Prompt: I can't believe no one prompted this yet, but how about John Blake wearing one of Bane's shirts or something, Bane wears more than just body armour we know that from the beginning of the movie.
Can be a minifill, up to anon, really, but I have this image of John just standing there drinking coffee in one of Bane's shirts, sleeves covering his fingers as Bane comes in and well...I'll just leave it up to whoever fills it.
Note: Nonny, I kind of got carried away. Warnings for captivity, dub-con, clothing!kink (duh?) character death, and Bane being, well, Bane.
You Look Good in my Clothes
Bane's little captive was full of surprises. When he'd first set his eyes on John Blake, it had been after the boy had – quite effectively – incapacitated one of his armored trucks. Eventually, he had learned the little stunt had been merely a distraction. The rookie – Detective, Blake would correct, eyes burning with the flame of life – had risked his neck to draw all eyes to him. While his boys were busy trying to capture the scrambling whelp, Gordon had slipped from their last known location of him, disappearing into the early morning sun. They'd still yet to find him.
It had taken two whole weeks for his men to draw Blake out again, careful little lies tucked into conversation they knew he could hear. He was under the assumption that they had found Gordon – another distraction would be needed.
They had, of course, been ready for him. He still remembers the moment Blake was dragged before him, head covered in a sack. His clothes had been tattered from the fight, blood stained in places. Bane had listened to the low, ragged breaths the cop pulled in. He was afraid, yes, but as Barsad ripped the sack from his head, those eyes had lifted to rain hate upon him.
It had been beautiful.
John had nearly slipped from his grip – twice, he remembers, smirking into his pillow, still half asleep – and still managed to slink off enough to get into fights with his men. That he knew he would win. They had been strictly ordered not to break him. He got a little further each time, but he'd been at Bane's side for so long now – two months, Bane thought fondly – that everything had begun to shift. In the beginning, John had actually tried to leave climbing up walls to the surface, only to be brought back down by the monsters in the sewers. Now...
Little John Blake would get further with each punch, each kick, each desperate step but in the end, he'd hesitate. He'd pause, and that brief moment of uncertainty was enough for Bane's hand to close around the back of his neck, shake him like the whelp he was, and drag him back off. It was amusing, and it kept Bane sharp, prepared for everything and expecting nothing.
The amusement of the situation was the only thing that saved John from being kept under tight lock and key. Unless Bane was gone, of course, which was less frequent now that the people of Gotham had begun taking over their...fair...city once more. With the Scarecrow in the courts, the police underground, and the Bat as well as Gordon off licking their wounds, there was very little that could draw Bane away from his rooms.
He shifted slightly, brow furrowing at the absence of warmth at his side. John had complained adamantly about sharing a bed when he first arrived, but the damp, wet floor had had him silently slipping beside Bane halfway through the night. He had given up on trying to sneak off in the mornings, acting like it never happened, well over a month ago.
"Where are you, little bird?" Bane rumbled into the pillows, lifting his head. His hand ran over the spot where John would normally be. It was cold by now. He sighed, rolled onto his back, and sat. Paused, at the sight that greeted him.
His little bird was perched at the desk, clothed in the long sleeved shirt Bane had tossed carelessly into the corner only hours earlier. It was dark grey, surprisingly soft, and the ends of the sleeves covered John's fingers, only the tips peeking out. It hung limp off of one shoulder, exposing the younger mans pale collarbone, the light spray of freckles that roosted there. Bane knew he hadn't given the boy warm enough clothes – it was easier to coax him to bed, and into his lap when the promise of warmth – and apparently John had found a way to fix that.
Full of surprises. Bane thought, listening to the steady breathing of his captive. John had since fallen back asleep, one of the books Bane kept in this room open on the desk. He had his chin propped in one hand, sleeve of the shirt pressed over his mouth and nose as his fingers curled upwards.
He stood and padded to the desk, clothed only in the black pants he was fond of wearing. He stopped behind John, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. His hand rose, fingers stroking over the stretch of exposed skin the over sized shirt had given him.
His little bird jumped and tilted his head back, panic flaring in his eyes before it faded to pure exhaustion. John wasn't quite broken yet, but he was getting there. "Sorry." He muttered, left side of his mouth twitching. It was a nervous tick that had developed in the past few weeks. "Did I wake you?" He didn't sound particularly upset with the notion, although he did reach over to flick off the desk lamp, coating the room in inky blackness once more.
Bane bit back a laugh, eyes adjusting quickly. Not even the shadows could hide his precious captive from his sight. He stroked the flesh more, taking pleasure in the way John tried to shift away. "No." He rasped, hooking a hand under John's pit and dragging him to his feet. "If you were tired," He began, nudging the boy towards the bed "You should have come to bed."
"I did. Go to bed. But then I got up." There was something else in his tone, something Bane couldn't – didn't care to – identify.
"Restless?" He ventured, careless as he effortlessly hefted the boy onto his bed. His pants felt tighter, but Bane was above using his strength for sex, when there were so many more pleasurable means of getting it. He noted the panic in John's eyes again, and willed himself to relax.
"I guess." John tried hard not to give anything else away, shifting over so there would be a few inches between them. He curled on his side, back to the wall and front to Bane. As if watching his enemy would make him any less threatening.
"Be still, John Blake." Bane sighed, the noise grating against John's nerves. The blankets were pulled further down as the mountain of a man collapsed face first onto the mattress, the frame groaning in protest. "And go to sleep. You can be restless in the morning."
John didn't point out that he really had no idea what time it was.
ZZZ
The second time he found his pretty bird in his clothes was also the same day John began welcoming his touch in his own sort of way. Bane had been gone the longest since he'd received his toy, an overnight trip. He had left Barsad and two others to guard John, and had made it apparent to the detective that yes; this time they had orders to use force to restrain him.
Weak from exhaustion, lack of will, and the flurry of emotions that muddle his brain, John had shrugged at him from the bed, rolling onto his side and tucking the blankets over his head.
Now, Bane walked through the door to his rooms, hesitating only a few inches in. John was sprawled on the damp soil, one of Bane's black muscle shirts donning his body, accompanied only by a loose pair of jeans. The shirt was tight on Bane himself, revealing his arms and hugging his broad chest. On John, it was downright obscene, wet parts clinging at his skin while the rest of it hung loose.
His bird was talking, not to Barsad – the man was actively ignoring him, playing a game of solitaire – but to one of the others, lips pulled in a cocky grin as he did sit ups in the soil. Bane wondered, wildly, if John knew just what he was doing to him.
The shirt had been dirty when Bane had taken it off – caked in sweat, and blood, and he knew it smelt like musk, like man, like him – but now he could see the darkness of sweat stains around John's neck, and at his sides. The shirt was much too loose on him to hug at his underarms.
John didn't seem to notice he had arrived, rambling on in a saucy tone, some kind of dirty joke about a blond. His men, however, had all stilled, watching Bane with worried eyes. Well, Barsad didn't seem particularly worried, merely curious, as though he wished to ask his Leader how the hunt had gone. Barsad hated staying inside while Bane was out burning down the world.
The man sitting beside John – and fuck, if Bane wasn't pulling a blank on the name, this never happened to him – pushed himself a few inches back with the heels of his feet, reeking of terror. Bane tilted his head, eyebrows raising as amusement flashed in his eyes.
His gaze dropped back to John as the boy finished another sit up, huffing a breathless laugh at his own joke. When no laughter joined his, he glanced towards the door, taking in the thick legs blocking his vision. He said nothing, turning his gaze higher, meeting Bane's eyes as he let his shoulders relax once more against the ground.
"Leave." Bane said simply, watching the two grunts scamper. Barsad was slower to leave, eyes asking questions he didn't dare utter. "There is a debriefing scheduled to stare." He rasped, head dipping in a nod. "They will inform you of our conquest. Leave now, and keep watch."
Content that all was well, Barsad nodded back and gave John a tight lipped smile, slipping from the room. The door clicked shut behind him with an air of finality.
John shifted, uneasy, pulling himself up to sit. He crossed his legs loosely, silent for once as his eyes searched Bane's face.
"Are you not going to ask me how my day was?" Bane shrugged the heavy jacket off his shoulders, revealing his battle armour and a tattered shirt. The coat was slung over the back of the desk chair, leather smooth under his palm as he stroked a crease down.
"To be honest." There was a shift in John's voice, and Bane knew without turning that the boy had begun exercising again. "I don't really give a fuck." There was defiance in his tone, a harsh edge that Bane had originally wanted to crush, but now took pleasure in drawing out.
"You would think with so much to lose, officer" Detective, John spat, "that you would care very much how well my day has gone." He dropped into a crouch near John's head, taking in the faint flinch, and the way the other man began to work his body faster, swallowing a half dozen times. He settled his fingers under the edge of the shirts neckline, pressing down so they bit lightly into John's collarbone. Unwilling to suffer a fracture, his little bird pressed flat against the earth, breathing ragged. Bane made a soothing noise in his throat, the sound like steam escaping a metal pipe. He didn't elaborate.
John didn't ask.
The sweat was cooling quickly against John's skin. "You wish to shower?" Bane asked, patting the shirt back into place before rising to his feet.
Blake had felt small before – he had grown up in a boys' home, for crying out loud – but nothing compared to the feeling of being unarmed, on his back, at this man's feet. It sent a chill racing up his spine, and to his dismay, a coil of heat low in his stomach. "Nah." He drawled, aiming for nonchalance. "I'm tired. Goin' to bed." He dragged himself from the ground, steadfastly ignoring how even standing, he was but a terrier facing off against a mastiff.
Bane chuckled. "Were you waiting up for me, officer?"
"Detective." By now, it was a reflex to respond with that word. "And no." At the disbelieving eyebrow that hitched his way, John's ears and cheeks flushed with rage. "Like I was going to fall asleep with your drones in the room? As if." As the words left his mouth, he cursed himself. Yeah of course, because it's so much fucking better to curl up and fall asleep with him in the room. This doesn't sound fucked up at all, John. He assured himself that it was okay, that he was okay. If anything – not if anything, for sure – he was a victim here.
And Bane had yet to hurt him, so he couldn't be blamed for being content to sleep around the man. It was becoming habitual. It was fine. He bit down on the panic threatening to rip his stomach open, lips pressed tight as he twisted towards the bed.
Bane watched him closely as he crawled to his side of the mattress, curling with his back to the beast of a man. He forgets sometimes, that most humans thrive off of human contact. His men are often found drinking with one another, playing with one another, with Barsad and even Talia joining for deadly games of beer pong and throwing darts. His bird has only him to talk to, now, and he really isn't much for conversation.
He stripped his armor and his clothes, leaving on only a pair of black briefs. John had jabbed at him once, asking if he owned anything with color, but Bane had merely glanced at his soft, lamb skin jacket. The boy had huffed at him, eyes rolling, thoughts turning to his own lust for the color blue.
"You're upset." He offered, settling onto the edge of the bed. It dipped heavily under his weight, sending John sliding towards him. The cops back was pressed against his hip and leg, warm in the chill of the underground. He contented himself with watching as John rolled onto his stomach, but didn't move away.
"Look, I don't really feel like getting all deep and personal with you, so drop it. Alright?" John had no hope that Bane would actually drop the topic. The man seemed to enjoy peeling back the layers of other humans, until there was nothing but an ugly, raw nerve that could be shifted around and irritated until it was exactly what he wanted.
He jumped when a hand came to lie across the back of his neck, heavy, firm. He swallowed again, turning his head to the side so he could peer at Bane with one eye.
Lust and disgust bubbled in his stomach when he felt his own body betray him, melting beneath the hand. Here was the man who had originally tried to break him, who had had him enslaved in these rooms for months – fuck, he'd even lost count of how many days he'd been here – and yet it was that touch, a simple thing that helped to hold him together. Reined in his thoughts, soothed his emotions, made him feel human again. He closed his eyes, tight, body trembling lightly as his cock swelled between his legs.
Bane made a noise deep in his chest, a low rumble of approval. He saw shame flash in dark eyes when they fluttered open for a brief moment. His rumble turned to a purr, a noise meant to be soothing as his hand stroked firm down his little birds back, pressed tight against his spine. He felt the tremors run through John's body, felt the small hitch of breath, the way the man's hips rutted into the bed, only once. "That's right." He crooned, hand beginning its trip upwards once more. He went under the shirt this time, fingers branding John with an invisible mark.
He was enthralled with what a simple touch could do. He knew that his hands could be used as a weapon, used to break and mould and manipulate. This was yet another manipulation, albeit a mostly painless one. As his fist curled a final time over the boys neck, his half lidded eyes watched John come undone.
It was over quickly, the birds trembling intensified from his orgasm and shame. He turned his head to press his face against a musty pillow, muscles too lazy to seize beneath Bane.
"Hush." Bane scolded, mask brushing John's cheek as he bent his head. "Sleep now."
Too tired and confused to complain, John allowed his body to settle, knowing that here, in this room, despite what all of his instincts told him...he was safe.
Bane watched him into the darker hours of the night before he let sleep claim him as well. He settled onto his side, mask unprotected and turned towards the cop – Detective – with his broad back to the door, acting as a buffer between them and the rest of the world.
ZZZ
The third time is the time that the Batman dies. Bane had dropped the prone body on the steps of the courts, cast a bored glance at Talia, then taken back to the sewers. In his hand he clutched the cape of the fallen masked crusader, of Gotham's hero. It dragged on the ground behind him, collecting more grime than it had originally been covered in.
His heart felt oddly heavy in his chest as he pushed open the door to his rooms, eyes seeking out the little bird that could often be found in his bed or at his desk.
He found John curled on his side, Bane's own thick coat draped over his body. The blankets were pushed to the side, forgotten, and John's fingers were gripping the fur of the coat hard enough his knuckles had turned white. He glanced at Bane from the corner of his eye, taking in the dark bruising and cuts streaking his lovers – fuck, that's what they were, weren't they? Shit - face, and the ones lower that peeked out from his battle armor.
"How was your day?" He asked, sarcasm coating his tone as he sat, the jacket falling to droop around his waist. His chest was bare beneath the lamb skin and fur. He was still watching Bane's face, as he was prone to do. Bane had the feeling that John was trying to see into him, using his eyes as a portal to the deeper side of Bane. There was no deeper side, Bane knew. He was but a monster, nothing more than the mask. There was no man behind it anymore.
Of course, it's the very first time that John asks when Bane actually has news to report back. His eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch, and he lifted the cape so it dangled beside his head, saying nothing. He watched, close, as John's dark eyes filled with emotion, as his breath caught in his chest.
"Where did you get that?" His voice was low, full of venom. Bane had never heard John use that tone of voice, not even when he'd first brought his bird to this cage, informed him of the sleeping arrangements. He had never seen the fire in those dark eyes burn so strongly.
"Where do you think I got this, John?" Bane rumbled, "I told you hope would get you nowhere."
"Fuck you." John spat, tossing the coat aside as he stumbled off the bed. "Do you – what? You think this changes anything?"
"It changes nothing. For me." He added, searching inside for the amusement he should have been feeling at seeing John fall apart before him.
"Give it to me." His voice had become ice, low and cold, expression carefully blank. Bane wondered if that was the expression he used when he told criminals to get on the ground, put their hands behind their heads. If Bane had been anything less than what he was, the voice might have affected him, too. Now though, it made him feel nothing but an odd pang, deep in his gut.
Wordless, he tossed the cape at John. The boy caught it deftly, hands fisting in the silky fabric. He stared at it as though the dark material would tell him something; whisper the secrets it held, and tell him that it was all a lie. "You." He swallowed, fingers brushing the clasps that had held it to the Batman's suit. "What did you do to Br- to him."
Ah. That was it, then. Bane's eyes narrowed, wondering just how John, a lowly cop of a Gothamite had ever found out who hid behind the cowl. "I have destroyed him." He said, as though it was the most logical, most normal thing in this universe. "As I had set out to do originally."
"He's dead." Half a question, half a statement, John glanced at Bane long enough to see him nod. "This changes nothing." He muttered. "Gotham will fight you. This...you told them, me, about Jim. About Dent. They know the Batman was a hero, and we'll fight you."
Bane exhaled slowly, watching that odd little tick appear back in the left side of John's face. "There will be no one left in Gotham." He explained, turning away from his pretty bird. "The bomb will detonate in an hour's time." His arm swung out, caught John in the chest as the boy lunged at him, and slammed him effortlessly into the wall. "Be still, little bird, and stay put. You'll be safe down here."
He let John slide to the floor, coughing, and stepped once more from his room.
"I'd rather die up there than be down here with you."
Bane knew when John didn't rush the door as he closed it, that that was only half true. He pushed the strange feelings down, dismissing them as harmless, as he locked the door behind him and nodded at Barsad, a silent order to guard John while Bane went to watch the destruction with Talia. He told himself that he was only feeling things, not feeling things. There was no room for loving two people in his heart.
He loved his Talia, the one he needed to protect. He only wanted to destroy John.
He hated the fact that he didn't even believe himself as he settled heavily at Talia's right side, watching the giant television screens they had without really seeing anything at all.
Hours later, when the city sat in ruins far above their heads, Bane returned. He stood in the doorway and watched John, who had since tossed Bane's coat into a corner. He sat, hunched under the Batman's cape, the shiny black clasps clipped to one of his own tattered, dark shirts. His skin, pale from months of being hidden from the sun, was a stark contrast to the dark of the cape. It was one that he would have found enticing, if it weren't someone else's darkness coating John's skin.
Bane's vision blanked out, tinted red with rage at the thought of his bird wearing that ungrateful Bat's clothing. His grasped the frame of the door hard enough the worn wood groaned lightly, and he inhaled deeply, metallic rasp filling the tense air of the room.
"I won't stay here anymore."
He thought back to months ago, the slim Detective dropping one of his men like a sack of bricks, body propelling forward. He had flipped over a second soldier, in a move he admitted later to learning at a local community centre. He had taken gymnastics for a few years in the boys' home, and his experience as a cop – running, chasing, dodging traffic and bystanders as the drive for justice forced his body into hyper drive, adrenaline and the thrill of the hunt pounding through his veins – had only solidified his sleek muscle, his skill.
Bane thought of pressing John down by his neck, holding that fragile life in the palm of his hand and knew that he couldn't bring himself to do it. Eyebrows drawing down to crease his forehead, he forcefully stepped to the side, combat boots thudding on the ground with an air of finality. With a sweeping wave of his arm, he gestured at the long, dark stretch of hallway that lead to main tunnel.
He knew John had almost escaped before, but the almost had been hesitation on both their parts. On John, the feelings he was developing for the monster, and for the monster, his unwillingness to put out any fire. After all, he had come to Gotham only to watch flames burn.
He realized his bird was growing to know him when the boy didn't hesitate, didn't take this whisper of freedom as merely a sick joke. He stood, grabbed a paper sack that had been his dresser for the length of his time there, and tucked his arms back under the cape. "I'm keepin' this." His voice was growing hoarse with the effort to contain himself. Bane lifted his left shoulder in a shrug.
"As you will, Detective." Bane's voice was carefully blank. He could feel Barsad moving behind him, leaving his post. He knew, that without having to say a single word, that his right hand man would be giving his order to let the bird go without killing him – they would put up a fight though, as was the right thing to do.
"There's nothing left for you there." He rumbled, words tired as John's shoulder brushed past his chest.
The cop paused a few feet away. They stood, back to back. One stared at his freedom that would lead only to misery, and the other stared at an empty room that had never before seemed so cold.
"You can do whatever you want Bane, but you'll never take our hope. There's everything left for me up there." His voice was low, still rough sounding. "I told you already, this doesn't change a thing."
Bane allowed himself to glance over his shoulder finally. He watched as the cape and John's own dark hair allowed him to meld into the shadows. Bane had never felt more betrayed than he did in that moment.
Quiet, unheard by any but himself and the dark, he muttered "Little bird, this changes everything."
ZZZ
Bane had assumed they would leave Gotham to the American soldiers, to the very few survivors that had crawled from the wreckage. He had, he soon learned, assumed wrong. Talia had moved them from the sewers, to the handful of buildings that still stood tall along the outskirts. She had toyed with the idea of moving into Wayne Manor, but quickly decided against it. Bane wondered if she had felt anything for the Bat other than hate, remembered her coming home to the sewage reeking of the rich cologne that had always hung across a black cape, a solid cowl. He wondered, if a monster like Talia could find it in her heart to love, if a monster like him could as well.
He quickly ripped his silent wonders to shreds, and instead moved into the floor beneath his queen's penthouse suite, tacking the darkest, thickest fabric he could find over all the windows. He preferred the dark.
As well as his assumptions, he had expected a few small things. He had imagined Barsad would slink off upstairs to bend to Talia's whim. Instead, his right hand had very softly – not afraid, though, because for some reason Barsad never showed him fear – had asked if he could remain on Bane's own floor, unlike the decorated guards above. Bane had allowed it, curious, and within a few days he noticed a few other men creeping around. One of them was the guard who had exchanged jokes with his bird.
Bane would find himself leaning on the wall, watching his pawns drink whatever alcohol they had foraged from the wreckage, listening to a dirty joke about a blond that had his stomach twisting into horrible knots. He would take leave then, retreating either to his own room, or to his favorite window.
The men though, they acted around him as they always had. They were underdogs, grunts, who trembled in excitement and fear when he walked into a room, waited for him to pick that which he wanted to eat before they made any move to feed themselves. They cocked their heads like eager pups, waiting for his orders, scrambling to obey even if he merely banished them from a chair he wanted to sit in. They would, as they always had, unwind eventually, putting him from their minds. He sometimes felt that they liked having him watch over them, but that idea caused yet another twinge of something, and like everything else, he stamped the thought down.
Then, of course, there was Barsad, with whom his relationship had never been easy to understand. From the moment Barsad had been welcomed to the League, he had taken to Bane's side, often as silent as the mountain of a man himself. He held respect for Bane – although no one knew why – and had not, since day one, shown a sliver of fear. He had remained unafraid during the one instance Bane had snapped at him, fist squeezing his throat hard enough that his vision was black around the edges. He had stared, meeting eyes with the masked man, nothing showing in his gaze. It was possibly the only thing that had spared his life that day.
The man's eyes held more than just respect now, although, as usual, there was no fear. There was a hint of understanding in his gaze as the slighter man silently stood at his side, watching the trashed skyline with him when the sun rose, and again when it set. Barsad had taken to arriving at their favorite window before Bane, tugging aside the heavy fabric that usually kept the world out.
Bane had asked him of it, only once, just after they had moved into the broken but still somehow beautiful building. "Why do you look at me like that?"
Barsad's lips had quirked to the side and he had shaken his head "I've always looked at you like this. You're just only seeing it now." They had settled into silence after that, watching the sun play off the dust that somehow still rose from the Gotham rubble.
It was during another one of their quiet nights with Barsad seated on the window ledge and Bane standing, boxing him in against the glass, that Barsad spoke, breaking their usual routine. "Do you want to go out there?"
They went outside of course, to scout, and listen. Nothing suspicious had risen from the ash, and Bane had no idea why Talia refused to leave this wretched place behind. Bane now spent his free time wandering the intensely massive floor had he had taken residence in, mapping out every nook and cranny for no other reason than restlessness.
"Out into the streets of Gotham?" His voice was thick with amusement as he peered over the masks edge at Barsad. "Why would I want to do a thing like that?"
A shoulder shrugged in response and Barsad somehow weaseled himself out from between the glass and Bane's massive body, brushing his cargo pants off as he strode towards the door. "I don't know. But I'm going out, Sir. If that's alright." He knew it was, of course, as Bane very rarely ordered him around. He was a master at picking up on his leaders every thought, moving into place before Bane so much as glanced at him.
There was silence once more for a long stretch of a moment before Bane nodded. "I will accompany you."
Barsad turned his attention to the two that had followed him to Bane's floor, head tilting. They in turn shared a glance before retreating further into the kitchen. Barsad snorted. "Just us, then."
It was, as it often was, a cool morning in Gotham. The wind was sharp, carrying with it the scent of autumn and death. Bane found it wasn't a particularly horrible smell as he and Barsad moved through the streets, sticking close to what had once been the walls of homes and storefronts. They stepped over most obstacles, having to walk around only a few.
The handful of people – they had seen seven – they passed in the streets didn't seem worried about them, either. The left over Gothamite's believed themselves to be safe, as none of Talia's warriors had taken to the streets to slaughter them yet. It was a foolish belief, and Bane wanted to roll his eyes at the hope that just would not die in this city.
They're close to the heart of Gotham when a flash of dark red caught his attention. He had paused in the early morning light, stepping closer to a half standing building, taking comfort in the shadows that fell across himself and Barsad, cloaking them so they could watch without being noticed.
Of course. His little bird had always been full of surprises. He huffed a breathless, quiet laugh as he watched John leap onto a leaning wall, hands grasping the cracked edge. He was looking for a vantage point, they realized.
The detective stilled, balanced precariously on the slanted piece of concrete, at least fifteen feet high. His eyes, ever watchful, scanned the ground below studiously. He raised himself a few inches, giving up the grip with his hands and hoping that his footing would be enough to keep him from tumbling. Slowly, he straightened his legs, gaining his full height.
Barsad took in a slow breath as John wobbled, caught himself. Whistled lowly and dropped once more to a crouch, gesturing at a lost alleyway.
Children, six of them, scampered out to hide in the shadow of the concrete. There were four boys and two girls, none of them even into preteen years but all of them loaded down with swollen paper bags. Bane's head tilted as John leaned down, hanging from one hand to exchange words with the eldest boy, perhaps ten.
The child saluted him once and then grabbed the youngest girl. Six small bodies prepared themselves before barreling across the street and into a door that had opened so suddenly, Bane had almost missed it. There was an old woman there, all grey hair and drooping wrinkles, gesturing at John to come in.
His bird shook his head and dropped from the concrete, landing in a crouch before taking off in a run, straight in their direction.
The building had once been a supermarket, but was now mostly fallen apart, gaping holes discreetly covered over with other garbage – slim pieces of drywall, scalded pieces of plywood. The door had closed as soon as John had begun to move, and to a passerby the building would be taken as just as empty as everywhere else in Gotham.
Fascinating.
John obviously didn't notice them as he barreled past; breathing even as his long legs vaulted him over cracks in the ground and random debris.
Barsad said nothing as he took to a jog, tight enough to the shadows that his arm brushed brick and concrete with every step. Bane fell into step behind him, terrifyingly silent for all his bulk.
He couldn't tear his eyes away from that streak of red, his red. It was a shirt Talia had given to him, sarcastically saying that he needed more to wear than just black if he were to blend in. The comment had hurt him at first, knowing that she knew he would never, ever, blend in, not with his face. He had only ever used that horribly red shirt as a pillow when his own flat ones hadn't been enough to ease the ache in his neck.
It swallowed John, it was that big. The sleeves covered his hands, and Bane noted that he had ripped holes for his thumbs, treating the tips of the sleeves as gloves. The palms were dark with grime, and Bane wondered at just what John had been up to in the weeks since he'd been allowed to leave.
The color had returned to his skin, casting a light tan upon him. His cheeks were flushed high with adrenaline and the cold wind whipping past his face, rustling his hair. His eyes were bright with freedom, and Bane couldn't understand how he ever imagined his bird would do well with captivity.
They were masters of the shadows and John not once suspected a thing as they followed him.
In the end, they arrived at a mostly collapsed brownstone. It was nothing good to look at, but Bane realized it was a home when John slid through a cracked window on the main floor.
This changes nothing.
Gotham was still alive and very much kicking. Talia must have known that, then, and that was why they remained in the hellhole. He opened his mouth to speak, mask rattling with his inhale, before he noticed Barsad was already walking down the street away from him. The man mouthed I'll be back, and Bane took it for what it was.
Not permission, but acceptance, and he pulled himself in through the window, damning John for being the only thing on this earth to be able to cause him distraction.
"Do you never give up?" The voice was exasperated, irritated, and he snorted at John as the cop took a swig of cold coffee, grimacing at the taste.
"I could ask the same of you, Detective." He rasped, shoulders shaking as he rumbled out a laugh of mirth.
"Yeah, well, I already told you I wouldn't take this lyin' down." John replied, flippant, and utterly amazed that this behemoth could even fit through the window, let alone do it as quietly and nimble footed as a cat. "You come here to kill me?"
"No. I have come merely to kill my own curiosity." Bane took a seat on a milk crate clearly intended as a chair. Even sitting, he was terrifying, but John was long since past being truly afraid of a man who seemed unwilling – unable? – to actually hurt him. At least, physically. Emotionally, the fucker was fantastic at it.
"Right. And what are you curious about? If you came here to squeeze information out of me, you might as well just kill me now because it ain't happening." John drank another gulp of coffee to keep his hands and mouth busy, trying to look past the taste and think only caffeine.
Bane placed his elbows on his knees, hands folded loosely between his spread legs as he leaned forward. "Just where exactly did you get that shirt, Detective?"
John's eyes flashed at him as he turned, giving his back to Bane. Surprises, surprises. "It was shoved in with my stuff when I left." He replied, not missing a beat as he slammed his cup down onto the counter. "And it's warm." As if that explained everything.
Bane was across the room in a flash, fist curled into the fabric, pulling it taut against John's sleek body. "Is that all, Detective?"
"I don't know what you want me to say." John snapped back, cock betraying him yet again as he was herded forward to lean lightly against the counter.
"Yes you do." Bane countered, voice deceptively soft as his hand slipped under baggy jeans, past boxers, pulling John into his hand and working him gently. "Did you miss me?"
"Go fuck yourself." John muttered, nails biting into the soft leather of a familiar coat as Bane's free arm came up to bracket his chest. "Asshole."
"Yes." Bane's voice was easy, knowing the name to be true as his thumb stroked over the head of John's cock, just the way he knew his little bird liked it. He smiled behind the mask as John's voice died, and his hips stuttered. "But, at the very least, I am an honest one." He conceded, pace quickening as he bowed his head, forehead brushing the nape of John's neck. As the trembling increased – he could always get John to come undone so damn quickly – he pressed forward harder, putting pressure on the sensitive stretch of skin.
He pulled his hand away, slick with cum, and wiped it on a curtain.
"Satisfied?" John grunted, referring to the curiosity Bane had mentioned, elbow biting into Bane's ribs as he struggled to right his clothing.
"No. Does it make you feel better, when you act like you never wanted it?"
The hate filled glare directed at him was weak, and he shook his head. "Forgive me, Detective. I've overstayed my welcome, it appears." He moved towards the window, keeping an eye on his bird. He wasn't worried he'd be attacked – as if John would be able to do actual damage to him – but he was watching for a sign. Of something, anything.
"You weren't ever welcome here. Take your curiosity and shove it."
Bane met with Barsad further down the street. They returned to the palace Talia had made in the wreckage, Bane's thoughts turned inward and Barsad humming a slow melody from a childhood he had never really lived.
ZZZ
Talia was dead.
It had started when the name Gordon was uttered on the streets – when people began to believe that the dear police commissioner hadn't perished in the explosion, like Talia and the League believed. It had started with the mutterings of a revolution, of the people taking Gotham back.
What followed after was a blur – from the dark had come a man, slim and trim, too young to be Gordon, but hardened enough that he had to be older than twenty. He was cloaked in black, a skin tight material that hugged every angle, every curve and dip of his body. He wore a mask that covered all but his mouth, showing only to the world the firm line of his mouth.
He had always been one step ahead. The League's hands had grabbed at him, tried to drag him down, but this was not the Bat. There was no flowing cape to grab, to rip, to use to toss a breaking body into a wall with a sickening thud.
This boy was like water, slipping through their fingers even as they tried desperately to latch onto any piece of flesh they could.
Bane had watched, detached, as a flip had the boy leaping clear over Barsad, foot colliding with another man's face hard enough to break his jaw. The momentum was used for a back flip, landing silent behind a third, leg swinging up and over to shatter ribs beneath his shin before he was leaping away, careening carelessly off of crumbling walls and over turned armored vans.
As he had been from the beginning, this man was but a distraction.
Talia was not a weak woman, not a weak force, but hidden in her new kingdom while her pawns scurried to catch the only threat she could see, she was unsuspecting. And this time, the Gothamite's had been the ones to be prepared.
They did not try to get close – it had been a clean shot, a single bullet aimed from a barely standing rooftop somewhere in the distance. A veteran cop, a sharp shooter, a sniper as Talia watched the rats scuttle far below her, small as ants.
Bane was the one to close her eyes and carry her body from her palace, knowing that while her death was an injustice – she should have died in battle, fists flying and soul on fire – it had been painless, which was a luxury they hadn't afforded the Gothamite's who had taken a stand.
He hadn't expected the all consuming loss, the grief, at laying Talia out, dead. What was he to do? Take the League, of course, become its new leader. But for all he could give orders, they had never been his orders to give, and he felt lost without words whispered petal soft against his ear.
He was not a leader, he was a protector. He was meant to be the silent guardian, the creature of the night that would die to bring the innocents once more to the light.
He had stared at Barsad for a long, long time, expression blank, bland. The man had watched him back, eyes so clearly understanding, Bane didn't know how he'd never noticed it before. He said nothing to his men as he strode from Talia's palace, skin crawling.
He picked his way silent through the streets, surprised that there was no gunfire on him.
He ended up outside a broken brownstone, halfway through a shattered window before he realized what he was doing. Would John be here? If his suspicions were confirmed – if it was in fact John who had stripped everything away from him – what would he do? Could he bring himself to kill his bird, to break his neck and leave his body behind? Without Talia, this bird was all he had left.
He was suddenly, distinctly aware of just what he had helped do to Gotham. He had thought, in the beginning, that he was making them see the light. In the face of his loss, and his grief, he knew he had done nothing but cast a smothering blanket of despair over both the good and the bad, with no care for who became caught in the crossfire.
The irony of it left him aching as he finished climbing through the window.
John was nowhere to be found.
Bane picked his way through the brownstone, empty inside as he finally found what constituted as the bedroom. There were clothes laying haphazard across the floor, blankets strewn half on, half off the bed. He crossed to the bed – nothing but a mattress on the floor, frame having been burnt long ago for warmth – and slowly lowered himself to it. Blindly, he reached for a t-shirt lying on the floor.
It was white; such a stark contrast to what Bane himself usually wore. Smudged with dirt in some places, blood in others, but still white underneath. He closed his eyes and pulled the fabric over his face, knowing that there was no way in hell one of John's shirts would ever fit over his shoulders.
Exhausted, the beast fell asleep with the smell of a long lost captive taking hold of his dreams.
ZZZ
John returns some time later, skidding to a hault in the middle of his kitchen. The sound of grating metal greets his ears and he closes his eyes, smiling to himself without humor. He reaches into a cupboard, tugging out a worn grey sweatshirt. It's pulled easily over his head, sliding silky smooth against the material of his suit he can't bring himself to remove. The mask however, is discarded on the counter as he flips the coffee pot on, once again grateful that the electricity still runs even if the heat doesn't.
If he's going to die today, he at least wants one last cup of piss awful coffee coursing through his veins. His adrenaline has long since left him, making him weary to the bone.
He follows the noise, thoughtless, until he stands at the end of his mattress, legs brushing against the underside of Bane's combat boots. He takes in his shirt, covering the masked face, the way the beasts chest rises and fall with each rattling inhale.
"Bane." He says, nudging his leg forward enough to jostle the man's foot. He's aware of the shirt slipping over one shoulder, still much too large for him, as it has been since the very first day he put it on. It's the first piece of Bane he's ever taken, and, he thinks, it might possibly be the last one he'll ever hold close.
He knows without looking that it's dragging over his collarbone as it did almost a year ago. He knows, that peering out for the world to see, will be the shark streak of blue that marks the wings he's granted himself.
Slowly, his ratty old white shirt is dragged away to reveal green-blue eyes.
He expects pain, but nothing aside from a deep exhale comes.
His mouth seemed unwilling to agree with his brain as he asks, whisper-soft in the glow of morning. "How was your day?"