A/N: Don't own Bane or Talia. Or Batman. All things that continue to distress me. But it's alright. I can still borrow them for short, quasi-fluffy pieces.
Rest
The flames illuminate the night and for a moment he simply stares at the familiar insignia, uncertain as to its validity. It can't be real. It simply isn't possible. Wayne is determined, almost foolishly so, but to have escaped the pit...
A part of him almost wants to believe it's a trick of an overtired mind, exhaustion, or some play by the ever inventive resistance. It's an illusion, a coincidence, nothing more.
He is not a fool and is, above all other things, a realist. Whatever he wishes to believe, he knows this as truth: the Batman has returned. If he were a man of faith, he'd wonder if such a thing were preordained, a sign; the hero returning on the eve of their assured victory...
He has seen (and committed) too many evils to entertain such fanciful notions. It is determination alone that brings the broken man back to fight for his city. It is not fate or god or anything else; it is a matter of skill and such things can be overcome. He has broken Wayne before; he will do so again. It is a complication but changes nothing. They will prevail; they will win. This changes nothing.
The rapid justification is a lie (and he almost believes it).
He turns from the scene, returning to city hall. That sign is still visible (is from from most vantages in the damn city), a taunting memento to his failure. Talia (Miranda, he notes with no small trace of amusement) is already waiting for him, looks appropriately defiant for a hostage. It has his men snickering, exchanging pathetically lewd glances when he orders them to leave them.
It takes no more than a moment for the foreign socialite to melt away, leaving the woman he has known for so many years in her wake; the defiance, the steel hidden beneath that beauty, remains, though its focus is redirected. She does not rise from her seat on the floor but the entirety of her demeanor seems to shift. The stranger is replaced with his friend (he will never admit how vastly her prefers her true self to that other woman).
They do not have the patience or need for formalities or small talk. He glances back out the window, hands moving to hold the lapels of his jacket, "Our friend Mr. Wayne has certainly been...industrious." He is not so proud that he cannot admit his surprise, disappointment, "A failure on my part, I'm afraid."
She offers him a small smile, nothing more than a twitch in the left side of her lips, "Hell does not want all souls, my friend."It had not, after all, wanted theirs. He chuckles in something like acceptance, moving back to her side. The young woman, in contrast to the majority of the world, does not flinch at this as a proper hostage ought. She stares absently out the window towards the burning metropolis, shifting wordlessly to make room for him on the floor.
It's miserably cold in this city, different from their home in the pit; strangely fitting that this place be so devoid of life near the end of its days. The wind whips flurries of snow up in the street, the white standing out starkly against the ruined cityscape. Fitting, he supposes; there are fiery hells, yes, but also frozen ones. There is no better word to epitomize Gotham.
She is not cold, certainly not weak enough to admit to such a thing, but she adjusts herself again, pressing more closely to his side. His arm comes around her almost on instinct, years of experience taking their toll. It is not so unlike how it was in the pit; Talia hooks her fingers lightly around the lapels of his jacket, leans her head against his chin. There is no light here either, only the ones they make, fire dancing out in the night sky.
"Wayne will come for me..." she mutters, voice soft in the night air, an undercurrent of steel in her tone. It is annoyance more than worry and he smiles at it. Such a contrast to the innocent, blushing, maid she plays for the foolish man. There is no hesitance here, no remorse. He nods in agreement.
"He will not trouble us."
Talia chuckles, turning slightly to glance up at him, "Perhaps."
"Does he concern you?"
She does not answer him, brushing a thumb over the strap of his vest instead. He knows most would interpret it as fear; he recognizes it as contemplation, introspection. She is not frightened, merely cautious, and there is a strength in that. The bat's signal continues to burn, offering much needed hope to the wilting populace. It doesn't matter, cannot matter. In a few short hours everything will be over. Gotham will lie in ashes and their task will have come to an end.
Everything will have come to an end.
They both like to pretend it matters little to them (they both almost believe it).
"How long has it been since we simply had time to rest?" and if he didn't know her as well, he'd almost say there's something like regret there (she is too strong for such trivial things).
"It will be simpler if we merely say: many years. A necessary evil during such endeavors," a painful over simplification of their task and she offers him a little smile for it. There is silence between them but it is a comfortable, practiced thing. It's years of memory enveloping them and there is a comfort in that he never would have imagined before meeting her.
They have sat like this a thousand times before and it is the simplest thing in the world to simply imagine this is another one of those moments. A rare glimmer of peace in their otherwise chaotic lives before they drift off to sleep. She lets out a small sigh, her breath warm in the cool of the night. He remains still as her fingers smooth over the wool of his jacket, trailing inward.
It is, as always, she who breaks the silence, whispering in the otherwise empty room. They echo around them in the dark, lingering in between the shadows, broken light licking through city hall. He almost has to strain to hear her (but, he supposes, that is the point; these weaknesses are secret things, human things, shared only with him).
"I used to dream," it's difficult to tell if she's speaking to him or simply speaking, her tone far away. It's the first time he's heard a trace of (not hesitance, never hesitance) longing in her voice in months. Her thumb smoothing over leather in an almost rhythmic pattern, tracing shapes absently over the fabric. She has grown out of so many of her old habits but this is not one of them, fingers always moving over him. Those blue eyes stare sightlessly out into the night, "Do you remember?"
"You tossed and turned, yes," halfway fond and perhaps slightly nostalgic (neither of them have the time for such weaknesses). She's always been a restless sleeper, and for all her confidence, as cool and collected as she is, that (oddly human) trait remains.
"As if chased by ghosts..." she trails off again, fingers tightening. She glances up at him then, smiling (almost tinged with regret), "I no longer dream, my friend." There is no time for it, such idealistic imaginings traded for the more pressing thoughts of revenge, hours of planning to accomplish her father's work. It is natural evolution; the death of her father and years spent in shadow altering her from the child he'd once known. She'd been hopelessly idealistic as a girl, had listened to his stories about the outside world with wide blue eyes.
As a woman, she is nothing of the sort. He would mourn the loss of innocence but finds he is too tired for it. They are, both of them, tired. It is the inevitable conclusion after years on the run, fighting for the duration of their lives. Tomorrow, it ends. Tomorrow, they rest.
She does not ask him if he wishes it could be different (neither of them will deal in what ifs or fanciful imaginings; they have no room for it) or if they might survive or what comes next. There is no next. There is nothing after (and they'd have it no other way). The fires licking up the bridge are slowly dying down; a suitable analogy if he's feeling a little more poetic. They've burned themselves out, are part of a world, a part of Gotham, that must be purified. This is something he cannot protect her from; this is something she cannot deliver him out of. This is the end.
She used to dream; she used to hope and he used to praise her innocence, protect it as best as he was capable. Life has long since drowned it out but he hears some trace of that youth lingering about her tone, fond recollections returning to her in the face of their victory.
"I remember staring up at the sun and wishing to be a part of that world...that if I could just reach it, I could make everything right," her fingers graze skin now, nails scraping lightly over his shoulder, scars long since healed, "The delusions of a child."
"It is human nature to aspire to something greater," he remembers those bright blue eyes, dancing with something like mirth despite the hell around them. She'd regaled him with her dreams often enough, proud and confident, dreams of them walking proudly, freely, on the surface. So innocent, needing his protection...
She no longer requires it but he will never abandon her. She no longer tells him of her dreams because, in some twisted fashion, they've lived them. Talia hums in response to his words, perhaps agreeing, perhaps simply considering them, "I should like to dream again." With a content little sigh, she curls against his side, tucking her head beneath his chin, "What shall I dream of, my friend?"
They have only hours left and neither will delude themselves as to their fate. Wayne's return is a complication but it is little more than that. The end result shall be the same. Tomorrow, the years they've spent together (every one she remembers) comes to an end. He glances down at her, chuckle distorted by his mask (he shall be glad to be free of it) before staring out towards the bridge. The fire has all but died (and tomorrow it shall rise).
"Dream of your father's work complete and this city's purification," neutral things they have both worked for over the years. She nods in agreement.
"Yes, those are good things," but not precisely what she is looking for.
He has nothing else to offer her.
Were he feeling particularly introspective, he'd venture to say there's something a little sad in her eyes, something almost like loss, fear (not of dying but separation, an almost childish longing to keep him near, a fear of whatever comes after) but he chooses to believe her above that. They are both above such things. She pulls the arm he's left resting at her side over her waist, nodding more resolutely to herself.
"I can sleep with such thoughts," the words are colored ever so slightly by sleep, a very human failing that she will only ever permit him to see. She squeezes lightly as her eyes fall shut, that same peaceful quality from so many years before playing over features now beautiful. No tenseness in her figure, no hint of reservation, simply the phrase she's spoken to him every night for as long as either can remember, as if nothing has or will ever change, "Good night, my friend."
He listens to her breathing even out, watches the flames flickering through the city without really seeing them. Eventually, he feels exhaustion begin to take its toll on him as well. It's almost exactly as it was years before (before either of them were as they are), easy to imagine this is how it will always be. His arm tightens around her instinctively as he slides off (dreamless) for a few hours of rest. Just a few hours more...
A few hours more and it all ends.
They both like to pretend it means nothing (and they both almost believe it).