Prompt: There's a lot of prompts of Blake interacting with Bane and even Talia, but what about Blake hanging out with Bane's men, playing cards or just sitting around exchanging war stories. Like, Barsad saying "this one time in Zimbabwe we got lost in the forest and were stalked by gorillas" and John Blake's like "this one time in on 34th street the Joker blew up the bank and stole a school bus" yadda yadda.
AN: I cannot stop being inspired by all these glorious prompts, ugh. I can't get anything done, damn you Batman. This one did not quite turn out the way I wanted, but I like it anyway. Warnings for hints of gay sex, violence, and character death.
Hope
It's a Powerful Thing
They just ignore him, and that's actually more infuriating than the fact that he had even been captured to begin with. He hears them all talk, and knows that when Bane refers to him, it's as his pet, or his bird or his captive. It's annoying, but it's true, and it's one hundred percent his fault for being stupid enough to fall into the masks trap anyway. He had told Bane, that night, with a roll of his eyes "Batman isn't going to come for me. You got nothing." All cocky voice and deep scowl as he kept his place – didn't have a choice really, what with grimy hands pressing down on his shoulders – on his knees before the man.
Bane had shrugged, seemingly unbothered by it "Then at least it's one more nuisance off the streets." And yeah, that had pissed him off, because really? Come on now. He'd single handedly fucked up Bane's plans not once, not twice, but three times. He was more than a nuisance. He was a damn thorn digging into that armored side.
At first, Bane had kept him locked up tight in his rooms. It was easy to see that John got restless, dropping into a fierce exercise routine, before he had begun pacing. Eventually, he had shifted into gymnastics, using the exposed metal pipes of the bedrooms low ceiling to even do a flair of parkour, pushing his body until he had painfully pulled a muscle in his leg. After that, Bane had begun tossing him in with the dogs – not really dogs, just the grunts at the bottom of the food chain – when he was to go away.
They'd been ordered of course, to not hurt him. He was surprised to see that Bane's control was strong enough that any touch he received – they nudged him around to reach shelves he leaned against, or to urge him to eat the disgusting food they were accustomed to – were harmless. He had begun spending his days boredly watching the guys play-wrestle, crack jokes, and just generally be men together.
Right now, though, he's watching them play beer pong without the beer, and he's bored. Barsad, Bane's second in command, is grinning to himself as he places bets with another higher up, and really not paying John any mind at all. Determined, the cop pushes himself to his feet and saunters over to the small group around the table.
They pause, and a scruffy man with a huge beard and scarred forehead lifts his eyebrows. "What?" It's the first thing anyone aside from Barsad or Bane has said directly to him, and John grins.
"I'm bored."
Silence falls across the room as the men exchange looks, shifting nervously on their feet. They've been ordered not to hurt Blake, but there'd been nothing said about what else to do with him. They ignored him so they didn't step on his toes, which would, by 'ownership', be stepping on Bane's toes.
Barsad makes the decision for then as he flicks a small, hollow ball at the back of John's head. "So?" Barsad sounds amused as he settles back into his chair, kicking the ball when it rolls back towards him.
"So, let me play." John's eyes are bright as he glares at Barsad, stooping to scoop the small red ball into his palm.
"Hm. I'm not sure, you might get hurt." Barsad rests his hand in his palm, full out grinning now. He clearly knows he's pissing Blake off, and yeah, he's clearly enjoying it too. "Why should we share our toys with you, when the threat of violence hangs in the air?"
"Share your toys with me? Really? What are you, five?" John rolls his eyes and smacks the ball off the table, nodding to himself when it lands effortlessly in a cup. "And because if you don't, I'm going to have to find ways to entertain myself." He meets Barsad's gaze, lips pursing. "Things like smacking my head off the wall or slamming drawers on my hands."
"Are you honestly threatening to hurt yourself to make him angry, so we'll play with you? Whose five now?" Barsad doesn't seem particularly worried about it though, and he picks up another ball. This one smacks John right between the eyes, and he momentarily goes cross eyed in an effort to watch it.
The men are watching the banter warily, still unsure of how to proceed.
"Seriously, if I don't do something soon I'll end up pulling another muscle. Or chewing through my own arm, hamster style." At the confused look that earns him he shakes his head. "Nevermind." He grins when a third ball is tossed, catching it deftly and bouncing it against the table. It hits the rim of the cup, wobbles, then falls in.
After that, his day becomes a bit more fun. They spend well over an hour playing beerless beer pong, and he's quiet only because he doesn't want to break the tentative, but comfortable atmosphere they've fallen into. Barsad of course, refuses to play, and instead spends his time flicking balls at John simply because he can.
Naturally, Bane steps through the doorway just as John snaps at Barsad to "Get your fuckin' balls out of my face man, jeeze."
The silence that seizes the room is punctured only by panicked breathing. The last ball had been tossed a split moment before Bane had entered the room. It catches John on the tip of the nose before falling harmlessly to the floor, rolling to bounce off the tip of the leaders boot.
Slowly, Bane's toes lift from the ground. He puts pressure on the ball and there's a muted pop as it flattens beneath his foot, never having stood a chance.
John gasps, full of mock horror. Bane hitches a brow, and the detective slumps against the wall "You just murdered the last pink ball. You bastard."
Bane lifts his boot again to look at the crumpled piece of pink plastic. Snorting, he begins making his way across the room. "I'm certain you'll live, Detective." He rasps, amusement leaking into his tone.
"You don't know that." John shoots back, high from human companionship, and guilty for having a good time with these men.
"I'm most certain that the death of the pink ball is not something horrid enough to drive you to your own premature death." Bane's voice is flat then, as he shakes his head and snags John's arm, preparing to drag his whelp back off to the privacy of his rooms.
Bane steadfastly ignores the way one of the younger men slaps a hand over his mouth to hide his squeak of laughter.
ZZZ
John is way happier than he should be when Bane doesn't banish him from 'play time' after the Death of the Pink Ball Incident. If anything, Bane seems to give him more time to play with the boys. They'd been less hesitant around him after the first time, but had still kept their games to harmless pong, and once, darts. Until Barsad had – he was teasing when he said it but they, unfortunately, took him seriously – pointed out that John would look dreadful missing an eye.
This is the first time he's been left completely alone in the living room/rec room/kitchen type area he spends his days in. Everyone is gone, and the door is locked. It's barricaded too, he knows, from when he'd tried to slam it open two hours ago.
He's back to being bored and contents himself with playing pong alone, favoring the blue ball. He holds a moment of silence, as he always does, for the lost pink ball. Which, he knows, is pressed between the pages of a Webster's Dictionary for no other reason than the fact that it is fucking hilarious.
Ed, the guy with the massive beard and scars is the first to return. He rocks unsteadily on his feet, hiccups once, and John realizes the man is piss drunk. "Take it you had a good day?" He asks, insides twisting, because a good day for them means a bad day for Gotham.
"Yeh." He slurs, stumbling to the stove. He stares blankly at it for a minute, then remembers it has to be turned on, and has to have things on it, in order for food to be made. A pan is tossed haphazardly on a burner as he flicks it on, nearly dropping the carton of eggs he drags out of the fridge.
There are others entering the room, loud and rambunctious, and John bodily bumps into Ed, smacking the other, larger man into the counter. "I got this. Don't want you settin' fire to the place and killing us all." Ed claps him on the shoulder for it, giving him a friendly shake before hopping to sit on the counter.
"You're a good man, John." He hiccups, nodding sagely as Barsad weaves his way towards him.
"Where's Bane?" John asks, curious, as he cracks four eggs into the pan, dropping a bit of milk in and hoping that it hasn't turned rancid yet because yeah, he so does not want to deal with a bunch of guys who have food poisoning.
Barsad grins, all teeth and eyes that are filled with assumptions and innuendo. "What's it t'you?" He asks, arm snaking around John's shoulders, squeezing the cop tight against his side. "Miss him?"
"Shove off." John does roll his eyes this time, playful digging his elbow into Barsad's side. Barsad is the one constant here, who isn't afraid to poke and prod at him, and it reminds him of being at the precinct. Really, it reminds him of his partner and jokes shared over a pitcher of beer after a long, hard day on the job. It reminds him of being part of something, of having a...family.
He knows that that's what these men are. They are family, no matter how fucking dysfunctional their Father figure is.
Barsad clings at him while he struggles to move around the kitchen and make food for the seven other men gathered in the cramped space. He wants to ask them to go sit the hell down in the more open space off to the left that houses the pong table, but knows it'd be a fruitless effort. They're in a good mood, but there's something else there. They're crowding together, not just in his space, but they're all almost close enough to touch.
He really never thought Barsad, for all his snark, would be a touchy-feely drunk. "So what, you didn't bring me any booze back?" He says in way of protest, still unable to dislodge the arm around his shoulders. He takes a moment to realize that yeah, the dude totally stinks and could probably use a shower, before he dips the pan of scrambled eggs into a cracked mixing bowl and starts on another batch.
"Nope." Barsad is the first to eat, finally leaving John as he shoves Ed to the side, also taking a seat on the counter. He scarfs the eggs like he's starving, and John has smelled burnt toast and seen charred pots enough to know that his mediocre cooking is probably the best these guys have had in weeks. If they don't scrounge for themselves, they have these nasty pre-packaged meals that he'd had to endure in the beginning, too.
A flash of the boys' home, of being on kitchen duty, has the breath rushing out of him fast enough he latches onto the handle of the oven, struggling to stay standing as his head spins.
"Looks like you don't need it." Barsad points out, brow furrowed and fingers halfway to his mouth, having forgone the use of a fork. "Blake?"
"I'm good." And he is, as soon as he can slam that particular door to memory lane shut. A grimy hand presses over his forehead, leaving a trail of grime in its wake, and he blinks confused at a man he recognizes, but doesn't know the name of.
"No fever." He shrugs, reaching around John to grab a plate.
Sensing something amiss, Barsad's eyes sober and he finishes chewing his mouthful. "Hey John." He calls, once the cop is settled back into the task of scrambling the last of the eggs.
"What?"
"Why don't you finish up there then come tell us a story?" Barsad knows John likes to talk, a lot, most of it snarky and saucy. It seems to serve as a distraction, keeping his mind off of his captivity and just who exactly he's bunking with for the time being.
"Yeah?" John is surprised at the request, meeting Barsad's gaze curiously.
Barsad shrugs, lifts a bottle of cheap rye. "We brought extra." He amends, lips quirking to the left. It tells John that Barsad had been joking about not bringing him anything home earlier. The fact that he now considers this place home leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
It's such a strange, familiar sensation to drop to a cold floor with a bunch of other guys and take a shot straight from the bottle. He went to college, of course, and his roommate from then had become his partner on the beat, and he knows that guys like to shoot shit. The alcohol warms his stomach, then his blood, and as he rambles on about nothing in particular he finds himself lazily propped against Barsad's raised knee, as the man half-dozes against the wall behind him.
Everyone else is mostly listening, and none of them are aware of the beast lurking in the shadows.
"So, hey, y'were a cop right?" That's Ed talking again, more drunk than he had been when he'd walked through the door three hours prior. Turns out, Barsad had brought more than the bottle of rye. John was having a hard time seeing straight.
"No." John grunts, shifting so the knee in his back is more comfortably placed. "I am a Detective." He corrects, unwilling to lose that part of his identity even though he's heard these men talk about the courthouse, about what the Gothamite's are doing to the old law. Ed grins at him, and John notes that he's missing a tooth.
"So tell us some cop stories, pretty boy." A hand cuffs him lightly around the ear and his leg shoots out to catch Ed near the hip, playful.
"Make me." He offers, before tilting his head back. The very base of his skull smacks off of Barsad's knee, and John realizes he's been sliding down the other mans leg, shirt half pulled up his torso from his descent. He doesn't really care though, when the vodka – man he's so fucking glad that he was drunk before the vodka came around, because this shit is cheap and tastes like paint thinner, he'd definitely have hurled if he'd tried it sober – comes back around to him. He takes two swings this time, mind working over time.
"You ever hear 'bout the Joker?" He finally asks, eyes fogging over with more memories. This time they were mostly welcome, as he recalled the maniac with the painted face.
"Just in passing." Ed replies, drunkenly slipping down to lay on the floor, squinting up at John.
"Great, then get this. You're in for a story." Everyone is definitely giving him their undivided attention, now. "It's just after Batman comes around, right? You guys obviously know about Crane." Somehow, the venom usually found in his voice when talking of the League's plans is absent now "So, Batman's dealing with all that bullshit, and R'as." He doesn't feel remotely sorely for the man's 'untimely' death. "Whatever, there's a bunch of shit goin' on, and Dent's just starting to make a stand and Rachel," okay that memory isn't wanted, and he pauses as his throat clenches painfully tight "Well, Rachel's..." He can't talk about her, not to them, "I'd just started out, really." He finishes, lamely.
"Gordon tells us all t'keep an eye out. Some guy calling him the Joker's been mailing these little playing cards to the big guys of Gotham." That part is true, he remembers. He'd been a fresh face, a true face, him and his partner. "My buddy and I were like the rest of 'em, crackin' jokes and making light of it. I mean, this guy paints himself up to look like a clown. Why take him serious?" He feels Barsad shift behind him, the brush of a hand reassuring against his shoulder before the man settles again. "Only, he decides to rob this bank, see? True genius right there. Guy always seemed like he didn't have a clue, but he was thinking seven steps ahead of all of us, even Br-Batman." His mix up with words will be taken as drunken slurring, he knows. "He uses a school bus as a getaway car, and damn if he didn't clear out the whole bank."
"Yeah?" Ed sounds mildly impressed.
"Yeah, but he also tied up all the loose ends. Had all the goons shoot each other, point blank, thinkin' they'd end up getting a bigger cut in the end. He put a clown mask over his war paint and set out, acting like he wasn't the one behind the whole damn thing." John shudders, remembering seeing that smile on the television. "You should look up the footage sometime, on like, youtube or something." He shakes his head. "Scary shit man. He kidnaps some guy pretending to be the Bat, and kills the guy. It's nasty." He presses the base of his skull tighter to Barsad's knee. "He dragged us all through the mud, turned us all against one another."
He swallows a few times, yet again grateful the vodka has made it to him. "He, uh. Took the paint off, once. He shot Gordon." There's a tension in the air then, and he pretends that these men aren't all trying to do the exact same thing even as he blinks dampness away from his eyes. "And Gordon was only lieutenant then, kind of just, yanno, he was my boss. We used to grab drinks together on the nights when shit got real bad, him, and me, and a bunch of the other guys." He does not mention Gordon's wife, or his son, or his daughter that had told her daddy she had a crush on Officer Blake, much to everyone's dismay. "He's kind of like, the ultimate father figure to us. I mean, my partner and I at least, we knew each other from college but we both grew up in homes, so it was nice having someone you could really talk to, man to man. Yanno?" Silence greets him, and he really doesn't know if they understand what he's trying to say.
He finishes the story quickly after that, head throbbing, room spinning. Barsad crosses his legs and John's head drops unceremoniously into the other mans lap. He knows most guys would be screaming gay at this point, but he's spent to many lonely nights with other lonely boys, that any human body is a welcomed comfort. Barsad's eyes are half lidded as he watches him carefully, head cocked to the side.
"So this Rachel is dead?" Ed asks, voice low from his spot on the floor a few feet from John. John doesn't think as his leg inches out, knee brushing the other mans arm.
"Yeah." He says, quiet, that one word conveying so much emotion it makes Bane's men shift uncomfortably. "You know, I didn't really even know her. I'd only ever spoke to her once, when I showed up to a trial. Just said hi. But you could tell she really cared for what she did, that she really...she believed Gotham could be saved, if the good people stopped being afraid."
"Do you believe that?"
John meets Barsad's gaze, unflinchingly, eyes crystal clear despite the alarming amount of booze pulsing through his veins. "The fuck else am I here for? I'll die believing that Gotham can be saved."
Bane steps from the shadows, making sure to make noise. They act as though he's just arrived, as he's lead them to believe. "I see you've gotten into mischief while I've been gone." He says, dryly, as he steps over a prone body to reach John. "Time to sleep it off little bird."
"But it was just starting to get exciting." John replies, no real protest in his words as Bane easily lifts him to stand unsteadily on his own two feet. He pretends he doesn't need to lean against the man to get to their rooms, and passing out face first on the bed within minutes.
He wakes up in the morning with a pounding headache, for once entirely happy to be living somewhere that the light does not reach.
ZZZ
It's two months after the first Drunken Story Time, and he can't help but feel he's growing close to these men. He's taught them how to not burn eggs, how to properly play pong, and he's taken to sparring with the man closest in size to him, a scruffy dark eyed man named Henry. It's fun, he realizes, and he's happy when a hand ruffles his hair or he gets playfully body-checked into a wall when they're all scrambling around the room doing whatever it is they've decided to do that day.
It's always the same men who sit with him. He wonders if Bane has done that on purpose, or if these men are the only ones willing to be near him.
He can't help but feel that they're growing close to him, too. He can hear the way they stutter over words they've been lead to believe for years now, sees the uncertainty in their eyes. His heart swells with guilt and he hopes desperately that they won't ever fumble in front of Bane, because he can't stand to think of any of them dying the same way he can't stand to think of his partner, or Bruce, or Gordon dying.
"Where's the wifey?" Ed is asking as John slips into the room.
Instantly, he knows they're referring to him. He supposes he hasn't exactly been quiet on the nights Bane pounds his ass into the mattress but really? Wifey?
"I am right here and my name is John." He snaps, trying to muster up anger in the face of their raw amusement.
"Oh, come off it." Barsad drawls, rolling his eyes. "You know it's true."
"I know I'm going to shove my foot up your ass if any of you call me the Wife again. Who the hell says I'm the woman?" They all stare at him, expressions bland. "Shut up." He grumbles, carefully sitting in his favorite arm chair.
"Hey, don't worry. We don't think any less of you." Henry's hand finds his hair, ruffling the mess playfully. "We never really thought much of you to begin with." He adds, laughing when John slams a fist into his arm.
"What? You wanna go?" His arse is aching, yeah, but sparring helps work off energy, and while he's not actually angry, it might do good to tire himself out before tonight. Bane tends to leave him be if he's actually exhausted to the point where he can't get an erection.
"Oh please, like you could even fight in this state."
John takes it as a challenge. He thoroughly gets his ass handed to him, movements slow from the amazing orgasm he'd had the night prior. He ends up with a bloody nose, to the men's horror, but he shrugs it off as nothing "Seriously, you think I grew up in this city without getting anything worse than a bloody nose, you're sorely mistaken."
Barsad nods, slow, and gestures to a pile of old boxes in the corner. "Should be a first aid kit in there somewhere." He offers, knowing that the bank of medical supplies they have on hand are located in the heart of the sewers, where Bane can keep them safe. He doesn't choose to fix his men often, and with the order that John not be harmed, having them near the bedrooms had seemed a pointless thing.
In searching for the first aid kit, John finds a teddy bear. It is worn, broken, and wrapped in soggy newspapers. He pulls it out as Bane returns, turning with the small creature in his hands, words dying on his lips at the pure rage flying from the other man. Whether it's about the bear or John's bloody face, he has no idea.
Barsad apparently has a very good idea. As Bane takes a step forward, the second in command flies between them, body and mouth not quite connecting to his brain. "Bane." He starts, unknowing what to say. He does know that he should probably back the fuck off and let Bane beat John to death with his own spinal cord, lest the man decide to do it to him instead, but he has a strange sense of loyalty, deep in his gut, for the odd little cop.
Something in his eyes must be telling, because Bane quickly reins himself in. "Get him fixed up." He orders, voice like ice. "And return him to my room."
After that, John doesn't see his friends for a long time. He spends every day hating Bane for it.
ZZZ
Bruce is dead. Talia is dead. Gordon is dead. His partner is dead. Bane is nowhere to be found. The head of the boys home had made it out with the few thousand Gothamite's that had managed to escape over the bridge before the bomb went off.
John has nothing left.
Barsad pulls him close, pressing John's face against his shoulder as he makes soothing noises, feeling a similar ache of grief throughout his entire body. They stand like that, in the wrecked sewers, pressed tight against one another as they both think.
"What will you do?" Ed asks of John, eyes wide and glassy.
John shudders. "I gotta go back to the surface. I gotta...I can't just believe that everything is gone."
"You'll stay in Gotham." Barsad muses, bowing his head against John's shoulder.
John knows he doesn't have to say anything to confirm his decision. He's told them since day one that he believes in Gotham, that he won't leave her for anything. "What are you going to do?"
Barsad pulls away and twists, sharply, beginning to walk down a side hall. John and the others – there is but Ed, and another man left down here. Henry is dead, John knows. He can feel it – follow silently.
It takes them a total of two hours to pick their way through the wreckage, to crawl to the burning surface of Gotham. "Bane's gone, Barsad. What are you going to do?"
Barsad crosses his arms over his chest, hugging himself. He feels alone, standing on the edge of a burning city without a familiar shadow cast across his shoulders. "I think," he starts, "that perhaps it's time...for a change."
He had not given himself to the League. Barsad had given himself to Bane who he had been willing to follow to hell and back. The rest meant nothing to him, and without Talia to hold her father's mantle, without Bane to lift Talia's torch, there was nothing.
"What do you mean?" John asks, low, eyes filled with hope.
Hope. Barsad's stomach twists at the irony and he shrugs. He knows his men – and they are his now, his responsibility – will follow him blindly, as he had once followed. He swallows and shrugs, once more beginning to pick his way across rubble.
John seems to accept that for what it is and takes place at his side, crawling through the fallen streets as they listen for any sign of life.
Hope is a very powerful thing. Accompanied by friendship, and the promises of love, even that of a brotherly nature, it is an unyielding force, one which will constantly refuse to die. Some of the League takes to crime, but the few who he had called friend, he now really calls family. They're all he has left in this dying world, and at night he curls against Barsad's side, knowing both of them sleep with the hope that one day, the man who made this destruction possible will walk back through their door and claim what's truly his.