A/N: NO SERIOUSLY. Some day, I will write an actual, full length fic for these two and stop with these tiny ficlets. Until that day. Have this.
In Shadows
For years he does not imagine a life beyond the pit. There is nothing out there for him, no life, no light, and while he is aware that he is merely existing rather not living in this hell, it is the only thing he has known. He has forgotten what, if anything, came before this place. There is no despair without hope...and he has no hope. He is a prisoner here, yes, but he remembers nothing else and so he can be content.
He does not try to escape as the other men are so fond. There is no reason for it, not when failure is the only result. He watches with something like pity as another scales those walls, face turned up towards the light, reaching for handholds never quite as secure as they originally believed. The young man doesn't even make it to the jump, the gravel giving way beneath his questing hands and down he plummets. Disappointment washes over the prisoners; he simply shakes his head, turning away as they lower the broken man back to the pit.
He does not hope.
The child hopes. She is the child of hope even in this hell. She will clamber into his lap, head cocked lightly to the side, to watch the men attempt to make the climb. When they inevitably fail, she will bite down on her lower lip, puzzled but never disappointed, "Has anyone made it?"
He shakes his head, "No, child."
"Then why do they climb?"
"It is preferable to surrender," is something greater than hopelessness. She worries her lip between her teeth once more, looking uncharacteristically uncertain before nodding to herself. The child rests her hands on her hips, confident.
"Shall you climb?"
He has always been content with his life here though he is aware of its failings; he shakes his head, "Who would look after you if I were to succeed?"
"You would return for me," not a trace of doubt in her, all conviction and youth and a determination this place with never be able to squelch. She rests her hand on top of his (so small, almost comically delicate, and yet somehow there is a strength there that he cannot question), squeezing, "I will make the climb one day."
"One day, little one," but not today. Today, they exist in this hell, in shadow, and they are both perfectly at home. She leans back against his chest, allows his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest to lull her towards a much needed rest.
He has to strain to catch her words in the still night air, barely words at all, mouthed against his skin more than spoken, "And I shall return for you." He does smile at that, chuckling against her hair. They are the words of a child, idealistic and innocent. In the moment he thinks nothing of them.
As he watches her flee, holds their attackers at bay, her words do flash through his head, innocent and young and impossible.
She will come back for him.
A part of him wants to believe her; a part of him has to if he's to survive this. For the first time in years, he imagines a life beyond the pit (strangely, it is not his own).
Years pass and her words continue to drift through his head. They are a comfort but they are false.
He does not dream of the world outside this hell; he no longer dreams of a world outside his cell. There is precious little outside the pain. The cloth that covers his face is plastered to his skin, sticky, warm, stinking of blood and death held at arm's length. He does not hope; she had been his hope and she is gone.
He cannot say he regrets it. Better that he remain here and she rise to walk in the sun. To keep her here is to clip her wings, strip her innocence from her and leave her as shoddily stitched together as he is now. To prevent that from happening, he would live in this manner for centuries.
He hears struggle but cannot bring himself to look. There is no hope in this place and even as the screams echo throughout the prison he does not pay them heed. He stares at the far wall, motionless, until a familiar pair of blue eyes are in front of him. They are set in a different face but he would recognize them anywhere. The man cocks his head to the side, a cold sort of elegance and power about him; there is none of the warmth he is so accustomed to in this stranger's gaze. Disgust, yes, suspicion, yes, the antithesis of the girl.
She cuts through the prison with a grace he barely recognizes, her head held high, dark hair hanging around her face, beautiful and elegant. There is youth there still but she is so much older, almost ancient, if only in her air. The is pain of different sort when he looks on her.
Talia kneels in front of him, reaching out to smooth the bandages from his face. The delicate touch is miserably out of place in this hell, out of character for either of them. She does not flinch at the smell, does not cower as the blood coats her pale fingers, staining them. Her father looks on through the whole of things (disapproving). The young woman sighs, surveying the damage done to him.
It is irreversible and massive, his body mangled and scarred. He is an echo of what he once was, far from beautiful, far from the pillar of strength he had been. The tips of her fingers are soft, warm, almost soothing as they trace the broken skin. They are a permanent testament to his sacrifice and dedication to her. They are hideous to the world (and beautiful to her, more telling than any flowery words).
Talia says nothing to him, offers him an apologetic smile as she eases the bandages back into place (her own scent mingling seamlessly with the gore). She stands, nodding to her father. He does not approve but he will not deny his child this. It is a haze as they deliver him from that place. The sun is blinding in its intensity, foreign.
He closes his eyes to ward it off, the sharp rays adding a new layer of pain. The fever racking his body lends an almost otherworldly quality to their trip. They load him into the back of something, prepare to take him back to their home (his new home).
He is aware of none of this, only registers the feel of her beside him. Her fingers are longer, slender, as they twine with his own, still so delicate and almost worrisomely strong. She whispers something that has no meaning in the grand scheme of things.
She keeps her promise; she returns for (to) him.
He squeezes back and is rewarded with her smile.
He is not as well suited to the league as she. For the entirety of his life he has been a brute thing, focusing more on causing the greatest amount of physical damage with the least amount of effort. It's effective, if less elegant; this sort of stealth is foreign and while he welcomes the shadow it does not embrace him as readily.
It is Talia who the darkness considers its kin. The young woman is an Al Ghul in more than just name, weaving effortlessly through the night. She is a silent thing, lithe, and almost painfully nimble as she moves. He smiles as she finishes her routine dropping soundlessly down beside him. A strange sort of pride will always play over her features in such moments, glittering deep within those blue eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest, arching a brow at him, "You did not come for me." There is a hint of disappointment there but it is nothing more than teasing, the strange sort of mischief that is simply her dancing around her tone as easily as she glides between patches of shadow.
"I was not aware you desired such a thing."
She shakes her head, dark hair tumbling about her shoulders. It's in direct contrast to how she once wore it but it isn't an unpleasant change, lends her an air of elegance and confidence that had once been lacking. She has grown into her once gawky limbs, out of her naivete (innocence). With another toss of her head, she sighs, adjusting his arm to make room for herself on his lap, "Where is the fun of the chase without a hunter?"
He chuckles, obligingly moving an arm around her, "I am afraid I cannot move as you are so fond, my dear." On the one hand, he is simply too large, too heavy, in comparison to the more slender members of the league. On the other...
The pain is simply too great. The mask aids with this, yes, but holding every muscle in his body taut for such extended durations is trying. The young woman hums, acknowledging the real reason for his reservations wordlessly. She reaches up absently, brushing the tips of her fingers over the metal apparatus, "And you shall never need to, my friend."
He arches a brow.
"As I shall never fight as you are able," she smiles at him then, that pride still present, all amusement and shadow given human form. She shifts to lay with her back to his chest, staring out towards the mountains, "We shall be halves of a whole." And together, they shall be something greater. There is something innocent, charming, in the notion that he cannot deny and a vivacity in her tone that he has no desire to squelch.
He could tell her of her father's disapproval (if she is not already aware), how he will inevitably be forced to leave her side and how her belief in this enduring relationship is hopelessly flawed. But she is still young (in comparison to himself), there is still a trace of hope trilling along the edges of her awareness and he will not be the one to extinguish it. Instead, he says, "It is a pretty thought."
"A reality, my friend, not a thought."
There is such determination in her voice that for a moment he is incapable of doubting her.
"A reality, then."
He leaves without telling her.
And she stands before him without comment, arms crossed over her chest, brow arched in question and something like irritation. In the middle of nowhere, far from their home in the mountains, his little fire is the only thing casting light. It is nothing more than a small, flickering, thing, lapping at the edge of the darkness in broken, jagged patterns. Hardly enough to keep the shadow at bay (and that darkness belongs to her); she steps out of the night silently as if the darkness has simply coalesced to create her.
"Do you intend to leave me then?"
An accusation in place of a greeting; he chuckles, pokes at the fire. It serves only to frustrate her; she does not wait for an invitation to sit, simply settles across from him. She is a so much smaller and is only in the darkness that he realizes how desperately he dwarves her. The woman makes an idle motion with her hand, demanding an explanation for his behavior.
He doesn't have one to give.
If she has followed him, she is aware why he has left. She is aware of her father's behavior and his orders. If she has followed him, she has made her choice. He smiles, content that she cannot see it behind his mask.
"I did not expect you to follow me," she snorts at his words, an unladylike sound that suits her perfectly well. They are both aware of the lie; as he will always come for her, she will never abandon him. Silence other than the crackling of the fire, little more than an ember in comparison to the light in her eyes (frustration but not with him).
She holds her head high, looking like a queen or a goddess.
He holds a hand out to her. She does not hesitate to take it; hesitation is not in her nature, directly at odds with her confidence. Her fingers are warm, if calloused by years of training, under his own. The woman takes her seat beside him, smiling into the darkness, tilting her head lightly to the side.
She doesn't look back towards their mountain home or her father. In the grand scheme of things, neither matters. There's an air of near conspiracy on her face as she squeezes once more, "We are whole again, my friend."
Yes, and he will not change this.
There is no body, no funeral and no closure. Her father is gone and there is nothing to mark his passing.
For the first time in years, her perfectly schooled masks show signs of decay. The woman paces the length of the current home, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Her nails leave little crescents of red across her palms, a testament to her anger even if her features do not show it.
She is not present for her father's death, is halfway across the world and impotent to save him. Years have cooled the feelings of betrayal she once harbored towards him and where she may of desired him humbled his murder is...
...There is no appropriate term for it. Her lips curl back in something like disgust at the mention of the Bat's name, her father's apprentice. He had turned on the man, abandoned him (as she had and the parallel is not one she appreciates). The League has failed; her father has failed.
She will complete his work; it is spat with the same determination she's always been gifted with, though the idealism, the innocence, has long since died. He has learned not to doubt her; no matter how impossible, she always keeps her word.
She will see Gotham burn and he shall provide the fuel if she so much as asks.
She is a thing of shadow, his queen, and he watches in idle fascination as she sets about weaving it to further her own goals.
Talia is grace and he is brutality and together they are a whole.
She paints herself as a beautiful young socialite, idealist and charismatic and it surprise no one when the elite of Gotham welcome her into their flock. The deception comes to her naturally and those smiles of disgust, sneering indifference, are interpreted as innocence, loveliness. She rises through their ranks with an almost comical ease, knowingly transforms herself into everything her father fought against to further his goals.
She will watch Gotham burn; if she must play a hypocrite to facilitate this she will do so.
He becomes the mercenary Bane. He has not had a name for many years, smiles when this one is uttered in terror, whispered for fear that he might be summoned. For her cause, he is transformed into something almost supernatural and finds the role suits him perfectly well. He is a monster, yes, but wields the same charm she so favors just as effortlessly. Over the years, he builds her an army, loyal to death and beyond.
For obvious reasons, they cannot meet during this time. With her every move under careful scrutiny, she cannot even call. For the first time in years, they are apart.
But together they are a whole and no distance will change that. They both play their roles to perfection, confident in the knowledge they will be reunited sooner rather than later.
She does not appear to recognize him when they next meet, looks intimidated, surprised, those masks steeled once more.
Miranda fears him as he leads her and the others from the boardroom.
The fire in her eyes though, that is the woman he knows. Talia follows with no small amount of pride, welcoming him back, welcoming him home.
They are together again and they will fulfill her father's work.
They are whole again and nothing, not the Batman, not this city, will stop them.