cooking for the boys tonight, too."

"Well, on the upside that'll be good practice for the cutie you met." He gives her a curious look and she holds up her hands. "Sorry! Reilly told me you're apparently seeing someone."

"Well, I must be real special if Reilly's making me the subject of his gossip now." He snorts. "Normally he sticks to tabloid conspiracy theories and the daily news."

"So...you're not confirming because you are seeing someone...?" She presses slyly. If Gothamite's loved anything more than sports and the ocean, it was good gossip. He puts an arm around her shoulder as if to whisper in her ear. She leans forward eagerly.

"Really? Amir's event is today and you're talking about me maybe dating?"

She scoffs and shoves him away. "Using the kid to dodge an honest question. That's low."

He grins. "It's true."

Amir gets up and walks over to them, clearly eager for familiar company. Barbara gives him a tight hug and gestures to the photos on the wall. "I can't believe you did all this, Amir. You honestly put my Creative Drawing teacher to shame."

"Thanks." He mumbles with a shy smile. "It's just stuff I did after school."

"Really? You have a better work ethic than most people I know." She pats his shoulder. "Don't work too hard, though. You're still a kid."

Blake makes a face from where he's leaning on the wall. "Coming from the nineteen year-old at Gotham's most prestigious university?"

She sticks her tongue out where Amir can't see. "That makes it all the more viable. Also, I'll be twenty in a month."

"So, a hypocrite for another month."

"Eat me."

One of the adult visitors has what seems to be their daughter in tow, her pudgy face in a stern pout over some little feud. They're not-so-subtly directing her to where Amir is standing in an attempt to get them to interact. Amir gives him a helpless look and Blake encourages him to chat with an artist his own age, if only for a few minutes. He moves with Barbara over to the window to talk below the hubbub while the boy slinks over and attempts to make nice.

"Seriously, though...you doing all right?" He asks as he politely accepts a drink from one of the waiters. "That's a lot to have on your plate. Especially with the Commissi..." He pauses. "...Gordon getting cracked down on."

"It really got to him. He's been in the force for over thirty years, but I've never seen him like this." She sighs. "When...he...outed him..." She doesn't need to namedrop Bane -- the absence of his name in polite company was practically a title in of itself. "...he all but shut himself away outside of work. He's always been a workaholic, but I actually found him asleep in the car when he came to visit on Saturday. Wouldn't answer me when I asked if he nodded off while driving."

A pang of concern runs through him. "I still can't believe he did that." She continues. "He's always been such a straight arrow. Seems like something Foley would've done, if I'm being honest." She glances at him. "You think...someone else could have put him up to it?"

Blake frowns. "I know you don't want to believe your grandfather screwed over a bunch of people with his good intentions. I didn't want to, either."

"He just wanted to give Gotham a hero."

"And we ended up with the completely wrong one." He downs the rest of his drink and tosses it in the garbage. "A psychopath who got caught blowing people up and attempting to murder children while the one we thought was on our side vanished and brought more questions in his absence. Batman thought it was worth keeping people locked up under a false act to keep a murderer and the Commissioner in good standing. We've seen how well that's worked out."

Barbara twists the hem of her sweater uncertainly. Sometimes it startles him how young she is. "Gordon is an exception to the rule and even he winds up doing some messed up shit." He finishes. "You don't need to be a bad person to do bad things."

"No..." She says after a moment. "...I suppose not."

"I wasn't just teasing back there." He puts a hand on her shoulder. "You've got enough on your plate without taking on his problems, too." He can tell it's not something she plans on internalizing anytime soon. Not with the doubt still quirking her mouth.

Amir drifts back over to them with high-pitched chatter at his back, looking thoroughly worn out. Blake puts an arm around his shoulders and gives him a gentle shake. "You doing all right?" The boy shrugs affectedly, though his eyes suggest he's anything but. He takes him to a bench just outside the gallery door and lets him sort through his thoughts, breathing in the cold air that greets them.

"The other kids are saying...Batman was just a crazy man in a suit." Amir starts. "That I'm also crazy for using his symbolism in my work." He lets out a frustrated sigh and scuffs his shoe on the sidewalk. "They wouldn't say that if they knew what he did."

Barbara and Blake sit on either side of him, exchanging knowing looks.

"The curator asked me why Batman's an inspiration in my work. You know, for my artist statement. I told him that I thought he was amazing. That maybe..." He looks a little embarrassed. "...maybe if we all showed we still cared, somehow, it'd bring him back. He didn't think it was weird, but I guess they did." Blake holds back a chuckle when he mutters, "I hate kids."

"It's not silly at all." Barbara says, a heated look in her eyes. "You're keeping an ideal alive through your work. That's important." She looks at Blake. "Right?"

An ideal. It's what set people apart from one another -- what they did, or what they didn't, stand for. He thinks of what Bruce Wayne told him during that chance car ride from what seemed like eons ago. How he had allowed him a glimpse behind his mask only to encourage him to keep his own. Gordon's attempted pushback in a toxic system that got more poisonous by the day. Bane and his ongoing, bloody campaign for justice. The ground beneath his feet feels floaty and it takes a great effort to ground himself in the moment.

"She's not wrong..." He starts, choosing his words carefully. "...just make sure that, whatever you choose to stand for, you go all the way."

Barbara gives him a smirk and he rolls his eyes. Amir nods in understanding, fiddling with the worn pages of his book. They sit together in silence for a few minutes, watching cars inch by on the downtown street and people mill together back and forth on the sidewalk.

"If Batman doesn't come back..." Amir suddenly says, looking over his shoulder at the drawings coating the walls inside as if somehow they hold the answer. "...do you think anyone will take his place?"

--

They wind up leaving the showing a little early, partially out of sympathy for Amir and partially because he's already short on time. Barbara tells him to take it easy as she hoists her book bag over her shoulders and steps onto the intercity bus back to the University, though not before Blake pushes a $20 in her pocket and tells her to stock up on mochas.

Thanks to Bane's donation he and Amir only need to visit one store to get the food they'll need for the night's dinner. Whether or not he would actually show up for dinner was anyone's guess -- the man's schedule was tight as a jar lid and Blake knew better than to take his overnight stay for granted. Still, he wanted him to be more than a sporadic addition to his life. He reassures himself the occasional casual invite through text wasn't as silly as it looked.

Shopping isn't like it used to be. He has to submit to a full-body patdown before he's allowed to browse the fruit section (blueberries for Joel, anything bursting with vitamin C for Reilly), his bag held at the door for good measure. He can't help but feel like he's bringing home spoils from an expedition when he kicks open the door to St. Swithin's and announces his return. The boys dutifully relieve him of his bags, save for Tiya who tries to sneak away one of the tomatoes.

"Hey!" Blake says as best he can with his vision obscured by lettuce leaves. "Don't spoil your appetite."

Reilly is sick as a dog upstairs, cutting a rather silly figure when he tries to compose himself in an old sweater and slacks. "Make sure Tiya takes his medication..." He mutters groggily. "...and tell Finn not to stay outside too long or he'll get a damned cold, too..." Blake promptly turns him from the doorway and marches him back to bed, assuring him the place won't burn down while he's in charge. What he doesn't tell him is how he's burning out and fast. Training in the morning, job-searching, the art show, driving and shopping has him exhausted and it's all he can do not to show it when he goes downstairs.

"I'll make us something nice in a bit." He calls out when he jogs back downstairs. "I'm going to grab thirty. Don't let me oversleep, okay?" He places a solemn hand on Amir's shoulder. "You're my alarm clock."

He gives him a hearty salute. "I won't let you down."

Blake's hardly kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the couch before he's out like a light, even as he desperately wills his body not to get too comfortable. Nearly twenty years in St. Swithin's and there was a sense of peace he didn't get anywhere else. He breathes in the familiar scent of the living room and flits peacefully between half-dreams and memories as musty and soft as the blanket one of the boys tosses over him.

Scattered dreams of hallways, of houses. Familiar voices and ones he no longer remembers pitching out of each door he passes. He can hear his mother in one of them. Calling to him for help changing a light bulb. He lets himself pad through endless hallways with a ball of light cradled in one hand, a scene frozen in dream-time, and assures himself he'll eventually turn the right corner and see her. See the way her cheeks crinkle whenever she smiles, even though she always hated the way her age showed.

It's only when he hears a voice that doesn't belong to her or old friends or the kids does he jerk into wakefulness.

"Where'd you learn how to make that?" He hears Emanuel say down the hall.

"Morocco." A melodic voice responds.

"Woah, you've been to Africa?"

Who the hell...? He bolts to his feet and runs to the kitchen, hand on his pistol, only to freeze in place at the sight of Bane cooking with the boys. The masked man turns and waves a bright orange hand.

"Good of you to join us."

Blake has to blink the scene into coherency. Steam from multiple pots swaths the entire kitchen in a warm fog, the boys camping or leaning in their favorite spots -- Tiya as close to the food as possible, Jay lounging with his feet on the table (which he immediately drops at the sight of him), Amir hovering in the background. His eyes water from the spices drifting in the air, untrained nose still picking out the strong scent of curry among onions, tomatoes and something sweet he can't name.

"Yay! Blake's awake!" He hears Joel well before he sees him, staggering a little when the boy jumps out of the steam cloud and hugs him around his waist.

"Behnam's a real good cook." Tiya says from where he's refilling his glass of water. "Barely let me sample anything, though..."

"Behna...?" Blake starts to say, only to pause. "Oh, yeah. He's a great...actually, I've never had his cooking before." He struggles to sort through the mixture of paranoia and relief swimming up to the surface now that he's awake. Bane's helmet is still on and his riding jacket is draped over one of the dining room chairs, sleeves rolled up halfway as he neatly chops up garlic on one of the cutting boards. Every time he thought he was starting to get a handle on the guy he'd throw him for another loop. He didn't think he'd actually drop by on an actual invitation, much less start cooking.

"Did you...get everything?" He runs a hand through his hair, feeling extremely silly and out-of-place.

"Sadly, the parsley has gone missing." He says cordially, gesturing to the boys. "They, however, have been incredibly helpful."

"How long have I been out?"

"Two hours." Blake groans. Amir tries to hide his face behind his sketchbook.

"Don't blame him." Bane says as he pushes minced garlic into one of the pots. "I told him not to disturb you."

"Of course not." He gives Amir a smile when the boy peeks over the pages, taking a step into the kitchen. "Anything I can do to help?"

"It is nearly done."

"Has Reilly eaten?"

"Yes."

"Oh." He's grateful, yes, and disappointed all the same. He'd promised to finally spend some quality time with all of them and he just had to be done in by a nap. Bane seems to notice his silence, looking at him briefly before turning on the faucet to rinse the orange from his hands.

"The finishing touch has not been applied yet." He pauses to search for the right word. "...Dessert."

"The finishing..." Oh! He walks in and tugs open the pantry, grabbing the box of blueberry muffin mix. Joel squirms excitedly when he pulls out the blueberries, reaching out for them and immediately pouting when Blake holds it out of reach. "Hold on. Let me set everything up for you."

Bane steps to one side to let him take over, meticulously wiping his hands off with a rag. Sleeves still up (and showing off his arms rather nicely), he moves behind him and leans one hand on the counter to watch him work. Blake's face grows hot when he feels the eyes of the boys on them.

'And so turns the rumor mill.' He thinks wryly, even as his chest grows warm from Bane's quiet attention. It takes him a minute to find everything and he debates whether or not Joel should use the electric whisk or manual. He rinses off the cutting board, careful to ever so gently brush his ass against the man's crotch when he sets it on the stand to dry. He can just hear Bane's breath grow hoarse under the helmet -- check and mate.

"Sleep well?" Bane asks, voice just a little husky.

Blake swallows hard when the man leans forward a little, a warm and solid weight just behind him, and slides his other hand down his side to where his tattoo is. He should probably be more subtle considering the company, but Bane is here and cooking for his kids and ruggedly handsome and he's not quite sure if he's still snoozing on the couch and dreaming all this up.

"Fantastic."

Bane's presence is always encompassing, even when he's doing something as simple as standing in the kitchen and watching him cook. Something heavy like the moments before a storm, weighted and consequential and just a little too vague to pin down. It's unnerving, even now, something he either couldn't hide (what with his hulking size) or didn't care to. The boys could sense it, too, pretending to be busy yet looking over to them with barely constrained fascination (except for Jay who blatantly gawks from where he sits on the couch with Tiya).

Blake wonders what they'd think if they knew he was the reason he vanished in the first place.

'Then again, he held me hostage specifically so I wouldn't act out my orders.' He thinks as he rinses off their largest bowl. 'Guess that makes me the reason.' He's not sure the boys would be so forgiving. Not when it was their big brother in question. It was hard to fault them, especially since he always tried to keep the nastier aspects of his job hush-hush so they wouldn't have yet more to worry about. They'd have little reason to think he'd be part of any problem. Which was, in of itself...a problem.

"Banen, watch me, okay?"

"It's Behna-" He starts, only for Bane to stop him.

"It's fine."

He can't figure out the man's strange tone, but he doesn't object. Only Amir seems to be visibly concerned, constantly looking over at Bane while he sets the table. Even when Blake raises his eyebrows at him to speak his mind he simply goes into the living room and hunkers over his sketchbook again. The counter is now finished for Joel, who had been bouncing impatiently on his feet all the while and insistently showing off his clean hands.

"You're all set." He says, chuckling when he scrambles up the stool and dumps the mix into the bowl. Bane stands silently behind him, not moving or offering any commentary. It's startlingly domestic, something that makes him wish so badly he could see the man's eyes. What, exactly, he thought of something like this. Only the omnipresent hand on his hip and the calm rise and fall of his chest against his back gives him any clue.

"...I think that was the opposite of a heart attack." Blake says eventually. "Not sure if there's a term for that."

"You seemed startled enough."

"Well...a little. You didn't actually tell me yes."

"I don't make promises I can't keep."

Hell if that wasn't the truth. He's feeling a little giddy from it all and wants to give the man a kiss, but he's all but covered head to toe. So instead he just leans back against his chest and looks up at him. "Well...thanks for stopping by and making us vegetable curry out of the blue." Now that his senses had acclimated the food smelled incredible and his stomach was making no bones about announcing it to everyone in the kitchen. Joel giggles each time it grumbles, though his attention remains fixed on the blueberry mix.

He wonders if Bane ever cooked for his daughter like this. He pushes away the thought -- he didn't want to sully his fantasy yet. As if summoned Finn walks in and asks nervously about the best way to get nails out of tire without adding further damage. Blake glances up to Bane with a suggestive look -- what he doesn't do is reprimand the kid for driving illegally, not when the evening is going so well. He makes it clear with a raise of his eyebrows it's a talk they'll have later, however, which Finn pretends he doesn't see.

"He talks funny." Tiya remarks when the door shuts behind them. Jay nods in assent -- Blake signs for him not to take Tiya's behavior at face value, then points to the kid in question.

"You: be nice."

"But I like it. He sounds like a weird teacher." He scrunches his face. "Is he a teacher? 'Cause..."

"No, he's not a teacher." He frowns. "Well...sort of."

"Blake? Blake?" Joel says, suddenly agitated. "Book says it needs mar...marger..." He struggles to sound it out. "It looks like butter. Do we have this?"

Damn. He must have left it in the car. Blake tells him to hold tight and jogs outside, Tiya still calling out questions from inside the house.

"So where'd you meet him?"

"That's a long story!" He yells as he unlocks the door. 'It was supposed to be a normal day. Then Gordon vanished.'

"Is he...you know..."

"That's pretty vague, Tiya!" Nothing on the passenger seat. 'Shit, I don't know. There's so much I still don't know about him, much less that.'

"Where'd you meet him? Jay asked this question, not me."

"Gotham!" He pushes through trash on the bottom seat. A spare cigarette? He wonders if it's still good, crumpled as it is. 'In a storm drain.'

"What's he do for a living?"

"He freelances. Is this twenty questions, Tiya?" 'Mercenary. Assassin. A damn good cook.'

"You like him?"

"I don't make a habit of inviting people I hate to dinner!" 'I'm...'

"Will he come over more often?"

'I shouldn't make promises I can't keep.'

Tiya finally goes quiet. He was likely distracted rather than bored, but he thanks his rare good luck regardless. He finally finds the stick of margarine on the car floor, still cold, and does one last once-over to make sure he didn't drop anything else. A sudden cry from inside jerks him upward, hitting the back of his head on the car roof.

'Fuck!' He slams the car door shut and runs into the kitchen to see Joel standing over the spilled mixture.

"I dropped it..." Tears roll down his cheeks.

"I tried to tell him not to pick it up. It's too heavy." Tiya says with a huff, though he's bouncing on the heels of his feet guiltily. Joel starts to cry at that and Blake throws him a sharp look before giving his sore head one last rub and leaning down to the boy's level -- it must've been a hard trip, as he's covered head to toe in blue.

"Hey, it's fine. We can make another-" He starts.

"I don't wanna. I wanna stop. I don't wanna."

He sees Bane pause in the doorway out of the corner of his eye, Finn frowning sympathetically beside him. Blake keeps his attention on Joel, now attempting to rub his eyes with flour-covered hands. "No, don't do that. That'll sting. Here, let's wash you off." He picks him up, careful not to slip on the goopy mess, and heads straight to the bathroom. He eschews the sink and goes straight for the tub, fiddling with the knobs for an ideal temperature while Joel quietly peels off his shirt.

He's disappointed and embarrassed, back pointedly to the door as warm water fills up the tub. Blake sighs and rinses off his hands in the flow, keeping the stopper off half-way to let the grime drain. "They can't all be winners, Joel. We'll try again another time, all right?" The boy doesn't meet his eyes, halfheartedly wringing a bar of soap in his hands. Blake softens his voice as he lathers the flour out of his hair. "The batter looked amazing."

Progress didn't come in a day. He was starting to internalize that wisdom now more more than ever. He thinks about the near-silent boy he met at the domestic violence shelter months ago. How he didn't even feel comfortable sharing his feelings beyond one-word answers, much less crying in front of others, even though the papers Blake was given told him he had more than enough reasons to.

"I didn't mean to." Joel mumbles, closing his eyes when Blake fills a cup with water and rinses the shampoo out of his hair.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

He can hear the gentle clinking of dishes outside the door. The boys must be cleaning up the rest of the mess. Joel suddenly stands and hugs his neck tightly, slipping a little in the water. Blake hooks an arm around his shoulders and holds him close, ignoring the dampness soaking into his shirt.

"You're okay."

--

It's been years since he's been surrounded by so many children.

Yes, he and his men had their occasional encounters with child soldiers and orphans during their travels. Kids not unlike the St. Swithin's boys, bonded together through circumstance and hardship. Even then, taking care of children outside of Talia had never been his jurisdiction -- Barsad was far more inclined to family dynamics than him, his past experience as both a husband and a father better preparing him for their emotional demands.

Talia alone had required an incredible amount of his energy, both physical and mental. She had been one girl -- staring at all the boys before him, he finds it no small wonder how John manages.

His first visit had been a brief introduction. The second had been just a touch longer, if only to acquaint him with the Father that oversaw the organization. Now he was suddenly in the thick of these boys' daily lives and finding himself both fascinated and deeply cautious. Judging by their eager greetings and wide berths, they felt very much the same.

"Who'd win in a fight, you or Blake?" One of the children asked when he took off his coat and hung it by the door, a gawky little brown boy with a flurry of curly hair that always fell in his eyes. One of their peers had smacked them in the arm at that, though it did little to dissuade him.

"Fights take on many forms." Bane had answered, as easy as it would be to give him a more straightforward response. 'I won our battles, yes, but I'm afraid the war is in John's favor.'

"A fist fight!"

"Oh, geez. It's always a fist fight. Tiya watches too many movies." His peer said, apologetically, attempting to collect his sibling with the grace of someone a few years older. He later learns the boy's name is Finn, who soon disappears somewhere out back when he realizes Bane is staying awhile and can fill in as a mature presence. The masked man had walked through the old and cramped building (Joel trailing close behind), acquainting himself with its little details.

Antique furniture clashed inelegantly with modern replacements. Everything creaked, above and below, and voices quivered through the halls. Drawings covered much of the walls -- he thought back to the sketch he had seen in John's room, a child's rendition of the man with black bat wings. The metaphor wasn't lost on him.

He eventually found John laying on a sofa in the living room with his back to the entryway, curled up and sleeping deeply under a fluffy pink blanket. Watching the rise and fall of his back had him feeling a rare pang of regret -- he would never feel guilt over what he did to the man, not with the knowledge he had worked with at the time, but memories of him coughing up water and clutching his dislocated shoulder weren't ones he'd look back on fondly.

The pallid note of his skin deep in the storm drains, the warm sheen of his bare back in a heap of blankets in his apartment...it had made for strange deja vu. The detective somehow managed to reach in and shake him without even touching him. It made him realize he shouldn't be here. Bane's fighting instinct could pick up on the the tentative energy of the place like electricity, the hard-won camaraderie that fought to make itself known through the peeling walls and creaking floorboards. It wasn't a place for people like him. Even then...

"You said you want to save Gotham, right?"

"We're having dinner soon." A boy named Amir had quietly told him from a corner of the room. "You're welcome to stay if you like."

"This is Gotham."

Joel had asked to be picked up again during his meditative silence and he had obliged, perching him on his shoulder and letting him curiously feel his helmet. Other boys had begun to cluster around him at that, tentatively feeling for purchase around a mostly-stranger, and it was hard for Bane not to feel suddenly, viciously protective. The future was something he fought for and children were a living embodiment of the concept...and yet, he had hardly come into contact with any since he first made his home beneath Gotham.

"You ride bikes?" Joel piped over his head. "Is it scary?"

Amir had walked over and had attempted to shake John awake. The man was clearly exhausted, hardly budging and simply rolling over to press his face against the back of the sofa.

"Let him rest." Bane had said.

"Really? He said only thirty minutes."

"He's a stubborn man. I doubt he would sleep at all if he could help it." The boy had fidgeted in disappointment, prompting him to then ask, "Why thirty?"

"He was going to make dinner."

"Allow me."

Their excitement had been palpable. The boys immediately started looking to one another, grinning eagerly at this new development, and moving into positions around him. Their discipline is scattered yet sincere (another sign of the detective's influence, he thinks), handing him utensils and pulling out vegetables and giving orders to one another like a flurry of songbirds. Despite them snickering and joking and barely keeping their voices down to a murmur, John simply yawned and slept on.

He learned a great deal about the St. Swithin's boys, categorizing their traits as he would notes in a book. Tiya was arrogant and full of life, as quick to exasperate his peers as to make them laugh. Amir was mature for his age, calm and eager to help even as he kept to the outside of the group. Saroo, Jay, Christopher, Jae-Sun, Tim, Jai, Emanuel, Jamal, his already impressive memory has no issue finding a space for each of them. Joel, the youngest as far as he could see, still seems enamored -- even setting him down he drifted around him like snow, never wandering far.

At one point he pat him on the leg for his attention, a move apparently considered bold by the others judging by their gaping mouths.

"Blake said he's gonna make muffins with me today." The tiny boy carried a book with him, all but choking with makeshift bookmarks. "Is he gonna wake up soon?"

"Yes." A roll of his sleeves and old memories had threatened to make themselves known again. "Until then, tell me about your project."

Joel had bolted off at that, returning with a stool and setting it beside him. Even on his toes he couldn't reach his shoulder, but the added height seemed to give him fire.

"I wanna be a cook someday, but I can't even make bread." He could see some of John in the way he pursed his lips in consternation. "It's sad."

"I can't make anything!" Tiya yelled from the hallway.

"You can make messes." Amir muttered in response.

Their amiable chatter soon filled his periphery, the redundant task of chopping vegetables and mixing spices calming his senses in a unique, mundane way. John had rushed to the doorway right as he was finishing up, hand on his holster and a protective spark in his eyes. There was something to be said about their growing trust that he calmed down immediately at the sight of him, potential wrath softening to something almost shy. Their contact came slow and tentative as dinner simmered, figuring each other out in the new environment.

An illusion of a normal life it had been, at best, but he'd still savored the tender way John leaned his back against his chest and murmured questions.

He had been hesitant to separate from the man, then, but it was clear the detective wanted him to get to know the boys. So he followed one of the eldest outside to help with their spiked tires. Finn clearly adored his car -- he treated it with the reverence a king would their treasury -- yet showed no hesitance in letting Bane tend to it. If anything he seemed to catch onto his experience quickly, leaning elbows on his knees and watching him with rapt attention. It was a slow task, but Bane appreciated the new quiet.

"Dang. You really know your stuff." Finn says with a low whistle. "I, uh, saw your bike outside. Never seen a model like that."

"Custom." Bane replies as he patches the hole, careful not to overfill it. He tosses another nail into the growing pile -- wherever the boy had gone, it was somewhere isolated and poorly tended to.

"How long have you been riding?" Finn asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes. They proceed to widen when Bane gives him an estimate that's likely older than he is. He can see a dozen questions spreading across his face, but he instead proceeds to watch him in silence, until a sharp cry cuts through the still and causes them both to spring to their feet.

The muffin batter and bowl are on the floor when they return inside. Bane can already see trauma in the way Joel quivers, how nervously his eyes dart back and forth from the mess to John and back as if expecting a harsh punishment. He has no reason to think the detective would mistreat his children, so it be something from the boy's short past. Without hesitation John plucks him from the ground and vanishes down the hallway, leaving him with his fickle thoughts.

It's hard not to think of Talia. How severely she would hold herself after a flub, how insistent she would be on cleaning everything herself and pretending it never happened. A harsh reaction from a harsh kid in a harsh world. Joel, on the other hand, was still soft. Hurt, yes, but soft from youth and a gentle environment. Judging by the tender way everyone treated him, they wanted him to keep that as long as possible.

"Oh, that's not good." Finn sighs, digging around in one of the drawers. "He'd been looking forward to that for weeks."

Bane doesn't speak, listening to the cascade of water somewhere down the hall. The teenager leans down and starts to work.

"So...how long have you known Blake?" Finn asks as scrubs the worst from the floor, giving the food on the stove top an appreciative sniff when he rises to rinse off the rag. "He doesn't bring a lot of people over, but I always figured it's 'cause he's too busy partying without us."

"Not long." Small talk is something he has to pull out of the dusty recesses of his mind. "You two seem close."

The kid rolls his eyes to the ceiling in thought. "Well, I've known him for a few years. Haven't been here as long as the other kids, actually." There's something akin to shame in his voice.

"So you share something in common." Bane offers.

"...Yeah." He says, seeming a little surprised at this answer. "Yeah, we do." It sparks something in him, because he quickly wipes off his hands and turns to him with his voice lowered.

"Are you two..." Finn pauses deliberately, waiting for him to finish. Bane simply stares at him. John walks back out, the front of his shirt damp and a few white puffs of soap clinging to his hair.

"Hey, sorry about that." He says. "Finn, could you grab me a mop? Just gonna make sure the floor doesn't get sticky."

Finn turns on his heel and sulks out of the kitchen with a frustrated mutter. The detective watches him leave, bewildered. "What...?" He turns to Bane, squinting as if to peer through his helmet. "Did you say something weird?" Confronting their little dalliance wasn't quite in the cards. Not yet, with so much already on his mind. So he stays quiet and starts to pull out plates for dinner, choosing instead to enjoy John's subtle irritation, his sharp mind no doubt piecing together evidence and coming to a conclusion regardless.

Overwhelmed is not a familiar word in Bane's vocabulary, but something of the sort makes him tense uncharacteristically during dinner. His subconscious sings to him, distantly, that it's because he's out of his element and starting to feel the weight of the children's expectations. Endless chatter is one thing, but they seem intent on pulling him apart piece-by-piece even as they eat and yammer amongst themselves. John attempts to talk them down in-between bites, though otherwise seems unbothered.

"Why aren't you eating?" Tiya asks over his bowl. The other boys shoot their peer meaningful looks (particularly Amir, furrowing his thick brows together in warning), though he doesn't seem to notice. The masked man considers how to present himself, then slowly folds his arms across the table. Even this simple motion has him second-guessing. He doesn't like it.

"I'm not hungry." He responds, simply.

"Why'd you make so much and not have any?" Tiya pushes. "You're, like, really tall."

"You're all growing."

"Do you ever take the helmet off?"

"Yes."

A few more boys he hadn't met mill through the door, backpacks slung over their shoulders and the cold from outside seeping off them. John gets up and hugs them when they round the table his way, talking animatedly even as he reaches to his plate and eats between comments. Their curious looks and mutters soon clutter the room -- even the knowledge they were enjoying the meal couldn't put a damper on the itching impatience settling in his bones.

"Are you Behnem?" One of the new boys asks, curved eyes squinting a little at his visor. He's nudged by a lanky, dark-skinned boy ("Behnam, it's Behnam.") and he corrects himself hastily.

"Yes." Bane responds, only to twitch when a flurry of questions erupt at this simple answer. He's heard packs of jackals with more subtlety. John raises one hand and bobs it up and down in an attempt to lower the volume.

"Finn says you have a sick bike." Says one.

"How'd you get wrapped up with Blake?" Says another, laughing quickly at John's mock-mortified expression. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

"You should take your helmet off now!" Tiya says. "Since we're all here!"

Bane's temper frays.

"No."

The room goes very quiet. He can already tell he was too harsh, from the way Tiya goes from curious to mortified to how the boys glance to one another. Joel peeks shyly into the room, wearing a clean shirt and his hair in a towel. A few murmured apologies follow, cautious little words that make him feel just shy of despicable.

John leans over and mutters in his ear, "Why don't we get some fresh air." He gathers his plate and nudges the chair toward the table before heading up the stairs. Bane follows him silently.

He doesn't go out to the porch like he's expecting, instead traveling up the multiple stories and going through the uppermost floor onto the roof. A few chairs and a dusty blanked are folded against the side wall. He tries to pat the excess flour out of his shirt as he pulls them out, giving up after a few tries and slumping next to him. Gotham spans out beneath them, as fathomless and black as a pit if not for the lights winking in its depths.

Bane pulls off his helmet to let the cool air kiss his skin. Large swaths of people were well within his range, but he was finding out large groups of children were a different battle altogether -- admitting weakness wasn't a habit he regularly made. As if reading his thoughts John comments, "Not used to being around so many kids, huh?"

He sighs and sits next to him.

"...No."

"Don't worry about it. They were just pushing your buttons because we don't get a lot of visitors." The detective looks him up and down, corner of his mouth twitching, then back to his food. "I'll tell them to give you some space." He chuckles suddenly. "Out of all things, I didn't expect kids to be the ones to push your buttons."

"You don't give yourself enough credit." Bane responds mildly. It's easy to recharge simply watching the man finish his meal -- how he struggles to slow down his pace despite his hunger, the way he casually bobs his leg in thought and stares at something only he can see in the distance. It now occurs to him he's never seen him wear a vest before. It was a handsome choice, one that emphasized his lean figure almost as much as the dark jeans. Eventually John notes his attention and gives him a warm, tired smile.

"...You're staring at me." He says around a mouthful. "If I got something on my face you can just say so. It's probably soap."

"They love you dearly."

He's not sure how to respond at first. John taps his fork against the plate as he searches for a response. "Well...I love them." He takes another bite, then murmurs. "More than anything." Bane thinks of the trust Joel placed in him, even wracked in the throes of panic. The masked man jealously appreciated his own secrets, but a part of him needs to know what, exactly, went wrong. John isn't opposed to sharing, but whatever memory he holds sets his jaw firm.

"He just..." He sets down his empty plate and nudges it beneath the chair with his heel. "...cooking is one of his absolute favorite things, but the household he grew up in didn't really encourage that." Bane can hear him curb anger around the careful topic. "His father was abusive and just so happened to have a habit of getting angry in the kitchen. Joel liked to cook with his mother, but it always ended up tied into some chauvinistic temper tantrum. Counselor told me he's learned to associate the kitchen with bad times and has to be weaned out of it."

A siren sounds faintly in the distance. "I mean, that's become our schtick over the years." John continues. "The orphanage that takes all the kids too messed up..." He punctuates his words with a twitch of his fingers. "...for the average program. Three places, if you can believe it, turned Joel down because of his fits. Nobody wanted to learn how to communicate with Jay, not even his own parents. Finn was considered a troublemaker with a future destined for a jail cell. Amir barely got out of a virtual horror house. Jai and Emanuel were both abandoned and were pretty much all they had 'til they found us. The list goes on for miles."

He lets out a long sigh through his nose. "Swithin's went from a place falling apart to a place still falling apart but doing its damndest to make sure these kids get a second shot. That the hand they've been dealt doesn't follow them into adulthood." The loving, weary passion in his voice strikes a chord in Bane -- he realizes that the man's near-omnipresent anger always seemed to be on others' behalf.

"Trauma is permanent." Bane responds -- Talia's eyes, cold and blue, flicker in his mind. "It doesn't vanish so much as fades."

"No..." John agrees. "...no, it really doesn't." The man pulls a crooked cigarette out of his pocket and lights it with some trouble, sighing out a puff of smoke when the flame finally takes and leaning back in his chair. "But we'll take care of them."

"To take care of others you need to tend to yourself first." Bane adds, earning a snort-turned-cough in response. John flicks ash into the breeze and takes another eager drag.

"Well, thanks to you I took an actual nap for the first time in fifty years." He frowns when Bane grunts reluctant assent. "You're not going to hold me hostage and force me to drink Earl Grey again?"

"You disliked it."

"No! It was actually pretty good. Just...not used to tea, still. That...and it still reminds me of being strung up to a wall." The detective seems to deliberate over something, then swiftly moves from his chair to sit in his lap. Bane blinks at him, earning both a smile and a shrug in response.

"View's better from here."

"Mm." He hums as the man proceeds to make himself comfortable. "I agree."

John drapes his arms over his shoulders as he kneels over him, licking the dryness from his lips with purpose. He takes one last drag and tosses the cigarette behind him onto the ground, sighing the smoke out against his collar and urging him to touch him. Bane doesn't need to be told twice.

The cold air grows warm between their close bodies. He's been aching for the firmness of the detective's body since he first arrived -- it had been an impressive chore distracting himself from filthy thoughts as not to look lewd in front of a gaggle of small children. Bane feels along the sharp curve of his hips for one ponderous moment before pulling him down and rocking softly against his groin. John's breath hitches unevenly and he shifts to better straddle his lap so he can return the gesture with gusto. He likes the vest quite a bit, but it's in the way.

John leans back and smiles down at him as he flicks the buttons apart. Chewing on his lip in that way he always does and making Bane's blood quicken.

"This is nice."

--

The boys gather around to see him off (save for Tiya, said by Finn to be 'sulking in his room', likely an unfortunate detail from his harsh tone before). They are all distinctly calmer than they were an hour ago from both the food and the now blanketing darkness outside. John's vest is folded and tossed over one shoulder. If any of the boys take note of his rather rumpled button-up, they deign not to mention it.

"Um, Behnam? Tiya was just being obnoxious..." Amir says as he pulls on his jacket. "You can wear your helmet whenever you want. Thanks for making dinner and helping out Reilly."

"Oh, don't worry about it." John grins mischievously. "I mean, he just wears it because he has bad acne. Like, loads of zits all over his-ow, ow, ow." Amir covers his mouth and tries not to laugh as Bane twists his ear.

"You're welcome."

It's pitch black out -- he stayed a little longer than expected. Finn watches him start his bike from the doorway, John beside him and rubbing his ear. Bane pulls on his gloves and nods to them. The detective starts to wave, then flips him off.

A quiet affection warms his chest throughout the duration of the ride, though it quickly dies down at the sight of his men congregating at the entrance to the sewers. Already Bane can sense something's virulently wrong -- the moment he's off his bike he moves through them with purpose, barely listening to what they're saying and going to where he hears voices raised in a cluster. He finds Barsad and Salim exhausted and shivering in the med room -- his second-in-command tries to stand when he walks in, urged down again by one of the medics.

"Ali is dead. I would have contacted you earlier, but our communications were jammed. By the time I could reach you I had to stay low..." He's speaking rapidly despite his injuries, though the medics bending over him and administering care prevent him from seeing exactly where. Salim is limp and pale on one of the cots -- an occasional twitch betrays the life still inside him. "We were expected. Somehow they knew."

"Dr. Pavel?"

"Sick, but being tended to."

The other mercenaries sense his fury and inch away as surreptitiously as possible. Bane would muse over possibilities of incompetence or betrayal or sabotage later, somewhere dark and isolated where results made themselves almost prophetically clear. For now he needed to know...

"And the reactor?"

The man tells him the answer before he's even opened his mouth.

Chapter Text

The shame in Barsad's eyes had been palpable. It was nothing compared to his own.

The fight had been brief, but bloody. Ali, one of his more skilled fighters, had succumbed to multiple gunshot wounds attempting to carry Pavel to safety. Salim had only gotten off marginally easier and he admits he wasn't sure if he'd make it. Barsad talked about how the young man had been in the wrong place at the right time, admiring the view on a hilltop during the proceeds when Rubio suddenly held him hostage -- his sharp eye had shot the gun right out of the traitor's hands, buying him and Barsad both time to get to cover. With an incoming storm to hide their footsteps and make passage on foot difficult they managed to escape with the still-drugged scientist, leaving the reactor in their wake by necessity.

Barsad was more than a mercenary -- he was the closest he had to a second-in-command. Selected for his calm under pressure, flexible skillset and reliability. However, it was clear he was no longer content to silently obey, even as he recovered in the med room from both the wounds and illness he sustained over his journey back to Gotham. He demanded to know what, exactly, had prompted Bane to act so mysteriously. Why he had kept the knowledge from both his men and Talia. What this would mean for their future.

"I consented to die for our cause years ago. I trusted you to tell us the truth when you felt necessary. I still trust you." He had said laboriously, careful not to disturb his bandages. "But it's unfair to have us die without knowing why."

Shame is a rare emotion and one the masked man faces like he would a loathed enemy, determined not to waver beneath its accusatory gaze.

So Bane had told him the truth, however curtly, watching as Barsad's cool cracked with shock, dread and something like disappointment. He told him how John Blake's quick thinking and Talia's arrogance had both worked together to reveal her true intentions for the future of Gotham. His own attempt to quietly and quickly shift power in the League during her visit to Metropolis to play it safe. He doesn't elaborate on the detective's presence in his life, nor the visits to St. Swithin's he's been enjoying. If anything those emotions were more alien. Ones he didn't know how to fold into submission yet.

Salim had disobeyed his orders to free John Blake. Now Rubio and a few others (Barsad, unfortunately, hadn't been able to identify them at the time) had gone behind his back for reasons unknown, even as his conscience howls an ugly possibility. Bane's hold on his men was becoming more tenuous than he'd like, but it was the nature of power -- it remained a treacherous beast, as soon as willing to turn on its holder as it would its enemies. Whether or not that had been Talia's hubris remained to be seen.

He thinks of Joel, whose biggest shame was a spilled bowl.

Talia had contacted him not long after Barsad and Salim returned to let him know her flight had been delayed again -- Gotham was seeing tighter restrictions on its travel protocols, affecting even the upper-class in their day-to-day. Whether or not this was affecting her, well...lies were no longer an unbelievable element in their relationship. In the meantime he would assess the activity of the small groups he sectioned in and out of Gotham, narrowing down the perpetrators as he narrowed down where the reactor could have been hidden to.

Bane muses over progress and setbacks as he moves through the storm drains. For a moment he and the darkness are one entity and it's easier to plan. Rallies are starting to see less fights and pushback as Gotham slowly but surely becomes used to the League's activities. It was the community-wide manifestation of the stages of grief -- denial had long since passed, with anger now firmly in the hands of the people and growing stronger with each new day. Only now were Gotham's elite attempting to bargain away their fate with short-term solutions and thinly-veiled threats from the safety of their nests.

The choking and thrashing throes of a great city, one that would only rise from the ashes once it finally accepted its inevitable death and rebirth. He deigns to keep the lantern off in his gallery and sits down to powder his hands in preparation.

He thinks of Amir and the world he dreams about with chalk and paper.

The hurry of scattered thoughts and goals flicker to almost nothing at the promise of a purely physical exercise. Concern, anger, even the rare sting of fear. Each emotion is carefully cataloged and stored for later dissection. He had planned on informing his men of the change after the reactor was secured. Now that the luxury of surprise was no longer in his grasp he had to find another route. It was somewhat common for a group to become cocksure once a major goal was met, be it the siege of a city or occupation of a small territory. Bane had seen it, albeit rarely, during his time in the League. Gotham had been hardly a challenge -- he could pull his men back together. He would just have to do it without Talia.

His logical mind runs up and down the positives and negatives of expressing the truth about Talia and his reasons for attempting to relocate the reactor. The risk of losing their respect in favor of catching them up to speed and getting the weapon back in his hands as soon as possible. They would obey. But Barsad's words cling with stubborn veracity.

He had never needed Talia to inspire both fear and respect in others. Indeed, it was one of the few gifts the pit had given him even after he left. Her omnipresent support, however, was becoming more and more sorely missed. They had once been a cohesive machine, working together as a single unit even as they dabbled in distinctly different fields -- her going from the field of law to environmental science and public relations, him in sabotage and assassination. It was becoming more difficult not to feel like a motorcycle missing a spoke or a winged creature missing a few vital pinions as of late, the lies between them thicker than any wall.

He thinks of Finn and his omnipresent ache for freedom.

Bane tempers the wires on his mask. He has to reduce his analgesic periodically to prevent his body from becoming too acclimated -- it's become increasingly difficult over the years, even causing him to occasionally seek out alternate drugs when his preferred method can't quite numb the eternal bite that chews through his jaw, neck and spine. Unfortunately, physical ailments aren't the only struggles that snap and bite without medication to keep it at bay.

With Barsad and Salim both out of commission he chose not to replace them for the night and instead isolates himself with the pain. Slowly but surely the calm, familiar haze fades, leaving sour aches and uncontrollable spasms in its wake. He could handle the fraying of his nerves. How his back felt like it was attempting to cave in on itself. The dormant memories were not so easy. Memories that swim beneath the surface, always waiting to rear their heads to pull him back in.

One lift. Two. Three. The pain is like hot coals beneath his skin. It's all he can do to lift the dumbbell again before it drops from his fingers and hits the floor, fingers jerking as his body tries to make sense without the drug.

He thinks of John's dark eyes and the peace he's starting to find there.

--

For once, Blake is relaxing on his own.

It's definitely alien, that much was for sure. Every time he took a moment to sit down there was something else he had to do and before he knew it he was typing, washing dishes or looking for something to fidget with to avoid digging into his cigarette box. Now he was on his laptop bouncing between research and listening to the latest news. It was probably a matter of time before he went on a jog around the complex.

Barbara was attempting to hook him up with a computer repair gig. It's freelance and unpredictable, but would give him the flexibility he needed to get his life back in order. Not a bad way to sharpen his skills, either, though he harbors no delusions about the work -- he'll likely spend most of his time deleting basic viruses and reassuring customers that, no, they didn't really delete an entire program by accident. He's pulling up the application page when Amanda Waller appears on the television. Her sharp black suit and red undershirt make her look severe yet distinct, no doubt something she worked hard to cultivate. He leans forward with interest -- whatever she's on for must be pretty big if even independent stations are showing it.

"Many people are wondering how Bane can appear so regularly in public and is yet to be apprehended." The reporter starts, her expression indicating she's in a similar boat. "With Commissioner Gordon at the risk of losing his position and Foley attempting to seek out Metropolis' assistance in the matter, I was hoping you could lay some fears to rest." Waller folds her hands calmly and holds her gaze.

"Bane is not your average terrorist. However, this is not your average department." The camera focuses a little more carefully on her face. If he remembers correctly, this is only the second time she's been called out to talk directly about the man. She was a notoriously busy woman and normally had people regurgitating pacifistic basics in her place. "Gotham has seen plenty of trouble over the past few years. If anything they've simply whet our appetite for a challenge."

"Do you believe the rumors that he keep his identity hidden behind the mask to create multiple personas?"

"I'm not here to entertain rumors." Waller responds curtly. "I'm here to keep a terrorist and his lackeys from destroying our city."

It's a smart answer. The reduction of Bane's trained mercenaries to 'lackeys' even more so. He doesn't care for the tactic, but he knows the logic behind it -- there was no better way to downplay danger and keep a population ignorant than to make it all seem like something out of a comic book. He thinks about how Gordon would respond to these questions. The man was never fond of interviews, preferring whenever he could to leave what he called the 'huffing and puffing' to people who were used to the camera. While he'd do it out of a sense of duty, the public image he had to keep up was something that was starting to wear him down. Even still, he was appearing even less than usual on-screen as of late. He considers giving him a call later.

"What do you know about the mask?" The reporter asks. Waller's calm frown suggests she's not too fond of the same old question. No doubt the journalist was trying to get in as many boosts to the rating as possible before Waller retreated to her usual mystery. "Do you worry about the trend of some of his supporters mimicking its appearance to conceal their identity?"

Blake snorts into his coffee. He had found street vendors selling knock-offs of Bane's iconic creation when he ran errands the other day -- he couldn't help noting, a touch humorously, they often had the wrong number of wires. He'd have to ask the guy what he thought of everyone trying to define themselves in his image. Considering his rather meager view of some of Gotham's less-than-savory habits, he probably wouldn't be overly flattered. Then again, maybe he would.

"This is merely a repeat of the Joker's attempted reign of terror eight years ago." Only now does a smug note enter her voice. "Just like the Joker they'll find out what happens when they try to make a mockery of Gotham's legal system."

"Do you believe Batman will return?"

"The only difference between Bane and Batman is their screentime." He hears a few rumbles of laughter just off-camera. "As of now, Batman's disappearance means I have one less mystery to solve."

Blake sighs. Same old, same old.

The interview closes with the usual formalities and vague updates on the department's goals for the future -- he can practically parrot each sentence word-for-word, starting with 'community-building incentives' and ending with 'future relations'. Like it's a small uptick in crime or the aftermath of a bad storm and not, well, a masked vigilante practically turning the city upside down and shaking the change from its pockets. Gotham, like usual, is growing used to anything bizarre and dangerous through sheer necessity. He can only just remember a time when he wasn't used to it and it was small wonder it was when his parents were still alive and his life was actually somewhat stable.

Protests and clashes destroying yet another capitol building and damaging its ritzy streets not two days ago and it hardly leaves a damper on his mind. If anything he's focused more intently on the strange events that have been cropping up nearby.

They would be negligible oddities at a glance...at least, to anyone who hadn't actually lived there once. An odd and dramatic surge in violent behavior in and around Old Gotham, with a few attempted suicides happening around the same time mentioned in a single off-hand sentence at the bottom of the page he finds on one of the social media accounts. Part of his goal in law enforcement was to do his part in helping more desperate communities because he knew what it was like to be left with little to no options. Nothing about this rubs him right.

This string of events, of course, hadn't made it to the public news. His new neighborhood just barely bordered The East End and Old Gotham -- while they both weren't considered as violent as the Bowery (he still remembered Gordon telling him he wouldn't be stationed there 'til his third year), they were still touted by many as some of Gotham's biggest shames and were frequently left out of any economic redevelopment or tourist campaigns. The last orphanage he was at before St. Swithin's kept him on was in the East End and it was a difficult place to go back to. While scrolling through whatever meager scraps of information he can find he thinks of Bane appearing at Old Gotham and appealing to the long-neglected immigration population there. How a normally tense and untrusting crowd had looked at him like an old friend.

Before he knows it evening has hit and his coffee is almost ice cold from neglect. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a sharp rap-rap on his door. Pulling out his pistol he checks the peephole, then relaxes when he sees the face of one of his neighbors looking anxiously at him. Not an immediate threat, but he double-checks his side windows anyway.

He recognizes her only barely by her long dark hair -- one of his neighbors in the complex.

"Hey, uh. Sorry to bother you." She's shivering in the cold without a jacket -- it's likely she walked the length of the complex on a whim. "Are you John Blake?"

"Who's asking?" He says, trying to keep his tone polite and failing.

"I just...I'm." He shakes off bad memories with some effort and stands outside, crossing his arms and waiting expectantly. "I'm Chin-Mae. I wanted to ask a few questions."

He relaxes a little. His gut can sense something's up, but as of now she's clearly no threat.

"A friend of mine was attacked. Um, last night. Attacker hasn't been found yet. I didn't know who else to ask about it. I already called and they told me to just get the neighborhood watch and file a complaint and it's...a load."

"Is your friend okay?"

"Um, yeah. Stab wounds, but nothing vital." She suddenly looks miserable. "Scared the shit out of me. Thought they were going to die."

"Where did this happen?"

"They live near Old Gotham." She sounds almost embarrassed. "It's...not really on the map? But it's right next to it."

He knows what she means -- either her friend is an immigrant or too poor to afford a traditional place to live...or both. What he doesn't know is why his skin is crawling like it's covered in ants. Something more is being kicked up in the recesses of his mind, something old and incredibly useful, but he can't make anything out in the haze. He was going to curse his nostalgia when he had another free moment, he just knows it.

She takes his silence for hesitance, because she adds, a little desperately, "Nobody's been helping me. I was just wondering if you knew anyone who...could. I have more friends there. I was told you're a cop, that maybe you worked with the Commissioner before..."

Even now the Commissioner still had a reputation for giving a fuck. He'd see how long that would last.

Reilly had seemed pretty concerned when he mentioned rumors to him the other day, but he was a worrywart by nature. It was easy to brush it off as his usual paranoia, but with the recent news and this raising the pile something was starting to add up. Intuition was as dependable as the knife in his boot, though it was, admittedly, a little less straightforward.

"What else have you heard about stuff like this?" He asks -- she squints in confusion and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "I've both read about and heard of some similar things going on around Old Gotham. Do you know anyone else who's been through something similar? Any rumors?"

She shakes her head. "No." He starts to rub his hair in frustration, but then she continues. "I mean, not like...stabbings. There have been some strange things, but...I didn't know what to make of them."

He leans forward. "Like what? Tell me everything."

She suddenly looks nervous and he holds up a hand.

"I'm not going to share this. To be honest with you, I'm not even a cop anymore. Quit a little while ago."

She stiffens. "Then why did you have me standing out here?" She doesn't seem particularly mad and he considers that's because her expectations were low to begin with.

"Because I can still help you." The conviction in his voice seems to put her at ease, if only a little. She looks him up and down, careful, then continues.

"Like I said, I have friends who live there. One told me about their roommate hurting themselves really badly one night while in the kitchen. Said it was an accident but it clearly wasn't. They sent me a photo on my phone of the aftermath and it was a mess...like something you'd see on a movie set or something. I also read about some attempted suicides going on there...I didn't hear about those from anyone, just saw it on the news."

Her face slowly falls as she stares at his reaction.

"You think it's...connected?"

He doesn't want to scare her. He also doesn't want to lie.

"I'll find out."

He's frank about the possibilities of finding closure with his limited resources, but he emphasizes he'll spread the word. She gives him her number in case of an update and heads off into the growing dark with her hands shoved between her shaking arms. Blake walks back inside, pushes his back against the door and pinches the bridge of his nose so hard it hurts. What in the everloving hell was he doing. He shouldn't be accepting this. Not with so much on his plate. But he knows if he doesn't the guilt will eat him up alive.

The guilt that he could've done something and chose the easy way out again.

Dinner is hasty, his energy suddenly sapped and hard to find again. Noodles and an overripe avocado don't make the best combination but he's got leftover beer to wash it all down. Gordon doesn't pick up at first. When he does he sounds like he's about to fall asleep on the phone and Blake knows he has to cut to the chase.

"Listen." He says in-between bites. "Barbara's worried about you."

"I'm aware, John. Tell me you didn't just call to give me a lecture."

"No, that's just about it." He admits. "She got pretty detailed about how you've become all but a hermit over the past two weeks. I mean, if you're still going to stick around then you might as well do it all the way, right?" Blake didn't exactly like rubbing righteousness in people's faces, but the temptation could be hard to ignore.

"Between trying to keep my family together during these trying times and attempting to maintain my daily duties, I think I'll take the chance that Barbara might fret from time to time."

"Even falling asleep at the wheel?"

The man curses softly. That might get Barbara snapped at later, but it was two against one so far.

"Look, I'm...worried."

It's the best he can say, with his conflicting emotions. The weary tone in Gordon's voice suggests he's feeling very much the same.

"Sometimes you go through life and wonder how you got here."

Blake sits down on the couch and lowers the television volume.

"The night Harvey held a gun to my family..." He's quiet for a moment. "He asked me...'Have you ever tried to talk to the person you love most and tell them it's going to be all right when you know it's not'?"

Blake's mouth goes dry. The man never shared any further details with him. Nothing beyond what Bane read aloud in the years-old note.

"I've been held hostage before. Seen my life flash before my eyes. Nothing compared to that night, on the edge of that building. Even now, years later...I find myself wondering why the truth doesn't always make things right."

"Yeah." He replies softly. "...No kidding."

"What would you have done if you were in the same situation?"

The question startles him. What-if exercises were useful to an extent, but they only went so far. He found this out the hard way when thought experiments, basic training and his own on-and-off training amounted to nearly nothing when he met Bane for the first time. Then again when a building was ready to crash on him and all he could think to do was curl up into a ball. He doesn't tell him this, but he does admit that his answer probably won't add up to much. Gordon insists and he takes a moment to mull it over.

"...Would do anything for my boys. Would've begged him to turn the gun on me and spare them..." Gordon doesn't respond and he realizes, horribly, that's likely exactly what the man had done. "...then I probably would have joined him."

"Who?"

"Batman."

"Would you join him now, if you could?"

"...No." He waves a hand in the air, even though the man can't see him. "It's not to say I don't want to learn from him. But now? Maybe I'm just a little uneasy following people I don't know...very well." He trails off a little and sighs through his nose.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Look, we don't have to do this again." It's actually unnerving hearing such an open apology and he's momentarily worried the guy's gonna do something drastic. Blake had all but left his department behind him, but Gordon, even after finding out the guy's standards weren't as solid as he thought, was proving a little harder to let go. He second-guesses bringing up issues in Old Gotham and chalks it up to pity. "Just assure me you're doing the right thing now. As much as you can still working with fucks like Foley."

Gordon sighs. He can hear the faint scritch-scritch of his mustache.

"Still not much, is it...?" Blake says into the silence.

"No." He responds. "No, it really isn't."

The answer doesn't put him at ease. It certainly doesn't help him sleep that night, especially not with the additional responsibility of taking on what felt like the weight of the world in the span of a few hours. Even chasing down the rest of his beer and sneaking in an extra cigarette (much to his quiet shame) lulls him into a doze that doesn't last long. A good night's sleep was a blue moon in Gotham and it was past time he stopped wishing for more than the occasional fluke. So he listens to the faint crunching of gravel and distant honking of cars, a city that, at the very least, was wide-awake with him.

His only peace is that he wouldn't have it any other way.

Chapter Text

He would go crazy.

It's been years since he felt comfortable walking about on land. Without soft flesh that grew wrinkled and soggy with age he was cursed with the omnipresent ache for the smooth glide of a cold body of water. It was so pervasive he almost forgot why he ventured into the storm drain to begin with. Why he even bothered to double-check Gotham's latest visitors and didn't just write them off as yet another obstacle to avoid or kill, whichever came first.

Stone...stone was definitely worse than land.

Land was soft. Grew softer with moisture, especially the snow that seemed to haunt Gotham like an angry spirit. Stone was disgusting. Even here when it grew wet, never pliant, never enough. His claws grew dull and he'd lost too many scales attempting to reason with it and the chains cutting into his ankles.

Once they found out he could eventually gnaw his way through metal they strapped him firm in the middle of the room. He could move just enough to stretch his sore muscles. Not enough to reach his chains properly or the bars on the cage. During one particularly delusional (and hungry) moment he considered eating his own arm. It wasn't that they didn't feed him -- they were keen to toss in slabs of (admittedly, deliciously fresh) meat or still-thrashing fish on a regular enough basis. They simply had no clue to his appetite, nor was he feeling in the mood to let them know by speaking.

The only thing stopping him from mutilating himself for freedom was the idea that it could impede his ability to fight Bane. One of two entire people in his life he had ever been afraid of. One of many people he definitely wouldn't mind seeing dead.

His food arrives. From the wet smacking and faint dripping, more fish. One of the mercenaries (his sense of smell had long since rotted away and they remained firmly in the shadow) hands him something small and flimsy along with his meal. Pushes it through the bars and lets it slide into view before him. He remembers with alarming suddenness.

He would go crazy.

Thank goodness for coffee.

It's the glue that stitches him together when he goes out to the new shelter on its opening Friday. Bane calls him on the road -- he pulls over and puts his engine on idle, even though he's itching to get to his destination.

"Hey."

The man's voice sounds even stranger on a cell.

"There have been new developments. We need to talk."

He adjusts the phone beneath his ear, grateful he hasn't gotten rid of his car just yet despite burning through his savings -- it'd be just a little inconvenient to bring a big dog he just adopted onto the bus.

"Sure. Want to come to Fray's Shelter with me and do it there?"

"I did not contact you for frivolity."

"Frivolous? I'm doing this for the boys. I'm getting a dog to look after them, keep them company, all that good stuff." He frowns when Bane doesn't answer. "Look, I know you've got this shit to figure out. You keep telling me I need to stop neglecting my health, but you're at this twenty-four seven. If you don't take a break your performance is going to follow suit. I mean, that's pretty much what you told me."

He puts a smile in his voice -- he was getting a lot of opportunities for sudden pep talks lately. "Come on. Just for an hour or two. We'll talk, hang out with some cute dogs, then you can go back to saving the city from near doom." He pauses. "I mean, unless you're in the middle of an interrogation..."

Click.

The shelter is incredibly noisy, giving him hope he'll have a pretty good selection to choose from. One of the few perks when it came to adopting animals, anyway. It was hard to turn down any of them. He glances at a young girl hugging a puppy to her chest, talking animatedly to her mother about where it's going to sleep at night. Old memories tickle the back of his mind, fond and sad -- his mother struggling to hold her bag and flyers before she goes out of the door, turning him down as gently as possible when he asks again if they can have a cat. His father 'distracted' by something on the computer. He shakes himself visibly and walks inside.

A little bell announces his arrival. It's early in the day so there aren't many people, which is good since it'll guarantee him more one-on-one time with Swithin's future member of the family. Everything smells like dog hair and cleaning supplies. One of the workers, sleeves rolled up well past their elbows and a smudge of dry blood on her knee, walks over and gives him a weary smile.

"Looking for a pet?"

"Yeah. For my kids, actually."

"Oh?" She asks as she pulls out a clutter of keys and unlocks the door leading into the holding area. "How many?"

"Twenty-seven."

Her eyes grow wide. Her co-worker, who had been leaning against the wall and talking on the phone, tucks the receiver into her neck and calls out.

"Oh, he's the guy from yesterday. Works at the orphanage down the street."

He had called beforehand and asked if it'd be possible to bring them all. They had gently turned him down, citing that a significant amount of the dogs were rescues from bad households and probably wouldn't do well with a gaggle of kids hooting and hollering in the hallways. He couldn't guarantee they'd all be well-behaved, so he spent more than a few minutes thinking of the best way to break it to them it. Then he thought...why not a surprise? Aside from Amir's gallery showing, the boys weren't exactly swimming in good news. Not with Jay's failing grades and Finn still waffling on just how badly he wanted to round off his bail and enter the working world with a clean slate. It'd be a bit of a financial stretch, but it was one he was more than willing to help out with.

The facilities are well-maintained, if still rather dirty and smelly from the efforts of an overworked staff. It probably would hold up even worse over the coming weeks. Dozens of dogs fill almost all the cages down the hallways, with a separate room for cats to the far right. He can't resist picking up a round little bulldog puppy and letting it lick his face, which proves to be a bad idea in retrospect when he can hardly bear to set it back down again.

"Really, how do you manage not to adopt all of them?" He asks as the puppy presses its squished snout against his cheek and snuffles curiously.

"I just pretend they're all evil aliens that want to take over the world." The worker replies. "Lessens their appeal a little."

"Hell, even then." He says, laughing and spitting good-naturedly when the puppy tries to lick his mouth. With a heavy heart he hands it back to her and heads further into the hallway, starting from the right and going down gradually.

The bell clinks again. He looks through the window to see one of the teenage volunteers gaping nervously at the massive form blocking the light from outside. The man's slight hunch suggests he's either in a poor mood or can't make it through the doorway otherwise -- he was willing to bet on both. Blake waves him over with a more enthused smile than he feels. He wasn't going to be swimming in good news, either.

Bane stalks over to where he's standing and looks down at the withered greyhound he's observing.

"Kind of skittish." Blake starts, leaning down and reaching out to it. The dog tentatively sniffs his hand, tail between her legs, but does little else. Blake reads the tag, then stands up again. "No go. Not a family dog." He nods slowly. "Retired racing dog, though. Be great as a therapy pet. Maybe get one for Reilly when he retires."

Bane grunts and follows him as he moves through the narrow corridors. He skips over the puppies (as much as it kills him with their round bellies and wagging tails), going straight for larger dogs and any hint of "kids" on the tags. When they're not shrinking away from him they're clearly agitated, shifting from foot to foot and whining deep in their throats. It takes inspecting a collie mix, a pitbull and a heeler before he loses his patience and runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

"I don't want to sound like a prick, but they're all scared shitless. That's not something I want to introduce to over two dozen kids..." Blake crosses his arms tightly. "Maybe I should ask someone about this."

Bane leans against the brick wall between two cages and folds his hands together. Blake narrows his eyes when the dogs on either side of him shrink back from the bars.

"...Wait."

He gestures to the door. The man watches him motionlessly for one long moment, then leans off the wall and walks out. Blake shuts the door behind him and can already hear the dogs starting to shift around in his absence. He bites his knuckle trying not to laugh, turning and calling through the door's glass.

"I think they're afraid of you, big guy."

He can't see the man's face, but he can harbor a few guesses as to the expression he's giving him. Blake takes a step back when he walks back in, crossing his arms again for emphasis.

"They're afraid of you...? As in, you should probably stay outside for a sec."

"A protector shouldn't fear my presence."

It was a good point. A dog that wasn't afraid of Bane wouldn't be afraid of anyone. He follows the man through the hall again, still feeling ten different types of guilty every time one of the mutts would whimper or lower their head. One of the workers, holding an old pug in a cast, gives Bane a wide berth and Blake a suggestive look -- it seems they caught on, too.

Bane stops in front of one of the furthermost cages, right by one of the windows. Inside is some sort of husky hybrid, that much he can see from its fluffy coat and wolfish face. Not a bad size, either, perfect for roughhousing and giving strangers second thoughts. Most of all, it didn't seem outright afraid of Bane -- she's sniffing at the bars, tail swishing with a tentative but healthy curiosity. Blake reads the tag and finds out she's a fairly young dog, was recently given up by a 'tumultuous' family and has an 'energetic' personality. It's got a red bar on the tag, meaning it's a high-maintenance breed.

A lot of brushing, probably. A decent amount of food and exercise. A great pet provided she didn't up and run off.

"Well, hey there." He starts, kneeling and reaching through to let her sniff his fingers. Once he gets the canine go-ahead he rubs her neck, earning a playful gnaw in the process. "You interested in a new family?"

"Why do you speak to her?" Bane asks, now watching from across the hall.

"To soothe her nerves."

The masked man snorts in a way that can only be translated as 'weird'.

Blake looks over his shoulder. The man's body language, at this point, was almost as vivid as his facial expressions. His penchant for swagger has both people and the dogs in the shelter spooked, but he sees through it -- he's frustrated. Even worse, he's exhausted. Every once in a while his fingers will twitch, a tic he's now learned to associate with a short temper or some sort of pain. Other than that he's utterly silent, seeming almost hesitant to offer even basic commentary.

"...You doing all right?"

He doesn't get the usual dodge. The man might as well be a gargoyle for all the reaction he gets. Blake holds back a sigh and goes back to ruffling the dog's ears. He'd reach out more, but the guy seemed to take it as some sort of indirect insult. Like he's insinuating he's weak or incapable. It takes another minute's self-reflecting for him to dampen his righteous indignation and realize they're both people who have a hard time leaning on others. Now he knows how Reilly feels.

Maybe he doesn't want to open up -- not yet -- but he still came when he asked. He could have demanded he meet him elsewhere, and Blake would've no doubt agreed, yet here he was. Imposing and quiet and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else...but still here.

Blake asks one of the workers if he can take the dog out for a short walk. They happily give him a leash and direct him behind the shelter to the designated 'bonding' area -- a rather large yard barely stitched together by cheap fence. Zipping up his coat to stave off the worst of the cold he heads out, Bane following quietly behind.

They walk in silence together for a few minutes. The dog is ecstatic to be out of its cage, sniffing enthusiastically and lolling her tongue up at Blake in doggy gratitude. It's hard not to smile, even when he's sometimes suddenly yanked forward when she spots something interesting.

When it's clear the man isn't going to talk on his own he starts, even as he feels like he's mucking through a swamp without chaps.

"Uh, before I forget...did you hear about anything weird going on near East End or Old Gotham?" Bane looks down at him wordlessly and he elaborates, "Weird behavior. Self-harming, stabbings, attempted suicides. More than usual."

"A passing mention." Bane says. "Little else."

The man always had an ear to the ground. When he wasn't up to speed on something...well. He pays close attention to the uncomfortable stirring in his chest, desperate for it to tell him something.

"Been keeping up with news reports." He continues. "Two of the three major stations haven't covered it...and the one that did is making it out to be some classist nonsense." He affects his voice to mimic robotic newsroom speak. "'It seems there's a new street drug taking hold of Gotham's more unstable neighborhoods. Are your children safe?'" He's briefly validated by Bane's rude snort.

"I don't have access to the resources I had before, but I also don't have jackasses breathing down my neck 24/7 and filling up my free time with pointless shit like driving around in quota circles." He rubs his hair. "I mean, one of my neighbors asked me about it the other day. Said a friend got stabbed in that same area and they've heard about this huge uptick in strange behavior. I even said-"

The leash whips right through Blake's hands.

"Shit!"

She's apparently seen something in the distance and is chasing after it at top speed. He tears after it with every last ounce of speed he has. Whatever she's chasing it's well beyond where he can see. He climbs over a fence and rolls over the top of someone's car, terrified she could run into the road and get hit. He all but tackles her when she stops, convinced he's going to have to drag her back to the shelter -- instead she's got a loose scrap of newspaper in her mouth, already soggy from slobber.

"The boys will have their hands full." Bane responds mildly when he returns, hands in his pockets as if nothing had happened. Blake is a hacking, coughing mess, leaning on his knees while the dog rolls around in the dirt at his feet. At least one of them was having the time of their life.

"I think she's got enough energy for an entire city block." He wheezes, holding up the leash to Bane. "She's not afraid of you...but I think that's because she's not afraid of anything."

Bane takes it and the dog immediately sits up to attention, looking up at him with a low swish of her tail. Blake raises his head and scowls through windblown bangs.

"Of course she would."

Once he can breathe without coughing they continue down the path, going a little further out-of-bounds for more privacy. He pats dirt from his jeans and wipes his hands off, squinting up at him through the sun's rays. "Sorry, what did you want to tell me?"

The dog nudges Bane's hand for a pet. He glances at her, but otherwise doesn't move. "The reactor has gone missing."

Blake's jaw drops. "Wh-What? How do you lose something like that?"

Bane's tone could curl paint. "I would assume it had been stolen."

A thousand questions spring into his mind. He latches onto the one that seems the most important. "Do you have any clue who did it?"

"More than a clue." He doesn't feel relief. Not yet. The masked man is conspicuously stiff, hands folded behind his back not unlike his public persona.

"Is there...another problem?"

"For now."

"You gonna tell me what that is?"

"Later."

He lets out a hard sigh and runs fingers through his hair. Better than nothing.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Be prepared for the worst."

"Sound advice." He says with a weak laugh, rubbing his forehead when wooziness threatens to sit his ass on the pavement. "That'd be something to tell Gordon."

"What did you tell Gordon?" Bane asks, voice perky and his tone anything but. Blake hadn't gotten very specific when he shared the recording, back when he still wanted to keep as many cards in his deck as possible. Now they were...something, and keeping an excess of secrets didn't feel right. He chews on his lip in thought, which makes Bane's fingers twitch impatiently.

"I shared with him the recording." He says, a little hurriedly. "We were originally going to take it up with Waller." He wrings the leash around his hands, as much to keep the dog from sending him another adventure as to focus his attention somewhere other than doomsday thoughts. "To arrest Talia."

"Amanda Waller." He intones carefully. "A competent woman." With an ugly start Blake thinks of the people lately that met their end at his hands -- when it wasn't the upper-class with dirty laundry to spare, it was law enforcement or politicians. Would she be the next on his hit list? He didn't know her personally, no, but it gets him thinking.

"You said you were going after Gordon." He switches suddenly, pausing only when a truck blares by. "...Would you have killed him?"

"Yes." He responds, simply.

So damn casual. He'd never fully understand it.

"And you would have killed me."

"Eventually." He tilts his head in a shrug. "We had each others' death in mind, as I recall."

"You would've been arrested and put in a cell." Blake stresses.

"You think death the mere stopping of your heart." He can hear the years in Bane's voice. "There are many ways to die, John. Some crueler than others."

Even though the man wasn't wrong, it didn't make him any more comfortable. He twists the leash in his hands in an attempt to ground himself.

"So, if someone wanted to just blow up Gotham tomorrow..."

"Unlikely. The reactor has not been converted yet. Our scientist ran into...trouble, so my primary concern is less its detonation and more to see its safe relocation." He finally feels his shoulders relax. Just a little. That is, until he adds: "Talia is my responsibility."

He can guess to the implications in that statement. He doesn't like any of them.

"Sure, she is. And you're the one that lost both her and the reactor. I'm supposed to just hang back and assume you'll get it done?" Blake holds himself square in the face of Bane's growing anger -- it was definitely easier thought than done. "I'll do whatever I can to keep the city safe. Even if that means our methods don't line up."

"Will you now." He responds coldly. "By still working for the Commissioner."

"I'm not working for him. He's a friend."

"A friend with filthy hands." He can feel the man's icy stare through the helmet. "I find your boundless compassion troublesome, John Blake. Do you intend to see the goodness in those that have proven otherwise?"

"He always looked out for me."

"At the expense of hundreds of peoples' dignity."

"I don't think you, or any one person, has all the answers, Behnam."

He's glad he can't see his expression. The utter contempt and fury that's no doubt leering through the tinted visor. A soft series of footsteps turns their gaze -- one of the workers is standing just a ways down the sidewalk, a smile on her face and visibly nervous.

"Is, uh, everything all right out here?"

He puts on a smile and waves at her.

"We're good! Getting a real run for our money, here."

The dog barks once, as if to confirm. Bane gives her a curt nod. He waits until she goes inside, then he's looming over him and casting him in a sudden and very cold shadow. Blake has to will his danger mode to turn off with more than a little effort.

"Because you and yours were insufficient I appeared." He hisses softly. "Because you and yours chose the wrong path I stayed. Because Gotham is still an abject stain on the mere idea of a just and safe community I will stay as long as I'm needed. You are free to contest me..." He tilts his head. "...but I do not recommend it."

He swallows slowly and says nothing. The dog peers up at them quietly, the calmest she's been since he arrived.

"If you will not then you will admit to the folly of maintaining idealistic connections with those that pull Gotham ever toward its ruin."

"Yeah...?" His temper is starting to boil. "Like Talia?"

"I am working to disarm her." His voice lowers dangerously. "Can you claim anything similar?"

"I'm working on it."

The masked man turns and walks away at that. Blake stalks after him with the dog in tow. He's damn sick of being talked down to like he has no clue what's at stake. The only thing worse than the quiet rage in his stomach is the knowledge that Bane actually seemed disappointed in him. He wasn't sure how to deal with it.

"I will maintain contact. Until then..." He looks over his shoulder. "I will be finding the reactor and ensuring that such a slip-up doesn't happen again. I will be moving in and out of Gotham." A formal way of saying they weren't going to be meeting much over the next chunk of time. Disappointment and anger didn't mix well.

"It'll be a nice break, I imagine." Blake replies. "Don't get too used to the outside world." He knows his tone is sour. He figures he'll regret it later. Bane stares at him for a moment, then starts his motorcycle, backs out and drives off without another word. The dog barks at his retreating form, as if giving voice to Blake's mangled feelings.

Another go-around (without Behnam's more commanding presence) and he's feeling good about her. Energetic and sorely lacking discipline, but it was a combo he and the boys would be able to work with. While it would have been easy to just call it a day, he wanted to be extra careful for once.

She's already had her shots and the workers ask if he wants an appointment to get her spayed. He opts for it as soon as possible, knowing a surprise bundle of puppies would be worse for everyone in the long run (though his heart clamors for the chance to have at least one opportunity to have a bundle of little furry newborns in his arms). He buys a few treats, a squeaky ball and a knotted rope to complete the package. The employees give him a cheesy round of applause when he leaves, commending him for being the tenth person to visit as well as the first person to actually ask about getting the dog fixed.

Reilly tells him the boys are back from their field trips when he calls in. The dog is clambering up and down the backseat when he's out on the road again, making driving a lot harder than he remembered. He's halfway convinced she wants to get him into a wreck when she leans over into the driver's seat and slathers her tongue all over his ear.

"Fuck!" He bats her away and rubs the side of his head against his shoulder. "Oh, god, that's gross..."

She's yanking on the chain once she's out, puffing clouds into the air and thrashing her tail like she's going to burst into a pile of fur. She walks him more than he walks her to the front door and somehow he's still unprepared for the boys' reaction.

"You got us a dog?!" He hears yelled in unison. Whatever homework or project Jai and Emanuel are working on is immediately pushed to the side and Jay all but climbs over the table to run to where Blake is standing in the doorway. His hands flick eagerly, almost too quick for Blake to register, but he's clearly delighted by how cute she is. One by one all the boys make their way over to see the newest addition.

"He's enormous!" Joel gasps when he nears the foyer, shrinking back shyly yet watching her with shining eyes.

"She's enormous." Blake corrects gently.

"We have a girl dog?" He asks with awe. "Does that mean we'll get puppies, too?"

"I call dibs on one of the puppies!" Tiya cries when he runs into the room. "I want the runt of the litter so I can keep it in my backpack and take it to school."

"I think any puppy would fit, dork." Jay adds snidely by his hip where he thinks Blake can't see. Tiya moves to flip him off, only to move his hand in some vague pantomime when Blake gives him a look.

"Runts are special." Tiya mutters instead.

"She's spayed, so no puppies." Blake raises a hand at the gaggles of disappointed "Aww!"s that meet him. "But it doesn't mean we couldn't just adopt a puppy if you take good care of her. You'll all have separate duties brushing her, feeding her and taking her for walks. She's part of the family now, so you all need to do your part."

"Did you get her at the new shelter?" Amir asks, tentatively reaching over and patting Trevor's large thigh.

"How come you didn't invite us?" Jay adds, accusingly.

"Could I take all her shed fur and fill a pillowcase with it?" Tiya gasps.

"A lot of the dogs came from abusive or neglectful households. They didn't think it'd be a good idea to bring a bunch of kids over for a field trip." He holds back a smile when the boys exchange knowing glances -- an immediate sympathy. "Also...sure." He's still getting a sour look from Jay and he holds up a hand for emphasis. "Come on, you think you all could pick a dog from the bunch? I had to hold myself back from smuggling all the puppies out of there."

Tiya shoves a few of the couch pillows under his arms in an imitation of what he'd probably look like in the attempt, earning a laugh from Joel and even a soft chuckle from Amir in the corner, his sketchbook open and the dog's grinning face already in an attempted translation from life to paper.

Reilly walks in, probably to tell them all to quiet down, and freezes in place. While Blake did tell him he was thinking of getting one, he didn't exactly tell him when. The man's bushy brows furrow into his signature 'V' and Blake gives him an apologetic grin over Joel's head.

'Don't worry, I got this.' He mouths.

"What?" Reilly says, squinting.

Joel reaches out to pet her, then shrinks back again when she bounds to the couch and starts snuffling her nose into the cushions. Poor kid didn't come into contact with animals often and it was becoming clearer with each passing minute he didn't know what to make of the virtual wolf that entered his life.

"Does Banen like dogs?" He asks when Blake gives one of them the leash and stands up to join Reilly. "I think he would like dogs."

"Funny story, actually. He's the one that picked her out." A little exaggerated, but the man's presence had been a surprising help. He tries not to think about their less-than-stellar farewell (easier thought than done) and focuses on the boys in front of him. He was a little worried all their excess energy could agitate an already sensitive constitution, but she seemed to feed off their excitement more than anything. Like she had ten birthdays rolled up into one day. All in all, the first meeting could have gone a lot worse.

"Good timing, huh." Reilly says to his surprise when he goes to stand next to him -- his reading glasses are still on and he looks more tired than ever. He was getting to the age where getting sick left its mark. "With all the stuff going on, a big dog will put me at ease. They can sense things humans can't, you know."

"We'll be okay." Blake responds, nudging his shoulder with his own. "You know I've got your back."

"Yeah, but does Gotham patrol." He mutters. "Been hearing about some weird things going on in Old Gotham. Not that far from us, you know."

"I know. I've been looking it up, too." He thinks it best to save exactly what he's been hearing until he has a better handle on it all. Reilly had a tendency to stick to the primary news stations, anyway. "We've managed without much help before. Like that time the basement and one of the rooms flooded and filled with mold. Remember when our past manager wouldn't even reimburse us? We got this."

"I don't know where you get all that optimism, Blake." He says with a rare smile. "You've changed so much."

Blake grins. "What can I say, your sunny personality rubbed off on me over the years."

He appreciates the rare moment of nostalgia. Despite being the orphanage's Father he never fit the image of a saccharine parental-religious figure with a dimpled smile. Years later and he was still classic Reilly, bony edges and quiet paranoia without much of a bite. Even though he practically raised him throughout the rest of his teenage years he was less of a father substitute and more of an uncle -- a little distant, but always there when he needed him.

"...I hope you can keep it." He says with a sigh. "However ugly it gets." He claps a hand on his shoulder and gives him a squeeze before making his slow way up the stairs. Blake holds onto the warmth in his chest when he goes to check on Finn. The boy's watching television, though it's clearly a distraction due to the slightly glazed look in his eyes. That is, until the dog makes her way to the main room and promptly jumps on him. He dissolves into a laughing fit as the kid attempts and fails to move his face away from her huge mouth.

"Holy-...okay! We got another kid, apparently!" He tries to say through her furry ruff, only to spit out a clump of hair.

"Twenty-eight and counting." Blake responds, hugging his shaking sides. The orphanage definitely needed more laughter.

"Why a dog?" He asks when she's marginally calmed down, beanie now skewed and threatening to slide off his head. "I mean, not that I'm complaining."

"We talked about keeping the younger boys company. Especially with you, Jai and Emanuel getting older and all. I also want a bit more peace of mind when they walk and bus home." He smirks. "She'll also teach you discipline."

Finn rolls his eyes as he squishes her face and lifts her snout to his nose. "Yeah, I'm sure she'll be a great replacement for the vice principal." He smirks. "Kinda looks like her, if we're being honest."

"So, about your car having nails in the tires despite you still not having your license..." Blake says as he leans against the wall. "I was a budding detective and even I can't figure that conundrum out."

Finn sets his jaw stubbornly and shrugs. Well. One thing at a time.

"So, what's her name?" He asks after a moment of silence, checking her collar for good measure. Blake opens his mouth, then slowly shuts it and slaps a hand to his forehead.

Chapter Text

Dr. Leonid Pavel has nothing to do but sit and wait for the world to end.

Wherever he's been relocated to is cold. Not the numbing cold of the mountain hideout but something closer and wetter. He would bet it was somewhere underground. Somewhere heavily populated, even, if the faint rushing of water was any indication. These were the only details he could manage in-between the texture of his food, heavy sleeping and occasionally idling through half-filled notebook pages.

Isolation hadn't broke him. Torture hadn't broke him, though it certainly wasn't for lack of effort and, if he was being entirely honest with himself, it was only a matter of time until its effects would make themselves clear. The reactor vanishing under mysterious circumstances and leaving everything in disarray, though? Even he couldn't have predicted that. Bane's men had kept the details off-limits, but the fact he was somewhere new, suddenly had little to do and the tension that marked each mercenary's step became more pronounced by the second meant something had gone seriously wrong. What that meant for him was as hazy and foreboding as everything else.

The scientist had woken up to a hail of snow, Barsad injured and Salim bleeding out. Even in his groggy state it had been one of the few times he actually felt something other than disgust and fear. Bane's right-hand man had always been civil to him, even kind -- Pavel could tell from the beginning he was also a father and he had hoped, however irrationally, he could inform him about the status of his family during the first few days of his kidnapping. While it had proven a fruitless effort over the weeks (he would not admit to having been gone for months, not yet), Barsad took great care to make sure he was comfortable and well-accommodated. Once he brought him what appeared to be handmade baklava after an exhausting evening of comparing notes. Rubio had been another story entirely and he was more than a little glad the man was (apparently) out of the picture.

All he had left were his small pile of papers, spare clothes and a few of his cleaning supplies. That and the existential fear about whoever was capable of pulling the rug out from under Bane -- this was the very man who had successfully conducted the suicidal plan of tearing a plane in half in mid-air. Pavel didn't have time to look up the man's resume, but he could ascertain a few guesses as to what he had done over the years to gain such a skill set.

He feared Bane would take his anger over whatever was going on out on him. That even his terrifying, methodical calm would snap under the pressure and turn him into the recipient, unique scientific knowledge and tenuous health be damned. If anything the man seemed even more detached when he visited his little room days later. However day was measured in this cold, wet place.

"Your stalling has reaped a rare reward, Dr. Pavel." The masked man says matter-of-factly through the muffled confines of his mask. "It would behoove you to make good use of it."

Pavel curls his fingers in remembrance. They're still faintly purple from the last interrogation session. The man had strapped electric wires beneath his nails, sour little shocks that had his body shivering uncontrollably in a matter of seconds -- it reminded him of when he had become sick as a boy back in his hometown, an illness that left him stiff and keening for days on end. For someone so brutal Bane was incredibly restrained, always hinting at something far worse just around the corner. He supposed that was the major difference that separated him from the average terrorist, though his bloodlust was par for the course. During his wilder moments he wished the man would simply get it over with.

"Wherever it's gone to..." He starts, voice hoarse from exhaustion. "...it stands little chance of being converted without my help." It wasn't entirely true -- he was far from the only scientist in his field, but it was still a small and highly specialized one. He wasn't about to give up the only card in his deck. Bane doesn't seem at all startled he's figured out what's happened behind-the-scenes.

"Finding a replacement has been time-consuming, yes." Pavel's stomach sinks with a leaden weight. "It would be easier for many should you simply comply."

"Twenty years."

"Hm?"

"I have spent twenty years studying fusion reactions." He can feel panic's cold hands around his heart. "Even my own colleagues didn't show-"

"Yes, you were the top in your field." He says, folding his arms. There was no reason to lie anymore. The truth was out and anti-climactic in the cold little room. "But even a mountaintop must crumble and make way for another peak."

"Then if they know what's good for them they'll also sit on their hands and do nothing." There's no bravery in the statement. He's exhausted and long since convinced he'll die entire countries away from his family. "You self-righteous murderers with your arrogant ideals. You fight for nothing. Nothing but an easier and messier way to die. For all you wax poetic about Gotham being a destructive force, you and the city are perfect for one another."

Bane quietly observes his outburst in the meager light of the doorway. There's a weak satisfaction in finally letting out the ice that had settled into his bones and almost froze him solid. That, at the very least, he could die with his head held high. Even he, the quiet and overworked scientist from Izhevsk, hadn't caved to a terrorist. They could break him. Peel his skin off and leave his red body in the sun for the birds. But he wouldn't give them a bomb to inevitably lay some ill-fated city or small country to waste.

Then his conviction shakes when he sees something small and square in Bane's hands.

"You've been given a chance at redemption. Like most of your ilk, you squander it in favor of continued delusion." He sounds distant. "I have been wrong before...but I fear it's not often."

Somehow he knows Bane is holding photos of his family. Probably recent, something somehow taken within the past few weeks. The man had deliberately said nothing about them the many, many days he's been in captivity. Deflected any questions he had as to their safety. Didn't even shrug when asked if they were alive. Pavel was given absolutely zero reason to believe anything but the utter worst. That they had met their end at his hands or perhaps the hands of his followers. That he had been holding out for the privilege of returning home to a trio of corpses.

His Shoreh. He can see her brilliant hazel eyes in his mind's eye, how her teeth flash white in the weak sunlight when they walk down the path by their summer home. His lovely little Darya, still chubby with baby fat and squirming with energy in his arms. His now-born Alexander, probably so tiny and taking after his mother's beauty. There are no more biting words or temporary rushes of a fool's courage. He stares wordlessly at the man's hands as he shuffles through them, brows furrowed in a damning display of sympathy.

"They've grown."

Pavel's voice barely touches the silence.

"Please..."

Bane's dark eyes flick up from the photos. As merciless as ever.

"Perhaps the free time will allow you to ruminate on the countless families that grew ill from your clean energy experiments, Dr. Pavel. How the nature of photos grows ever more acute when they're all some have left. My sympathy has long since been shorn by scientists and inventors, your toy projects and bloody consequences."

He wants to cross the room and claw the photos from his hand like a rabid animal. Instead he sits, dejected, and watches the man push them delicately back into the pocket of his coat.

"While you continue to reach your epiphany..." He says as he rises to his feet. "...I will continue to right your wrongs."

Sometimes he wonders if the sky remembers the color blue. The endless grey is choking, almost oppressive, and he's heard stories of entire years Gotham has been without more than a peek beyond stormclouds, constant rains and heavy fog. Perhaps this was one of the many elements that influenced Gothamites' unique brand of hardy and dreary. These thoughts occupy him as he waits for Talia to meet him in a secluded lot near Gotham's primary airport. The mercenaries that flank her double as everyday bodyguards, all but invisible to the average eye as they stand by the car and maintain their stature even in the solitude.

"It's been too long." Even through his mask he can catch a hint of her perfume, something strong enough to sting his eyes. "Metropolis did her best to keep you from me."

"Metropolis doesn't have Gotham's bite." Bane responds as he strokes the cold from her cheek. "She would have to try much harder than this."

"Gotham won't have to do much at all." Her eyes glint eagerly. "The delay gave me more time to engage with the replacement I found. It took a bit more schmoozing than I would have liked, but fortunately for us he is just as power-hungry as the rest." She chuckles lightly. "A touch of Sauvignon Blanc in my quarters certainly didn't hurt."

It was a lesson she learned at a very young age -- do whatever it takes. The scientist might develop irrational feelings for her once their temporary alliance is over. He would deal with it when it came.

"Conor Walsh. A nuclear physicist who has been working on alternative energy solutions near the Isles. He doesn't have Pavel's experience, not quite, but their resumes are startlingly similar. Singh would have been a better option technically, but the man is a notorious bleeding heart." Bane keeps his face carefully neutral. "Walsh, however...he has long since felt his efforts unappreciated by the cities he's been working to improve. He was all too eager for the out I offered him."

A scientist who didn't know he was being convinced to help turn Gotham to rubble. Talia knew cruelty like the back of her hand. He wanted to believe it was because of the hard luck she found herself in at a young age and not because she had taken a liking for the act, but Blake's recording had never quite stopped playing in the back of his mind.

"He has 'unfinished business' to attend to first back home..." She says with an irritated flip of her hair. "Then he will see us and make sure we finish our work for Gotham."

'How do you lie so easily to me?' Bane thinks as she gives his hand a squeeze and asks about where he plans on taking her. 'Where did the lies begin? Where will they end? At least, for now, you have indirectly helped me keep city safe.'

"As far away as possible."

He nods to his men. They immediately return to the car and make their way out, leaving them alone in the mist. Talia's garb isn't entirely practical and he pulls out a spare coat as well as her helmet from his motorcycle's pack, waiting until she's comfortably settled behind him before starting his bike. Something tingles in the back of his mind in-between the creak of the seat and the cough of the engine, Talia's arms around his waist an echo of Blake's firm grip. He gives himself an inward shake before pulling out and heading in the opposite direction -- somehow, thinking of the man bolsters and shakes his resolve.

Bane wasn't interested in shielding Blake from his own shame. He was still soured by the man's insistence on maintaining ties with James Gordon. The detective had even noted the Commissioner may not survive another encounter with him. His tug-of-war between pessimism and optimism remained one of his more unpredictable qualities -- John no doubt believed he could find an ideal solution even as his options continued to shrink around him. Believing in others' potential even as they squandered it. Foolhardy. Like usual. It would put others in danger if he didn't check it.

He grips the bike handles a little harder than usual as he makes a turn and climbs up a steep hill.

It doesn't stop Bane from wanting to find time for him once he finished up with today's business, nor did it stop him from wondering what the Swithin's boys thought of their newest companion.

A light downpour meets them when they reach the top. It's a quiet drive across Gotham's surrounding plains and hills. Winter settled over the city with an almost supernatural presence, while the outside world was starting to show hesitant clusters of green amid the gray. It would be a while yet before spring made itself clear. Even then, the gray may never truly leave.

"It's been a while since we traveled like this." She says over the wind. "It'd be tempting to never stop." Bane nods his agreement.

The shack is small and humble, once a meager place to hold old farming supplies before he and his men had stumbled upon it during their first approach to Gotham. With no apparent owner he had taken care to clean it out early on, transforming it into an escape he and Talia had indulged in more and more rarely as of late. There's a makeshift fireplace, now filled with fresh wood alongside a kettle of tea and a small pot settled beside the stones. Thick blankets, a wooden table and two chairs fill out the room and give it an almost homely appeal. It's not an overly furbished space, not by the strictest definition, but they've been used to surviving on far less. He can see her eyes go hazy with appreciation when they walk in and simultaneously shake condensation from their shoulders.

"Relax." He says as he pulls off his gloves and folds them on the old table, draping his coat on the old chair nearby. She obeys with uncharacteristic immediacy -- either she's truly tired or she's humoring his small efforts.

For the next few hours there's no such thing as Gotham. No such thing as the League or Miranda or Bane. Like snow they've drifted down to where they belong, guided by the breeze to their own little corner away from the rest of the world. It's as close as he can get to their younger days traveling the world, from spire to city to plain, stopping only when the elements grew tempestuous or the roads treacherous. Soon the fire is roaring and her heels are paired in a far corner, curled by the fire and watching it grow.

"I remember eating a dish flaked with gold for the first time." She says over the growing crackle. "It was when the Wayne Board threw a welcoming committee for my new position. A rare breed of salmon, dressed up with microgreens like a painting and framed with sliced lemons. White linen and sparkling glasses stretching down the table as far as the eye could see. I had never seen anything like it." The characteristic pop of embers flare in the corner of his vision. "Even then...I have never felt richer than when I'm in front of an open flame."

Bane pulls out a small bag of foodstuffs from his pack and starts organizing them one-by-one on the table. "I remember when you called yourself the Fire Keeper. You were so small." He replies with a soft chuckle. "Holding coals in your hands to toughen them."

"Yes!" She laughs, looking at her delicately manicured nails in the warm light. "I had wanted callouses like yours. So impatient. I thought I could make them overnight."

It was a hard memory to forget. It was well before he wore his mask almost constantly, when scent hadn't yet become a foreign sensation and he used it alongside sight, touch and hearing to navigate his dark, cramped world. The smell of her burning flesh had made him sick even before he saw the raw red that spread across her tiny hands. Behnam had been stunned at her naivete, having never met any child before her, and admonished her until tears had coursed dirty rivers down her cheeks. She didn't cry from the pain, but his words had another effect entirely.

"You used your shawl to bandage my hands. The only one you had." Her voice softens. "I felt so guilty. The pit was always freezing." She prods the wood with the poker, encouraging the flame to settle over the untouched areas. He thinks of Blake huddled in front of his fireplace all those nights ago. How he had asked...

"I was used to the cold." Bane replies over the rhythmic clip-clap of knife on wood. "I knew little else."

"True." She concedes. "We can grow used to almost anything."

"Your mother had a way of igniting a fire with words alone."

She doesn't respond. He sees she's wrapped one of the blankets around her shoulders when he moves from the vegetables to start the tea. The fire's light sculpts her cheeks and nose out in soft orange, as regal as a sunset.

Talia looks so much like her. She may have inherited Ra's' blue eyes, but everything from the way she held herself to the curve of her jaw was a mirror image of the woman who graced the pit like a storm taken human shape. As if hearing his thoughts she leans over and digs in his coat pockets, pulling out the thread he keeps there and settling it onto her lap. Rain starts to fall outside, a gentle trickle that soon fills the small space with the scent of wet earth. A petrichor's lullaby that sinks him deeper into memory.

"You're too harsh. You handle the thread like a slab of meat."

He still didn't fully understand her accent. It was something he'd never heard before, a wavering inflection that struck his ears and left them stinging. It likely had something to do with her status -- while she came from the same area as many of the prisoners, she had been far more privileged. It wasn't just in the clothes on her back or the jewelry she still wore around her neck. It was in her stance. The way she looked around her like the pit was truly something she'd never encountered before.

With a grunt he tempers his grip, so loose the fabric almost slips from his fingers. It helps, momentarily, but soon he feels his fingers tightening and the pattern losing itself in the strain. With a soft sigh she reaches over to move his hands into the correct position, stopping halfway when he flinches and glares at her. The sun may have passed above the circle many times since she first arrived, but his desire to be touched hadn't changed whatsoever.

"Like me."

He's content to watch her and mimic her, even when it still eludes him how she can make her fingers move with such meticulous grace. They're like spider legs, utterly delicate and precise as they weave thread into a physical web. The potential of such a careful touch still haunted him and he had never failed to meet her at her cell when she started allowing him, in-between her nursing Talia, conferring with the doctor and resting. Sometimes he saw her writing by candlelight, though it seemed to be the only act that taxed her -- she would shake so hard she could hardly hold the pen in her hands, once dissolving into tears and earning the uncomfortable attention of the others.

Bane adds the finishing touches and wipes the excess from his hands. The stew has already grown thick and hearty, far from fancy yet invigorating with its heavy broth. Talia leans forward and sniffs the pot eagerly. Kneeling by the fire to check its intensity he gives her shoulder an affectionate pat, earning a soft smile in return.

One day Talia was awake to watch them. She was just learning to walk, holding onto her mother's dress or the bars in a constant attempt to steady her clumsy legs. Remaining in the cell to keep up appearances meant it wasn't long before the right corner had become co-owned -- it was furthest from the bars and the light, furthest from the clutter of things Talia's mother had been allowed to bring with her. For him it was a reclamation of control in a life that had become a little different and alarmingly so.

The lesson had been more successful. Her redundant teachings had finally begun to click in his mind and make sense, an epiphany as sudden and invigorating as birdcall. Shapes formed where there had only been tangles. Elegant curves where there had been disorder. He had been so deeply engrossed in the burgeoning pattern forming in the string he neglected her quiet approach until her hand was on his arm, picking at the scars that broke the skin.

In his shock he shoved her away, with only pure luck a blanket had been there to catch her fall. It was one of only two times he had seen Talia's mother lose her temper.

The sun would pass overhead many times before she let him into the cell again. It would pass by overhead many more times until Lael would ask him the one question he never thought she'd ask.

There's little to do except wait for the stew to complete itself. He idly mops sweat from his collar, the small room already close with heat and the heavy fog from outside. Talia lifts up her blanket to free her legs and move up against his chest. She moves her nose against his neck, an uncomfortable pantomime of Blake's open affection. Bane, even now, wasn't overly familiar with social norms concerning a parent and child, but there was a virulent sense of wrong whenever she moved in such a way. He still doesn't push her off, keeping his gaze on the gently simmering pot. The vegetables are dark with color, the base he prepared earlier creating a creamy consistency that grew thicker by the minute.

"You don't talk about her much." She murmurs, twining her fingers in his hand. Bane studies her delicate hand, how it almost vanishes beneath his own.

"Old ghosts should rest."

"I wish I remembered more of her." Her voice grows quiet. "Besides..."

She doesn't need to say. Lael's untimely death was forever etched into memory, not even time able to scrub away the ugly details that carved her final moments. Talia touches something in her pocket. He wonders if it's the knife. The pot begins to boil over and he reaches over to remove it from the stand.

"Eat with me."

He knew she would ask. He digs for the two syringes in his pocket, pulling out the one filled with a specialized painkiller that would mimic the one in his mask, though due to its liquid properties it would take a few minutes to travel through his bloodstream and take effect. Bane unbuckles the mask and turns off its inner workings, rubbing his cheeks where the straps had long since worn grooves into his skin. Waits until his body starts to shiver with the lack of drug before he pushes up his shirt and injects into three different spots on his back. Grips the floor and bows his head so she doesn't have to see the agony twisting his face.

He loathes the lack of control. Each twitch is an ugly reminder of who he'd be without the mask, without the constant aid of painkillers and the ritualistic therapy. Only Talia could see him like this. Even then...

"How are you feeling?" She asks softly, eyes wandering along the face she rarely saw anymore. The numbness begins to set in. It was an advanced formula, one that focused primarily on the area it was injected in and kept its surrounding effects negligible. Only a faint tingle sets into his scarred lips and he rolls his jaw experimentally. Talia pulls back as Bane reaches over to dose the stew into small bowls. Specialized drinks and simple broths made him miss the sensation of simply chewing.

Talia reaches into her pack and pulls out a small bottle. "I know you're not overly fond of wine." She says with a smirk. "But indulge me."

With a sigh he accepts a small amount in his glass, brows quirked with wry humor. "Someday I will have to draw the line with you."

She covers her mouth in a laugh. "We'll see."

Bane drinks slowly. Being drunk, even a little, is not quite like being under the haze of his drug. It relaxes him overmuch, dulling his edge and blurring his senses. Even knowing they're well-hidden and slowly being wrapped in the confines of a storm does little to cut into his instinct to remain vigorous at all times. Talia has no such concern, drinking deeply and laughing loudly as she details a play she saw in Metropolis. One about a farming couple who find an orphaned child in their field one night, having no choice but to hide him once they found out he had superhuman strength.

"He reminded me a little of you." She says in-between generous sips.

"The part where he broke a plane in half or the part where he fired lasers from his eyes?" He responds mildly, lips twitching in a shadow of a smile.

Time passes by unheeded, both the rain and the fire dwindling down to almost nothing. The thickness in the air suggests the rain, at least, will be back soon.

The fire is put out and the excess scraps of food tossed for the birds. The drug hasn't quite left his system, but it feels good to have the mask on his face again. The drive back to Gotham is slow and careful -- Talia had finished a few glasses and was valiantly attempting to hide their aftereffects, cheek resting heavy on his shoulder all the way. As if acknowledging this the clouds part for a rare peek of the sun when he rounds into Gotham again.

Barsad is waiting for them. The man had insisted on joining him despite his wounds, still unwilling to trust such a delicate task to anyone else. Bane didn't blame him, not with his inherent sense of duty, but he watches carefully for any signs he should be in bed than on his feet. He doesn't like the way he looks at Talia, even though it would seem nothing more than a disimpassioned glance to the casual observer.

"Don't push yourself overmuch." Bane grunts as he gets off the bike, helping Talia to her feet. She rubs her eyes wearily as they make their way into her suite.

"I'll try not to." He responds calmly, though his voice betrays a hint of pain. He remains outside as Bane walks her inside and up to her room. The glittering floors and bleached walls leer at him from all sides. Testing his composure. He shuts the door behind him and watches his daughter gain her bearings, shrugging off her coat and feeling the moisture clinging to her hair.

"It will be a while before we can do this again." He says as he observes the chandelier dangling from the ceiling, decadent and excessive. Bane feels more than hears her walk up behind him.

"Hopefully soon." Her fingers trace up his back, so faint as to be unnoticeable. "I've thought a lot about what you said, back in the storm drain. About finding my happiness. I originally thought the concept would be forever elusive to me...but there has always been one element that has never faded."

He turns just as she wraps arms around his shoulders, kissing the front of his mask before moving to where skin is visible beneath the straps. His voice doesn't seem to work.

"Talia...?"

"That element has always been you." Her breath leaves hot marks on his skin in-between each word. "I could never be at my happiest without you."

It's wrong. Completely and utterly. She must feel him cringe because she leans back, just enough to observe his face, still clinging to him as if he could suddenly vanish in a plume of smoke.

"I don't understand." She presses, voice still a touch slurred from the alcohol. "Do you have someone else?"

He doesn't say John's name. He doesn't quite need to. She can see something in his eyes, something betraying, because her voice cracks as if her heart's broken.

"No one will never be enough for you." Her eyes are glistening. "You know this."

The hurt twisting her face cuts through his chest and lays him open bare. It almost makes him surrender, right then and there, to let her do whatever she pleases. After all, she's already owned his life. His future. He owed his very existence to the act of mercy she brought back with her to the pit. Why should she not lay claim to his body, too? He was nothing more than a specter, after all. One that wanted to leave a positive impact on the world before his inevitable, bloody death.

"I know you don't make promises you can't keep." A flutter of vulnerability, lashes against his cheek and the peek of his tanned fingers in oil-black hair. "I gotta remember now is good enough."

Like waking from a nightmare he gives himself a hard shake. Bane pushes her back and away, holding firm her shoulders as well as the nausea building in his stomach. His Talia. His shadow. He would sooner suffer Bruce's hands on her than his own. So much he's swept under the rug. Found a way to excuse or downplay in his love for her. He did nothing to quash these inappropriate feelings. She avoids his gaze, ashamed and angry at his rejection. He would find a way to make it up to her. Somehow. When all this was over.

"I could never be what you seek. Nor would I." He strokes her shoulder with his thumb in an attempt to soften the blow of his words. "I have died for you. I would a thousand times over. You mean everything to me, Talia, and so does your happiness." He takes in a slow breath. "How could I give you such a wish..." She had started to relax in his grip, only to grow rigid when he continues, "...when the price of your happiness is too high?"

"...What?" She tries to pull back from him now, a quick and angry motion, but she's unable to move even an inch.

"Talia."

"What do you even mean by that?"

"Where did you put it?"

"You're hurting me."

"The reactor."

"What about the reactor-"

"Enough!" He watches the blood drain from her face. "I know what you plan for Gotham." His voice grows low and quiet with shame. "I have known. For far too long. But I couldn't believe you, of all people, would be capable of such misplaced hate. Such destruction. I thought I raised you better. I thought..."

Words fail him. Her eyes flick back and forth, searching his face. Perhaps for weakness. Maybe another lie. Rage curls hot in his chest and it takes a monumental effort not to shake her. To think...her desire to use John Blake for information ended up being the loose cog. Something she, nor he, could have ever predicted. His world may as well be upside down for all the stability he feels in the moment.

She doesn't lie or wheedle. Doesn't even attempt a cry for help. She must know whatever he's found out is irrefutable, because all she says is...

"...Now you know."

"Why?"

"Because Gotham has never been worth saving." She grips his jacket, some attempt, he imagines, of getting through to him. "For how many decades has this city terrorized the continent? How often has it laid to waste the efforts of good and terrible people alike? I, too, thought I could pick up where my father left off and succeed where he couldn't. I know better now. I know better. The only future Gotham has is being reduced to rubble so something new can grow."

"You are not Ra's. We are not Ra's. You are more than his delusion. We left the League precisely because we were more!"

"You fool yourself." Talia almost spits. "The League made us who we are. We can no more escape its influence than the night can flee the dark."

"You would kill innocent people? Children?" Bane does shake her now, a desperate motion to dislodge whatever was poisoning his daughter. Her hair spills inelegantly around her face, but the chill doesn't leave her gaze.

"Of course not." She responds curtly, even as vague and genuine confusion still marks her features. "I would spare them and anyone else worthy of-"

"My apologies." His interrupts with venom. "You neglected to mention this when you attempted to murder the detective."

Then her eyes widen. Just so. Just enough to confirm what he needs to do next.

"I will find it." He says as he presses her against the door. "I will save Gotham." He continues as he pulls out the other syringe in his pocket. "...and you."

Bane holds her as she struggles in his grip, trying to wrest away from point digging into her arm. Closes his eyes when she curses his name with progressively tired breaths. Barsad doesn't say a word when he walks in a few minutes later, careful to avoid his gaze as he gathers Talia's limp body from him and notifies back-up.

Chapter Text

Gothamites weren't prone to public displays of a good mood. It was customary to keep hands in pockets (what was seen as suspicious elsewhere was pragmatic in a city that was under a crisis every other month) and a stern look at all times. A person looks too happy and they run the risk of appearing a loon, that of which were in increasingly high supply. Too miserable? No such thing. John Blake all but tosses this conventional wisdom to the wind when he walks out of the small tech firm, grinning like it's his birthday and he doesn't mind aging. After all, it was hard not to when the job interview he sorely needed actually went well. About as well as it could with him being sorely out of practice, anyway.

The small voice in the back of his mind tells him he shouldn't be too comfortable with winging things, but he soundly ignores it in favor of a small victory and treats himself to a burrito at his favorite food truck. His resume, even a little old, had impressed them enough to land him a few assignments to be completed within a week -- debugging, repair work, nothing he couldn't feasibly handle. He hasn't burned through his savings yet, but with a new pet and car repairs already starting to make a mockery of his wallet he was overdue. He winces when he eats too fast and remembers he might have to start paying off Finn's interest if he doesn't finish up the rest of his payments.

Finding somewhere isolated (but no less cold) to sit down, he pulls out his phone and calls Barbara to thank her -- his new boss was an acquaintance of one of her computer science teachers and she had been diligent in tossing him available job offerings whenever she found them. Her selflessness still startled him at times. He makes another mental note in-between punching numbers to tell her to take it easy after exams.

His mind wanders in-between each ring and the lack of progress he's made attempting to make a dent in the apathy surrounding Old Gotham, East End and the Browery. He'd taken it upon himself to contact the mayor as well as a few representatives to spread the word, making sure to keep his anecdotes just vague enough as not to put anyone in danger -- the obligation to help his neighbor out hadn't faded in the least, even as he still waffled back and forth on the best course of action. It felt like throwing darts on a board with a blindfold on. One had given him some PR nonsense that they were 'doing all they could'. Another had just hung up.

Blake frowns when she doesn't pick up and hits the call button again. He couldn't ask Gordon for help. Shit, he couldn't even update him. Not yet. Not when Bane had yet to update him on what, exactly, he'd done with Talia. The man's distance over the days had become chilling and Blake has to remind himself that he's a busy guy. Definitely not getting cold feet and letting his daughter continue to plan the city's demise. Definitely not vanishing under the cover of night to somewhere far away or being shot between the eyes during a protest and transported to a morgue for study or something. Then again, maybe it was his fault for not being proactive and just calling him up to ask. Barbara picks up the line right when he starts to fidget.

"Hey. Just got back from the interview." He says with a barely contained sigh of relief. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No, no, you're fine. Just...you're fine." A few scattered noises in the background, then she's back on the line. "How'd it go?"

"I got the job. So, quite well." He chuckles. "Thanks for picking people who were desperate enough to overlook my bad haircut."

"Pfft. What haircut?"

"Exactly."

"Well, it wasn't exactly hard." He can hear a faint, rhythmic scratching now -- he must've caught her while studying. "There have been a lot of lay offs recently. Lots of businesses not meeting their monthly figures. That or people straight-up quitting and packing their bags for Metropolis. I had a classmate who told me the other day even a full-time job with benefits wasn't worth walking through two and a half riots just to get to her firm. Someone threw a bottle at her!"

Blake makes a noncommital noise that he's listening. Barbara snorts. "Well, don't sound too worried."

"Come on. It's just a bottle."

"Yeah, but a lot of people are going through this. Roads being blocked and shit being broken when all these protesters could find another way around it." Blake chooses his tone carefully around the sensitive topic.

"Can you really blame them, Barb? People are pissed. They're just trying to get results and it's not like the Gotham police department or our mayors are giving them any. People are losing their jobs. They're living in squalor. You know I'd turn the entire world upside down if anyone threatened my kids and...well, I'm always prepared for that to happen, what with Swithin's always on the verge of being defunded."

"Doesn't mean they have to pick on everyone who walks by." He can hear the conflict in her voice. "Though...it'd only be fair to mention my other classmate...overheard him talking about being potentially hauled in for not being able to pay off the rest off his loans. Didn't get any grants."

Blake is grateful the burrito drowns out the anger that threatens to swallow him up at that. "That's messed up."

"Yeah...I...sort of see what you mean. I mean...my grandfather tries so hard to make things right. I want to believe things will change eventually, but it's hard when they just...don't seem to. I don't know if all the destruction is the right way to go, though. What do you think about all this?"

"I think if the department didn't want cars turned over and windows broken they should've thought twice before blowing up buildings and throwing people in jail for twenty years on minor possession." He responds lightly. She was selfless, yes. Hard-working, definitely. But naive. She was lucky enough to grow up pretty stable near Crest Hill's decadent 'burbs, with the protection of an entire police force, to boot. Even as she studied to get her degree in forensics to follow somewhat in Gordon's footsteps, she still had a lot to learn when it came to actual justice.

Wasn't like she was the only one.

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you're watching a lot of Bane's speeches." The scratching stops, replaced by a soft sipping sound. "He's got more stage presence than a stage magician in Amusement Mile."

"Ha. I'm guessing you're not a fan?"

"I still think he's got doppelgangers. There's just no way he's been avoiding capture without the help of multiple people behind the mask." He's tickled by how wrong and how right she is without even knowing it.

"And if he's a, uh, one-man show?"

"Then...well." Barbara lets out an almost impressed sigh. "He'd be kind of amazing. At least, in that regard." She pauses, then continues rapidfire. "Hey, it's not too soon to talk about him like this, right? I'm sorry. I know he-"

"No, you're fine. Don't worry about it." He keeps his voice low anyway, because while there were more Bane supporters in the area than dissenters he wouldn't take his chances. "I knew what I was signing up for. It's not like it came completely out of left field."

"Seriously. I don't know how you do it, Blake. I don't know how you came out of all that in one piece."

'Well, I wasn't exactly the sympathetic party.' He thinks, shoveling the rest of the burrito down and tossing the wrapper as she continues. "I think grandpa is taking what you're saying to heart, though. He told me the other day he's been bringing up alternatives for the task force, what with the department almost exclusively focusing on Bane lately. Turns out they're thinking of switching it up, but not quite how he hoped." She suddenly sounds uncomfortable and her voice lowers to a whisper. "I shouldn't be telling you this, not with it still up in the air, but...they're thinking of-"

His stomach churns guiltily. "Hey, woah, it's fine. I don't want you to get in trouble. I can always ask Gordon for an update."

"Except you two barely talk anymore."

"I'll figure it out."

"You know, Amir was onto something back at the gallery." She says after a moment's silence. "We could really use another Batman right about now."

A sharp bark cuts right through whatever he had to say. Blake turns around and shushes the source sharply, only to receive a petulant yap in response. He was going to have to check his door for another noise complaint tomorrow.

"That the new dog?" She switches gears delightedly. "I can't wait to see her!"

"And I can't wait for the training to sink in." He grumbles. He makes plans to see the young woman sometime soon and promptly hangs up to go give Trevor the sternest look he can muster...which soon dissolves into laughter when she jumps on his chest and tries to lick his face off. "Criminy, your breath stinks. Going to have to buy you those toothbrush treats or whatever they call them."

He's kept her at his apartment for a few nights since Swithin's wasn't yet dog-proofed, which he chalked up to his incredible foresight. In fact, it also left him in the position of figuring out a way of having all the boys contribute to her new name without feeling left out again, so he had taken one of Reilly's old hats ("You laugh now, but they were considered high fashion back in my day." he groused when the boys snickered) and filled it with all their name suggestions during his last visit. Even though they were anonymous to keep things as straightforward as possible, it was pretty obvious who chose who when they sat in the living room after dinner and watched him shake it.

It was an...attempted democracy. Frida and Jemisin were likely Amir's choices. Snowball could have been Joel's, but could just as easily have been Finn's (though he insists he didn't enter). Balto was a rather funny pick and Jay was all too eager to admit he wanted her to pull a sleigh next time they went to the park. Considering her propensity for bolting at the nearest opportunity, he thought that might not be the best idea. Blake had entered in a name based after a famous sprinter of the past century, receiving nothing more than a collective look of confusion and one rather rude expression from Emanuel.

It had soon dissolved into a classic Swithin's debate, points and counterpoints tossed like confetti until the room would be more easily confused for a howler monkey's nest than a boys' home. Reilly, interestingly enough, had been the one to break the cycle.

"Trevor was St. Swithin's grandson." Shrugging as if he didn't care either way. "Could be a way to make her truly feel at home here."

"Isn't that a boy's name?" Tiya said while scratching his head.

"Some people say your name isn't a boy's name." Jay corrected.

"I like it!" Joel had crowed. And they were sold.

Trevor responded to her new name about as well as she responded to anything else -- with extreme enthusiasm and the attention span of a cat high on catnip. Blake stuffs on his shoes and throws on his coat, yawning as he takes her out to go to the bathroom. The cold air is a nice reprieve from the small apartment and he can feel all his thoughts rising to the surface as they meander down the wide streets. Faint anxieties, the leftover warmth of success, the encroaching crawl of loneliness.

That selfish part of him wants a little slice of time with the man alone, world be damned. To feel his calloused fingers dragging sensation down his spine, to hear the smokiness in his voice when his barriers were incrementally lowered. It was hard sometimes not to wish his life was a touch more normal and moments like the one they shared within and atop St. Swithin's could happen more regularly. Then again, normal was an incredibly relative thing. Neither of them had ever really fit the bill, Bane least of all, and they wouldn't have even met otherwise.

That whole fate thing. He wasn't a believer yet, but it didn't stop him from thinking about it.

"Have you ever been with anyone?"

"Many people."

"I meant a relationship."

"Romantic?"

"Yes."

"No."

He doesn't ask if the man wants that. The hesitation is ridiculous and he knows it's because he's afraid to hear the answer that could put a pin in the fantasy. Hell if he wasn't feeling a little loopy after seeing the man getting to know his boys. It hadn't been flawless, but it was...shit, it was something he dreamt about from time-to-time.

Maybe he didn't need a white-picket fence to complete the set-up, but adding to his family was always on the back of his mind. He wondered if Bane had ever thought of the same. If he even could with a background like his. Damn it, no, that was part of the problem. Thinking family was something on certain people could have. Blake licks his lips slowly, trying to sort the words in his head and form them into actual verbal questions as Bane runs a casual hand along his thigh, then trickles fingers up his hip to his side. Brows furrowed and eyes flicking back and forth as he studies his hesitation.

"I'm...sorry. It's not important." He chuckles, humorlessly, then moves lips to his cheek. Bane's thumb caresses his hip in response. Quiet. Listening.

"I know you don't make promises you can't keep..." He finally says, shivering a little when Bane runs fingers through his hair and makes words feel harder than normal. "...I gotta remember now is good enough."

Thinking back only serves to make him miss the man. He chuckles, suddenly, and quickly sobers himself when he sees a neighbor walk past. It was still a little funny that he was missing Bane, of all people. Another smaller part of him, the one he regularly pounds into submission, wheedles he should cut it off (whatever it even was) and keep their relationship professional. As much as he could with the guy being a defector from a centuries-old assassin league and him a wanna-be detective with no badge and no certification.

He recalls how Bane had dodged his (admittedly vaguely put) question. About why he had chosen him to join the League. Why he chose him...at all. His brain reminds him the man flat-out said he showed potential back when they first met. That it was one of the few things that kept him from joining the evergrowing pile of broken necks. To his shock his gut tells him potential took on many forms and he could've been overlooking something rather nice in his sea of self-doubt. Now if that wasn't...kind of nice to feel for once.

"I'm not taking the easy way out." He mutters to nobody in particular. "Even if I really don't have a clue where I'm going." Trevor grins up at him before pawing at the ground, digging for something only she can see. A simple bathroom run had turned into a long, cold walk that was starting to turn his fingers numb. Evening is starting to disappear and he can just make out the first few feet in front of him as he makes his way back around the complex. At least it'd get out her energy. He pauses in mid-yawn at the sound of crunching gravel.

Trevor's ears are pricked forward and she's sniffing the air. Blake peers ahead of him and tries to carve out the figure approaching them. "Hey. Chin-Mae, right?" He says, hoping his smile shows in the dark. "How's your friend holding up?"

"Dry."

"What?"

She steps closer to the light near a porch and the expression on her face is enough to make his heart skip. Her eyes are round as plates and her hands are covered with dirt. He can just make out more dirt smeared on her blouse.

"She's sucked dry. All of us are." She gesticulates to nothing. "We had our fill and now we're all dried up, you know? What's the point. Who even cares?"

Blake holds the leash firm and sidles the other into his pocket. "What...are you talking about?"

"I said." She snaps, her voice raising so suddenly as to make Trevor whine. "Why bother when there's nothing left to drink? Glass half empty, half full!"

He holds up his hands. "Look, calm down...I just-"

It happens all at once. One minute she's standing just a few feet away, speaking in tongues, the next minute she pulls out a knife and holds it to her neck. Before she can do anything with it he reacts, lunging forward and snatching her wrist. She tugs wildly, flailing with some madness his adrenaline-brain can't figure out. Trevor barks and yanks on the leash -- he'd completely forgotten it was wrapped around his wrist and it kills his balance, making him hit the ground.

"Give it back! I need it! I need-" She shrieks when he tries to get to his knees, scratching at him with clawed hands. His hands are freezing, but not so cold he can't hold her at bay. A single wrong move and one of them could end up with a pierced kidney.

She's frantic, on some sort of manic energy, but he had experience on his side. The moment the knife is out of harm's way he risks kneeing her in the stomach, just enough to get her rolling off him in a coughing fit, and he flings the knife into a mound of snow. He scrabbles to his feet and promptly pins her to the ground. Lights have already begun to flicker around him.

"What the hell are you doing?" Blake snaps as holds her firm. "Get ahold of yourself!" Only when the darkness melts away does he see she's crying. A flurry of voices kick up around him.

"What the hell is going on?" He hears someone yell, an older woman running down the staircase in her slippers and holding something heavy. He holds up a placating hand -- from her perspective it's probably looking a lot worse.

"Woah, relax. She just had an episode. That's all." 'Almost killed me, but I'm used to it.' "Get her some help. I don't know what's wrong, but I don't think she should be alone."

"But what happened?" His neighbor presses, soon joined by a family member or a roommate. "Why is she on the ground? Why is she crying?"

"Ooh, I know her. Chin-something, I think. She has friends in Old Gotham." Another says, as if it explained everything. "Think she was on one of them new, uh. What do they call it? Somethin' like crack." Blake opens his mouth to tell her he has no damn clue what it is, that he wants to know, only to coldly realize the absence of barking. He pats his jeans uselessly, then looks around wildly. Trevor was gone.

"I should call someone-" One of them starts, only to stop when he rushes past them. "Wait, where are you going?!"

"I'll explain later!" He yells over their cries of alarm. "Get her some help!"

He pushes through the growing crowd, even as he knows running doesn't look good, and races out of the complex. It's pitch black now but he doesn't have time to double back and grab a flashlight. If he loses this damn dog...

Blake runs for blocks, occasionally using his phone to peer into dark corners and alleys when he's not asking passerbys if they've seen her. He thanks his indirect luck she's a big, fluffy white mutt that doesn't blend in whatsoever -- he's given some vague directions by a couple chatting on their front steps and he follows as quickly as he can.

Nearly a half hour of jogging and crossing streets and he's found himself somewhere he hasn't been in a long time. The crumbling, antique buildings and swaying lanterns leave him momentarily disoriented, causing him to pause and observe his surroundings as best he can still heaving out each breath like it's going to kill him. The streets are much emptier, so much so he can actually hear the scuttle of trash on the sidewalk and the faint rumble of thunder in the distance. Something like smoke wafts on the breeze. For a few seconds Blake feels like the only person in the world.

Old Gotham. There's no time to ruminate over the orphanage he left behind or the places he got lost in. He immediately adjusts his stance, breath now under control and the faint buzz of endorphins making his legs tremble. It's empty as hell, which means he won't have trouble spotting her. He's debating the merit of calling out her name and attracting attention to himself when he sees a small group on the corner of the next street. He might as well.

"Excuse me!" He calls out. "Have any of you seen a-"

He goes stiff as a board when they flicker into nothingness.

"What the hell..."

He scrubs his eyes with both hands and looks again. There was never anybody there, by the looks of it. He's not entirely superstitious, not really, but shit like this wasn't about to keep him a non-believer. He shakes himself and continues to walk down the cracked sidewalk.

"You're tired, Blake." He mutters. "That's all."

Lanterns creak plaintively in the growing breeze as he walks by. He thinks to himself how Old Gotham was considered by many to be just classy enough for its historic landmarks, but it clearly wasn't enough to get the actual residents the help they needed. Come to think of it, it's a little too empty. He wonders if a curfew was implemented -- it wouldn't be the first time the Gotham police department put restrictions on a neighborhood already swimming in them. He looks around him and soon makes out a sign in the dark: "Lights Out At Ten: Gotham Police Department". Yet another reason to hurry along the sidewalk and hope he could find her before he got in trouble, legal or otherwise.

The detective sees another person, a young man, but has no clue if they're real or not. Even knowing the place is conspicuously bare he feels the sting of secondhand embarrassment if he's wrong again. They look at him, suddenly, and he moves on as quickly as he can without looking suspicious. It doesn't seem to be very effective, because more shadows proceed to trail in the corners of his vision.

"Just find her and get out." He whispers, suddenly paranoid, wanting nothing more than to leave. "She's gotta be around here somewhere. Probably chewing on more trash. Gonna have to tell Reilly to give the boys vacuuming duty so she doesn't get sick with that habit."

Minutes of wandering around and he's starting to itch. He makes his way down a narrow street and works up the nerve to knock on a few doors. Nobody answers. People are inside -- he can just make out the creak of floorboards -- but not so much as a peep. He moves to another house and freezes in mid-knock when he hears someone sobbing hysterically inside. Lights flick on automatically, but it's practically a ghost town.

The acrid sting of smoke is now starting to fill his nose. Even in the dark everything is hazier than normal, like a bizarre fog was creeping in and starting to make itself at home. There must be a fire nearby. The wind blows directly toward him, bringing a rush of hot air in its wake. As if compelled the specters outside his vision flicker and fade away. The animal part of his brain knows there's a connection, even as his legs jitter with unease.

"Don't fuck with me like this." He growls at the shadows, preferring irritation to fear. "Either show yourselves or piss off."

"Watch your language, Robin."

"Wh...".

Someone moving in front of him. Walking, but not seeming to go anywhere. His mother in her favorite gray peacoat, the one that always smelled like mothballs but she couldn't bear to throw out. His mouth goes as dry as paper. She's wearing that round white cap she wore to his...what was it again? He can't remember. It's been so long. She takes another not-step, as if gliding on air, and he realizes he has to go to her. He takes one step, then two, everything vaguely hazy like an encroaching buzz or the first few moments of waking up from a dream.

"Why didn't you go to school today?" She asks, brushing her curly hair from her face. "Your grades..."

"I'm sorry, mom." Tears prick his eyes. "I just didn't want to go."

"You're so smart, Robin. I tell everyone at the club that." The light from the street lamp highlights her dimples when she smiles. "I showed them the house you built. They loved it. They even asked me if you'd make one with them inside."

That's right. He used to build little toy houses. He would people-watch as a kid, trying to solve little everyday mysteries from the safety of his window or at the side of his mother and father. His imagination went wild, wild enough for him to create tiny homes and all sorts of stories inside them. Lego sets, popsicle sticks, cardboard and glue. His teachers bragged about him having a bright future in architecture or even anthropology. His peers...

"Other boys told me it was girly." He laughs, breathily, feeling cold streaks moving down his cheeks. "But you told me that was all right. I don't know why I stopped, really."

"I just want the best for you." She reaches a hand out to him, but she's not moving. Not really. Like a still-image, something his mind can't wrap around. "Not like how I grew up. Not like..."

The wind blows again, warm and tarnished, and she fades away. He panics. No, she can't go. Not yet. Not when he had so much more to say! Blake rushes over to where he saw her, or where he thought he saw her, only to hear a lower voice.

"Listen to your mother. You don't want to end up like me."

"No, fuck you. Go away. You're dead." Blake snaps, barely aware of how bizarre he must look, stumbling backwards out of the light. He can't see anybody. His knee hits a pole and the pain temporarily jolts him into reality. He grabs it, eager for something tangible in what could be a dream or a nightmare. "I've moved on. You can't do this to me now. I don't have time for this. I don't have time for this. I need to find my... the boys will be heartbroken if I don't...Trevor, where the hell are you..."

"Robin, I can't take you to practice today..." Echoes in his head, like ping-pong balls bouncing along the walls of his mind. Or are they voices, calling out to him just around the corner? He can't tell and it's scaring the hell out of him. "You'll have to go without me, huh?"

"Fuck you."

He has to get closer to the smoke. Burn it away. Every time he breathes in and starts to cough the ghosts blink in and out of existence. He thinks he hears sounds in the direction he's going in. Howls? Laughter? They could just be more specters. When they turn out to be voices, ones that make his heart rattle in his chest, it's all he can do to tear down the bare street in a panic. He doesn't stop running until he's surrounded by the different sounds. Better ones. Anything else.

Blake leans one hand on a tree, wherever he's found himself now, the other clammy palm warm even through his thick jeans. Aside from the cluster of chemicals in a cigarette he had always avoided drugs with a fervor. He had enough of a time keeping his thoughts properly sorted as it was. Any offers of weed from acquaintances (or more surreptitious offers of crack from his past co-workers) were turned down and with good humor. He didn't need whatever this was fucking up all his hard work. Old Gotham's atmosphere was like a toxic cloud, driving him crazy after less than twenty minutes in the place. Was it even twenty? Or an hour? He didn't even know-

Then it clicks. It was something in the air.

He's so caught up in the realization he hardly registers the burning house that's going up in flames just feet away from him. Even despite the clouds of smoke billowing through the windows, it looks like it was already sorely behind on safety violations. Somehow he should've known there was no other way for there to be so much smoke in the air, but reality was already hanging on a thin thread. Staring up at the orange glow illuminating the windows and the now foggy sky, he starts to wonder if it's another delusion. Only when his shoulders are grabbed and someone starts screaming in his face does he realize he's very awake.

"They put me on hold!" An...older woman? Who's real? She's panicking, make-up running down her face in dark smears. "They put me on hold. My girl is in there!" He can hear the voices of a few others in his periphery, though it's hard to make out what they're saying.

"What...girl?" He repeats dizzily. "Who...?"

"My daughter!"

He looks to the house in horror. The house isn't swathed in flames, not quite, but it was only a matter of time. Trevor would have to wait.

"Please! Please, help, for the love of God." She's pulled back from someone else, even as she struggles and tries to go toward the house. He would help. That's what he was trying to do, right? Help Gotham. Especially the parts nobody else seemed to give a shit about. So why the hell can't he move? Why do his legs feel like lead weights?

He can feel the ground shaking beneath his feet again. The ghosts of explosions just outside his periphery, enough to make him jerk as if struck. He's back in the city hall again. Everything's falling apart. He can't stand. Can't breathe. Those motherfuckers just bombed the place to rubble. He's failed and he's going to die a failure. Except...

Something large and dark looms over him.

"Bane...?" He whispers.

Everything is dark. The air feels like a furnace and he can hear a rumbling murmur all around him. He hopes to anything remotely good it isn't another hallucination and sits up to see the twirling lights of an ambulance and someone being wheeled out of the house. He's on the wet grass and he's freezing.

"He's awake!" Someone yells. Awake? He was...?

Blake dimly looks around at the dimming chaos. The ghosts are gone, the fire is out and Trevor is still nowhere to be seen.

The gentle crunch of grass. An officer looks down at him.

"Whew. You're in trouble, Blake."

Chapter Text

Snap.

The man died instantly. Everyone knows because he goes utterly silent instead of shrieking out every last breath, goes slack instead of thrashing and beating against the stone in uncontrollable spasms as his spinal cord tries to reason with the severed connection. It was a quick death, a clean one. Something everyone in the pit dreamt about even as they stared up at the sky and hoped they would be the lucky one.

His new world. His temporary world. If he were to save Gotham, he'd have to save this one, first.

Like worker ants the prisoners methodically lower him down and gather each limp half in their arms. There's an even deeper pit, one only ventured to when someone needed to relieve themselves or perhaps drown out the sounds of the other inmates when insanity threatened to take hold. The dirt was thick and there was the strange smell of iron, something strong enough to mute even the scent of a corpse. The deceased man had to be transported before some got second thoughts about their own hunger. He'd only witnessed this savagery once since he arrived, but it was something he wouldn't soon forget.

If he were to save this one, he'd have to save himself.

He chews his stiff, flavorless bread in the corner in the shadows and shifts his focus on each agonizing chew, trying in vain to stop his back from reacting to every little movement. Even a meager breath wracks his body with lances of agony and it's almost enough to send the bread back up to puddle onto the floor. The doctor makes him tea, too hot, and tells him to rest. He gives him a polite word and insists, again, that he can't. Not when Gotham could be rubble. The burn of his throat is another distraction, however brief and miserable, and it sets him up for what he needs to do next.

He returns to his drills. Lifts himself from the floor again and again and again even as his body pleads with him to lay down. Begs him to return to somewhere quiet and let his eyes close. He wishes he could obey, but every time he trades outside darkness with his own he only sees his failure. He'd have to stay awake as long as possible. Draining the weakness from his body bit by agonizing, white-hot bit. A few murmurs the next cell over fill his periphery. Tired and unintelligible.

He hits the ground and doesn't get back up again fifteen minutes later, his limbs trembling in violent spurts. Pain is let out in a long hiss, one that alerts the doctor and soon has him leaning against the bars to check on him. The old man clicks his tongue at the sight and soon he can parse out the bitter scent of medication. He struggles to open his eyes again. To stare at the light above. The television looping distant news stations in the far upper corner. The riots. The murders. The destruction.

"Where am I...?"

A fight breaks out between the prisoners below. The guards must have thrown something down. That or someone had finally given in and sought out the still-cooling body many feet below. The doctor dims the lamp as not to draw attention to himself and starts to feel along his back, his delicate fingers akin to the dragging tips of knives.

"Someday you will learn no one escapes. Though your stubbornness is impressive, yes. You must not have been told 'no' very much where you came from." He puffs as he dabs as the heated skin, even as it makes Bruce's body convulse like a breached fish. Somewhere he can hear the gravelly tones of the blind doctor, beyond his comprehension still. "See, don't end up like poor Camran. The pit has been here for over one hundred years and not even you will make a mockery of its power. Accept it and it will be easier, in time. This is your..."

"...Home. Where I learned the meaning of despair." The masked man calls from the shadows. "...as will you."

--

Blake is detained for twenty-four hours.

It's not the first time he's been in a cell. It is the first time he's been in a cell and feels like he's about to crawl out of his skin with paranoia, though. The hallucinations were long gone, but the prevalent sense of unease eventually turned into a film of sweat from head to toe, rendering him clammy and jumpy and desperate for a distraction he didn't have. His past stint as an officer hadn't afforded him much special treatment (though he noticed he hadn't been jostled as much as the average offender on his way to his cage). The rare time he was able to nod off on the hard cot his dreams were a clusterfuck.

His mother shows up again, but she keeps coughing billows of smoke so heavy he can feel himself drowning inside them. He tries to escape by running down empty streets with too many lanterns, their rusty creaking like needles in his ears and driving him crazy. He attempts to flee inside a house on the furthest end of the street and a flood of bats swarm him through the open door, clawing and tugging at his jacket. Only when he manages to fight his way inside does he find himself somewhere else entirely.

An empty restaurant, dusty and dark like it hasn't been used in years. Empty shot glasses and bottles line the tables and he's wracked with a terrible thirst. He wakes up with his throat bone dry and has to ask (a few damn times) for some water. Sleep turns into a frustrating tug-of-war between dozing and snapping back to attention and the tenth time he jerks into wakefulness he's almost screaming with frustration.

Then the proceeding day shifts gears from a self-contained nightmare to a joke.

One of the officers hands him a cigarette while he's in the waiting room. He all but snatches it, puffing on it and picking at his jeans in an attempt to focus himself amid the familiar (and ugly) gray. His manic energy would soon dissolve into a nervous breakdown or bone-weary exhaustion (or both), but for now it was racing thoughts. At least he could be productive while waiting to hear his sentence. He could think about what he saw. The strange chemicals present in the air. The poor management on behalf of the department on Old Gotham and, presumably, East End, the Browery and more. A few more puffs and the encroaching buzz reminds him he's lying to himself.

No...it means confronting what he also wished was a bad dream.

Why couldn't he enter the burning house? Why here? Why now? It didn't make any damn sense. He nearly drowned twice over the past month and a half (it's been that long?) and water didn't hold the same gravity for him. He's been shot at. Attacked by a mythical crocodile man. Slept with the mercenary that kidnapped him. Chalk that up for the record books. So why in all of Gotham's gray hell was that night the stopping point of his bravado? His shiny new Achilles' heel? He does the only thing that makes sense as a budding detective and digs through every last buried memory in an attempt to find a link.

It wasn't fire. It couldn't be. He didn't see many flames when he arrived (mostly smoke, huge, suffocating, dark, gray-) and he had no trouble filling up his furnace at home. Shit, he still had his lighter. He could flick it open now and just wish for another cigarette to bum off of someone. Was it whatever was in the air just making him paranoid? Mixing up the chemicals in his brain into some unreliable mush? He wonders what Bane would think if he saw him like that, frozen to the spot like a deer in headlights, then scratches his hair so vigorously it spills over his eyes.

Bane. Bane thought he was reckless. Impulsive. He also thought he was...what was it he said, all the way back in the storm drains? Something about backbone? It clearly was nothing of the sort. People with backbone didn't leave a kid inside a burning building because they were scared. Shame fills him up, nauseating and cold, and his heart starts to pound anxiously in his chest. He didn't even know if she came out of it alive. He was too dizzy and confused at the time, hardly even realized he'd been pushed into a car before he was carted out to one of the holding centers. Flickers of a panic attack make his mouth feel sour and he pushes the thoughts away and, with them, the solution. He doesn't want to think about it. Any of it. He'll focus on more immediate issues.

Like telling the boys their new best friend was gone and his new boss he'd need an extra day or two. He asks for another smoke.

Then Foley walks out and pats his back like an old friend. The man says something, probably, but Blake's thoughts are still stir-crazy. He stalks down the hallway and into the man's office stone-faced, distantly knowing he should be playing it up with a smile and some mealy-mouthed nothings about the state of his kids' health or something. Play up favor to avoid something nasty on his record...whatever they were booking him for.

"So, Blake. What were you doing down there, anyway?" Foley asks as he sits down. His office is just as overdecorated as he remembers, with a Christmas tree now in the corner and stuffed with what are probably empty boxes. "Trying to get seasonal pictures of the clock tower?"

"My dog ran off." He mutters, lighting his second cigarette and carelessly puffing into the room. "Went to go get her."

"All the way to Old Gotham?" He laughs, a touch stiffly, and reaches behind him to open a window. "You're not that close, are you?"

"...I moved." Foley raises his eyebrows and Blake has to wrestle his tone down to something that doesn't suggest he wants to punch him between the eyes. "You know, that thing people do when they want a fresh start?"

A biting chill seeps through the office and Blake forces himself not to shiver. The man starts shuffling through the papers on his desk as he sits back down. A tactic to put him on edge, no doubt. Start fearing whatever consequence he has up his sleeve. Blake leans on his elbows and lets his gaze wander, working at the cigarette idly -- he can just catch Foley's mouth twisting out of the corner of his eye. Let him think he's unruffled.

"What have you been up to lately?" The man asks after a deliberately long moment.

"This part of the interrogation?"

"Just trying to catch up."

"...The cells could use a TV." He reaches over and flicks ash into the small garbage can. "Also, feather pillows should be outlawed. They don't do shit for your neck."

Foley goes a little pink, as he usually did when something wasn't going his way. "...You know..." The shuffling of papers continues. "Disappearing on the job at city hall and quitting a week later doesn't look good." The shuffling stops. "Messing around in Old Gotham after curfew doesn't look good, either." He smiles. Just a little. "Witnesses saying you attacked a neighbor, to boot? Details are a little fuzzy, but there was a knife..." Soft tap-tap of his finger on some incriminating note. "Bruises, too..."

The cool indifference is replaced with slow, numbing rage. He was trying to screw him.

"Is that what they said?" Blake replies once he can find his voice. "You, uh, threaten to get them evicted if they said anything more honest?"

"Oh, they were plain as day." Foley says, dropping the papers and leaning forward with an eager glint in his eyes. "You kicked her. There was a knife on the scene. I gotta say, I'm worried, especially when you left on such a quiet note. Anyone here speaking on your behalf...should that actually happen...would only remember you as a hothead."

He thinks of the boys. Of Reilly. Of Barbara. Of anyone that would be disappointed if he suddenly lunged across the room and strangled the man with his own $20 tie. His face isn't pink anymore. Indeed, it's a smooth, happy, gloating pallor now that he's got Blake right where he wants him.

"You know, I'd be willing to overlook this." He says, too quickly, leaning back in his chair with a creak. "We can sweep this under the rug. Make it so it never happened, even. We've got enough arrests on our plate without making you occupy a cell better suited for a protester."

'You deceitful, murderous, tasteless motherfucker.'Blake thinks as Foley smooths down his collar. 'Didn't expect me to slip between your fingertips, did you? Had a speech prepared about the untimely demise of the promising rookie? If Bane feels like airing out any more dirty laundry, I've got a few tips he could use. If he doesn't kill you first.'

"There are quite a few things you could tell me in exchange for not being stuck in a cell for two years for aggravated assault." He continues, seemingly blissfully unaware of the boiling fury just a few feet away from him. "What you heard in the city hall...rather, what you kindly forgot to update me on before your untimely departure...anything you might've seen in your new neighborhood. Anything about Bane." Blake flings the rest of the cigarette in the garbage.

"Foley, I told you everything I know-"

"Bullshit!" He snaps, lunging forward and slamming his hands on the desk. Blake would be startled if he hadn't seen it before. "You know something. I've seen you and Gordon. You were the closest thing that fossil had to a protege, you two loved to confer where you thought nobody else could s-"

"Wouldn't think it all that important to you, considering all my knowledge of the guy could've died with me."

There are cameras. He's just vague enough, but it hits hard. Foley's beet red now. Trembling with embarrassment or indignation or some other ugly, inappropriate emotion. The room is choking with pent-up energy and Blake can feel fight-or-flight buzzing in his legs.

"So, how's it going in here?"

A soft click. Gordon is peering through the doorway.

"Good to see you, John." He says, a bundle of newspapers under one arm and a tray of coffee in the other. "Foley." Whatever bluster the guy was floating on deflates like a soggy balloon. He slumps back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach in a pantomime of someone in charge.

"James, I'm in the middle of an interroga-"

"I can see that. Fortunately for you, I can take over from here." He sets a coffee down on the man's desk. A peace offering or a distraction, he'll never know. Foley's gaze could bore holes into the paper cup. "You're needed downtown. There's a blockade that's stopping up traffic."

"What does that have to do with me?" Foley sneers. Gordon frowns mildly.

"There are more than a few of Bane's men leading the charge. If anyone's to be getting down and dirty with the city's terror, it should be the deputy commissioner." He gestures to Blake with the coffee tray, the aroma of which is already making his mouth water. "Surely petty crime isn't the highest on your to-do list."

Blake can practically hear the gears turning in the man's head as he attempts to reconcile with his actual duty and petty lust for control. He steels his face into quiet complacency, rather than the surly relief he's feeling.

"Don't worry." Gordon says with his rare humor when the man doesn't respond. "I'll make sure we reach a reasonable conclusion on John Blake's breaking of a curfew under sympathetic circumstances."

"And assault."

The old man almost looks bored as he sets down a newspaper on the desk and motions for Blake to follow him. "We'll see." It's hard not to feel like a kid being picked up by his parents after detention. It's even harder not to feel completely moody about the entire affair when he follows the Commissioner into his car. "I'm a normal citizen, yet you're bailing me out. Bit of a mixed message to the people you're sworn to protect."

"You can go back in there if you like." He responds. "Or you can come with me and accept progress doesn't happen in a day."

Blake opens his mouth, then shuts it tiredly. "Goddammit." He mutters. At the very least Gordon seems rather sobered by it.

"All right." He says once the door shuts and he starts the engine. "Explain yourself."

The story is lengthier than he intends it to be, part dry anecdote and part rant. Gordon shakes his head once he's done, mopping coffee from his mustache and reaching into a small bag beside him. "You went in after curfew? Even you could've waited to do whatever it is you needed to do." Blake opens his mouth to remind him about Trevor when he holds up a hand. "I've known you for over a year, Blake. That's enough time for me to pick up that you have a tendency to run off and do whatever you think is right. I have no doubt about the dog, but..."

"You going to try and make me feel bad for picking up the department's slack? Your slack?" Blake accepts the drip coffee and dumps a creamer inside. Caffeine and cigarettes on an empty stomach with little sleep was a bad idea, but he was beyond caring.

"So, there was a fire...?" Gordon presses.

"Yeah. I didn't...save her." The Commissioner frowns curiously and he sighs. "There was a little girl inside. The building."

"You're not trying to follow in Batman's footsteps?" A sigh. "You're starting to get on a lot of people's bad side..."

"I didn't seek it out. I just happened across it." What he doesn't say is how that was going to change. "I hate to pull the whole 'he started it' routine, but he shouldn't have tried to get me killed."

He coughs on his drink. "Wait...Foley tried to get you killed?"

"Reason I got caught up in the city hall mess in the first place is because he...lied to me about the detonation time. Didn't think he'd sink that low." The Commissioner doesn't press or ask for details. He just stares at him in sympathetic horror. The trust is relieving, almost dizzying, and he sips his coffee to avoid saying something corny.

"I wish I could give you better news...but Foley still has a few more supporters than you do. I'll do whatever I can to keep him off your back, but don't go running off on reckless escapades." His voice lowers. "You're on thin ice, John."

"I see where Barbara gets her mother hen from." Gordon chortles.

"Speaking of Barbara...you haven't been giving her any ideas, have you, John?"

Blake blinks. "What ideas?" He hopes the man didn't hear her trying to give him insider info. He didn't think he'd be mad. At least, not overly.

"I just caught her drawing something. Some sort of outfit. Looked like Batman's." His chuckle is tired. It's clearly not all he's seen. "Seems his fanbase hasn't gone anywhere over the years."

Blake smiles tiredly and leans back in his seat. They finish their drinks in silence, watching cars drive by past the small pocket between the brick walls.

They drive around Old Gotham putting up fliers and asking around for Trevor, an additional favor from Gordon he deeply appreciates. His presence in Old Gotham, though, doesn't exactly do them any favors. Gordon wasn't a celebrity, no, but he was known. He gets more than a few pissed off glances from the people they ask on the street, with one man outright refusing to speak to him and walking off in mid-sentence. With everyone still dealing with the restrictions of a curfew and increased patrols, he couldn't blame them. Once they're sure they've covered every inch they could he takes him back home.

"Still haven't told them about her. For all I know she could be in Metropolis by now." He doesn't want to indirectly jinx her and say 'dead' as he pulls out his phone and scrolls for Reilly's number. Gordon is staring off in the distance. Blake follows his gaze, then frowns when he doesn't see anything of note.

"You...okay?"

The Commissioner jerks to attention, then rubs his chin.

"...I believe so." He unlocks the door. "For now, give me one less gray hair and stay out of trouble."

Blake steps out of the car, only to feel intuition's nagging pull. He looks over his shoulder.

"You know I could say the same about you, right?" Gordon gives him a funny look at that and he hunches halfway inside the car, hand on the handle. "...You've been planning on resigning. Maybe now would be a good time to do it. The department is going to fall apart with or without your help. You've seen how deadset Foley and his cronies are on unraveling every rare decent thing that's in place. There's an entire world of good you could be doing instead, thirty years be damned."

The old man studies him tiredly. It's only been a year between them, through work, no less, but it felt like a dozen. It was one of many things that made their friendship a little strange and, if Blake was being entirely honest, a little relieving. Decent people in Gotham were a rarity. That's why he wanted him out. Bane would show him no mercy once their paths crossed again and Blake couldn't in good conscience blame him for doing so.

"Is there something you want to tell me, John?" Gordon asks after a long moment of silence, gentle tone not matching the shrewd concern in his eyes. Blake leans back out of the car.

"...Your granddaughter needs you. So does your family." He finishes with a small smile. "Gotham could be a hell of a lot worse, but it could also be a hell of a lot better, you know."

--

He calls Bane. It had been well over a week since they last spoke and the longer the distance, the more his bundle of nerves got the better of him. The meeting at the dog shelter had been their last physical rendezvous, their contact over the next several days reduced to occasional phone calls that remained firmly in the realm of social updates. When the man picks up his jovial jaunt is gone, replaced by something disaffected and mechanical over the phone's tinny speaker. Even not seeing his face, he imagines he must look like hell.

"John."

"Hey. Sorry I haven't..." The apology dries up in his mouth. He clears his throat and starts again. "I actually needed to ask a few questions, if you have the time."

"Proceed." If not for the man's characteristic accent, he'd be positive it was a robot on the other side.

"What do you know about the Scarecrow?" He avoided saying the masked man's name over the phone -- they both may take extra precautions to ensure they weren't being wire-tapped, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Bane is quiet for a few moments, his wheezing breath just barely discernible over the phone's buzz.

"He was employed by Ra's Al Ghul nearly eight years ago. A pawn in a game too elaborate for a pompous man. His science had been useful, but his intentions left much to be desired." Blake appreciated Bane answering questions he hadn't yet asked, no doubt used to his tendency to press. It also hadn't escaped his notice when he used the assassin leader's full title despite being a self-admitted student -- he wondered if it was the same reason Bane would use his full name from time to time. His way of maintaining a little distance.

"Why'd he hire him?"

"To make Gotham suffer."

"No kidding." He may have turned the man down, but he was still incredibly curious about the League. It was still hard to believe it was real. Well, as real as it could be being apparently defunct for years. "It really is weird that you and your teacher wanted completely opposite things. That what made you a bad student?"

This pressing doesn't get him more details. If anything, the guy sounds a little short.

"What are your other questions?"

"Right. Uh, this was more information than I thought'd I'd hear, to be honest. Do you know where he is now?"

"No. Not after his temporary stint as a judge for the city hall." It takes Blake a second to realize he was referring to the man in the tattered suit and his no-win scenario of death or exile. "Formerly known as Jonathan Crane. I do not know his current alias."

"Wait, he was the...why'd you make a former murderer a judge? Doesn't seem like something you'd be into."

"On the contrary. He was a symbol of Gotham's populace reigning in attempted terror. A breathing metaphor for corruption and abuse of power. The man was reminded of his place every time he went onto the stand and enacted the will of the people rather than his own. Not even I control Gotham, John. We are both figureheads, but one is...a little more pathetic than the other." The sinister humor sounds a little more like his usual self, if only for a second (and as much as he knew about his usual).

Even on a target Blake could care less about, he was still unnerved by the man's thorough pettiness. He could give Foley a run for his money (though, unlike Foley, Bane had actual brain to back it up). He'd long since deducted why Bane had kept him alive underneath Gotham instead of burying him six feet under when he had the opportunity. He wonders to the guy's other enemies and what particular hells they were still struggling with in his wake.

'Batman must've gotten a real special deal.'

"Do you think he'd want to take up the mantle again?"

"Whether or not he would want to is moot. Upon his capture eight years ago he was also stripped of his title, connections and finances. Even should he get his hands on enough raw materials and space to conduct such complex research, dispersing it quantities vast enough to affect entire neighborhoods would be difficult without allies."

"I...see." He can feel his mind stretching itself around the new truths and old lies. He hadn't believed the man was killed, but news reports had been their usual twisty, vague selves. Who else hadn't been killed? Could the Joker still be alive? One thing at a time.

"Of course...there is always a possibility."

"Yeah. Even a small one is still worth checking out."

"You truly believe he may be involved?" Blake feels a tension he didn't realize was there slowly seep out of him. Even a mild gesture like asking him a question makes him feel less like a nuisance.

"It's not exactly the same as the attacks eight years ago, but there are some similarities. Enough to be suspicious. I mean, it's the furthest possible thing from natural...or panic attacks or some new drug or whatever the hell bullshit the media is spinning." He pushes down the anger. "I went to Old Gotham the other night. I started tripping out, seeing things that weren't there. Like my...my parents." Fuck it, the anger rises up anyway. Like a wound being peeled open again when he least expected it. "I've never done drugs before, but it's not unlike common symptoms of acid or shrooms."

"Were you afraid?"

That's right. Some called it a 'fear toxin', back then. "I..." The shame again. He puffs out a breath and lowers his voice, for no other reason than to console himself. "...No. Yeah? I mean. It was like being in a nightmarish funhouse. But it was actually more than that. I was...sad. Hurting. Felt like I was losing what mattered most all over again." Bane goes quiet. He's not sure if the man's thinking or simply doesn't have anything else to say.

"Well...I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I've been doing some digging and I think I know where I'll be heading next."

"Should I hear anything more you will be the first to know." He senses the finality in his tone and feels his stomach flip-flop like he's on the edge of a precipice.

"Have you and Talia..."

"She is contained."

"Uh, hey..."

"Yes?"

'I'm sorry you had to go through that. Your daughter may have tried to put a new hole in my neck, but what you're going through can't be easy. I miss you. You're a nearly indestructible force of nature and somehow I still find myself worrying about your safety. Don't...forget about me.'

"...Be careful out there."

There had been a long silence, so long he thought the man had hung up. Then...

"Of course."

Chapter Text

His apartment is starting to feel like a rabbit hole. Somewhere he flees to when he's exhausted out of his wits and needs to recoup away from roaming eyes.

The plant is wilting, he notes sadly, and he waters it anyway in the vague hopes it'll spring up again. At the very least Foley was clearly bullshitting (he knew, but he wouldn't turn down validation) when it came to what the witnesses had to say. His neighbors greet him with concern and curiosity rather than suspicion on his way up the stairs. Telling him Chin-mae is still in the hospital and undergoing treatment.

Reilly takes the bad news decently enough, but he always was particularly good at grumping and grousing the worry away. He agrees to keep it under wraps until Blake got more information...or none at all. It's not a lie. Not really. The boys had enough on their plate. At least he could give them a few more days before confessing to another fuck-up.

When he's not making up work (and crafting very eloquent apologies for his tardiness) he's spending hours poring over every last scrap of information he can on the Scarecrow. Anything on the neighborhoods that were hit eight years ago with a strange substance that caused people to hallucinate and go mad, viewing friends as enemies and lashing out at nothing with morbid consequences. He still remembered hearing about it during college, riding the bus home after school and hearing over the intercom that civilians should avoid the downtown area.

He hadn't, of course. He'd gotten off on an earlier stop and gone directly toward where it was all supposedly had gone down, desperate for even a glimpse of the legendary Batman. He was even more arrogant than he was now, convinced all the shit he'd been through would be enough to see him through what he had thought was just a little extra danger. He'd arrived only in time to see the wreckage -- fires, broken windows, splashes of blood where there shouldn't be anything close to the sort. If some sort of chemical weapon had been in the air it had long since disappeared. All he had found on the scene before the police arrived was half of one of Batman's weapons, something like a shuriken in the shape of a bat.

The Scarecrow had supposedly been killed (with multiple witnesses claiming a nasty fall), but he knew it was possible (if not damn hard) to cover up a death and walk the world under a new identity. Shit, it was something the average Gothamite often dreamt about. He'd even heard of something called a clean slate once, something that could apparently wipe someone's existence off the face of the earth and give them a brand new start as if they had been born again.

News stations back then wanted to pretend it was all another sad side-effect of poverty. One so sad they would do nothing and instead switch right to the latest scandal involving a celebrity once the already short runtime had worn out its welcome. Same old, same old. Blake was lucky enough to have clawed his way up to lower middle-class over the years, but poverty's weight had permanently impacted his perception of the world. He never forgot how easily stability could be yanked out from a person's feet and leave them disoriented for years. Luck didn't feel good and it could run out at any time.

If Scarecrow really was releasing some sort of toxin and affecting entire groups of people with hardly anyone the wiser...he would have to rethink Batman's mercy and Bane's spite -- the inconvenient foundation undercutting this whole thing. Even worse? He knew he wouldn't be the one to break the pattern.

At the very least he has a pretty decent lead. Actually finding the guy was something else entirely. Thankfully, Bane wasn't the only one who might know a thing or two about him. The city hall had been filled with all sorts of people, many of which seemed well-connected and, most of all, close. It wasn't farfetched to believe someone in the rebel crowd could put him on a warmer trail. Harleen had been the closest he had to a friendly face all the way back then. While basic online searches hadn't given him much information on her, he was more than a little good at digging between the cracks. Throwing on his coat and pulling out a small breathing mask, he makes sure he's well-equipped before he heading to Toxic Acres.

Perusing social media in favor of Bane had been a careful affair. His rather decent knowledge of computer science and underhanded government tactics meant he could browse sensitive topics comfortably, but it was hard not to itch every time he stumbled upon a custom site created in Bane's name. He definitely knew about the underhanded tactics the police department would enforce in order to sneak in under the radar -- mimicking vernacular, creating fake accounts, flat-out hacking them. He spotted each false trail in an instant. Little did those schmucks know it only pointed him in the direction of the real deal.

It was when he kept stumbling upon a joke constantly told on certain forums and social media accounts did he realize he was onto something. Not only was it repeated too conspicuously to be negligible, there was an even more conspicuous lack of answers.

'What do you call medication that makes you irate instead of feeling great?'

He'd rolled it in and out of his head for hours the first time he saw it, wondering if it was a red herring, a meme or a huge clue sitting pretty right under everyone's nose. The moment he honed in on a possible answer was the moment he honed in on the riskiest location yet.

"You find your dog?" One of his neighbors yells out from their porch as he gets into his car. A nice old lady who always seemed to be listening to cassette tapes.

"Not yet." He calls back. "But I'm sure she'll turn up eventually."

"It may be foggy now, but give it time!" She responds before leaning back in her chair. Blake smiles at the classic Gotham saying -- a solution might not be easy to see, but give it enough time and it'll present itself. Who said Gothamites weren't hopeful?

He parks as far away as he can while remaining close enough should things go sour and he needs a quick escape route. He's used to seedy. Even being in the force hadn't taken away his edge. Blending in was a matter of remembering where he grew up, though this particular location had the added benefit of being hazardous to one's health and mostly abandoned. A casual glance at holes in the surrounding fence and the dirty remains of a 'Stay Out' sign reaffirms what he already knows.

Toxic Acres. The rolling hills and distant trees are almost homely, but the yellow tint to the grass and conspicuous lack of snow make the entire place seem just a little off. One of the few areas he hadn't really seen much of as a kid, even when he lived close by -- Peter's Ranch had been in acute denial of its location for years, even as the notoriously bad air constantly made the kids inside come down with everything from mild asthma to severe bronchitis. The dime-store mask wasn't much, sure, but he wasn't going to be here for long.

Hopefully.

It's a brief walk down the trails (all but disappeared under a coating of rocks) before he makes it to the cluster of small houses and empty would-be shops that was supposed to be a thriving neighborhood -- originally a new project paid for by the city to house the immigrant population (a well-wishing gift, perhaps), it's dirty and dusty and overgrown now. People had actually stayed for a time, only to pack their bags once the health reports came in...or they found out the hard way. Even Gotham's homeless steered clear of the place when everyone evacuated en masse, with the few that attempted a visit covered head-to-toe. Blake coughs when a cold breeze shakes the trees and hopes it's his normally abused lungs complaining and not the mask failing him.

He can hear voices nearby. He rounds a corner and sees a few people relaxing in front of half-open doors, some wearing similar carbon masks and others boasting gas masks that coat their entire face. He even spots one wearing a Bane knock-off. He's definitely on the right track. The deeper he goes into the seemingly abandoned neighborhood the more populated it becomes, filled with people of all shapes and sizes, the atmosphere strangely akin to a night outing or a concert. A few glances is all he gets in return, even when he gravitates to what seems to be the most important building in the square.

What used to be a makeshift district hall, perhaps. It's old and the paint is peeling, but the lights glowing within give it an approachable look nonetheless. Someone opens a small slot on the door and peers at him with scrutinizing eyes the moment he lifts his hand to knock. He opens his mouth to offer a generic greeting, only to snap it shut at the curt question.

"What do you call medication that makes you irate instead of feeling great?"

Blake steels himself. Moment of truth.

"Poison I.V."

A pause. The panel slams shut. He can hear hasty muttering through the wood. An occupier nearby gives him an encouraging wave and he can't help but feel rather pleased with himself...until three people walk out and surround him. The same woman who had just spoken to him and two others with faces entirely hidden.

"Good answer." She says with a fold of her arms. "Now let us see your face."

His expression falls into a frown. Not good. The mask did the dual work of concealing his identity -- not all that well-known to begin with, but his former occupation meant some would likely commit him to memory out of survival. It also kept him from developing a disease. He tells her about the latter, at least, and she's not impressed.

"Only a few seconds. Take it off then put it back on. If you have nothing to hide, that is."

"Sorry to be so paranoid. Tatsu's a lot nicer than she looks." Her peer says, apologetically, their face obscured behind a mouth-wrap and heavy shades. "We're always accepting newcomers, but we have to be careful."

"Makes sense." He responds casually. "You have a lot at stake."

"Why are you here?" The other asks.

"I heard Harleen comes here sometimes."

They're all sizing him up. Trying to figure out if he's a threat or an easy target. He stands his ground and offers them an easygoing smile. A street scrap doesn't scare him, but he'd rather not fight if he could help it. He was here to help, not add another dropping on the shit pile. Of course, words only went so far. One movement and he has the mask pulled down, though he holds his breath.

"I met her at city hall." He continues once he pushes it back up. "I just wanted to ask some questions. Then I'll go."

"People don't usually come to her for questions." Her tone is dagger-sharp. "You rub me the wrong way and the fact I can't put a finger on it I like even less."

The door creaks. He turns, expecting to see more people coming out to flank him, and instead blinks at the huge, pink bubble just inches from his face. A pop and he sees Harleen leaning on Tatsu's shoulder.

"Easy, now." She smiles at him, large blue eyes reminding him uncomfortably of Talia. "Rob, yeah?"

"...Er, no. That was an alias I used." He's afraid that'll already put him in hot water, but she seems unsurprised.

"I know a thing or two about those. Come on in. We're all friends here." Tatsu groans when Harleen pinches her cheek. "Even you, doll."

He's immediately struck by the warmth of the place. Christmas light strings and antique lamps clash pleasantly, keeping the light low yet nicely spread out. A handful of teenagers and adults lounge in the corners, lean on the windowsills and curl on the floor, caught up in conversation or whatever's on their phones. It's a place to trade information as much as it is to relax. He's momentarily startled by maskless faces, only to notice a rather large air purifier working diligently on one of the tables.

A few glances and he can see a mostly covered fire escape to the far right, flanked by a bean bag and a pile of what seems to be scraps and tools. It's all more color than he's used to and he wonders idly if it's another facet of their rebellion against the city.

Or, as Bane would probably put it: for the city.

"You like my joke? I came up with it myself. Though I gotta come up with a new punchline every other week." She says as she leads him in. Without waiting for an answer she continues. "So you're not Rob. Who're you, then?" Harleen makes herself comfortable on one of the sofas, patting a stool nearby for him to sit. He eyes the hyenas snoozing at her feet and shakes his head politely.

"John." He holds his breath for a moment, then adds. "I was a cop."

The easygoing air shifts into something much more tense. He holds himself firm, neither showing shame or pride as some look his way.

"But you're not anymore?" Harleen says as she nods to someone in the far corner, who immediately starts scrolling in their phone -- likely double-checking.

"I quit a while back." He shrugs, more mildly than he feels. "Wanted to do some actual good."

"You've certainly come to the right place." She smirks. "You could call us the Goody Two-Shoes of Gotham, but nobody else thinks it'll catch on, sadly." He holds back a chuckle. He had plenty of name ideas, but it was time to cut to the chase.

"What do you know about the Scarecrow?"

"Who needs to know?"

"I have money. I can pay you." His mouth twists. "Not much, but name your price."

"Well, he used to go by Alan Smi-." She starts. He holds up his hands swiftly.

"No, wait, hold up! Don't shoehorn me in like that. What's your price?" Tatsu grudgingly agrees with him, crossing her arms and flicking thin hair out of her eyes.

"Seriously, you're just going to let him in like that?" She says with a frown. "We don't even know his real name. Could just be bribing us with some quick cash to undermine our entire set-up her-"

"John Blake." He interrupts, softly. All eyes and masks turn on him. "...John Robin Blake." It's a gesture of trust. She returns it.

"Harleen Quinzel."

He smiles, even through the uncomfortable tickle in the back of his mind. Why the hell does that sound so familiar...? The person that had been looking at their phone gives her a thumbs-up from where he's sitting. He's in the clear.

"He saved our necks back at city hall. If he hadn't tipped us off we'd all be pancakes or cell stuffing, whichever came first." She says with a pop of her gum. "I'd say that's enough to get a little trust."

Now everyone looks at him differently. He even sees a jaw drop. This constant mood shifts has him feeling a little dizzy and he focuses on Harleen's hyenas curled up on the wooden floor. It's amazing how such bizarre animals blended into the background when they wanted to. Even in the dim lighting he can see their nails are painted red. One has a heart-shaped mark on their cheek and the other a diamond. Wait. A diamond...?

"What do you do here, exactly?" He murmurs, dawning realization just on the cusp of his mind.

"Gather intel. Protect people who ain't got much. Throw the occasional crook in the toxic pond. You know, the works." She twirls a finger in her curls. "Some live here. I've rented here myself and, I gotta say, these landlords are much more lenient than my last ones."

"Where did you stay?"

"Let's just say I, and quite a few others, don't have to worry about going back." She replies with a wink. "You got a question you wanna ask me, detective?"

The psychiatric wards Bane's men blew up and defaced. Harleen must see the recognition in his eyes, because she grins and makes a cheerful exploding motion with one hand.

"You...wouldn't happen to be...?"

"Sorry, doll." She pops her gum. "It's the autographs that'll cost ya."

...Harley goddamn Quinn. He starts to mentally berate himself for not putting the pieces together sooner. To be fair, it had been nearly eight years ago when the infamous harlequin was tearing Gotham a new asshole alongside its most well-known threat. There was a lot of information he had been attempting to catch himself up on in the gap between his bumming around Swithin's and getting into law enforcement. Well, that and the woman had been covered head-to-toe in flashy outfits that wouldn't be out of place at a generic Halloween store. When he had free time he'd have to mull over his city's obsession with masks.

When Arkham Asylum and its associates had been shut down it was later kept under wraps where, exactly, all of Gotham's famous criminals were being relocated to. They were very likely not all in the same spot and even detailed interviews with psychologists and security guards alike were vague and deferential. As much to prevent allies from breaking them out as to prevent Gotham from sensationalizing them like last time, he imagined.

He studies the whispers of her old persona in her get-up. A bold lipstick-red jacket over a black top and torn jeans, with fingerless gloves and combat boots that look like they've seen better days. Dark roots peer through her bright blonde pigtails and her make-up is smoky and just a little over-the-top. Even then, she looks like she hasn't aged a day -- she could probably blend in with Barbara's crowd. It may also have something to do with her no longer wearing garish white paint, her face now warm and brown.

"So, how'd you go from kidnapping bankers and blowing up cars to helping out Bane overthrow the 1%?" He asks wryly. It's the first time he sees a flicker of something other than cheeky humor on her face. The dark eyes of one of her hyenas blink up at her intuitively.

"Look at you callin' the kettle black. Unless it's just another Thursday when a state pig quits and goes full vigilante to help out ghettos even the local garbagemen won't touch."

"Fair enough." He replies with a small smile. "We'll have to swap tales on our character building sometime."

She grins, all white teeth and red gloss. "My turn, doll. Why are you lookin' for him?" She rubs a hand on one of the hyena's heads. It twitches sleepily. "If you're wanting to give him a few solid smacks you'll have to get in line. I think front row seats are sold out."

"I suspect he's involved with the strange events going on in Old Gotham." He lowers his voice a little. "I'm sure you all already know about the strange behavior cropping up."

The room goes quiet. A chair creaks and a few shuffle their feet. It pains him to come into such a relaxing space and bring up a topic that was no doubt still sore for many, but he was low on options. Harleen watches him steadily as he walks her through his realization over the days, making sure not to omit even seemingly minor details. His research. The news stories. His neighbor asking him for help, then her bizarre behavior later.

"...whatever trip-out I was going through vanished in the smoke." He finishes. "It was probably messing with the chemicals in the air, killing whatever effect he was going for."

"That reminds me. Lee's sister got caught up in a housefire the other night." Someone says in one of the dimly lit corners. Blake fixedly avoids their gaze, though they'd have no clue he was just yards away from pulling her out. "Third-degree burns, man. They're saying her mom did it. I don't buy it. She's a good woman."

"That was different, though." Another says. "The Scarecrow made people attack each other. Here it's been..." They shift from foot to foot. "...people mostly attacking themselves." An older member puts a quiet hand on their shoulder and Blake doesn't need to ask to know they've seen something similar.

"That'd be a real doozy, filling up the air with happy gas like that. Last I heard he was as broke as the rest of us. If he's able to do a repeat of last time I'd be a monkey's uncle." Bane had said something similar. He tucks the information away. "He hasn't been seen around since city hall went kaboom, though."

It was hard not to relax around her. She was like everyone's big sister, what with how easily she kept others in line and put them at ease. He keeps himself on edge, regardless -- he knows the bat she carries on her back and the hyenas that seem to follow her everywhere aren't just for show. If anyone still had any doubts about his intentions, there wasn't much stopping them from tossing him into one of those poisonous ponds. That or just pulling off his mask and making him sit outside for an hour or two.

"Well, it's your lucky day." She crosses her long legs. "Old Gotham's my old stompin' grounds. I've been wondering what's going on, too, and a detective could be just what I need to crack the case."

"Not officially." He corrects, only for her to wave a careless hand.

"Better that way." A greedy glint takes over her eyes and he feels a sudden need to check his pockets. "But, you're right. Nothing is free. So whaddya know about the clean slate?"

"What, the technological marvel that can scrub all of your private information and give you a whole new start?" She nods eagerly, only for her face to drop into a scowl when he shrugs. "I know of it, but I quit a while ago. If I had access to any information on the slate, which I didn't, I sure as hell don't have it now."

"You got friends there?"

"...Not really."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I kind of left the job on a bad note." He frowns. "I wasn't supposed to tip you guys off."

"You don't know anyone? No favors anybody owes you?" He probably laughs more bitterly than usual because he earns a few wry looks from the lookers-on. "You gotta work with me here, John Robin Blake, I feel like a paddle with no canoe."

"You trying to start over new?" He asks. To his surprise she shakes her head, so hard her hair bounces around her face in a cloud. He doesn't get more than that.

Blake taps his chin and thinks hard. Commissioner Gordon would be a pretty unlikely source to ask. Not when he (indirectly) used up his favor points already. He didn't want to foist this on Barbara, as much as she clearly wanted to help him out. He could always attempt to dust off his hacking skills and see if he could suss out a little information. For a moment he wishes he had Selina Kyle's know-how. She must be thriving in Gotham's chaos ever since Blackgate got blasted apart.

"I'll think of a way." He says, finally. It's a vague answer, but a convicted one. Harleen seems pleased enough, leaning back and spreading her glittering hands in a show of joy.

"Seems like we made a new friend today, everyone. I think that calls for a beer, yeah?" There's the snap of a fridge opening and she suddenly pouts like a child. "I wanted to make the drinks..."

"Ally, I'd think." He says over the growing hubbub, then blinks in sudden realization. "Harleen, you...weren't the one that actually convinced everyone to leave, by any chance?"

"Sure." She takes a can and tosses another to him. "A lot of people know me."

It's a little amazing. The trust of a complete stranger meant the difference between a few injured and arrested and something tragic. "I know this'll sound odd, but..." He cracks it open and hisses when foam spills over his fingers. "...why'd you believe me?"

She cackles, sounding not unlike the two hyenas dozing at her side. "Let's just say I'm a good judge of character."

To his surprise Tatsu sits down on the stool he didn't take, taking a deep swig of beer and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Good. We could use the help."

He hesitates at that. He already had so many to be responsible for. Looking at the strange and semi-familiar faces surrounding him, he's not sure he could take it if he exposed them to more danger. No matter how indirectly. No matter how competent or eager they were. Harleen looks him up and down, a scrutinizing gaze that makes him feel like has no secrets.

"Trust me when I say being a lone wolf ain't as cool as it looks." Everyone watches, their small smiles and knowing glances suggesting they, too, have been on the receiving end of Harleen's charisma. "I'll make sure you get to the bottom of this little mystery, doll. You and I know Gotham inside and out, so our Scarecrow won't be holed up for long. We'll find out whether or not he's been messing with our neighborhoods and even if he ain't, we'll bust him up a little so he won't get any bright ideas. In return, you'll give me a little insider info on your department so I can help my friend out. A win-win for the ages, huh?"

"If he's not the one behind it..." He says after a sip-turned-swig. "I'm still going to find the one responsible."

"We'll talk about that when it happens." She holds a hand out to him. "For now, though...we got a deal?"

He thinks how hard he might've resisted before he met Bane. Before he quit. How her past actions might've forever landed her on his shit list. Gotham was more grey than it had ever been. He wasn't about to let her off the hook, no. Not for accomplice to murder, kidnapping and god knows what else. But he was short on time and his list of allies was tenuous. She'd proven herself as someone who, at least for the moment, had her priorities in the right place. For now...

Blake clasps her hand and squeezes.

"...Deal."

--

Bane calls him late that night.

He's slumped on his couch after a shower and typing on his laptop when it buzzes. He stares at the phone for a moment before it sinks in, then hits the receive button so hard he's sure he broke it.

"Hello?"

"John. Are you available three days from now?" Straight to business.

"Uh, maybe. Why?"

"Barsad will be making rounds on Gotham's southernmost border to update me on patrol protocol. Come see him at South Harbor and he will bring you to me for the night when he returns."

"I'm...not in danger, am I?" He jokes weakly. The masked man huffs out a breath. It could be exasperation. Could be a chuckle.

"You are always in danger, John." Blake opens his mouth to speak, then slowly shuts it when he adds, "I wish to see you, so don't be late."

Chapter Text

Mercy had always been a scarce resource in the League Of Shadows. Barsad considers its absence as their newest capture struggles and fails to appeal to Bane's pity through broken teeth.

Bane may have been willing to play fast and loose with its foundation over the years, but he still recognized its wisdom. That it didn't become one of the most influential, and virtually unknown, powers over the centuries by being tender to its opposition -- even as the masked man eagerly adopted its ancient fighting styles, quarter was a trump card to be kept under lock and key unless absolutely necessary. Talia al Ghul wasn't Bane's only child, at the end of the day, and he was ever protective of what the League stood for. It was all a lesson each new member had to learn and quickly, lest they become a liability to the cause and, by extension, the world at large.

"No one tool is suited for all situations, Barsad. You would use a hammer to mend a hem." The man had said during their first mission together -- a raid in Barsad's home country four years back, a means for Bane to gather resources for his growing army as well as a way to test the resolve of his newest recruit. Despite his mundane origins (he had only superficial knowledge of guns at the time through recreational hunting), his skill with numbers and cool under pressure were valued immediately from the first meeting. It wasn't enough for Bane, however. The man had needed to know just how far he would go. Whether or not he would be willing to turn on the home that raised him and his. Make the hard decisions without so much as looking back. Even knowing this, even swearing under an oath of blood, Barsad had hesitated to kill his former employer.

Viktor. A covetous man that oversaw the proceeds of his insurance company with an icy heart, more concerned with meeting arbitrary figures than the well-being of his workers or the haggard clientele that visited their doorstep daily. Barsad had thought himself almost immune to the anecdotes over the years. The plaintive requests and tearful pleas. Mothers desperate for their child's cough to finally end. Of grandmothers and grandfathers abandoned by their family and the job market alike, desperate not to have their last resource leave them in the cold, too. It was finally one day where even he couldn't take it anymore.

Even through the slow burn of injustice, a sickness in his soul, he had struggled to pull the trigger during his resignation. Four years later and he never forgot the chill of the room. The thrill that passed through him when he realized he would never turn down another victim of fraud again...and the nausea that followed in light of what he had to do to earn it. In light of his former employer's family and the void that would be left in their lives once the bullet passed from air to skull. It wasn't mercy for him that stayed his hand that evening. Not truly. A mercy for his children. His wife. Perhaps himself...and the people he, too, would have to leave behind for the League Of Shadows.

"Is it mercy you suffer from?" Bane had asked when he took the revolver from his frozen hands and fired a round into the man's skull. "Or something worse?"

Like ruthlessness and control, it was yet another commodity to be traded, used and shelved at will. Watching Bane calmly interrogate the first traitor, he idly wonders what mercy meant for John Blake. He was to meet with the detective within a few days on Gotham's outer borders and, if he were being entirely honest with himself, he was more than a little curious as to what their former prisoner has been up to all this time to warrant an ongoing acquaintanceship with Bane.

The first traitor had been identified earlier that day, scouting a small island far off Gotham's southern coast. Barsad had expected the radio frequencies to lead him further beyond Gotham's outlands, well beyond where the had originally kept Pavel. Instead the trail led to a nearby areas almost exclusively used by fishers and traders, hardly covered with more than a smattering of old, wooden buildings and more meticulously maintained docks. It had taken days to follow a trail long since cold, yes, but the League would sooner be compared to slavering hounds than even the best trackers. Rubio and the nuclear reactor may be still at large, but they were finally picking up the scent.

Abdul had all but attempted to flee when he saw them exit their small boat, barely making it up the hill before being struck down in the shadow of a cabin. Barsad had seen Bane reach into his pockets, briefly, before hauling the man's limp body inside like a ragdoll.

The same man had shot Salim up on the hill all those days back, his belated reaction just barely missing the young sniper's vitals during Rubio's unexpected betrayal. Even with his injuries still aching with every movement, Barsad found himself wondering why he turned. Whether he, and his peers, had been bribed in exchange for something superior to a dismantled capitalist system (although Barsad had long since devoted his life to the cause, he understood how such a complex, far-off goal could seem exhausting to the more immediate appeal of money). Perhaps they had been coerced into betraying the League's trust. Bane shared no such concerns. The utter disdain in which he handled the former League member and pressed a chip into his skin while he struggled to come to had been nothing short of callous.

Even more troubling was that Abdul had never been particularly inclined to conflict or greed. He was a follower, through and through. Barsad had selected him for his skill with languages, almost rivaling Bane in number and proving useful for translation efforts and recruiting across the globe. He reconsiders the coersion angle as the man spits out a glob of blood and turns to him with a plea in his eyes. He's not tied up, but fear makes a fitting restraint.

"Barsad..." He coughs and spits again, more this time. "Two years. Almost three. I served well. You know I wouldn't..."

He goes silent when Bane takes his chin and turns his gaze back.

"Where?"

There are still flickers of respect in the terrified mercenary's eyes. Bane is still a force to be reckoned with, even through whatever new loyalty that has now made the man risk his ire. Barsad, and no doubt Abdul, still remembered when Bane had sent both Alexei and Jakub's corpses down the sewer drains for inadvertantly getting three killed capturing Commissioner Gordon, for putting their entire operation and cause at risk. When he throttled the life from Omar when the man confessed to a deadly cowardice. Abdul had no reason to believe he would be spared, yet there it was. Hope. Mercy. Bane's particular brand of poison...should he decide to use it.

"Bane..." Barsad starts, only to stop when the man holds up a hand. Any other time he might have continued to stress the importance of keeping the man alive, eyes averted and tone deeply respectful. Now? Ever since Talia was put away the masked man's patience seemed to dangle on a thread. Even secure in his position he didn't want to be on the receiving end of that quiet wrath.

"Tell me and I let you live." He says with the cadence of a schoolteacher. "Remain silent and you die."

Abdul heaves out a painful breath. One of his ribs was likely cracked. "I will die no matter what I do..."

"Oh, I assure you..." Bane responds thoughtfully. "...your chances are far slimmer with me."

It's a brutal promise. The man considers this for nearly a minute, to the point Barsad wonders if he's stalling for time. Then he speaks.

"I don't know. I don't know where the reactor is being held, he didn't show me. I just moved it. But I do know this." The man says, hurriedly, as if fearing the unsatisfactory answer would make his former leader lose his patience. "Rubio, he's said many things about you, about the League. He wants..." He struggles to lick his lips. "He wants to replace you. He wants...he wants it all."

Bane lowers his hand from the man's face and observes him quietly.

"So you have nothing of value to offer me."

Abdul's eyes grow wide and he shrinks back as best as he can from the man's stolid gaze. He doesn't scream or beg further. League members, even at their worst, were acquainted with death. Be it others' or their eventual own.

A peek out the window and Barsad immediately recognizes a man's signature limp along one of the catwalks. Abdul's partner had not been far behind them, apparently, no doubt checking for the strange lapse in activity. Separating the missing from the dead, Barsad had long since figured out who had turned on them. It was all a matter of when it happened. Why it happened. He doesn't like look in Bane's eyes when he gives him a signal. It makes him consider over and over how he's going to pull the man aside, eventually, and insist he look inward.

Then again, maybe that would be better placed in the hands of someone else.

He moves out of view and waits for Abdul's partner to walk through the back door. The man freezes at the sight of Bane crouching in the corner, immediately reaching for a pistol his hand never reaches. A swift blow to the head and he's on the ground. The man was heavily armed, though a casual glance would betray little more than heavy pockets.

Bane rises to his feet and walks over to inspect him. Nudges the man's face into view with his foot like he's already a corpse. Doesn't even turn when Abdul bolts past them and through the open door.

The man tears down the hill and straight for a small boat by the docks. Barsad turns to give chase, only to freeze when Bane puts a hand on his shoulder. A glance up at the man and he knows this isn't mercy, either.

Chapter Text

He's late.

It was a foregone conclusion, what with his hectic lifestyle, but it didn't make him feel any less guilty about it. The past two days had been a blur of work, research and back-and-forth with Harleen. He'd add 'random bouts of fitful sleep' in there, but he'd be lying to himself and not particularly well. Even naps were unreliable and came out of left field, happening when he least expected them and always making him sit up in a filthy sweat before hitting the thirty minute mark. He's half-convinced whatever he breathed in that night at Old Gotham messed up his brain for good.

He hated the fact he wanted to see his mother's face with that near-crystal clarity one more time. Hated himself for wanting to take a friendly stroll down Old Gotham's streets at the wrong right time and see if he can't see his grandmother, too, and apologize for a million things no reasonable person would ever blame themselves for. He was looking forward to punching Scarecrow or his copycat or whoever in the throat when he found them.

"Got an acquaintance of an acquaintance of an acquaintance with a cousin saying he found out where Scarecrow's been staying since the ward went belly up. Not there anymore, but it's a trail." Harleen chirped over the line. He could hear pops of gunfire and the occasional sound of glass shattering in the background. From the sound of her tone she'd been taking a morning stroll. "You onto anything yet, Sherlock?"

"Got more progress trying to find Scarecrow than the clean slate, I hate to say." He'd responded in-between brushing his teeth. "You sure your friend can't just change their name and live off the grid for a while?"

"No can do, Rob." He was pretty sure he heard something explode a second later. "Not with her record!"

Anyone else and he'd ask if he should call her back at a better time. Then again, this was the woman formerly known as Harley Quinn. "Do I get to know about this friend you're asking me to get something illegal from?"

"If I'm tryin' to get something to wipe her identity, why would I go around tellin' everyone who she is?" Another explosion and she'd snapped indignantly at someone nearby, "Watch it, bud!"

'Guess we all got our secrets still.' He had thought. 'You must be pretty worried about her. Though I'm still not entirely convinced you're not seeking it out for yourself.'

No sooner did Blake step out of the shower did he get another call from Reilly asking him to drop by the elementary. Apparently Tiya had missed one too many absences and was receiving threats of expulsion, but with Joel still down with the flu he didn't want to leave him even in Finn's capable hands. Even worse, Jay is in trouble for talking back to one of the teachers. He goes back and forth throughout the city constantly glancing at his clock, dropping by the store to grab some soup (a tedious affair thanks to the still-increased security measures) before putting on his best air for the principal.

"Are you John Blake?" He'd been asked when he walked into the office, both boys sitting in the corner fiddling with their pockets and looking more than a little miserable. The assistant principal had been at the end of her rope before he even shut the door, citing how it was hard enough following lockdown protocol twice per week and keeping frazzled parents soothed over recent events without calling in students for petty behavior. He'd schooled his face into something more appeasing in an attempt to lower her hackles, but had only made it worse.

"Are you even taking this seriously?" She had pointed a red-tipped finger at Tiya in particular. "At least I can't hear Jay half the time. Do you know what foul things come out of your boy's mouth?" The casual audism makes his mouth twitch, but he pushes it down.

"Sure I do. He's a kid." He'd said, politely, calmly, trying to set a good example to the boys looking two wrong words away from crawling out the half-open window. "But as long as they're doing well in their classes I don't see the-"

"That's exactly it, Mr. Blake. Tiya, for all his...loudmouthed tendencies, is getting passing grades. I can't say the same for Jay." Another ten minutes where he did little but nod and offer the occasional disappointed look and he was pretty sure the woman was long overdue for a good therapy session. The consequences were plain -- either they started getting their act together or they'd have to miss a good chunk of their schooling. Pulling them aside in the corner he had lowered his voice detailing the consequences of a missed education. Not for her sake, but for theirs'.

"I don't want you to end up like Tom." It had been hard saying the boy's name out loud. Even in the mess of recent events his untimely demise in the storm drains was too fresh. It was harder saying it again for Jay, moving his hands with a deliberate slowness and making sure recognition clicks in the kid's eyes before offering the assistant a few friendly parting words and heading back to the car. Didn't matter they were both still a few years shy of aging out. Time always won, in the end.

It's a quiet drive on the way back to the orphanage. Despite being uncharacteristically sullen in the back seat they make a big show of helping him prepare Joel's lunch, Jay washing dishes and Tiya prepping the stove. Tired as he was, it was hard not to smile a little. A classic boy's apology. He'd sit them down and have a closer heart-to-heart soon when he wasn't on a schedule. One thing at a time. ...Sort of.

He can just make out Joel's dark head in the bundle of pillows when he brings up soup and toast. Reilly is snoring softly in a chair in the corner, arms crossed over his chest and a newspaper draped over his eyes. He's careful not to disturb him, shutting the door with his foot and treading lightly on the creaky floorboards.

"Blake...?" A messy sniffle and shuffle of blankets. "Blake...?"

"Joel? Joel?" He responds, making a show of cupping a hand over his eyes and attempting to find him in the cluttered room. The boy giggles tiredly and waves an arm.

"I'm right here. I'm sick." Blake cringes when the boy sneezes and tries and fails to cover up the mess with his hands. "...I need a tissue."

He mops up the boy's face and urges him to take a few sips of the soup after taking his temperature. A little higher than he'd like, but the boy looks more tired than delirious -- it was likely the last vestiges of a winter cold spreading around before spring finally got its act together (though who ever really did in Gotham). He notices the boy's cookbook has a few crumpled tissues poking out as makeshift bookmarks. Blake delicately replaces them with clean ones and makes a mental note to wash his hands soon.

"I wanna..." Joel pokes at a page, trying to sort out his thoughts through a congested head. "I don't know...if, uh...if banana bread is the best bread...for parties..."

"I think it's pretty good." Blake says, propped up on one elbow and reading over his shoulder. He's glad Reilly can't see his shoes on the bedsheets. "Maybe you can put blueberries in it and make it better."

Joel's eyes go round and he almost misses his mouth taking another bite of soup. "I can do that?"

Blake can't help but laugh, keeping his voice low and giving the kids messy curls a ruffle. "You can do whatever you want. Just make sure you learn the rules before you break them. You don't want to start mixing in pepper instead of sugar."

"Okay. Yeah." He says, pinching his brows together in an attempt to focus. "The sieve..." Another page and he's yawning like a lion. Poor kid had school, therapy and extracurriculars to focus on the majority of the week. Even when he was sick he was still sticking his nose in a book. It was passion, of course, but a part of him always feared about the side-effect of the boys' tense lifestyles. He didn't want any of them to overwork like he did. At least, not until they were adults and had little choice.

"You really should be getting some sleep, though. Your new recipes will be there when you wake up." Joel squirms defiantly when he starts to tuck him in. "Come on. You won't get better without rest. Look at Reilly. He's way ahead of the game." As if in response the old Father gives a hard snore and shifts in his chair. Joel opens his mouth to argue, but whatever he has to say is interrupted with another massive yawn.

"When is Trevor gonna live with us?" He mumbles sleepily as Blake picks up the half-eaten bowl and dims the lights. "I want...her to sleep in my bed...but Tiya said he got dibs..." Blake's stomach sinks and he offers him a small smile.

"I...don't know, kid." It was vague, yes, but honest enough. He'd gotten one call from someone who swore they saw a wolfish-looking dog skulking around East End, but it could easily be one of the thousand strays Gotham saw filling out its streets. It was damn hard juggling so much on his plate. Either he was going to be the world's next great multitasker or another breakdown was in his future.

"Blake...?" A tiny cough cuts into his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

"...Yeah." He cracks open the window. Just enough to let a little cool air in. "'course I am."

"Can you read me some pages so I can sleep...? Just three pages. Please." Joel begs, pushing the tissue-stuffed book out of the little fort of blankets. "Pleeease."

Blake's willpower might as well be made out of tissue for all it survives the onslaught of those two huge, watery eyes. By the time he's heading to the meeting point it's nearly three hours past, having nodded off halfway on the bed in the middle of reading about the history of bread around the world. The weather has taken a turn for the worse and he can hardly make it back into his car without being blown a few feet to the side. He calls Barsad again and pushes down the deja vu when the phone rings. Pushes it down again when he hear's the man's signature smooth drawl over the other line.

"You're a little late, Blake."

"I know, I'm sorry. There was a..." He shakes himself. "Forget it. Should I call it off?"

"Perhaps." A long pause over the line. "But come anyway."

Well, if that wasn't mysterious. Maybe it wasn't a good idea (calling the masked man a control freak would be putting it mildly), but fuck he was going to pass up this opportunity. Call it idealism, call it loneliness, but he knew he'd beat himself up if he didn't see him soon. He takes the train and a bus on the way down, not willing to leave his car at one of the nearby lots, and stands shivering in the fog for a few minutes before Barsad pulls up on his bike. He's still coated head-to-toe in winter clothing, the only skin he can make out the nose above his scarf and the fingers peeking out of his wool gloves.

"Good to see you." The man says. He actually sounds like he means it. It's hard not to wonder what Bane might've told him. Then again, Bane loved his secrets.

"Uh, yeah." He reaches out to shake his hand, then stops halfway. He can just make out the man panting through the puffs of air in front of his face. "You...doing all right?"

"Yes." He hands him a helmet. Blake raises his eyebrows expectantly and doesn't take it, earning a soft sigh in response. "I was injured. I'll be fine." Clearly the mercenary was more than a little injured -- he can see him hunching slightly, looking worn out like he had walked all the way over.

"Bane's making you work like this?" There was being a ruthless mercenary with blood on their hands and then there was this. Barsad scoffs at his tone and shakes his head.

"Yes and no. He would sooner have me confined to numbers as I recover, yes, but if I can move I can work." He jiggles the helmet at him. "You're already late. Let's go."

Looking at the faint green in the distance and feeling the wet air on his face as Barsad makes their way out of Gotham, he realizes with a start he really doesn't get out enough. "So..." He calls over the roar of the engine. "How've you been?" It never hurt to start off on the right foot. He gets the feeling Barsad is smiling again when he responds.

"My kidney feels like it will fall right out of my side and sleep is difficult. Other than that, could be worse."

"Yeah." Blake chuckles. "Could be a hell of a lot worse."

It's further out than he thought. By the time he sees unusual dips in the hills and the city is a dark cluster in the distance he's sure his hands are halfway frozen to the seat and he'll never be able to move his legs again. A bundle of round tents camoflauged among the grass greet them as they clear a hill, blending in almost imperceptibly where they're clustered around the base of the mountain. He thinks he sees a light flickering above him. An outcrop? Sniper's perch? He stares up as they pass beneath it, pulling up in the middle of a dozen mercenaries talking and working.

The detective hands the helmet back to Barsad as he steps onto the wet ground and stretches his legs. The men seem more than a little curious to see him again, though some of that curiosity hints more toward confusion. It's still a little nervewracking, all things told, and he has to ignore instinct telling him to shove Barsad off the motorcycle, punch the gas and get the hell out of here. He roots himself to the spot and steels his face into a pantomime of someone that wants nothing more than to be here. He's here of his own volition, after all, damn it, and he was going to act like it.

"So, you see Bane's wisdom now?" One of the men says with a laugh. Blake puts on a stiff smile when the others join in. Not mocking. Not really.

"Something like that, yeah."

Another gestures at him from head to toe. "Still too skinny."

They proceed to offer him a wide range of commentary from his current status to whether or not he could spar like he used to, a lively chatter that almost makes them seem like everyday schmoes on the bus. It's not what irritates him, though. It's the fact he's merely uncomfortable and not having some aggressive panic attack from being surrounded by the men who swarmed him like a den of rats that fateful night. He needed to figure out the killswitches in his psyche and fast. A burning house trips him up but a gaggle of killers barely blip on his radar? Shit, why was he even here? Why wasn't he at home staring at his navel and unraveling himself from childhood to present? 

A familiar shock of curly black hair jolts him from his reverie.

"...Salim?"

The man turns from where he's crouching. Blake pushes past the men, only to freeze at the sight of him. He looks terrible, skin mottled every shade of green he can think of and a nasty gash breaking up the stubble on his chin. None of that seems to stop the guy's face from splitting into a massive grin when he realizes who's speaking to him.

"Crocodile hunter?!"

His unease melts away as they come together in a tight hug. The other mercenaries mutter to one another as they look each other over, commenting on each other's new scars and poking fun at each other's hair. Salim's has grown so long as to need a ponytail, even as the curls fight to break free in the wind. He runs a self-conscious hand through his own, wondering if he should keep growing his out.

"Christ, you're beat up to hell and back. You could give the Joker a run for his money." Blake says, grinning when the guy shoves him playfully. The bruises were ugly, but the guy's chipper air suggests there was no deeper damage. That or he was much better at faking a mood than he suspected.

"Grow a real beard, then speak to me." He responds, laughing when Blake rubs his chin in mock offense. "But, you look good." Salim concedes with a pat on his shoulder. "Good enough to join the League, eh?"

He starts to say no, then quickly shuts his mouth. He knows Bane wants to see him. He doesn't know why he's letting him walk around his men like nothing happened. At the very least they seem to know he's no longer part of the force, more relaxed than hostile as they observe from their various posts.

"Why are you all gathering here?" Blake asks, as much as a dodge as to catch up with him. It was his little gesture of kindness that inadvertently saved everyone's asses, after all. A small part of him is deeply relieved Bane didn't sack the guy, even though Salim had been pretty confident at the time.

"Lots of things." He says as he crouches again. "I have new post, up on the mountain. I keep watch for the new bunker." He holds up a small jar of what looks like paint. "Blend in like a..." He snaps his fingers as he searches for the word. "Keh-meel-on?"

"Pft. You sure you need this?" Blake says as he leans down and looks at the gaggle of supplies. "Your face already looks like moss-covered rock." Salim answers this by flicking paint on his jacket. They spend a few minutes talking about various things. How they've been holding up against Gotham's increased security measures and their plans for the next few weeks. Salim eventually trails off onto a diatribe about wanting to travel and Blake can't help but notice he doesn't bring up the source of his injuries. He wonders if he and Barsad's less-than-stellar health were related.

He doesn't so much hear Bane approach as sense him. One moment he and Salim are trading advice on stretching exercises, the next he's turning around with the rest of the men and looking at the man moving with purpose through the small camp. A hulking specter ghosting through the cold fog, almost mythical, the grainy brown of his sheepskin coat dark with rainwater and a splatter on his boots glinting maliciously. For a heartstopping moment he forgets the quiet moments they've shared together and sees a threat, staring at him through a twisted black mask.

"...You're late."

There's a tentative air to Bane's men that wasn't there before. They're deeply respectful, that much he learned on the first day, but even the practical caution feels...soured. They keep glancing sideways at him and keep to the balls of their feet like something's about to go off. Blake's face works strangely as he gets to his feet and brushes the dirt from his jeans. He thinks he's smiling.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

A puff of white filters through the front of the mask. Bane turns and looks Barsad over for one critical moment before beckoning the detective to follow with a flick of his hand. Whether it's to check on the guy's health or silently ask why he brought Blake anyway, he doesn't know. He waves goodbye to Salim and walks after him, his tent is further down and tucked into a groove in the mountain. It's a little larger than the rest, though no less camouflaged -- the masked man takes care to hose off his boots, the water turning a murky pink as it blends into the mud, before kicking off the excess water and walking inside.

Without preamble he goes straight to a small, round table and picks something up. Blake speaks into the silence, if only to cover up the uncomfortable tint in his gut.

"I know I was supposed to arrive earlier. It's just that Jay got into a fight with one of the teachers. Had to talk to the assistant principal because Reilly was stuck at home taking care of Joel, who's got a cold and can't even get out of bed without bonking into a wall..." He feels what little composure he had left over the impromptu ride already melting away under the man's withering silence. He's kept his back to him, a hulking shadow, and the detective feels his throat grow thick with anticipation and maybe something more irritable. He'd hoped he was a little happy to see him.

"The reactor is still out of my hands." His back twitches as he tends to something on the table. "When I am not visiting each neighborhood in turn I am extending myself beyong Gotham's borders to locate these defectors and rectify what Talia started. My men have their hands full guarding the storm drains and searching these frozen expanses." A deliberate pause. "My time is tight, you see."

"I'm not a teenager late for class. You can spare me the lecture." Blake responds with a bristle. "Like I said, it couldn't be helped. Just a bad day for the boys."

"Were they dying?"

"What? No." He responds, a little shocked. "They don't have to be. They needed me there. It was just a-"

"Excuses." The man's dark tone is startling. "I am full up."

He opens his mouth to tell him Barsad had encouraged him to come anyway, that he didn't mean to put such a huge damper on his day, that you don't raise kids with such a pessimistic view...then slowly shuts it and watches the man's back as he continues to work. If Bane wanted to flip-flop between being his weird acquaintance, on-again off-again lover and mercenary leader, he could do it on his own time.

"...All right. Fine. You've made yourself loud and clear." He grabs his bag and yanks it over one shoulder. "Sorry to bother you."

Bane pauses in his ministrations.

"...John."

Blake makes no bones about his irritation and shoots the man a sour look (one he's not even sure he sees) over his shoulder before closing the tent flap behind him. Salim is nowhere to be found and, after a few careful glances, neither is Barsad. It was going to be a pain asking one of the men to drive him all the way back out. He could always walk, though it'd be a good two or three hours before he'd touch pavement again. He reaches out to the friendliest face (which isn't much to choose from) and asks for one of them.

"Leaving already?" The mercenary asks with a doubtful glance at Bane's tent.

"Something like that." He responds. "Short meeting."

The man gives him a look, pulling out his two-way and muttering something into it...only to stop halfway and incline his head.

"What is i-" Blake starts, pausing when he feels the familiar presence at his back.

"That wasn't a cue for you to leave." Bane murmurs behind him. How the hell was the man over six feet tall and so silent? While his men continue to work unhindered, their lowered voices and careful movements suggest they're more than a little curious as to what's going on between them. Blake turns around, drawing himself up to his fullest height (still a full head below Bane's) and looking him in the eye.

"Interesting." He responds coolly. "...because that's what it sounded like."

Now he wishes he didn't. Now that he has a closer look he can see something off about him, even if it's as muddled as the wet ground beneath their feet. Something angry. ...Weary. For a moment he seems older than Commissioner Gordon. Together they stand in the middle of the camp, staring each other down like moody strangers while the mercenaries steal glances their way. Blake sighs and drags a hand down his face when he can't take the awkward moment any longer.

"...Been a shit week." He mumbles into his fingers.

He just catches Bane's dark eyes flicking to the side. Far away.

"...Quite."

Blake shivers, his body suddenly remembering how damn cold it still is. It's not the biting chill of deep winter, no, something wetter and lighter, but it didn't make him want to stay outside any longer. He thinks of what to say to keep the man's reputation in-tact, still unsure of what the other League members know about them and what lines in the sand should be drawn.

"Want to...um."

Yeah, that's subtle.

The tent is warmer, but only marginally so. He squats next to the lantern and pretends it's a fire as Bane leans over his work again. The masked man doesn't reach out to him, still not overly inclined to do so, but the way he catches and holds his gaze makes a more pleasant shiver run up his spine.

"So." Bane starts as he rummages through his supplies. "How are they?"

"Hm?" Blake blinks. "Oh, the kids? They're fine. Frustrated, but...who isn't, these days?" He sets his bag down and rubs his shoulder. "Tiya and Jay got in trouble today. Again. On the plus side, Finn finally paid off the rest of his fine. Doesn't want to look at another snow shovel for the rest of his life, but." Bane grunts his acknowledgement. Casual, but interested. Well, it's nice the man wasn't too pissed off to give a shit. Blake tries to swallow down the leftover awkwardness and scrubs the cold from his hands. "For future reference, should I...not do some things around your men?" He asks. "Keep a professional air...?"

"They think you another recruit." The soft scritch-scratch of nib on paper. "That's all."

"So no sneaking kisses. Got it."

"No." The man's head tilts to the side, observing something carefully. "It would be one more thing to explain to my men."

It's a subtle shift in the air, but something about Bane's tone feels a touch more relaxed than before. He holds onto it as he makes himself comfortable and observes the organized chaos of the tent. A small cot and blankets, radio equipment, a few weapons. He can spot the halfway progress of a small red scarf slung over a spare chair. It's a weird little homely touch in such an efficient space. He thinks to the man, how his brutal training and paternal nature blend together to the point he doesn't know where one ends and the other begins.

"If it makes you feel better, you're my dirty little secret, too."

"Oh?" Bane catches his gaze again, briefly, but there's no mistaking the flicker of something warmer there.

"I, uh..." He tries to think about the most roundabout way of putting the small, strange gap that only seemed to grow wider every day he wasn't around. Maybe this time being straightforward was the way to go. A straightforward that comes out as little more than a hasty mumble in the back of his head.

'Blake, you hopeless wreck.'

"...Relax." A shuffle of papers. "I will finish this, then we can talk." Blake can't take the nervous energy and makes his way over to look over the spread. He doesn't expect to see the aged yellow of parchment, nor the downright curly script of Bane's handwriting.

"What are these?"

"Rendezvous points." He picks up a divider and taps it along the paper. The old-fashioned method is fascinating and Blake does little more than stare as Bane takes delicate, minute measurements across the detailed drawings. He's silent for a few minutes before speaking. "A protest will be held in the downtown square in three weeks' time. A culmination of Gotham's struggles. The stage has been set, but the final act must eventually make itself clear." Another tap. "A little demoralization will offer the populace reprieve."

He wonders if the blood on his boots has anything to do with that. "Yeah. I've heard rumors about it." The detective replies, resisting the urge to drag a finger along the ink and trace each route -- he can just make out his neighborhood in the etches. "More from your supporters than anyone else. Lots of people still in denial this is happening at all." He snorts. "That immigrant district you were at...heard one of the mayors is thinking of giving the local construction workers a raise. Seems like you're rubbing off on everyone."

"You've been busy." It's not a question. Blake shrugs.

"Sure. Trying to balance the orphanage alongside my job and figure out the deal with Old Gotham. Got put away for a day when I broke curfew. Couldn't get any sleep because of the drug...or whatever it is...so it felt like forever." He inwardly cringes when he remembers Bane actually was put away for a lifetime. He quickly adds, "Though it was nothing compared to what others have gone through. Of course, I was also bailed out..." His voice lowers. "By Gordon."

Bane doesn't even look up. It was somehow worse than calling him an outright douchebag. "It was either that...or be locked up for months. I couldn't do that to my kids again. Even if...it'd be fair." He feels itchy with wrongdoing. Not only was he a failure who had some brand-new phobia, he was a damn hypocrite.

He jerks when Bane snaps his fingers right in front of his face.

"Don't waste it."

"Waste...what?"

"Your time." He closes the divider with a click. "I can practically hear the gears turning in your head."

"Yeah. Right." He mutters. 'Don't, uh, want to waste yours, either.'

If he can sense the moodiness in his voice, he doesn't comment on it. "This is the second time you've been let out of a cage of your own doing." Bane says as he pulls out a small toolbox and sets the divider and pens inside. "Be that as it may...I also have not yet been led to believe you will waste this opportunity, either."

The tiny smile that threatens to rise to his lips dies away. Bane glances sideways at him, brows furrowing a little as he attempts to figure him out. "You mentioned visiting Old Gotham. Many of the disenfranchised come from there."

"Yeah. East End, too." He rubs his chin. "It can't be coincidence these places getting hit with so much opposition. Someone might be trying to undermine your movement. That or just get rid of the competition. There's only been a few casualties, but that's not to say there won't be more if the department keeps spinning its wheels and people keep fucking up..." He stops and looks at the man. "...What?"

"Speak your mind, John."

That was just it. He had no clue where to start with the damned thing. He tries to think of how to put that bizarre night. The little cluster of failures that clung like lint to the back of his mind. Bane kneels and scrounges around in the corner for something. A small, familiar box is in his hands when he walks back over. The earthy scent caresses his nose and kicks up old emotions. Earl Grey.

"I froze up." He feels like he's sixteen and going to confession (at Reilly's behest) all over again. "There was a fire. Was trying to find Trevor...that's what we agreed on naming her...and I ran into it. There was a mother begging for someone to go in and grab her daughter and...I just..." He takes in a shaky breath. Time gets finicky, then, and somewhere between his shameful thoughts and next words Bane is holding out a mug of steaming tea. It's not Earl Grey, however. Something green.

"...found out the kid got out alive covered in third-degree burns. I just woke up and I was on the ground. It was a blur." Everything tumbles out. "Probably going to be disfigured for life. All because I froze up." He sips the tea and ignores the burn on his tongue. "...Couldn't save her. Even though I wanted to." Bane carefully tucks the box away. Blake stares at the leaves at the bottom of his cup like a personal Rorschach test. Someone else might see a half-moon or a sleeping cat. All he sees is burnt rubble.

"That is unusual." He's not sure if it sounds like a compliment or a dig. He's probably being oversensitive, but it doesn't make him feel any better. "...A leftover trauma, perhaps."

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Blake takes a deeper gulp, wincing, and holds his cup out for more. Bane steeps the leaves. Whatever these are, they're heady enough to hold up against another filtering. It's an incredibly strong flavor, more like alcohol than tea, but the warmth that settles in his chest like honey is addicting. "I've never felt like this before. At least, not concerning...that. I've had panic attacks. Not often, but. These are different. It must be something that happened recently."

"Could it be what happened at city hall?" Bane offers as he sets the kettle back on the little portable burner. Blake stares. Opens his mouth, then shuts it. ...Of course. Why the hell didn't he think of that before? It was just another day when he was floored by Bane's deduction skills.

"...City hall..." His elbows dig into his knees as he leans forward and tugs at his hair, tea now forgotten. "That's...but...why...?"

"Why, indeed." Bane folds his hands calmly. "Fear has a way of leaving its mark, regardless of how we may view it in the moment. Your guilt, as valid as it may feel now, will do little to speed up your progress." He tilts his head. "You wish to be a detective, so consider this a personal test."

He wasn't exactly wrong. No, he wasn't wrong at all. Blake had always felt the need to carry the world on his shoulders. It's just what made sense, spending a good chunk of his childhood alone, fending for himself and trying to reason with the few good things in his life. Old habits died hard, it seemed, and his were still gurgling their death rattles. He mentally bookmarks the psychoanalysis for later and gestures to Bane with his cup.

"So, what about you?"

"Me."

"Yeah, you. What've you been up to?"

He can harbor a guess if his clothes are anything to go by -- his armored vest has been discarded along with his coat in favor of a simple black top, the shiny combat boots traded for a more worn, brown pair. The man stands to puts the burner away in some holding, ever tidy even in the cramped space. Blake studies the way his biceps twitch in the light, then glances back to his cup when the man turns around.

"I already told you." He replies sardonically. "Or do you hope I'll spill my soul over tea?"

Well. Of course he wants that. That Bane would bring it up like a punchline makes him wonder just how much progress they've made over the months. He wants the man to stop shoveling whatever's clawing away at him as deep as possible into the ground where he thinks it can't be dug up again. To trust in him a little, maybe. Blake didn't think much of his abilities to save anyone, but that never stopped him from wanting to help. He always wanted to help. He has to sort the words in his head carefully, the minute cracks in the man's facade as wide as a canyon.

"You're only human, Bane. You may be constructing a larger-than-life image, but at the end of the day...you're human." He takes a sip. "Even I have a hard time believing you've completely internalized all the work you put in on the daily. What happened to Talia."

Bane's eyes slowly narrow.

"Whatever you hope to hear from me..." He says, not sitting down again. "...dash to it to the ground and move on."

He wasn't the only one who could pick up on clues.

"Now that sounds like a dodge."

"Dodging what, your impudence?" His voice lowers in warning. "I did not become Bane to grieve, John. To dwell on have-nots and should-haves. The people needed a replacement for the city's failures, not a new one. So I am whatever they need. My personal issues are dealt with, even without your gratification." He spits the next words out like an insult. "Your tears and laments."

"You're not dealing with it, though." He stresses. "You're acting like it didn't even happen. Pretending your problems don't exist just puts off the inevitable."

"And what, exactly, is that?"

"Would you just answer me, damn it?" He has to hold himself back from lobbing the cup right at his stubborn bald head. "Why do you think snuffing out your humanity is the way to go? Why do you think that's what anyone needs from you? You're exhausted, Bane. Hell, I can see it all over you. You're always, always telling me to take better care of myself but right now you're making Barsad look sprightly. Maybe you can fool everyone else, but you can't fool me and that's kind of your fault."

The sudden quiet in the tent makes him realize how loud he's being. He swallows back the next words and waits for Bane's reaction so he doesn't come off as browbeating. Not that it does much good. The man reminds him of a wild dog, just inches away from lunging forward and snapping at him. Bane takes in a slow, scraping drag of a breath, his fingers flicking with some temperamental energy like he wants to grab something and crush it.

"I lost my humanity long ago." The mask's silver wires glitter in the lamplight. "You would be the one to give it back to me?"

"...I'll answer your question with another." He finishes the rest of his tea and sets the cup down. "Why do you keep seeking me out?"

Bane goes entirely still at that. His eyes darken, furiously, and the detective wills down the need to bolt or roll onto his back like a submissive hound. There's still a quiet satisfaction in making the poetic orator struggle with his next words, even if the source is...well, sad. 'I'm not afraid of you.' He thinks as he holds his gaze. 'Well, maybe a little. But not enough to drop this. Not enough to drop you.'

"You can't intimidate me into not caring." He says when the man remains silent, softening his tone even as he knows Bane wasn't the kind of person to need a delicate hand. "Like it or not, that's what happens when you let people in." Exhaustion suddenly slumps his shoulders and he fiddles with his empty cup. "...They worry." The tent shivers like a living thing against the cold wind buffeting it from outside. Bane lets out a long sigh and looks past him at something he can't see. It's a flicker of vulnerability, precious and sudden, and he has the impulsive urge to get up and hold him tight.

"I should have known better than to leave a detective with questions." He mutters, almost sounding surly in the admission. Blake holds back a smile. He feels like even the slightest movement could jar the moment.

"You don't have to carry the world on your shoulders." He ignores the strange buzzing in his ears as he adds, "Let me help." It's the anti-magic word. He knows. But whatever wound he's pulled open has made the man more susceptible to it. He actually looks at him, up and down, as if actually considering it. Then there's a tap-tap on the front of the tent.

"Enter."

Blake is sure he grinds through a full inch of teeth when Barsad walks in. Here he was thinking he was the king of bad timing. The cup provides a nice distraction as the mercenary confers with his boss, keeping his dagger-laden gaze on anything but the man's unintentional interruption.

"There's a storm coming." Barsad is saying, scarf pulled down and face as impassive as ever. "The boats will be delayed until tomorrow morning."

Bane flicks a hand in acknowledgement and the man spares a glance for Blake before walking out. The detective can still feel their conversation hanging over the room like a pall. Something he doesn't want to navigate, but he's already started digging. There was no reason to stop until he hit something. Bane is already putting on his leather coat and he's not sure what the hell to do with himself until the man speaks.

"Come. I have something to show you."

It's not a storm. It's something much nastier. Even when Bane leads him inside the mountain through a guarded entrance, the temporary relief Blake feels at receiving shelter from the angry winds dwindles quickly at the unfamiliar environment. Miles and miles of cold, smooth stone stretch out around him, carved out a long time ago and recently repurposed by the seemingly endless efforts of the League. Patting along the walls for purchase he can feel the occasional unlit torch. Bane strolls right past them.

"Our second base of operations." His already soft voice echoes into a whisper along the passage. "Retrofitted with multiple bunkers, a litany of escape routes and an independent sewer line. Even should an enemy force find their way in, there's no guarantee they will find their way back out. A back-up plan when Gotham takes a turn for the worse."

Blake almost trips on a groove in the stone. "Hasn't it already?"

A hoarse chuckle. Blake hurries a little so he doesn't lose the man when he reaches a split in the path. He stares down one of the tunnels, a yawning blackness barely distinguished against the flat gray, before willing his aching legs to continue. Gotham may be a hellhole, but even he can't imagine willingly making residence in such a depressing environment. Then again, Bane was probably used to it.

"Keep any prisoners here?"

"Three...for now."

'That's right. The sewer monster and the...not-so-obvious sewer monster.' He thinks as he trails after the man carefully, trying not to trip on the uneven ground again. 'No idea about the third. Unless he's got more prisoners than I know about...'

"You know...the alligator man spoke to me." He starts. "Back in the storm drains."

"As amicable as ever, John Blake." He responds down the stretch of the hall. How'd he get so far? "You have a talent." Blake's not sure what's funnier -- his response or the fact he seems wholly unsurprised.

"Have you heard him...it talk?"

"No. It seems rather disinclined to discussing the weather. Perhaps I should bring you during the next interrogation session."

"Uh, I'm good."

The caves wind, stretch and winds again, makeshift stairs crudely hacked into the gradual rise of the rock and hidden codes carved into the walls like braille when his fingers accidentally find them. He expects to see some of his men, but the only sounds that carry are those of his footsteps and the occasional echo of Bane's breath. By the time they reach the higher levels of the peak Blake is convinced his lungs are filled with old, musty socks. He bumps a shoulder against the wall and starts hacking into the ground while the masked man observes him a few feet away in the now gray light from the outcrop openings.

"Just...give me a minute..." He wheezes, eyes stinging from the sudden light. "Ah, shit..."

"When you remember how to breathe..." Bane says wryly. "...stand out here with me."

He opens his mouth to retort, only for a crack of thunder, loud enough to make his ears pop, sending him jumping a good foot in the air. He'd turn and run right back from where he came from if not for the hypnotizing streak of purple slithering across his vision through the gap in the rocks.

"Holy." He gasps. "Crap."

"Some in Gotham call this the Vengeful Peak, yes?" Bane leans against the wall and watches the flashes illuminating the bloated clouds. "A fitting title."

"You're not going to wax philosophical about me nearly wetting myself?" He says when he makes his way over, wind ruffling the sweat from his hair with a cool hand.

"No." Another flash and he just glimpses Bane's eyes curved in a smile. "You could use the change of scenery."

The detective walks through the opening, leaning out on the precipice and ignoring the clutch of his stomach when the hundreds of feet of empty air make themselves clear with a faint whistle. They're higher up than he thought, miles of green and gray land stretching out into an eventual gray with only splashes of intermittent lightning hinting at more just beyond the surface. The hairs on his neck stand on end when a bolt lands a little too close to the cliff face, followed by a nearly earsplitting snap of thunder. It's beautiful and more than a little scary. Not unlike a certain someone beside him.

Blake kneels, as much to rest his aching legs as to prevent vertigo from making him the world's most ridiculous headline. "You ever, uh..." It's hard to put the exhilaration to words, but wherever his hesitance left it wasn't coming back. "You ever feel good being reminded of how small and insignificant you are?"

"No." Of course not. Blake purses his lips at the monosyllabic answer. Bane crouches beside him with a soft grunt. "But the sentiment is a familiar one, yes. I would watch the lightning when I was younger, the rare time it would pass over the pit, and wonder as to the feelings it inspired." He lets thunder growl overhead before continuing. "Fearsome. Sometimes awe-inspiring."

"How would the pit handle rain?" He asks. "Doesn't sound like it would be well-equipped to handle a bunch of water in such a dry environment."

"Precisely. Sometimes the guards would cover the entrance with a tarp to spare us the worst." He tilts his head. "Other times they would...forget...and the pit would nearly freeze." No matter how hard the wind blows, Bane doesn't seem to move at all. "Drowning was a rare death, but it wasn't known as 'Hell on Earth' for nothing." His voice becomes coarse. Almost resentful. "So much water. How Gotham has managed to avoid suffocating, I will never know."

"Guess nobody views any one thing the same way." He says, wincing as a fat raindrop hits his hair. The play of the weather is hypnotic, the clouds growing darker by the moment as they carry thunder over Gotham in a mockery of April showers.

"No." He responds. "An ugliness can be found everywhere. Even where least expected."

He doesn't have to elaborate further. The regret in his voice is enough.

"At least it goes the other way around." He says, flinching involuntarily when lightning forks above. "Gives you a bit of hope...huh?"

There's no response.

"...Bane?"

The man is gone. For a horrible second he's afraid he jumped, but the scraping of feet behind him turns his attention. He gets to his feet carefully, inching back into the dark of the cave as the air threatens to toss him to the side. The only reprieve from the black are the unreliable blinks of lightning just feet away. It's hard to make use of his senses when they're overwhelmed by cold and bursts of noise. He tries to focus, but never seems to touch anything more than blank space. The air moves and he's whipping around, as quick as he can make himself, only for the man to curl menacing fingers around his windpipe and vanish as soon as he appeared.

"Faster. A touch more cautious." The air bristles and Blake can feel his heartbeat like a bassline beneath his feet. "Still hesitant."

A pop quiz, then. He could do that. The man was a powerhouse. More experienced than he'd likely ever be. All Blake had as fitting contest were his wits, even as both Bane and the weather were doing their best to scramble them. He hadn't forgotten the man's brutal lessons. If anything they were muscle-memory now. An easier instinct he could play off of. The detective moves forward and considers the inky darkness and smooth stone. How Bane could be right behind him or twenty feet away. He couldn't follow his breath, the characteristic wheezing gone now and making him wonder if he was holding it or just breathing through his nose.

"You got a funny idea of what constitutes a date, Bane."

"You can't talk your way out of this one, John." A rumbling laugh, as fearsome and inviting as the thunder outside. "Show me what you've learned."

The slapdash mix of years and recent months come to a head then and there. He checks his breathing and stance checklist-style, even as his body twitches in an attempt to reason with the unreasonable. The detective's mind was a hodgepodge of useful information, not so much disciplined as incredibly flexible, and he's already seeing possibilities in his mind in the span of time it takes to flex his fingers and ball them into fists. The first would be impulsive, but impractical. The second would be more conventional, unpredictable for him, maybe, but without a good follow-up. So he chooses the third.

Blake takes a few tenuous steps to the left. He can't see or hear him, but there's no denying the sheer force that moves just beyond his comprehension like a predator. The lightning cracks again, a whiplash of light and sound, and it doesn't even penetrate the deep space. Nor would he need it to. Blake takes advantage of the split-second noise to lunge forward and drive a fist right into where the man's head should be...and is. His fist hits the side of the mask and sends a satisfying thud into the air, but his victory is short-lived when the man slips a foot behind his and sends him falling backwards. Only Bane's swiftness catches him at the last second before his head hits the ground.

Maybe things have changed more than he thought.

"...Clever." He hears above him, the man's thick arm curled in the small of his back and holding him firm just centimeters above the hard rock. "But what would you have done without the lightning's cover?"

Blake shrugs. "Pick another plan."

The masked man chuckles his approval as he lowers him down. Blake doesn't get up, instead choosing to lay on the ground and catch his breath. His whole body stiffens as the man drapes his full weight over him. A warm and massive presence that has him suddenly losing interest in everything else.

"And how would you escape now?"

The detective's body is a bundle of nerves, delighting in the man just barely keeping himself on his elbows. Bane's heart thumps calmly against his chest, nothing like his own, pattering away like a woodpecker as he gulps in the man's scent with each recovering breath.

"You're assuming I want to."

"You would want to learn how to get a man like me off."

"I can think of a few ways to do that."

"John."

He chokes back laughter. It's a reprimand, to be sure, but there's no heat behind it. At least, not through words. He can definitely feel Bane's interest pressing against his thigh. The mechanical tang of his breath as he leans in closer and inspects him with a wry note in his voice.

"Sometimes I forget how cheeky you can be."

He still can't fully see his face, still not having Bane's almost supernatural gift for navigating the dark, but he's nothing if not competent at reading people in other ways. Something in Bane's tone makes him prop up on his elbows. Just enough to get closer.

"And sometimes you're a little too serious." He can feel the man's comeback coming in like a haymaker. "Just...hear me out. Sometimes it's enough to enjoy the moment. How can you come back from anything unless you just take a breath?" He chuckles. "I mean, I thought I was a hypocrite, but..."

He's still for a second. Blake twists a little beneath him, still pinned, but just manages to ghost his lips over the curve of the man's throat and feel the faint bumps of old scars. The thunder drowns out the man's thoughtful hum, but he can feel it rumble through his skin.

"Would I follow your wisdom..." Bane says, thoughtfully. "I would do little else, I fear."

He opens to retort with something clever, but the words dwindle down into a shy, warm lump in his throat. Damn if the man couldn't be flattering when he wanted to be, even laying on cold ground with a storm raging in the corner. This would be the part where he'd pull him in for a passionate kiss, a bit of physical gratitude for making him temporarily feel like that, but even if Bane didn't have a mask he'd probably smack him in the eye or something. So he substitutes wit for action and bumps his lip against the front, where the metal almost stings with cold.

Bane pauses, as if in surprise. Blake's skin tightens with goosebumps when the man slowly pushes up his shirt, the heat of his hand leaving a dying trail everywhere it goes. He lets out a plaintive groan when he suddenly pulls back and chooses instead to straddle his hips between his thick thighs. Moving his hands to his wrists to hold him firm. Blake considers this new development. Bane wasn't the only one with a trump card. He knows how well the man can see in the dark. Knows he can see him work his tongue over his lips deliberately. See him hooding his eyes. Bane's grip turns rough, then, and he knows he's got the upper-hand.

He bucks his hips up against his, trying to urge Bane down, needing him close for every damn reason in the book. He can't exactly move him, not when he's six foot something and feels like a brick wall, but Bane reconciles with good humor and curls closer. Close enough Blake can move his lips and teeth along his chest, kissing and nipping at the damp cotton shirt, when...

Rubble and dust. Fire and glass. Screams choked through smoke as an earthquake trembles beneath his feet. Everything shaking and too hot for comfort. A shadow protecting him from the inevitable blink of a sudden death. Bane must feel something in him change because he lifts himself again, just enough to brush his forehead against his and say his name.

"...ohn." Blake shivers as he tries to come back into himself. To break through the block that's settled in his mind and made every breath feel impossible. Bane repeats himself, patiently, monotonously. As if he's seen all this before.

"What the fuck." The detective breathes, arousal gone and replaced with a horrible, numbing chill. "What the fuck. What...how? Why do I keep coming back to that...?"

Bane starts to rise, no longer pinning him down, only to stiffen when Blake grabs his coat and holds him in a desperate grip. "Why?!" He asks, too loud, voice banging off the stone walls. "You're not afraid of a goddamn thing, Bane. So tell me. I need to know why I can't stop thinking about it. I don't get it. I don't-" He's rambling, panicking, needing Bane far away and as close as possible at the same time.

"Ground yourself." He murmurs. "It's not real."

He realizes somewhere in the back of his mind he's having an attack. The detective bumps his forehead against the man's chest, trying to jog some sense into himself, distantly wanting to stop and pull himself together and stop freaking out and being wholly, completely unable to. The thunder is gone now, replaced by a heavy downpour that fills the cave with a cold, musty scent.

"I can't...I can't have that happen." He chokes out. His worst fear in a sea full of them. "Not to my boys. If something happens to them and I freeze up..."

Bane's hand is behind his head. He doesn't remember sitting up, now halfway in the man's lap and clawing at his shirt like it's the only thing keeping him from being swept away into the storm outside. It takes him a moment to realize he's stroking his hair. A repetitive petting that dulls the panic and blunts its edge. It's the gentleness he's been craving and his throat grows hot and thick as the man holds him against his broad chest, the minutes ticking by unheeded.

"Trauma runs a jagged line." He says against his ear. "Sometimes...your body offers answers without questions."

Bane knew trauma. Hell, he was practically created from it. He's no longer walling off his exhaustion with the curt affect of authority, now sounding as old and stretched-thin as someone who's seen so much death only can. Guilt curls in Blake's stomach. He doesn't want to bring him down like this. He opens his mouth to tell him. That he wants to help, not conjure up bad memories and be another weight on his ankle, but all he can croak out against the gentle thump-thud of the man's heart is...

"...How do you do it, Bane?"

A low hum.

"I channel the pain into everything I do. Nothing has influenced my hand more." A soft sigh. "...And other times I do not. You made that clear. I would...I am not...at my best. No one can be...all the time."

Another flash, bleak and faint. He sees his eyes and the mourning that's always been there.

"I'm sorry."

"For what, John?" He's not angry or disappointed. He should be, in someone that apparently had so much potential only to squander it when it counted most...but he's not. "For what?"

Rain curtains the openings in a gray haze and casts the two figures in a long, blurry shadow. The wind slows down to a cool breeze, as if the storm is taking pity on her subjects.

--

The moment they make their way out of the cave and back outside they're hit with the full force of the storm, the sky seemingly darker than the black they left and each droplet as hard as hail. They're sopping wet once they return inside, Bane's men having long since retreated to their tents and mountain holes. The small fires and supplies are gone, as if they were never there.

The masked man flicks on a lantern, clearly for his sake than his own, and Blake can't help smiling to himself as he undresses. He has to peel off every article of clothing save for his briefs, only to hang up those when they prove too damp for comfort. He stretches out the crooks in his back and neck with a groan and shakes the last of the wetness from his hair, then glances over his shoulder as Bane starts to shed his clothes where the light can barely reach. It's not modesty, he knows by now. He was simply more comfortable in the dark. A home he could find no matter where he went? Or another habit that also refused to die? Maybe he'd never find out. Until then...

Bane is folding his shirt carefully over one arm, lost in thought, when he walks over. He turns, brows raised curiously...only for his dark eyes to move up and down with lascivious appreciation, not so much as flinching when the detective presses his cold body against his. Maybe Blake was a little on the skinny side, but he couldn't find it in himself to give a damn. Not when their little moment up in the mountain hideout was both too much and not nearly enough. As if following his train of thoughts one calloused hand reaches over to slide down his back, then his sides, squeezing appreciatively along each muscle. The pain of the past hour feels like a distant dream...if that.

"I've embraced warmer snow." He huffs when Blake reaches up to hook arms around his neck and better soak in the heat radiating from his chest. The detective grins against his collar.

"I can go back outside if you want."

"No."

It doesn't take long for the man's warmth to spread into him, anyhow. Even his fatigues were mostly dry due to some waterproof material. Bane's hand continues to wander over his bare thigh (pausing briefly to grip his ass firmly, clearly one of his favorite areas), the shirt now discarded and freeing his other arm to hook around his waist and keep him close. Blake's prior exhaustion starts to melt away under the man's rapt attention -- every single touch is a study, fascination clear in just how delicately and ponderous Bane works his way up and down him with light yet lustful touches. He's eager to peel himself apart layer by layer, offer every last inch of himself to the man he had left and to Hell with any lingering doubts.

Then Bane halts over the tattoo again. Questioning.

"Got it the day I turned eighteen and left St. Swithin's." Blake whispers into the crook of his shoulder. "Losing mom and dad made me do...a lot of things I regretted. I wanted to remind myself they were more than their loss. That, even though they're not around anymore, they'd always be a positive force in my life. So I got three robins." He mouths along Bane's thick neck, not quite kissing, not quite biting. "One for each of us."

"Mm." It's somewhere between a sigh and a grunt as he leans his head to the side and encourages his exploration, a rumble that tickles Blake's chest and rattles him all the way to his core. Bane thumbs each drawing in turn, grazing lower but not quite touching him. "...Why robins?"

"It's...well. It's my birth name." Blake rocks his hip into his hand, urging him to continue. "It used to...I used to be Robin John Blake."

"Robin." He says the name like a prayer. Blake wants to hear it again. A sudden, giddy rush of adrenaline has the detective pulling back and placing both hands on the man's chest, urging him backwards. Bane stiffens, momentarily unsure, then takes a few cautious steps back until he's touching the stool. He sits down and watches with increasing interest as Blake kneels in front of him on the rough tarp.

He's more familiar with his brace now, as well as what it's for, but he's careful nonetheless as he goes about unhooking each belt. It's an elaborate contraption, likely custom made, and it's only now feeling the aged leather with his own hands does he know it's years old. He pushes down the crawl of embarrassment with a firm hand because damn it he wants to enjoy himself. Even more, he wants Bane to. It's pretty foreign, being consumed by this overwhelming desire to please. He might have to get used to it, especially when he looks and smells and feels so goddamn good.

Blake has always been particular about details and Bane was a virtual treasure trove. Hard muscle, earthy scents, the sheer force of presence that always seemed to accompany him no matter what he did. The masked man is leaning back and observing him between his spread legs, as imperious and casual as a king. The lantern light shows off his broad thighs, but dies halfway up his torso, shrouding him in mystery that must be second-nature. Blake's hands shake a little on the last strap and he chews on his lip to bring him back to reality. He might be imagining it, but Bane's breath seems to quicken when he does.

There's no reason to be nervous. No reason to treat this like another pop quiz he didn't study for. He wouldn't admit it without at least a drink or two, but it's been...years. On both the receiving and giving end. He could've sworn he was fine with winging things, but here is, on his knees with a dry mouth and second-thoughts. Bane's expression is masked, and he must know it, because he reaches down and threads fingers in his hair much like he did at the cave. Soothing. Grounding.

"John..." He starts, voice a little husky. Blake's stomach twists into an appreciative knot. He nuzzles his head against his hand, kissing his palm in-between clumsy words.

"It's fine, I want to. I just...miss you. ...I..." He leans forward, kissing up the length of his arm along the way, and nibbles at the bulge in his jeans. Mouths down it and feels it grow against his mouth. "I want to."

Bane's breath grows coarse, a ragged scrape against the tangle of his mask. He pulls away momentarily. Blake hears that familiar hiss from his mask, then the hand returns, petting his hair all the way down to the nape. A silent encouragement.

Fear of failure and a dozen other shitty little kernels of self-doubt die in light of arousal as Blake threads through his jeans and pulls him out, careful not to snag his coarse, dark hair on the zipper's teeth. He busies himself catching leftover drops of rainwater on his tongue, moving one hand up and down his length as he does, endlessly grateful they're no longer cold. He guides his lips in-between the gaps of his fingers. Bane's stomach hitches with every touch. Flickers of his skin like jolts of electricity. He runs a hot tongue lower, over his balls as best he can through the tangle of hair, and gets only the faintest groan in response. Not enough. He doesn't want Bane to hold back. Not anymore.

He moves back up, overeager, and takes Bane in. Tries to work in as much as he can, to shock him into more of a reaction, but Bane is thick and crazy long and he can barely get in a few inches before his gag reflex is hollering at him. It's almost impossible to pull back, though. Not when the taste of him is addicting, musky and salty and distinctly...Bane. The man had always been picky in letting him touch him. He remembers how he'd taken control the first time at Swithin's. How he'd been a little more flexible the second time...if only by his standards. Now Blake was getting a proverbial front-row seat. He won't lie. It feels like a pop quiz.

Whether or not he's doing okay is hard to discern. The only clue to what the man's thinking is the uneven cadence of his breath. He seems content to let Blake take the lead, for now.

...So Blake does. The detective pulls back right as the man is starting to pant and twitch his hips. Moves along his cock with feather-light kisses all the way up to the leaking tip. Bane goes rigid.

"John."

Now he's getting somewhere. He tries not to laugh at the man's tone (impatient and agonized), but it comes out anyway. Maybe he'd mess with him another time, but not tonight.

"Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention." Blake says, licking the dampness from his lips. "...Do what you want." He says into the dark. "I don't mind."

Blake can't see, but he knows Bane is watching him intensely. The fingers that had been petting the nape of his neck and rolling through his hair grip, suddenly, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to keep him in place. The fat head of his cock moves back along his lips, teasing, and Blake opens his mouth eagerly. He even tries to lean forward, only to feel Bane's hand tighten all the way to the root. Commanding. It's almost enough to make him laugh again -- he clearly took for granted their little trade in control.

He expects the pause to be filled with some burning remark. His stomach, instead, flutters when the man tilts his head back and slides in as deep as he can go. His throat bobs instinctively, trying to figure out the hard, heavy intrusion with each spasm. He's just careful enough to hold back when Blake starts to choke, easing him into it inch-by-inch. He sucks in sharp breaths through his nose and urges down the natural panic that comes with a lack of air. It's not unlike sparring, he thinks distantly, where steady breathing was the key difference between a smart fighter and an exhausted heap on the ground.

After a good minute Blake's nose brushes against the man's stomach. The scratch of coarse hair tickles his lips and he has to press a hand into his thigh for balance.

"Fast learner." Bane grits out, bending down a little to lean over him, fingers digging into his scalp as he pulls Blake's head back. Then sinks back in. Then pulls out. He's slow, achingly slow, but Blake can feel his impatience. How the muscles beneath his hands bunch and tense as hard as iron with the instinct to pound. Blake can't move his tongue as much as he'd like, not with his size, but he urges him on with a choked, muffled moan.

That does it. Bane starts to thrust, grip on his hair turning vice-like to keep him firmly in place, stool creaking rhythmically over the roar of the storm as he reaches his climax. It's almost too rough, too much, but he'd sooner walk back into the storm naked than stop. He doesn't know how (it's hard for him to think beyond the hot, heavy flesh stretching his throat and making it hard to breathe-), but somehow this is one of the most intimate, vulnerable actions he's ever done. He feels helpless, yes, and somehow, not at all.

Then Bane leans forward, cock suddenly pointing down in an angle that almost hurts, and his thrusts turn erratic. Blake digs his nails into his stomach, tries to focus on his breathing, the only other warning he's given before Bane comes the painful tug on his hair that makes his eyes water. It's too much. He has to pull back, a little too soon, and he feels wet heat streak against his chin and throat. Bane is panting, almost gasping, and the hand in his hair trembles with little aftershocks. Blake has barely managed to wipe his mouth before he's being pulled up in one rough motion. His mask is a cold shock against his skin.

"Now...tell me what you want." The masked man's voice is still thick with pleasure, a rumbling cadence against his throat. All wandering hands and physical promise. "Robin."

"You." Blake breathes.

The wind howls outside, furious at being ignored as Bane pushes him onto the cot and takes him in hand.

'Just you.'

Chapter Text

It was a different kind of calm.

He had many tools to blunt trauma's knife. The harsh hand of discipline dulled its edge. The sweet kiss of anesthetic blurred its details. This sort of calm, however, was something he thought he had left behind in the pit.

There's no distant rumble of trains and traffic when he wakes. No melodic dripping of condensation. Even the storm's tempestuous rage has been soothed from howls of thunder to the faint growl of far-off winds. Nature is healing and like infection from a wound the masked man can feel the stench of the city being drawn out of him little by little. Only the occasional ministrations from Barsad as he makes his nightly rounds filter through the rain's hypnotic patter -- even in recovery he's dutiful to a fault. Bane's thoughts don't wander as they usually do in the twilight time, too focused they are on the warm body beside him and the prior hours' memories still flickering candle-like in the back of his mind.

The push and pull of contradiction. One of the many subtle wonders of John Blake, bucking beneath him and struggling to keep his voice low and panting out beautiful obscenities between his teeth irregardless. This contradiction affects Bane, as it always eventually does. He wants to wrench out Blake's release between two fingers and forethumb. Delay it and make him beg. The detective notices this. Attempts to wrangle some semblance of control in his rarer, teasing manner.

"You're hard again."

"And you give the storm fair competition."

"Oh, shut up."

A smart mouth that gets smarter with nerves. It fascinated him how the man could be downright playful when the mood struck him, something more spontaneous yet no less honest than when he was spitting out criticism and questions. It makes him want him more. Want to unearth every last brilliant little discovery peeking beneath the surface. Bane ruts up against him, all but grinding against his hip as he works away at the detective's resolve with quick strokes. John squirms beneath him, curling his legs as best he can to gently squeeze Bane's cock between his thighs.

The long years hadn't numbed Bane's sex drive. He was robust in more ways than one, already leaking all over John's stomach and feeling the telltale kiss of fire deep in his own. Fingers wrap around his aching cock and he leans his weight on both hands, leaning forward and thrusting with wild abandon. Sometimes John kisses him between breaths. Gasping touches along the bruised lines he already left on his throat.

John shifts in his arms and sighs out a hot breath into the crook of his elbow. Bane leans onto his side and studies him, documenting each purpling mark like a trail on a map. Eventually moves to his chin, the even fainter cuts along his lower lip. The one he was always worrying at with his teeth. He was finding himself more engrossed in the man's little habits. Such as the way he scrubbed at his hair when struggling with a conflicting thought or curled his fingers around an imaginary cigarette. He could have to discourage him out of that latter one. Their walk in the mountains made it clear it was doing him few favors.

Talia's tainted dreams and Gotham's uncertain future remain muffled behind an easy glass. He presses the front of his mask into the dip between neck and shoulder, losing himself in the pleasant curve of John's body. It was the first in many days Bane was able to press these painful thoughts away. He wonders how good the detective would be for him over the coming weeks.

A breathless moan transforms into the whimpering keen of someone close to the edge and struggling not to topple over. He tries to hold his wrist firm when he reaches for him again. Pushes his hand further down.

"Want you..."

He doesn't need to finish. Bane is already urging him open, using the slick on his fingers as impromptu lube, eager to relive those incredible sounds the man makes at his peak pleasure. It's still a little too rough, inciting a sharp hiss, but the hand digging into his shoulder assures him of a different story. Even his self-control is staggered at the sight of the detective pressing his cheek into the thin blanket and rolling his hips in tune to each stroke. His heaving sighs that dissolve into thin whines when Bane goes from petting to grinding, digging the balls of his fingers into the soft tissue and making the man's body seize.

"Bag. Lube. Left." John holds the dark in his eyes and beckons him to oblivion. "H-Hurry."

Bane is compelled to follow.

It was strange having someone in his life who was neither follower nor leader. A person floating in limbo inside a part he long since thought walled off and eroded from disuse. He'd asked the man what humanity meant to him earlier, only to be struck with a question that still left him reeling hours later. Talia had liberated him from the pit. Here John Blake was, attempting to liberate him from Talia.

More familiar irritation rises to the surface, but like everything else dulled by the quiet it doesn't take hold. Not yet. He had tenuous pull over the man. A somewhat tenuous understanding. This was made clear from the moment he first awoke in the third cell in the sewer drains coated in bruises and sewer water and still willing to argue in the face of death. Perhaps this was why they would butt heads as easily as they would be drawn back into one another -- they were a dizzying dance of impulsivity and control, pessimism's optimism and optimism's pessimism, frequently exhausted and ever yearning for more.

Perhaps he was being sentimental, yes, but the dark demands his honesty.

He doesn't want to lay on his stomach or on his side. Insists on facing him, kissing him, a cluster of physical energy that leaves Bane somewhere, distantly, unbalanced.

Fear has always been his pet project. Wherever the uncertainty stems from his mind goes through the automatic process of contemplating, disassembling and challenging. The answer he digs up is less thorough. It resides somewhere between the way the detective carefully avoids the knotted scar on his neck when he wraps an arm around his shoulders and the way he mumbles his name against his cheek.

Bane presses his shoulders against the back of John's knees, hooking his lean legs across his back and nudging a path inside him. He's slow, mindful of his girth, but the detective will have none of it, urging him with sharp bites and softer words. He welcomes Bane's bruising grip. Trades the pain with his own. His canine catches on the skin and, though he can hardly feel it, Bane knows there will be a lasting mark. He's already left so many and there were only more to come.

The masked man likes how he can almost cradle John to his chest in this position, even as the addicting, tight heat reduces him to pounding with the fervor of an animal. Temporarily he throws constraint to the dogs and filters down his entire world to adjectives. John is bliss. John is agony. John is...

He can feel himself stiffening. Bane pushes the thoughts away for later, ignoring the selfish urge to curl against John and urge him awake again. Delicately rising from the cot he stretches the ache from his back before walking across the tent and pulling out one of his coats. He moves two fingers through a hole on the sleeve -- a rather poor shot by one of the Gotham City police department's finest had left it the previous day. It wouldn't do to leave it. Pulling out a needle and thread he sits on the stool and gets to work.

He mulls over his aggravation yesterday. When he returned fresh from battle and saw Barsad with John Blake in tow, despite knowing better than anyone else under his command how little he thought of tardiness. It wasn't quite disobeying, not when Bane hadn't told him what to do otherwise, but it skirted the edges of respect. It's here in his proverbial breath away from Gotham does he acknowledge the interesting effect John Blake had on his men. He was still not sure how much he liked it. One lingering glance at the man's sleeping face, mouth slightly open against his hand, and he accepts it wasn't truly so bad.

Barsad had mentioned, all the way back in the sewers during a workout routine, how many wanted to see his happiness. It wasn't an entirely unknown concept to him. His men had always been eager to satisfy him, despite many of them coming from origins scarred by the greedy hand of authority. How genuinely they wanted it, though...it wasn't something he would engage with. Not when he had to keep professional distance, as much as he cared for their future and the individual dreams they brought to the reformed League's table. Nearly three hundred men. They faced each day with the knowledge it could be their last, be it through Gotham's doing...or his own. It would do to keep his relationship with John Blake a secret, with Barsad the exception, lest they start attempting to parse his private life with good and misplaced intentions.

Each stitch he leaves behind holds her echo. A whisper that's been beckoning him ever since he put his daughter in a cell and hid the key.

"Much better. We'll make a seamstress of you yet."

Behnam looks up from his work. Her normally smooth humor is frayed. He peers through the dark. Perhaps she doesn't understand yet how easy she is for him to read now. Perhaps she doesn't care. She proceeds with her pattern even as a grimace begins to pull down her mouth, some deeper pain fighting to make itself known.

"Lael." He starts, even as he's not sure how he's going to follow through. The elusive nature of socializing still remains just out of his grasp. She shakes her head and waves a hand for him to continue. He refuses. Lays the creation in his lap, a half-stitched blanket for Talia created from yarn thrown down by the guards, and waits. She almost laughs and twists her fingers around her necklace.

"More stubborn than brick, Behnam."

A distant clatter has her jerking to attention. Something has affected the other prisoners' attention. He turns and sees glittering eyes turned on their cell, some strange and others known. Without another word he shifts out of his corner, shifts until his back is to the light and he's blocking their view. He picks up his needles again. They continue in silence for some time. The only change from the click-clack of wood and their matching breaths is her hand moving to rest on his knee. Eternal gratitude summarized in one fleeting touch.

He shakes himself as if covered in water. The reverie vanishes, but leaves behind it an unwelcome tang of nostalgia. Would Lael approve of who he became now? Of what he's done? Whether or not she would isn't a question that matters. Not anymore. Old ghosts should rest and hers deserved it most.

Then the detective wakes. One moment he's still, the very image of peace, the next he's floundering at the blankets and attempting to yank away from something unseen. Bane immediately crosses the small gap and holds onto him so he doesn't fall off the cot, though this only seems to agitate him further.

"John." He whispers. "Wake up."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I never told yo-"

"John."

He doesn't pin him down or push down his flailing arms -- it would only aggravate him further -- and instead takes his face in both hands. Repeats his name. Shakes him, just a little. Something that would seem out-of-place, even in the throes of a dream. It has the desired effect. The detective sits up so swiftly he nearly headbutts him, grappling at his wrists and looking about wildly. A few trembling moments of silence, then whatever wild strength he had leaves him and he slumps back into the blankets bonelessly.

"...Damn it."

Bane watches him roll over onto his side, back facing him, gripping his hair in one hand as if to pull it off. The man had wanted comfort, all the way back in the mountain, but something in the twitching of his shoulders tells him he needs space now. He turns from the cot and hunkers down on the stool again. The rain has stopped, though he knows it will be back before long.

"Can't sleep even when I'm tired." Slowly but surely John's breath becomes more steady. "The hell kind of sense does that make."

"Some sleep is better than none." Bane offers reasonably. The cot creaks and he can feel the detective's eyes on him.

"What are you doing?"

"Sewing."

"Naked? In the dark?"

"Last I checked."

"...Why?"

"There was a hole."

A long pause. "So what's your excuse, big guy?" For a moment the question loses him. Then it clicks.

"The silence is deafening." Bane responds, earning a sharp chuckle. It's a much more welcome sound than the ragged noises he was making just minutes prior.

"Yeah, Gotham's pretty loud. Honking cars and people screaming, 'Jackass!' out their window is our lullaby."

Bane grunts his assent, his calloused fingers too insensitive to lead and instead letting the dip of cloth along his leg help create the stitch. Perhaps he would pick up his yarn after this, if sleep still evaded him. It was a more complex embroidering he discovered years ago, something he learned while he was still under Ra's tutelage but was starting to travel with the aid of his new mask. He often preferred it in the deep hours of the night when his brain needed both discipline and monotony to keep from wandering into despondent territory. Then again...perhaps not. Talia had added to it during their last meeting.

Another creak. "Do you get nightmares often, Bane?"

He doesn't miss the phrasing. John knows someone like him could never avoid them, truly. "...Yes." He worries at a potential knot for a moment, then continues. "Not often, but yes." The man doesn't press, surprisingly, but the air is thick with unasked questions. "What did you dream about just now?"

"I'd...rather not talk about it." He catches himself. "I mean, I know I should. I will. Just hurts...right now." A heavy sigh, then he can hear the man shifting around again. Restless. "Though, I think I know why I keep flashing back now. Why the city hall has me so messed up."

Bane turns around. He's sitting up now, legs curled to his chest to rest his chin on one knee. The dim gray of his outline in the black hearkens to Gotham's old statues, permanently somber and worn by weather and harsh hand. A spike of protectiveness pulls through his chest at the sight.

"You saved me. All those other times I was in danger I managed. No matter how beat up or sick I got, I managed." Dark humor enters his voice. "Even by you. But at the city hall I felt completely powerless. It was...shit, it was terrifying. One of the scariest things I've ever been through. When the ceiling started to cave in I seriously didn't see any way out. No amount of thinking or running was going to get me out of it. When you protected me, I..." He glances sideways at him, then chews on his lip. "Damn, this sounds ungrateful."

"Contemplative, from where I'm sitting." He offers. "Continue."

The man navigates his shame like a minefield, all hesitant words and second-guessing. "I thought maybe the toxin or...whatever was in the air had something to do with me feeling so out of wack. Well, maybe it does a little. But that's not all at play. Not by a long shot." He scratches his hair and blows out a sigh against his knee. "My mind went full auto-pilot and decided to interpret your good deed as a weakness on my part."

What the man doesn't know is how deeply familiar Bane is of this very thing.

"Impressive progress. You parsed out what many would struggle with for months. Perhaps years."

"What can I say. Denial doesn't fit me so well anymore."

"It would be wise to consider your other theories, however. Scarecrow's work was known to deeply tamper with its victims." Bane adds. "Once the short-term effects wore off a troubling aftershock would linger. Hallucinations so pervasive they blended imperceptibly with reality. Severe insomnia. Night tremors." He closes a stitch and continues another. "Many claimed visions of other realities. Better ones. Worse ones. All arresting regardless, it seemed, as vivid as if they were telling the truth. A few even ended their lives when they could no longer suffer the disparity."

"How...do you know that?" He asks, voice faint with horror.

"The League has always kept detailed records." He looks at him again. "...Of everything." The hard resolution in John's eyes reminds Bane, again, why he's here in the first place.

"You said the League Of Shadows isn't around anymore. I mean, the old one. Was Barsad from there, too?"

Bane raises his eyebrows at the sudden change in topic. "No. He was recruited years later."

"Are any of your men from the first?"

"There had been a few. I had been conservative in my recruitment efforts since many were...unsettled by the change in leadership."

"Who else trained at the League?"

Bruce Wayne. The name that hovers like an unwanted guest in the dark, warm tent. He doesn't need to utter it, nor does John.

Nearly three months of Bruce's absence and the man would never be anything other than a brutal itch up his spine. Then again, it was an unfair battle stacked against over eight years of slow, pondering loathing. Bane has to restrict the will to intimidate another topic change, an internal admonishment that he's careful not to show on his face, and focuses his energy instead on the soft thread twisted around his index and thumb. He didn't bring John here to cow him into submission. He needed to remember that, because the man is watching him a touch more cautiously than he was before.

"For someone you drove out through your, uh, superior intellect and foresight..." His voice is low. "...you sure get angry whenever he's brought up." Bane's not quite sure if he wants to chase the man's tone and pull it up by the tail, the curiosity suspended between his old grudge and rapidly dissipating mood.

"How did you first meet him...?" He lets out a scoff. "What the hell happened between you two?"

"I won't insult your intelligence by denying it...but how did you find out?"

"Your fighting styles are similar." The detective quirks his mouth humorlessly. "And you really don't think very much of him."

Damned detective, canny to a fault. Even doubting and staggered he is already back to pressing at him. Poking at him. Not to move him, but to provoke him, he imagines. Confirm what he already suspect he knows. Did he view him as some mystery to be solved? It's becoming more difficult to withhold his temper. He had attempted to circumvent these thoughts and was now in the thick of them once more. John shifts from where he's sitting, now leaning back on his hands and letting his long legs drape along the floor. Even through the bright flare of anger a trickle of fondness bleeds through.

What happened between them? Only what could when two opposites collided, two similarities struggling for independence, a veritable twister as inexorable as it was destructive. Bruce Wayne was a trespasser in a hall of gods. A scourge and a gift. Even when he cracked his back over one knee and tossed him into his own personal hell he remained a glare on his mind, burning away his composure in every idle moment and threatening to leave him a raw, exposed wound. Bane had never known true peace, nor would he expect to, but he'd made a grave mistake all those months back. The mistake of believing that proving to the man his inferiority and leaving him to suffer would help him move on.

Bane would never admit to envy. The poisonous jealousy he still felt more than eight years later over Bruce Wayne's near-inhuman ability to influence and inspire, no matter where or who he was. John clucks his tongue impatiently and lays back on the cot with a faint squeak.

"Please don't tell me it's a long story. I gathered that."

"Then I will give you a frank one." The stitch is complete now, but brutal energy is starting to make him twitch. He focuses it by folding the jacket. "He was a student of Ra's Al Ghul many years ago. The man would sometimes go by the alias Henri Ducard, when secrecy was more powerful than legacy. Bruce Wayne devoted his mind and body to the League's teaching at great personal risk to his health and reputation. While many of Batman's more...iconic traits come from his intergenerational wealth, his martial arts training has always belonged to the League."

John is watching him intently. "And you studied alongside him?"

"For a time. We were later separated when we failed to promote...synergy." His tone brooks no further details on the matter. With John Blake, though, it was likely only a matter of time before he pressed there, too.

"What did you both learn under Ra's?"

"Ninjutsu. Krav maga. Fencing." The last one has John quirking his head not unlike a confused hound. The detective would find it odd. Gotham was a technological marvel, but one that eagerly squandered its roots in favor of an omnipresent lust for the future. Gothamites may be hardy, and hopeful in their own way, but for all they were ever connected through technology they were remarkably closed off from the rest of the world. Bane favored a balance in-between and it was one of many gifts he hoped to leave the city once he was through.

"I'll have to see you wield a sword someday." He says with a short laugh, still sounding a little disbelieving. Bane chuckles himself.

"Be careful what you wish for."

John leans forward a little. "What else?" He sees glimmers of the detective's old fervor. An almost child-like curiosity that sets a spark in his eyes and threatens to light a blazing fire. Even now, Batman's image was akin to a folktale whose lifespan was strengthened by the hopes and dreams of others'. It sours his better mood and these constant questions ensure it will be an uphill battle yet.

"More subtle arts. Poisons. Traps. The study of what dead languages and cultures still had to offer. Knowledge is power and the League never settled for anything less."

"Huh." He considers this. "...What was he like back then?"

"An eager student...and an arrogant man. Even as he lapped up Ra's' tutelage he was ever convinced he knew better." What he doesn't say is that Ra's never actually minded. He had embraced what he called Bruce's 'puzzling' technique, his crafty mind and lofty ambitions...yet had lambasted Bane from the start. "Despite laying waste to the challenge of centuries-old teachings he eventually denounced Ra's an extremist and defected from the order. Even so, their respect for one another ran deeper than almost all else." He finally sets the jacket aside. "I imagine Bruce felt that way, still, when he killed him."

He can almost hear John's thoughts screech to a halt.

"...Batman doesn't kill."

Bane snorts softly.

"Such impressive faith. You would put a priest to shame."

John's troubled silence is satisfying, but only just. Calm was destined to remain a fleeting blessing, it seems. When the conversation doesn't pick up again he stands and makes his way to the cot, careful to maintain a few inches of distance as he assesses the detective's mood. His body is already soaking pleasantly in the heat lingering on the sheets.

"What will you do when Gotham changes?" He asks, staring up at the tent top. Bane is weary of talking now and he keeps the edge from his voice with some effort.

"A lesser concern for now."

"But what?"

"John Robin Blake, you peck like a hen." He adjusts his mask, minutely, and wills his body to relax. "The night is short. You should rest while you can."

John rolls over onto his side, quiet again, and regret threatens to make Bane soft. The rain picks up mere minutes later, thick and heavy, and the tent soon swaths them both in a cocoon of sound. He debates his feelings as he makes himself comfortable on the stiff cot. Contemplates them. Eventually surrenders, even as his ego rings with offense.

"You're a menace." John murmurs when Bane wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him closer.

"I am aware."

Bane doesn't miss the way his shoulders relax when he strokes his stomach. John inches back carefully at his bidding, shifting until his spine is flush with his chest and his feet curled between his thighs. That spike of emotion runs through him again, slow and burning and growing hotter with every drugged thump of his heart. His hand trails where an artist's touch graced his hip, wanders along the man's firm stomach, explores his chest and remains when John holds it there.

"And I'm going to get to the bottom of you." He laces his fingers in his. It's a strange sensation and one Bane isn't sure how to return. "...You know that, right?"

Bane nestles the front of his mask in the crook of his neck and shoulder, ignoring the tickle of his hair against his cheek. The calm is sinking into his bones again and he welcomes it with open arms. So much so he's almost asleep before he remembers to answer.

"I would be disappointed if you didn't."

Chapter Text

Bane visits her for the first time since he locked her away.

The days have been long and uneventful, even though her cell has been more furbished and well-kept than would be seen as appropriate for a prisoner. She has regular access to the news as well as her books and writing supplies. The men sent to guard her have only continued to treat her with the utmost respect, eager to provide her any requests large or small with a few obvious exceptions. Her food is plentiful and she is allowed to linger in the shower as long as she pleases. It would almost be enough to curb the betrayal that has sat in her chest and festered like an untreated wound.

She had asked her guards for information a few days after she first woke up from a drugged sleep. About how things have changed since she was away. What she's missed. While she didn't recognize either mercenary, being more removed from them than Bane due to her position, they knew of her. Knew how close they were. It wasn't hard pulling information out of them like a loose thread with soft questions and painful looks. While the woman guard had been more reserved, almost monosyllabic, the other had crumbled under her onslaught. It was almost too easy to read his thoughts behind every flick of his eyes. Does he risk Bane's anger or hers? Were they even inseparable? Why was his daughter being kept under lock and key? It seemed Bane only shared so much.

So she learned.

While even her skill in manipulation couldn't glean information on whether or not Bane had gotten his hands on the reactor she convinced Rubio to steal all those weeks back, she found out other things. Bane was still recruiting. A former prisoner got a lot of attention. Someone who had, according to the guard, been rightfully converted to their cause and showed a lot of potential. Pavel was still alive and in his care. She also learned that there was a massive protest planned for the downtown square. Some nicknamed it 'the reckoning'. She considers these tidbits of information as she brushes her hair and changes her clothes just before Bane's arrival.

The way he crouches in front of her in the room, attempts to catch her gaze without so much as touching her, brings back memories so old she thought she'd truly forgotten. When she considers how she got here, it's more than a little likely she had.

"How have you been, Talia?" He asks softly. "I assume they have treated you well."

She didn't remember how to be fragile. She had to learn again for Bane.

He was used to enemies. What he wasn't used to was the freedom in dealing with them. The guards above home (which she later learned was called the 'Lazarus Pit', a strangely noble name she immediately rejected) had sometimes stopped fights before they became too brutal, punishing prisoners with withheld food and occasionally the ends of their rifles. Other times they would encourage the bloodshed from the start. Tossing scraps and items from the top to watch the wretched and the dying fight over them until their last breath. One of her earliest memories was watching Bane through the bars as he pulled out a man's throat over a book.

Bane had always been the strongest. The wisest. The only ones who would fight him were either too crazy to know better or brand-new and woefully unaware of his reputation. Everything was different now in the League Of Shadows. Everyone here knew about the both of them. Now he had new limits. Smaller and larger ones. Unknown ones. It was a dizzying mix and one both of them still weren't quite used to.

The teacher's bones had snapped like dry twigs. The older man had stopped Talia from climbing onto one of the bells earlier that morning, when the fog surrounding the mountains was so thick she could reach out and grab it. It was a beautiful creation, twisting snakes and wilting flowers lovingly recreated in iron to be hung from a giant stone hand. She had stared at it when she arrived for the very first time, still learning the meaning of art and what it offered her stunted world, and had made it her own personal mission to climb inside and see what other secrets it held. Fury reddening his wrinkled face, he had slapped her bottom before her feet even reached the floor.

"This is not for you to touch. Ever." She remembered him. He was sometimes hovering over Ra's shoulder. "Foolish little girl." Someone important or someone who felt important enough to discipline her without Ra's' say so. She had squalled then not from pain, but pure, unfiltered indignation. That this mostly stranger saw fit to treat her in such a way. Her voice carried through the cavernous hallways, as piercing as a jackal's cry, and it hadn't been long before Bane heard.

"Silence." He had hissed. "There are rules here. Rules that have been in place for hundreds of years. I would sooner see this place razed to the ground than bear witness to such blat-"

As if suspended from a rope he had lifted suddenly from the ground, Bane's thick arms wrapped around his neck and squeezing.

It was nothing she hadn't seen before. Talia watched as his collarbone caved, then cracked, any agony that could rip through his throat lacking the breath to make the journey. He would have died, then, if others hadn't surrounded them and demanded he stop under threat of death. Bane hadn't moved an inch when they held rifles and knives just inches from his head. He didn't fear death. He didn't fear much at all and had only dropped the man from his grip when Talia put a hand on his knee. Not out of pity for the teacher, no. To remind them of her power as well as his.

Bane was used to enemies. Once she pulled him out of the pit the primary rules he had to follow were those of his body, the leftover scars from cruel hands and an indifferent plague that dictated how much he could move at any given time. The deeper crevasses in his mind that showed themselves brutally, at times, such as when he nudged the limp man away from him with a careless foot and knelt to her eye level to check for bruises. The normally fluid words that grew mangled in his throat when the others attempted to draw near, something between a warning and a snarl.

What they didn't know was that she had to protect him, too.

"Talia." Bane leans forward a little. "Talk to me."

She looks him up and down. He's wearing his old shearling coat over his fatigues, boots shimmering a little from the rain that must be pouring outside. It was a rather old thing, the results of a personal project he sank himself into during a lengthy trip across the Bhutanese mountains many years ago. It had been his first leadership role since being admitted into the League and Talia's first trip outside of the monastery. He took it deathly seriously. She had been in a poor mood the first few days as he spent more time among the assassins than she, though he later apologized to her and took her on a long walk through the snow-topped hills. Worn and battlescarred, it only grew stronger under the constant wear and tear of battle. Not unlike its wearer.

Slowly her eyes meet his. The pain there is different. More fresh. Whatever guilt she could feel at this point is a dull and neglected thing, far out of her reach and clamoring for her attention as she breaks his gaze and stares again at the wall.

"There is not much to say."

"I would hear anything."

"Either you chain him up or I will.

Ra's anger wasn't like anything she had seen before. The men in the pit had been all teeth and bare threats, lashing at one another when they weren't conniving in their crude holes. His was measured. Controlled. A tranquil rage that could just as soon be confused for mild displeasure to anyone more foolish than her.

"He hit me." She mutters, kicking at a crack in the floor. Ra's tone remains the same, speaking to her like he would anyone else brought to his private abode. She preferred it, really. "Bane thought I was in danger and that made him angry."

"Yes. A lot seems to make your friend angry. Even when we were the ones who kept you safe in the first place." He lets out a sigh through his nose and stares her down. Even she has a hard time looking into those icy eyes and she looks back at the floor, scuffing it with her shoe as if to dig herself a new pit. "Do you know what we do to animals who bite the hand that feeds them?" She shakes her head. "We either muzzle them..." That same indignation rises up again like bile when he finishes, "...or put them down."

"He's not an animal."

"The shattered collarbone and throat of my employ would beg to differ."

She balls her hands into helpless fists and swallows back wild, angry words. He rubs his eyes as if tired of it all and pushes away from the desk. "This may be your home, but I won't have you disrespecting its landmarks or its people. The sooner you learn restraint, Talia, the better." He turns around. "...the same goes for Bane."

The rest of the day had been like the ones that came before. She was starting to learn a new routine, though it would be many more days until they won the fight against the Pit. She suffers through hours of chores -- dusting the rafters, washing the floors and carrying clothes back and forth between what seemed like endless rooms. She enjoyed more the history lessons provided by the old, grizzled teacher who never seemed to leave their study. There was even a bed tucked behind the main bookcase. She wondered if it was something like the Pit.

There she would learn about a world far bigger than she could have ever imagined. She loved most the tales of distant cities, though they were by far her teacher's least favorite element. The photos of massive, twinkling towers surrounded by beams of light had captured her imagination. She would even consider them fantasy if she hadn't been assured they were not just real, but a place she could go to someday when she was older.

Bane was kept far away from her for most of the day. The only glimpses she would catch of him in the morning were in-between chores when she would sneak by his training room and wave hello before she was caught. By the time he would return to their quarters come evening he was quiet and tired, exhaustion clear in the slump of his shoulders and twitch of his damaged spine. They would sometimes give him something for the pain, a mixture she didn't fully understand that would slur his speech and glaze his eyes, and other times they would withhold it.

"Ra's was mad about what you did." She kicks her feet idly as the man pulls her into his lap and starts to work at her hair. "He says if someone does something you don't like you have to tell him."

No longer bare fuzz, her growing locks were now long enough to be wound into a tiny braid behind her neck. She wasn't sure how long she wanted it to be and was simply content to bare witness to all the different ways her body was changing outside the confines of the pit. Bane doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to. They had mastered the art of silent communication long ago and she can feel disagreement wafting off him like a bad omen.

Ra's always had a new, unflattering comparison for him, yet this one was more difficult to repeat. She just catches Bane's eyes darkening murderously in the reflection of the vase in the corner of their room before he reaches down for something to tie the tail together. There were no secrets between them, except for the ones they kept jealously between themselves, though she now starts to wonder if Ra's had a point concerning restraint. She doesn't like how withdrawn Bane becomes afterwards and how his gaze keeps wandering away from her the rest of the night.

They eat their evening meal in silence together, still preferring their own company to the crowded dining hall below. Ra's had originally been adamant she attend, but hadn't contended with her stubbornness. So she would run all the way down and collect both of their meals, careful not to spill the thick stew as she made her way up the stairs and to the loft. Bane wolfs his food down, as best as he can with his ruined mouth, and curls into himself when the pain is too much to bear afterwards.

"They have treated me well." She begins, neutrally. Her brush lays unattended in her lap. "Though I would still see more women under your leadership."

There's a touch of affectionate relief in Bane's smile.

"Indeed. I am working on this. Many of the able-bodied I have recruited have, unfortunately, been men. Too many women were with families they would not abandon...or justified distrust toward my person." Almost like it used to be. Except it was not. It's apparent when she sinks back into silence and he stares at her, expectantly, sadly. She wants to tell him to leave. The words can't leave her throat.

Routine is stability. Routine is pain. Bane hates it here more than she does and it's not fair.

Only when she completely finishes her meal (at his stern behest) does he allow her to clamber onto his back to tend to him. His spine still hadn't healed from what they did to him after her escape. It still hurt to witness, much less to feel, and she has to resist the urge to close her eyes as she works at the muscles around his shoulder blades. Attempting as best she can with her rough grip to ease the pain when the drug was no longer allowed. It was to become addicted to, one of the League members had said, if taken over the course of many days.

It didn't stop her from sneaking vials from the storage room.

"Talia." He croaks, trying to ease onto his elbows as she tugs apart a loose stone in the floorboard and pulls out a small glass bottle. "You know better." It had been a more difficult task than she was used to remaining hidden and using the light from a candle to illuminate each vial in turn, but patience had always been one of her better qualities. Soon she had the sleeping draft sometimes given the sick and injured, just in time to sneak out before the doctors came back inside. There were no other children at the League. They were ever unprepared for her.

Bane resists at first, brows furrowed, but any frustration he feels is soon swallowed up by pain. She tips it against his torn lips, pulls back when he shakes too much, tries again. It takes longer to give him the proper dosage. Not so long for his body to relax. His eyelids lower slowly and his breathing becomes less hitched. His hand moves to hers in an attempt to hold. She takes his fingers and squeezes them.

"...Stubborn girl."

They would whisper where he couldn't hear, laugh when he couldn't see, all at the expense of this hulking, damaged man at the whim of a child. It was satisfying to see Bane put them in their place, whether with a few barbed words or through the brutal honesty of violence. She found herself preferring the latter, as the former was something she could do rather well herself.

Bane was given impossible standards, even compared to Ra's' already astronomically lofty visions for the future. The leader of the League didn't fully understand yet that he thrived on the impossible. Surviving the pit's plague. Surviving the abuse of prisoners and guards alike. Surviving himself. He even extended that impossibility to a little girl, when anyone else would have hurt her, killed her or even eaten her.

How Ra's hated him.

She's not the only one that has sunk into the stupor of memory. His gaze is just a little distant. Perhaps looking for the girl he raised.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Talia. Shed this madness." His voices lowers, almost a whisper, and she has to swallow back the instinct to reach out to him. "This future also belongs to you. Please share it with me."

That's what he gave her. A future. Something he was convinced was forever restricted to a hellish prison in a forgotten part of the world. How could he realize that's exactly what she wanted to give others? A future free of corruption and chaos. Free of a cursed city. No, the cursed city. A place so thoroughly wretched it spat out more death than it ever did life. Bane's pet project had made him soft. He was different, somehow, and she didn't like how hard it was for her to put her finger on why.

"A future with Gotham is no future at all." She responds. Bane shakes his head slowly.

"Do you truly believe that?" He asks. "You have spent a lot of time among the elite, Talia. It can be difficult to see the good when you are neck-deep in ego." He folds his hands. "Even as I dance among death I have seen firsthand what Gotham has to offer. Good people. Children still being shaped in the image of others. It hasn't been an easy road, but nothing worth fighting for ever came so. ...Do you not imagine how many others like us there are?"

"There is nobody like us."

"I beg to differ."

All she can do is scoff. She'd hoped he would see eye-to-eye with her over time. Being immersed in the city that spawned one of his most hated enemies had once been considered a foolproof plan...and why not? Batman had left an indelible mark on them both, one the rich fool was likely unaware of, and when Bane had disposed of him Talia was sure there would be nothing else standing in the way between her and destiny. Instead that seed of hope, something she once found inspiring, had dug in its roots with a ferocity that matched her own.

He stands up with a grunt and crosses the small gap over to her. Towering over her much like he did when she was ten, then fifteen, then twenty. Reaches out to help her up. He holds the years in his hand. She gazes up at him and a part of her admits, somewhere deep down, that she wants nothing more than to return to where she always used to be.

Her Bane. Her protector. A better father than Ra's ever was. This cold city didn't deserve him.

She takes his hand, as carefully as if it were a stranger's, and feels as if she could be pulled part by messy part by the tender way he pets her knuckles.

Then her blood runs cold at the sight of his neck.

Bruises. As faint as a dream, peppered near his throat and under his jaw. There's no question where they could come from and yet, somehow, something about this bothers her in a way it hasn't before. She knew the man would sleep with others from time to time. This knowledge had never been kept from her. The icy clutch of jealousy curves around her heart. Winds of change and half-truths whirl together in her mind, the result as blurry and damning as a twister.

"Who else do you share Gotham with?" She yanks away. "Who have you replaced me with?" He pulls back and stares down at her in horror. The same silence that worried her before comes back in full force. He doesn't say anything and, in not doing so, answers her every question. One of the guards shifts, as imperceptible as the touch of a fly on a wall, but she can feel the guilt from where she sits.

She's silent when Bane attempts to clarify. Says nothing through his pleas for her to see reason. Even pulls away when he finally does touch her, a fleeting palm on her shoulder that burns like a hot poker. It's not long before he sends a curt order down the hallway and makes his way to the bars. He hesitates in the doorway...then whirls around and slams his fist into the far wall. The room quivers from the shock. One of the guards peers in, only to quickly back out at the sight.

She doesn't make a sound, leaving him to make his departure with the crackle of the ruined wall in his stead.

--

He's alive.

It's been hours after the fact and he's not sure if he's actually found his meandering way back to the hideout or he's suffering a particularly cruel fever dream. Only through shaking himself and pinching his arm is he convinced his luck is genuine and perhaps divinely given. The sky is choking with gray and Gotham's buildings tower in a mockery of mountains in the distance, but it was a good day, indeed.

"I need to speak to Rubio immediately." He says when he arrives, voice coarse from constant running and little water. "No, I'm fine. It's minor. Just find Rubio."

It had been a gamble considering his bargaining options as he crept from island to island and snuck his away past Gotham's borders. Unlike Bane, Rubio was unlikely to kill him for cowardice. What he did wasn't even cowardice, not truly. Attempting to fight Bane and Barsad would have been nothing short of suicidal. His own fighting skills, while not negligible, had always taken a back seat to translation work. At least alive he could still collect himself. Learn anew. Fight again.

Rubio, though. Rubio wanted every card in his deck. This rare chance could have a fine consequence for him in the New League. Perhaps he would be promoted, though he would sooner have more compensation than a different field altogether. An ugly thought tickles the back of his mind as he repeats the password, one he pushes away in light of his relief once he's finally let in. These guards are new and don't recognize him. Perhaps one of the downsides of the change in leadership. Quantity over quality.

"You're late." Rubio says when he makes his way through the small camp, hunched over a meal among a few others. The smell of chicken and something more spicy makes his empty stomach growl plaintively. "Where is Shad?" There are even more he doesn't recognize. The mercenary was recruiting so fast a mere few days' absence had him feeling as if he was the one out of place. It was enough to make him doubt the man's intentions of creating a truly comparable army, but it wasn't his place to publicly disagree. Yet.

"He's...captured."

Everything grows quiet. Rubio tosses a bone into the fire and wipes grease from his mouth.

"By whom?"

Abdul has his speech ready, even conspicuously leaving a little blood on his clothes for emphasis (though his crooked nose and missing front tooth would likely be proof enough). He tells him of the ambush, the interrogation and his narrow escape. How what was meant to be a simple patrol took a turn for the worse when Bane and his second-in-command showed up out of nowhere to accost him. How quickly he traveled to warn them. The new recruits are glancing at one another in a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Some of them had never met Bane and only heard of him through the man's former mercenaries or what news stations wished to show.

"I told him the most convincing lies I could muster." He lies, allowing himself a moment's pause as the others set aside their food or lean in to listen. Even the guards are risking looks over their shoulders now. "Shad and I had taken every precaution, but something must have led them to our outcrop. It was likely Barsad's doing. He used to man communications before he was promoted. If it hadn't been for my partner I wouldn't have received the distraction I needed to escape." It might be laying it on a little thick, as he only knew the man superficially, but it seems to have the effect he wants.

The man reaches over and pats his shoulder with a grim smile. "That couldn't have been easy. The great masked man is not known for letting his enemies slip through his fingers." There it is. That uncomfortable feeling again. He tries to smile, even as it stretches strangely on his face and likely comes off as insincere. Perhaps it could be read as exhausted or shaken. A better interpretation.

"We will have a moment of silence for Shad. He was one of the first to back me and the cause." Rubio says to others. Abdul frowns.

"He's still alive. They had only stunned him."

"For how long, do you think?" The mercenary responds with a snort. "Bane has killed his own men just to prove a point. Loyal followers who had already pledged to fight to the bitter end in the name of the...reformed League Of Shadows. Do you think someone who actively turned against him would stand a further chance?" Abdul shakes his head, a miserable agreement, and Rubio gives him a friendly shake.

"See? This is what Bane wants. Your awe and wonder." Even with just over a dozen at their attention, the quiet fanaticism is clear for anyone to see. It was something Abdul acknowledged, even on his own journey to what he deserved. "A successful tyrant he is, but one that crumbles without his greatest weapon. Don't let him wield it. Don't even let me or Talia wield it."

The rousing cry that follows is almost enough to drown out his finishing words. "When Gotham is ours, the only masters we'll have are ourselves!"

Damn it all. All that planning on the way and he hadn't even considered Talia al Ghul. They haven't been able to reach her for many days, enough to strain the dynamics of their still-fresh group, and he had been so concerned about pleasing Rubio with mostly-truths he neglected what she would think when she returned. She was Bane's other half. There was no doubt in his mind she was just as brutal and unforgiving.

Then Rubio's hand reaches around and tugs at something at the nape of his neck, just where the hair is starting to grow. Whatever it is, it clings to the skin like a tick. He stares in horror as the mercenary holds up something tiny between his fingers.

"As I said...he's not known for letting his enemies escape." His voice darkens. "You led him right to us."

He can hardly hear anything over the sound of his heartbeat pounding terribly in his throat. His mind tries to reason with the deceptive technology that somehow made it onto his person. How had he not felt it? It couldn't be. He hadn't been passed out that long. Maybe Rubio was lying. Trying to set him up. He tries to look closer at it, even as it glitters sincerely in the firelight.

"Please." He manages to whisper before the man pulls out a pistol and levels it with his head.

Chapter Text

Gotham didn't look half bad when it let its hair down.

Sure, broken windows and endless 'street closed' signs weren't exactly the hottest in exterior design, but the benefits of a terrified law enforcement that wouldn't even put out a parking ticket without looking over their shoulder more than made up for it. She didn't miss Daggett. She really didn't miss wherever Commissioner Gordon hid off to. Waller? Heck, a glance at the teles in the square and she was constantly surrounded by a cocoon of bodyguards everywhere she went. Probably watching her when she was eating brunch or taking a shit. It was better than a sitcom.

A solid two and a half months since escaping the ward and she still wasn't quite sure she was in the same city. She couldn't cross every other street without seeing protests cluttered in front of enterprises, mini-movements erupting out of thin air or a cops versus robbers-esque chase winding its way up and down Gotham's broken hills. All right, maybe that latter one was rather common. Still, it was the kind of chaos she thrived in, with the added bonus of it actually meaning something. The righteous fury of so many downtrodden Gothamites was inspiring, all things told, and it was what she had expected to see when she met the man who would change her life forever.

She wished she felt the same wild glee for the rest of the city, though. Where The Bowery was thriving in the new climate, Old Gotham was downright miserable. Not only was it being hit particularly hard by this mysterious chemical attack (even East End wasn't having as many 'drug-related episodes', journalism be blessed), the Gotham police department was convinced arresting anyone out after eight was a good idea. Even kids.

Visiting her favorite district had been a rather bumpy trip down nostalgia road. Some of her favorite shops had been closed down in her absence and there were a lot more overturned cars than she remembered seeing. On the other hand, people were sticking up for themselves more than they ever had and there were a lot more overturned cars than she remembered seeing. A cafe she used to frequent back during college was considering shutting down because of a lack of patrons, enough to break even her nasty little heart. She couldn't even stick around beyond tipping the mom and pop who ran the place because of the damn early after-hour law. They didn't remember her anyways, not after so much time, but still. She was going to kick whoever came up with the curfew square in the ass.

First things first.

She buys herself an ice cream cone and downs it as quickly as possible as she cuts a mean path through downtown Gotham. Leaving Tatsu in charge of the Acres crew gives her the peace-of-mind she needs to proceed with the tedious yet fascinating work of people-watching. It had been an interesting morning deciding how much she wanted to blend in or stand out before heading out on her mini-mission. On one hand looking as drab and stuffy as the average Gothamite would net her a few points in the inconspicuous department. On the other hand looking bold could make any potential suspect that looks her way think she's less suspect and more suspect at the exact same time. It was a psychology thing.

So she went for something in-between (a diamond-pattern sweater over black leggings) and, much to her delight and chagrin, nobody seemed to give a damn. Maybe she should've kept the fuzzy dice earrings.

The cold weather keeps her ice cream in place, which is just as well since she ordered the tallest they had. She muses over the useful intel Sherlock had given her on the Scarecrow. While Jonathan Crane had been her wardmate for the better part of three years, the guy had clearly hated the very ground she walked on and only spoke to her when the stick up his ass wasn't good enough company. Not that she minded. She had gotten better conversations out of the teddy bear the nurses let her keep as decoration.

She remembers the man being closest to Cobblepot, sometimes nicknamed The Penguin (and boy, was that an apt name). Occasionally he'd even talk to Nigma, though they couldn't go more than three sentences without dissolving into a psychological dick-jerking session. She wondered where they went after the place was blown up. She'd been far too interested in getting the hell out of there to stick a knife between either of their ribs. Hopefully Crane's natural propensity for blowing people off meant he didn't have extra allies skulking about in the Bowery or the Narrows.

Then again, maybe he did. According to the detective the doctor had been hired by the League Of Shadows eight years ago, which made her laugh for a good full minute until he threatened to hang up. This prestigious boss had apparently given him access to all sorts of advanced technology that would make even Gotham's best look like they were playing with plastic toys, Scarecrow's already impressive budget notwithstanding. Once they got talking again she learned Crane had resorted to poisoning water supplies and even experimenting on his own patients without their consent.

He wasn't exactly forthcoming with where he got such information, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth...even if said gift horse used to be an officer and had a close working relationship with the Commissioner. The same guy who created the Dent Act and messed up the lives of bastards, innocents and friends alike. If Blake hadn't done her a solid back at the City Hall she would've already devoted him a prime spot on her Foot-Up-The-Ass list.

Still, it was what her college therapist would have considered a 'productive conversation'. Sherlock couldn't explain why people under the influence of the drug were always talking about drinks and emptiness and whatnot, but then again, neither could she. She was just glad the guy didn't brush it off as mere crazy talk. Their collaboration was going to go a lot further if he was willing to read between the lines.

Frankly? He wasn't half bad. Barely knew him, but he could be pretty funny once he loosened up. Reasonable as long as you didn't push his buttons too hard (she'd have to jot that down for later). Guy also donated a lot to one of the boy's homes, according to Tatsu. That was certainly one up on John 'Dead As A Doornail' Daggett. Now that she thought about it, there really were too many people named John in Gotham.

"There are a few different ways he could be spreading the toxin around. Enough that he could affect hundreds of people and still make it look like some sort of weird trend instead of something more foul." He'd said over the phone. "I've been taking water samples in as many places as I can."

"A detective, Good Samaritan and hydrologist? Leave some careers for the regular folk, would ya."

He might have laughed. Guy could get serious at the drop of a hat. "Well, that's if the strips I got will actually identify whatever's in the water. So far I've just been getting the usual mineral build-up. At least, for sure, we know it's something in the air. The most unlikely theory I have would be a helicopter or drone spreading the gas. It'd work at a wide range, but it's not subtle."

"He's also broke as a slot machine in Amusement Mile." She had added. He'd grunted his agreement, but there was still doubt in his voice.

"Maybe. He could have some unseen benefactors slipping him some money on the side. The second theory I have, and one I think is most likely, is getting people to spread it for him. He's collaborated before and considering his, uh...fall from grace he's unlikely to hoof it now."

It was the very definition of an a-ha! moment.

"Yeah, the guy never liked getting his hands too dirty. Coward wouldn't even make his own bed." She'd responded in the middle of painting her nails. "So you want I should go around bustin' heads for information? See if anyone's seen any weird behavior?"

"I'd prefer it if you kept the busting heads to a minimum, Harleen."

"And here I was thinking you understood me."

"So...you used to room with him?" He had asked. "Is there anything I should know?"

Maybe he had sounded a little suspicious. Maybe she was projecting. Probably not, but she'd emphasized anyway they were the furthest thing from pals and that the best information she has was that the guy was a miserable sack of shit who snored like the damned. That got an actual laugh out of him that time.

They still didn't completely trust each other. His intentions were good, at least, but she learned the hard way that good intentions weren't good enough. Come to think of it, wasn't the road to Hell paved with something like that? Harleen wasn't about to call him malicious, no, but she was going to keep an eye on him until they both got what they wanted. While waiting she rings up Tatsu to check in.

"How are my babies?"

"They keep chewing on the sofa." Tatsu sighs. Frazzled, but like usual, not losing her head. "How do you keep them entertained?"

"I told ya, Bud likes it when you rub his tummy but only after he's eaten and Lou's gotta have some one-on-one playtime because she gets antsy. Just give her one of those bones I found." A passerby squints at her and she gives them a winning smile.

The hours crawl with a vengeance, not at all helped by the tremendous brainfreeze she gave herself halfway through her meal. The most suspicious person she sees turns out to be little more than a bootlegger attempting to garner some extra green (she checked out their wares because, hey, why not) and when she's not idling around for the right moment she's browsing the latest news on social media. There are quite a few more posts referring to 'the reckoning'. A lot of news stations kept referring to it as a generic term for whatever latest form of retaliatory violence made headlines. Whether or not they were actually clueless as to Bane's biggest protest yet or were trying out more of that denial stew was up in the air.

The masked man was a theater teacher's wet dream, all wild eyes and fancy gestures despite the fact he looked and sounded like an aging war veteran. He didn't even name the planned riot for downtown. He just gave it a flowery description during a rather amusing showcase over at The Narrows and, like a lot of things he said to a crowd, it stuck.

"Fear not, Gotham. Your reckoning is on the way." He'd actually laughed, the first time she'd ever heard him do so over the air. "Don't be late."

It's only when evening is peeking over the buildings and she's sure she's going to lose her mind all over again to boredom does she finally see a chance to take action. Someone bundled up a little too much even for cold weather has crossed her vision no less than four times. Too redundant to be coincidence, she pulls up her hood before following.

Gothamites often wore heavy clothing. It only made sense in a city in a constant affair with winter. But keeping one's face covered didn't always fly. It made local officers even more paranoid than usual and many places wouldn't even serve customers until they pulled off whatever was obscuring their rugged good looks. With Bane Gotham's newest overseer, masks were even more hated than usual. Whether or not they looked better than the Joker's...well. She'd keep that opinion under wraps.

Because of that it really said something when some people insisted on wearing them anyway...only to keep out of sight. It's kind of comical and she has to hold back laughter so she doesn't stick out while trailing them. Sure enough they duck behind a corner and into the alley behind a breakfast joint. Reaching into their pocket they start squeezing something. For a second she's convinced she found the world's most active pervert, but sure enough something starts to tickle her senses. Like a bad high, something that makes her throat dry and her mind start to spin and shadows start to crawl in the corner of her vision. Unfortunately for them, this was nothing new.

Before they can pop out of the other side she takes advantage of the location to drive a knee into their stomach under the cover of shadow.

They slump over with little more than a cough. She hooks her arms underneath their shoulders and drags them fully out of sight just as a couple walk by, thankfully too engrossed in whatever's on their phone to catch a glimpse of what's probably a less-than-pleasant sight. Checking for excess damage (there'll be a nasty bruise the following day), she proceeds to rifle through their pockets.

Blinking away the shadows she pulls out a state ID, a handful of scratched and unscratched lottery tickets and a $50 bill. She pushes down the temptation to swipe that last one and starts digging through their other pockets.

'Cat Girl would be so proud.'

Just when she's starting to be convinced she just attacked someone actually innocent she pulls out a small, round metal ball. Small enough to inconspicuously fit in someone's pockets and covered with tiny holes. It reminded her of a tea strainer. It really was her lucky day. Harleen doesn't need to take another whiff to know what's inside the canister.

"Jackpot."

She's pulling out her phone when they sputter into wakefulness, gasping like they've just been hit in the gut. She holds them down with a foot to their chest when they try to get up. A voice calls to her just beyond the alley. She tells them to hush.

"Woke up sooner than I expected." Harleen says down at their terrified face. "Why don'tcha tell me where ya got this nice bauble of yours?"

Chapter Text

"Don't you want anything to eat?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine. Just trying to watch my diet."

He could be honest and tell her 'cheese pizza, soda and chocolate cake is going to give me the shits later', but he wasn't about to put a damper on a happy day. St. Swithin's saw a lot of birthdays, but that didn't make them any less special. This one, in particular, warranted an extra careful hand. Joel was turning seven and it was his first birthday since his parents separated. Reilly told him how the kid had been a ball of anxiety all morning, worried about everything his mind could possibly latch onto. Whether or not his friends got their invitations. Whether or not the cake he helped make would turn out right (he woke up in the middle of the night to check on it, according to Finn). Whether or not his mother would show.

Blake had arrived when the party was well underway, a cluster of balloons tied around the entrance and 'Happy Birthday Joel' hanging in colorful letters on the door. Tiya's birthday a month prior had been all the way across the city to visit his grandmother and Finn was looking forward to his in two weeks. The orphanage was as busy as ever, sure, but they were bright spots on a city that got more unstable by the day. Despite him seeing firsthand some of the positive results brought about by Bane's regime (no more worrying about Daggett undermining Wayne Enterprises undermining Swithin's, that was for sure), it sometimes got hard to parse the good from the bad when the shifting rules made the ones with power lash out.

For every step forward there was one backwards and two to the side. Pay raises would crop up here and there to soothe protesters, some even impressive in scale, only for yet another curfew to be implemented in a 'problematic' neighborhood. Some city official would get their dirty laundry aired out for everyone to see and a consequence to back it up (Gordon's indirect trend wasn't dying out yet), then a protester would be tried for five years over a broken cop window. Even the drive over to Swithin's had him hearing a story about a science lab being cracked down on for apparently conducting illegal experiments on the poor.

The head scientist of a facility supposedly pioneering stem cell research had used every last PR trick in the book during a brief television interview, though Blake could imagine it looked more like professional conduct to the untrained eye. It was up in the air how many lives had been ruined by their medical malpractice, but in his opinion, just one was too much.

"If you see or hear anything concerning these missing persons, please contact local law enforcement as soon as possible." The journalist had said to the camera once the exchange was over. "Jethro Phillips, Pamela Isley, Waylon Jones..."

The tug-of-war between justice and injustice was enough to make everyone sick. Life's little moments went a long way in helping it all go down.

"You're more than welcome to take some of that cake home, though." He tells Joel's mother as he adjusts his party hat. "I fear for Reilly's sanity if the kids keep sneaking in handfuls of sugar behind his back."

"...That's a good point." She says, reaching forward and taking a generous slice.

The strained building was really showing its age with the guests, the floors and walls contributing to the lively chatter with plaintive creaks and squeaks. Reilly had done his best to spruce it up in advance, but Blake liked to imagine it was just part of Swithin's charm. The old Father absolutely didn't agree and he could feel fussiness hanging over his head like a cloud throughout the celebratory cake slicing and the birthday song. No matter how many times he told him kids were too young to give a crap about holes in the floorboards.

Joel's mother had been in fine form, eager to help in any way possible despite being clearly overwhelmed by the boys' energy. She was dressed a touch formally in a blazer and pencil skirt, something more suited for church than a kid's party. Then again, she hadn't seen her boy in-person since he first arrived all those months back. She was likely attempting to make up the lost time and on-again, off-again phonecalls with more effort than was needed. It said a lot about her, all things told, and Blake could tell even through their casual conversation over the boys' chatter that he would grow to appreciate her presence in the orphanage.

To his surprise Bane shows up right as the boys are getting into the competitive spirit over a round of birthday games. Jay had won charades three times in a row ("No fair!" Tiya had howled. "He's extra good at those!") and Amir was more than a little eager to try his hand at pictionary. Blake opens the door to see him with a large bag and a small box tucked under one arm, the other frozen in mid-knock. He can feel his worries tucking themselves away in the back of his mind like a squirrel in its treehole. It made him happy beyond words seeing the man finding a little time for them in the midst of all he had to do.

Maybe he had gotten through to him more than he thought.

"You're right on time." Blake says with a self-aware grin. "They just started the games."

"That smile of yours has me concerned." Bane responds mildly, stepping inside and kicking dirt onto the mat. His motorcycle is further down the curb, a different model than he remembers, and he distantly wonders if he switches it up to avoid scrutiny. It's just as well, because the radio had also told him Gotham was only two inches away from going on full-lockdown. His jacket is a little more bulky than normal, too, the already impressive swell to his shoulders and chest more pronounced, and he can tell the guy's suited up for a fight beneath that standard biker outfit.

There's a lull in the noise now. The Swithin's boys and their friends alike are curiously peering around the corner to view their unexpected visitor -- Amir shyly waves and Finn calls out a welcome around a mouthful of cake. A happy howl and a clatter and Joel is nearly tripping over himself in his scramble to get down from the table. His heart skips a beat when Bane picks him up again, as gentle as if he were his own, and holds him steady on his hip.

"I'm seven!" Joel crows. "Do you want cake? I made it with Reilly. It's blue and I ate too much, but it tastes good. The blue makes it taste even better."

"I'm afraid I'm on a low-sugar diet." Bane responds. "Please enjoy it in my stead."

The kid is far too giddy to be disappointed and proceeds to ramble about his mother's arrival, Reilly being a bad singer and all the presents he has to open. It doesn't take Blake much cleverness to usher him back into the living room, his master plan beginning and ending with 'you have gifts'. Bane offers him the paper bag, almost overflowing with fruits and vegetables, and hands the small box to Joel before he runs off.

"Wow. Thanks. Where'd you find the time for all this?" He asks, trying damn hard not to keep grinning and letting his romantic heart get the better of him. He stares appreciatively as Bane rolls his neck and flexes his arms in a stretch, the jacket tightening over his chest nicely.

"We have generous patrons who see us thoroughly supplied. I was to meet outside the city once my men return from their shift, only to remember you told me about Joel's birthday." He tilts his head at Blake's growing frown. "I can also rest later."

His chest sinks. Skipping sleep? He hadn't tried to pester him into dropping by. He knew he had an entire bomb-to-be to find and appearances to show up to. Just wanted him to know he wanted him around. Around even as people leading double-lives could do. A creeping note of guilt winds its way through him. Bane's voice rumbles through his thoughts like a breath of fresh air.

"You're never a waste of my time, John." He murmurs, one hand ghosting along his hip. Aw, damn. He can't help it. He smiles, a little too big, and sees just how silly he looks in the man's tinted visor.

"Though...I'm afraid it must be brief." He continues, hand moving surreptitiously up his side. A fleeting touch as affectionate as it is regretful. A squawk from Joel has him turning around just as the kid is bouncing back down the hall to dance excitedly between them.

"Come meet my friends!" He begs. "Please, please, please, please, please."

"I need to put these away, anyway." Blake offers. "I'll be there in a minute." Bane allows himself to be tugged along by one hand, stepping carefully down the narrow hallway behind the kid's uneven gait. Seeing the infamous masked man patiently attending to a seven year-old's every whim is one of the strangest and most adorable contradictions he's seen in a while.

"Who's your fri-...oh." Sasha says breathlessly as Blake starts unpacking. It didn't take a detective to figure out she was more than a little impressed with the huge, heavily muscled man in tight leather that just showed up on the orphanage's doorstep. Blake rubs his hair and thinks of how to explain. Less is more, it seems, because she immediately starts apologizing when she sees his strained smile.

"Oh! I'm sorry." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and starts helping him put away fruit. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"Nothing rude about it." Reilly remarks as he walks in, shaking confetti out of his hair. "He's Blake's mysterious benefactor." A short pause. "I suppose. He hasn't given us many details, but the boys have never stopped gossiping since he first stopped by." His wiry brows quirk his way and Blake can harbor a few guesses as to what the nosier kids were saying when he wasn't around. As if summoned Tiya peeks into the kitchen and hisses in the most conspiratorial whisper he can muster behind one hand.

"They're dating."

Reilly gives him a sharp word and the boy flees back into the party room with a giggle. Blake adjusts his collar, the kitchen a lot warmer than it was a few minutes ago. They both turn to him expectantly and he realizes he actually has to answer.

"He's...definitely a benefactor." He wonders if he should go check on the guy. The boys were crazier than housecats on catnip with all that sugar and he hadn't forgotten his temper short-circuiting last time he dropped by. "Dating is...well, it's not technically that formal..." Reilly's eyes widen and he has to bite back the world's loudest laugh.

"So it's true?" He immediately closes the cupboard. He hasn't seen him this shocked since he told him he was joining the force. "Oh, Blake, this is great news. I was starting to give up hope."

"Thanks." He snorts. Reilly shakes his head vigorously and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"No, no. It's not that. You're just always overworking yourself. When you're not spending time with the boys you're running all over the city doing a million things. I was worried you'd never loosen up enough to just live your life. Enjoy your youth, you know? Especially after that disastrous-"

Blake interrupts him with a polite cough. "I'm, uh, sure Sasha doesn't want to hear about my romantic adventures."

"Actually..." She offers him an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I'm siding with Reilly on this one. Joel seems to like him a lot. I'd love to know more." Like something out of a romantic comedy they all turn in tandem to peer into the party room. Bane is standing with his hands folded behind his back as Joel holds up a hat and encourages him to put it on. One of the kids tentatively reaches out to touch his jacket, only to be smacked on the hand by Jay.

"He's been a huge help." Blake swears Reilly's chest is puffing out like a pigeon. "Every time he visits he's either helping us with food or looking after the boys. I know he doesn't look the type, but I can tell he's a family man. He's got that air to him." He frowns and lowers his voice a notch. "But just to be clear...he's not in a gang, right?"

"You're forgetting I was practically in a state-sanctioned gang for a while." Blake responds smoothly, reaching into the bag and biting into one of the half-ripe pears. Real food after nothing but sugar and salt tastes like heaven. Sasha's brows furrow in concern, as if wondering where the implication could even come from.

"But what does he do for a living?" His frown isn't as deep as normal, more thoughtful than it is worried. "What are his hobbies? You've been dating all this time and I hardly know two things about the guy." He mutters out of the side of his mouth. "Haven't even seen his face yet." Now Sasha just looks baffled, mouth hanging somewhere between a smile and a jaw-drop.

"You haven't seen his face?" She looks over her shoulder. "You mean he doesn't take that off?"

"Come on, you're not all about to start twenty questions on Joel's birthday." Blake laughs. "You can always wait until mine."

"And have you dodge twenty questions then?" He grumps. Now he knows the guy's curious if he's actually snarking.

"Aw, look at how red he is." Sasha laughs, nudging Reilly and making Blake stifle a groan. "Mr. Blake, don't leave the good Father hanging. I'll start off with an easy question. Where did you two meet?" She winks. "Look at how nice I am. I didn't even ask about the helmet thing yet."

He doesn't want to drop it, not with them both looking so genuinely happy on his behalf, but it's either that or give them a premature heart attack. "We met in Gotham. It was...um...unexpected." He starts, a little lamely. "We actually didn't see eye-to-eye at first. Didn't think we'd hit it off later, especially with things being so...hectic." He looks back again. Bane is kneeling and observing Amir's drawings. Even after the gallery showing he could be a little shy about showing off his work, but something Bane is saying makes him perk up eagerly.

"He's...really something else, though. I've never known anyone like him." Reilly clasps his hands together like a proud mother. Damn if he doesn't look genuinely happy. He glances into the room again. The kid that tried to touch his jacket earlier, a boy he remembers from Joel's class, is poking at Bane's boots now. The man doesn't move an inch as the kid promptly sits on his foot and tells him rather loudly he's taller than Gotham tower. It might be time to step in.

"Why don't we open presents early, then?" Blake offers as he walks into the room. The boys immediately start pushing boxes and bags at Joel, soon crowding the tiny kid in gifts and making his eyes glow as if he's about to burst with joy. Reilly snaps a quick photo on his phone and Blake makes a mental note to ask him for copies later.

Bane is looming and dark and quiet, like an impassive tower in the middle distance, but he's watching the kids intently, head twitching from one side to the other as they hurriedly gather around to watch. Even after a few visits this domestic environment must feel as strange to him as his militaristic lifestyle is to Blake.

Joel plunks down on the floor and pulls out Bane's present. "He has to go soon." He says to one of his friends. "I'll open yours next, okay?"

Blake beams at his thoughtfulness, though the smile quickly leaves his face at the sight of what's in the box. One-by-one all the kids peer over the birthday boy's shoulder and gape at the polished military-grade knife sitting in the middle. He has to resist the urge to swipe it from Joel's hands when he pokes at it.

"Wow. It's like from the movies." He says. Bane shrugs. Reilly looks confused and Sasha looks quietly horrified.

"Yes." Even he's not quite sure if the man knows of the social faux pas of giving small children weapons. "To better prepare you for-"

"For cooking, right?" Blake interjects with forced cheer. He ignores Bane's (probably) piercing stare. "He's a little young for those, but we can always supervise when he's chopping vegetables. I still don't trust him to walk with scissors, you know." He adds for Sasha's benefit.

"You could dress up as the Joker for Halloween with that." Tiya gasps.

"I don't wanna be the Joker." Joel pouts. "I wanna use it to cut fruit for fruitcake."

"You don't want to make fruitcake." Finn says. "Trust me."

"Uh, why don't we play a quick game? Then open the rest of the presents once he leaves?" He elbows Bane in the side a little harder than he would otherwise as the boys start debating game ideas. It's like elbowing a tree trunk. "He doesn't get to visit often, after all. Be a shame to waste the opportunity."

Bane stands still and says nothing, but he doubts it's because of a lack of words.

It's a rather fierce round of rock-paper-scissors as they decide which game to pick. It gets so heated that Reilly, as per usual, has to step in and choose one -- being the supremely old-fashioned guy he is he chooses Pin The Tail On The Donkey out of the dozen or so options, a game a few of the younger kids hadn't even heard of before. The Father explains the rules as quickly as he can, sensing the adrenaline in the room, and sure enough he has them hooked on the concept. There's a certain novelty to it, Blake supposes, as even the disappointed kids who wanted something rougher (read: violent) get into it. Bane, on the other hand, is just confused.

"Pin it on the wall." His tone makes it clear what he thinks of the actual 'challenge' aspect of the game.

"Well, you'll be blindfolded." Reilly offers with a smile.

"And?"

"And, er, it's much more difficult when spun around."

"Where did this game come from?"

Reilly scratches his neck. "I'm...actually not sure."

Joel goes first on birthday boy honor. He teeters around with one hand in front of him and the other precariously needling the air to their encouraging hoots and hollers -- he nearly stabs Finn as he runs into the couch and doubles over on the cushion in his eagerness. The boys as well as his mother start yelling out variations of 'hot' and 'cold' ("You're a Gotham winter, Joel!" Finn laughs) to help him near the photo on the far wall. When he pushes up his blindfold he all but deflates when he sees he pinned the stomach.

"Hey, now." Sasha says with a careful hand on his shoulder. "That's still pretty good."

"I thought I'd get birthday powers." He says with a surprisingly affected sigh.

"How about this." She offers reasonably. "Use your birthday powers to choose the next player." It takes the boy all of one second.

"You're next!" He calls to Bane, holding out the pin in both hands like a precious antique. It nearly vanishes between the masked man's thick fingers when he bends to pick it up. Blake does the honors of wrapping the cloth around his helmet, the visor already narrow to begin with. It finally hits him how silly this is.

"Why don't we make this a little extra hard." He says with a poorly-disguised cough. "Let's start him all the way down the hall."

"Wouldn't that be unfair?" Amir says from where he's sitting. "Since he's never played before..."

"Oh, don't worry about it." Blake responds with a strained smile. "He's got a wicked sense of direction."

He tugs Bane after him, though he barely makes it down the hallway before he can't hold it back anymore. Bane is dead silent as Blake leans on the wall and tries and fails to choke back gales of laughter.

"I am never going to see anything this funny again. I thought Reilly dancing to euro-pop last Christmas was the toast of the town, but..." He cackles, holding his sides in his fit. "Oh, I wish I could record this!"

"You laugh at me, yet look like a one-horned goat." Bane mutters, twisting the tiny pin in one hand. The guy could probably still kill someone with it.

"And you look like you're ready for the world's strangest stunt show." Blake wheezes. Still leaning to one side he pushes a hand onto Bane's shoulder, urging him to move in a circle. Like a rusty turnstile he slowly, grudgingly, starts to pivot in place. While the detective's not actually sure the man's capable of being dizzy, he doesn't take any chances and waits until he's spun a good ten or eleven times before letting him stop.

"Is this a common Gotham custom?" He says when he faces the party room again.

"Oh, sure. We do it every third Thursday of every month."

"...An interesting lie."

"All right, no more stalling." Blake wipes his eyes with his thumb. "Phew. Go on, now."

He's not the only one who's tickled. A few of the boys (even Amir) are snickering behind their hands as he makes his way down the hall. This is probably the funniest thing they've seen all day, too, which was saying something since Blake had to sing his own version of the birthday song since he was late. Joel had requested he do so in French and he had to drudge up his college classes on the spot, much to Reilly's chagrin. Now that he thought about it, he's pretty glad Bane arrived later.

Their restrained giggles die down to nothing as Bane hunches his massive frame through the narrow doorway and steps into the room. After a moment's pause he daintily navigates his way through the cluster of bodies without so much as ruffling a hair, outright stepping over Joel's head, and promptly sticks the pin in the donkey's paper ass.

Amir shakes his head in disbelief. He looks at Jay, who holds up a hand mid-sign only to turn to Finn. Sasha looks to Reilly for an explanation, who shrugs helplessly and looks to him.

'I told you.' Blake mouths cheerfully.

Bane pushes up the blindfold and peers at their shocked faces when nobody says anything. "...I win."

"Wow." Joel breathes, eyes huge with wonder. It's just as well, because everyone else looks confused, creeped out or both. A knock on the door punctures the moment, enough to make some of the boys jump. The detective gets up before Reilly can get out of his chair and jogs out of the room and down the hallway.

He grimaces when his old co-worker waves through the peephole. Out of all the damn days. Jeff grins when he reluctantly steps out the door and pulls off his party hat, seeming to harbor no such ill will, and claps him on the shoulder. "Blake, my man. Didn't think you'd be here."

"This is practically my second home, Jeff." He says, resisting the urge to shrug his hand off. "What's this about?"

"Nothing serious, don't worry." He pulls out a sheet of paper. "Can I come in?"

"I'd appreciate it if you could answer my question."

The man's smile becomes a little strained, but he continues on without a hitch. "The department is considering policy changes for the future. We're just spreading the word and asking for opinions." The officer glances over his shoulder and goddamn it he wish he hadn't, because an immediate air of suspicion passes over his face. He knows he's looking at the huge, hulking man sticking out like a sore thumb among a bunch of elementary kids. "There are, uh, suspicious people around...? Yeah, we're going door-to-door, asking questions, you know. Standard stuff. Trying to make communities safer."

"I do know the standard stuff." He closes the door a little more, just enough to keep his next words outside where they belong. "That it's less simple questions and more a way for you to interrogate innocent people under the guise of being a good Samaritan."

Jeff holds his hands up. "Woah. Relax, Blake. It's just procedure." He squints through the crack in the door again at the sound of a loud pop, followed by a gush of laughter. "Who's, uh...your friend, there?"

"You've got to be kidding me. Are you really going to do this now?" He shuts the door with a hard snap and stares the man down. "My kid's birthday is today. We're all trying to have a good time and take a break from a city the department has done a shit job of looking after. The last thing anyone at an underfunded boy's home needs is yet another reminder of what they have to go through every damn week."

Jeff's jaw works irritably throughout his entire spiel. "Where the hell do you get off on being holier-than-thou, hothead?" He mutters. "I'm just trying to do my job here and you always have to make everything into an event."

"You ever think for one second not doing what you're told?" Blake all but snorts. "No wonder they called us lapdogs."

He watches as the younger man glances over his shoulder and back again, caught in a debate between muscling his way through or dropping it. The only sound that can be heard for a few precarious moments is the garbage truck trundling across the frosty street.

"...All right. Fine." He finally says, stuffing the paper back in his pocket. "I'll take your word for it." It's not true shame, not really, something more sullen and therefore much more dangerous, but he'll take what he can get. "You know Gotham might be going on lockdown soon, right?"

"I heard some rumors on the radio." Blake responds coolly. "Wonder if it'll work as well as the department's curfews."

"And what the hell have you done, hothead?" The man sneers. "Because from where I stand you sound like all talk and no walk."

'I'm figuring out who's behind these gas attacks while your department makes boogiemen out of everyday people.' He wants to snap. 'You're nothing more than a jock with a gun.'

"Right now I'm spending time with my family." He crosses his arms in the most casual show of arrogance he can muster. "Don't you have some flyers to hand out?"

Blake watches him as he gets back into his car and waits until he's well out of sight before heading back inside. Wherever his good humor took off to it was long gone. The playful atmosphere of the day feels tainted, somehow, and he clenches his fist in a nauseating moment of frustration. He knows better than to bring it over to the kids, so he finds himself an isolated spot against the wall, plunks his back against it and takes a few minutes to cool down.

He really didn't make a dent in that place. No matter how hard he tried. It's enough to make him wonder how much more time he wasted without even realizing. It's an utterly sobering topic, something his subconscious distantly tells him is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it takes a sudden hand on his shoulder to jolt him out of his reverie. Startled, he looks up at his own reflection.

"This doesn't seem like any way to enjoy the occasion." Bane says matter-of-factly. A few paper strings cling to his coat. Probably the aftermath of one of those party poppers Joel liked so much. Without hesitation he drops his forehead on the man's chest. It's hard not to wonder what would've happened if Jeff had insisted on barging in. It wouldn't have been pretty, that was for sure. He presses his forehead against the front of his jacket as if to grind the thought away.

"Yeah. I mean, no. It doesn't." Bane's gloved fingers move up his back and find their way to his hair. His shoulders sag as he lets out a sigh that feels like a thousand years old.

"Confetti looks good on you." Blake mumbles into the leather.

"What a unique taste you have." He feels his laugh more than hears it, a hidden gem rumbling through his chest.

They stand in the entrance quietly soaking in each other's company, sandwiched between the playful clamor and distant din of the outside world. Bane's other hand is on his shoulder, both a comforting weight and a revelation. Amazing him, even now, that they ended up here. Of all places. Waking up in a cell and trying not to shit himself in terror feels more far away than even the oldest memory. Like losing his ball in the park when he was five or going on his first date when he was seventeen. A collection of thoughts like any other, with all their fierce emotions and little sensations locked away to be opened at will.

Another sigh, much more content, escapes him when the man starts to rub the nape of his neck. It was hard not to feel spoiled, receiving these tiny, tender affections from him. When he thought about it, something about their meeting those days back was like a floodgate breaking open. Well, maybe not quite so much. More like cracks in a foundation. Little trickles of change, a prelude to something greater. It was thrilling. Still a little scary. It was hard not to push for more. See what was waiting around the corner.

He ponders how Bane admitted to basic human weakness like his greatest shame, restrained and careful and always threatening to overflow regardless. How tender he was being here, when he would have never suspected anything of the sort before.

Blake's chest tightens when he remembers Bane had actually held him through the night.

"Thanks." He breathes in the pleasant, familiar scent of leather and tea, muffled a little by his still-cold nose. The old wooden doors and cracks in the floorboards meant the place was always a little too chilly. "Just got a lot on my mind and seeing an old co-worker didn't help." He scoffs moodily. "Guy's a prick."

He waits for a response, but doesn't get one. He looks up again and stares into the impassive bronze of his visor.

"Hey. You all right...?"

"...Protect them, John." His voice is more somber than he ever remembers hearing it. "It will only get harder from here."

His stomach sinks. "Wait, are you talking about what we said outside...?"

"No." He's suddenly curt. "Your little officer is not an immediate concern." He relaxes a little. "Only now am I seeing..." Then he hesitates, as if words aren't enough to express what he's feeling. "...how much Talia missed." His voice lowers. "What I've missed."

It clicks. What he'd viewed as fish-out-of-water fascination was just a little bit further south. A sharp note of melancholy pulls through him, followed by a fierce wave of affection. He wants to keep sharing this world with him. Catch him up one small, happy memory at a time.

"What'd you think?" He asks, not hiding his curiosity. Bane tilts his head from side-to-side in thought.

"Noisy. Intimate. I have never attended a coming-of-age ceremony like this." He touches the folded party hat in Blake's pocket. "What are these for?"

"Oh, these?" Blake pulls it out. "You just wear them."

"I deduced this." Bane responds with a touch of humor. "But what significance do they hold?"

"Uh. I honestly have no idea." He sputters out a laugh and turns the shiny paper hat this way and that in the vague light. "So much for showing you the ropes." He smirks mischievously. "Sure you don't want to try it on?"

"Seeing you wear it with such dignity was an already impressive gift."

"Speaking of gifts...what's up the knife?" He asks with a quirk of his brow. "I don't want to sound totally patronizing here, but giving kids pointy objects is generally seen as a no-no."

"Such a violent city insists on such peculiar rules for its residents." There's no embarrassment to be found. He wonders if he's ever felt the emotion. "You told me the boy has been in compromising situations before."

"Well...yeah." He frowns. "But that's why we're here. To look after him. He doesn't need a-"

"And if you cannot?"

Blake looks to the side. Self-defense was something he taught the older boys when he had the chance, but it was an on-and-off thing at the best of times. Bane sinks back into silence and Blake has to force himself not to press overmuch. Even as his mind starts piecing together the story hidden in his words. Did Talia have no choice but to defend herself? From what? ...Who?

No. He shouldn't press. Not with a topic this sensitive. What could seem like a baby step for him could be a leap for another. Considering Talia, as far as he knew, was pretty much Bane's entire family...

"How do you know your efforts won't go down a worse path?" The man says, suddenly, as startling as if he'd yelled. "That something good won't be merely perverted once your back is turned...?"

It takes him a moment to realize...Bane is asking for help. Indirectly and barely, as was his way, but still. He has to take a moment to think, even as he admits, sadly, he has no damn clue. Talia was more than just a special case. She was like something out of an old folktale, a fantastical and cautionary case with just enough ambiguity to keep professors and students bickering for decades.

Bane had raised her in an ancient prison. No...not just raised her. She was born there. A place dubbed by some as a near-literal Hell on earth. She'd somehow found a way out, then came back for him. There was a bond between them he could only fathom...and that bomb turned into a genocidal anger that could've seen Gotham blown up in his sleep.

Bane lets out a soft huff. Blake holds onto him when he starts to pull back, urging him to stay even as he struggles to find the words. He acquiesces, barely, but it's tenuous. Blake can tell he wants to yank away that vulnerability and bury it all over again.

"This isn't...something I'm entirely familiar with." Blake's voice lowers, even though they've been well and truly alone. "But...I do have a few thoughts on the matter." He looks around anyway to make sure no kids are snooping.

"...I am listening."

It was worth a shot.

"I wasn't what many would consider an ideal son when I was younger." He starts. "I mean, I know she's an adult now, but she'll always be your kid. For better and for worse."

Like a dusty film reel old memories flicker on-and-off. Blood crusting on the ground. The cold crunch of snow beneath his feet. A brick that shakes the silence. So vivid are the sensations he half-expects his breath to puff out white before him in the warm hallway. His voice echoes strangely in his ears.

"When I came to Swithin's I did something terrible. Something that would've made most people consider me a lost cause. Hell...some did." Details, distinct and garbled, swim beneath the surface. "I know you have to leave soon, so this is probably a story for another time. But what you're dealing with is...hard." He looks at where the man's eyes would be. "Whether or not being a parent affects your better judgement, I don't blame you for not giving up on her."

Bane's head tilts, just barely, something like surprise in the tiny movement. It's validating, at least, knowing how overprotective he is of his murderous daughter.

"I see the world more differently now than I ever did. Gordon or I could've ended up dead in those sewers. We were all but ready to...well, sentence you to a pretty cruel death." He says, parroting Bane's past words without a trace of irony. "Yet that didn't happen. Far from it. Gordon escaped with little more than an injury, you gave me another chance and Gotham is...changing. Little by little." He's worried Bane might think he's rambling. Instead he's utterly still, staring down at him with even his mechanical wheeze muffled by the helmet.

"What I'm trying to say is...there's a lot of things that could've gone so much worse and hadn't. A lot of things I wanted to turn out great that went in another direction entirely. Because of chance, fate, skill...well." He shrugs. "Nothing's as easy as it should be, is it?"

"Never." Bane responds, simply.

"You know her better than I do. You know how she got to this point probably better than anyone. Sometimes a good thing doesn't stay a good thing, but I don't see that as any reason to quit while you're ahead." He reaches down and gives his hand a little squeeze. "Just...know I'll be here. As you...you know. Figure it out." It feels like a weak compromise, but simple hope was often the best he had when everything else seemed unreliable.

Bane, to his relief, doesn't seem to share his meager sentiment. He deliberates over what he's said for a few moments, then reaches down and takes his hand, mimicking his gesture with incredible gentleness.

"I appreciate your honesty." He says, moving his other hand down his side in a longing gesture for more.

"Seems like you appreciate that and then some." Blake responds with a grin. Bane gives his ass a squeeze at that and he playfully pushes it away, without fervor. It comes across, because now he's backed up against the nook before the door, the masked man's incredible size drinking up the light behind him and dressing him down in shadow. It's as if the world has taken ten and they're completely alone.

"Before I neglect to mention..." Bane presses his forehead, or where his forehead would be, to his. "It is good to hear you laugh." Blake swallows thickly when the man's voice grows husky. "How good it would be to wake up to it."

"Who knows what the future holds." He reaches behind him and up to flick the light off. Snaking his arms over his broad shoulders Blake eases his helmet off and holds it across the man's back. Blake leans forward and presses his lips beneath the man's eye.

"Let's try to find more moments together." He says against his skin. "When we can, yeah?"

Bane hums appreciatively. "I will try."

He believes him.

They remain near the foyer for a few more minutes. Saying nothing and savoring a spot of peace. Blake finds himself mentally counting every second until they reluctantly detangle and say their goodbyes. He catches a glimpse of Bane's eyes in the dim hallway light as he pulls back and straps his helmet back on, something fond softening his expression before it vanishes beneath the bronze. He can't remember the last time someone looked at him like that.

Blake watches him as he gives Reilly a respectful parting word, watches as he pulls out from the sidewalk, lifts a gloved hand in farewell and revs out of sight. Pushes his hands in his pockets and stares at the plume of smoke left in his wake. Reilly walks out with a bundle of discarded wrapping paper in his arms, gaze notably averted and a rare smile playing on his lips.

The rest of the day is less eventful and thankfully so. A few of the older boys retire upstairs to study, while the younger ones huddle around Joel and watch a movie. Blake savors the relative peace in the dining room with Sasha, shooting the shit as the evening winds down to a close. He could tell she's felt a little out of place since she arrived and he wants to put her at ease, even if it was just through small talk about the latest ball game.

"I swear, the stadium could cave in on itself and it still wouldn't get him to drop that ball." She chuckles. "He's a wunderkind, for sure."

"True. It's a shame they had to switch out Jamison, though." A yawn interrupts him momentarily, hard enough to make his jaw crack. "...Sorry. He was the only other reason worth watching, in my opinion."

"You look ready to pass out." She says with a sympathetic quirk to her mouth. Blake gives her a smile he hopes doesn't look as tired as he feels, but it's clearly about as convincing as the local news station because Sasha promptly gets to her feet, turns on her heel and heads into the kitchen. She comes back out a few minutes later with a hot cup of coffee asking if he'd like a dollop of milk or sugar. She's learned her away around the orphanage fast.

"I'll take it plain. You're an angel." He sighs as he takes a deep drink. Caffeine and his own stubbornness was all that was keeping him from just curling up beneath the table and catching twenty winks. Well, that and the nightmares. Searching anything and everything to do with Scarecrow was taking up the better part of his nights when he wasn't squeezing in just enough freelance jobs to keep his apartment warm. Despite this, exhaustion still wasn't quite the sleeping pill he hoped for.

"Hardly. You'd fit that description better." She goes back in and comes out with another mug. He can see the hidden words on her lips.

"Got something on your mind?" He offers, even as he knows what's coming next. It's been steadily growing on her face for the last few hours. Something strained. Painful, even. He's seen this very thing many times before growing up in Swithin's.

"I can't...stress how much this means to me, Mr. Blake." She starts, softly, hard to hear even in the dull quiet. She insisted on calling him that, even though it made him feel weird and much too formal. "It's a wonder how you manage with so many boys under one roof. Everything you've done here is...incredible. I haven't seen Joel this happy since..." She taps her nails on the paper plate in her lap, shoulders sagging morosely. "...well."

He follows her gaze to where Joel sits on the couch, cheerfully sorting through his new presents under Amir's watchful eye. He got a spotted raincoat, a wooden roller and more candy than he likely knows what to do with. He's still wearing the small oven mitts Blake bought him -- it makes it rather difficult for him to flip through one of the magazines a schoolfriend brought him, but he chugs forward with his usual dogged determination.

"Don't blame yourself." Blake downs the rest of the coffee. "You did the right thing by bringing him here." The shame in her eyes, however, isn't one he can shake so easily. She didn't get to visit often. Sasha had already told both him and Reilly why her schedule was so packed many months back, eager to confess perceived sins to any sympathetic ears. Juggling therapy and community college was a taxing combo, of course. Anyone would accept that. Even still, he suspected something deeper than a busy schedule.

"I don't ever remember him being so excited when he lived with me." She mutters, staring down at her pointed shoes. "I don't..."

There it was. The bone-deep regret that came with being unable to give a child the entire world. No matter how badly one wanted to. He also knew it wouldn't be absolved with a few words.

Like hell it would stop him from trying, though, and he leans forward on his elbows to catch her gaze as it threatens to wander down a beaten path. "Better late than never, huh? I mean, look at how lucky he is. He has a mother who loves him more than anything. A bunch of funny, thoughtful, protective big brothers. Even his very own crotchedy grandpa." That makes her laugh, a shaky and wet one, and he smiles back. "It's not an easy decision. I know. Orphanages often feel...mm, like a last resort. Nobody wants to feel like that's what they're giving their kid."

She shakes her head a little, though whether it's in disagreement or shame he can't tell.

"I know we haven't talked much, but I can tell you love him." He pulls out a cigarette and stands up, holding his other hand out to her. "I lost my mother twenty-five years ago, but I never forgot what she gave me."

He politely redirects Tiya when he peeks into the kitchen and asks if they want to join them. Walks Sasha out to the porch, lights his cigarette and sits with her while she lets the tears out away from the party.

Evening is almost gone now, everything dim and just barely orange. It's beautiful, even a little startling, and he breathes his smoke out to the side as not to break up the sight. He hopes his mother never felt this sort of shame when money had gotten too tight. He hopes his grandmother knew, as caregivers tended to way deep down, that his anger toward her had been nothing more than a naive child's attempt to cope.

'How do we make the world a better place against so much opposition?' He thinks as she checks her smudged make-up in a pocket mirror a few minutes later. 'Not all battles are won where we can see. Not all historical gamechangers make the front pages.' They walk back inside just as Reilly's taking photos. Blake crouches next to Joel on the floor, his mother kneeling on the other side with the boys crowding onto the couch, and makes a funny face he knows the kid will laugh at later.

'Most don't, I think.'

--

He stays the night at St. Swithin's, not trusting himself to drive back home in his exhausted state. He manages to take a quick shower (more stepping into the hot water and stepping back out again) before slumping onto the bed, but before he knows it he's wide-awake and unable to do anything more than stare at the wall. His stomach grumbles on-and-off, still not entirely happy about its diet of coffee, fruit and frosting.

Worries and fears weasel their way into his peripheries, almost impossible to ignore in his wide-awake state. Regret was a waste of time, but like an addiction he'd somehow find an excuse to give it attention. His conversation with Bane gnaws at him with would-haves and could-haves (at least the masked man straight-up hated those, too). He wonders just what the man took to heart and what he brushed aside. Even more...he wonders if anything he said would actually come to pass.

Would Talia actually change? Was he being overly optimistic or just straight-up delusional by suggesting the possibility? He told Bane the truth. That was the end of it. But sometimes the truth felt like an open flame. It was revealing, even comforting at times. In the wrong hands it was a disaster just waiting to happen. A few months ago he wouldn't have even entertained the latter.

He'd thought the truth was a good thing no matter what. Growing up in a city that practically pioneered corruption no doubt had influenced such an extreme view. ...Now? With all the secrets he's having to keep and half-truths he's been trailing, he wasn't so sure.

A soft knock. Reilly peers in when he calls out, already frowning in apology.

"Sorry to barge in like this. Didn't know if you were awake. I wanted to ask you something."

Blake throws on a shirt before pulling up a stool. Reilly sits down, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not a bad party, all things told." He starts, slyly. Blake shrugs.

"Cake turned out pretty nice. Kid's got talent."

"Yes, yes. Also, you and Behnam seem quite close." Blunt old man. Blake doesn't have it in him to huff good-naturedly. If anything he's still feeling a little warm about it all, despite his worried thoughts buzzing at him like summer flies.

"A little. I mean, it's nothing certain." He mutters, hating how sheepish he sounds. "We've hardly been at it for more than a few months..."

"Of course. I wasn't born yesterday." Reilly responds gently. "It's just good to see you so happy. For however brief or long it is." It's touching to hear. He's always known the good Father wanted the best for him. Actions spoke louder than words, after all, and he had a proverbial megaphone of good deeds ringing in his ears. Maybe he was no longer religious, but he was convinced angels came in unexpected forms. Not the winged sprites coating church ceilings, but the friend weathering the blows of life at one's side with good humor and a steady shoulder.

Then he's wringing his hands and Blake can feel the weight of what he's going to say long before it comes out into the open.

"Been meaning to talk to you about this for a while, but I never got the time. I wanted to talk about...you taking over when I pass." He starts. "I'm not at the age where I can ignore this sort of thing anymore. The times are more dangerous than ever and it's...well. It's something that's really been on my mind." His voice becomes more characteristically troubled. It's familiar, but doesn't make him feel better. "Of course, I wouldn't expect you to drop everything and commit full-time. I've already called a few people who might be interested in taking part-time positions here. Volunteer, of course. I compensate the best I can, but-"

Reilly trails off, letting the disappointed silence speak for him. Blake opens his mouth to tell him of course he'll take over for him, but the words die halfway. Could he? Bane didn't make promises he couldn't keep. Not with so much on the line. He shouldn't, either. He wasn't in the force anymore, but he had his little operation with Harleen. Where it lead would depend on whether or not they were onto something or he got stabbed in an alleyway somewhere sniffing along the wrong trail. His chest aches at the disappointment in Reilly's eyes.

"I'd never give up on Swithin's." He starts. "You know that."

"But?"

"But...I have...a lot on my plate." He finishes, a little miserably. "I don't know how committed I can be over the comings months. I don't want to lie to you." Reilly's frown mirrors exactly how he feels. Today was the day of too much birthday cake and difficult questions, it seems.

"What makes you so busy?" It's not an accusation, but there's something akin to suspicion in his eyes. Blake averting his gaze definitely doesn't help. He probably looks as guilty as a dog that chewed on their owner's shoes.

"I quit the force because I wasn't doing any good. I'm trying to find a better way." He rubs his hair. "It's hit-or-miss so far."

"Haven't you gone back into computer repair?" He squints as he tries to recall what Blake shared with him. "Going to try fighting hackers again or something?"

"Well...yes and no." Damn it, he feels like he's stuck between a rock and a hard place. But why? His boys were his world. He'd do anything for them. But the pull of detective work was like a leash around his neck, yanking him wherever injustice reared its ugly head. It's then and there a cold thought hits him. He could put them all in danger doing this. If he truly throws all caution to the wind and decides to fully strike out on his own, aim for something not unlike what Batman attempted all those years back...yes. He very well could.

"...So it's dangerous." Reilly's weary sigh cuts through his thoughts, more accurate than he even knows. "That's what you're...not telling me."

"Yeah." He sighs with him. It'd be funny if it weren't so sad. "Yeah, it is." The old Father grows quiet and simply sits there, looking at the room with a million troubles tucked behind his tired eyes. He remembers when the guy had a full head of hair. Now it's wispy and pulling back from his forehead.

"You always were strong-willed." He says into the silence. "Knew it from the first moment you stepped into the place with a scowl that would make a bear cower." Blake smiles a little at that. The old man leans forward and folds his hands together. "I'm not trying to make it seem like I...disapprove of your choices. I just..."

"...don't want me to lose sight of what's important." Blake finishes when he doesn't continue, uneven grammar notwithstanding. "I worry about that, too."

"When you went missing all those months back..." Reilly takes in a shaky breath. "Oh, Blake. I honestly thought I'd never see you again." Damn it all. In the flurry of the past few months he somehow missed just how shaken the guy was. Reilly wasn't the type to cry, at least not in front of others, but he can see his eyes glistening something fierce.

'You may be a tour-de-force, Bane...' He thinks as he takes Reilly's hand and holds it tight. '...but you can also be a real bastard.'

"Ha. Goodness." He mutters behind one hand as he wipes his eyes. "Don't mind my complaints, Blake. Stress gets the better of me sometimes."

Blake opens his mouth, then winces when his cell rings. He should have put the damn thing on vibrate. Reilly simply shakes his head, resigned to his busybody habits, and rises to his feet. Blake puts a hand on his arm just as he goes toward the door.

"I'm thinking about it." He says, resolutely. "I mean it."

Reilly almost smiles.

"I know."

He doesn't call back immediately, instead cracking open the window and letting the wet night breeze wash over him. Over ten years and Blake is still a little staggered by the weight of the place. The truest home he's ever known. He rolls over the day and night's events in his head as he cools off. Reilly's rare display of parental pride. Sasha's misplaced shame. Bane's regret.

Stretching himself too thin again. What was he trying to be? A detective? A part-time therapist? A big brother? Conventional wisdom dictated less was more, but he was finding out the hard way he didn't know nearly as much as he thought he did. One thing was for sure: he had to see where the trail led. After all the work he and Harleen put in it would be a waste, a potentially deadly one, to drop it halfway. If it was another dead end, though...maybe he would be better off just staying at the orphanage from now on. Living day-to-day and sheltering the boys from the storm coming.

With a gusty sigh he picks up his cell and hits the callback button. Blake hastily lowers the volume on his phone at Harleen's excited shriek.

"You'll never guess what I found, Sherlock!"

Chapter Text

It had been the very definition of a balancing act.

Something that would have swooned even the most accomplished of technicians, not a single detail out of place over a tense three days. Where a lesser conglomerate would have rushed to action after discovering the hidden location of a stolen superweapon, favoring a quick strike, they had chosen instead to bide their time. These were defectors from the League Of Shadows, after all, and the League had never settled for less than the absolute best. Despite Abdul indirectly leading them straight to their hideout, an unseen splinter in his company's side, swiftness could see themselves running into more trouble than they would be prepared to handle with their strained numbers.

Barsad and just two others had trailed the man far enough and stealthily enough to fool him into thinking he had escaped mere hours after the encounter. It was then and there they saw just what their ex-partner had been helping plan.

Rubio had pieced together dozens of overnight mercenaries in some makeshift army, as poorly trained as they were extremely dangerous. They were held together by the barest of connections. Lust for power, petty revenge, it was something Barsad knew intimately even with their deeper plans still held under lock and key. These were the very people that were either whipped into shape under his tutelage or rejected outright. Ugly traits and weak wills he learned to spot as soon as possible.

At least, he thought so.

Their good luck was much appreciated. The tracking device had been an unreliable element, at best. The mercenary could have found out halfway on his journey and discarded it. Chosen to end his life rather than reveal the location of his superiors or even led them on a false trail. Anyone wholly devoted to an ideal would do anything for it. Hakim had offered himself all the way back during their kidnapping of Dr. Pavel, a better world well worth the price of his life miles above the earth.

Bane knew his men, however. He was not overly close to them, as he couldn't be, but he knew them. Abdul had established himself early on as a dutiful and consistent member. No project or task was left unfinished under his watchful eye. Perhaps bold Nadir or even stingy Taavi would have exercised caution in a similar spot. Abdul, though... What anyone else would have seen as a snap decision was a well-worn plan constructed on the spot in the masked man's tactical mind. He put the tracking device on him, rather than barring his escape or killing him outright, because he knew it would bear fruit.

Seeing the sloppy yet militant group with his own eyes, he reflected that it was rather regretful that whatever Rubio had offered him outweighed Bane's steady promise. Not only had he been a reliable partner over the years, there was little more shameful than dying for nothing (it was no mystery why Abdul had never emerged back out of that hastily destroyed little camp). The tracking device, though, had mysteriously separated from the group away from Gotham. A clever tactic, to be sure -- throw off any pursuers as far away from the trail until they could recoup. It was possible they used another member as the bait. Perhaps they had stuck the device on an animal and sent it off. Either way, he would never personally know.

It was a least subtle operation. Even from a great distance they were able to trail them to their back-up, something even the most defiant of ex-League members would be loathe to ditch. A rabbit burrow would always have multiple escape routes in the event of a breach. The League Of Shadows didn't get as far as it did without learning from both predator and prey...though it was ever, truly, the former.

So here they stand, gazing at a dingy and unassuming block on Gotham's northernmost borders. The city stands tall mere miles away and the omnipresent heavy weather continues to promise them further cover in a matter of minutes. They're disguised as everyday people to discourage suspicion from outside parties, though they are armed to the teeth and ready to give their lives.

Originally a site for a series of apartment complexes and surrounding small businesses for a new district, it sits unfinished and unoccupied even after months of on-and-off work (Gotham officials were making good use of their time and money, as usual). He could see why it was an ideal location for hidden operations -- rarely patrolled due to its loss of government funds and filled with plenty of (however hazardous) shelter, it was something that could be worked with for a short amount of time until curiosity arose. For what purpose, exactly, they were all still unsure. All they knew is that it involved the reactor. All he knew is that Talia was primarily at fault.

Hopefully, her still-hidden betrayal would finally come to an end.

He looks to his leader observing his surroundings with both hands folded over his collar, observing the empty buildings and static construction equipment like he already commands the property and is merely appreciating its details. Barsad contemplates the death in Bane's eyes as they are refreshed on their task.

"Capture them alive." No elaborate speech. The instructions are simple. "Find the reactor."

Everyone quietly double-checks their weapons and armor. Considering what was at stake they would have normally brought fifty men. Right now they have merely fifteen, including himself and Bane -- with a handful of defectors somewhere nearby none the wiser and a few recent deaths at the hand of Gotham law enforcement, their numbers were shakier than normal. Every other mercenary or spy not maintaining regular routes throughout the city is holding fast both the storm drains and the back-up bunker to protect the volatile, precious elements within. Perhaps he would have to recruit a few more once they were done here. This unsettles him more than it ever has before.

Their efficient and tight network. Formed through years and years of steady, patient, painful work. Barsad inwardly cringes at the thought that there could be more like Abdul among their ranks, even now. Taking after the League better than he could have imagined by biding their time and waiting for the right moment to strike. Would he hire another Rubio without realizing? Was this something that could even be entirely prevented?

"I will try." Barsad attempts to keep the concern out of his voice, but Bane's ears are as sharp as a fox's. He roots him to the spot with his gaze alone, ignoring everyone else spreading out and moving to their positions. North, south, east and west. No corner neglected.

"Speak your mind."

He wants to, but he can't. It's distraction and not why Bane relies on him. Yet the man waits. Not patiently, no. His leader has had a shorter and shorter fuse over the coming weeks.

"Do you fear you will not be able to disarm your former students?" He asks. "Surely you have not forgotten my origins so quickly."

"Their skill rarely surpassed my own." Barsad begins. Bane clicks his tongue.

"But what of your attachment?" His tone is coarse. "Unease wafts off you like smoke, Barsad." The mercenary understands. They were down to the wire and everyone was feeling the livid energy that came with either a great success or great failure. But it doesn't keep his next words from feeling like sand in his mouth.

"...I should have spotted this sooner." Barsad murmurs. "We spoke frequently. He was always a little dissatisfied with his position. There were signs and I should have seen them."

It would be simpler to say he's sorry. It doesn't feel right on his tongue. His mind tries to reason with months and years of information in a sudden regretful overload. Dr. Pavel's complaint of Rubio's nosy, controlling behavior. His very first interview with the eager mercenary, all the way back in that hovel many miles away from Gotham. He knows better than to wonder now, of all times, but handling shame was never one of his strong suits.

The wind keens and sighs through the half-finished buildings. An old spirit mimicking his mood. He can feel more than see Bane's mood lessen and shift. The masked man looks him up and down, then turns back to view the site with a low sigh. He's not angry with him. His failure or his belated apology. It's something else. Something...worse.

"...We move."

Barsad steels himself back into cool indifference and follows.

"Yes."

It's a smooth process. His men remain in near-silent contact as they scour the length of the construction field for guards and traps. One fanatic goes down in their southeastern position mere minutes in. Another finds evidence of a landmine in their northern position and calls backup to disarm it. They're not just warm -- they're right on top of them. It's not long before they're alerted to Rubio's presence further within the complex.

"Filthy backstabber." He hears Saroo mutter.

Like a predator anticipating the kill Bane splits from their small group and heads off on his own, vanishing into the shadow before they've even settled down. It's only a matter of time until the remaining defectors check in and catch onto their missing members. They have to work fast.

There is activity above them. Only a few men are pacing above and scouting for danger, though immediate familiarity is lost through the haze of fog. One of them could be Sahir, missing-in-action only to be glimpsed by Barsad during his tracking of Abdul. Another could be Faris, a newer member with a devastating propensity for the art of poison. He tries to ignore the furious, regretful twisting of his heart at the wasted time put into training them. Fighting alongside them. He had called them brothers, once.

It starts to drizzle. He pulls up his hood and pushes on his goggles. It's tempting to snipe from his vantage point, but he resists. Not only are they too close together, an ensuing shoot-out could compromise the unfinished foundation. The last thing they needed were steel bars and debris raining down on their heads. So they wait for additional signals before advancing. Signing is less conspicuous than whispers, so they gesture intermittently in the safety of shadow.

"I hope Talia gets better soon." Saroo says. "Bane has not been the same."

A few nods of assent. Barsad lifts one hand carefully, adept at communicating without both.

"We will all fare better once the reactor is back in our hands."

It's a plain answer, but an honest one. A younger member, the same age as Salim, moodily eyes the fanatics stalking many feet above before catching Barsad's gaze.

"We should just kill them all." Batoul stresses. His signing has improved. "There is always a possibility they could escape and hurt others again. Do we take this chance?"

Instead of a vocal laugh the rest of the men simply flick two fingers toward their person, a chuckle at the expense of their green brother. Barsad doesn't join in, but he can appreciate the sentiment.

"Bane much prefers to toy with his foes. Set an example, see." He watches Khalil respond from where he hunches with his rifle. His cigar has been pocketed for the moment. "He didn't even kill Bruce Wayne, remember."

Bane had given Barsad a simple task many weeks back -- give the men a simple story. The truth of Talia's betrayal had remained for his ears alone, with even the guards sent to watch over her night and day instructed on a white lie of mental wellness. The stress of maintaining her position as a member of Wayne Enterprises on top of her double-life was starting to leave scars, Barsad told them as they were drilled on routine. She worked herself too hard and too frequently. She needed a break and would not take one, even at Bane's behest, causing her to break down and require confinement as not to hurt herself further.

Gotham's elite were not well-loved. It was more than a little easy to believe that their poisonous company could leave some devastating after-effects (and Barsad had been more than willing to embellish on his past stint in comfortable, soul-sucking middle management). On top of that, many a League member had at least one, if not multiple, forms of mental illness to their name. Post-traumatic stress disorder caused by war, police brutality or both, was the most common. Panic disorder and depression would also make themselves clear from time-to-time. All in all, it was an endearing tale. One that worked well enough for a time. Then the questions began to emerge.

The guards sent to take care of her asked him, one day, why there was yet to be a psychologist assigned. That Bane was terse, even severe, when dealing with his men was another concern muttered over food and guard post -- a practice sparring match had seen more than a few men in confusion when Bane had simply picked up his jacket and left the mat after a session, rather than the usual round of genial criticism he offered for future reference. To say this ongoing secrecy had caused doubts that only grew and grew by the day would be an understatement. Talia may not be their brother forged by the fires of battle, but she was also their leader. No one wanted to feel left out of this sudden, strange loop.

Barsad was trusted on all sides and it was through this trust he continued to learn about the weak links in their foundation. Concerns had been shared with him that Talia had been the mastermind all along, that the reactor disappearing and her sudden spell couldn't be separated. It was an alarmingly canny interpretation he had done his best to damper. Others had been genuinely alarmed at the dip in Bane's usual polite manner and wanted to know what they could do to help. A more touching expression he knew firsthand Bane wouldn't accept.

Balancing acts. These were his specialty. Ever since he was a father taking care of a wife and two children. He would figure this one out, too.

Then the bomb goes off.

One moment they're holding their positions, quiet and waiting. The men are silently laughing over a shared joke. Saroo receives the go-ahead to pick off the sentries and moves into position. Khalil follows, their coordination relying on all shots hitting their marks perfectly.

The next there's a thunderclap of sound and he's hitting the ground and covering his head as everything collapses around him. Barsad has been near explosions before -- the city hall felled by its own 'protectors' was not one he'd soon forget -- and he knows to duck for cover and shield his vitals until the worst is over. A thankfully thick series of wooden beams manages to withhold against the onslaught, only one other man sharing the space with him.

He barely registers the yawning gap in the crossbeams above when his senses fall in place again. The gray sky churns above, suddenly too bright, and illuminates the smoke. One of the fanatics who had been scouting above, an older man he now recognizes as Tor, has hit the ground in three separate places not far from him. Disgust threatens to churn Barsad's stomach as he rises to his feet and pushes up his scarf to better navigate the thick wall of smoke. Did they know they were to lose their lives in such an ignoble way?

A few bruises complain on his back where the beams had shaken under the weight, but nothing is broken. As he picks his way through the smoldering wreckage, he distantly wonders if John Blake's intuition could have helped.

"It came from above..." He hears Khalil cough. Their rifle is hefted and ready for battle. "But mines had already been detected..."

Barsad's skin tightens with unease. He immediately tries to contact Bane. The man doesn't answer. It's possible he's run into more fanatics (damn it all, there could be so many more he doesn't even know about) and needs to remain silent. Something tells him that's not the case, even though he wasn't hired for mere intuition and he knows he needs to stay put until the man inevitably returns, remaining defectors in tow.

"Can you stand?" He asks Khalil as they clutch their ear. They seemed to have escaped the worst of the blast, but their equilibrium is shot and a nasty amount of blood is seeping down their neck. Barsad finds Shen picking nails out of his arms, flinging them to the side in his haste. Saroo's leg is broken, though he insists he can still fight. It's a quick few minutes as they collect themselves and assess the damage. No alarms have been raised, but an explosion was impossible to miss.

Batoul has to be picked out of the rubble. A glance at the metal beam in his head tells them all it was a waste of their energy. They can spare only a moment, a League's acknowledgement of three fingers on the throat, before heading toward the cluster of noise in the distance. From the disorganized shouting, a fight is well underway.

"I will kill them." Saroo grimaces as he's hefted up. "I will kill them for Batoul."

"You will take them alive as he said." Barsad reminds him. "Use your sharp eye and cover the others. Something is not right here." He checks his tracking device. Their leader has remained static deeper in the complex for minutes now. Barsad has to warn Bane of the unseen element. That, or back him up wherever he is.

There are a conspicuous lack of extra members as he wanders between what seems like endless blank walls and piles of wood. Four years and, despite using a few himself, he was still unsettled by the destructive power of bombs. How it would lay to waste so much hard work and purpose in a mere blink. Rubio had been more than willing to throw aside responsibility. That he would be too eager to lay to waste what was meant to be a back-up was...

...telling.

Barsad suddenly ducks down. A man has rounded a corner to check on the rubble. He doesn't recognize them. This gives him a burst of almost toxic courage and he promptly kneels to one side, out of sight, until he's in perfect distance. A single chokehold reduces him to limp flesh on the ground, the fight he puts up something piteous, more like a civilian than a trained soldier. Where did he find such people? What were they promised?

It's a large room, almost finished, filled with simple amenities that suggest an office or a studio. The rain that puddles on the ground through the holes in the wall give it a mournful look. Bane is standing in the middle, hands folded behind his back as he stares down multiple guns pointed his way. One, two, three...he counts six men, Rubio just barely visible as the last in a cast of shadow.

"It's been a while, Bane." He hears him saying over the drip-drop of rain. "Almost fifteen minutes. Your cavalry is late."

"And yours is woefully underequipped." The masked man murmurs. Barsad can't see his expression, but his head moves from side-to-side just slightly. A ponderous glance. "...Do they know you've sentenced them to death?"

The wooden floors let out a weak creak. A few have shifted a little, nervous even in their advantage. The masked man's reputation still precedes him -- whatever Rubio has told these newcomers about him hasn't lined up with reality.

"I really didn't want to do this." Indeed, he appears genuinely remorseful. Something is twisting his face as he steps a little closer. "I joined because it was better than the terrible job and terrible future I had to look forward to before I died." He stops in the weak light. "That's what I thought until I saw you kill your own men."

"They knew what they signed up for." Bane responds, simply. "All of you did."

"No...no, I don't accept that." Rubio's composure is already cracking. "You're no different from a fucking warlord. You were supposed to be. But you killed Sadiq. You killed Abe and Viktor, all they did was make a simple mistake capturing the Commissioner..." A few mutters of assent follow his words -- it's not the agreement of experienced fighters, but the emboldened support trying to heat up their leader. The air around him feels tense and fragile, as if a single noise louder than a whisper could bring everything crashing down again.

"Their cowardice cost the lives of three men." Bane almost speaks over him. "Instead of standing firm under Gotham's onslaught they crumbled under a selfish fear, fear they were painstakingly trained for, and took with them three worthy souls who could have continued to mold the world into better." He gestures to the men pointing death at his person, an action that makes them stiffen nervously. "You follow in their footsteps."

Doubt is a powerful tool. Barsad had felt its claws dig deeper and deeper over the past few hours and here it was, being wielded as efficiently as any pistol or knife. Another shuffle of feet. A quick glance. Bane's words are planting seeds that could see Rubio losing a card in his deck...and the man knows it. His bravado is cracked. His eyes flick back and forth as he attempts to find more reliable ground.

"I can smell your fear from here." Bane chuckles softly. "There is little stopping you from abandoning this farce, Rubio. Quantity over quality will not win, here. Spare your...firing squad...the indignity of your failure."

Confusion is now plain on the men's faces. They look to their leader, helpless. Rubio grits his teeth. "Just like you spared the life of that worthless cop?"

Barsad's chest clutches at the way Bane's shoulders stiffen. No. Damn it. Rubio has somehow hit a nerve. Even worse, he knows it. His voice grows shrill, undignified, but the confidence in his tone is maddening.

"You don't think we know? You talk and talk and talk about taking down corrupt officials, yet you treated this man like a cherished guest. You fed him and sheltered him. Let him spar with us like equals. I remember. He was weak." The last comment is for the benefit of his men, something that earns a nervous chuckle from one. His words grow faster. Seeking grip. "Talia knows. Talia knows you threw away your ideals. That's why she turned to us. That's why she left you. Why did you do it?" His gaze darts rapid-fire as it searches for insults that will stick. "Was it worth it?"

'Ignore him, Bane.' Barsad wills, desperately. 'Ignore these taunts.' Bane is deathly rigid, the only movement he can make out in the distance the spasm that runs down his arms. His hand flexing as if imagining a thousand deaths in its grasp.

"You have killed people for making innocent, human mistakes. Would you die, Bane?" The tremble of his gun is visible even in this distance. "Would you kill yourself for your mistakes?"

"I will die for the cause, Rubio. My death will live on in the actions of others. You, however, will die for nothing." Bane's fingers twitch. "History will forever turn the other cheek."

He's shadow incarnate. A blur of motion and he lunges to the side, has one of the fanatics' arms in a death grip, twisting it behind their back with such veracity that he can almost feel it crack into permanent disuse. Shots ring through the room and Barsad has to duck down to avoid getting a bullet between the eyes. He's back up quickly, though, quick enough to see Bane using the man as a shield as he fires at the defectors in turn.

Even in the hazy space between seconds the conflict in the others is plain to see. One of the men fires at Bane, clipping through their partner's shoulder and causing them to howl, only for another to shout out in alarm. A few more flashes, seconds later and the only one left standing is Bane and Rubio. The fanatic in his grasp is already bleeding out, the unluckiest in the room, and he's tossed onto the ground like waste to join his brethren. Their twitching chests are the only hint of the life still inside them.

"...Freak." Rubio pants. "Inhuman freak."

"Come, now." Bane cocks the gun. Blood drips from a wound on his arm. "That just hurts my feelings, Rubio."

"You think that's all I have, Bane?" He doesn't even check the status of his men, not even the quickest glance, his eyes firmly trained on the masked man. "You're not this foolish. There are more."

"Then there will be less." His voice is lilting. "Cowards don't risk their necks." Soothing. "Neither will you."

Rubio could be referring to more men. He could also be referring to more bombs. There must be more, somewhere. Their sensors had picked up vague elements outside the more obvious landmines, but they're faint. Faint because they're distant or faint because they're...? Dawning horror spreads through his body like a chill.

"It's over, Rubio."

He steps out from his hiding place. Bane glances sideways at him, but otherwise doesn't move a muscle. Rubio, however, almost looks relieved.

"Barsad." He says, breathless. "Brother."

"You are no brother of mine." He spits. Rubio's expression doesn't change, still something plaintive, reaching.

"You know better than anyone what he's capable of. Think of all the people he took you away from. Think of your family."

"I left my family, Rubio." He had to resist the righteous anger that follows the man's miserable wit. "Just as you left yours." He turns to Bane. "They carry explosives inside them." He ignores Rubio's attempts to still speak and adjusts his goggles with one hand. "This is how they slipped past our sensors and ambushed us. Two injured and one lost." His voice deepens with rage. "I imagine the sentries had been rather desperate to stop our advance."

Bane's eyes narrow in realization, then widen viciously. Whether or not he even suspected is unclear. Rubio blanches and he now knows why the man sounded so confident. His trump card was something even the original League had viewed as extreme.

He thinks to the man's pale sense of honor, all the way back in the mountains. "For old time's sake...give up this foolish chase." He moves closer to Bane, far enough that they could both dive through one of the holes and make a quick exit should Rubio decide to detonate himself. "Or you will fall where you stand."

The rain picks up outside and inside, drumming a mournful rhythm throughout the unfinished complex. It's a terse, quiet moment as the mercenary debates his shrinking options. He finally looks to the men twitching and moaning on the floor.

Barsad bristles when the man suddenly laughs. He spares a quick glance to Bane. His eyes are dark. Suspicious.

"You think that's it?" He lowers his pistol. "I may spit on your League, but I was still a student." He pulls up his sleeve. "There is always another plan."

Barsad see's Bane's eyes widen in recognition.

"...It's done." Rubio says as he presses something against his arm. "Go get her."

Barsad fires -- to disable, even then, not to kill -- but it doesn't stop the left side of the room bursting into flame. Right where Bane is standing. Then another. Then another. Then another. Everything is noise and flame and shuddering earth.

"Move ba-"

Time blurs. Something hits him and sends him to he floor. His ears howl with abuse, a cacophony that tries to pry his brain apart with merciless fingers. He's rolling on the ground, trying to get away from the fire, trying to put it out. Smoking flesh, sour and horrible, fills the entire space and turns it into hell.

The goggles keep the smoke from clinging to his eyes, meaning he can easily see Bane vanish under a flood of rubble even as he fights to remain something more than a sudden smear of organs. Somehow his two-way has survived the blast. He presses the button instinctively. An alert they're in danger. Khalil's voice snaps and crackles back at him. A truck is making its way out of the site. The reactor could be inside, he's saying. They're going to pursue. They need an update on their status. Barsad's head is spinning too hard to speak.

Somehow he pushes himself through the debris, even as everything is still crumbling, still trying to bury them under. His silver and black mask is a beacon that glints and leads him through the choking gray haze. He reaches through and down and under to find him. Feels him struggling under the weight of fallen sheetrock and metal beams.

"Leave me." Bane wheezes. Blood oozes the front of the mask. "Get the reactor."

With a heave he pushes a layer of drywall off him. He tries for another, only to then register the agony lancing up his shoulders and neck. There's an injury. He doesn't know how bad. It's been years since he's panicked and it's only through the sudden rush of strength it gives him is he able to give it meaning. He can make out flesh mingling mercilessly with the man's shredded, smoldering jacket.

"This is an order." Red spittle flicks the ground in front of him. "They are coming for her. Gotham is in danger. Go!"

Solutions and problems present themselves as snaps and crackles of electricity. They have Dr. Pavel. They have Talia. They are well-guarded. The reactor is a specialized form of nuclear energy understood by a lofty and educated few. Should they get away now they still are armed with little more than a particularly large paperweight. The others are in pursuit. Some are injured. Batoul is dead. Rubio has vanished. Bane...

"Barsad...!"

Bane is the League Of Shadows.

Another beam clatters to the ground. Another sheet slides to the side. Then he's free. The man tries to get up on his own, only to attempt to push him away furiously. Barsad resists and pulls Bane's arm around his shoulders, standing up into the fire that swirls around them. His radio equipment is fried. He has to trust the rest will know what to do.

Cold air rushes in-between walls of unbearable heat. The outside drizzle is valiant, almost heavy now, but it isn't nearly enough to dampen the fire licking its way up the wooden foundation. A distant clatter interrupts his step. Something else pops beside him. He trudges on.

The only sound that can be heard over the crackle of flame is the masked man cursing his name.

Chapter Text

"What are you doing?!"

Too many voices. He can't even make out his own. He's scrabbling backwards like a terrified animal, his eyes glued to the metal bat glinting maliciously above his head, hands scraping on the cold ground in desperation for something, anything, to stave off the inevitable. Gravel. Dirt. Grass. Glass. She's laughing like someone possessed. Like the fact she's about to murder him in cold blood is the best joke she's heard all week.

"You should've killed me when you had the chance, puddin'!"

Back door. Locked. Anti-virus software. Installed. Dying plant. Still watered.

John Blake ticks off every little chore and safety measure more eagerly than he would've otherwise. It made sense. Everyday mundanities, something he originally took for granted, had transformed into the therapy he used when an actual counselor and a few weeks' of scheduled time were still out of his reach. More and more, simple actions like doing dishes or kicking back with a book was transforming into more of a fantasy than even the wildest images flashing on the latest action flick. Shit, he even swept his porch yesterday. Perspective, like usual, was hellbent on pinching his cheeks.

He'd even taken time out of his week to update his will, something that had floated to the bottom of the proverbial pool in terms of immediate concerns. It had only taken a few tweaks (namely regarding Trevor should she ever be found and the few extra belongings he had since brought in). Anything and everything (organs included) had been destined for St. Swithin's and any other orphanages in need since he turned eighteen. For some reason he wasn't as depressed talking to the attorney as he thought he would be. If anything he felt more resolute than ever -- that when he goes down, it was going to at least be for everybody's benefit.

Hopefully.

Harleen had hit an alarming breakthrough a few days back, something that he (probably rudely, in retrospect) asked her to double-check again and again through sheer disbelief. She found something both incredibly likely and incredibly strange while scouting for incriminating behavior downtown -- some sort of small metal ball filled with holes, compact enough to fit in the average pocket yet complex enough to spread gas around for yards. Maybe even miles. When he'd asked how she found out it was the toxin, he couldn't exactly say he was surprised when she said she'd just 'whiffed it'.

"Get it?!" She'd exclaimed over the phone. "Like a whiffle ball?"

Seeing it in person, he couldn't say she was too far off.

The person she'd pried it off of had been pretty high themselves, but according to Harleen 'parsing out crazy talk is par for the course'. She'd given the holder a 'little scare' (much to his chagrin she deigned not to go into the details) and got quite a bit of information on who gave them the contraption and whythey went along with it. Apparently the victim (as well as a handful of others) had been led into thinking it was a harmless little experiment. A form of technology being pioneered to reduce the smog Gotham was infamously known for. Since they were being paid not-insubstantial amounts of cash, whether or not they actually bought this tall tale was anyone's guess. Needless to say, they had their lead and they were going to take it.

They were off to The Narrows.

Blake takes an extra moment to pull himself together in his cramped bathroom, finger-combing his now-shaggier hair and rubbing a hand up and down the stubble again graying his chin. He looks...older. Still tired. Less baby-faced, if that was a plus, though Bane seemed to find him attractive irregardless of what he did (or didn't do) with his appearance. Instinctively he turns and scrutinizes the shape of his ass in the more slimming dark jeans he chose over his usual gray pair. Yeah. Still good. He feels the muscles along his arms, along his stomach. Could still use a little work.

He's had to trade out his late birthday present in favor of one of his older coats, not wanting to wear it out even worse -- he noticed the already fraying hem was starting to take a beating and the right pit was pulling apart enough to show the undershirt. Plucking at the black flight jacket that hugs his torso a little tighter than he'd like (something he wore back at the dating scene, a vague and uncomfortable memory), he makes a mental note to ask Bane to give him a few pointers on sewing.

It's a decent enough afternoon, the sun winking sweetly through patches of cloud the moment he steps outside. Coats of frost barely dust the ground and metal poles he walks by. Maybe now flowers would actually start to bloom. He asks around if anybody's seen Trevor (still nothing), offers his thoughts to Chin-Mae (doing better) and makes sure to give the orphanage a call to check in on the boys before leaving in full.

Reilly updates him, as best he can with the boys wrestling for turns on the phone. Finn is studying for his driver's license, he's happy to find out. Should the test go well he could be driving his car in just two weeks. The kid was just shy of aging out and, as much as it pained Blake like an emotional Charlie's Horse, he and Reilly had to affectionately nudge him out of the nest. It seemed his hard work was paying off. Both of theirs'.

Amir has been contacted for another art show, a kid's competition with a hefty grant as the prize, though he insists his portfolio isn't ready and needs a second eye -- to his surprise, he asks if Behnam could look it over for him next time he visits. He remembers Bane talking to the kid during Joel's party and catching his attention. The man was wickedly cultured. It was a wonder he could crush windpipes as easily as lay him low with a few clever moves in chess. He can't promise Amir anything, but he assures him he'll let him know.

Joel's mother has visited twice since his birthday, something that means the world to the kid, and he hasn't had a single fit in a week. A milestone according to his counselors. These little updates make his heart swell with so much pride it almost hurts. His boys remind him why he fights when everything threatens to make him forget.

"You got any tips on how to revive a dead plant?" He asks Reilly before he has to leave.

"Just give it a little love." He responds over the boys' hubbub. "Plants are living beings just like us, you know. They can't thrive on loneliness."

"You're such a sap, Reilly." He chuckles. It's as big of a compliment as he's ever given. "I'll do that."

He relaxes into his coat when he takes the train, even as people jostle him from side-to-side in their bid to transfer or claim space. Even the humdrum of public transport feels different than usual. Harleen's chosen Blue Moon for their meeting, one of the more homely diners that's managed to survive downtown demolition and remodeling. It's not particularly crowded, inside or out, but he doesn't feel anything could have made him miss the petite woman leaning back against the side of the cafe with the silliest pair of earrings he's ever seen.

"Well, well, well. If it ain't my new partner-in-crime." She pops a bright pink cube into her mouth as he jogs up to her. "You ready to kick ass and take names, Sherlock?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." He responds with a shrug. "Which I've learned is usually not enough."

"That's pretty optimistic! By Gotham standards, anyway." She holds out a small box. "Gum?"

They head past the diner, through the narrow alley and out into the deserted parking lot in the back. Once they're sure they're alone she reaches into her coat and hands him a gas mask, one just a touch nicer than the store-bought model he'd used in the Acres. He'd brought along his standard pistol, sleeping darts and boot-knife, ready for things to get ugly and in a heartbeat. Considering his luck, it would. He also kept a handful of matches and a spray can on his person, though it'd be difficult to encourage an open flame and not look a little weird. The toxin didn't like fire, though, so he'd figure something out.

He gives her a once-over as he wraps the mask around his face and tucks it beneath his scarf. Her gaudy hair is nestled under the fuzzy hood of her jacket and the splashy make-up is toned down, if only barely. She almost looks like an everyday Gothamite. If they were an eccentric clubber with an addiction to cheap bubblegum, that is.

"...Dice earrings?" He says with a cocked brow. "For a covert operation?"

"Don't deny me the little pleasures of life, Sherlock." She smirks. "Cute jacket."

They take a taxi just far out enough to save them time, but get off a little farther to give them wiggle room in case they're being followed. This means they still have to cross the bridge onto the Narrows, but neither of them are particularly worried about being jumped. Indeed, their confident stances must translate into swagger because even the apparent regulars haunting the passage leading into the dilapidated neighborhood shuffle off like loose leaf paper at the sight of them.

"I got Tatsu on speed-dial in case we gotta blast." She reminds him as they walk over the rushing rapids. "Worrywart's probably right 'round the corner with binoculars, anyway."

"Good." He gestures to his hip. "If we need to remove witnesses I have sleep darts. Better safe than sorry."

"I think I'll try the more old-fashioned approach." She says, patting her bat. He frowns as they near the end of the bridge and officially cross into the next neighborhood.

The Narrows has been seen as a lost cause for decades. Even the Bowery could boast a more organized crime syndicate. Without the grudging respect 'bestowed' on Old Gotham's historical architecture or nearby East End's desperate grip on working-class culture, it stood out as a place Gothamites considered a little too dangerous or just plain pointless. The vicious circle of poor people and few options meant petty to severe crime was rampant -- little more than a neglected chore for local law enforcement. Despite the Gotham river cutting through it and providing a good chunk of the city's fish output, the place's only claim to fame was being a bad neighborhood that held one of the worst elements the city would ever be known for: Arkham Asylum.

He had originally requested to be assigned here during his first few months in the force. Despite his abnormally high marks in nearly every area (even Foley had a hard time shitting all over his good name when he first started out), they had refrained -- 'too dangerous', 'who cares', 'you have better things to do'. He wonders now if it was because he might have done some actual good. The sinking feeling in his chest at all that hard work lost has to be wrestled down, though it's not as hard as it used to be. He was doing actual good now. Fuck them.

"Did you see anything...strange when you breathed in the toxin?" He asks as they pass an abandoned house with a gaping hole in the roof. "Hallucinations or memories?" A murder of crows sit and preen along the rim like some witch's ritual. Judging by the weak trickle of smoke drifting out into the open, it's been occupied.

"Strange ain't how I'd put it." She kicks at a stick on the ground. "More like hellish."

"Yeah." Something startles the crows and makes them rise like a dark cloud into the air. "Sounds about right."

When he was a kid he fantasized about sneaking off to The Narrows and fighting crime. It was a dare many orphan boys would push onto their fellows when peer pressure was more entertaining than shooting bottle cans or etching crude language into car doors. Called the 'Narrow Run', it involved running across the signature bridge stretching over the icy river, touching the sign that heralded a visitor's arrival and running back across. Reilly hated this dare and made it very clear what any boy's punishment would be if they, well. Even dared. Blake had given it a shot because he was new and wasn't yet convinced Swithin's was an actual home.

He had lost his privileges for three solid weeks. Blake didn't have a lot of friends, but it earned him something like respect in the eyes of the other boys when he crossed the bridge and scribbled his name all over the welcoming sign in black marker. Much to Reilly's surprise, and his own, he hadn't been all that mad about his punishment. Young Blake had just been glad an adult gave a crap about him for once.

"Robin The So Great And Powerful?" Harleen reads aloud when they walk past the rusty billboard. The ink is smudged and faded, but still legible.

"Sounds like a real tough guy." He chuckles.

Arkham Asylum is just across the field. He glances at Harleen, hands shoved in her pockets and cheerfully kicking stones out of their path. Would she feel any nostalgia for the place? Had she even been assigned to the original establishment? The asylum had been sneakily relocated over the years. The building was little more than an heirloom now. He can just make it out its signature gothic architecture, almost dignified even surrounded by spidery-bare trees and yellow grass. He doesn't sightsee too much, though. They've been watched since they've arrived.

Harleen's a natural at smalltalk and they shoot the shit about anything and everything to seem casual to the average eye (though he doesn't miss the way she dodges the occasional pointed question). The place is deceptively bare, but he can always catch movement out of the corner of his eye. More people trying to see if they're an easy mark. Nothing new. He's more impressed by how easily she falls into the rhythm of discouraging outside attention, though that appreciation is soon squandered by the uncomfortable questions of what she did to earn such pragmatism.

'Come on, Blake.' He reminds himself. 'Don't get too suspicious. She's been a huge help.'

"So...a bat?" He says when the faint, howling wind makes for a poor conversational substitute. Harleen attempts to stuff her hair back into her hood. The curls poke out anyway.

"Used to have a sledgehammer." A toothy grin. "Big one, too."

"Yeah?" He asks with a raise of his brow. "What happened to it?"

"Acres crew asked me if they could use it to patch holes." She responds with a sigh. Blake can't help but laugh. He couldn't lie. She was funny.

"You don't pull any punches, do you?"

"You makin' fun of Goodnight?"

"Actually...it's really practical." He admits. "A gun can run out of bullets and a knife can cut its user as easily as the opponent. There's something really flexible about a bat. I've thought about using something similar in hand-to-hand combat." It's hard not to feel a little nerdy as he adds, "A pole or a staff, maybe."

The complex grows nearer. An area her impromptu confidant was supposedly from. He starts analyzing it from head-to-toe. The crooked (and likely broken) front gate. The conspicuous lack of cars in the front. It takes him a moment to realize Harleen is still speaking.

"...lotta different tricks you gotta have up your sleeve to deal with this sorta Gotham. Everyone's gotta have the latest stuff what with all the raids goin' on. You know, I noticed you went upstairs at the city hall." She says, the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes the only other sound aside from what sounds like a train in the distance. "Did you actually meet Gotham's big bad wolf?"

"More or less." He feels a warm pang in his chest at the mention.

"Where will you go from here, John?"

He had woken up to Bane in his natural habitat. Morning grogginess was clearly as foreign a concept as shyness to the guy. Already dressed head-to-toe in his biker get-up, sans the gloves, he sat with his back to him in the early morning hours shaving. He couldn't recall ever seeing so much as a single hair on the man's head, but whatever he was doing made sure his scalp gleamed nearly as much as his helmet. It was less that, though, than the fact his mask was off and set to the side.

The sight was just a little out-of-place, like seeing a car driving with a missing tire or a closed bud in summer. The deep marks wrapping around the nape of his neck suggested he, indeed, wore it as much as he suspected. He'd stared and stared from where he lay bundled in the blankets, hoping for a glimpse of his face, only to wind up thoroughly disappointed when Bane merely mopped off excess shaving cream with a rag, tossed it onto the table and strapped the mask back on. Standing up and grabbing his coat, he gave Blake a knowing look before hunching out of the tent.

Blake had rather hurriedly thrown on his clothes at that. It had been startlingly sunny when he followed him outside, the fog he was used to hardly more than thin wisps in the distance. Although the warmth couldn't reach them, not that early, a rare hot day was well on its way.

"I'll find Scarecrow or his copycat and get to the bottom of all this." He responds, stuffing his hands in his pockets and squinting up at him through the glare. He was pleasantly sore, inside and out, and knew the aches would have to keep him company until they could rendezvous next. "At least, that's the goal. We're still looking for more solid leads. I've got an...acquaintance helping me out, so I'll at least have some back-up should anything go sour. We've been going back and forth trying to put together where he's staying and what kind of opposition we should expect."

"If there is any expect it to be an outside force." Bane responds practically. "Jonathan Crane was not known for being a physical fighter."

Blake nods attentively. Bane momentarily turns around to confer with Barsad and two others in Russian. He stares at his broad back, aching to reach out and do something obnoxiously mundane. Kiss him on the cheek and wish him a happy day at work? He pushes down the corny thought instead and takes a small slice of joy in the difference he sees in Bane's eyes when the man turns back to him. It wasn't how he looked at everything else, all piercing and frank. Not entirely.

"What will you do when you find them?" He asks, breath puffing a bright white with every other word. Blake tries not to smile at the quiet confidence Bane is instilling in him. When, not if.

"Punch 'em in the face." Bane nods rather seriously at this, making him choke back a laugh. He gets a moody glance from one of the men checking the stock in one of the vans -- clearly he wasn't the only morning person here. "Then lock them up so they won't be able to pull that shit again." That makes Bane raise his eyebrows and, after another glance at one of the mercenary's tablets, he gives him one of his more familiar scrutinizing looks, the one that makes him feel like he's being scanned from the inside out.

"Where will you contain the offending party?" He asks, as sensibly as if they were discussing grocery store discounts and they had to budget dinner.

"My acquaintance says the group she's with is considering taking, uh..." He raises a shoulder in a half-shrug to show he's still murky on the details. "...matters into their own hands."

"Oh?" He seems unperturbed. Maybe a little pleased. "They sound quite well-prepared."

Does he tell him he's working with the woman formerly known as Harley Quinn? Does he even bother finding anything weird at this point? Salim answers that question for him by pulling up with a motorcycle so quickly Blake nearly dives out of the way to avoid getting hit. The sniper clearly thinks it's a great joke, honking laughter as he leans over the seat. Bane does not. Salim has to duck his head in apology as the masked man gives him a severe once-over, then turns back to Blake.

"What about you?" Blake asks when he's given the mercenary a friendly curse at his expense. Unlike Bane's admonishment, though, his doesn't stick -- he gets a cheeky smile once his boss' back is turned.

"We have a lead on the reactor. One that should prove...fruitful." He doesn't like the man's tone, even as he can't quite figure out why. "One of our defectors has given us a trail of breadcrumbs to follow." Maybe it was unfair or unreasonable, but he's already eager to come back into him again. Pull the softer, more tender Bane out where only he can see.

"You know, Joel's birthday is in a few days. Three, to be exact." He says with a smile. A little lower so the others couldn't hear. "If you wanted to drop by and say hi on your break."

Bane had nodded vaguely and handed him a small pouch. He had to school his face into one of attentiveness to cover up his disappointment. "Sleeping agents. Use them as you see fit. Be warned they last one to three hours at a time and should be discouraged on the elderly." He nods when Blake takes them and pockets them. "I know you favor...more peaceful solutions."

Salim motions at him. It's time to go. He settles onto the motorbike, even as his body tugs at him with the desire for another action entirely. "Be careful out there...okay?" A few of the mercenaries look at him like he's crazy. Bane simply nods.

"Watch yourself, John Blake." The crow's feet around his eyes wrinkle in a smile. "The fire rises."

"Earth to Watson!"

He jerks to attention. They've arrived. The apartment complex yawns before them. Like most architecture near Old Gotham it's an antique, all aged brick and crumbling foundations. Unlike Old Gotham, however, it looks a lot worse for the wear. There's clearly no occasional restoration project or regular maintenance. Paint peels in a few too many places and even the ivy crawling up the black front gate is withered and brown. He turns to see Harleen leaning forward and studying his face, eyes as bold as a laser.

"You went to another planet for a second." She scoffs. "I'm not that boring, am I?"

"Sorry." He apologizes, not without feeling. "A lot on my mind."

"I can relate to that." She nods. "...So...?"

"Uh...I totally missed the question." He says, eager to get away from that gaze and deflect. Harleen shrugs lightly.

"Just wanted to know if he really is that ripped or if it's just the leather." Thank goodness the mask hides most of his face. It doesn't seem to do him any good, anyway, because she grins and claps him on the back.

"I'm kiddin'. Don't be too starstruck, doll. Gotham's tough guys sing some pretty impressive showtunes, but in the end they all harmonize the same note. No matter how nice they sound on the surface."

"Nice metaphor." He admits. She beams at the compliment. "Bane's not that bad a singer, though."

"Nah, he ain't bad. Popped off that son of a bitch trying to turn Gotham into Metropolis 2.0. Also got rid of Daggett. Hated that guy." She glances slyly at him. "Makes it easy to trust, yeah?"

Little doubtful thoughts flit in his mind. He pushes them away. It's his turn to ask questions. "Isn't Toxic Acres a sort of haven for Bane supporters, though? Sure saw a lot of the people there cosplaying him." He coughs into his hand. "With varying degrees of success."

She holds up a finely manicured nail. "Protesters. 'They've all got their own methods, but the one thing that connects us is a desire for a better Gotham.'" She blows out a laugh at Blake's expression. "That's how Tatsu said it, anyway. A lot of people there like Bane, sure. Some are just there for the show. Lotsa good folks makin' up the crew. Here's hopin' Bane deserves them."

"Actions speak louder than words." He can't help an affectionate sting of pride running through him. "Though he's pretty good with the latter."

"That's what worries me." She's suddenly, startlingly serious. "He's too good." He's about to ask her to elaborate when she pulls out a lock pick. Blake holds up a hand.

"Woah, wait. There might be a less suspicious way to do this." He starts. "Why not pretend we're here to have some of what they're selling?"

Harleen frowns. "How's that gonna be better than just slippin' in through the back?"

"We still don't know what we're up against. We only just found out the technology he's using to spread the toxin. What other schemes is he running here? How far does his influence go?" He holds up his hand again, this time more placatingly as she looks more impatient than curious. "I want to make sure we have our bases covered."

"Keep forgettin' you're a detective." She sighs as she stands and looks at her pick. "Guess I'll have to practice elsewhere."

"Maybe not." He offers. "If we are onto something...anything secret, that is...we might have to do some prying, anyway."

"Then do you want to do the interrogatin', doll? If we run into the reigning champ himself." She mutters to the side as one of the residents passes them by with a laundry basket under one arm -- aside from a curious look they don't stop what they're doing. "Though you'll have to refresh me on the difference between a good cop and a bad cop routine."

"Oh, it's pretty easy." He responds under his breath. "The bad cop roughs up the subject and the good cop stands by and lets them do it."

They're lucky it's a quiet part of the day. There aren't too many people around, but that could just mean they're inside. The front gate is clearly just for show, as they're able to simply open it and walk down the brick walkway to the front door. An elderly woman, bundled head-to-toe in scarves and layers, seems to be dozing off inside the foyer. The air inside smells even mustier than outside. He's doubly-glad he's wearing a mask.

A shriek pierces the air, high and sharp, making them both jump like a pair of startled cats. It sounds like it comes from somewhere upstairs. The old woman doesn't react, shifting a little and even starting to snore. Not even Harleen shaking her by one shoulder seems to jog her from her state.

"There goes my ear drums." Harleen winces, giving up and rubbing a finger in her ear.

"There goes my blood pressure." Blake breathes, hand on his chest.

"Won't be getting any tall tales out of this one." Harleen peers up the stairs. "We'll have to find another volunteer."

Nothing about the place feels right. St. Swithin's may be old and crumbling, but there was a certain warmth felt by everyone, resident and stranger alike. Even his apartment complex had its own charm (thanks, plant), helped especially by his friendly neighbors. Studying the way his skin prickles as much as he studies the peeling carpet and still air, this place felt less like an everyday residence and more like that cell he stayed in not too long ago.

He jumps again when a hand presses into his shoulder.

"Harleen, don't do tha-" He starts, only to pause at the pale face staring back at him. "...Oh. Hello." The manager? A resident? He looks at her dirty sandals and torn nails. Raccoon eyes that make her look much older than she is. Signs of an addict, as plain as a picture.

"Need some help?" The woman asks, too quickly.

"Yeah, actually. We're visiting..." Blake starts, glancing to Harleen to help him out. Thankfully, the stranger seems to be processing everything at a thousand miles per hour.

"You here for Murphy?" She says, still quick, a little jittery.

"We're Charles' friends." Harleen answers quickly. Charles must be the guy she questioned. His suspicion proves right when the woman's eyes dawn in recognition.

"Well, I wouldn't call us friends." Harleen hooks an arm around her shoulders. "Just a good guy lookin' to hook a pretty girl and a pretty guy up." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Think you could point us in the right direction?"

The woman's demeanor shifts. Her eyes flick back and forth between them, some poorly concealed inner debate. She picks at her nails and works at words not quite making it to her lips. They're on the right track, but she could squirrel up and cut off the trail then and there if they're not careful.

"He doesn't like strangers..." She starts. "...but he's always looking for new patients. He saw me the other day, actually. Really helped. Did Lee tell you about the side-effects? It's not...it's not for everyone..."

Harleen gives him an encouraging look. Blake doesn't waste the chance.

"I saw my mother." He says, holding the shaky woman's gaze. "...I'd like to see her again, you know?" Harleen's eyes widen over her shoulder. The resident, however, relaxes visibly and takes his hands in hers. Suddenly calm. He's not crazy about the constant breach of personal space, but he wills himself to play along.

"Oh. Oh.You're in good hands, yes. The good doctor takes care of us like that. Just like that. You'll see your mother again, sweetie." She pats his hand. "As many times as you want. Here, let me show you his office. Tell him Aisha sent you."

Harleen's brows furrow a little as they follow her away from the stairs and down the hallway. A silent question if he's okay. He shakes his head.

The complex is cramped, the air foggy with what could be dust or smoke or something much worse. Everything's yellowing. Everything creaks. He's sure he saw something scurry after them before vanishing. It's nothing he didn't know from his childhood. It's something else that has him feeling itchy, pieces drifting uncontrollably together like magnets and threatening to form an uncomfortable picture. If Scarecrow really was here...well. He may have picked the perfect place.

They reach a door. 'C. Murphy', it says. Harleen sneers behind her mask.

"It seems he's not in right now." Aisha says with a frown, knocking again for good measure. "Maybe you two could wait here?" She looks at Blake. "Where do you live? Across the bridge? You could stay in the hall."

Harleen mouths over her shoulder where she can't see. He has no clue what she's saying, but it probably has something to do with lockpicking. She rolls her eyes when he gives her a clueless shrug and she pounds a fist into her hand. Ah. He shakes his head fiercely. He can't see her mouth, but he knows she's pouting.

"Sure. We'll wait here. Thanks for showing us around." Blake says, only for his chest to sink when Aisha takes his hands again.

"I'll wait with you." She says, brightly. "I need to ask him for a refill, anyway."

Damn it all. He doesn't want to have to knock her out. Harleen, not subtle even now, repeats the motion with a fervent eyebrow. Would it be worth using a sleepdart? The woman looked pretty high and he had no idea how it would interact with her system. He thinks she's on the younger side, just tired and worn out and drugged up, but it could be the opposite. Doubt is making him jittery as she continues to ramble, holding onto him like a lifeline.

"You'll be very thirsty after using it." She laughs. "I piss five times a day now because of all the water I'm drinking. He said it's just a side-effect, he plans on-"

"Listen, I think we'll just wait here on our own. It's no big deal-"

"You don't have to be embarrassed." He stares at her, trying to follow her train of thought. "He even has a support group, everyone goes. We talk about our problems, what we see, it's best not to go alone. The work is...it's not secret, it's just experimental. You'll have to sign some papers. I'll let him know-"

Thud. Blake barely catches her as she goes rigid as a board and falls forward. Harleen has the butt of her bat in the air.

"Sheesh. They tell me I talk too much."

"What the hell, Harleen?" He hisses as the woman slowly but surely goes unconscious from the blow to the head. "You didn't have to hit her!"

"From the looks of it you were just gonna let her talk your ear off 'til the building fell." She responds indignantly. "We don't got all day."

"I was debating the merit of using sleep darts." Blake growls. "You know, what I said I brought not an hour ago?"

"What, and wait until someone else walked in? You can't use sleep darts on the whole complex." She's already picking the lock, bat strung again on her back. "That's your problem, Sherlock. You overthink things."

"I'm trying to be a detective." He looks for a place to set her down. "That's kind of the point."

Carefully he lays Aisha further down the hallway, propping her up against the wall not unlike the elderly lady back in the foyer. Hopefully she'd look like she just took too much. The added elevation could also lessen the swelling. The wound doesn't look serious, but considering just how shit poor the place was he didn't know if she could get treatment for it. Damn it all. Once they got what they needed he was going to pull Harleen aside and give her a talk on restraint. A click.

The door is open.

Chapter Text

Harleen beckons with a quick hand before slipping inside. Blake glances behind him and hesitates, peering inside the room and scouring the ceiling and walls for signs of cameras or traps, but it looks almost like any other space in the building. Cheap and bare, the tidy furniture and generic art on the walls are the only elements that define it as an office. He sees a shrink couch in the far corner, surrounded by dying plants, and a mug filled with what smells like stale coffee on a plastic desk.

"Not much for decorating, is he." Harleen snorts as they feel their way around. "Nobody around to explain color theory for 'im?"

"You'd think a psychologist would at least have a welcome mat." Blake scoffs in response. "Harleen." He suddenly whispers. "Look here."

Right under the couch. He can just make out the indentation in the carpet. An attic door, by the looks of it. He'd walked in enough cheap apartments to feel something was off about the floor -- dead mouse, moldy foundation, the list was endless -- and the moment he stepped past it his feet sank in uncomfortably.

"Good eye." She says with a low whistle. "We won't have to turn the place upside down now."

"Your bat can't solve every problem." He mutters. She deigns to ignore him as she kneels, peels back a tiny square of carpet and starts picking the lock.

Not even a minute and the door is creaking open. She was damn good at this. Blake leans forward with her and peeks down. He's not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. As far as he can tell it's clean and tidy, noticeably bare of cobwebs, dust and just about anything that would characterize a cellar. Any more information he could get is swallowed in the dark.

"One of us should stay out here in case he comes back." He squints further. "I can go down."

"I ain't afraid of rats." She snickers. "I'm partnerin' with you, ain't I?" He rolls his eyes and leans his head down. "That was a compliment, by the way." She whispers good-naturedly."

"You're making me blush." He responds dryly. "All right, let's wait by the door and make sure-"

"Nah, lemme go in."

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me." She scoots forward and swings both legs down into the narrow space. "I'll check if there's anything nasty waitin' for us."

He pushes greasy palms down his jeans as she vanishes into the dark. Everything doesn't just feel wrong. It feels like something's waiting to blow. Harleen doesn't seem to share his oversensitive stomach, landing on something wooden with a muffled thud and flicking her phone out. It's not a long trip, hardly more than a particularly clean tunnel, but it feels like a lifetime as his head struggles to catch up with his intuition. She starts to pick at something and he's pawing at his pistol. Waiting.

'Gut don't fail me now.'

Click.

The only other way he can tell a door's opened is the sudden flood of cold, stale air. What was this originally? A public attic? Generator storage? The vertical door placement is odd. Maybe it was an impromptu job. Then Harleen sneezes so loud she echoes right up the tunnel and he has to bite his tongue so he doesn't yelp. A soft tap-tap follows. Her bat? Whatever she's doing, nothing seems to be happening. No traps. No explosions. No alarms.

"What's up with this weird door?" He hears her say below.

"Yeah, it's more than a little weird." He answers, relieved to hear her voice. "Was the lock old-fashioned or more up-to-date?"

"It was easy to pick, so very much old-fashioned." She responds cheekily.

That was promising. Mulling over accurate theories, though, isn't making him feel any better. If anything the lack of personal insight into what the hell is down there is making him itch uncontrollably. He thinks of Bane. How he doesn't fear the dark or view it as an obstacle, but applies to it the same practicality he gave everything else. How he can all but see straight through it. He thinks about how the masked man was raised for years in a cold, dark place. That, if anything else, these spaces might feel more familiar to him than the outside world. Perhaps he should take also take a cue from the dark knight. Batman, much like him, had to adjust in the opposite direction.

Harleen flicks her light on. Sudden shapes takes place in the open square below. He can just make out the corner of a table. He sees fuzzy shapes beneath, probably boxes. Maybe papers? He instinctively faces away from her, checking the door, and lifts down his phone to add to her light. Newspaper clippings and files are spread out rather haphazardly, the sudden mess giving a far more human touch to the more bare and everyday they'd been exposed to so far. His curiosity kicks into overdrive. They hit paydirt.

Then the door below slams shut. His blood turns to ice.

"...Harleen?" He hisses after a shocked moment. She might not be able to hear him. He leans against the weak floor and calls louder into the tunnel. "Harleen?"

"Gives a whole new meaning to the term 'shut-in', huh?" She calls back. He blows out a sigh of relief. "I think I'll join you for ruined blood pressure, Sherlock."

"Good thing I didn't join." He says. "You're not in danger, are you?" Harleen doesn't speak for a straight minute. In the silence he hears the occasional thump or creak, sometimes below, sometimes without and where his ears can't place. It takes all his willpower not to dive down and claw his way inside. Anything to curb the paranoia batting his heart around in his chest.

"No danger, doll. Lots of, uh...photos, though. Lots of papers. Guy's a real fixer-upper, I'll tell you." He finally hears, though she's so distant he can barely make her out. She must be walking deeper inside. "...Fuckin' creep..."

"Photos of what?" He calls. "Grab what you can if it looks safe."

She says something else. He can't understand her. He whips out his phone and hastily dials her number. When she picks up, he almost wish he hadn't.

"He's documenting his work, Blake. He has photos and records of everything. People as places as people, just like a good little psychologist." He knows she's serious if she's using his actual name. He whips around at the sound of a creak behind him. The door to the office is still closed. He should put something in front of it. They need time to figure out the trap that has her locked in-

"He's runnin' some sort of operation here. Usin' the people here as test subjects for...toxin? Trauma toxin? He's got different names for it..." It sounds like she's reading something off. "'Aisha sees visions of her four year-old son who died in a drive-by shooting. She will do anything I ask for a dose of the toxin. As far as I'm concerned it's non-addictive, but she visits my office everyday. Double-check her dopamine levels.'" A shuffle of papers. Something hits the floor. "'Nnedi succumbs to severe depression when exposed to minor dosages. An alcoholic. Will check for interactions with various barbiturates.'"

He's gripping the floor so hard he's starting to get carpet burn. What the hell? He knew it would be bad. Bane had held nothing back when he described the man's resume. But...how much longer could this have gone on if they did nothing? What would've happened to the people here? ...What has happened to the people here? That woman. Aisha. No wonder she was so eager to get them in. He hears a few muttered voices somewhere down the hall. Residents, it sounds like. He can't focus on them. Not when Harleen says...

"'Seth committed suicide after just one session involving new toxin.'" Her voice has softened. Hardly more than a whisper. "'Reminder to view his background history for potential history of substance abuse.'"

They're both silent now. He can just hear her shuffling through evidence over the phone's speaker, a cursed rustle in his ear. They've done more in a few weeks than the entirety of Gotham law enforcement would even bother with in a year, but what should be a victory just feels...listless. He rises to his feet, zombie-like, and slowly walks over to the wooden chair in the corner. Harleen's voice over the receiver doesn't even jolt him out of his reverie.

"I'm gonna shove so much lead up this doctor's ass people will confuse him for a five-foot-eight pencil."

"Yeah. We'll get there." He mutters as he drags the chair to the door. "...First let's get you out of that room. There's probably an alarm we tripped-"

He freezes when the handle jiggles.

"You'll find my methods quite aggressive." He hears just outside the door, a smooth voice, followed by canned laughter. "I'm sorry, that sounded excessive. Rather, you'll see results sooner than you think. My new technique has shown incredible promise..."

Blake looks at the chair, then to the open door beneath the couch, the numbness in his brain revving into activity like an accelerated engine. Harleen is saying something else. He drops the chair and rushes over to the attic door, kicking it closed and pulling the couch back over it. What else did they disturb? Everything seems to be in place. Maybe he could slip into the closet door and watch. Then a rush of cool air tickles his clothes.

"...What...are you doing in my office?"

The detective stiffens, then slowly looks over his shoulder. Johnathan Crane is standing in the doorway. He looks much like he remembers him at the city hall, though his suit is much less tattered and his glasses sport black rims instead of gold. Smooth hair, shiny shoes, the very image of working-class professionalism. Two others are behind him, an older man in heavy winter clothes and a younger woman in what appears to be a work outfit, likely residents of the complex. Aisha isn't with them. The poor woman must still be down the hall.

He can imagine what they're seeing from their point of view. A classic jumped-up robber, clad in gray and black with only two dark eyes peering out from an obscuring scarf. No one speaks. Not even Harleen is budging below or speaking on the phone. Blake pulls out his gun. Crane's hands immediately whip up in surrender. The two behind him follow suit. His expression is still calm, but there's a gray pallor spreading over his skin. Good. He doesn't want to scare the residents behind him, no, but this twisted scientist was long overdue for a little fear of his own.

"Whatever you may want is in a safe to your right. I keep money and some belongings in there that could be worth quite a lot." He starts, though his eyes dart to the couch. "It's not much, but please..."

"I don't give a shit about your money." Blake hisses. One of the residents, the younger woman, shifts uncomfortably. They're not as afraid as he would expect bystanders to be with a gun to their faces, more confused than anything else. Crane's eyes flick up and down. An intellectual's reasoning with the unknown.

"You seriously thought you'd be able to get away with this." Blake's hand is trembling in little fits. Attempting to register with the demon masquerading in human flesh just feet away from him. His emotions are treacherous waters, but Harleen's words are still ringing in his ears. "Then again, Gotham's seen some shit in its day. Couldn't say I blame you."

"...Who..." The man begins. "...are you?"

"I'm someone fed up with sociopaths like you using my city like your personal chemistry set." He says softly. "Someone who's not going to give you another chance...unlike Batman or Bane."

They're the right names to drop. The caution in Crane's eyes instead widen into the look of a person afraid they stepped on the toes of someone important.

"Oh, yeah. I know all about you." He takes a step closer, finger itching to yank back the trigger and send every last wicked thought spraying onto the front door. "What you pulled eight years ago. The League Of Shadows funding your sick experiments. How Batman got you locked up in Arkham Asylum and how Bane let you parade around the city hall for shits and giggles. You're no mystery, Crane. Just a disgusting wanna-be terror in a city that's already outdone you."

Blake wouldn't call himself vindictive, but there's a nasty pride in the utter bewilderment whitening Crane's face. He's just peppered the man with verbal bullets and he's struggling to keep his footing, opening his mouth to speak only to shut it again. The detective was going to have to explain to the residents (why did they just look confused, they must've seen a lot in this depressing place already-) the details, though. Get them out so he could tie the guy up and ship him to Tatsu.

"You sound like you have friends in high places." Crane starts, throat bobbing in poorly concealed swallows. "I don't believe...we've met..."

Blake doesn't feel or smell the gas so much as hear it venting from somewhere below. He clutches the mask on his face, eager to reassure himself, and Harleen's cackle penetrates the floorboards under his feet.

"Way ahead of you, Straw Man!" He feels her knock on the low ceiling with her bat for emphasis. "Why don'tcha come down here and fight toe-to-toe like a real Gotham tough guy? You're giving the rest of us a bad name!"

Crane's eyes widen for the last time...then his entire demeanor changes.

"Well. That's very interesting company you keep." Something much less cautious drawls his voice. "Harleen Quinzel spreading her tall tales again? Rallying the troubled youth with her...effervescent wiles?"

Blake narrows his eyes. The cold confidence that's now squared the scientist's shoulders doesn't leave.

"I must say, you don't seem like her typical crew." He continues, musing on the situation like he's reading off a student report.

"...Yeah?" Blake responds. "Why's that?"

"You are clearly much more foolish." The man moves his hands and Blake immediately levels his pistol with his head. Crane pulls his hand back. The two behind him could be confused for mannequins. Still and silent.

"You're going to tell me how to open that door back up." Blake says. "Before you tell me about everything else."

"And just what is everything else?"

"What your drug does to people. How it messes with their psychology and drives some to suicide. Why it leaves side-effects that last for years. How to stop it. Every little damn thing I can think of. I've got time, unlike you."

"And if I find that a ludicrous assertion?" Crane sighs. What would he do? Shoot him? Torture him? He had to admit, he didn't think he'd get this far. Their good luck had looked up without so much as a forewarning. They could've been in here for hours. Perhaps longer. Hesitation isn't making him look good. He can see it in the slow, smug smirk stretching Crane's face.

"How are you doing down there, Harleen?" He has to raise his voice to carry through the floor. "I heard something venting. You okay?"

"There's somethin' funny about this gas. I don't mean in the laughin' way..." She doesn't sound so humorous now. He can still hear something going on below. A faint hiss that could be easily confused for air-conditioning or a sagging balloon. Of course Crane wouldn't bother with a simple trap or alarm. It'd simply be easier to kill anyone who made it this far and clean up the mess later.

"Why the hell would you do this?" It's a useless question and they both know it, but the disgust weighing down his very bones demands he ask. "You got a second chance when Batman spared you. This is what you do with it?"

"You waste interrogating me when she's getting a front row seat to my newest work?" Crane chuckles. "You're more naive than you look...and I can't see much with all that fuss over your face, if we're being honest."

"She has a mask." He says, doubt starting to crawl all over him. "She'll be fine."

"Will that protect her from third-degree burns?"

"What?"

"It melts plastic." Crane says with a shrug. "Burns wood. Loosens up metal, though it depends on various factors like copper density that I'm sure won't interest you. I don't believe soft, fleshy human skin would stand much of a chance, really." Blake glances to the two behind Crane. Why the hell are they still standing there like he didn't just describe a thorough and cruel form of murder? Are they accomplices...? The rumble of floorboards. Sudden desperate banging. Harleen is trying to break out.

"Help me." Crane's voice is suddenly pleading. He's speaking to the two behind him. Jogging them out of whatever drugged reverie they were in. "He's trying to steal our work. You can't let him. With all the progress we've made..."

"You have to get out!" Blake screams at the floor. "Now! Whatever's in there is going to melt you alive!"

"I could use a hand, Sherlock!" She cries back. "Nothing's budgin'!"

Everything happens in a flash. The older man lunges forward and grabs for his gun. Instinctively he wrenches his hand to the side, striking him in the face with the other and sending him slamming backwards onto the floor. The gun skids out of his grasp on the carpet, but he doesn't have time for it. He whirls around, expecting the other to jump him, but she turns and flees through the open door. Jonathan Crane has vanished. He can hear his footsteps thundering down the hall. He looks to the door, then to the secret entrance, then to the door. If he gets away...if he loses this chance...

"Blake!"

"...Hold on, Harleen!"

The tunnel leading down is too narrow. He could take hours trying to kick or carve it open. The floor, however... is just weak enough. He shouts a warning for her and grabs the couch. It's fucking heavy, but adrenaline has a way of turning an ant into a mountain. He bends his knees and hauls it up over his head, holds it for a long, precarious second, and slams it back down. An ear-splitting crack. He lifts it up again, even though his arms are on fire with the strain, and drops it again. A deafening crunch. The floor cracks, then caves in.

"Holy crap!"

He hopes he didn't hurt her. The Scarecrow could be long gone by now, but he attempts as best he can to yank back the couch now sinking halfway through the floor. His previously inhuman strength has all but left him and he has to grind his heels into the carpet, heaving backwards with all his weight in a desperate bid to take advantage of the huge hole he just made. The couch's weight suddenly gives and he slams back on his ass. Harleen's head pokes out a moment later. She must've pushed it up. The gap is just wide enough to move through...and wide enough to show something like green smoke creeping out.

"Here. Here!" He lunges forward, reaching down to her. "Grab my hand!"

Even through the mask the scent of burning paper and something much sicker makes him want to vomit. Harleen is blinking and rubbing her face when she clambers back on the carpet, slapping on the smoke clinging to her jacket and starting to melt it shiny. Crane wasn't bluffing.

"Where's that son of a...?!" She coughs. "I swear I'll-"

"Come on." He reaches out to tug at Harleen's jacket, then thinks better of it. "We have to evacuate the building."

"But Crane...!"

"I know! But look at your shirt..." Is it acid? Poison? Something else? Another minute or two and she could've had the mask welded to her face. Judging by the round-eyed horror he glimpses in her eyes as they leave the room, her imagination is connecting the dots, too. "Everyone here is going to burn alive."

Harleen goes one direction. Blake bolts down the other, past multiple doors and around corners. There has to be a fire alarm. Something that could get everyone out as quickly as possible. He almost sings when he sees it protected under glass near the entrance -- he slams his elbow into it and yanks down the handle. Almost immediately people start opening doors and peering out in alarm. Harleen is caught between hollering at them to leave and yelling into her phone to Tatsu to meet them when he finds her again.

It didn't go to plan, she's saying. They have to leave and try again some other time.

The alarm howls through the weak walls. Dogs are now barking into the cacophony and voices are starting to be raised. Now that everyone is leaving proper he goes back to find Aisha where he left her, still out cold, and hefts her in his arms. She's surprisingly light (no, not surprisingly-) and he manages to find someone who knows her. It's the best he can do right now.

He finds Harleen outside. Blake looks around frantically, even though he knows the man is long gone. With a start he realizes he doesn't have his gun. Damn it. It must've fallen down the sudden hole he had to make to get Harleen out.

"Where's Tatsu meeting us?" He asks, disappoint souring his voice. "Did you find any evidence below you could bring with you?"

"Just a few things I pocketed." She says as they run through the small apartment square toward the front gate. "Everything else went up in flam-."

They both screech to a halt. Crane is standing in front of the gate. He's wearing what looks like a burlap sack over his head. A knotted scar runs down and up the front, some twisted smile, and he can just make out the man's eyes peering through the front holes. ...No. Not Crane. Scarecrow.

"I don't think I can let you leave, officer." Even his soft voice manages to carry through the chaos bubbling behind them. "Your visit is much too short."

"I'm no officer." Blake scoffs. The man must be pretty sharp to pick up on his prior training. "You'll wish I were."

"In a few minutes you won't be able to keep any secrets from me." There's a canister in his hand. A quick glance at the top and it's already been twisted open. There's no visual to latch onto, though. Not like the green haze that's still filling up his office and no doubt melting everything it touches.

"We got masks, don'tcha remember?" Harleen adds, tapping hers for effect. "And, for the record, it works great." The man's shoulders tremble. He's laughing.

"No..." Blake breathes. "...The complex."

"Well, aren't you clever." Scarecrow says with a sardonic clap of his hands. "Here I was prepared to clue you in on all my little traps, but you've spared me a monologue." His voice darkens. "We'll try the less is more approach, then."

Like flipping off a faucet the noise in the air dwindles down to almost nothing. Blake risks taking his eyes off Scarecrow to look around him in growing horror. The people that had been milling out of the apartment, possessions under their arms and phones to their ears, start acting...strange. They've stopped in their tracks. Some are looking to each other in confusion. Others are clearly looking at...nothing. One starts crying, an elderly man, breaking down into a howling wail that makes the hairs on his neck stand on end. A missing tire. A closed bud. Everything is out-of-place.

"The hell do you think you're doing!" Blake whirls back around, staring the man straight through his tattered, moldy mask. "Don't take this out on them!"

"They invited me here with open arms." Scarecrow says, cruelly indignant. "I'm simply giving them what they wanted."

"They're gonna lose it." Harleen says in a rush. "We'll have to knock 'em out, Sherlock. They're gonna lose it."

"Risk it?" He doesn't take his eyes off Scarecrow now. Not with him still a few feet away. "Harleen, there's only two of us. That's not enough!"

"You're preachin' to the choir. How else we gonna save 'em and catch the bastard?" She snaps. "You have sleep darts, don'tcha? Give 'em to me!"

He pauses for only a moment, then pulls his remaining pistol out of his pocket and tosses it to her. Then he turns to Scarecrow. He can't see the man's face, but the sudden stiffening of his posture as Blake runs full-tilt toward him tells him everything he needs to know. The man turns, leaps over the broken gate, and flees.

Scarecrow is rushing toward a cheap red car is just across the way. If Blake had his standard pistol he'd shoot his tires. Maybe his legs. All he has is his adrenaline and the complete, utter rage that someone would leave an entire complex to drown in poison. Unfortunately for Crane, the detective was used to working with very little.

The man doesn't make it three feet in front of the car before a brick goes straight through the side-window, missing him by an inch and sending glass shattering everywhere. He spins around in alarm, only to duck as another flies straight at his head. Blake picks up another, ignoring the agonizing burn in his arms, and hefts it.

"End of the line, Crane."

"Going to have a word with her..." He hears him muttering frantically as he stumbles backwards. "Listen to me, listen to me, damn it, this is not what you think-"

He dives to one side as Blake sends the brick straight at his head. The bastard is slippery, barely getting out of the way and getting a massive dent where he was standing. He ditches the car and runs, but they both know it's only a matter of time. He was going to smash the motherfucker's head clean open.

"Just listen to me-" He gasps when Blake closes the gap between them. The river beneath the bridge roars before him, matching the pounding blood in his ears. "You could see them again!"

Blake lifts his last brick, then hesitates.

Scarecrow doesn't continue, still huddled and waiting for a blow, then looks up at him through trembling hands when it doesn't come.

"My formula isn't perfect yet." He pants, mask twitching fitfully with each breath. "I have been working on it for nearly half my life and it's closer to a breakthrough than ever before." He sits up a little, though doesn't stand, not with Blake still shaking with anger with a brick in his hand not a few inches away. "You're familiar with my work. What it does. ...Did they seem real?"

His mother in her favorite gray coat in the flickering light of the streetlamp. The voice of his father, that low drawl flecked with the accent he just barely learned how to hide, asking for his attention and dissipating into nothingness at Blake's barbed words. The feel that his grandmother could be just around the corner.

"Memories. Preserved perfectly in your mind, able to be accessed with naught more than a simple breath. Nobody would ever suffer another loss, would they?"

Just like that, the seed of an ugly thought is planted in his head. Young John Blake, angry little John Blake, pushed from orphanage to orphanage with a gaping hole in his life where his parents used to be. What would've changed if the anger hadn't overflowed and consumed him for the better part of years? Would he have turned into an aimless little shit that could barely hold a job down when he wasn't trying to run away from his own life? Entered a field that made people fear him for all the wrong reasons? His mind swims with the possibilities. His boys and their patchwork quilt of loss, grief and abuse held together by St. Swithin's dedicated hand. The people here, in one of the worst neighborhoods in one of the worst cities, just trying to find a moment's reprieve. Enough they'd let in a shady doctor blatantly experimenting on them for a break alcohol or weed couldn't fix.

"Bane was wise to leave me alive. Talia saw my potential." Blake can feel the man smiling. "I know you know of her."

His work is sick. But he could...

"We could do much better than this, Blake." He's starting to rise to his feet. "Let's talk."

The brick slides lifelessly from his hands. Scarecrow lets out a slow sigh of relief...then gasps when Blake rears back and slams a foot into his gut. The psychologist hits the ground in a plume of dust.

"Shut up."

Scarecrow hacks fitfully into his mask.

"Harleen isn't telling you the whole story-"

"I don't want to hear another damn thing coming out of your mouth." Blake snaps. "How many people have died because of you? You coward!" He slams his foot into the man's stomach again. Scarecrow lets out a sharp wheeze, huddling in on himself. Little by little righteous rage floods out of him in the form of brutal kicks, an overwhelming violence with no other target than the man curled up on the ground and attempting to covering his head from the blows.

"That's for my neighbor!"

He stomps his heel into his ribs.

"That's for Harleen!"

Another stomp. Something bends.

"That's for everything you did here!"

Another stomp. Something gives. Scarecrow howls.

"You coward-"

"Sherlock!"

Harleen. Blake doesn't turn around. He keeps his gaze firmly on the blood welling up in the mask and turning it a muddy black. Judging by the faint whistle that accompanies each cough, he's broken something.

"Wait, wait-" Harleen says as she stops next to him. "Hold up." He looks at the dirt all over her hands and knees. Finally turns away from Crane to look at the complex. He can see people crowding about at a safer distance. The faint keen of a siren sounds a ways away. Camera flashes blink like weak stars intermittently in the chaos. It's a faint realization he has that nobody is going to know what truly happened here.

"Don't kill 'im." Harleen is saying. "We-"

Scarecrow takes the sudden lull to lunge up at them from where he lays in the grass. A knife flashes. Harleen shoves Blake back, even as he shouts in alarm and tries to grapple the man. Like a well-oiled machine they subdue him together. Blake with one last knee into his stomach. Harleen with a mean right hook to his face. He hits the ground and doesn't get back up again.

"I was gonna say we still need 'im..." She pants.

"I know." Blake finally says. He slumps onto his knees, suddenly boneless and breathless. "I know. I don't kill unless I have to." Harleen stands beside him, leans down a little and pats his shoulder. After all the fear and anger, the soft touch is actually welcome.

"...though I can't say the thought sounds so good now." She finishes. "That's what I like about you, doll." She glares down at the psychologist. "Dunno if I would've stopped."

"It wasn't easy." If not for his mask he'd spit on the man. "Sick fuck."

Scarecrow is limp. Likely passed out. Now that the rush of adrenaline is gone he's left instead with the frightening knowledge that his anger got the better of him. Even though it was justified. More than justified. He couldn't lose control like that again. Not after... No, no, he didn't have time to self-analyze. First things first. First thing...

"Have you gotten ahold of Tatsu?" He manages to ask.

"She'll be here in a few." She picks at the slash in her jacket. "Dang it. I liked this top." She rubs her arm. He can just make out a thin cut. Negligible compared to what could've happened. "You still in one piece, doll?" She looks him over. He shrugs weakly.

"Yeah. I kind of want to vomit, though."

"Well, don't vomit yet. 'Cause we're gonna drink ourselves stupid tonight."

"You know...I think I'll join you on that."

Harleen looks at him with a growing smile curving her eyes. He slowly grins in return. They start to laugh, shakily at first, then dissolve into full-tilt howling that could probably be heard from the complex. They did it. They captured the Scarecrow. It's tempting to slump down onto the ground and rest, right then and there, but he knows if he does he'll break the world record for longest nap ever taken.

"Have they left the complex...?" He's still watching the activity beyond the field. "They're still way too close."

"Most of 'em should've." She looks exhausted. Even her pigtails seem to be drooping. "Tried to tell 'em not to breathe the air, but some didn't listen." The shame in her voice is enough for him. After all this, it's enough. She just did an incredible thing for Gotham. Something people wouldn't even appreciate properly.

"...Thanks, Harleen." Blake rubs his hair. "I know you wanted to do it the old-fashioned way, but you still gave it a shot. So many more could've..." Could've? Shit, it was happening right now. If he deigned to just look over his shoulder and watch the chaos from a distance.

"I'm an old-fashioned kinda gal, but it ain't always the way to do things." She scratches at the writing on her bat. Goodnight on one side. Sleep Tight on the other. "Think I should listen to you more."

He sees a car heading their way. It must be Tatsu. He hope she brought some friends, because he's not entirely sure they're out of hot water. He really doesn't like how much green smoke is rising into the air. They're still not that far away, either, and even a sniff of the stuff could mess them up. He decides not to take off his mask until he's well across the river.

"Hopefully this will get enough attention to rile up some sort of action." He says, rubbing grit from his hands. "We're not even close to done."

Harleen doesn't say anything. Nothing but a soft tap-tap. He glances sideways at her. She's tapping her bat into the other palm thoughtfully. Blue eyes looking at him much like she looked at...

"Lotta old-fashioned folks in Gotham." She says, turning to him and holding her bat up. "You think a kid's gonna change my mind about you?"

"What...are you talking about?" He says, holding up his hands for good measure. Her eyes flash with a sudden wrath and he takes a step back.

"He ain't yours, puddin'."

"What the-"

"You thought I was waitin' for you to come save me?" She's holding the bat like a batter waiting for a good throw. "Like a little wedding cake topper?" He leans back when she swings. The air whistles sharply. She swings again. He stumbles on something he can't see and almost loses his footing. His heart is pounding a dent into his chest.

"What are you doing?!"

The bat swings down in a vertical arc and hits the ground. He grabs it. Tries to yank it out of her grasp or get her losing her balance, whichever blessing comes first. After a vicious struggling match she simply flings it to the side and lunges at him like a rabid dog.

"Take off that mask and show me who you really are!" He slams onto the ground with the full force of her weight. She's on top of him, grabbing at the mask and wrenching it back. "You two-faced cretin! You clown!" It snaps right off his face. He sucks in a sharp breath, tries to pull it back, gasps anyways as she slams a fist into his eye.

"What's going on?!"

Tatsu! She's pulled up. He opens his mouth to call out, to tell her to get Scarecrow away, only to receive a slug in the eye for his troubles. Stars scatter across his vision and it's only muscle memory that has him curling his legs against Harleen's chest and pushing her up, up and over and off of him. It knocks the wind out of her and buys him just enough time to speak.

"Don't breathe the air..." He wheezes. Where is his mask? "Don't breathe-"

"Stay put!" Tatsu has a pistol pointed right at him with a finger on the trigger. "Get away from Harleen, now!"

"No, no, no, I'm not attacking her-"

"I said stay put!"

'My, oh, my. This is a bit of a mess, isn't it?'

Blake whirls around. Scarecrow? No. He's on the ground as still as a corpse.

'They don't trust you at all...do they?'

Harleen picks up the bat again. Blake stumbles back. Clawing at his hair. Is it inside his head? Outside?

'Where are your friends?'

...Oh.

Too many voices. He can't even make out his own. He's stumbling backwards like a terrified animal, his eyes glued to the metal bat now glinting maliciously above his head, hands scrape on the cold ground in desperation for something, anything, to stave off the inevitable. Gravel. Dirt. Grass. Glass. She's laughing like someone possessed. Like the fact she's about to murder him in cold blood is the best joke she's heard all week.

"You should've killed me when you had the chance, puddin'!"

Like the first few sips of a strong drink he feels his world changing inside and out. So he does what's gotten him this far. He runs. Away from the car and Crane's body and Tatsu's scared face and Harleen's terrifying laughter and the burning complex and the dead grass and-

'You sure this isn't just a bad dream?' Scarecrow's voice follows him every step of the way. 'Why don't you wake up and put all this misery behind you.'

He thinks he crosses the bridge out of the Narrows. He thinks he makes it all the way back to East End where the ground gets hard and everything stinks beautifully of deep city. Someone pushes him. Grabs him? His side slams into a parked car door in his effort to stumble away, then he's gripping it for balance and hacking out winded breaths and looking inside. The bloodied face of his mother stares back, airbag still whistling out its last promise as she gazes at him through unseeing eyes.

'It's hard not to drink your fill, but you can have too much of a good thing, you know.' He somehow hears through his scream. 'I know.' Whispers. 'You miss them...don't you?'

"Stop..." He begs, clutching his mouth with both hands. "Oh, god...stop..."

A gunshot. The scatter of birds. His father is laying on the ground a few feet away, playing cards spilling out of his chest in lieu of blood. They slither down his body and trickle down the uneven sidewalk, slippery under his feet. He trips. An iron taste fills his mouth. The animal part of his brain knows it's time to get somewhere safe. Somewhere hidden. Even as the sight of his grandmother turns his gaze.

"Zip up your coat, boychik." She points to his chest with a white-gloved hand. "I don't know what they teach you at that place."

Oh. Yiddish. He hardly remembers any of it, not when his mother and grandmother took the knowledge with them, but somehow he understands it now, plain as music. He marvels at her, slack-jawed. Short and plump and tidy in her Sunday best, that net she used to tame her curls wrapping behind her head and not a detail out of place. Her baggy eyes wrinkle into dark lines, just like his own, and she points at his coat again with a more insistent finger.

'You never told her you were sorry for all those things you said.' Scarecrow sighs. 'Oh, dearie, me.'

Like a frightened kid, he knows, somehow, she's safe. He walks toward her, slowly reaching out, and feels the terrifying clutter around him melt away. Scarecrow is still speaking, but he's growing quieter, more distant.

"Bobeshi." Blake whispers. He wants to return it to her better than that, but it doesn't go both ways, it seems, the words feeling clumsy and unnatural on his tongue even as they sing in his ears. "Bobeshi, I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all those things I said. I didn't mean a word of it. Not a word..."

She closes the gap between them. None of that eerie walking-yet-not-walking that he remembers back in Old Gotham, no, she's walking and pressing a leathery hand to his cheek. He can feel it. By god, he can feel it as if she were truly flesh and blood before him.

"Too old for savta, eh?" She shakes her head with a smile. "Oh, your hair is so short, now..."

"O-oh. Oh, no, no. Oh, I'm sorry." The words still come out in a rush, each one pulled out of him with the pain and relief of a splinter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I loved you so much. I'm sorry I was so angry and took it all out on you. It wasn't right. It wasn't your fault."

"Robin." She interrupts, gently, pets his hair out of his eyes. The bruise swelling his right twinges in response. "My love. What are these apologies for? You were grieving in the only way you knew how. I never once took what you said to heart." Her voice becomes a little harder. "Your father didn't do very much to help, did he? Always left you home alone to go play cards."

"Yeah. He did. When he wasn't...drinking himself to sleep." The anger bubbles against grief. Clashes like water and oil, nothing but poorly mixed feelings he thought he lay to rest years ago. "I wasn't good to him either, though." He tries to swallow the hot lump in his throat. "I wasn't good to a lot of people. I didn't have a lot of friends. Too angry for...anyone."

"Hey. Hey now." She snaps, holding his chin in one hand much like she did when he could barely reach up to her shoulder. "This is not the Robin I helped raise. Regrets are wind. Howl they may, but they can only push you if you let them."

"...Yeah." He can feel his mouth attempting a smile, though it twitches and twists instead with pain. "But...I just..."

His grandmother holds him up as he sinks down, pushes his face into her shoulder and attempts and fails to gulp back an onslaught of terrible, heaving breaths. Her dress smells like the bread she loved to bake. Her blouse warm and soft and paternal. It undoes any self-control he could have and he cries, howls, twists his hands in the front of her dress in some childish effort to concentrate the misery burning him alive.

"Oh, oh, oh, shh. Come, now." She murmurs against his hair. "Come now. You're all right." She rocks on the balls of her feet, swaying him side-to-side. "You've done so well."

Words come out of him, but they're as torn as he feels. Apologies. Rants. Fears. His already tenuous grip on reality blurs alongside his vision. He can only count the minutes that ticked by through the scratchiness left in his throat when the tears have dried up and left him a shaky, fatigued mess. He leans against her, weak and tired, and listens to his grandmother speak. She never once stops petting his hair.

"You helped save all those protesters at the city hall. They could've been hurt or killed by those explosions." She says with a warm, proud smile. "You quit a terrible profession to do the right thing, no matter how hard it became. So fearless. You've become such a wonderful big brother to all those incredible boys. Your mother wanted you to be a mentor when you grew up, you know. She always said you'd be a role model someday."

"How...how do you know about all that...?" He whispers, pulling back and staring with round eyes. "The city hall, my boys...?"

"Oh, love." Her smile dimples a little. "I've never gone anywhere."

The world around him flickers. Scarecrow's hissing whispers are starting to rise up again, sluggish as ink through paper, and the paranoia that followed his panicked steps before is starting to rise through him again like a chill.

"Hey. Hey now." She says, quickly. "You need to go, love. All right?" She pushes him away, not unkindly, and hastily brushes something off his jacket. "Up you go, now."

"No, I-" He rasps out, trying to grip her and grabbing a fistful of air. "Not yet-!"

"What did I tell you, love?" Still chiding him, even as she falls apart like a flurry of snow. He swallows back his scratchy throat, again and again and again.

"Regrets...regrets are wind." He whispers.

"Regrets are wind." She repeats. Her voice fades into the fabric of gray and black. "Don't look back."

Time forever loses meaning. There's nothing left but raw sensation, leaving as quickly as it arrives, and he doesn't remember even a moment when his brain was able to piece anything together. His palms sometimes scrape rough, wet ground. Something damp soaks into the knees of his jeans. He moves away from where his grandmother used to stand. Away from the car holding his mother frozen in time. Like the aftermath of a wreckage he slogs through and away from the memories lining his peripheral vision, every last one tempting him to stop and stare.

Where there should have been a neighborhood street has transformed into the rushing water of sewers. Tom has washed up nearby, the water licking the edge tugging fitfully at his red jacket. Maybe if he reached out and touched him he would breathe again. Join Reilly over dinner like he used to. But he has to move forward.

He stumbles on a brick, the salmon pink crusted with a darker stain, and he can't look now. Can't follow the trail of flecked blood to its source. But he's not Blake. Not anymore. He's merely an observer in a nightmare, a tourist, watching his world end around him. A freckled boy marks the end of the spotted trail many feet away, sitting on nothing and sticking his tongue out petulantly despite the gaping hole in his head.

Walking. Stumbling. Then he's crawling, laughing, slumping onto his side like a dying animal and curling into himself somewhere dark and cold and everywhere and nowhere and somewhere, probably, maybe.

"Water..."

Somewhere deep in the heart of East End, John Blake clutches himself and slowly goes mad.

Chapter Text

The murmur of voices. Glass clinking. Windchimes in the distance, tuneless and quaint as they tend to be in relaxed weather. Robin lifts his head from his arms and attempts to blink the bleariness from his eyes, the gross weight that hangs over his entire body telling him he's slept for too long.

Dark wooden counters glisten up at him, reflecting the low-hanging lamps swaying in the wind as starkly as a mirror. They're not turned on yet, as the afternoon sun is still beaming happily through the windows, but it's clear they would be something to behold in their full splendor. Sitting up he immediately winces at the heat and tugs at his shirt collar to let the breeze through -- he really shouldn't have worn a vest today. He pushes away the cotton curtains brushing against the side of his face and attempts to gain his bearings.

It had been pretty raucous before. The venue feels much calmer now. He glances at the folder under his arms, a few stains darkening the edges of paper poking out. Right. He still hadn't signed. The hearing was in just a week, though he feels he could have all the time in the world and still not be able to drill some compassion into the heads of the chairmen. They wouldn't know human decency if it popped open its shirt and attempted to seduce them. With a wince he realizes he doesn't even remember how long he's been here. He checks the clock and, to his horror, doesn't get an answer.

"Hard not to drink your fill here."

Robin turns to the stranger observing him with mild amusement the next seat over. An older man, late thirties or early forties, maybe. Hints of dark hair dust his scalp in a close cut, broken up occasionally by what seem like thin, scattered scars. Unlike Robin the heat doesn't seem to bother him -- he's wearing a loose, unbuttoned brown coat alongside a thick, red scarf. The splash of color is a welcome sight from the grays and blacks that filled his dreams. The deep brown and shiny floors of the bar even more so.

"Yeah." He mutters, looking at the multitude of empty shot glasses clustered beside his hand. One, two, three, four...five. "No kidding."

Clearly the stress was getting to him, because he also doesn't remember his dreams being this unsettling. Visions of smoggy and cloistered cities still itch in the back of his mind, like the blue-collar towns he tried to avoid further East, splashes of violence peppered intermittently between more mundane details fading with each passing moment. Trying to water a plant that only wilted with every drizzle of water, for one. People talking to him over the phone in conversations he can't remember anymore, for another. His naps were always brief and without character, but alcohol had a way of making his dreams feel like a lifetime.

Robin lets out a sigh and rubs his temples as a headache threatens to make itself clear. The man is still watching him out of the corner of his eye, chin in one hand.

"You're still here, aren't you? Relax while you can." His throbbing head struggles to place his accent. Something melodic, yet sharp. Spanish? Maybe Portuguese? He watches him turn and wave politely for the attention of the bartender. "No reason to sully a good place with the worries of the outside."

"It'll catch up eventually." Robin mumbles, mopping sweat from his hairline and attempting to run his fingers through his bangs. "Just delaying the inevitable." It always gets wavier when it's longer. Curly hair, even in a city that groomed itself on individuality, wasn't treated as professional as a slick-back or trim. These disconnected musings bubble to the surface like drink fizz, except far more irritating and not even promising him reprieve once he's done. He had a day left on his weekend getaway and so far all he'd managed to do was put off his obligations at tasteless parties he wasn't even interested in, get lost for a good hour downtown trying to find a single restaurant and end up passing out at a bar.

Robin squints at the clock (shaped like three dolphins swimming in a circle) again. No, he hadn't been here for three hours. That just didn't make sense.

He vaguely recalls one of the servers hovering in the background. A tanned woman with a long ponytail. It was only the prestige of the place that kept him from being hauled out entirely and dumped on the sidewalk, really. Popular venues loved their well-paying customers and this place didn't get to be one of the most famed tourist destinations by acting like more typical sleazy bars. Maybe he should thank his good taste. The only actual trouble he'd have to wake up to is a hangover and a bored sex worker by the time his weekend ground to a close. His snowball of thoughts grinds to a halt when the man hands him a glass of ice water.

"Lead it on a merry chase until then." He says with a smile.

Robin hesitates, then takes the cup and sips it gingerly, not realizing how thirsty he is until he's reached the bottom of the glass. "Thanks." He lets out a cold sigh and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grateful the dry texture making his throat stick is gone. "Phew. You know you're stressed when you barely remember how you got here. I remember the weird dream I had more."

"Perhaps your mind is trying to tell you something." The man offers amicably. "Spending more time in visions of the past or future than the present?" The smile becomes playful. "Or simply had one too many?"

"The former." He responds dryly, setting the cup down. "A nice sentiment, but I'm not sure how evil clowns and ghosts will factor into my work-life balance."

"On the contrary. Symbolism in dreams is an entire field that boasts hundreds of years of avid research. Seemingly inane or confusing subject matter could take on deeper meaning if they show even superficial connection to your life." He scratches the stubble on his chin. "I once had a dream about a hallway that never ended. No matter how hard I ran it just stretched on, longer and longer, until I grew frustrated and tried to instead walk up the wall." He chuckles. "Turns out the ceiling had a hidden door."

"Well, don't you have all the answers." Robin snorts. "You a drive-by shrink?"

"My apologies." He holds up his hands. "I'm a historian. We always read between the lines." As if realizing he's still a complete stranger (albeit a rather handsome one), he holds out a hand. "Behnam."

"Call me Robin." He's not sure if he's more surprised by the man's firm grip or the fact his hand completely dwarfs his own. He could probably tower over him if he sat up a little, as he goes right back to hunching over the bar counter and nursing a half-full beer in one hand. A small part of him hopes he hadn't seen him sleeping. He had an embarrassing tendency to drool.

"That's a neat line of work. Preserving history is an invaluable skill." He continues, pretending to fix his vest and surreptitiously checking his shirt for spots. Behnam swells with pride in the corner of his eye. "What field?" What he doesn't mention is the rather odd disparity between the man's profession and physique -- then again, judging a book by its cover is something he's learning not to do. It always gets him in trouble.

"Glad to meet someone who doesn't think it's obsolete." He says, pleased. "Field archaeology. I'm actually traveling now." He nods his head toward the window, as if it would give him any indication of where he's going. "There's a rather large hike waiting for me near Mount Pico."

"That's in Portugal, right? What do you do up there?" His phone buzzes. Robin glances at the screen -- his mother sent him a text. Something about a cute dog she saw. He'd look at it later.

"I'll be leading my students on their first expedition. So to speak. I worked with a small team for a few years, but we ended up losing our funding at a crucial time and splitting apart when we were unable to crowdfund ourselves." He sighs. "Long story, but at the time it really felt like a huge missed opportunity. There was so much just waiting to be unearthed. Supplies are temporary, but history is forever, you know?" He waves a hand, as if impatient with himself. "Irregardless, I found I had a knack for teaching. So a waste of time it was not. Same place, similar expedition, years later. A twist of fate."

Robin normally got irritated when people ramble, but he finds himself drawn into the man's spirited delivery. "Yeah? That's quite a turn of events. How long have you been teaching, then?"

"This will be the end of my first year. Incidentally, my students' first year getting down and dirty with the dust of the past." He grins. "Though they will hardly find it so romantic when they come face-to-face with all the hiking, crouching, kneeling, dusting and long hours with nature's finest insects."

"A lot of hoofing it, huh. That explains your..." Robin pauses, then runs a hand through his hair. "Um." No, damn it, that wouldn't explain the thick arms and broad shoulders. His headache decides right then and there to pound behind his eyes, barely staved off by the cold water, and he tries to keep irritation from stiffening his jaw and making him look like a bad idea.

"I occasionally moonlight as a cage fighter, if that's what you're getting at." He murmurs, that plush and expressive mouth curving around the rim of his cup as he chases down the rest of his beer. "And you?" Robin adjusts his collar again. There's a scar on the man's bottom lip he didn't notice before, as well as a few scattered lines scratching away at the dark stubble on his jawline, and it's making the already stifling weather nearly unbearable.

"Law. I specialize in helping abused and at-risk children. I graduated two years ago and I've been working between a few different firms since. I'd like to settle down at one place, but the travel isn't half bad, I guess." This was normally the part where people would pucker their mouth in a show of sympathy. Treat him like a savior instead of a person doing a job that needed to be done. Instead Behnam simply nods.

"That's good to hear." He waves his hand for his tab. "Someone needs to stand up for them."

Blake pulls out his wallet. "Should be more than someone." He contemplates his tip. A little extra for the waitress that checked up on him. "Should be everyone."

"Well, if it means anything you clearly have the grit necessary to navigate the legal system's murky waters." Behnam responds as he stands up. "Your scowl would no doubt change many a person's mind." It's probably meant as a compliment. It doesn't feel like one. Co-workers and clients alike weren't overly fond of how...what did his boss call him that one night? 'Depressing poker face'? Robin, whether he wanted to be or not, was the hardass in the office that was just as likely to call co-workers out on bullshit as the allegedly abusive father or neglectful mother brought to his desk.

"You don't have to patronize me." He huffs as he sets down a few bills. "I'm just having a shaky weekend, that's all."

"...My apologies." The man holds up a placating hand. "It was an inappropriate thing to say."

Oh, Hell. He was probably being too harsh. Even on vacation it was hard for him to loosen up. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm not exactly..." He tries to smile, but it probably comes off as stilted. "Let me put it this way. Books and files remain my company more often than not. The will is there, but the skill is...it leaves much to be desired." Robin hopes this stranger takes it as an apology. He's not exactly good at saying them straight-up, after all.

"I see. Well, you're in good company." Behnam flicks his head to the murmuring crowds huddled over tables and mingling by the bar. "I imagine everyone here is getting reacquainted with the art of the conversation."

"Let's see how well I can compose, then." Robin offers with a small smile. He likes how the man returns it. As easily as if they were old friends. "What level do you teach, again?"

"University." He responds. "I have to say, guiding the eager mind of twenty-somethings is much different than being dragged along by children."

"You used to teach elementary?" He blinks at him. "Now that's tough." He wasn't going to elaborate that, despite his job having him help children, he wasn't all that good at actually interacting with kids.

"No. Well, yes. In a sense. My daughters." Behnam immediately pulls out his phone to show him a family photo, swelling with fatherly pride -- he's standing next to a tall woman at what appears to be a mountain resort, two small girls clustering between them and sticking out their tongues to a backdrop of cool, green hills. "Talia and Mari. Seven and ten."

Aw, damn. He might be taken. Robin doesn't do a very good job of hiding his disappointment, it seems, as the man chuckles and shakes his head. "Oh, no, no. I haven't been married in years. I wasn't..." He sobers. As sudden as a flick of a light. "Perhaps...this is a subject for another time."

A topic change. He could do that. "You said cage fighter." Robin offers. "Was that true or were you just trying to impress me?"

"A bit of both."

Robin slowly raises one eyebrow. Behnam flicks through his phone nonchalantly. The bartender brings back their cards and bids them a good rest of their day.

The warm air is much more welcoming than it was earlier. His coastal city loved its glaring sun and long daylight hours, but it could be more affectionate when it wanted to be. The afternoon was late, just shy of evening, and he can see it in the long shadows kissing their steps as they weave between people and vendors and dogs leashed to poles. Behnam walks close, almost enough for their shoulders to touch, but doesn't move beyond that. Teasing or respectful, he's not sure. But his curiosity has long since been piqued.

"Here."

Robin takes the offered phone and peers at the photo. He's immediately struck by the bright, flashy decorations and vibrant outfits. Somewhere south of the border, it seems. The man is wearing a tight black leather outfit, topped off with flashy little elements like a thick belt and fingerless gloves, but as much as it embraces his (very impressive) figure it's not what holds Robin's attention. It's the mask over his face, something much more unsettling than he would have expected from the bombastic and somewhat cheesy sub-culture of underground fighting. Oily black and wrapping over and down his face like a muzzle, the front is covered with a cluster of metal wires, leaving only his eyes to stare through.

"The Bane." Behnam laughs, a full and happy sound that doesn't mix at all with what he's looking at. "A play on my name, if that wasn't already obvious." His face slowly calms at Robin's expression. "...Though it is a niche for a reason."

"No, you're...fine." He mutters, squinting a little in the late afternoon light. Why did this look familiar? It tickles in the back of his mind like some old memory, but he knows he hasn't seen this before. Has he? He really must've drank too much if he'd forgotten a mask that looked straight out of a horror film. The man is rather quiet now and Robin knows he must look like he's trying not to say something rude. He starts to browse the photos with a flick of his thumb.

One picture has 'The Bane' posing over what seems to be an unconscious opponent, arms spread and fingers flared in some grandiose pose, tight black suit not quite hiding muscles that glint menacingly between camera flashes. Another is a side-profile, the lights from the audience casting his portrait in sharp shadow. It makes his skin crawl, frankly, though he wasn't about to tell him that.

"This is going to sound weird...but I feel like I've seen this before." He holds back a laugh at a photo showing Behnam crouching with two enthusiastic fans and flashing a peace sign, mask off and still in costume. He certainly looks less dangerous when he smiles. Perhaps that's why he did it so much.

"Cage fighting?" Behnam asks, surprised. "Or the venue?"

"No." Robin gestures vaguely to his face. "Your...mask."

The man relaxes a little, as if glad he didn't indirectly drive away his company for the evening. "Interesting." He raises an eyebrow. "But you're not a fan...?"

Damn his fuzzy memory. He needed to double-check the alcohol content of those drinks next time. "Not really. Never got into the sub-culture." He heaves out a sigh at Behnam's amused frown. "I'm not pulling your leg. This is way more weird for me than it is for you. You need to tell me what got you into this, though, because I'm still not entirely convinced you're not pulling my leg."

"Good stress relief." Behnam shrugs. "It's quite effective."

"I don't think I could take blows to my ribcage for stress relief." Robin says. "I just play poker and mourn over the state of my wallet later."

"You may be in luck, then." Behnam tilts his head. Robin follows the motion. They're surrounded by downtown's quintessential shops, bars and hangouts. His partner for the night, however, is eyeing the arcade. From what he remembers it's filled with classic and modern games. A few novelties added over the years for tourists. He normally avoided those places, mainly because someone in their thirties tended to stick out like a sore thumb among the teenagers, bored twenty-somethings and family packs. When Behnam raises his eyebrows at him mischievously, though, even the most aggressive social faux paus couldn't keep him away.

"Up for a game?" He offers with conspicuous politeness. He can already see where he's going with this.

"Oh, sure. Why not." Robin answers, just as casually. "But it could be more interesting."

"High risk, high reward. I can appreciate that." The man squares his shoulders in a challenge. "What are the stakes?"

"Beat me and I treat you to dinner." Robin crosses his arms. "Lose and you owe me a steak."

"Ha! Steak. Ah, I see what you did there." Behnam says as he opens the door and walks in. Robin rolls his eyes and follows him into the flashing lights and noise.

Everything smells like sweat and cheap popcorn. Rock-paper-scissors nets them a game of pong when they can't choose between the nearest videogame or skee ball. They slowly but surely garner more than a few glances from outside parties, being two nicely dressed men aggressively swiping at a tiny white ball in the corner of the room. At the moment he only has eyes for Behnam, though, and the fact this match wasn't nearly as easy as he thought it would be.

"How are you..." Clack. "...so good at..." Clack. "...pong?"

"My daughters..."Clack. "...always challenge me..."Clack."...every time I visit..."Clack-clack. "Darn it." He leans down to pick up the ball from the floor. Two to two now. "You should see me at Scrabble."

"I won't even contest you on that." Robin says as he tugs at his collar. He's actually starting to work up a sweat. "You sound like you're on a strict diet of dictionaries."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Behnam laughs. "A very, very weird compliment."

"I've got more where that came from." Robin says as he tosses the ball into the air. "How weird they are depends on you."

"Well. I look forward to it." The look in the man's eyes makes him thirsty all over again.

He loses the tiebreaker round when Behnam snaps the ball right past him with such ferocity he's surprised it didn't leave a hole in the wall behind him. Growling a little louder than he meant to and startling two small children nearby, he tosses the paddle onto the table and crosses his arms.

"Rematch."

Behnam barks out a surprised laugh and puts a hand on his hip. "Rematch? That's a funny response to a loss."

"You heard me."

"Well, it can't be pong." He concedes. "You look like you're about to suplex the table."

He scans the length of the venue, then perks up at the sight of a green table. He takes the man by the crook of his arm and tugs him over. Behnam doesn't detangle from his grip, content to be led along still chuckling his ass off. Now this was a game he was good at. He had impeccable aim, though he was notorious among his co-workers for 'taking forever'. Ugh. He needed to stop thinking about work.

Behnam scratches the back of his head and looks from the balls to the cue in his hand. He must be coming up with some elaborate strategy that'll have him scrambling. When he stands there for a good minute without budging, though, he decides to speak up.

"What?" Robin frowns. "You can go first."

"I..." He taps the rod on the side of the table. "...have actually never played this."

Robin blinks. "You've...never played?" He scoffs. "Been around the world and a half, but no pool?"

Behnam slowly frowns. It's a mild one, but considering how much he smiled it was actually startling. "You have quite a few expectations for complete strangers." He drawls, accent heavy and rolling. "I wonder what else you may think of me."

Robin's face grows hot with embarrassment. He runs fingers through his hair, trying to catch up to speed with his competitive nature and inconvenient tendency to be catty out of nowhere.

"Uh, here. It's pretty fun once you get the hang of it."

He walks around the table and positions himself halfway behind the man (he'd have to stand on his toes to look over his shoulder and that's absolutely a line he won't cross yet). He swallows a moment, then asks. "May I?"

Behnam studies him for a moment, then shrugs. "By all means."

Robin urges him into the proper stance by tweaking his elbows and posture. Not too hunched, not too stiff. His mother played the game almost religiously and every family gathering had at least a few games in-between celebrations. He even tells him as such, getting a small smile in return. Better than nothing.

He tries not to help overmuch throughout the game, feeling the boundary drawn up between him through his shitty comment, but soon competition has them ghosting around the table and looking for every angle to subdue the other.

He doesn't know how the man masters proper technique so damn quickly, but he does know he doesn't want to lose at one of his best games. He's actually tense when they hit up another tie, something that'll require every last ounce of desperation in his back pocket if he's to come out on top. He spots a potentially incredible move and leans forward so far his stomach's practically flat on the table, chewing on his lip as he takes aim...then Behnam winks at him. It distracts him so badly his hand slips and it sends the green ball he was so convinced was going to net him a good few points flying right off the table.

"Oh, I've got a great joke for this." Behnam says, looking over his shoulder to follow the ill-fated ball's clatter into the darkness.

"I don't want to hear it." Robin grumbles.

"Please, indulge me. I'll cry otherwise."

"...Yeah, I don't want to see that. All right, what is it?"

"Let's just say I'm..." He fists a hand in front of his mouth, eyes as mischievous as a fox's."...incredibly impressed by your balls-to-the-wall strategy."

Robin groans and presses a hand to his forehead. Out of all the people to catch his interest, it was someone in love with shitty puns. Well, he wasn't about to look like a sore loser twice. Time to keep his word. Behnam lets him choose the restaurant, even as Robin insists that's more responsibility than he agreed to. After a surreptitious glance at his phone for which places would be open into the night, he picks The Blush Lounge. It's a bit ritzy, but he had an on-the-spot reputation to keep.

"Oh." Behnam breathes when they walk up to the entrance. "I am very glad I didn't wear sandals and shorts today."

"A sandal and shorts guy, huh?" Robin responds with a smirk. The man shrugs mock-affectedly.

"I'm a father. It's practically law."

"Well, you look fine." Robin answers as he opens the door and they're flooded with rosy light. "More than fine."

He doesn't elborate on the string of dirty thoughts that's been marching into his brain for the past few hours like a Mardi Gras parade. No, he'd get to those later.

Their server is a real trooper as they take their time eating and refill their drinks more than once. The conversation is unlike so many he's had lately. It's not business-related. Far from stilted catch-ups with family. Just like the two of them it sort of travels wherever, stopping and starting again organically on topics of the decor, the future, where wine sauce originated (all the way back in the 14th century, apparently). Long walks, ping-pong and steak. He had to admit, this was the most fun he's had in months.

Behnam has a chin in his hand during a lull in the conversation, eyes flicking back and forth between the people across the way dancing. A strange spike of jealousy cuts through him, even though he can't tell what he's looking at, specifically.

"...Care for a dance?"

Robin blinks, forgets to chew, then coughs so hard he pounds his chest. There was being silly and letting loose, but that was too much, even for him. What, he was going to go out in front of dozens of people and make himself look like a complete twat in front of a catch like Behnam? He'd sooner balance his half-eaten steak on his head and put it through a selfie filter. He can see disappointment in Behnam's eyes, even something like concern, though, like usual, it's masterfully reigned back behind an easy smile.

"Don't let me badger you, Robin." It's the first time he's used his name. Shit, he...really wants to hear him say that again.

"No, it's...I'm just not..." Boring? A coward? Excuses twist his mouth awkwardly. What's the best thing to say?

"No, please. I've..." Behnam looks a touch self-conscious, rubbing the back of his head and tapping his fork on his plate in thought. "...made you uncomfortable more than once, I think. Really, I've had a very good time already."

Damn it all. Why was he here? He was here to relax. Even have a little fun before being sent right back to the legal rat race. Robin watches couples and triples mingling, swaying and chatting on the dance floor. Pretending like nothing else exists. When he thought about it, the fields of law and human resources was already a dance. A dance between maintaining a shred of dignity in the face of injustice and throwing any and all morals to the wind for survival. He could figure out how to turn that into a shimmy.

Robin shoves one last bite into his mouth, pushes back from the table, moves around so his back is facing the open space and holds a hand out to him.

"Consider this round three."

Behnam blinks owlishly up at him. Looks down at their plates. Then back up.

"Before you're finished?"

"Before I change my mind."

It's not an idle threat. Behnam chuckles, takes his hand and lets himself be led across the glittering floor. Even as they move backwards away from the others, finding their own little spot, he can still feel his chest trembling with hidden laughs.

"Come on. Clue me in on the joke." Robin mutters, watching his own feet closely as they shuffle back-and-forth in something-formal, something-casual. Last time he danced with someone was at his high school prom. The memory is filled with secondhand embarrassment. Not at all helping. At least the song wasn't crap. It's smooth and low-key, a bit jazzy, even, nothing like the grating club pop that was always blasting elsewhere.

"I don't think I've ever met someone so funny and so serious at the same time." Behnam says, placing hands on his hips and moving carefully away from a rather rambunctious pair on their right. They're swathed in a little pocket of shadow, helped by the man's broad back to the light, and it eases his nerves. At least he can only look like a tool to someone who didn't mind all that much.

"Never been called funny before." Robin hasn't been called a lot of things, if he was being honest, but he can't help but smile. Just a little. Behnam's brows quirk in response, a surprised and appreciative little furrow.

"Well." He hooks an arm around his waist. "I haven't known you very long at all, but your first impression is enviable." He moistens his lips a little, a movement Robin follows with studious attention. "Well-read. Quite the competitive spirit. Generous. ...I didn't miss that little tip you gave that haggard waitress."

"Generous." Robin actually laughs now, even if it's a humorless little moment of self-pity the man doesn't need to see. "You don't have to butter me up that much, c'mon now."

"First time for everything." Behnam responds smoothly. Alcohol's buzz still warm in the pit of his stomach, Robin picks out what's becoming his favorite details in the dim light catching in-between their movements. Those full lips always stretching into a smile. The laugh lines that deepen into grooves. Suddenly his mediocre dancing skills are the least thing on his mind.

"...Yeah." He says, leaning up to kiss him. "You got a point."

He's not a great kisser, not with his sexual experience about as complicated as the fine print on a loan, but Behnam either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He tilts his head in response, casual and interested and with lips softer than he could have imagined. He tastes like rum and laughter, something he could easily get used to. A brush of his tongue and he's responding in turn, tentatively at first, only for the kiss to turn wet and sloppy as his already blurred inhibitions proceed to melt away for good.

"My, you're a fast learner." Behnam purrs against his chin, hands wandering slyly down his sides and over the small of his back. He's now incredibly glad he didn't change into his casual clothes back at the hotel, because the man is not at all shy about his interest, trading all those little hints he's been dropping for straight-up lust. Robin was almost the polar opposite of him, lean and a little on the soft side since he stopped attending the gym. He didn't find himself necessarily unattractive (he knew how to dress himself, at least), but he was nothing like Behnam.

Even the homely scarf couldn't hide what his hands are starting to reveal inch by lustful inch, a hard and thick body that wouldn't be out of place in a fitness magazine. His arms are bulky, downright swollen, and pair nicely with the slight paunch to his stomach. He's heavy, even with the careful way he leans over him in a physical consideration of his boundaries, and Robin wants nothing more than to feel that weight draped over him back at his hotel.

He's all calloused hands and soft clothes and hard angles. Every touch teaches him something new and leaves him with a dozen questions. Only when he pulls back to take a reluctant breath does he catch a touch of cologne mingling with the alcohol on his breath. He knows he's more than a little buzzed still when he shoves his nose against the man's closely cropped hair.

"You smell really...really damn good."

Behnam squirms a little (he's ticklish, that's cute) and mimics him, nudging the curling strands around his ears aside to nuzzle down his jawline. "And you smell like..." A deeper breath, accompanied by a gentle kneading of teeth that has his knees weakening. "...mm. A much better weekend than I could've anticipated."

He doesn't even care that people are starting to give them looks. It's liberating. For once, he just doesn't care.

"Come back to...with me...to my place." He hisses between his teeth when the man nudges apart his collar and bites into the crook of his shoulder. "My hotel. Room. My hotel room."

Then an alarm goes off. Robin looks around just as he hears a sharp hiss and they're suddenly being sprayed with cold water from above.

"Agh, shit!" He yelps. The clientele are fleeing as quickly as they can from the sprinklers, covering their heads with hands or books or whatever they can find in an attempt to protect their hair. Behnam has no such concern, not with his closely-cropped cut, instead just sputtering as he pulls him out of their little corner and leads him out by one hand into the open air. One of the servers, the one that had patiently attended them earlier, looks like she's near tears when they make it outside.

"I'm so, so, so sorry everyone." She apologizes. "There was a small fire in our back kitchen. Our fire alarm system is very sensitive, very sensitive. We will reimburse you for any and all meals and drinks you ordered while he-"

It's hard for her to finish, what with customers snapping about their ruined clothes and unfinished meals. He feels a hot wave of anger wash over him. Urging Behnam to wait, he pushes his way through the small cluster.

"I'm so sorry, yes, I can absolutely issue a refund. A gift card is also in order-"

The waitress stiffens in surprise when Robin pulls out his wallet and, after shaking it off, hands her a $100 bill.

"You were an amazing host tonight." He says. "First time I've ever been, but you made us feel like regulars. Treat yourself to something nice once you clock off." The hubbub surrounding her melts down to moody murmurs and he thinks he catches one or two people looking away in embarrassment. Good.

Robin finds an open spot to lean on his knees and shake water from his hair onto the ground. He looks up through sopping bangs to see Behnam pulling off his soaked scarf and wringing it out like a rag. His olive skin has taken on a deeper shade in the evening light, a downright lovely and gentle brown, and he hopes like he's never hoped before that the man will want to pick up where they left off.

"Well." Behnam says after giving it a few good shakes. "I'm sober now."

"That makes two of us." Robin agrees. A cool breeze clings his shirt to his torso. It feels incredible after the sweltering day and warm restaurant. "First shower I've had in three days...which is why I was confused why you said I smell good back there."

"What can I say, sweat and books make an enticing combo." He peers at the sunset behind one broad hand. "Feel like walking the rest of this water off?"

"Lead the way."

They make their way closer to the harbor where people are less congregated, instead leaning against railings or sunning themselves down on the beach. His (thankfully dry) phone buzzes again. He sighs, pulls it out and flicks through it. He sees the photo of a dog she sent, a huge and fluffy thing, as well as a few text messages asking about his health. Now wasn't the time to tell her about stress turning his insides into a paper mache project, so a very abridged version would have to do.

"Is everything all right?" Behnam asks, scarf tossed over one shoulder like a sash.

"Yeah." Robin answers as he types a quick, guilty response. "My mother. She...worries."

"Yes." He murmurs, looking at something in the distance. "Mothers are that way."

Their stroll through the crooked, sloping hills of downtown is a quiet one. The walking gap between them grows increasingly smaller, the tiny space charged with an intensity that feels ready to pop. They discuss things on-and-off -- the best place to drink a good coffee (Behnam's quite adamant nothing will ever top an experience he had in Ethiopia), whether or not a proposed bill will actually bring positive results for the city's notoriously high homeless population (something Robin rants at length about). All the while he soaks in the attention glinting in his eyes. How he always seem to be studying him like an old photo.

He's not drunk anymore, but he thinks he's starting to enjoy a different sort of buzz when they finally return to his room. Sex work was a business like anything else, all strict dates and quick sessions in-between long work days. Dates were more...formal luxuries. This man was somewhere in-between, an element difficult to pin down with an easy smile and flowery words, and Robin is as excited as he is apprehensive when they step inside together.

Any other time he'd offer him a drink and make some small talk. They've cleared those stages already with flying colors, so instead he's being pushed against the wall and being given a personal tour of the man's size. Now that nobody's around to stare Behnam's restraint has bit the dust. He boxes him in-between his thick arms, returns to the crook of his throat to suck marks into his skin. It makes him hiss in pain, causing him to lap at the area with a hot tongue and murmur apologies.

"Sorry, was that too-"

"No, no, you're fine, that's fine, keep-"

"You're just, damn-, I want to-"

Robin finds his mouth again, that unbelievable mouth he'd been eyeing for hours, and bites and tugs like he's fit to pull it straight off. Presses a hand against the back of Behnam's head to keep him there when he threatens to wander. Behnam matches him eagerly, twisting a hand in his hair and angling his head back to dip his tongue in and out. There was something to be said about making out with someone that used to be married. The passion leaves him weak in the knees.

Words grow tangled in-between panting breaths, little more than scattered animal noises as they paw and rut against each other. Somewhere in his haze he remembers clothes are a terrible idea and starts to tug Behnam's jacket down his arms. Distantly he notes the man's brief moment of hesitance, a hitch in their shared movement, but he's too aroused to dwell.

"Here, bed is over here-"

A few pops of buttons and hasty squirming and he's on his back in his briefs, vest and slacks and whatever the hell else he had on him left in a drunken spill on the carpet. Dusk barely filters through the half-closed blinds and he mentally pummels himself for not turning on the light, as he can only just make out Behnam's nude form when he joins him on the mattress.

"Here, lemme turn on the light-" He mutters, impulsively. "Can't see a thing." Behnam straddles him and Robin can't figure out whether to focus on how damn thick his thighs are or the bulging heat digging into his stomach.

"You were saying?" Behnam rumbles. His plan short-circuits, then and there. Robin shakes his head and moves his mouth up his chest.

"Nothing, forget it..." He licks his nipple, holds it in his mouth for a moment, then pauses. "...Hey, what..." He mutters, lips rising and dipping over a bumpy ridge between his pec and shoulder. "What happened here?"

"Just some old injuries." The tone in his voice makes him sit up a little, as best he can with the man still curled over him. Deja vu, again, tickles the back of his mind. "Cage fighting leaves a pretty souvenir." The sunlight outside dips and makes the shadows flicker around them. One, two, three, four, five...the man is covered in them. Big, small, all over his torso in what he imagines is a pretty stunning sight with the lamp on.

"Wow. Do they...hurt...?" Robin realizes belatedly how silly that sounds, they're scars, they've already healed, but Behnam shakes his head slowly.

"Not in that way." He kisses him, softer this time, and Robin hesitates at the tender press of swollen flesh. Might've bit him too hard. Behnam lets him slip his tongue in instead, slackens his jaw and lets him explore for a moment before murmuring, "I'll bore you with my stories later."

"Sure. Sure." He mumbles into his mouth. "Did you want me to...?"

"To what?"

"Shit. Blow you, fuck you, what?"

"Well, what do you want?"

Robin pulls back, puffs his bangs out of his eyes and looks up at him.

"We gonna rock-paper-scissors over this?" He asks wryly. Behnam's grin could charm the wings off a dove. Damn it, he might actually agree to that. Robin feels unsteady and aimless, now, and he doesn't like it.

"Just tell me what you want me to do, Behnam."

His throat grows bone-dry at the lust darkening the man's eyes as he leans down and mouths at his bottom lip. Holds it between his teeth before repeating.

"What do you want, Robin. I want to please you."

Those little hints breaking through like the light in the blinds. The larger personality held down through jokes and a light attitude. He sputters a laugh, a disbelieving one, and Behnam just leans on his elbows and stares down at him with those big, dark (gray? brown?) eyes. Waiting.

"...Truthfully?"

"Truthfully."

"I've wanted you to fuck me the moment I laid eyes on you." Robin glances to the side, then back again. "Also, your accent is sexy as hell."

"Now that's more like it." A flash of teeth. "I like yours, too."

He has to sort through a few different condoms to accommodate the man, something that has him roiling in a weird mix of mortification and eagerness as he tries to roll one on only to toss it, then another. Behnam is cheeky all the while, clearly enjoying the attention as he leans against the headboard loose-limbed and relaxed. He becomes considerably less so when Robin runs a tongue up his shaft to celebrate the one that fits. His usual inhibitions have become so muddy over the past few hours. It feels almost like who he'd rather be.

Behnam, not even a day's acquaintance in, was a wrecking ball tied up in a pretty red bow.

"Talk to me." He murmurs as Robin slicks himself up. He can see in the twitch of his rigid cock that he's the kind that likes to watch. "Tell me what you need."

"Not a huge talker." Robin says, adding a third finger and enjoying how Behnam's chest flutters with shallower breaths. "You can ramble as much as you like, though." He swings his leg over and settles over him proper. Even through the latex the man is hot and hard, a pleasant weight pressing into the cleft of his ass.

"Ramble?" He says as he prods against him, nudges in tortuously slow inches. "That's what you're calling it?"

"You could read the phonebook and I could beat off to it." Robin groans, hips twitching down in fitful rebellion. "Don't ask me if it's a fetish. I can tell you want to ask."

"I'm getting predictable." His voice is coarse now, hardly more than a whisper and hardly halfway in. "I'll have to shake it up."

Robin knows better than to rush, not with this length, but fuck he's going to go crazy at this snail's pace. He digs his knees into the plush blanket and pushes a hand onto Behnam's hip to ease himself down, even as the man puts a cautious hand on his stomach, and lets out a breathless gasp when he finally bottoms out.

"...Damn." Is all Behnam manages to say now, face flushed deep and breathing out sharp pants through his nose.

It's a fleeting little moment of trust as he starts to move, trusting this not-quite-stranger below him not to go too hard yet, not with every movement making him feel like he's being pulled inside out and pushed together again.

He likes to hold his gaze. It's more intimate than Robin's used to. It makes his stomach knot up, instinctively makes him turn his eyes to the side or just a little to the left and fuck he probably looks shy or inexperienced or both. But somehow his eyes are dragged back time and time again to be held in limbo as he bobs up and down, rocks them both into a rhythm that eats away at his emotional distance with every stroke.

Behnam's broad hands drag down his shoulder blades to his sides, nearly swallow his hips whole, grip the skin near to bruising and tug him down as he leans up and almost off the mattress in stiff thrusts. Every time it seems too much, is too much, has him gritting his teeth and beading sweat, he brushes against him in such a way he's actually whimpering. He can vividly feel every clench around him, body still trying to reason with his size, and each time the man groans like his soul is leaving him.

A splash of bright light carves out Behnam's face, his flushed skin and arched neck a vision in orange when he reaches his climax. Robin tries not to crush his eyes shut, wants to fucking stare at the beautiful man bucking through his orgasm, but the sensation of Behnam swelling and hardening deep inside him is enough to drive him over the edge.

Somewhere in-between his sharp cry and exhausted slump Behnam pushes his sweat-soaked hair away and mouths at his earlobe.

"...Lovely."

The afterglow leaves them in a sticky, boneless heap. Clean-up is a sluggish affair. It's only his meticulous nature that has him leaning off the bed to grab the trash can as well as something to mop them off. Behnam asks him if he can smoke inside. He'd normally say no, but he can't bear to break the skin-to-skin contact any longer than necessary. So he suffers through the sour stench of the cigarette in the close room, though it's made a little easier by the musk clinging to the man's sweaty neck.

For once he doesn't feel a care in the world...and that scares him more than anything.

Chapter Text

Their weekend was over. Although they trade a few quick kisses in-between getting dressed and double-checking their belongings, they had to spend more time getting ready for their inevitable trips back to their own lives.

He'd tried to call his mother, but she didn't pick up. Probably still asleep. He was disappointed even still, leaving him little choice but to take the spare moment in-between sending her a text on his phone and finding his aftershave to think about how clingy he'd become over the past twenty-four hours. Robin glances at the man's back as he rubs at his scars and stares at the mirror with a self-conscious sigh. Maybe he'd never figure out what made him seem so familiar.

"Do you have a razor I could use?" Behnam asks, pulling out a small tube of shaving cream from the vanity. Robin reaches into his bag and tosses it to him.

"Shame. I like your five-o-clock."

"Yes, well." The man chuckles, wiping it along his jaw and chin before carefully starting on his left cheek. "I'm afraid my bosses don't."

"Bane."

"...Robin?"

"Where did you go?"

He's talking in his sleep. Vague rambles that his half-lucid mind starts to catch up with far too late, when he opens his eyes and feels Behnam's stiff posture. He mutters some sort of meaningless apology and gets out of bed, as much to escape the embarrassment as get himself moving. He's full of weird energy and he has no idea why.

"Are you okay...?" The man rumbles from the bed as he paces back and forth. Judging by the still-slurred affect to his words he's got his face pushed against the pillow.

"Sorry to wake you up." He stretches out a crook from his back, then glances at the clock. Two in the morning. "...Great."

"...Didn't answer my question." He doesn't sound too chuffed about it, but something about the comment stings. Behnam was probably wondering why his one-night stand was having one hell of a fever dream about his wrestling persona. The dream has faded, snatched away like a puff of smoke on the wind, and the only thing that's left is a bizarre, agonizing longing. Like he just missed the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Not trying to freak you out, I swear." Robin sighs, running hands over the back of his head to then knit his fingers behind his neck. "I've been feeling off ever since I got here."

"I think...people can be too invested in maintaining face." The kindness in his voice hurts. It was nothing like how he treated him yesterday, all judgmental and challenging and struggling to do something as normal as spending time with a person. "So you had a strange dream. Happens to all of us." He chuckles sleepily. "Wouldn't be the first time someone yelled out my stage name."

"You're a regular saint, Behnam." He feels himself starting to withdraw. The man rolls onto his back and, although the city lights from outside barely glint through the bottom of the blinds, he can tell he's watching him. He wants to go to him, drape himself over his broad chest and explore the scars peppered around his skull with his mouth. He can't, though. Not with how strung out and lousy he feels.

"You don't have to trust me. Not after a day of drinking and pool." The bed creaks again. "...If you want to join me again, though...I wouldn't mind at all."

Robin looks back at him. He feels stripped bare, an insect under a microscope, and just about in control. He shifts from foot-to-foot. Listens to the occasional car rumbling below. It's a few minutes before he works up the nerve to speak again.

"You ever...feel lost at sea?" He whispers into the dark. "Like no matter how hard you swim you're going to be pulled in another direction anyway?" At first he thinks the man fell asleep in that time. Then a soft huffing noise responds. The man shifts in the blankets again, getting comfortable as he mulls over the question.

"Every other day." Behnam murmurs. "I think that goes for most folk."

It's a minor admittance. Nothing that'd impress a priest at confession. Yet something in him gives, slouching his shoulders and leaving him truly, properly tired again. He takes a short trip to the bathroom (mindful to give his mouth a quick rinse to avoid morning breath) before crawling back into bed with him. Behnam is large and warm and reciprocating when he fills in the gaps with his arms and legs. Guess he'd have to add cuddling with a stranger onto his very sudden and increasingly long list of things he didn't do.

They talk a little bit more. More him than Behnam, really. Robin doesn't mind when he fills in the space instead with slow, easy kisses. Lazy trails from his throat to his chin to the dip behind his ear. Eventually to his mouth to linger when the words become about as tired. A physical conversation that kneads him soft enough to finally sleep.

They're both morning people, already bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and commenting on the hotel's customer service as Robin checks out at the front desk.

"No, let me handle the tip. I'm the one that got the room." Robin says as he pulls out his wallet. Not just the front desk, but the dutiful maids who had to likely air out the room from his guest's robust cigarette habit. Behnam gives him a look, not putting his away.

"But they allowed me to stay overnight." He protests. "That must be against policy."

"Hence why I'm giving them a bigger tip." Robin responds smoothly.

"Never stiffing blue-collar workers." Behnam sighs, stuffing his wallet in his back pocket. "You need a superhero title."

Robin is met with a strange sight once they go outside. Three birds with little orange chests sitting on the lamp together. He's not sure why it catches his attention, but suddenly he can't look anywhere else. He pulls out his phone to take a photo, but something startles all three into flying into the air and beyond the trees.

"I suppose this is where we part ways." Behnam says, shivering as the cold morning breeze sweeps around them. Somewhere in-between dinner and sex he had mentioned the city was just a brief weekend stop before dedicating himself to a few weeks' worth of traveling and teaching -- he had to catch his plane at the downtown hub while Robin was going by train. He could just ask the man for his number, sneak in another kiss and call it a success. But whatever he tasted over the past day is something he doesn't want to let go of.

"Come to think of it, you didn't bore me with one of your stories." Robin shoves his phone back into his pocket and tries to spot the birds again even though they're long gone.

"I still could. I don't have to board until later this afternoon." Behnam says, only to quickly glance at him like he's said something embarrassing. "Unless-"

"No, no." Robin interrupts. "I'd like that." His voice flattens more characteristically. "Beats listening to a schmuck on the tram telling me about all the different ways I'm going to Hell, anyway."

"Oh, you met him too?" Behnam laughs. "I'm glad I'm a notch above bus preachers."

"I mean, that's a low bar to clear." Robin admits. Behnam nods at this and he can't help but add, "But I can always find out more genuine flaws on our next date." It's an intentionally flippant comment to mask the fact he actually took the plunge and said it. He's already pummeling himself for opening his ridiculous mouth. The brilliant smile that lights up Behnam's face, however, makes the nervousness much easier to bear.

While the hotel food was competent (competent being the key word), he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to eat some genuinely memorable grub before leaving. So they grab a quick bite to eat at a nearby cafe. Like most of the businesses in the area it was likely family-owned, meaning it was expensive, nicely decorated and well worth the money. It's now he finally gets to learn how the hell a seemingly well-adjusted history teacher and archaeologist got swept up in cage fighting, of all things.

"It was a complete accident, really." Behnam is buttoning up his collar as he eyes the menu -- he was clearly a fan of hotter weather. "I'd been watching one of the matches after I'd left Cancun. Needed something to fill up my evening. Ended up getting a little rowdy in there, too much tequila for cheap, you know how it is. One particular fellow wouldn't stop bumping into me where I sat and I sort of, uh...lost my temper."

"You didn't...?" Robin presses, horrified. Behnam blinks down at him.

"Oh, goodness, no. I told him I'd give him $20 if he'd stop and called him a few things I'd rather not repeat."

"...Oh." It's a weird mix of disappointment and relief. He orders himself an Earl Grey and one of their bagels -- the scent of toasted bread and herb cheeses is making his mouth water. "Then what?"

"Then he slugged me in the face and told me to stop being a..." Behnam purses that beautiful mouth in thought. "You know, I don't think I'll repeat that here, either."

"Considering the venue, I can harbor a few guesses." Robin mutters, tossing a tip into the jar and finding them a spot to sit. He normally prefers somewhere a bit more quiet, but he doesn't have to actually start working once he's at the court house. The paperwork is done. The meetings are done. It was just a matter of signing and taking the plunge. The folder in his bag feels like it weighs a ton and he has to focus hard on Behnam's lively accent to avoid sinking into a bad temper.

"I'd just gotten off a rather disappointing meeting with my funders, so I was already operating on a short fuse. That town would have been perfect for research, it was practically untouched and we could've stimulated the local business...anyway." Behnam is saying, hands folded in front of him. Even in casual wear he looks scholarly. "So I returned the favor and before I knew it two tables had been broken clean in half and I'd racked up a $1,200 bill on damages and liquor." He smiles fondly. "One of the best memories of the past three years, if I'm being honest."

"But how'd that translate into you doing cage matches?" Robin blows on his tea. "Though I imagine it can't be hard for someone that looks like you, shtarker."

"Shtarker?" Behnam repeats, brows quirking curiously. His pronunciation is spot-on. "What's that?"

"A beefcake." Robin puts his chin in one hand and glances at his arms, bulging even in his thick coat. "Go on. How?"

"Someone took a video and it went viral. I started receiving offers within the week by both the place I helped wreck and another venue the next city over." Behnam thanks the waitress who brings over his food. "Few months later it kickstarted a side hustle for me and got that fellow into a load of trouble. Icing on the cake, really." His grin looks almost savage before he takes a large bite of his sandwich and lets out an appreciative moan.

"And the title?"

"A commenter said I must've been the bane of that man's existence." Another bite. "It stuck."

Robin laughs so hard he chokes and he spends a good two and a half minutes hacking into his hand as not to disturb the cafe. Behnam has to remind him to chew the food he paid for, even as he's snickering into his shoulder at his reaction. He insists on seeing that viral video. Even with the sound low and the quality a little dingy, the man's ferocity is alarming. He doesn't just punch the offender, he straight-up picks him up and drops him on the next table. A person in the corner of the video (a friend of the recorder, it seems) howls excitedly into the camera and exclaims they got more than what they paid for.

"Phew." Robin thumbs away a tear, still catching his breath. "Remind me never to get on your bad side." It's a joke, or at least intended as such, but Behnam's smile fades a little.

They eventually reach the topic of his latest case. It was inevitable, what with Behnam being so damn easy to talk to (he really should be worried about that, come to think of it) and his emotions on the subject running the gamut of apprehensive to despondent. His story wasn't going to be nearly as charming. He almost wants to apologize beforehand, but he stops himself. The only ones that should be apologizing were the incompetent assholes in charge.

"So, a kid caught in...a lot of trouble." He starts in-between bites. "I'm trying to get them out of it."

'Girl named Isabela caught in possession of drugs at school.' He thinks as he washes the food down with tea. 'Probably just found it laying on the damn street because we have more drug dealers than we do judges or officers who give a shit in this city. She's facing five years in juvenile court when she should be enjoying the rest of her childhood, but all I can do is hope arbitration does their job because I'm neither experienced enough nor rich enough to make those with power turn the other cheek.'

"They don't come from money, which are the kinds of cases I'm given because I'm still technically the new guy. I actually live just up north, but I thought I'd come down here because I knew it'd be more involving than my other ones. That...and I needed to get out of the house." He shrugs. "Anyway, kid's mother had a difficult time communicating with some of the other lawyers, so she was all but bummed off on me. She's an immigrant. English is decent, but she has a very strong accent. I probably don't need to spell the rest out." Behnam nods slowly. He likely knew far better than he did.

"I can provide an interpreter."

It's only when she enters his office for the first time does he realize how plain it is. She's dressed head-to-toe in a beautiful green and blue dress, probably handmade, and a few bracelets flash life along her brown wrists. It's a stark contrast against the beige walls and minimalist furniture. He should at least get a plant or something.

"I don't have money." She's agitated, been agitated the entire time, trying to keep herself together even as her leg bobs with excess energy. "I can't buy a...an interpreter. My daughter speaks for me. Her English is very good."

"I'm afraid that qualifies as a conflict of interest. I'm sure she's great at both languages, but interpreters provide us professional conduct and a strict policy of confidentiality." He has to walk her through the term and explain how it could land them both in worse hot water...only for him to then have to explain the meaning of the idiom he just used. He's appreciating the art of translation more and more by the second. "I can pay for one. It's no trouble. There are many in the area."

"No, I can't pay you. I can't pay." He doesn't understand what she means at first...then it clicks. She can't pay him back. He remembers to smile. 'Professionalism isn't a one-size-fits-all,' Barbara had told him once over lunch. 'Show them you care.'

"...That's fine." Robin tells her. "That's fine."

Behnam is respectful of confidentiality and doesn't press for further details, content to let him vague-speak. The concern in his eyes, though, feels genuine. It remains long after they finish up their meals, leave the cafe and make their way to a bus stop.

"Did you know a sentence can almost double with a single extra ounce of any illegal substance?" Robin asks as they walk. Behnam shakes his head. "Yeah. What could seem like a little extra courtesy from a dealer or a stroke of good luck could end up stacking on the years in a cell. I want to fight for the decriminalization of drugs, but there's a lot I still can't do in my position."

"Portugal recently passed a bill decriminalizing drug use." Behnam says. "Country has, coincidentally, seen a severe decrease in jail time done."

"All right, I have to ask." Robin asks. "Are you from Portugal?"

"No." Behnam lets Robin embarrass himself with a few more wrong guesses before smugly commenting on the weather.

He's helped in issues relating to child custody, juvenile court and, once, domestic violence. It's not until his third meeting does he realize exactly what he's dealing with.

"She is sad, a lot of times." Maria speaks slowly, with emphasis on each word. "She, she...she sometimes hurts her. Her...arm. She can't go to a jail. She can't."

"Is she mentally ill?" Robin asks. Her eyes narrow in confusion. He wills himself to be patient and tries again. "Is she sick, Maria?"

"No, no." Maria starts, hastily, only to suddenly stop and wring her hands. "...Yes. Yes, Isabela is sick. She is very sick."

Behnam offers him a bite of the pastry he brought from the cafe. Robin politely refuses. Even if he were a sweets person, just the thought of what he's looking forward to has made him feel a little ill.

He wants to rant and rave about how powerless he feels. That he spent years racking up sleepless nights and making social sacrifice after social sacrifice just so he could not just make something of himself, but do something good. But he can't. They're surrounded by people waiting for the bus. His case is confidential and he's already toed the line of professionalism and Behnam's still a stranger even when he wants him so, so badly not to be.

"...They would just snip the rest of their childhood away." He finishes instead. "Can't even be a kid while they still are one."

"You may not think it's a major impact..." Behnam leans against the railing. "...but what you're doing is making the world a slightly better place."

"You reading between the lines again?" Robin asks, sighing as the wind ruffles the sweat from his hairline. He glances in his phone mirror to fix his bangs.

"Perhaps." Behnam admits. "Though...if you're up to sharing...what had you pursue this field to begin with?" His scarf is back on, though his coat is buttoned up in the still-chilly morning. He watches him navigate the rest of his pastry with care. Behnam licks a smudge of powdered sugar off his thumb, then raises his eyebrows curiously at his silence. Right. Sharing. He could do that.

"I'd always thought I'd go for civil court cases once I finished college." He chuckles at Behnam's expression. "Yeah, it seemed to suit me. I'm good at organizing, not too bad at math and can apparently bark a mean order, but...well." He waits as people bustle past them and get seated. "It was a happy accident, actually. I hadn't picked a specialty, so I decided to go for a case involving a kid in trouble with their family for a place to start. It...changed everything."

The bus arrives and they all pile on. The driver announces the downtown destination, double-checks the doors, then peels off.

It's not until the fifth, and last, meeting Maria brings her daughter.

Isabela always looks at her feet. Quiet like her mother, but without the stern backbone. A small tween in a pink dress and dirty sneakers. She reminded him of...himself. At least, who he used to be.

Whatever people said of him now, and it was plenty, was nothing compared to what he got when he was a boy. Always ducking behind one family member or another during family outings. Having a hard time making friends when he went to school because he was either burying his nose in a book or being pushed around behind the gym where nobody could see. One of those kids that wouldn't be out of place in a family comedy filled with stereotypes.

Somewhere along the line, though, he had enough. He became an adult and went from 'pussy' to 'hardass'. 'Pushover' to 'nag'. 'Chickenshit' to 'pokerface'. He doesn't want this girl to end up like him. Toughening up only to show cracks later like old leather under the sun because there was no other choice.

"Hello, Isabela." Robin considers dusting off his college Spanish lessons, then thinks better of it. He needed to look trustworthy, not incompetent. "How are you?"

She shifts from foot-to-foot and just stares at the ground. He's not very good with kids. He grew up an only child and was considered atypical among his classmates even at a young age. She glances at her mother with big dark eyes, short even for fourteen years old, and seems unsure of where to start.

"Your mother and I have been talking about what happened." Robin continues, filling the silence with words until she feel comfortable enough to start. "I'm here to help. Whatever you need help with during the proceedings, your schooling or your extracurriculars, I'll be talking with your mother to make sure it all works out."

"...Am I..." Isabela starts. He leans forward a little, glad she's talking, only to feel his heart sink. "...going to jail?"

It's easy to fall into the smooth monotony of the bus. He doesn't feel it often, but it's a welcome salve for his nerves. He sees the courthouse out the window. A gray dome just beyond the hills, serene and foreboding. He'd rather be anywhere else, but his sense of duty squares up his shoulders and sets a hard line in his jaw.

"I had a good childhood." Robin says. "My mother's a teacher. Dad's a nurse. Savta's retired, but she used to be an artist. Always had a community to look after me, even when I fell off the ball with school and had to get my GED." Behnam is patiently listening, but he can see in his eyes he's not sure where he's going with this.

He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts. "I thought about kids who couldn't even go to school because they were living in terror from their own parents. The ones who managed to go, only to end up dropping out months later because of mental illness nobody took the time to treat. All the kids who have bad childhoods and are expected to cart that with them to college or when starting a family. It wasn't fair...I was a lucky one."

Behnam's eyes dawn in understanding -- a little too much, he thinks, then he remembers, of course. He has two daughters. He reaches out and presses one large hand to his shoulder.

"Then let those reasons be your beacon, when all other lights flicker out." He says, pulling back and leaving a warm ache in his wake. "Yours seems a very sturdy guide."

Robin manages a small smile.

They pull up downtown in good time. He's got a few minutes to spare before they need to split ways. They do the typical small-talk dance, commenting on what they're going to be doing for the next few weeks, basic remarks on how good the food was at the Blush Lounge. Then Behnam pulls him in for a kiss, hand on the back of his head, and he's pretty sure he's blushing for the first time in years.

"I had fun, Robin." He says against his mouth. Robin isn't into public displays of affection, but he holds onto his lip between his teeth for a fleeting moment -- it makes his next words just a little hoarse. "I'll keep in touch."

"Send me photos of your expedition." He says, trying not to pop a damn boner with a thousand eyes around them. Did the man's accent have to be so sexy? "If your students aren't covered head-to-toe in dust I'll have to write you off as a hack."

"Thank you for the warning." Behnam says, mock-seriously. "I'll make sure to take some very candid snapshots."

Robin smirks, about to say something clever, before he freezes at the sight of Maria over Behnam's shoulder. She's wearing a long red dress and sandals. The dust on her hem and the frizz pushing out of her ponytail suggest she's been walking in the growing humidity for quite some time. He puts on a professional air, even as something doesn't feel quite right.

"Maria." He starts. Why was she here? "Good to see you."

"I need to talk." Her dark eyes shoot to Behnam, assessing him quickly, then back to him. "It's very important."

"This probably isn't a good place to do so." Robin frowns. "Are you all right?"

"I need to talk now." She repeats. "...Please."

Behnam shifts uncomfortably, clearly aware he's in a strange spot. Her eyes flick again to Behnam, then back to him. He's never seen her like this. Every meeting they've had, from its inception nearly two months ago, she's been the very image of calm. A reasonable, if severe, mother caught between a rock and a hard place. More willing to listen than to speak, even when he encouraged her to share details so he could help her and her daughter better.

"Maria, I will do everything in my power to make sure Isabela gets a shorter sentence." He begins, urging her to move a little further away from the trickle of people coming out of the bus. "I am heading back to the courthouse now to finalize-"

"She is dead."

Robin blinks.

"What...what are you talking about?" He manages after a moment's blistering silence. Behnam opens his mouth to speak and he shoots him a quelling look. "Maria, what are you talking about?"

"I said she hurt her. Cuts. She did too many." Her hands are shaking, gripping her purse. "She is my only daughter. She is dead now."

Robin gapes. He cut down her sentence. Isabela had five years to look forward to originally. He got it down to three. He was going to get it down to one. He was going to look after her the entire time she was in there and the very second she was out. He was going to ensure she was able to meet the already high standards of the job market, the housing market, the...no. She can't be.

He slowly raises his hands at the knife she pulls from her dress pocket.

"Maria." He stammers, hastily. "Maria, listen to me."

"You are all the same. The worst." She waves it, clumsily, hand trembling with violent spasms. "You don't care. Hijo de puta, todos los abogados-"

People are looking at them now. Behnam pushes him back with one arm, holding out the other in an attempt to appease. His heart skips a beat. He can't involve him in this. The knife is mere feet away from leaving one or both of them a chalk drawing on the pavement.

"Ma'am, please, don't do this-" Behnam is saying, trying to put himself between him and Robin. He tries to push him to the side. The bastard doesn't even budge. "Puedo hablar con-"

"No, stop, get back, damn you." Robin says in an angry rush. "I have this under control-"

Behnam looks back at him, jaw set and not budging an inch. "Robin, don't move, I have experience with-"

"Malparido!"

He doesn't register the man gripping his stomach until he's backing away. Only when the hot sting of blood soaks into his jeans does reality catch up to speed.

"Oh god." Robin whispers, staring at the dark stains growing on the leg of his jeans. "Oh god."

Behnam looks at the knife growing out of his stomach, then slowly, horribly, sinks to the ground. Maria takes a fumbling step away, then two, shocked and horrified and raising her hands to her hair. It's dead silent for three slow, ticking seconds. Then the air is filled with screaming.

People are surrounding them in a rush. Someone holds out their phone. So does another. Then another. The buses have stopped, drivers peering out and gesturing to each other to stay in the area. Robin feels his entire body alternating between numb flashes and hot rage.

"What are you doing? Call an ambulance!" Robin screams. "Hurry!"

He can't pull the knife. He'll bleed out. But he can't just watch him lay there, trying and failing to fucking breathe. His college first aid classes seem a joke as he kneels on the concrete and watches Behnam curl weak fingers around the knife's hilt. Not taking it out. Almost marveling at the fact it's there at all.

"This is...this is..." Behnam coughs, tries to take in a deep breath, then coughs again. "O-Okay..."

"Help is on the way. Don't talk. Don't move." Robin looks around frantically. Maria is gone. At least, he thinks she is. There are so many people around them he doesn't know where to look first. His heart doesn't even feel like it's beating. A stone in his chest. What does he do?

"Lael, tell her..." Another, wetter cough. "She's my ex-wife-"

He starts to feel sick. Just two seconds away from retching out everything they had the cafe just hours ago. Robin leans away with a hand over his mouth, but he doesn't want to pull away. Not with Behnam looking so scared, the soft brown in his skin draining to pale even as he's putting on a shaky smile for his sake.

"I'm sorry..." Robin says, even as the words make him dizzy. "I shouldn't have made you stay. I should've let you go-"

The faded evening blue melts into a choking gray. The people crowding them have fallen into shadow, black silhouettes leaning against heavy clouds, and the air feels too cold. Their voices are muffled. Why is everything so quiet? Where is the ambulance? He looks down at Behnam. Opens his mouth to say he's so goddamn sorry...

"Hey! I think he's awake!"

Blake's eyes snap open. No, his eye. The other is swollen shut. He takes in a weak, freezing breath. His lungs feel like he's smoked a pack, but the way his limbs twitch suggest he hasn't touched one in a long damn time. The crust of blood itches his nose. Everything is...wet. Cold. It might have rained. There's a strange weight on his chest. One by one sensations fall into place, even as he's not entirely sure he isn't dead.