Archive of Our Own ^beta

Love doesn't discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints
It takes and it takes and it takes
And we keep loving anyway
-Hamilton

“We’re ready!” the mayor says, grinning in his expensive suit. There is no one Gordon would be less excited to see in his doorway.

“For what?” he asks. He doesn’t look up from the report he’s typing.

“We’re ready to start the initiative,” the mayor prompts. He frowns. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“We catch criminals and you handle PR,” Gordon says. “That’s how it works.”

“Well, we’re ready,” the mayor says, shaking his head and shrugging.

“For what?”

“To release our first inmate.”

Gordon’s hands freeze over the keyboard. He must not have heard correctly. He is confident— truly confident— that even a politician isn’t dumb enough to think Gotham has a single criminal in its hold that belongs back out in the world. They are in the newly renovated Blackgate or Arkham for very good, very specific reasons.

“Say that again,” Gordon whispers, looking up.

“We’re ready to release our first inmate,” the mayor repeats. “Honestly, Gordon, this isn’t a difficult concept.”

“You’ll forgive me if I can’t follow the logic,” Gordon replies, his voice ratcheting up.

“Come and see,” the mayor smiles. “You’ll understand.”

Gordon can’t do this alone. He’s been through a lot, and literally, his heart can’t handle it. Eighteen months ago, Gotham was in chaos. The city was nearly nuked. The Batman died. There was a mass exodus in the city’s police force, and Gordon knows he’s lucky to have kept the good cops he did. It’s been a hard eighteen months, undoing the damage that was done. He is exhausted from cleaning up the mess Miranda Tate left behind.

Because he can’t do this alone, he drags along the only other person he trusts with a problem like this— John Blake. “So they seriously think they can release one of these lunatics?” John hisses to Gordon as they walk through the overly brightened hallway.

“It’s gotta be somebody low level,” Gordon says. “The guy with the calendars, maybe. Maybe a fire bug. They can’t be stupid enough to release someone who’s actually dangerous.”

“If they are, I’ll lock ‘em right back up,” John mutters. At once, the caravan stops.

“Why are we in front of Bane’s cell?” Gordon asks, warily. The mayor practically shakes with excitement. Beside him, a pretty young doctor hands Gordon a file. It’s Bane’s.

“Fixable,” the cover reads, and Gordon stares. John’s eyes narrow. Gordon glares up at the blonde. “There is no way on God’s green earth you’re putting Bane on the street. He killed hundreds of people!”

“That was over a year ago. And anyway, Bane has a really strong sense of right and wrong,” the doctor says, adjusting her glasses. “He’s not crazy. I mean, there’s definitely some pathology there. He’s got trauma for days. Mostly, he just needs better coping mechanisms.”

“Coping mechanisms?” Gordon barks, incredulous.

“So buy him a teddy bear and leave him in his cage,” John snaps.

“I don’t tell you how to write parking tickets,” she pouts. “Don’t tell me how to be a doctor.”

John bristles. Gordon lays a calming hand on his arm, and he takes a deep breath. He glances into the cell. Bane is sitting cross legged on his bed. He appears to be doing some kind of meditation. He is instantly recognizable, all baldness and mask, but he’s smaller than John remembers— huge, but comparatively bite sized. “What happened to him?” he asks.

“Oh,” the doctor frowns. “Well, he can’t exactly go to the gym in here,” she says. “Also we had to do a lot of surgery to fix him up. Somebody really worked him over good.” She stares into the cell, eyes full of sympathy. “We cleaned up his face, and he’s not in nearly as much pain now. The mask doesn’t do anything anymore.” She glances up at John through her lashes. “I think he wears it because it’s familiar, and because he’s embarrassed of the scars.”

“You can’t possibly think it’s safe to put Bane back out into the world,” Gordon pleads. “He’s pure evil.”

“He’s not,” the mayor says. “All our research says he was just raised that way. He’s made great progress here at Arkham. What better symbol could there be of our new focus on truly cleaning up crime? Bane was a terrorist, and we’ve cured him. He’ll be the poster child for the Rehability Initiative.”

John can see Gordon’s pulse in his temple. He can practically hear the thoughts ripping through Gordon’s head. Mass murder. Social uprisings. The fact that rehability is not a word.

“I won’t let you release him,” Gordon says, eyes focused on the still-pretty-large man in the cell.

“Gordon,” the mayor sighs, “you don’t have a choice.”

Gordon looks at John, eyes desperate. His mustache twitches. “Then he gets a babysitter. Blake can handle it.” John starts.

The doctor arches her eyebrows. “You’re scared to release Bane, but you think a beat cop is enough to leash him?”

“Detective,” John mutters.

Gordon’s face is expressionless. “He walks a tough block.”

The doctor looks John up and down. “He must.”

“I’ll send Nightwing to pick him up tomorrow,” Gordon says. “He’ll deliver Bane to Detective Blake. If it’s like you said, it’ll be good for him to have a transition period. If it’s not, Blake will shoot him right between his beady eyes.”

But they’re not beady. They're not beady at all. John’s neck feels hot, and when he looks over his shoulder, those eyes are watching him, cautious and blue.

“Completely reasonable,” the mayor agrees.

“Then we’ll be going,” Gordon says. John is still holding Bane’s gaze. He struggles to break it. “Mayor.” Gordon nods, a goodbye. “Dr. Quinzel.”

The next night finds Nightwing lounging in the asylum hallway, arms crossed impatiently. A black mask wraps around his eyes, and his hair dangles loose. His suit is borrowed, a bat suit tailored down by Fox. The belt has been plated with chrome. The bat has been painted an electric blue. John was patient enough to wait for Alfred to negotiate the changes. He isn’t patient enough to wait much longer for his new ward.

Not that he’s anxious about it, or anything. It’s just a babysitting job. He babysat kids all the time at St. Swithins. This isn’t all that different. This is just a bigger boy, with a more dangerous mean streak. He hears footsteps down the hall and glances up, pushing away. Dr. Quinzel rounds the corner, waving happily. Bane is beside her. He’s not cuffed. He’s dressed how he came in, but it hangs off him, a little loosely.

Only a little.

“Nightwing, I presume,” Bane says. His voice is strange— purposefully modulated. It reminds Nightwing to be on his game. He drops his own voice to a growl.

“Bane.”

Bane’s eyes crinkle. “Ah, a Little Bat, I see.”

Hopefully the mask hides his blush.

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Quinzel beams. She trots away. Bane just keeps staring at Nightwing, who refuses to lose this game of chicken.

“You’ve gotta lose the mask,” Nightwing growls.

“After you, Little Bat,” Bane purrs. Nightwing narrows his eyes. “You and I— we are men who live in the darkness. We are men who live in masks.” He stands there, hands tugging the loosened collar of his Kevlar vest. He still cuts an intimidating figure. Nightwing isn’t afraid— not like he might have been, before his own protective suit, when Bane was at full strength. Still, Bane has a good six inches on him in height. He easily bests him in weight, by eighty percent or more. His head remains shaved. He’s not lugging around as much weight, but his hips have a permanent swagger.

“Whatever,” Nightwing shrugs, looking away. The back of his neck feels hot. “Let’s just go.” He waits for Bane to draw alongside him and heads down the hall.

“You believe this is a ruse,” Bane says. “You believe I am a dangerous criminal.” He seems amused. Nightwing glances at him sideways.

“You are a dangerous criminal.”

“The wind is ever changing,” Bane says. “The darkness remains the same, and so does the light, but time shifts consistently between them.” Nightwing pushes out the door. He hits the remote start for the Tumbler.

“Stop talking in riddles and get in the car.”

It’s at least a relief to see Bane drawn up short when they enter his living space for the next few months. “This is not the apartment of a detective,” Bane observes.

“No,” Nightwing agrees. “This is the Batcave. And you won’t get out without getting blown up, so don’t even try.”

“Detective Blake will not be my warden, then.”

“No,” Nightwing confirms. He strips off his gloves. He leaves the rest. “He’ll take you to your appointments, but generally, you’ll stay here. There’s a living area,” Nightwing points. “You’ll sleep on the couch. It pulls out.”

“What does the couch pull?” Bane interrupts. Nightwing stares at him blankly.

“It’s a pull out couch.” Bane stays silent. Nightwing frowns. “I mean the couch converts to a bed.” Bane nods. “There’s a kitchen,” Nightwing continues, “but I’ll need to stock it. I’ll go shopping tomorrow. The bedroom belongs to me. You don’t go in there.”

“A man must have privacy,” Bane agrees.

“The bathroom is at the far end. There’s a shower in there. I’ll bring down some towels, and we’ll find some clothes that fit you.”

He starts to walk away, but Bane isn’t moving. Nightwing sighs. “Look, we both know it’s a matter of time before I throw you back in Arkham. This place isn’t great, but it’s your home for now. Don’t make me kill you in it.”

Bane’s eyes are calm. Something in them shakes Nightwing at his core. “I have slept in darker places, under greater threats.”

“Ok,” Nightwing says, hesitantly. “Just— don’t try to escape, alright?”

“I will remain in your care, Little Bat,” Bane agrees.

Alfred takes it about as well as could be expected.

The old butler’s eyes are sharper than those of most men John’s age, and his tongue is worse. “Maybe you’ve forgotten that we have a mansion full of children up here,” Alfred snaps. “You want to keep a member of the League of Shadows in the basement— Master Blake, you've lost your mind.”

“I agree that it’s a bad idea,” John says. “And don’t call me that.” The title makes him feel dirty, on the inside. “I wasn’t really given a choice.” John is spreading mayonnaise on toasted bread. He puts ham on one slice, and turkey on another. In John’s version of a boy’s home, the mayo is name brand. The bread is not, because he’s never gotten over his life long preference for cheap, institutional staples. “He’s been through intensive therapy and reprogramming.”

“At Arkham.”

“Apparently, he had some serious physical issues as well, and he’s had a lot of surgery. He’s smaller than he used to be. That should help.”

“Should.”

John shrugs. He lays tomatoes and lettuce on the side, off the sandwiches. “He’s still pretty big.”

“And when does our guest arrive?” Alfred asks, voice clipped.

“Well,” John shifts uncomfortably, “that’s the thing.” He turns to Alfred. He’s holding two plates.

Alfred’s glare is fiery. “I see.”

“Maybe stay upstairs for a few days.”

“Right,” Alfred snips. He pulls a bag of chips out of the cupboard and stuffs it under John’s arm. “Off you go.”

Bane is on the couch when John gets to the cave. He’s sitting awkwardly. “Are you uncomfortable?” John asks. He drops the bag of chips onto the old coffee table and sets the plates down.

Bane’s eyes frown behind the mask. “I am unused to such unsupportive furniture. I am not uncomfortable.”

John’s mouth quirks into a smile. “You’ve gotta relax into it, buddy.” Bane’s eyes narrow further. “I’m John,” he says. He holds his hand out. Bane stares at it. “Shake,” John urges. Hesitantly, Bane reaches out. He grips John’s hand like it’s fragile. It’s still the tightest handshake John’s ever had, and he can feel it in his entire body.

He’ll just file that away for later, with all the other intrusive thoughts he tries to ignore.

“I didn’t know if you were a turkey or a ham guy, so I brought both.”

Bane looks— confused. “I am uncertain,” he says. “Choice is a luxury.”

John feels astoundingly wrong footed. He’d been expecting some kind of banter, maybe some thinly veiled threats. He expected Bane to lord his heft over John. He expected escape attempts. Instead, the man in front of him looks entirely out of place, quiet and reticent behind the thick black mask. He decides not to overthink it. He goes to the Batcave’s kitchenette. He retrieves two bottles of water and a plastic knife. Bane eyes the knife with caution as John returns, but John merely squats down by the table and slices each sandwich in half. He moves half of the ham sandwich to the turkey plate, and vice versa. “There you go,” he says, sliding a plate across to Bane. Bane stares at it, his hands clasped in front of him, elbows on his knees. He looks even more confused. “You ok?”

“Your hospitality is unexpected,” Bane murmurs.

“Eat up,” John says. “We’ve got to get you back for an appointment in ninety minutes.”

John has no idea how the appointment goes. That’s not his business. It is, however, his business to find out exactly why Arkham and the mayor believe Bane is fit for freedom. While Bane meets with Dr. Quinzel, John casually hacks the Arkham network, and downloads Bane’s entire file to the Batcave server.

He looks at his cell phone, idly scanning the massive index. Quinzel writes notes like it’s going out of style, and some of Bane’s interviews were recorded. He clicks one.

“So you get that, right?” Quinzel asks.

John is struck by the look of pain in Bane’s eyes. “No,” he says again. “That is a fantasy.”

“Some people are innocent,” Quinzel urges. “Sometimes people don’t kill other people.”

“Everyone is out for themselves,” Bane snaps. His voice is loud behind the mask. “There is no one who is innocent. No one. Drive a man to poverty and he will steal from the rich, out of selfish ambition, for his own benefit. Give him enough power and he’ll impoverish the rich man too, just to prove he can.”

“That’s not how things are everywhere. That’s just The Pit. What about kids, Bane?”

Bane looks stricken. “Yes,” he agrees. “Children are innocent. “But all children must grow up, some faster than others.”

John taps away and checks the time stamp. This video is from only days after Bane entered Arkham. There are dozens more.

Down the hall, a door opens. Bane walks out, quietly. John slides his phone into his coat pocket. “Ready?” Bane nods.

It’s a long night, sorting through Bane’s file. John expected reams of manifestos, stacks of conspiracy theories and fascist writings. He expected plans to blow up buildings, and rantings about corruption.

Bane is nothing but surprises.

There’s nothing about future plans in his file. There are notes suggesting he had a traumatic upbringing, somewhere called “The Pit.” He has no known family on record. His last known associates were all part of the League of Shadows, but the notes say he was shunned by them too. He is a planner, but he has no vendetta of his own. What dogma he did follow has been deprogrammed.

Allegedly.

When he was evaluated, he displayed difficulty with the concept of the “innocent person.” Bane had never met an innocent person in his life, and he included himself. His profile displayed an exceptionally bleak outlook on life. The differential included major depressive disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, and adjustment disorder. The final conclusion of the report is that he suffers from all three.

John drops his tablet on the bed in front of him and crosses his arms. There’s a lot to unpack. Bane’s IQ is off the charts. It’s hard to buy that he might be no more than a traumatized hired gun. However, there’s a lot of detail missing about his time in The Pit. What John can gather for sure is Bane grew up alone, in an environment full of only danger. It’s not surprising that he latched on to the League of Shadows. The excommunication, however, is curious. To hear Bruce tell it, Bane was simply too much for the League. John, however, questions the quality of Bruce’s sources.

John slips out of the bed and pads silently to the door. He holds his hand above the knob and just breathes. Maybe Bane is asleep. Maybe Bane needs privacy, the same as everyone else. And besides— John had almost slipped out without his mask. He turns back into the room and moves to his desk, opening his laptop. He clicks to the surveillance program and cycles the cameras. Bane appears to be asleep on the couch. Although John has shown him how, he hasn’t set up the bed. He is on his side, arm curled protectively around his stomach.

His mask is off.

It feels wrong, staring. That doesn't stop John from zooming in. Bane has the blanket pulled over his mouth, just below his nose. Still, John muses, he does have a nose, and that’s something. He looks younger in sleep. Peaceful.

Maybe the doctors are right. Maybe he really has no alliances, no rabid belief systems. Maybe he’s just a lonely and terrifyingly competent mercenary, adrift in the world with no family, and nowhere to call home.

Wayne Manor is a literal orphanage, these days. Upstairs, two dozen boys like Bane are asleep in their beds. Bad things have happened to those kids. People have been cruel to them. They are here because they deserve a home, and the resources to build a life and a second chance. They are here to keep them from becoming the darkness they grew up in. John has been that scared and angry boy. He’s tried to live life on his own. He’s sought revenge when he should have looked for peace. In the end, he found an acceptable way to live out his fantasies— first as a cop, then as Nightwing. He’d pissed off a dozen priests and beleaguered therapists, but mostly, he found an outlet for his anger, which he’d desperately needed.

Why couldn’t Bane just need the same?

John shuts the lid to the laptop. More intrusive, more dangerous thoughts. It would do him no good to fantasize about how Bane might have been different, in a different life. The fact is, Bane grew up in this one. He made the choices he made, and people died. Still, John feels more ready to consider his future as open— unwritten.

Tomorrow, he will find a way to get Bane to open up. Tonight, he will sleep. He will not think about that peaceful face, or the slow rhythm of Bane’s breathing beneath the blanket. He isn’t ready to buy Quinzel’s bullshit.

But there’s room to consider.

It’s a pain in the ass to sneak out the apartment elevator, walk the Manor property, and come back down the “public” lift. It’s less of a pain than dressing as Nightwing at seven in the morning. John makes his presence known as Bane strides out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a tight, navy shirt, and khaki pants.

It would be unprofessional for John’s month to water, so if it does, he will never admit it. Even if this were anyone else but Bane, John very carefully does not indulge. There would be no way to explain his late nights and perpetual smattering of bruises. He smiles tightly at Bane. “Hello, parolee,” he says. “What do you want for breakfast?” Bane’s eyes frown.

“There is no need for my opinion.”

“Sure there is. You’re eating breakfast, right?”

Bane says nothing.

“Look,” John sighs. “Sometimes people do things because it makes them happy to make somebody else happy. I’ll be happy if you enjoy your breakfast. Ok?”

Bane just stares at him. “Toast,” he finally says. “Coffee.”

John smiles, and Bane looks startled. Maybe he’s never seen dimples before. John gets to work, pulling bread down out of the fully stocked cupboard. “Next week I’ll buy some Pop Tarts,” he says. “I practically lived on Pop Tarts as a kid.” That’s true, but not quite the way he says it. He really did survive for two weeks on one box of chocolate Pop Tarts. “Even after the orphanage, I never stopped loving them.”

“You were an orphan?” Bane asks. John blinks, startled by his own slip. He was up too late last night. He sighs. There’s no point in hiding his past, and it’s not like he’s ashamed.

“Not always,” John admits. “But eventually, yeah.”

“I never knew my parents,” Bane says. John sets toast on the table in front of him and goes to pull a variety of jelly out of the refrigerator. He hears something snap behind him and freezes. He turns slowly.

Bane has removed his mask.

John is able to stifle a gasp, but only barely. He is certain his eyes widen. There is a terrible, angry scar running the length of Bane’s jaw, from his left ear to his (astoundingly gorgeous) mouth. That’s all, though. If Dr. Quinzel is to be believed, the damage used to be worse. John can see the rest of that peaceful face he saw before, and it’s— it’s good, really. Without the mask, Bane is just a big guy. He’d be very popular at Lady Galahad’s, even with the scar. “Thank you,” Bane says as John sets the jelly down. John can’t detect a hint of irony in his voice, though it sounds different— less forced, a little raspier. He really does seem grateful. Bane is a mercenary, prone to episodes of extreme violence. And yet, he seems to be all sincerity.

John sighs, internally. The more he knows, the less he understands.

John’s hands flex on the steering wheel as he drives Bane to Arkham. He has a real job. He really does, but Gordon insists this takes priority.

He doesn’t exactly mind.

“So, uh, you find these visits helpful?” he asks, glancing sideways. Bane doesn’t move.

“They are necessary.”

“But are they helpful?”

Bane turns. “What does that matter?”

John shrugs, self conscious. “Therapy never helped me much when I was a kid. Always seemed like a waste of time.”

“I am not a child.”

“Everybody was a child once,” John says, and he immediately wonders why.

That’s not true. He knows why. He’s thinking about The Pit. He’s wondering how Bane grew up, and why he was there. It’s silent for several minutes, just the rumble of the motor, and the grind of the tires on fallen leaves. John does his best not to be startled when Bane finally speaks. “When you were first told of my imminent release, you said they should give me a stuffed bear and leave me.”

John pales. “I did.” He’s thinking about the video— of Dr. Quinzel explaining the concept of innocent people. Of Bane’s insistence that all children grow up, some faster than others.

“I had one,” Bane sighs. “As a boy. Osito.”

“Oh yeah?” John asks, casting a quick glance at Bane. He’s staring out the window of John’s car.

“Yes,” Bane says.

“That made you feel safer?”

“He was a good place to hide my knife,” Bane says. John isn’t sure if he’s joking.

John ends up sitting there on the front stairs of Arkham during Bane’s appointment, staring out at the grounds. It’s about to rain, but he really doesn’t care. Part of him is wondering if he should tag Bane— maybe slip a little tracker into the mask, for when he inevitably gets into trouble. The rest of him is wondering if he could see Bane’s face without the mask again, and if his lips are as soft as they look.

John could maybe use some therapy himself.

He hears the heavy door creak open behind him. Tiny, high heeled footsteps clack toward the stairs. “You don’t look angry,” Dr. Quinzel chirps. John looks over his shoulder.

“Why would I be angry?”

“Lock ‘em up and throw away the key, right?” she says. “GCPD motto.”

John practically growls. “That’s not our motto.”

She crosses her arms and smiles, even as it starts to rain. “Either way,” she shrugs. “You don’t seem as unhappy as I thought you’d be.”

John frowns. He pushes himself up off the stair. “Bane is— different than I expected.”

She smiles even wider, tugging her dampening hair out of its clip. She looks young. John is one to talk, but she almost looks too young to be a doctor. “Big guy was an easy sell,” she says.

There’s noise in the cave as Nightwing drags himself back from patrol that night, and he’s almost startled to remember Bane lives here now. He can’t stop thinking about it. Bane cannot actually be rehabilitated. He is a terrorist, and a fanatic. He cannot possibly be fixed or even fixable. He tried to kill millions of people. He nearly succeeded.

But now, Bane’s sitting awkwardly on the couch, watching a shitty television program with a pained expression. He’s weaving a length of leather cord between his hands, absently. Nightwing watches from the doorway. He doesn’t see a terrorist. He sees someone powerful, but isolated. He sees someone who’s fundamentally alone in the world. He wants to pull the blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around the mercenary’s wide shoulders. He wants to press his lips to the mask, and wish him goodnight.

The cognitive dissonance is devastating.

“What are they doing?” Bane asks. He stares at the screen, curious.

Nightwing glances over his shoulder. He clears his throat. “Kissing.”

“Kissing.” Bane rolls if around in his mouth. “That much is visible. Why?”

Nightwing shrugs. “Because they like each other.”

Bane squints his eyes. He hums. “And do you like me?”

Nightwing can’t help but feel like there’s a catch to answering that question. If it weren’t Bane, he’d suspect he’s being teased. He frowns. “Strange to say, but yes.”

Bane stands, abruptly. Nightwing remains baffled by how much Bane seems smaller than he once was— he is huge, but not as intimidating. He’s almost human. Still, he looms in Nightwing’s personal space. “Should I kiss you, Little Bat?”

Nightwing chokes. “No!” He blurts. Bane raises an eyebrow. “You can’t—“ Nightwing lowers his voice. He glances around, eyes wary for stray butlers. “You can’t just go kissing the first person who’s nice to you.” Bane’s eyes are glittering.

“You are not the first person to be nice to me,” Bane says.

“Oh yeah?”

“John is nice to me.” Nightwing squirms. “Dr. Quinzel. She was nice to me.”

“She believes you’re redeemable.”

“She is—“ Bane pauses. “She is very adept at rationalizing negative behaviors.” John’s mouth quirks up. “Perhaps too much so.”

“You’re not so bad,” Nightwing shrugs. Bane wraps his arms around Nightwing’s waist and tugs him close. Nightwing freezes.

“I don’t believe you,” Bane says, his voice low and dangerous.

Nightwing is struck by a vision of smoke, by the sound of screaming.

“I think,” Bane says, darkly, “I will always be the worst man you know.”

Nightwing swallows. “Books,” he says. “I’m gonna bring you some books.”

And it goes like that— for a while, it goes like that, and maybe John should be less surprised when a month has passed, but he’s shocked. He’s had a supervillain living in what amounts to his apartment for a month now, and it’s been at least two weeks since it seemed anything other than routine.

Still, he is a supervillain, and John can’t escape that.

Bane seems equally aware of the sides they’ve taken. He glares up at Nightwing as he downs a bottle of water. “What?” Nightwing snaps.

“You can have clean water at your preferred temperature whenever you want,” Bane says, blandly, and he’s got that look in his eye— the one they makes John squirm with discomfort. The one that calls him a rich boy. Yeah, John’s got money, but he certainly doesn’t come from it. And sure, John’s experience as an orphan was head and shoulders better than Bane’s.

Still.

It’s not like John asked for a stranger’s inheritance.

“So?”

“You live in excess, surrounded by luxury. You know nothing else.” Bane growls. “You are something close to a good man, Nightwing. But you are still from Gotham.”

Nightwing drops the bottle in the recycling bin. It’s not the first time they’ve had this argument. Every time, he gets a little worried about Bane’s chances. “What, you think it’s always been this way? You think I like living in Wayne’s basement?”

He does like it, though. Whatever European country Bruce is hiding out in, Nightwing hopes it’s far enough away that his ears aren’t burning.

“You think I’m just some entitled, rich prick, gorging myself on a fortune made off the backs of the working class?”

Bane stands to meet him. “I think you believe your public service absolves you.”

Nightwing grits his teeth. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask Blake to take you in a field trip upstairs.” Bane arches a brow. “Just be dressed and ready.” He stalks into his room and slams the door.

John practically preens at the look on Bane’s face as he steps out of the elevator. Yes, the mansion is still a testament to excess. However, beyond the grand piano and the rows of wall length family portraits, there are toys in the floor. John can hear running.

“There are children here,” Bane states.

“Yeah,” John says. “You might want to take your mask off before you scare one.” He walks into the house, Bane trailing behind.

“Why are there children in Wayne Manor?”

“Because it’s Wayne Orphanage now,” John smirks. He looks up at Bane. “The estate’s being used for good.”

When they enter the East Wing, there are kids everywhere. There is also Alfred, glaring daggers by the service elevator. “All of these are parentless?” Bane asks, quietly.

“Yeah,” John says.

“But they are able to remain here.”

“They each have their own bed, and space to store their things. They have food, clean clothes, and a roof over their heads. It’s not the same as having a family, but it’s something.”

Bane frowns. “You were an orphan.”

“Yeah,” John confirms. “But I was never anywhere as nice as this. I got kicked around from foster home to foster home, until I ended up in a church orphanage out by the Narrows.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Bane turns to face John. “Why were you ‘kicked around?’”

“Because I was angry,” John shrugs. “Because I broke things and hurt people. I actually broke my last foster dad’s nose.” Bane arches an eyebrow. “He called me a paycheck.”

Something hot simmers behind Bane's eyes. “When I was a child, there was no safety. Sometimes we were fed. Sometimes we were not.”

“How many kids did you grow up with?”

“None.”

John shakes his head, confused. “You said ‘we.’”

“I am referring to the other prisoners.”

“Prisoners?“

Bane sighs and moves toward the stairs. He rests his hand on the ornate railing. “I was thrown into The Pit before I could even speak.”

John can feel his blood pressure rising. “For what?” he snaps.

“Being born to my father,” Bane says. “He did not wish to serve his time. I served it for him.”

“How many years?” John asks, his voice shaky.

“The Pit is a life sentence, officer,” Bane replies, with mock cheer. “I remained until The League of Shadows liberated me, when I was nineteen.” He looks out at the children playing in the hall. The expression on his face is hard to read.

“I ran for a bit,” John says. “After the last foster family, before they threw me in the boys’ home. I stole what I had to to survive. If I couldn’t have my family, I just wanted to be free.”

“That is all I ever wanted,” Bane says softly. “My most selfish desire. I wanted family, and I wanted to be free.” He looks down at John, and his eyes are glistening. “You must understand, John— Talia gave me both, for a short while.” And he does— he does understand. John gets that desperation. He remembers that feeling, like no sacrifice would be too much if it got him that piece of safety, that inch of breathing room.

“When you made that speech,” John pauses. “When you told everyone the truth about Harvey Dent— I almost quit the force. The only thing that stopped me was I thought if I stayed, maybe I could make a difference.”

“John—“

A young boy comes running towards them, his head turned back. His arms are flung wide to catch the ball thrown his way. John notices too late that he doesn’t seem to realize he’s nearing the stairs. “Hey!” he calls out.

Bane is there, as fast as John can yell, arms snatching the child from the air as he begins to plummet. He gently sets the startled boy back on the marble floor. The boy stares up at Bane, his eyes wide and terrified.

“What have I told you about running in the hall, Tommy?” Alfred asks, strolling up beside them.

“Don’t,” the boy says.

Alfred takes his hand and leads him back to his friends. “You’ll do better to listen to me,” Alfred chastises. “For your own good.”

John knows that’s directed at him. He ignores it.

“The Pit— that shouldn’t have happened to you,” John says to Bane. His voice is soft. His eyes are hard. “Nobody should do that to a kid.” He doesn’t care that it’s Bane. He wants to pull the man into his arms.

“You and I,” Bane pauses. His voice is rough. “We are survivors.”

John can’t stop staring. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, we are.”

There’s work to distract John from the churning anxiety in his gut, and he dives in, head first. He’s asked for cold cases, and Gordon has buried him in them. Bane only has to go to the doctor every other week at this point, and John is spending as little time in the cave as he can justify. Nightwing checks in every night, but John has stayed away.

John’s got a reputation, and he knows it. He’s the department hot head. He’s impulsive, and he rushes in to things. If he thinks about consequences, he never lets them bother him. And yeah, his reputation is well-earned, but he’s good at his job. He never hesitates, and it’s saved lives.

He’s never really thought about being that way in his personal life, but here he is, trying to distract himself at work because he’s getting too close to a goddamn superhuman terrorist. He’s only glad Bruce isn’t around to see it. He thinks about Bruce’s back, and his insistence that it will never heal quite right.

Fuck, Bruce would kill him if he ever found out John was fantasizing about willingly folding himself across Bane’s lap.

“Blake!” Gordon calls. John knows that tone of voice.

“What is it?” he asks from the office door.

“Break out at Arkham,” Gordon says. “It’s the Joker.”

“Fuck,” John breathes.

“Our primary concern is he seems to have kidnapped Dr. Quinzel.” Gordon frowns. “This is too sensitive of an operation for just the police.”

John nods his understanding. He can feel an impulse bubbling up in his throat. “I’m gonna take Bane,” he says.

“No, you’re not!” Gordon barks, surprised. John’s already gone. “Blake!”

It’s thrilling, the heat of Bane pressed against him in the Tumbler. Nightwing had zipped in to the cave, and bluntly asked:

“Joker’s got Dr. Quinzel. You wanna help?”

It had taken Bane all of two minutes to gather what little personal armor he used.

“For the record, I’m against this,” Gordon says over the radio.

“Bane needs something to do,” Nightwing argues.

“I don’t want you taking him. Leave him in the cave where he’s comfortable. Bane should just be glad he’s not in a cell right now.”

“And I am, Commissioner,” Bane bellows across the radio. “Thank you for your generosity.”

“Goddammit, Nightwing!”

“Gotta go,” Nightwing chirps.

The elation is short lived. Joker’s holding Dr. Quinzel at the old chemical plant, and that wouldn’t be such a big deal, but he has an entire army. “We’re fucked,” Nightwing growls. “We need to call Gordon.”

“You do not need to massacre an army,” Bane states. “You merely need to cut off the head.” There’s a fence around the back of the plant, by the dumpsters. Ahead of him, Bane silently scales it. Before Nightwing can catch up, Bane’s disabled a henchman. He looks ready to snap the man’s neck, and Nightwing curses.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he hisses. “We don’t kill them, if we can help it!”

Bane holds the man aloft, turning to Nightwing. The man is grappling at Bane’s fist and kicking wildly. It does nothing. “This is why your city has such high rates of recidivism,” he muses.

Nightwing strolls closer. “Oh, now you don’t think people deserve second chances?” He crosses his arms.

Bane sets the man down and knocks him unconscious. His eyes never leave Nightwing’s. “Your point is noted,” he says.

Bane scrambles silently on to the building’s fire escape. John is baffled by his stealth, especially in relation to his size. Bane climbs to the third floor and looks inside. He flattens himself to the wall and waves for Nightwing. Nightwing awkwardly climbs up. He’s a little embarrassed at how much longer it takes him, and how much louder he is.

Inside, Quinzel is dangling, hanging by her blouse over an old, rusted, chemical tank. She’s got a knife in her hand, and she’s pointing it at her own face. “Do it,” Joker urges. “Do it, do it, do it!” She complies, sliding the knife deep into both cheeks. Blood comes rushing out, a grotesque clown mask. Dr. Quinzel begins to laugh. Joker smiles, darkly.

“We’ve gotta do something,” Nightwing says, desperate. He moves towards the window. Bane grips his arm.

“She has chosen this,” Bane says.

“Chosen this?” Nightwing whines. “Why would anybody choose this?” He can’t take his eyes off the bloody scene in front of him.

Bane is quiet. “There is nothing we can do,” he says.

Nightwing stares in disbelief as the Joker kisses her, smearing hot blood across both of their faces. “Second worst,” he says, softly.

“Pardon?”

“You are the second worst man I know.”

“Well,” Bane says, eyes smiling above the mask. “That is progress.”

He wishes he wasn’t bothered by it, but he is. The sight of Quinzel, slicing herself up for the Joker of all people, laughing with him like there weren’t tears of pain tricking down her cheeks— he can’t get it out if his head. He feels like vomiting. He struggles not to fixate on the fact that she was the one who declared Bane “fixable.”

A broken clock is right twice a day, and boy, is this one broken.

As the rain took its toll on her blonde updo, she had pulled it loose and smiled at John. “Big guy was an easy sell,” she said, shrugging. Had she known? Did she know who Bane truly was? Had she seen what John could see, or was this just an early attempt at sowing the seeds of chaos?

John can feel himself spiraling. Never mind Dr. Quinzel. Had Bruce known about Bane’s past? Had he understood that they came from the same darkness? Is that an excuse? Does it justify anything, and if so, what the hell is John supposed to do about it now? The program is fucked, to be sure. What about the other patients? John always really thought of them as “inmates,” but they’re people. How many of them could survive on their own, without crime, if they just had the right support? What will happen to Bane, now that Rehability is falling apart?

It’s those thoughts that send him down the house elevator, instead of through the secret entrance. It’s those thoughts that leave him dressed as John.

Bane doesn’t look surprised to see him. He sets his book down, careful with the spine and pages. Something about the way he tenderly shuts the novel around his bookmark tugs painfully in John’s chest. His mask is off. He doesn’t move to put it on.

“This is a very late visit, John,” Bane says.

“I hear you had a weird night,” John replies, stepping hesitantly into the room.

“It was—“ Bane sighs, “disappointing.” He stands. He walks toward John.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asks.

“No,” Bane says. He’s walking closer still. John freezes. Bane reaches up and cups his jaw. “Do you?”

“Hey—whoa!” John says, putting his hands up. He backs away. “What are you doing, buddy?”

Bane strides forward, with purpose. “I would not expect you to pretend ignorance, Officer.”

John’s eyes widen. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe this was a game all along. How could he be so stupid? How could he have let the lack of a mask distract him from the fact that this was Bane? “Listen,” John swallows. “I don’t— I'm not like that. I’m a cop.”

“I fail to see the significance,” Bane says, still walking forward. He’s not wrong. John is “like that.” John is very much “like that.”

“I mean I’m not— I don’t want—“ but Bane has him at the wall. John feels the damp of the cold rock through his jacket. His mouth is dry, palms sweaty. Half of him is terrified.

But only half.

Bane leans in. He frames John between his arms, hands on the wall. “Do not lie to me, Little Bat,” he says. John’s eyes snap up.

Shit.

“What?” He blurts. “I’m not—“

“Do you believe I would hurt you, Nightwing?”

John swallows, his throat sticky. There’s no point in pretending. He should have known Bane would figure it out. He’s too smart. “No,” John agrees, softly.

“Do you trust me?”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Bane is a goddamn supervillain. But John looks up into his serious blue eyes. He thinks about the way Bane has him pinned, but hasn’t laid a hand on him. He thinks about Bane’s very sharp sense of right and wrong. John has to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth.

“I do,” he whispers. “God help me, I trust you.”

Bane’s mouth is hot against his, plush as it looked. John can’t help the tiny moan that escapes, and he starts to grab Bane’s shirt. Bane catches his hands at the wrists and pulls them wide, pinning him to the wall. He is a quick study— affection is new for Bane, and this closeness even newer. You’d never know. He kisses like he’s trying to turn John inside out— like he’s trying to crawl his way into his mouth. John has never experienced an actual feeling he’d label as “weak in the knees,” but here he is, willingly trapped by Bane’s girth, legs literally shaking beneath him as he lets Bane slip his tongue into his mouth. “Lets” is a funny word for it, really, because John is positive he couldn’t stop Bane if he tried. He’s equally positive Bane won’t try something he knows John doesn’t want, and that’s… startling. John’s eyes roll back a bit when Bane grinds his pelvis into his.

Never mind what Bane won’t try.

John kinda wants everything.

“What would you have me do, John?” Bane asks, pulling back.

“I—“ John gasps. Bane presses back in and seals his mouth with another searing kiss, like he can’t quite bear to pull apart. His fingers trail along the waistband of John’s jeans. “Yeah,” John nods. “Yeah, ok.”

Bane confidently undoes John’s belt buckle. He unbuttons him, pulls the zipper down slowly. He can’t be bothered to move slow after, taking only enough time to tug the front of John’s boxers down before he’s taking him in hand.

John is hard as a fucking rock. He sucks in a long breath and let’s his head fall back to the damp cave wall. Bane’s hand moves far more gently than John would have expected, but his hold is firm. He releases him for just a moment —long enough to lick a wet stripe across his own hand, holding John’s tightened eyes. A muffled moan escapes from John as Bane grips him again, harder, slick pressure sliding up slowly, then back down. Bane swipes a large thumb across the head of John’s cock, smearing the excitement leaking out of him.

“Bane—“ John gasps. He can’t help it— he wraps his arms around Bane’s neck and hangs on. Bane rests his free arm against the wall above John’s head, and the weight of his own arousal presses down against John’s abdomen.

This is a bad idea. John knows it is, but he can’t bring himself to worry about it. He can’t think of anything right now, and couldn’t confirm his own name if asked.

“I will break you, Little Bat,” Bane growls in his ear. “But I will put you back together.” Bane bites, teeth soft but firm around the lobe of John’s ear, and he cries out, his legs like jelly beneath him. Bane drops his arm to hold tightly around John’s waist. He shifts his own erection away, making room for his arm to move, and it’s moving, faster, his wrist twisting. John wonders passively if this is how Bane takes care of himself— if this is how he likes it. He wants to find out. He wants to put his hands on Bane, his mouth. But all he can do is hang on.

He’s coming closer, and he knows it. The electric, cramping pull in his gut intensifies. He feels his balls pull up tight. “Hmm,” Bane hums.

“Bane,” John hisses. “I’m—“

“It appears we have visitors,” Bane mutters. But John is clinging for dear life as he comes, harder than he ever has with his own hand. He pants against Bane’s chest for a moment, spent.

And then it hits him— what Bane said. “Wait, what?” He leans out to look past Bane’s shoulder.

Batman. A very unamused looking Batman.

“You couldn’t call first?” John barks, zipping his pants angrily. Bane allows himself to be pushed away.

“When I gave you the keys to the Batcave, this wasn’t what I had in mind,” Batman growls.

“You don’t live here anymore,” John seethes. “You retired. You abandoned all of us. This is my home now, and you can’t just—“

“Alfred called,” Batman hisses. “He said you were being exceptionally irresponsible. I see he was right. At my most self destructive, I never brought guests into the Batcave. You’re not even wearing a mask. So much for your secret identity.”

“I—“

“Leave the Little Bat alone, Batman,” Bane purrs. “He has no need to keep secrets in his own home. He has no need to keep secrets from me.

Alarmed, Batman grips John’s arm.

“Is that Bane?”

“Did you miss me, Batman?” Bane asks, his voice cocky and sure.

John could kill him. He could actually kill him.

“Bane,” Batman growls. “You’re not welcome here.”

John rolls his eyes and jerks his arm away. “He’s here on Gordon’s orders.”

“Gordon would never order you to do what I just saw.” John blushes to the tips of his ears. Behind him, Bane is approaching. His eyes are narrowed. Batman ignores him. “Does he know?”

“My personal life is my own fucking business, Bruce.”

Bane lays a strong hand on the back of John’s neck. Against John’s will and better judgment, his eyelids flutter shut, briefly.

Batman spares Bane a withering glance. “You’ve got something on your shirt.” Bane smiles, slowly. It’s a dark smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of smile John suspects was on his face when he blew a hole in Blackgate, and boy, that’s not a good feeling in his stomach.

He needs to end this. Now.

John steps out of Bane’s grasp. “You don’t get to just fuck off to Europe and forget about Gotham until you feel like it. I’ve got things under control. Bane is fine. He’s made some changes in his life.”

Batman takes in Bane’s smaller (but still imposing) form. He sneers as his eyes trace the scar that crosses his face, with no mask to hide it. “I can see that,” he grits out.

“I haven’t changed so much that I couldn’t rip your spinal cord from your body without the use of a knife,” Bane seethes. John glares at him, and he almost looks abashed. He averts his gaze, and walks back toward the living area.

“Neither of us should have your attention,” John pleads. “Go back to your retirement, Bruce.”

“You brought a murderer into our home.”

John is done. John hasn’t had a father in years, and he doesn’t need one now.

“And you ran off with one. Or did you end things with Selina Kyle?” Batman frowns. He says nothing. “Yeah,” John drawls. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” Batman growls. John waves a hand at him dismissively and turns away.

“And I’ll be changing the locks,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Try this one.” John throws a shirt in Bane’s direction. Bane reaches down and tugs the gray Henley over his head. John’s mouth goes a little dry at the sight. Bane is not the beast he once was. He is, however, exceptionally ripped. John follows the lines from his obliques, across the curve of his chest, and into the dangerous, red slash across his face. Bane’s lips are full despite the scarring, and his blue eyes flash above his sharp nose. He drags the thick, charcoal fabric down the length of his torso. He tugs it smooth, and even in his modest form, his shoulders nearly burst the seams.

John knows now just how powerful those shoulders are.

Fresh embarrassment hits him like a wave. He is uncomfortable— painfully so. Lust is wrapped up in his better judgment, and something disturbingly like feelings weaves through it all. He thinks about how gently Bane held him— how safe he felt falling to pieces in his arms, here in the darkness.

Do you trust me?

He wants to. He shouldn’t. He reminds himself of the feeling in his gut when he stood on a bridge, surrounded by kids, waiting to feel the unbearable heat of a nuclear blast.

It doesn’t do much for the searing heat he feels right now.

“Life is not a straight road,” Bane says. John looks up. Bane’s arms are crossed. He leans against the wall of the cave. “There are twists and turns one cannot predict. What seems impossible is sometimes the only way forward.”

“You’re talking in riddles, again.” Bane walks towards him. His arms swing at his wide hips.

John wants to climb him like a tree.

Bane stops, with space between them. “I am not what you think I am.”

“You’re not a monster, Bane,” John sighs.

“I am.”

“No, you're—“

“I have killed hundreds,” Bane says. “I do not intend to do so again, but I have no regrets. We end up where fate would have us. My choices have led me here. I have left one darkened pit for another. I am fortunate to have you with me in this one, but I cannot allow you make choices that will doom you to the kind of despair I have lived.”

John frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Bane moves closer. “All I have done I have done for justice— for humanity. My motives have been pure. My methods, less so.” He pauses. “I truly want to be different, for you, John. But one day, life’s road may twist again. And if that happens, what will you do?”

“It won’t happen,” John insists.

“Little Bat,” Bane sighs. He touches John’s cheek. “You are not Dr. Quinzel.”

John swallows. He knows Bane is right. “If it happens, I’ll stop you.”

“You will do what you must,” Bane agrees.

They don’t talk about it again. They go three nights, and they don’t talk about it. There are heated looks, sure— grazes of skin. Suggestive sighs.

But Bruce isn’t stupid, and John quickly finds that the cave is a lot more occupied than it used to be. “Reckless,” Alfred says, whenever he gets John alone. “Foolhardy.” One on one conversations are rare, however. Generally speaking, Alfred spends most of his time in the cave, “socializing” Bane. Bane puts up with it, annoyance simmering quietly, jaw clenched painfully tight.

They’ve both got some energy to burn.

“We’re going out,” Nightwing says, striding in as he fixes his mask.

“We?” Alfred asks, looking up from his newspaper. Bane is seated beside him, stiffly crocheting an afghan from some pricey pink yarn Alfred brought down.

“Get your mask,” Nightwing snaps. Bane stands.

“I do not need it.”

Nightwing presses into his space, heedless of the old butler’s glare. “When you go out, you wear a mask. Not to help you, but to protect the ones you care about.” Bane is silent.

Nightwing climbs into the Tumbler, and if he makes a show of it, he’ll never admit it. “Are you coming?” Bane’s eyes crinkle as he pulls on his mask.

“Master Blake, think this through,” Alfred calls.

“Reckless,” Nightwing answers, as Bane climbs in beside him. “Foolhardy.”

“We’re getting pretty credible reports that Croc is back, near the docks,” Gordon says, staticky across the radio.

“We’re not far from there,” Nightwing responds. “We’ll check it out.” He smirks up at Bane. “Ever met Killer Croc?”

“We are acquainted,” Bane drawls, his voice lilting behind the mask. “I took his sewer from him.” Nightwing snorts.

There’s no need to go hunting. Croc is fully visible beneath the streetlights, ripping something suspiciously humanoid into pieces. Nightwing parks the Tumbler as Croc looks up, his long teeth flashing in the headlights.

“Stay here,” Nightwing orders.

“For what purpose?” Bane asks, affronted.

“Because I said so,” Nightwing shrugs. He hits the prisoner lock on the door as it shuts behind him. Bane thumps against the wall, futilely.

The truth is, Nightwing’s a little scared. It takes a lot to frighten him these days, but the blood dripping off those knife sharp claws kind of does it for him. Bane is formidable, and John has him out to stretch his legs, but he’s not what he once was. More than that, he is virtually unprotected. Nightwing, at least, has his suit.

“I’m going to give you one—“ Nightwing begins, but Croc is lunging. He barely avoids a swipe of the claws, dropping to sweep his leg under Croc’s. It’s like kicking concrete. Nightwing leaps to his feet and strikes. He gets a hit in edgewise, but he’s immediately backhanded.

Nightwing staggers under the force of the blow. His head spins. He raises a hand to his face, as if holding his head steady will stop the tilt. In the distance, he hears a thunderous banging. Croc growls like some kind of jungle cat, and suddenly Nightwing is in the air— dangling by his arm, flung about like a rope in the mouth of a dog. He’s in a mouth, alright— Croc’s jaws are locked around his forearm, and it’s only Croc’s desire to play with his food that keeps that arm attached to his body.

Nightwing scrambles for his belt with his other hand, but he's dizzy— so dizzy. His gloved fingers scrape air. He tries to kick, but he finds nothing. For a moment, he grabs Croc’s snout with his free hand, but all that gets him is a roar and a tighter bite. He can’t help it. He screams.

Abruptly, he’s in the dirt. Just as quickly, he’s flung into the open door of the Tumbler. He climbs out, panting, and there’s Bane— free of the vehicle and punching Croc like it’s an MMA fight. Nightwing slumps against the Tumbler and watches, mesmerized. Bane is fast, far faster than his size would suggest. He’s also far better trained than Croc, and is able to easily avoid his attempts to grab him. Nightwing’s eyes are almost painfully wide when Bane lifts Croc above his head, slamming him into the pavement. Croc lets out a roar as Bane brings his boot down onto his forearm, snapping it. He doesn’t get up. Bane sets about tying his feet together.

“Nightwing clicks on the radio. “Hey, uh, Gordon— mess down at the docks for your guys to clean up.” He drops the radio as Bane turns to face him. The large man’s shoulders are heaving with exertion. Nightwing meets his gaze as he stalks back to the Tumbler.

His eyes are fully glistening with rage.

As Bane reaches the vehicle, it strikes Nightwing that this isn’t Bane’s full potential. This isn’t Bane at his highest strength, or his angriest. Even so, Nightwing can hardly bring himself to keep looking up. “I had it handled,” he grumbles. Bane stares. “Right,” Nightwing swallows, clambering inside the Tumbler.

The ride back is completely silent. Nightwing is about to give up hope as he parks the vehicle, but Bane explodes. “You think because you are my warden you are in control of me,” Bane seethes, climbing from the Tumbler. “You are not. I control my own destiny, and tonight I controlled yours.”

“I would have been fine without your help!” Nightwing barks. He wants to slam the door of the Tumbler. The hydraulics don’t let him.

“You would have been dead.”

Nightwing doesn’t want to agree. He doesn’t, but he’s not Batman. It’s been almost two years since he was given the Batcave, and it’s been well over a year since he’s had his own suit. Still, he’s untrained beyond the academy. He thinks about Bane lifting him, throwing him into the Tumbler, out of harm’s way. He swallows.

“You are reckless, John Blake,” Bane growls. Your foolishness will get you killed.” Sure, yeah. John’s a hothead. Of course.

“I’m fine,” John snaps. He pulls his mask off. It feels wet. Confused, he lifts a hand to his temple— blood.

“Allow me to inventory your injuries.”

“I’m fine,” John says again, softer.

Bane steps closer. “He had you in his jaws like a rabbit.” He unsnaps his mask.

John can’t meet his eyes. He is vividly aware of the feeling of Croc’s mouth around his arm. The pressure was unbelievable. “The suit took most of it.” He jerks his gloves off.

“Let me assist you, John,” Bane says, calmly. John heaves a deep breath. “You are unused to someone caring about your well-being.” John looks up. There is a frown on Bane’s scarred face. His blue-gray eyes are heated. “You are not alone, Little Bat.” Bane reaches up to grip his arms. “You will let me help you.”

“Alright,” John breathes.

Bane leans in close, breathes the air around John’s face. He turns John away from him, and grazes his fingers along John’s throat. It strikes John that he is more vulnerable now than he ever was in Croc’s grasp. At any moment, Bane could wrap those fingers around his throat. He could snap John’s neck. He would have the entire Bat arsenal at his disposal, and he knows how to escape. He thinks about Bruce’s warning, and Alfred’s worries.

But Bane is gently undoing the zipper and clasps of the suit. He is rolling the armored fabric down John’s shoulders. His breath is ghosting along John’s spinal column. John shivers. He feels the gentle pressure of Bane’s obscenely soft lips making their way up his back, and his eyes slip shut. Bane’s hands slide beneath the sleeves of his suit, slipping them down and off. He turns John again, this time holding his injured arm in both strong hands. He growls at the bruising already coloring John’s skin, and presses a kiss to each mark. All John can do is stand there, suit rolled down to his waist, heaving breaths as Bane’s mouth works it’s way up his arm, to his throat, and finally his mouth. John whimpers in to the kiss as Bane’s arms encircle him, holding him up. John wraps his arms around Bane’s neck and leans in. Bane kisses him slowly, full of a patience and heat that contrast deliciously with his size and power. He’s a quick study.

Bane steps back and moves to turn John yet again. He slides his palms down John’s arms and presses his hands against the hood of the Tumbler. “Stay,” Bane orders. He steps back and moves to undo the bottom bracing of the suit. He kneels, sliding the armor down. He unzips each of John’s boots and carefully lifts his feet free. John jerks as Bane works his way back up, his tongue licking a wet line behind his left knee. His twitching doesn’t go unnoticed. Bane stands and presses John down into the hood of the Tumbler. He continues touching his mouth to each bare inch of skin he finds, moving slowly down. John flinches as Bane reaches his tailbone. “Bane—“ he chokes out.

“Shower,” Bane mutters into his skin. He straightens up and bundles John into his arms. John stares up into his face, his legs dangling free. He shivers. “Let me,” Bane says. John nods.

The shower is not surprising, for Wayne property. It easily accommodates both of them within its glass walls. There are shower heads running along each of the corners, at least a dozen, and a steam setting. Above, a wide fixture sprays heavy, rain-like droplets. John sets the water to begin heating. He turns, and the sight awaiting him makes his mouth run dry. Bane has stripped his shirt off and is working on his heavy belt buckle. John notes the white scars running across Bane’s muscled torso. He hears the zip of Bane’s pants. He drops hurriedly to his knees and unlaces Bane’s boots. Bane lifts his feet, one at a time as John pulls the shoes free. He runs his hand along John’s jaw and tilts his head up.

John has never felt like this before. He is naked, on his knees before a man of excessive power and strength, completely vulnerable and exposed. He can’t quite catch his breath.

He has never felt more calm, or more safe.

Bane guides him up and slips his fingers into John’s hair. He kisses him, forcefully. John moans into his mouth. He slides his hands around Bane’s torso. Bane steps out of his pants and walks John backwards into the hot spray. His hands are everywhere, and John can feel himself crumbling. Abruptly, Bane steps back. He leans his forehead against John’s and closes his eyes. Something in John’s chest seizes up. His breath hitches as Bane fills his palm with shampoo and works it into John’s hair. John groans.

“You could have died,” Bane whispers. He wipes foam and dark eyeshadow away from John’s eyes with both thumbs.

“Bane—“

Bane pulls John backwards to his chest and tilts John’s head back beneath the spray, rinsing the suds down the drain. “Do not pretend your life is meaningless,” he mutters into John’s shoulder. He bites down. John chokes out a cry, and his legs fail him. Bane’s arms wrap around him. “Let me show you what you are worth. Submit to me, John,” Bane orders.

“Yes,” John whimpers.

It’s like there are six of Bane, for as much as he’s flooding John’s senses. He can feel the hardness of Bane’s arousal pressed just above his ass as Bane lathers him up and scrubs him down. The hot water rushes over them, and John is grateful for the decadence that is the water heating system at Wayne Manor. “John,” Bane says, pressing his face into John’s hair. “Your room.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but it feels like one. John nods his agreement.

Bane towels them off quickly, with efficiency. John let’s himself be carried, his body overcome with exhaustion. He feels a thrill of anticipation and nervousness when Bane lays him down. He doesn’t do this. He flies solo. Bane kneels over him.

“Do you—“ John looks away, suddenly shy and awkward. “Have you done this before?”

Bane frowns. “No, I have not. I have seen things, in The Pit.” John pales. Bane grazes his cheek with his fingertips. “In Arkham, I was tasked with learning about your society, and how to live in it.” John is confused, and it shows. Bane sits back on his heels and sighs. “There were… classes. Films.” John cocks his head to the side. “Produce,” Bane says.

“Oh,” John frowns. The penny drops. “Oh.“

“We will proceed.”

John surrenders to his kiss, wrapping his arms almost helplessly around Bane’s neck. He wants more— he wants to spend an hour cataloging every scar and muscle on Bane’s body. He wants to wrap his mouth around that problematically large cock. But this is Bane’s show, tonight.

“Hold the head board,” Bane orders. John complies. “Do not move your hands, Little Bat.” John swallows. He barely has a moment to think before Bane’s on him, the heat from his mouth engulfing him, burning away all coherent thought. A long finger slowly runs down the middle of his ass. Bane pulls off with a lingering lick. “Where—“

“Nightstand,” John grits out. Bane leans over and opens the drawer. He pulls out a bottle of lube, and frowns at the box of condoms.

“Hmm,” he hums.

“What?”

“This will be… inadequate.”

John blushes furiously. Bane is serious, and correct. He is built proportionately, and he is not a small man. “That’s— that’s all I have.”

“There is no reason to believe I carry disease,” Bane says, bluntly. John blushes harder.

“Me neither,” he says. It’s true. He hasn’t been with anyone since he joined the force, and he gets routine bloodwork as part of his job.

“Then it is settled,” Bane says, and John’s not really sure it is, but he also isn’t in the mood to argue. Realistically, he’s taking the smaller risk, here. He grips the iron bars of his headboard a little tighter.

Bane is gentle as he presses one slick finger into John, but John hisses all the same. It’s been a long, long time. Bane works him open, quickly adding a second finger. John moans at the stretch. All too quickly, it’s gone.

“Ready yourself,” Bane orders. John rolls to his stomach and pushes himself up to his knees.

“What are you doing?” Bane asks. He flips John back on to his back.

“I thought you—“

“I want to see you,” Bane says, gripping John’s jaw.

“Ok,” John agrees, a whisper. Bane gently shoves John’s knees wider and holds himself steady.

“Be ready,” Bane orders, again. He pushes in.

John isn’t proud of the sound he makes as Bane sinks into him, inch by agonizing inch. He can feel his thighs vibrating, and he feels slightly smothered by the man’s bulk. He hears Bane’s quickened breath in his ears, and he lets his eyes roll shut. Bane is still for only a few moments before he’s moving inside him. John may explode. He thinks he must have, when he hears—

“I love you.”

John’s eyes fly open. “You can’t— oh—you can’t just love the first person who’s nice to you—“

“Stop talking,” Bane orders, pressing back in to kiss him. John is practically folded on himself, and he yelps into the kiss as the angle presses Bane’s length into the exact right spot. Bane, missing nothing, strikes hard, fast, and repeatedly. He fucks like he fights. It’s brutal, relentless. Bane sits back and presses John’s knees into his shoulders. He jackrabbits in, unyielding in his pace. John could scream— he could scream because it’s too much. He could scream because it’s too good. Bane is filling him completely, and it feels like warmth and electricity throughout his entire body. John’s cock drags roughly between their bodies.

“I’m— I’m—“ Bane hauls John up with one arm. He draws one leg down beside him and grips it while he pounds in. His piercing gaze holds John in place, and John is shattering to pieces in his grasp. He can’t help it— he lets out a groaning scream, and Bane laps it up into his mouth. It’s only a handful of thrusts before he’s following after, leaving bruises on John’s skin as he empties himself inside.

It’s silent for a minute, just rasping breathing, and the sound of John’s heart racing in his own ears.

“You don’t know what that means,“ he says, breathless.

“Do not insult me, John.” Bane is panting, softly.

“But you don’t,” John protests. He rolls up to look in Bane’s tired eyes. “You can’t, or your wouldn’t— you can’t love me, Bane.”

“Your happiness is more important than anything else. I want to protect you. I want to be a different man— a better man— for you, John. I want to yell at you when you need yelling at, and be pushed around when you think you should try. I would fight crocodiles for you.”

John breathes, heavily.

“I loved Talia,” Bane says. “It was not the same sort of love. But I know what it is to care for another person. I stayed… longer than I should have, with her. She was family, and yet I did not feel the sense of loss from her death that I feared when I believed I could not escape your vehicle tonight. It had been a very long time since I had felt fear at all.”

Fuck. Holy fucking shit. Bane is actually in love with him. John can hardly believe it. It’s easier to believe in his own feelings, which overwhelm him, unleashed by Bane’s open honesty. “Bane—“ he pauses. “I don’t feel like this with anyone else. I’ve never felt like this with anyone, ever.” He swallows. “I wanna be your family,” he says, and he practically chokes.

Bane wraps his arms around John, and nuzzles into his face. “I would raze entire cities for you,” he murmurs, seriously.

“Well don’t do that,” John laughs. He throws his arms around Bane’s neck, and his smile drops. “But you can fight Croc for me, anytime.” John leans in, gently, and presses a kiss to Bane’s scarred mouth. Bane holds him tighter. “I love you.”

“You are mine, Little Bat,” Bane purrs. “And I am yours.”

Darkness holds no danger for the properly initiated. Darkness is the ally of Bane, and Bane is the ally of Nightwing. In the dark, they stalk the streets of Gotham, side by side. Jim Gordon doesn’t love it, but he has to admit, Bane gets the job done.

“I guess it keeps you both out of trouble,” Gordon grumbles across the radio. Nightwing leans against the Tumbler, arms crossed.

“It’s working out,” he grins. His smile falters, only slightly. “And if it ever stops, I’ll take care of it.”

“They’re shutting the program down, you know. Rehability was a failure aside from Bane, and the mayor has thought better of advertising his release.” Gordon pauses. “I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he says. Across the street, a woman runs screaming, pearls scattering behind her. From the shadows, Bane snatches her pursuer.

“I do,” Nightwing says. Bane throws the man to the ground, tossing him like a rag doll.

“You sure?” He thinks about Bruce, who isn’t currently speaking to him. He thinks about Alfred, who hasn’t come down to the cave in days. But more than that, he thinks about Bane— Bane stopping a child from falling down the manor stairs. Bane taking on Croc with no protection or backup. Bane licking in to his mouth, like John is everything, and the only thing.

“I’m sure.”

Nightwing isn’t sure about a lot of things. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to take Batman’s place. He’s not sure he really wants to. He’s not sure what he has with Bane is one hundred percent healthy, or safe. But he is sure of one thing: He’s sure of Bane. He’s sure of his steadiness, and his affection. He’s sure of his loyalty. He is sure of his love.

“Who the fuck are you?” the mugger asks, as Bane grabs him by his collar and lifts.

“I am your reckoning,” he says. He flings the man into a nearby car, setting off the alarm.

“Bane!” Nightwing barks. He strides over, stiffly. “Maim, don’t kill.”

“Of course,” Bane nods.

Nightwing drags him down and kisses his cheek, where it’s exposed beyond the mask. He grins. “Let’s get to work.”