A/N: For the TDKR gift exchange, based on teacuphuman's prompt: Bodyguard!Bane and his ward John Blake.

My thanks to my brilliant beta, oceaxe, for her tireless work on this one, and everyone else who cheered me on! Enjoy!

"I don't need—" John broke off, trying to lower his voice at the look Gordon was giving him. "I don't need witness protection," he hissed, spitting the distasteful words out. "And I definitely don't need a guard."

"I disagree," Gordon said calmly, moving a folder on his desk from one spot to another, seemingly at random. "Ever since we put the Dent Act in place, you've got a target on your back, Blake. And your front. And every other side, honestly, and if you weren't so damned public about your involvement—"

"They're the criminals," John insisted, just like he did every time. "Maroni and his goons are the ones who should be afraid. And having me hiding behind your apron strings is playing right into his hands! We should be showing a united, fearless front right now, not—"

"Son," Gordon said, holding up a hand, in a tone of voice that did more to stop John than a lot of things would. John sighed and put his hands on his hips, his fingers automatically finding the familiar groove in his service belt. "You're a very valuable asset for us, you know that," Gordon continued. "We can't afford to lose you. And also," Gordon pressed on as John opened his mouth to protest, "you're a highly recognizable target. One that Maroni might want to specifically track down, to send a message. And as you know, we've never lost anyone from witness protection once they're in our custody."

"Yes, I know, sir, but—"

"Until now."

For a beat, nothing stirred except the dust motes in the air.

"Sir," John said, hesitating, "are you saying—"

"What I'm saying, Blake, is that you're so valuable, we're going to have two sets of eyes on you. Except one will be more visible than the other. And then if one of those sets should happen to fail…" Gordon held John's eyes as he clicked his pen, "... well then, we'll just have to rely on the other set of eyes to watch what happens, won't we?"

Smug satisfaction settled around John's shoulders as he realized what the Commissioner was saying. He nodded, tamping down his excitement at the thought of being bait. It meant the Commissioner trusted him. "Alright," he relented, keeping his voice steady. "But I still don't need a guard. I'm trained. I can handle myself."

Gordon just looked at him flatly. "You're getting a guard."

"Sir!" John wouldn't admit how much his voice sounded like an indignant teenager, but Gordon held his hand up again with a resigned air.

"You've got orders, son. No one knows about these orders but the two of us, not even your guard. So you'll have your work cut out for you. Think you can do your job?"

John clamped his jaw shut and nodded once.

"Good. Stay in plain sight. Be memorable. Get your face where people can take pictures of it. Do some Twittering or something. Get. Noticed."

John frowned and nodded once more. "Understood. But sir—"

He was cut off by a solid rap on the door to Gordon's office.

"That's all. Come in," Gordon called, and John was fairly sure he moved the same file back to where it had been before.

The man who filled the doorway was definitely not someone John had ever seen before. He'd have remembered. Black combat boots announced a heavy tread, and John's eyes traveled over thighs that strained the tactical gear he was wearing, and up to shoulders that literally touched the door frame. He wasn't wearing a holster or kevlar like the on-duty cops behind him were, but he looked like he had no need of them. His posture was a statement, like, "The fact that I don't rely on such things is a warning. For you."

But most unnerving of all was the mask. It covered most of his face; the aggressive black plastic fit close to his skin, his shaved head and expressive eyes peering out.

John swallowed.

"Commissioner Gordon. I was advised to report to you directly."

Even Gordon blinked at the voice that came out of the mask. An odd lilt, slightly muffled, and it made you strain forward and pay attention to catch every word.

"Uh," Gordon said, finally opening the folder. "You must be—"

"Yes," the man interrupted smoothly. "I am. I am called Bane."

"Ah, okay," Gordon said, looking at the paperwork again, "I guess that makes sense. This is Officer John Blake."

John turned and was caught in a stare so intense he thought it might have involved tractor beams.

"Yeah, uh," John grunted, nodding, and sticking his hand out at the last second. "I am. John Blake. I mean."

Bane just raised an eyebrow as he studied John's face before looking at his extended hand. He offered his own, as if acquiescing to this strange tradition for John's sake. His grip was dry and… precise was the only word John could think of. It felt like Bane had calculated exactly how much pressure to apply for John's specific height/weight ratio and background heritage.

John pulled his hand back, eager to break the formidable contact.

"Bane," Gordon said, rolling it in his mouth to try it out. "You come highly recommended. Great experience, great background…" He trailed off and took his glasses off to peer at the larger man more closely. Bane stood with an ease that spoke of being comfortable staying still for hours. Maybe ex-military. Maybe just a night watchman with a steroid addiction. John waited to be dismissed or for the Commissioner to send Bane away so they could finish their discussion. Except Gordon didn't do either.

"Officer Blake here is going to be your ward," Gordon declared. John couldn't stop his jaw from dropping.

"Wait," he tried.

"And since you'll have earned it, John," Gordon said, stressing the word "earned" meaningfully, "when you return to active duty, it'll be with a promotion."

He tossed something to John, who caught it on instinct. The badge was heavier than it looked and gleamed dully in the dingy light.

"Congratulations," came the rumble from behind him, "Detective Blake."

John pushed down the little thrill those words caused and faced Gordon. "And exactly how long am I supposed to be underground? Sir."

Gordon opened the file again and pulled out a slip of paper.

"What's this? A court date?"

"No," Gordon smiled at him. "It's my Netflix password."