The Queen is Crowned
"And to all you lights that help me through the dark… My greatest fear is losing your spark." – Forevermore by Xandria
"Tell me about your childhood."
The question lingered in the air like dust as it was processed. It was even as annoying as dust, a nuisance you could wipe away before it would come back, and slowly too. So slowly where you could see just the slightest hint of a misty cloud beginning to form until all of a sudden, much like the repressed traumas of youth, it shrouded the original object until all you could see, tragically, was filthy dust. He focused on the imagery of it, thought it fitting. Then grew upset with himself when he looked back up at her, that concerned expression on her face that told him he was taking too long to answer her. It was better for his body to sit still, to sit comfortably and try not to move. Anything else – and even sitting at a certain point – was far too painful. It was pointless to try to hide it now. Giving her his attention because it was practically her job, he took a deep breath before he spoke. A very apprehensive breath because of the ache in his ribs and the scream in his muscles.
"I find it a curious thing that you people are always so riveted by the early years."
"I think if more of the world knew how important those early years are in a life, then it wouldn't be such a hot topic of interest."
The scars were burning from his temperature, he could feel every one of them. He knew how he looked, like he would drop dead at any moment like a butterfly with sullied wings. Yet he knew this was the one time when he could let it show just a little bit more. At least he was given this one reprieve. "And do your kind know what it would truly take to give a child a perfect life where it would not grow with various insecurities? Or are such children humble myths?"
She sat back in her chair, a hard and uncomfortable one, and considered his question. When in work mode, she could speak about such subjects and not allow it to affect her. "I guess… a healthy amount of undivided attention and affection, established trust, and frequent carefree fun, not to mention appropriate acts of discipline. There are ways to create a schedule that would be absolutely suitable."
"Do you know of anyone who has applied these methods you speak of?"
Humoring him, she tried to think of someone, anyone, she knew. She could think of not one, but didn't voice it.
"It is a difficult thing," he continued. "If you have not seen a commendable example, then why is this even a topic of discussion? If everyone is given a childhood that is not held to the ideal standards, then we are all standing together amidst the broken. The majority rules out the minority severely."
She lifted a dark brow, eyed him. He was a tough case. Knowing the job, she understood that in some cases it would take a moment or two for her to get to know the patient, but once she could deduce their behavior when it came to her inquiries, then she would move forward in the process. It wasn't so easy with this one. Was he really asking a legitimate question that she would happily give a legitimate answer to, or was he simply avoiding her? After spending some weeks with him, she was going with the latter. "Is there something about your childhood you don't want to discuss with me?"
He smiled, breathed into the steady flow of oxygen attached to his face, replacing something of his he desperately needed. Something that was better and stronger than this unfit replacement. His body felt foreign to him when his face was bare to the world around him. "I think we've established that, if given the chance, I would discuss nothing with you."
"Is there or was there anyone in your life who you did discuss your feelings with?"
His face fell slowly. There was someone, he thought, careful to hide the worry, the fear he experienced when thinking of… her. She could have escaped the bomb. She could have escaped, and was even now so very safe and sound. "There is no one," he lied.
And she could see it. She knew everything about him. His past, his condition, and the woman he'd partnered with to conquer the city. But, as she'd planned for his treatment, it was too early now to bring her up. She felt satisfaction that he couldn't hide. It would only lead to making him better. To making him whole possibly for the first time in his life.
Wasn't that the job? Wasn't that, in the end, something she tried to accomplish for others because she could not do it for herself?
The talk of childhoods could break her. It was lucky for her she got to chat about everyone else's.
She leaned forward in her chair, brushed with the back of her fingers a stray curl that wandered out of the bun at the base of her neck. She had dressed warmly for the cold that morning, had chosen out of her closet a classic navy blue cashmere sweater that she paired with black dress pants and heels. Her professional attire was one thing that separated them. She got to choose from her own wardrobe while he, in constant pain across from her every single week, was forced to wear unflattering scrubs in gray, a stark white back brace around his middle, and ice packs that were quickly becoming a part of his look because of his hot temperature due to inflammation. She'd tried to make him comfortable around her. Maybe she was only pushing him further away. She realized she was thinking too long on the matter when he suddenly interrupted her thoughts.
"Your hair is unruly."
She eyed him again. Everything he said during their sessions was important. Even mundane comments on her hair, although it did surprise her some. "Have you taken an interest in my hair?"
"Please don't assume I've purposely made an inappropriate statement to rile you. I think another thing we've established, since I must speak to you due to the terms of our agreement, is that I am unlike this asylum's favored patient when it comes to the female medical staff." He looked away with slight anger. He knew he had to watch his tongue around this woman lest she clamber all over him with evaluation or personal opinions on his words. His time with her was only for entertainment until he would leave. Until he would no longer suffer in this agonizing pain.
"I wasn't assuming anything," she told him, placing her hands on the table top to show him she wasn't a threat. Such a thing was vital for treatment. "Because you're right, we've established some things, and I'm fully aware of what they are. I was only making light conversation since we're apparently taking a temporary break from your childhood. Why do you say my hair is unruly?"
"Because it is. Because, no matter how hard you try to contain it, it escapes the confines and does as it pleases. It is more… at peace when left down your back."
It was hard not to reach up and touch her hair, that slight nervous gesture women did without even thinking of it. A gesture that could tell so much. Had she worn her hair down regularly when meeting with him? Enough for him to notice such a thing? "It's amusing for you to make that comment. Considering you have none yourself."
"It is of a different caliber when growing from a woman's head."
Her eyes studied him. He looked tired and rundown, suffering in the chair in pain she could only dream of. The whites of his eyes were red and his cheeks were growing more hollowed by the week. She feared for his health as the professional, but could only go so far in his treatment. How much longer until he wasn't able to make it to the session room? They were distant thoughts in her head. Right now, she could only look at him and try to repair the damage. "Do you like my hair?" she asked slowly.
He kept his eyes away but could still see in his peripheral the vibrant color of her curls. And, to his enjoyment, that unruliness. Somewhere inside her body was a woman much like the hair growing on her head. A woman in desperate need to escape the confines she tried to force, wanting only a little freedom. "I suppose this turn of conversation proves how uneventful and pointless these sessions are, Doctor."
"You won't talk to me about your childhood. What else am I supposed to talk to you about? You keep steering the conversation in so many different directions, and when I finally stick with one, you take me for another loop. I'm starting to feel dizzy from the ride."
He lifted a brow, took one of the ice packs and placed it on his chest under his throat. "You don't like the ride?"
"I like staying the course," she told him, lifting her pencil over her notes so she could get something out of today's valued time. "I like finding a suitable route and keeping to it until I get to the desired destination."
He smiled softly. "Yes, I can see that. You know where you want to go, don't you?"
"Yes." She knew the destination, and it was quite simple for her. Anywhere was better than where she'd been, where she'd come from. Anything was better than the route already travelled. On those roads, there was no pretty scenery. There was only despair and heartache, loneliness and sorrow. And so much blood. Once upon a time, she would've given anything to see the lush trees and blooming flowers through the window.
"Very well, then," he sighed. "My childhood, at times, is even a mystery to me. Now, we can carry out all of your stored exercises that would help me uncover such repression, and we can discuss it every hour until one of us dies. A better option for both of us would be to simply agree that my early years involved none of the criteria you stated earlier. A perfect life is almost nonexistent, as is my childhood."
She wrote his answer in shorthand on a yellow pad even as she held his gaze. "Because you've always been a man?"
His throat bobbed some as he swallowed, as the pain slithered up his damaged spine like a snake spreading poison. His concealed hand underneath the table was shuddering ever so slightly from the agony. At this point, he would sell his soul for only one breath of drugs. "It is all I know," he murmured.
She watched him for a moment in silence, but if you listened hard enough, you could hear the soft whisper of a hiss from the oxygen travelling into his airway. Something happened to her then while assessing him, something unexpected and possibly the worst thing that could occur. She felt a disconnect of the tragic kind. It came within a spilt second, stayed for the same amount of time before she righted it. She was a master at connecting to the goal, had forced the trait on herself so that she wouldn't fall into old habits, so that she would not feel the need, hear the crying of her skin. She wanted to be the professional and ignore her true self. She didn't want to feel anything other than who she was when here, in this place. She most certainly didn't want to feel the bits of herself that had been ripped open along her arms. But for a moment, for that spilt second, she felt it all. Felt the truth of his words that he only knew so much, and stuck to it.
There used to be only one thing she knew as well. Long ago, there was only one fate.
Maybe his pain wasn't something she could only dream of. Maybe she'd felt it too, but a little differently.
Quickly, and to help snap herself back to who she needed to be, she rubbed her lips together, tasted the paint on them and felt better, felt safer. Felt strong and concealed from the world. Almost like the paint could be armor, and protect her from her own descents. A veil that could keep her hidden.
His eyes had stayed on her mouth until she broke the silence.
"I'm sorry you didn't get that perfect life. Every child deserves one."
Her words held sorrow, a sorrow so masked it was almost unseen. He saw it. "Every child?" he asked almost cheerfully. Not every child was given such grace. "Were you well taken care of as a little girl, Doctor? Were you given affection?"
He said he stood with the majority that had been left without. He said most were there, standing with him. She'd taught herself that if she believed hard enough she could leave them and join with the minority. She would end the session now and give him his pill. And she would hope that he survived his pain another week so that she could possibly, and unknowingly, teach him her tricks.
She lifted her hand again and touched her hair.
"Yes," she lied.
Another of the simple truths of the majority and the minority was that, when reaching the breaking point, one always left while the other stayed behind to dwell, to suffer. To die. The answer as to which one was which was often blurred, often changed. But one thing known for certain was that anyone, everyone, always wanted to be in the group that was given the chance to leave. Some did it while the others had to stay behind. Such a leap took bravery, sacrifice, the knowledge of knowing that if you were to create something new out of the once pathetic mass of flesh and blood you'd once been, then you would have to be willing to feel a little pain.
But never was there regret. The ones who left did so knowing they could very well die in the process. It made them happy to know they could learn to feel again.
And as the moon shone above in the clear sky of India, as her house stood tall and great all alone somewhere deep in the dark mountains where their operations and their lives could not be bothered, Camille Lane decided that all the pain felt during the years had been well worth the new creation she'd become.
It was late now but she wasn't sleepy. One of her favorite times was at night when her house was quiet, when she felt like the only one awake in the world and had free reign to do as she pleased without eyes watching her. The sun was gone and she could finally enjoy the outdoors, doing so now with the windows open and the warm Indian breeze blowing through sheer curtains and circulating in the bedroom. The space was large and open and uncluttered on the third story, the bed low and big and topped with sheets the color of perfect cream. As she enjoyed the breeze and that sweet silence, she sat in a chair right by the window to feel the most of it, her hands busy as she filed her red, almond-shaped nails. Even during relaxation, she enjoyed having a task. The breeze picked up again, ruffled the long skirt of her black dress. Another thing she'd always enjoyed was the very female way a woman could dress. The thick black straps hung on the ends of her shoulders, the neckline dipping low and the moonlight illuminating her very pale skin. A black curl brushed over her eyes as dark as the night sky. She blew it away with a mouth painted blood red as she continued to file her nails.
It used to be she strived to cover most of her skin. Or more importantly, the flesh-colored scars along her body, the greatest bunch along the inside of her forearms where blades had once kissed her and given the affection denied to her. She'd once tried to keep them a secret, one that had only caused her more pain.
Now… her self-harm was exposed when she could handle it, when she wouldn't be triggered by it. What was done could not be changed. She'd learned to live by that rule for her own sanity. Even learned to accept the scarred ruin of one of her shoulders from the harsh burst of fire.
Camille moved the file expertly, flicked her nails to inspect her progress. At the sound of a noise her eyes lifted up, used that same inspection on the room around her. She knew the sounds of her home, knew it creaked and clicked when settling in the night. But that one sounded a little unlike what she was used to. Her senses had been trained with the coaching of the League of Shadows in this very country, and while she no longer used her skills as she had in the past, they were still there, buried under her scarred skin and lingering there until needed.
Her senses told her that someone was in her house.
She sat the file down on a nearby end table, stood from the chair on bare feet, the skirt of her dress flittering down over her toes. Lifting a dark brow, she padded over to the door, the unfamiliar noise happening again as she grew closer. No one was supposed to be in her home at such a late hour. She grabbed the doorknob, pushed it open and inspected right outside the door. Nothing. Just her very quiet, very darkened house. She quickly closed the door again, locked it tight. A big gust of wind blew into the room like the howl of a wolf, blowing up her hair from the nape of her neck. She spun around.
Camille's gasping scream was hushed by the large hand slapping over her mouth.
A shocked, frightened yelp flew past her lips, muffled now from the hand silencing her as she was roughly pushed against the door. The other hand of her shadowed attacker grabbed her neck, locked her in place. Panic had skidded up her spine for a brief moment upon impact, taking her breath. Milliseconds after that, anger replaced it. Comforting anger that rose within her to give her strength, to fight, to defend, to rip to shreds anything that would harm her or hers. She grabbed the forearm of her attacker, sunk her nails in deep she'd purposely pointed.
"Please, leave a mark."
The taunting voice in the dark made her glare, made her growl against the hand in frustration when she couldn't budge him away. He was large and he was heavy, but not an opponent she hadn't squared off against in the past. The hand around her neck squeezed some, a move meant to rile her, tease her. The soft, breathless laugh paired with it made her want to silence it.
And she did when she maneuvered her mouth open under the hand, and bite his palm hard enough to break skin.
Without seconds to spare, Camille quickly jabbed at the elbow joint, hitting the nerve that would very temporary make the hand tingle. With time given now, she reached high and grabbed the back of his neck, twisted him away and off her, replacing their positions so she could flee and find a better stand against him.
His hand was quicker than her feet. It zipped through the air like the howling wind around them, snatched her billowing black curls and yanked her against him.
"I don't like it when you run."
Before she could reply, Camille found herself face down on the bed, her cheek sinking into the fluffy cream comforter and her hair now a leash for her opponent. She blinked at her position, wondered if she had gone slow or the other was simply too fast. There were many options for her to use now against him, but each and every one was quickly squashed when he climbed onto the bed above her, holding her down by her hair and placing one shin on the backs of her thighs to keep them in place. She remained still when he sunk in a little too hard for comfort.
"Don't struggle."
She groaned darkly.
"You try to scurry away, yet I have you exactly where I want you. And look," he muttered sickeningly sweetly, dragging his fingertips down her back. "You are dressed perfectly for me." She could practically feel the places his eyes were on, a sizzling sensation bubbling under her skin starting from her shoulder blades, down her waist, and to her legs. She felt those fingertips on her hip now, travelling over the curve before moving down the skirt of her dress. "I like this," he whispered to her, feeling the texture of the black fabric like he were inspecting something valuable. "I have decided not to rip it in half down your middle."
Camille's eyes fluttered and remained exceptionally alert when he began pulling her dress up, doing so slowly so she could feel the skirt slithering up the backs of her legs, a slow, sensual feeling that would let her know what was coming to her. She didn't want to be defeated, and maybe if she were still feeling a little scrappier, she would have tried to make more of an effort to get him off her. Instead, she didn't move when her bottom and hips became exposed. He felt the compliance in her body underneath him.
He grinned. "Have you submitted to me, my darling? That is pleasing," he said, his eyes going to her lacy panties, his leg moving lower and onto her calves now. The hand in her hair went to the middle of her back, moving slowly like he was petting her affectionately. The back of her dress dipped low like the front, his palm resting on milky white skin. The probing fingers of his other hand went between her thighs, touching her crotch before moving up and onto her ass. Without taking his eyes off her panties, he asked, "If I release you, will you remain still?"
"Get off," she mumbled against the comforter.
"I suppose that is a no, then?"
He was too much for her. Tonight, he was too much. She annoyed herself for being caught off guard this way, and very much defeated. This wasn't how this was supposed to go and she had failed, failed miserably because his hands were hot on her skin, warming her body, a body betraying her. Even as she would curse him, her lower half arched up from the bed like a purring cat, his petting hand heavy on her, holding her down. Feeling so very, very good. "Get off of me," she growled.
The grin on his face remained, that breathless laugh whispering through the air again and making her shiver. One of his fingers strayed away from the rest, ghosting along between her legs where her entrance was steadily warming and wetting. The moment of arousing her was short lived as he pulled his hand back and slapped the cheek of her ass, a little squeak coming out of her mouth. "Now I will have to be rough with you," he muttered regrettably, watching as her paleness turned pink from his hand. He approved. "Your skin is lovely."
Camille's breath grew heavier as she lifted her head from the mattress. It quickly became a pant when he yanked her panties forcibly down her legs and pulled her up onto her knees, wrapping one massive arm around her middle so she wouldn't be able to struggle. She heard the sounds of his pants becoming undone behind her, his big knees on either side of her thighs like a cage, keeping her legs together instead of apart. He wanted her impossibly tight. The dress's skirt was hiked up to her waist, her pelvis tilted and his erection demanding.
When he shoved his hard cock inside her, she couldn't stop the moan.
Metal dug into the top of the burn scar on her shoulder, hurting her and claiming her. He kept her back against his front, barely separated their bodies to thrust. Black curls were in her face, her attempts to blow them away becoming useless when he would move her, touch her, grabbing the front of her neck again as the other hand pulled down one strap of her dress to cup her bare breast. She gasped when he bucked into her, an animalistic groan coming from him and sending her ears buzzing when he began fucking her fast, making her pant every time her body surged forward from the mass of him. She was wet and able to take his size, compliant and able to take his strength.
Her yielding body quickly became defiant when his demanding fingers reached up and began touching her painted mouth.
"Stop," she breathed, squealing a little and trying to bat his hands away from the red on her lips, but he only restrained her when he crashed his hips against her, sending her forward onto her hands and knees before he went right back to pumping away like some entitled master of the universe. Her lipstick was smeared now, almost wiped away completely and staining the pale skin around her mouth. She hissed in anger, then in pleasure when he rode her perfectly.
His hands grabbed her hips, his own slapping against her. Her careless moaning was making his head go dizzy, her body driving him up, up, so high, higher than the drugs could bring him. He could feel strands of her curls against him, wanted nothing more than to bury his face, his hands into them and become lost. The wind whipped the curtains, breezed along her body until her dress ruffled around him as if the wind had been painted black.
"You are in my head when I sleep," he growled, and like her, it was mixed with anger and pleasure. His hands were no longer hard and rough, demanding and without mercy. Now, they touched her like she were a jewel, like she was the drug and he needed her to live without pain.
He stopped to catch his breath, and when he did, when she could be given a moment to find her own head and understand his words, Camille tuned her head to see him behind her, her late night attacker she'd tried to fight off. Her face changed then, fell into something soft and lovely, her black eyes lighting up when she finally looked at him without the intention of going hand to hand, without the act.
Camille smiled at Bane when his green eyes met hers.
Knowing the ruse was over and that she had failed in his last minute decision of testing her self-defense skills, Bane waited to continue as she came back onto her knees, her arm reaching behind and caressing his masked cheek, the mechanism hissing hard now from pleasure and a racing heart. With their bodies still joined for sex, she kissed his cheekbone, his temple, his scarred eyebrow. When her lips found his jaw and then his neck, Bane let out a loud, relaxed exhale, his head falling down some behind her and almost buried in her neck and the crook of her shoulder. His left hand travelled up her side as her kissing continued, paired with little swipes of her tongue, up onto her arm around him and over her scars until he reached her hand. A very soft click was heard as rings touched.
His wife enjoyed it when he would be rough with her, especially when it was out of the blue and especially after he'd had to leave her for an allotted amount of time for his work, gone for days until he'd returned tonight. He deemed his advances a job well done now that she was in a rumpled dress, half of it hanging off of her and exposing a breast, her precious mouth paint wiped off and smeared.
Bane knew she truly hadn't enjoyed that last trick, but he hadn't been able to help himself.
He groaned softly when her mouth opened against his neck and her teeth bit him, leaving a faint blood red trail from the paint.
Bane brushed her hair away from her face so he could see her, wrapped his arms around her in what could've been a bear hug to crush her, and resumed his thrusting. He got her panting again, took her firmly enough that his pants fell down his hips and her dress rubbed against his pelvis. He kept them cheek to cheek or forehead to forehead, breath to breath when he made sweet gasps ease past those lovely, pouty lips of hers. She hummed against him, her core throbbing wet, her body crying out for orgasm. Like this, as only Bane and Camille, he could have her fully.
The sound she made when she came was a mix between a gasp and a cry, her sweet sounds merging with his guttural ones against her shoulder when he followed her into release. Her limbs went lax as his cock twitched inside her, as the slight perspiration from him made her skin feel cool. She smiled again from satisfaction, waited until he pulled out of her before she dropped her back onto the bed, her black hair spread out like angel wings. Bane, not caring about tucking himself away and instead, shed his clothing altogether, crawled up to her like a tiger, his green eyes gleaming.
"What became of my vixen?" he asked, his voice heavy and deep from faint arousal and his head tilting down at her as he loomed above.
She was not amused. "I wasn't expecting you home tonight."
"You weren't expecting me? Darling, you have shadows under your eyes from your inability to sleep if I am not beside you."
Camille lifted a hand to her cheek, almost as if she could feel the shadows with her fingertips. Ever since Gotham City, sleep had become an even more difficult task. Restlessness had always been a part of her, something she adhered to and apparently so had her husband. But after her kidnapping, the second one which had involved her mother, sleep was almost impossible if her bedmate was not within reaching distance. Bane tried not to leave her too often, but her own work, work that involved caring for his pain physically in the form of creating his analgesics and scoping out other methods of suitable drugs, had kept her home for his trip. A few hours of slumber here and there could never measure up to the coma she would fall into when he returned.
Any moment now she would fall off. He could tell. Bane also hoped that sleeplessness was the reason for her failure tonight. Amusement in his eyes turned to seriousness as he stared down at her. "You were not an impressive opponent tonight when I attacked you."
"I was working up to punching you in the face," she replied dryly, wiping the lingering traces of paint from her mouth, the scar through her bottom lip and some of her chin more visible. "You know I don't like that. This stuff stains."
"I will not have you unable to defend yourself, Camille."
"I can defend myself. It was just you."
"But what if it is not?"
Her gaze softened again, the shadows easing away now that he was focusing on her eyes instead of what was around them. Camille had given up trying to be a part of the army a long time ago. It wasn't her true role to play when living in this exotic world of mercenaries, when marrying the man who'd originally kidnapped her. All she wanted to do was continue her work since the day she'd signed her name on the papers that had given her Bane as a patient for psychiatric care. She wanted to tend to him, and now, finally, she wanted to tend to herself too. She was content with this life.
It seemed that now when concerning them, one didn't come without the other.
"I still remember everything you taught me," she told him, reminding him that after the lives they'd led before and after each other, it would take a lot to snuff her out completely. Something big, something demonic. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."
His eyes stared blankly. Instantly she regretted her words because she knew the outcome of them, knew the thoughts on his mind. Camille turned her head away when his gaze dropped onto her chest and the little bandage poking out from beneath her dress strap. Right above her breast was a still healing cut. His hand pulled the strap down, joining the other one hanging off her. His fingers swiped over the bandage lightly.
"That was a mistake," she said softly, almost under her breath.
"It is still here."
"What do you want me to say?"
Many matched this cut on her body. When, he asked himself, would it be a strange thing to find an unmarked spot of pale skin? How many years until her body matched his? In this area, he didn't want them to be the same at all. "You cannot truly stop."
Camille almost replied with, "Don't say that," but she knew it wasn't true at all, knew that that wasn't Dr. Lane speaking, the rational part of her that understood the complexities of her life. She had to fight herself not to go back to that little girl inside her who barely carried on without comfort and could only find a small trace of it with a blade on her skin. But this new cut truly had been an accident. One of Bane's men had assisted Camille when more supplies had arrived that would create Bane's medication. Inattentively, he'd only half listened to her instructions on how to handle certain ingredients and to be weary of other drugs placed in certain spots in her office, and that Bane's things were to be placed separately. The man had ended up riffling through everything out of misplaced curiosity, and had disturbed the placement of her organization by carelessly grouping some of Bane's medications with average, simple over the counter pills. And during one miserable headache, Camille had accidentally taken one of Bane's powerful tablets that had no business being in her system. She had gone delirious and light-headed, temporarily out of her mind as the drug gave her a high that had resulted in her happily taking a fork to her chest in the kitchen. Bane had found her before the sharps ends could sink in again, gently fighting her as she feverishly opposed him before tossing her into bed and forcibly holding her in a bear hug until the high wore off and she'd passed out.
The next morning through queasiness, Camille could remember the faint sounds of a man crying outside as Bane beat him to death for such incompetence.
Bane had asked her why she would continue to cut herself, even after such an accident. If she was truly healed from it, if she never did it in her regular day to day, then why was it still a part of her after all this time? Camille knew the reason. She didn't like knowing it, didn't care for the truth of it. But truth was still truth.
"It's like… being an alcoholic," she'd admitted to him that morning as he changed the bandage above her breast, right over her beating heart. "Every day is a struggle and all days past without a cut is a victory. I can feel my skin crying sometimes. I can feel the need, remember the comfort it once gave to clean the blood, want it again. But… there are better needs now," she'd murmured, her fingers touching his wrist and lightly rubbing his skin. There were better comforts. "Maybe it doesn't truly go away, that desire. And mistakes in life are never-ending." Camille watched his face, his angry, annoyed face that this had happened again, that after every time, he would convince himself it would be the last. Foolish thinking on his part, they both knew, but at least he was still cleaning her up. She waited to continue until he met her gaze, and gave him a little smile. "People usually trade one addiction for another."
Bane had simply brought the hissing mask down to her chest, and stayed that way as her arms held him against her.
"There aren't any cuts tonight," Camille said now for reassurance as she lay beneath him in her dress, trying her hardest not to like the very faint pang under the bandage his touch was creating. But she also didn't tell him to stop. Another never-ending mistake, she told herself. "If I really need to keep someone from hurting me, then I can."
"Perhaps I should train you again. I will strengthen what you are now lacking."
"There's no need. I'm tired," she told him, her eyes growing more shadowed by the minute, her limbs growing heavy now that she was surrounded by his presence. She wanted to sleep, knew that she could but he'd been gone. She wanted to just look at him for a little while longer. "You're here, so I'm tired. This bed is really big all alone." She offered him a small sleepy smile. "I missed you." Camille knew she could release the worry within him. Her hand lifted so she could touch his face, dragging the tips of her fingers over his eyebrow and caressing his cheek, a soft, simple gesture meant to soothe.
Bane listened to the tiny sound of the ring around her fourth finger as it grazed over the metal of the mask. The small, almost mundane symbol hadn't been something necessary for them after the spoken vows, and in all honestly when considering his line of work as an army of hired guns, it was impractical and, in certain circumstances, even dangerous. But shortly after Bane had threatened a priest into marrying them, rings the color of dark gun metal silver had ended up around their fingers. Just ordinary bands, hers even without such adornments like a diamond, his only a little thicker and just as plain.
Two years later, those rings were still in place.
"This conversation will continue," he warned her through her affections.
"Don't ruin the wind. It feels good."
Bane rolled onto his back next to her, perfectly content lying naked on top of the sheets. One arm went under his head. In the corner of his vision, he saw Camille lift her hand and press into the cut on her chest. Always in recovery, he thought, hearing Dr. Lane's voice in his head and what she'd told him about struggle. "I'm not able to trade my addiction," he commented quietly, breathing in the drugs she made for him, the drugs he couldn't live without.
Her voice was like the wind, soft and soothing, drifting through the air like a spirit. Something sleepy. "One half of addiction is mental. At least there's that one half."
His eyes stayed on the drifting curtains ahead, watched as they danced in the air from the wind Camille thought felt good, the warm wind. The image was almost hypnotizing, the way an unseen force moved solid objects. The thing about being one half of a person was that another half made a whole.
Completion was everything.
A while went by as the wind continued its dance. When Bane finally looked over at her, Camille's eyes were closed and her bare chest contently moving up and down. Her smeared, stained mouth was slightly open, her easy breathing sounding like the calm breeze. Bane waited for it, waited until she was in deep sleep before she would begin to move. Almost like she was reanimated, Camille sat up some in sleep, fought with the dress still hanging off her. Her body hated clothes in the depths of slumber. With an annoyed frown and a whimper on her lips, she tried to shimmy out of it.
"I can't…" she whispered sadly.
Bane finally took pity on her and peeled the dress off, her limbs dropping like the dead the more naked she became. He pulled the sheets over their bodies, knew she would kick them off eventually in her restlessness.
His hand went into her curls, and her arm clutched at him tightly.
Their very dangerous, almost ancient town of India could be used to his advantage. Bane had once told Camille that the law in this particular part of the country was whatever those powerful enough made it to be, and when hearing talk of the army who'd once held the great Gotham City under siege, the group who had seemingly died a thousand times and remained like a horde of the walking dead, he felt pride that most likely it was him and his men who held the control. Not the League of Shadows, as that had been disbanded a long time ago, and not the warlord's he used to serve. It was his army that ruled with fear without ever being seen, without walking the streets like vanquishers and causing revolution once again. The ghost of his army, the simple talk and the jobs of employment being completed without complications, was enough for Bane. They were hired and they would do the job, take the money before moving on. It was how he'd lived after his excommunication and the work had been pleasing.
Although Bane didn't participate in the missions as he used to due to past injury and regular exhaustion, he did find that producing, finalizing, and delegating the workload was just as rewarding as the work itself had been before the League had found him again for his services in Gotham.
Before Talia had found him again, and set into motion all that he had now.
On some strange plain of existence where the living could speak to the dead, maybe, just maybe, he would thank her for ruining him in the first place.
"What is your purpose for a stolen armory?"
Bane kept his gaze focused even as he answered Barsad in plain English, the language foreign in these parts. "My purpose is so that the competition will not have it for themselves."
Barsad didn't care, barely questioned Bane's motives. He'd questioned him once, and that mistake had put him on a road straight to Hell. Now Bane was married to that big question, and Barsad had been left feeling like a fool. After two years returning to base in India, after Bane had almost died from multiple gunshot wounds, Barsad questioned not one thing. "This will make our boys very happy. The act of taking our rival's guns is dangerous, but it will make them happy."
"You will be traveling to Paris by the end of the month for an assignment. I will not have you departing ill equipped."
Stealing firearms in plain sight was a task not to fret over. They'd got word that a load of property was to be picked up and traded within the town about a three hour's drive away, and because they could do so effortlessly, Bane had decided to intercept and take it for his own. It somehow was even more perfect that the theft would happen in the middle of the day, the sun shining overhead as the town bustled around them, completely unaware that the stories of the ones who terrorized were right within the crowds. Off to the sidelines where less people were, speaking in all languages he could understand, Bane watched as his men began unloading the crates from the unsuspecting sellers before placing them within their own vehicles. Inside those crates was an arsenal he would gladly collect. If the original buyers happened to discover who had taken their packages, then they would all be eradicated if they were to make a threat.
Bane wasted no time caring about such trivialities. He wanted the guns, so he would take them.
"Is the doctor around?" Barsad asked, leaning against a vender whose owner remained fearfully silent as he tried to make a sale to others hustling past.
"Camille is occupied. She is working with Zaid."
Barsad lifted a brow while crossing his arms. His eyes, like Bane's, remained focused on the transfer some seventy feet away. "You are a confident man, allowing such infatuation around your wife."
Zaid, Bane's man of technology and a loyal one who had been with him since Gotham, had become amusingly enchanted by Camille. She never saw it, had been oblivious to it when Bane had first mentioned it to her, yet it bothered neither of them if Zaid continued to be respectful to him and his woman. The last man who'd wrongly harmed her by tampering with pills was now dead in the ground. "Fidelity is never doubted. Zaid wishes to assist her and if he effectively tortures himself with that decision, then so be it." Bane tugged a little at the scarf concealing his face, wrapped efficiently around so that the mask would be hidden from the public. He could not do business here if there was to be an uproar from his presence. What Zaid was doing with Camille was something even the young man was kept from.
About a year ago, they'd discovered that, through the underground of drugs and other supplements to be abused, there was a new pill on the market that supposedly helped with chronic pain. Of course, the public never used it for pain, consumed it instead for the delicious high it would bring that could last for hours on end. The street name for it was Lumenis, and in Bane and Camille's discovery from the contact they worked with who helped supply everything needed for Bane's analgesics, they found it was a little golden pill created similarly to the golden syringes once given to them by Pamela Isley of Gotham City. Apparently the idea of the injectable she'd given to Bane had somehow wandered overseas and became the inspiration for such a drug. The average user would swallow it, ride a high so great that it could cause blackouts in memory before succumbing to a coma-like sleep that could last for any number of hours. It received its name from its glimmering, luminescent appearance. Bane had been given some through his contact, after which Camille had tested the pills like the world depended on her findings.
In the end, those little golden tablets proved worthy of their attention.
Bane wasn't able to take them very often, only occasionally when the need struck him to be without pain and the mask for a couple of hours. His body, unlike the average man and so prone to high amounts of medication, could handle the drug without experiencing the same kind of high and the blackouts. The downside was that he couldn't take it as often as he would like, and the only side effect was that the same coma-like sleep affected him as it would any other. He would need to sleep for hours on end after his time without pain, hardly moving an inch because of the intensity the pill would cause. So far, his dead sleep caused no worry. His body simply needed time to recover, rejuvenating itself after the pills.
Camille never left his side during these times of sleep. Nothing was able to wake him once his eyes closed until the drug would leave his system.
Another reason why he didn't take it very often, and why only Bane, Camille, and Barsad knew of its existence within the army.
The Lumenis drug was an alternative to the mask, something he never thought would be possible even as times advanced. But the cost of it was great.
Camille was at home procuring the finalization of more pills for him.
"All is secure," Barsad told him after receiving the nod of completion. Before they would leave with their new supply, he casually glanced down at the vender to inspect what he was selling. "Fresh meat would be nice."
"Don't return to my home if you are not willing to share," Bane commented.
Barsad simply waved him off, preparing to graciously be given his chosen meat without payment. Judging by the seller's weary expression of him, it would go without a hitch.
Confident that the scarf was secure, Bane began pushing his way through the crowds so that he and his men could regroup for their leave back to base. There was more work to be done before the sun would set. He had calls to return to past employers on the secure landline within his house, not to mention he had to see to the unloading of their new valuables. Future work had to be confirmed and the schedule made, including transportation. He ran it all in his mind as he ignored the calls of those around him, the needy demand of the poor pleading with everyone within close radius to buy from them. Someone nearby was being harshly scolded deep inside the alley. In these parts, people didn't care about the dangerous and illegal happenings going on around them. It was as normal as the sun rising in the mornings or a man bleeding by the trash. Bane, being so large and tall, was always given a clearing when he moved, an air of authority and danger something the crowds could feel or smell. He was just breaking the middle of the more congested flood of people.
And then he stopped. Stopped dead in his tracks.
His jaw clenched hard and his eyes went wide and flat, his hands instantly fisting and his heart beginning to race. Suddenly the scarf around him felt like the tightest constriction, squeezing him to stop the flow of blood as his temperature rose, sweat beading like raindrops on the back of his neck. The hustle of the crowd around him silenced to a deadly ringing, the hiss of the mask growing louder until his ear drums would explode from the sound. The mask was now tighter than the scarf, killing him, suffocating him. So very… there. Deep inside his mind and memory he could hear the chants of prisoned men, the screams of a young lady he used to know before she'd been taken to the dark to die. He could smell the rot of prison, could feel his stomach revolting from it. And the sun was suddenly way too bright.
So far ahead of him, on the other side of the mass of people, was a woman. The coat around her was heavy and fell to her ankles, deep forest green and bringing out the brown of the one strand of hair peeking out from the confines of the hood over her head. She was turned to him and staring at him. Turned to him, and smiling lovingly.
Bane could feel nothing now. All he did was stare into her bright brown eyes.
Talia.
The woman took the edges of her hood, brought them together until they covered her grinning mouth like she were being playful with him. Only the eyes were left smiling at him now. Smiling because she was telling him she knew him. Smiling like an old friend. Like a secret now revealed.
Like a dead woman who'd been returned to her very living body.
When she disappeared into the crowds, Bane was still standing there, almost raw from shock. As the seconds ticked by, his hearing slowly returned, the ringing easing away until the shouts and laughter of the crowd around him burst to life like a newborn baby. When the tension eased, he refused to feel disoriented. Banished the old memories away as if they were diseased.
Not Talia, he told himself, thinking himself a fool for even believing for a moment that she'd been standing in the throng. Talia was dead and gone, forgotten. And for years now he hadn't been plagued by the memory of her, the visions he used to suffer from when seeing both the woman he'd once loved, and the child he'd once raised. They both had become equal nightmares for him, slayed only by the truth that had been found and brought to light, and his own seeping hatred afterwards. Talia had been nothing to him for so long, a demon he'd had to conquer and vanquish. He had been successful.
Not Talia. It couldn't have been Talia. She was a corpse, a broken mass of rotting flesh somewhere in Gotham's burial grounds. The woman across from him today had only resembled her. Had only resembled a ghost.
But she'd looked at him. Known him.
Bane's brow furrowed and the mask hissed violently as he pushed his way through the remaining people, shoving them so that he could leave this now horrid place. He was reeling with fury by the time he began his travel back to his home.
And he didn't even understand the reason for it.
Hours later, Camille was finishing her work. Very carefully she placed the last of her supplies into marked vials, capping them off before placing them in the overhead cabinets of her office. She would need to have Bane's contact supply her with more of the cocaine she used when generating her husband's medicine. Only one glass tube remained, marked with the appropriate date that it had been put into her hands. She didn't use much of it in the painkillers, only using the small amount that was added from the original formula created by the League of Shadows over twenty years prior. Bane didn't like changes to the mask because one wrong move could result in massive pain for him, so she stuck to it throughout all the years she'd been concocting the analgesics.
She would've liked to move forward with the Lumenis drug, but such things now were impossible.
"Pick up will be in two weeks. I'm guessing you have enough of whatever it is you're trying to get until then?"
Camille answered Zaid with a nod, giving him the task of setting up a date for delivery so that she could finish with Bane's medicine. Taking care of him was a never-ending job, and obviously something you got kidnapped for. She lifted a key and locked the cabinets, the entire row of them.
Zaid scratched at his hair, very curly and poufy hair tied back in a sweatband. His skin had darkened during their time in India, and seemed to be constantly sweaty due to the heat. He hadn't seemed to mind the change in weather from the cold and clammy of dreary Gotham, to the bright and windy mountains of India. "I know I'm not supposed to ask questions about what exactly you're doing. But I'm a man who worries."
With her back turned to him, Camille pocketed the key in her black skinny jeans before pulling the long sleeves of her blue top back down her arms. She ran a hand down her ponytail as she turned to him. "There's nothing to worry about. It's just medicine."
"Medicine for the boss?"
"It's always for the boss."
As she continued to clean up, Zaid kept his dark eyes on her. He didn't know if he looked stupid or obvious. He hoped to God he didn't look like a little boy. But Camille Lane was something nice to look at in an army full of gruff and deadly men. Someone… not gruff and deadly. And of course he was extremely careful not to look at her for any length of time when said boss was around. But Zaid was pretty sure Bane saw everything going by the mix of warning/smug looks he would receive from him.
Camille herself didn't seem to notice a darn thing. She was, quite simply, unaware of his lingering, and longing, glances.
He was extremely thankful for her obliviousness.
"Well, I guess I gotta get back to work. This place doesn't stay off the grid by itself. Unless… you need me for something else."
"I do actually." She lifted a paper and handed him a list of various painkillers, unmindful of his big smile that he could still be useful to her. Zaid was their chief tech man, and could give her answers. "These drugs are what make up the vapor Bane inhales. I need to know if the combination of them is being assembled by dealers and what the street name is."
He obediently took the list, ready for his task. "Why do you need to know this?"
"So I can stay away from the inferior knockoff."
Zaid waved the paper in the air like a trophy. "Let's get to work, then."
It didn't take Zaid long to give her what she wanted. Not that Bane's drug on the street was a terrible thing, but she didn't want the ingredients of it coming from the wrong people. She'd screwed up with his canisters once a very long time ago, and refused to make another mistake. Becoming a widow in her thirties was not allowed in the cards. After she was done with Zaid, Camille realized that the men Bane had taken with him into town had long ago arrived back. She knew he had a lot to tend to but went searching for him anyway. After he'd been gone for days before his late-night return, she had a need to be around him that left her less antsy if she got what she wanted. She found him nowhere on the grounds, nowhere in the training sights, not even with the unloading of the new armory. After searching the whole house and the extensions of it, she finally found him in the master suite where they slept on the third floor.
He was idly standing in front of the windows that looked out to the Indian mountains, his back to her. The armored vest he wore for town had been tossed onto the floor, the dark undershirt that had been beneath it remaining on his body. The scars of past bullet holes were easily visible, little craters of ruined skin here and there all over him. Almost like little evidences that maybe he shouldn't be alive because of them.
Camille tapped her long nails on the door to make him aware of her presence before closing it. "It seems your drugs are being sold now to the public. It started years ago in Gotham, around the time you were in the hospital for surgery after the revolution. I guess someone wanted to make a profit. Zaid can start hacking into the police system and lead them on a trail to get rid of it."
Bane's head moved a little, the only indication he made that he knew she was there, talking to him. He gave her an acknowledged hum of a reply that seemed very lackluster.
"I think you should take another of the Lumenis pill tonight. I want your body to remember it. Maybe you won't sleep as long if we stick to a schedule."
This time he completely ignored her. Camille studied him, studied around him. The curtains, which were usually kept closed during the day due to the sun, were open as he glanced up at the bright sky. The image was odd to her, considering Bane didn't care for the sun either, yet there he stood motionlessly, looking up at the blue as if it were the evening stars that would give him comfort at night.
"Everything alright?"
"Yes."
"Oh," she murmured, still given only his wide back. Absently, she scratched at her burned shoulder. "They're calling your stuff Venom on the street. I think the police came up with that one. They're finding its causing irrational behavior for its users when they try to take them away for questioning, or take away the drug. I guess that's a side effect for someone who hasn't built up some kind of immunity against it like you have." Still nothing. Not a head movement, not even a one word answer like before. Looking down, she saw his hands were fisted enough to cause white knuckles. "Bane?"
"Yes, Camille?" His voice was sharp and annoyed, his face more so when he turned to her in a flash. "Is there anything else?"
She flinched ever so slightly. Not in fear, never in fear. But most definitely in surprise by his actions and tone, his complete indifference to her that was all of a sudden here in their bedroom. Bringing her dark brows together, she knew that he only acted like this when something was consuming his mind, and most definitely not in a good way. "What's wrong? Tell me."
His words were full of disdain, his body seeping with fatigue from what seemed like irritation with her. "It has been five years, Camille. And you still do not understand how much I hate it when you ask me such a question? In ten years will it finally get through to you? I am perfectly fine, and I do not have the time to converse in idle chatter with you. Tending to you takes away from my own work and I must get back to it shortly. I would like to be left alone until then."
They sat in dead silence. Camille decided it would be less shocking to her if he'd tossed her through the window then suddenly snipping at her. It took her a moment to finally reply. "There's something wrong with you. Don't treat me like I'm stupid. You know I hate that."
"If there truly was something wrong, do you not believe I would tell you?"
"No," she answered, her own annoyance beginning to bubble. "No, you wouldn't tell me. That much I know for certain."
He huffed at her. Actually huffed. "I'm trying to find some quiet and you have barged in and disturbed that."
"Thank God I barged in my own room. Otherwise you would be in here feeling miserable by yourself. Something's obviously upset you and you're shutting me out. Again."
"It is not too much to ask of you."
"We made a promise that we would be honest with each other. Do you remember that? But every time you're going through something, I have to beat it out of you. And this is the most pointless fight we've ever had," she sighed, taking a breath and a moment, trying not to get so worked up over something completely unknown to her. One of the things she'd learned in her years with her masked man was that he didn't respond well to an attack when he obviously needed her to protect him from something. Telling her what exactly she would fight was always the difficult part. Camille took a few steps closer to him, not so close to crowd him, but simply letting him know she was there. Even if he was being a jerk out of the blue. "Did something happen in town?" she asked gently, standing to the side and searching his face. His eyes remained distant, as if lost somewhere else. She knew this look. "You and I both know there is very little that upsets you this way."
"And are you going to pry it out of me, Dr. Lane?"
"I think you're agitated about something and very hesitant to tell me what it is."
He was being a foolish man and he knew it. Since his departure from town, Bane hadn't been able to overcome the fury pumping inside like a furnace. It was hard for him to accept the fact that even though he'd gone to hell and back to conquer the demons of the past, he was still, to this day, being afflicted by them. And after such a long break of peace, of unwisely thinking he was done, just the image of Talia al Ghul had sent him reeling into something that was now turning him into the monster her father had named him. Bane didn't want to think that he had returned to the place where he would experience the crippling visions of her because of his guilt and inability to let it go. He also didn't want to worry that strange women could take on her likeness just because it was what he saw in them. Talia had been defeated in his life, in so many different ways since Camille had entered it. If it had not been for his wife, he probably would have suffocated in misplaced despair of losing the woman that had encompassed the first half of his life. Those worries, those damned fears, had given him an anger and agitation that even Camille herself was igniting.
Camille was the worst person to find him this way. Not only because she could figure him out, not only because she knew him better than anyone else. But because just looking at her now was making him feel worse that here was the woman he'd married, and that other woman, the terrible one, was still somehow between them in some way.
Bane couldn't deal with Camille right now. Maybe it was wrong of him and maybe he was acting out in a way that was completely uncalled for, but her mere presence was fanning his flames. He couldn't look at her pretty face and pretend to be okay. He couldn't look at her scarred body, at the blatant sacrifices she'd made for him, and tell her that the likeness of Talia had felt like a bat to the face.
He would conquer this one on his own because right now, it was the only thing that made sense.
Camille needed him to keep a good head on his shoulders when she could not. She wasn't a fragile thing and he could sense her temper building even though she was trying to keep it down for his sake, but if neither of them couldn't keep their own heads above the water, then they weren't even half's making a whole.
They were only little irregular chunks, trying with all might to fuse together to become something somewhat stable.
Bane, with difficulty, turned away from her and headed for the door. "There is no time for this, Camille. I also possess no energy for confrontation."
"So you're just going to walk away?"
"It is your initial response when I hound you, is it not?"
"You're being a jackass. I didn't do anything to you."
His eyes softened just a little and only because she couldn't see when he took the doorknob. For a brief moment, one quick moment when her voice was all that mattered and something that could pull him from the dark, he felt a stab, the stab that came with Camille, the one remaining in him because letting her go was out of the question. During that moment, he wanted to sink into the feel of her, to believe again that everything was fine and all they'd gone through with each other was still successful. He wanted to feel her lips, to taste them.
And then the moment was over, and all he could experience was the incessant pulse of his own rage. Rage that came with unrelenting disappointment in himself.
"I know," he murmured, then closed the door and stayed away from her for the rest of the day.
"Tell me about your pain."
Another week to suffer through, another day to overcome. Another hour spent in lockup and another minute sitting across from black eyes that were so damn interested in him he almost didn't know how to process it. Her inquiries about his childhood had left her unsatisfied after their last session, he knew. Perhaps she figured that during the next one, this one, she would strike gold with asking the right question to which he would exhaustingly offer his reply. A reply that would lead her to a proverbial breakthrough, supplying her with victory and respect. She would have none of that, and everyone around him would continue to believe the false image his actions had produced. The false image that he belonged here, amongst the criminally insane.
Another second of stomaching such a thing.
"Your surgeons were not able to repair the damage done to me," he said.
The pencil twirled through her fingers. "You mean the injuries you sustained during your failed uprising?"
"I assume it is the pain you speak of."
"It's not. I want to know about your original pain. You're obviously withdrawing."
His brows furrowed some. Even as she said the word, he felt the shakes deep in his bones, the sweating in odd places on his skin, and the abdominal cramping that felt like his insides would revolt and expel from his mouth all down his front. But only with her acknowledging his minor problem did he feel it most. Even those symptoms didn't compare to the pain he had stabilized for so long. Pain now racking him and running completely rampant. "If I was returned what belongs to me, I would not be this way."
"That's out of the question. We're giving you alternatives, and I know you don't like them. Quite frankly, I wish I could do more for you. But what you lived with before is no longer available to you here."
"What is available to me here will no doubt be my end. Is that something you wish to carry?"
"Of course not. If you would only work with me, I could make you feel better. I could stop the end for a little bit longer."
The oxygen in his nose wasn't helping him feel like he was breathing normally. The inferior back brace wasn't helping his bones and muscles feel secure. And, of course, the oxycodone she gave him as a reward was useless to him now. Everything they offered, everything they forced on him, was only making his situation worse. But, he reminded himself, it was only for a little while longer. "And how would you do that? Look at me, Doctor. Your methods are proving unsuccessful."
She was looking at him, and she could see his efforts at trying to avoid the topic of his original pain. The reasons for his dependence and his unique appearance before his sentence here, and something he wasn't aware of her knowledge of. She wouldn't push for the answer she already knew or a confession she wanted to hear. Instead, she really would try to keep him alive for as long as she could. To defeat any enemy, including pain, it was wise to enter battle with weapons.
"There are ways to manage your pain without resorting to harmful devices or questionable solutions. For instance, together we can perform some chronic pain control techniques. I think they would benefit you."
He smiled, let out a quick breath that could have been an exhausted laugh. His body was too worn out even for something humorous. "How sweet you are. I apologize if it seems nasty to say, but that is the most absurd idea yet."
"Why?"
"Allow me to be honest with you. I have dabbled in spirituality and meditation. Do you really think that I have not tried all there is to try? There is only one solution for me, and you are keeping me from it."
"I want to coach you through the techniques," she said anyway, placing her pencil down and scooting up to the table, a determined gleam in those black eyes. Gone was her earlier tenderness. Here now was the doctor bent on results. "We'll start right now."
His shining eyes dimmed some, narrowing at her and deepening the dark circles from lack of sleep as he assessed the differences between them. He towered over her, beat her with almost two hundred pounds of solid muscle she didn't have, and spanned beyond her physically in every way. Yet there she sat, blatantly defying him. Ordering him around because right now, she had that power and he was only a prisoner again. One trapped in agony and suffering with a craving. He reminded himself that everything he did here was only done with a purpose. He held onto that as he asked, "What do I receive in return for my compliance?"
"You mean physically? A little white narcotic. The usual arrangement. But psychologically, you might get some relief. What do you have to lose?"
Nothing, he answered mentally, never verbally. There was nothing to lose until he left this abysmal place, leaving all dead and forgotten. That day would come, but until then, he would continue to falsely submit to the system he'd been placed in. He stared into her eyes for a while. Normally, people looking directly at him would have wandering eyes. The ruin of his body was something unavoidable to them, something they had to see for themselves so they could know the monster who'd taken their city. The looks of people were always different but always negative. This woman looked at him like she couldn't see the scars, the injuries, the pain. Little features about him that seemed almost invisible to her.
He wondered why that was.
How could an attractive woman not stare, even unknowingly, at such imperfection? It was a normal human response.
His mind nibbled on a building thought: People didn't stare at something they considered so… unimpressive? So constant?
So… familiar?
Her tapping on the table snapped him out of his thoughts. The action actually caused his back to scream.
"I will humor you," he finally answered after a hitched breath, lifting a hand to scratch at his jaw to distract himself from the fire on his spine. He thought of the bareness of his face instead of a million knives in his back.
She smiled then. It was genuine, the way her petal pink mouth widened. "Okay then." She closed her files, set them aside so that only the white table was between them. The long sleeves of her dark conservative dress were pulled all the way to her knuckles. "Before any pain coping technique, it's best to start with focus and deep breathing for relaxation. You want to be fully aware of what your body is going through. The goal is to release the muscle tension of acknowledging your pain so that you can remove the attention you give it."
He had a need to groan and roll his eyes at her. He then told himself that this wouldn't last long, considering he was already skilled in the ways of relaxing the body and mind. There would be no need for her to feel like they had to practice for him to fully grasp the idea.
"I'm going to dim the lights." She reached for a tiny remote among her supplies, pressed a button on it that put their session room, already equipped for such exercises, in a soft, shadowed light. The tension in his head eased a small fraction. "You can either close your eyes or focus on a specific point if that makes you more comfortable. I won't make a comment about where exactly that is if it'll truly help you relax."
He didn't want to shut his eyes in fear that if he were to find some shred of comfort, he would pass out into oblivion. That would only mean continuing this useless project of hers. Instead, he focused on the only thing worth focusing on in this very boring, very enclosed room. His eyes, unashamed, went to her mouth, and zeroed in on the distinct shape of her smooth pink lips.
When he seemed content with his chosen focal point, she kept her word and said nothing, even though she knew something on herself was that point. The dimmed light and his slightly dilated pupils made it difficult to know for certain where exactly he was staring. She figured as long as it wasn't anywhere obviously inappropriate, then she would allow him to keep his choice.
"Slow down your breathing, as best as you can," she continued, keeping her voice low, studying him carefully at the same time for any reaction, negative or positive. "Breathe through your chest. If it hurts, use your focal point as a distraction from the pain. Think of your point in time with your breathing."
Of course it hurt. Everything hurt and would destroy anyone else, but he did as she asked. He focused on her lips, everything about them because he knew how to play this breathing game possibly better than she did. With his eyes he traced the outline of them, the way her cupid's bow dipped in sharply. He studied the little details, the faint vertical crease in the middle of her bottom lip. Even when she spoke he could retain his focus, years of meditation strengthening that ability. He focused on the pink color of them, a shade so rare to his eyes that it was almost not a color at all. He preferred something darker on her mouth, but this pink was still very feminine, and also so infrequent in his world that he could stare long enough and not lose interest.
She allowed him to continue this for close to three minutes. She felt a tiny shred of admiration that there was nothing to correct, no hints to give because he already seemed mastered in it. It would be continued anyway as part of her treatment. She watched as he slowed down, as his shoulders were eased some from tension, as his wide chest moved in and out instead of rapid and sporadic breathing. His mouth had also relaxed from painfully grimacing. She took his change as a sign to begin the technique she'd chosen to perform with him.
"You're going to disassociate. What I want you to do is imagine your pain as being separate from your body by using only your mind. A good way to do that is to come up with a face for your pain, or make it an object, or it can be as simple as giving it a name. By choosing a name, you can talk to it. You can tell it to calm down, to ease up, and you can even yell at it when your frustrations with pain become too high. When giving your pain a name, it becomes its fault when you can't do something, and not your own. You don't have to share this name with me if you don't want to. But once it's named, once it is given a face and you've become separate, I want you to tell it whatever first comes to your mind. Disassociate from the pain, and take your body back for yourself."
He was humoring her and that's all he was doing. He even feared that if he were to actually disassociate, then nothing would be left of him because the pain was like a limb or an organ. But he did sink deep inside himself, his eyes planted firmly on his focal point, her pink lips, and listened to his mind and what exactly it would say to him in response to her instructions. At first, because he couldn't separate himself, he wondered if the name of his pain was simply his own name. It was a part of him, like his name or his past, the past that had shaped him into what he was today, agony and all. How could a man disassociate with his own self? He couldn't, and for a moment, the sharp fierce pangs of his body became intensified, along with the desperate need to consume any kind of drug that would lesson it. But then something struck him, like the punch of a fist or a slap to the cheek. His pain was named something else. His pain, he realized, was very real, and also came with a face.
A pretty face, a dazzling face, of a woman and also a child. His redemption and his sacrifice, his rise to power and his descent to a lowly prisoner yet again. A shaved head as a little girl, long gorgeous brown locks as a woman. Words as both images, both ages, easing past her lips that said, "Give to me."
His pain had a name. His original pain.
His eyes slightly widened and grew shadowed, his mouth grimaced again and became hopeless. But still he was locked in this focus, in this headspace he should never have entered. He thought of this name, knew it better than his own. And all of a sudden the pain flared to blazing life, thrashing inside him and screaming, bellowing like a wounded animal. His insides were being torn apart and his head was pulsing with tremendous aches, his spine on fire, swallowing the rest of him whole in the flames.
He lost his focal point when she stood abruptly, then his mind was wiped clean as he groaned from bodily torment.
The name became lost, back into the depths of his mind where he continued to cover it with lies like dirt, packing it on securely so that absolutely nothing would ever grow from it and surprise him.
She cursed herself for her bad choice of exercises as soon as he took a turn for the worst. Standing next to him, she covered him with all the ice packs within reach, frantically trying to calm down his temperature and the red rashes that had suddenly broken out on his skin. She cranked up the oxygen, held a cloth to his forehead as he shuddered, as his eyes squeezed shut from torment. After a while he finally calmed down, apparently enduring whatever episode that had consumed him. The mind, especially in a place like this, especially in his condition, was something that could be fragile and easily ruptured. This had not been the time for her experiments to soothe him.
He turned away from her, tended to his pain himself so that she would stop touching him. The migraine now thundering in his head would give him no further energy to continue, and his back was creeping to the point of not being able to hold his body up in the chair. He wanted to get out of this room. He wanted to be away from her. The doctor and her mind games.
But at least it was all forgotten.
"I want to sleep," he muttered, barely. His mouth watering for his drugs.
Helpless now, she simply nodded, standing a foot or so back. "I'll have the guards bring you back to your cell."
She called for them, waited alone with him as they prepared to transfer him back to his appropriate level. Before they would arrive, she leaned down, caught his eyes. His body was tensed beyond belief and his gaze was one of a man desperate to hold on before he would pass out from the pain. Whatever he'd put himself through had caused a riot within him.
"It's going to be okay," she told him.
Again, she lied. He thought maybe he could see it this time.
Lying in bed in the very early hours of morning, Camille stared at the other side of the mattress. The very unrumpled, untouched side.
Bane hadn't come to bed last night and as was normal, she hadn't slept well at all. There had been a few snippets where she'd passed out, but mostly her night had consisted of jerking awake almost violently the deeper she fell into sleep. Either from the lack of bumping into the solid body that usually slept next to her, the cold she felt even through a warm breeze caused by that same lack of body, or nightmares.
She pretty much decided that all her problems while trying to sleep were because Bane had not been in bed with her.
Camille was only wearing a thin tank top under the covers. Everything else had been thrown across the room during her tossing and turning frustrations. She usually didn't have to do that because Bane would undress her, a chore he'd taken upon himself and again, his fault for her fitful night. Years ago, after her mother, a former mobster of Gotham City now deceased, had kidnapped her and tortured her, Camille found that she annoyingly was given aftereffects of such trauma. She had enough traumas to contend with already, but she'd learned to live her life around it before Bane. But after that, after he'd rescued her and brought her back home, she found sleeping without him next to her was a hell all on its own. She needed him for a peaceful night, just as he needed her for everything else, for the easing, in so many different ways, of his pain.
He was in pain now, she told herself, hating that empty spot. But he wouldn't share with her what had triggered him into such an angry state.
His presence had gone unseen the rest of the day after their fight. As the hours ticked on, Camille had tried waiting for him in bed. She planned on giving him whatever he wanted of her when he would walk through the door, and then gently execute her sudden attack. Something had upset him, something big. He would tell her. As she held him and pet him and kissed him, he would be forced to tell her.
But he never showed up.
Camille turned away from staring at the empty spot. She would rather face the wall than the bareness of her own bed. Locks of black curls fell over her face, almost as if her own hair needed her attention, bugging her like an impatient child. Where was he? her hair seemed to ask her, also feeling her husband's absence. There was no one to hold us and now we are lost.
She blew her hair out of her eyes, rubbed her hand back and held it there so they couldn't bounce back over her face. Her hand then tightened in her curls, gripped hard. Just like the way Bane would when he fell asleep.
Sometimes it sucked needing someone so much. Needing someone to the point where you couldn't perform basic tasks such as sleeping because the other was so vital to its success. It sucked even more when both people needed the other with the same intensity. That meant Bane must've suffered too.
Camille closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep again, knowing it would be useless. She continued to grip her hair anyway.
The suffering truly had gone both ways. And because he'd suffered, the rage had yet to leave Bane. In those same early hours of morning, he hiked through the mountains, the mask tight on his face and hissing into the morning breeze. Even with the coolness, there was still a thin line of sweat on his body from climbing, a hopeful distraction so that he could move on from this anger and leave it behind.
It was still there. As constant as his heartbeat.
Camille could learn to sleep without him for another night, he told himself, his boots planting themselves in the mountains as he completed his tenth mile since beginning when the moon had still been in the sky. She never slept restfully anyway, so being unable to tend to her wasn't as big of a problem as both of them made it out to be. He couldn't sleep beside her in this rage. He couldn't feel her curl up next to him like a little kitten and not hate himself for being so affected by a face he probably hadn't even seen. Bane knew he was using Camille as a target because there was no other, lashing out at her for no good reason, so it was why he'd chosen to stay away, to not even think about crawling into bed next to her and sinking his hand into her black hair or probing those pouty lips. Camille wasn't the enemy, so Bane would remain distant until whatever he was going through passed.
When it did, he would return to her and make her forgive him. He would tell her it was stress, a bad reaction to the drugs, or a pain the mask wasn't fighting well. He would take one of the Lumenis pills, use his mouth to distract her from the searching questions. His wife wasn't an easy one to divert because of her former profession, but he would find some way to succeed.
Bane then thought of the woman from town, the woman with the face of Talia al Ghul. A woman who could've been her twin.
The fury swamped him again, and he kicked at part of the mountain, watched as a large chunk fell endless feet to the ground. He felt like this mountain. He felt like he was watching another meaty chunk of himself fall down to the depths below because he couldn't stop one horrible woman from tearing him apart.
You cannot truly stop.
He'd said that to Camille about her cutting. Even though he took care of her, even though he physically fought her not to harm herself in the past, and even though he did absolutely everything so that she would never do it again, she was still at home today with a healing cut on her chest. Maybe the same went for him. He and Camille were so much alike.
Maybe he was destined to constantly fight his demons, just like his wife.
It took him the rest of the morning to hike his way back to the grounds of his home. The fresh air had not done him any good, the sun had only irritated him, and the mask, the damned mask, was so tight that it was actually giving him a headache. The discomfort wasn't a normal thing, and Bane knew he needed to inspect it to make sure nothing had come out of line. What he wanted now was to shower, to be clean, to even fall into bed and sleep for an hour or two. He could afford such luxuries these days. He was getting older and two years was still a relatively short time to recover from multiple gunshot wounds with his already pre-existing chronic pain.
Bane found his bedroom empty when he entered. He glanced at the side of the bed where the comforter was pulled back, where his wife had slept without him. He quickly looked away when he felt a small sting of guilt, and went right into the shower. Sweat and mountain dirt slid down the drain. He watched it as the water beat down onto the back of his neck. After he was clean and a black shirt was pulled over his head along with pants on his legs and boots on his feet, Bane went down the two flights of stairs with endless rounds of bullets on his mind, the loud bang comforting and useful. He would leave the main living quarters, head on to the extension that housed the army where some kind of work would find him.
In the foyer, a lone woman stood, her face concealed. Very briefly he wondered if someone had wandered onto the wrong property, someone that would have to be dealt with for stumbling upon their base of operations. Possibly a young woman one of his men had mistakenly brought back for a night of pleasure. Bane tilted his head at her, thought her an intruder. Finally she turned her face to him.
The mask made an odd sound, a rushed burst of static. His eyes widened as he froze in what he might've considered shock, although he couldn't be too sure since he'd never felt it before.
It was the woman from town. The same one. She smiled at him. Warmly, ruefully. Beautifully
"Hello, my love," she said.
Not a ghost, not a vision. The woman from town was in his house.
And it was Talia.
On the last day he saw her, her face had been focused, determined, deadly. It was the face of her father who had died in his efforts, his failure seeping into the soul of the next generation and sending her on a path straight for the destruction of millions and great revenge for one man. The end of the revolution, the day of reckoning, as they'd once called it, was supposed to have been their day. The day they would finally feel peace.
The last day Bane had seen her. The last moment, until she became a dead woman to him and the world.
It felt like a thousand years ago.
How was it that a person could look the same and still so very different? Time seemed to have stopped for him with her in the foyer; the functioning world, the movement of the sun, his heart. During that stopped time, Bane took in every single detail. Like him, Talia had grown older. Perhaps he was the only one who would see it because even now, even as she crawled back from the dead, he still knew this woman inside and out. Her body had grown a little thinner, the way she held herself a posture with a hidden delicacy. Her brown hair, no signs of gray, was pulled back into a braid, chiseling the angles in her face. Her eyes were still the same as they were that day. Still focused, still determined.
Still deadly. Another thing only he would be able to see. To spot the threat beneath the beauty.
The change in her, although extremely subtle, was the only thing telling him that she wasn't a horrible vision or a nightmare.
And suddenly, as time resumed again, Bane felt the pain in his body from prison. He felt the broken bones and the slashes to his skin. He felt the weariness of his training, the sacrifice of leaving his home and her. He felt the grief for her when he believed her dead, that small death he'd suffered with. He felt the shatter of his heart, all over again, when he had come to terms with the true relationship he'd not been able to see, the manipulation he'd not been able to feel. He felt the pain, every stitch of it, every way of it. This woman had broken him, crippled him. He'd loved her fiercely and hated her tremendously. He'd once grieved from her death and then relished in the freedom of her. But most of all, Bane felt the tightness of the mask on his face. His great weakness everyone could see and the constant reminder of her he would always have to live with.
Bane could only stare at her. The world continued around him, she continued to smile.
But why did the world suddenly feel like it came to an abrupt end as soon as that smile bloomed?
"Talia," he whispered.
She placed her hands over her heart as her eyes filled with what seemed like happy and sad tears. His whole body tensed as the mask felt like it gave one very hard, very impairing squeeze. "I'm here. Finally, I'm here. Oh, just look at you. Look at you, my friend. You are a dazzling sight to my eyes."
His jaw clenched. In another time, he would've flinched internally from the word friend. Now, he knew exactly where his rage had come from. Talia was no longer his great love. Talia was only his pain. His original pain. "How are you here?" His voice was kept low and deep. Flat and emotionless. He didn't know how a man should sound when he saw again someone who'd been dead for years. Especially a former lover.
The smile never wavered, even from his shock. "Of course you need an explanation for this. The crash in Gotham broke my body and the Commissioner presumed me dead. Once the bomb went off, the police were frantic in trying to apprehend all who were involved, as well as the felons we set free. Sometime during the commotion, my body was rescued by our last elusive brothers, and I was rushed out of the city so that my injuries could be seen to. I never discovered if Gordon told no one in fear of public hysterics of my vanishing, or if he truly believed me still dead and not worthy of proper burial. The Batman sacrificed himself, and was not aware that I was still alive." Talia reached up, swiped away a stray tear that had fallen from her eye. She seemed exhausted just speaking of her… recovery, and not her demise. As she explained herself, Bane felt sicker and sicker. Like he was being pulled back into the pit, and could not fight the force dragging him away. "But I was alive. My body was broken, but my heart still beat in my chest. It has taken me a lifetime to heal from my injuries and even longer to find you. I learned of your escape from Arkham Asylum. I learned that you'd returned to Gotham eventually, and died there. You must know that it killed me all over again to read of your death underneath a skyscraper." It seemed Talia didn't know whether or not to approach him or keep her distance. Her eyes were steadily tearing up and her hands itched to touch him, but his stance, his ever ready stance fit for battle, kept her back. When he still only blatantly stared at her, she continued. "But here you are. I didn't feel your demise in my heart and knew you were somewhere waiting for me. I tracked you here. All on my own, all with this… weakness in my body from my injuries." She seemed to loathe her thinness. Hated it, sneered at it. Recovery had taken her strength and left her fragile. Less than herself. "Here you are," she whispered again. "My love. My Bane. I've missed you."
Bane frowned. All this time, he told himself, feeling such a disconnect from his body and his mind. All this time and Talia had been alive, leaving him in Arkham Asylum, remaining a dead woman after his escape and all the time in between. Six years it had been since the day of reckoning, and only now did he see her face. The emotions shaking him were worse than the pain. There was too much to feel, too much to understand. Just too… much.
Too much, even for him.
"I saw you," he muttered, unable to blink, unable to do anything except listen to staggering answers to questions that were never asked. "In town. In the market. You were there. And then you were gone."
"I had to be sure it was you. I heard talk of this army and I needed to know that it was yours. Your face was covered. But once I caught your attention, once I found your eyes, I knew then that I was right where I needed to be. I acquired coordinates to this home and have traveled very far to find you. Please, Bane," she whispered, taking one step, just one, closer to him. "Please, may I touch you? I have never stopped needing you or loving you. Now we can be together again. You can leave this place behind, all your worries, all your stress. You can come with me, and I will take care of you forever. As you once took care of me."
Bane had once longed to hear those words. He would've given anything to whisk her away where he could protect her from harm, to leave all the danger and death, to keep her safe because she was precious, because she was innocent. Because she was his redemption, and without that, he would be nothing. Her words now had once been jewels to him, jewels just out of his reach because of her birthright.
But he had come to discover the jewels as nothing more than shackles.
The pain, physically and emotionally, was causing his head to fog and his sight to blur. Talia al Ghul had to be the devil. Only the devil could speak of such temptation when the soul knew what was being offered only meant eternal torment.
"You are alive," he said lowly.
"I am."
"The whole time."
"I'm here now. I've come for you."
"Talia," he whispered, and remembered himself. Remembered everything. He was in India. He was in India with… "You cannot be here. You cannot be in my home."
Her apparent happiness waned just a tad. Hurtful confusion took its place, her hands dropping from her heart and falling to her sides. The long coat around her body seemed to swallow her up, turning a deadly woman into one of innocence yet again. "What are you saying? I don't understand." Her voice went soft, meek. Yet it still retained a heartwarming tone, like a child. "Why would you say that to me? I've only just found you."
"I burned you." The memories flooded back, the reassurances. Bane had traveled to hell multiple times for the woman before him, during her life and but mostly after her death. He had destroyed the visions, the love, the devotion. And he'd tossed it all in the heat, along with his guilt. "I threw you into the fire. How are you here?" he asked again, and it seemed the question was more directed at himself concerning her. Even now, he still could not believe it. "How, Talia? How can you be real?"
"I'm real. I'm here. Oh, Bane, have you missed me that much? I promise you that I am not a dream."
"You must leave."
"Bane…" Her face was growing sad, falling further from joy with every word he spoke. But still she didn't walk out of the door behind her. Her feet were planted firmly. "I can't leave you. I've come to take you back. We belong together. Please, you must remember how I felt about you."
Her words were wrong. Even as he heard them again and again in his head, Bane knew they were wrong. Was the past truly something to conquer? Were demons ever meant to die and stay dead? How many times would he have to kill and hate Talia all over again before he would be rid of her?
It's like being an alcoholic.
Her words were wrong.
Pain, so much pain. And darkness and death and fire. The mask so tight and killing him. Breaking the bones of his face. "I remember everything," he whispered.
"Bane."
And then… the very worst feeling of all. Bane turned, as did Talia. The house fell silent. The house he shared with another person.
Camille entered the foyer, a dark flowing dress around her body, her curly hair down her back. Looking at him now with confusion in her tired black eyes, and maybe something a little sad too because of their confrontation. They instantly went to troubled when she saw the state of him. And when those concerned eyes left him and landed on the other woman…
The worst feeling of all.
With a very slight tilt of her head, Camille studied the woman standing in her home. She seemed to inspect the scene carefully, every detail gone over so she could analyze it. When it concerned Bane, she would know everything she needed to know. Her gaze went wary as she took the other woman in, wary because here was another female with such feeling in her eyes while staring at her husband. Bane caught a flash of her temper, then more worried confusion when she looked back at him.
In a blink, with just a quick study, Camille knew exactly what was going on.
She had fought this enemy too many times not to know when it arrived again.
Camille looked at Talia for the very first time, and paled enough to resemble the dead.
Meanwhile, Bane was still able to take the first deep breath since walking down those stairs now that she was within sight.
Straightening herself and smoothing down her front, Talia cleared her throat daintily and lifted her chin. She looked to Bane, nodded some to Camille. "Who's this?" she asked him innocently. Always one to appear as something superior around a stranger. Especially another woman.
Bane focused on Camille. They had been flat and emotionless. Now… his eyes were full of regret, of sorrow, of a sense of duty that he needed to keep her from what was happening now. But, like a storm, Talia's arrival was something he hadn't been able to stop. Camille wouldn't look at him, couldn't. She could only stare, much like he had, at the ghost she could now see.
She seemed as if she was stuck in a bad dream, with no way out.
Protect her screamed in his mind. The words bellowed over and over again through the silence of the three of them. He didn't need to protect a little girl anymore, nor did he need to tend and serve the woman she'd become. The only thing he needed to do now was shield his lady from the ugly past. A past that had been given new breath and now walked the earth. Walked right into his home.
But why, why, couldn't he move? Why could he only stare at Camille, who was going paler by the second?
Because Camille was the focal point to keep him grounded. Because Camille was the rope to the sky. Because Camille… was safe.
Talia didn't like the delay in an answer. Her eyes traveled over Bane, eyes still shiny from tears and a mouth still frowning from building sadness. The arrival of this other very fair woman had changed something in her friend. She scanned him, still knowing every inch of him because she had been the one to help create such a magnificent body. Such a formidable man. Her eyes found his hands, inspected each one carefully.
There was a ring on the left. A quick shift in vision showed her that the other woman was wearing a similar one.
Talia's eyes snapped onto Bane's.
He knew it the moment the discovery was made. Standing firm, he gave Talia the truth. Protect her, protect Camille.
The words were buzzing in his head like a mantra.
"She is my wife," Bane murmured.
It was like she turned into a different woman, but Bane was not surprised. Talia's eyes sharpened, hardened, went from a flowing river of lovely tears to a shard of ice that would slice skin just to see the red of blood. Her body altered itself, positioned itself into the League of Shadows before his eyes. And when she spoke, no longer did she sound happy and meek and sadly relieved.
Her voice was something else entirely. The voice of the head of the demon.
"Your wife," she repeated simply.
"You will leave," Bane told her, using a demanding tone like when she'd been a child misbehaving in their cell.
"Your wife," Talia said louder, her voice bouncing off the walls like thunder. "You've been very busy during my absence. You are a married man. I hardly know who you are. Did she birth you a child? Is that how this nonsense came about?" Talia took a brisk step forward, her eyes widening with amused surprise when Bane stepped in front of this… wife. His hands were fisted and his eyes carried a furious drive to do what needed to be done if she were to venture a little closer to the woman with a ring on her finger. She could see his fury, could feel it herself because once they had been connected in such a way. And because she could still feel it, because he had yet to toss her out, Talia wondered if maybe they were connected still.
Soul ties were made and soul ties were severed with the smallest of actions. It shouldn't be so hard to stitch one back together.
Talia had come here for a purpose. She had come to collect.
"No need to get flustered," she assured, holding up her hands submissively. She caught the eyes of the other woman behind Bane, saw her still staring with blatant disbelief that a woman thought dead had returned. Talia gave Bane a beautiful smile, pulled her hood back over her head gracefully. "I wish you both the best. Goodbye, my love."
She drifted through the front doors like the ghost… she was not.
Bane watched her through the small windows in the doors until she was nothing but a dot on Indian ground. He was about to walk away and set up a perimeter around his house, to watch out for her if she were to visit again. Maybe he would even send some men out to do away with her…
All those plans faded when he heard the squeak of a voice behind him.
"Please tell me I was hallucinating."
He turned around to face his wife, and almost flinched at her appearance. The scar cutting through her bottom lip was so visible against the stark white of her skin, the healing cut on her chest standing out as well. Looking down, he saw all her scars, looking almost inflamed and painful. There was the slightest of tremors going through her shoulders, the burned one weak, and her eyes were stunned and grayed.
This was something that pained him as well.
"Camille," he began quietly.
She looked up at him so quickly it looked like her neck had snapped. "Did you know about this?"
Her voice was accusing and it took him aback. "You cannot think I knew she was alive for all these years."
"It explains your behavior. You came home from town and you were furious. Very little upsets you that way," she repeated to him again, everything clicking into place now. "Talia upsets you like that. You had to have known something. You become distraught and then she's suddenly standing in the doorway. Don't lie to me," she demanded, that temper back in her eyes again. A very hurt, very feral temper.
He couldn't lie to her. Not now. "I thought I saw her in the crowds. Seeing her… set me off. I assumed I was picturing her again, in my head. I didn't handle it well."
"She's alive," Camille whispered, and it could've been the worst words to flow from her mouth. She looked down at the middle of his chest. The anger faded into something less hostile. More upset. "You saw her in town. It was really her."
His eyes frowned. "Yes."
"You were mean to me. You didn't come to bed last night. I was left… all alone."
He would correct that mistake. If he could go back, it would be the very first correction. But somehow… he couldn't voice it.
"I think I'm going to be sick," she whispered painfully.
Bane heard approaching footsteps towards the back of his house. Remembering his priorities, he gently spun Camille around and up the stairs, all the way up with her wobbly, always clumsy legs until he could close the door of the master suite behind them. All curtains had been pulled shut. There was hardly any décor in their bedroom, only furniture and other devices that either of them found necessary. They were practical people. But right now, both of them were completely on edge. He thought about ushering her into the master bath in case she really would be sick since she absolutely looked the part, but Camille only stepped away from him.
"I need to think. I want to think." It was clear that she was the distraught one now. Bane had mastered the ability to handle her, as she had him in return. No one else on the planet was able to do it, or would be accepted. But as she began to pace, as her color still remained deathly paler than normal and her scars were like bloody slashes on her skin, Bane, for once, was left immobile and silent as she voiced those thoughts. "She called you my love. She said that right in front of me. My is an aggressive word. A claiming one, a possessive one. Right in front of me," Camille mumbled, then swayed a little as her throat constricted and loosened. As her stomach revolted inside her. Finally, she looked over at him, her chin trembling some before she spoke. "You told her I was your wife."
Another mistake and they both saw it. Bane had thought to use Camille's title as an insult to Talia, but after seeing a woman who'd been dead to them for so long, it had scrambled judgment. "You need to do exactly what I tell you until this is resolved."
"Talia al Ghul is a narcissist and a sociopath. Telling her who I am has now fueled and agitated her, and she will temporarily take her focus off of you and put it right onto me."
"What would you have me do?" he demanded then, a little harshly, a little loudly. The entire suite was swirling with negative energy, and they'd completely fallen victim to it. "If we could go back, Camille, what would you have me say? It is done," he hissed, his body pumping with anger, shock, intense drive. So much conflicting and warring inside him. "You will do as I say from this moment forth and you will do nothing else. Talia is dangerous and I will lock you inside this room if I must."
"You chose me," she said quietly, mournfully. Maybe once those words had saved her. Now she only felt condemned. "You chose me over her but… you didn't tell me."
It was better to be angry. It was so much better. He was itching to go downstairs, to drag Barsad away and update him immediately so that he could prepare their men. He'd let Talia walk out of his house because Camille had been the priority at the time, but it didn't mean in the slightest that she would stay gone. Their grounds had to be on alert and their men on the lookout. Right now, he would refuse to remember that Talia, with all her skill and all her deception, could outmaneuver anyone who wasn't accustomed to her the way he was. To do all that, to begin those tactics, seemed so selfishly appealing rather than staying in this room and staring into the black eyes of his wife who was once again heartbroken from his past.
But Bane could never leave her like this without giving her… something to hold on to.
"I won't have you face this enemy again, Camille. You are weary from it. I will fight her on my own."
She didn't like that. With her face pale and her eyes dead, she glared at him. "You're never on your own. You're stupid for saying that."
And because he knew he needed to so that she would stay safe, he ignored her. Completely dismissed her. "If you don't remain here I will tie you to the bed."
Her chin began to tremble but she kept the glower. It took all strength. "That's fine. Just as long as you're not in bed with me."
So much better to be angry. Apparently his wife thought so too. Maybe he should've touched her before he left. Maybe he should've said something more to her, something that was rarely said although it was very plain to see, the essence of his heart. Maybe he should've let her know that he would die for her so that she could be safe.
Bane didn't say anything more. All he did was leave the bedroom so that he could rebuild the walls of his now penetrated fortress, and protect the treasure inside it from being stolen from him again.
On his own.
How was a man supposed to feel? How was a man such as him supposed to take present events in stride? Talia was alive. After all this time, all the years and all the milestones and all the calamities, the opponent of his most consuming inner battle still breathed when thought only dead and gone. Long buried and no longer even a lingering spirit in his life.
But once she had lingered, Bane reminded himself, though it riled him. He had mourned Talia as an alive being. Soon after, he'd hated her and gave her up as the great love he'd imagined her as. And once that period was over, he'd forsaken Talia for another woman. That had all been done while believing her to be nothing but a rotting body in the ground.
What would he go through now that she'd stood in front of him with a beating heart?
He would do what was necessary, he reasoned, the only reasoning he could think of and his once devoted teaching. He had always done what was necessary. He was smart and he was capable. He commanded his mercenary company with no other above him and absolutely could utilize those resources if he must. He had land and the hands to tend to it. He had guns and blades. He had a wife.
What was necessary was only what he wanted.
Barsad had not believed him, not at first. Barsad had actually thought him drunk for a moment or two, as the idea of his brother being intoxicated was more likely than the head of the League of Shadows living. But eventually he'd seen the truth in Bane's eyes, and together they prepared the rest of the company for the inevitable visits of one Talia al Ghul.
The first priority, the one Bane had driven into their skulls like a hammer to a nail, was Camille. It anyone disagreed or neglected to do that job, then Bane would simply break their necks.
Most of the men only knew of the al Ghul's from stories or articles, but no matter the man, they had no choice but to fulfill their boss's wishes. If Talia had returned for Bane, then Camille was the target.
After the area was secure, Bane had spent the rest of the day making it even more so. He had Zaid update their security systems, the boy quick like a rabbit to do so and hardly giving Bane a reason to be annoyed by it, and he tightened up the patrols. Eyes would be on his grounds at all times, and they would be alert. Afterwards, Bane patrolled the land himself, looking for any signs of Talia the others would forget to see or easily miss. Barsad had educated them on her ways, but there were details, details so small and so slight, that only Bane would be able to spot. Like a hunter tracking its prey.
But what would become of two hunters who hunted each other?
It seemed to Bane that it could only end in blood. A lot of it.
The sun had fallen and the breezes picked up. The moon and stars over his Indian compound shone like giant jewels above him, but even after a couple of hours of their light and no sign of the threat, Bane still felt the need to watch for her. All the while, as he walked round and round his land trying to sense Talia, he would frequently look up to the big house, spot the windows he knew went to his master suite. She waited there, he thought, trying to glance beyond the closed curtains. She was there, his wife, and she was most likely suffering by herself. He found himself wanting her to come to the windows and catch his eye under the night sky, to lift her painted lips as her skin gleamed like that big moon. He wanted Camille to come down here with him, to take his arm as they watched the stars that gave them comfort, the sight of a giant glittering sky that let them know they were no longer confined to their personal prisons. They would feel content, he knew, picturing it. Wanting it. And they would feel safe.
But before they could be safe again, Bane would fight for them. And if it came to a point where he would have to leave his men behind, leave everything behind for her, he would quickly scoop Camille up and make them both disappear forever.
He needed to be with her now, even though he knew she didn't want him around because she was still hurt. The battle may be his, but awaiting the war was a time when he needed to feel the rope to the sky in his grasp. Heading to the big house, he made his way to his suite, bypassing all security as he went.
The bedroom was dark, the curtains still not drawn back to let in starlight. He found her lying in bed, on her side and away from him with black curls piled into a bun on top of her head. It was one of her You're not allowed to touch me tonight signs that he was well aware of. There were no loose curls for him to grip. Bane closed the door and locked it tight, not bothering to be quiet because he knew she was awake. Even if she hadn't been, he would want her to know he was here whether she wanted him to be or not. He waited for her to look at him or say something as he undressed, to ask if he'd taken care of Talia or what his plan of action would be. She only remained completely silent and unmoving.
Sitting on the edge of the bed as he pulled off his boots, he huffed out with warning, "Don't let this divide us, Camille."
She didn't answer him at first. He was actually surprised when she did. "This has always divided us," she murmured softly, so quiet he could barely hear because of the blasted distance between them in bed. "You caused division when you didn't tell me you saw her and when you refused to come to bed last night. So what the hell are you doing here now, then?"
Bane slid into the bed close to her in nothing but dark boxer briefs. Leaning on his elbow he inspected her, saw another Don't touch me sign by the sight of a baggy long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants on her body instead of her usual nighttime nakedness. "I needed to be with you," he answered honestly, no longer carrying the energy to try to hide his intentions. The day had brought upon too much shock for both of them. "I needed to touch you."
"You could've been here with me last night," she reminded him, her voice going weak. Sleepy. Drained. "I could've held you. I could have…"
He lifted his hand, placed it on her arm near her shoulder. Gave a firm squeeze. "Then turn around so you can," he said deeply.
Camille's eyes had been open the entire time, her body tensed and unable to relax. Stress pulsed inside her like a heartbeat, or maybe something more powerful now that her heart felt like it was stopping. Her gaze hardly wavered from a dark spot on the blank wall. "You want to be on your own," she whispered, not feeling so petty as to remove his hand from her. It was worse for him for her not to react to it at all. "Maybe this time… I'll let you. You've never wanted me to be involved when it came to Talia. I think I can give that to you now."
And those words were ones that cut his bones in half. The mask on his face felt like it gave one hard, painful squeeze. "I will do what I must to protect you. I would send you away if I had to, even if you hate me." She didn't want him touching her, but no longer was it an option for him not to. Bane ran his hand down her arm, his fingers grazing the side of her breast before dipping into the curve of her waist. His fingers splayed over her stomach. He even leaned down and pressed the mask into her confined hair if only to feel the escaped tendrils along the skin of his face. He sighed deeply from the sensation.
She didn't respond.
But she wasn't all unmoving, he came to find. With one eye peaking over her hair, he saw slight twitches coming from her left hand. Her thumb was fiddling with her wedding ring, twirling it about over and over again. Bane watched for a moment before he continued speaking, his eyes set on her fingers.
"When it comes to you, Camille, I have not made very sound decisions concerning Talia. I have pushed you away and shut you out, I have yelled at you and… I have even hit you because of my rage and confusion. I don't question your hostility towards me tonight, nor do I question your surrender to this travesty. But this…" Bane reached over, grasped her left hand and spread her fingers so that her ring was plain to see. The tip of his finger brushed over the dark silver. "You may have lost your faith in me, Camille, but never should you give up on this. We spoke the vows. You gave yourself to me, as I did to you. If you cannot look at me, if you cannot touch me…" he breathed into her hair, pressing a little further into her black curls. "Then you must hold onto this. It is the embodiment of our vows, this ring on your finger. And no matter what must be done, no matter if you forever curse the day this was slid onto your hand, I will keep you safe. I will fight this on my own because never will I allow you to fall into the wrong hands again. I have suffered from it once," he murmured, remembering her battered body from when she'd been taken from him years ago, and the scar running through her bottom lip that would never go away. They were little haunts. "Disconnecting from you is unimportant compared to your life. And… this ring. This symbol."
His voice trailed off then, as did his hands on her body. Bane turned away from her, his back facing hers, and the distance was as wide as the oceans. He thought it would take him a while to fall asleep, but the pressures of the day fell onto him like bricks, knocking him right out.
And all Bane's wife could do was lift her left hand, and place it over her eyes so that her tears would remain unfallen.
Her ring felt cool on her face.
In the early hours, Bane woke with a jolt. As his eyes snapped open, the mask made a sharp sound, something like rocks scrapping together. Not often did he have nightmares anymore. Not since he'd last been in Gotham City years ago. But the night before had brought them on, with horrible pictures of Talia and Camille, Camille and Talia. One met in prison and the other in an insane asylum, similar places where men went to rot. He'd dreamed of both locations last night, of the deep cold pit with endless screams of violated men and the dank dark asylum where the hopeless were sent out of helplessness.
Was it a weakness of his? Falling for women while locked up in prison?
Bane scraped a hand over his face, felt a few beads of sweat. Turning in the dark as the curtains were still drawn, he looked to the other side of the bed and found Camille in the exact position since he'd fallen asleep. He was still given her clothed back, her body balled up tight and her hand absently scratching at her shoulder marred with burn scars. She'd suffered that burn for him, he remembered, along with cracked ribs and a near death experience. Just as he'd suffered gunshot wounds for her in his revenge of the clown who'd cut her face.
Apparently their bodies were a twisted love note to each other.
Because of her positioning, he could tell she hadn't slept a wink. He still felt drained himself, but got out of bed so that he could be given some kind of report on the progress of locating Talia. What he would decide to do with her once he found her was beyond him at this point.
But again, he knew blood would be involved. It had to be.
Before he entered the master bath he glanced over at Camille. A moment or two went by of trying not to just pick her up and carry her with him, but he turned away and went in the shower by himself. After he was clean and dressed and new canisters were popped into the back of the mask – something Camille always did for him – he exited the bathroom to find her up and awake, sitting at her vanity. He only stood still and stared at her.
He didn't want to admit that he was longing for his own wife. Such a thing was preposterous and just plain stupid. What kind of man yearned for his own attentive woman? Camille was always there. If he needed food, she had a plate in her hands. If he was in pain, she offered the solution instantly. If he desired her, she undressed and pleased him with black bouncy curls in her smiling dark eyes and her lips lifted contently. A man like him had nothing to long for, to ache for.
But looking at her now almost stupidly, Bane felt a burning sensation deep within his chest. Camille had always been the water to soothe it.
Now, it seemed like she was purposely leaving him in a blaze of fiery pain.
Camille had removed her sweats and was now clothed in a long silken robe the color of amethyst purple. Her black hair was held back by a big clip, and one shoulder of the robe was pulled down, her milky white skin plain to see. Idly her hand worked on her shoulder, rubbing in the ointment on her burn scar that helped with the occasional itching and discomfort she would experience from it. He watched the way her hand touched her skin, her own touch on her body more acceptable than his own right now. Her face was tired and almost lost in oblivion, free of makeup and her eyes puffy and red on the eyelids. Soon she would attempt to take a comb to her curls, would rub moisturizer on her face and finger some sheer color on her lips to keep them hydrated. He knew her routine, would stand here, just like he was now, and watch, fascinated by the ways of the female creature.
Some mornings, when he couldn't resist as she prepped herself, he would touch all the areas she'd fiddled with. He would muss up her combed hair to make her look like how she did after sex. He would attempt to breathe in her moisturized face past the smell of the drugs. Or he would slip one of his fingers between her lips and onto her tongue, just to see that very light ring of color her lipstick would leave behind around his knuckle. And some mornings, when all those little affections would work him up, he would make her bend over her vanity so that he could take her over all her pretty things.
Some mornings, he thought distantly. But not this one.
He had to go to work. He had a nightmare to fight.
"If the day does not show progress, then I will have you taken to another location to be safe," he told her, his voice gravelly. "It will be better that way until I know Talia is gone."
Camille didn't turn to him. "If that's what you want," she answered, almost uninterested.
Bane blinked, felt, horribly, like a lost child. No fighting, no temper. Just utter compliance on a topic she had once never been compliant on. "Are you agreeing to all of this because you're punishing me?" he asked sharply.
"No," she murmured, capping off the ointment. Still not looking at him. "I'm agreeing because this apparently is what's going to keep you happy. You want me to leave you alone when it's Talia business? You want me to step back and let you handle it all before you can come back to me without a burden? Well there you go. I'm leaving you alone."
"It feels like a punishment," he accused.
"I'm trying to be a good wife to you."
His brows rose up in mock amusement. "Is that what you're doing?"
"Yes." Her tone was as sharp as a dagger, and this time her head snapped to him. She stood, staring up at him with her red-rimmed eyes, her burned shoulder, and her breaking heart. "What more do you want, Bane? What more can I give? I'm always trying to be a good something to you, aren't I, for as long as I've known you. A good psychiatrist, a good slave, a good fighter, a good lover. What do you want from me now? What do you want, Bane?"
His hands were fisting now from anger, his mouth behind the mask set into a firm, grim line. And he wasn't completely sure why. "I want all of this nonsense to be finished. I want to be done with this nightmare."
Her face fell, the sharpness gone. And her snappy voice softened to something sad. "I know you do. And you want me to back off."
"Yes," he grumbled, and even he was surprised by the word. "For once, Camille. For once, just stay where I can see you. Behind me. Far behind."
"Isn't that what I'm doing?" she questioned softly, defeated. "And look at you. You're not satisfied with that."
He didn't know what else to say. He would feel plenty satisfaction when Talia was gone and he could go back to being focused on by his wife. It was the only way he could live happily and keep Camille. His eyes lingered on hers before they began to lower, onto the ruined mess of her shoulder before falling to the red cut above her breast. He would feel satisfied when he could fight, and reclaim his life.
With Camille far behind, and out of the chaos her body was weary from.
"I'm not dividing us," she murmured, lifting her hand absently, palm towards him and fingers itching to touch. "I'm not."
But before she could reach out and place her hand on him, she stopped the movement and pulled it back like she was about to touch fire and thought better than to give herself a burn.
And… she didn't want to admit she was longing for her own husband.
Camille turned away and drifted off into the bathroom, closing the door behind herself.
Bane didn't turn around, but he did hear the lock slide into place.
Camille sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub, holding her fingers under the water as the faucet poured to fill it. Steam was already rising up from the surface. She felt under her feet the soft pounds of Bane's footsteps as he left the bedroom, ready to go take on the world without her and obviously perfectly okay doing so. Frowning, she realized then how hard it was to let him go off on his own, as if he were her child and she couldn't bear the thought of losing him to existence. Taking care of him and forcing her presence at his side during complication was something she'd grown used to, something she found she depended on. It was suddenly funny to her that, after surviving the horrors of her family and submitting to their every whim then fleeing from them and fighting to stay unattached and alone, she was now addicted to tending to Bane and keeping him safe and sound. He was important, the most important. But he didn't want her there when it came to Talia al Ghul. Had never wanted her there.
Back off, she told herself, then stood to untie the robe and allow it to fall from her body.
Before she hopped into the boiling water of the tub, she spotted a little object out of the corner of her eye. Turning to look at it fully, she stared at the razor she used to shave with.
Her skin buzzed.
But she could still feel the healing wound on her chest over her heart. It was red and angry from the kiss of a fork, but very much an accident. Something that shouldn't have happened. And she could still see in her mind's eye the desperate need of understanding in Bane's gaze as he'd cleaned it for her, as he'd held her down in bed to keep her from hurting herself again. She could feel his strong and demanding embrace. She could hear his very soft whisper he hadn't thought she'd heard that day too.
"Please don't," he'd breathed, his arms tightening, his weight on her overpowering to keep her still as she'd tried to fight him off in a drugged stupor. "Please don't."
Camille picked up the razor and flung it across the bathroom. Stepping into the water to bathe, she refused to look at it.
She spent a lot longer in the bath than she should have, but everything had been so quiet and she was still so tired from sleepless nights. For a moment, she wondered if the whole business with Talia showing up to her home alive had been some twisted dream and had never happened at all. Wanting to hold onto that desperate desire, she finally dressed and decided she needed to go for a walk around the compound. She pulled on jean shorts and a black long sleeved shirt that was tight around her middle and drooped off her shoulders. It showed off her burn scar and the cut on her chest, but today she didn't seem to care. She applied an orangey-red color to her lips, the color of a flame, and smacked them together, the sound sending a flutter of calmness through her body. Boots went on her feet, and outside no one seemed to pay any attention to her.
She was thankful. She didn't like it when they had to keep an eye on Bane's wife.
Camille strolled around the grounds, shielding her face from the sun by turning away from it. She had her arms crossed, her head down. No one bothered her or spoke to her. Bane was nowhere in sight. She didn't know where he was and reminded herself that he wouldn't like it if she went in search of him. They obviously didn't have much to say to each other since a wolf had shown up at their door. Wandering off the grounds and towards the cliffs where she wasn't followed, she gazed down, so far down and so away from the world. The air was somewhat cool in the mornings, but soon it would heat up. At least a man could find shade behind the boulders along the grounds or under the scarce trees on their land. This was her home and she liked the seclusion of it, the fact that no one other than the army knew where they were. It was like they'd found another planet entirely to inhabit.
It used to be perfect. Now, it only felt defiled.
Her illusion of pretending everything wasn't falling apart seemed to fall down those cliffs as she spotted another shadow next to her own. Camille stared at it for a moment, seeing the difference of the shape. She was the only woman on their base.
But a woman's shadow was next to hers.
"I tried not to startle you," Talia said, her voice flowing through the breeze as if it were a part of it. "Wouldn't want you to take a tumble off these beautiful mountains."
Camille didn't know how to properly react. She'd never been in this situation before, had never come across any of her ex-husband Jackson's lovers when they'd been married and he had continuously cheated. But she could feel her body's involuntary reactions. She felt the nausea churning in her stomach at the sound of a voice she'd never heard before but somehow knew by heart. She felt her skin go deathly pale again, as it had when a walking corpse had stood in her doorway, leering at her husband with longing. And she felt the tension, a tension so consuming like a demon at the mere presence of Talia al Ghul standing right next to her. A woman Bane was looking for, and yet here she was.
It was probably the most surreal moment of Camille's life. Talia al Ghul, right here with her.
"Turn so I can look at you," Talia said almost tenderly. "I know you want to look at me too. I'll let you, if you will let me."
And Camille did, because Talia was right. She felt like she knew her, this demon to the League of Shadows long forgotten. She'd never spoken to Talia before, or Miranda Tate. She'd never been around her, had never seen her interact with Bane in the flesh. But she knew her, Camille told herself, scanning her eyes over a lovely woman, a little too thin now, with long brown hair and olive skin. Bright eyes that had seen too much, much too soon in life. This monster who had captured Bane's heart and now wanted it back.
Talia's eyes drifted over every inch of Camille almost romantically. "My, my," she cooed, feeling no qualms about lingering on the other woman's scarred imperfections on that impossibly pale skin. "Did Bane do all of this to you? Oh, look at your mouth. Look at that shoulder." Her head fell back a little as she giggled. "Does he carve his name into your skin? Does he wrap his large hands around your windpipe until you pass out? Surely that is the only reason why he would marry a woman with so many flaws. You are nothing like me."
Camille knew she should walk away. She knew the smart thing to do would be to run, to scream even that here Talia was. Here she was, get rid of her. Keep her away from me, keep her away from Bane. But she couldn't move. Here was her enemy, the unseen enemy she'd gone into battle with countless times without ever laying an eye on her. The real thing left her struck with stillness, and a sick awe.
Talia laughed softly again, folded her arms over herself. "For a moment, in my shock, I know I said that you must have had Bane's child in order for this to happen. Marriage," she scoffed with a shake of her head. "But afterwards I knew I rushed to foolish conclusions. If anyone would birth Bane's child, it would have been me. Since I remain childless to this day, it must be that he is unable to conceive. So I apologize for my rudeness." Talia inspected Camille's body, the shape of it. This wife was attractive, with a feminine curve in her hips, a dip in her waist, and perky firm breasts. She also had some muscled tone to her, something she attributed to Bane. He liked a fit woman. Knowing that fact made her despise her own body and what it had resulted in from her injuries caused by the revolution, a break in her that had taken years to heal. Talia didn't want to be bony and fragile. Her body had once been the very vision of the League of Shadows. Strong, cunning, and deadly. "You're lovely, Mrs. Bane," she teased with mockery. "He must look at you and see Snow White. My protector always had a fondness for old literature. I can see what he sees. Tell me, dear, what about you so enchanted him that he would run off with his own psychiatrist?"
Couldn't she just stop staring and open her mouth? Couldn't she rise up to this insane occasion and face her adversary? Camille swallowed, waited until she knew her voice would sound steady. She had to remain steady. "You know who I am."
"Of course. You think I would allow Bane's wife to remain a mystery woman to me? Dr. Camille Lane. Everyone thinks you're dead, you know. It's nice, isn't it? Peaceful. But then again, I guess when you allow Bane to drag you out of the familiar there's no other option. It's quite a sweet tale," she added with a grin, her cheekbones becoming sharper from the thinness of her face. "Your own patient kidnaps you and then you run back to him with hearts in your eyes. And Bane, as nothing but a horse. One you've slapped a saddle on and rode into submission. Must've been quite the ride. I can only imagine the amount of tears you've shed." Talia walked to the edge of the cliff, her cloak blowing in the light wind. She gazed down, without fear of falling. "It wouldn't be just you, dear. Any woman foolish enough to fall in love with Bane would cry themselves into a slow death. I'm a tough act to follow."
Camille bristled. Talia saw it.
"And now you're conflicted," Talia continued, glancing over for Camille's reactions. "On one hand you'd like to dismiss me, to tell me you've never heard my name or my connection to my protector. On the other, you'd like to snap at me, to wave that ring in my face. But you're too proud to stoop to something as low as pettiness." Talia shrugged. "Whichever one you choose, neither will dismiss the fact that I am alive, and I've come to collect him."
She felt it then, her need to be strong. Her need to protect her man. Camille lifted her chin and felt defiant to a woman who was once a princess. "I'd like to see you try."
"Oh stop," Talia scolded, waving a hand at Camille like she was her mother with a naughty little girl. "Have you pretended I don't exist? Have you both? Bane is mine, and it truly is as simple as that. If it weren't for me he would be dead, his body ripped apart by those animals in our old home so that they may dine on the flesh of the man who hoarded two females. If it were not for the girl I'd once been, he would've become one of those animals, and would have lost himself to the laws of the pit. Bane was given to me as penance for my beginning. And I refuse to allow another woman to touch him. To claim him. To declare love for a monster who was always mine to control. And let me tell you, pretty, he yearned for my ruling hand. He would worship me, as a man should worship a woman. You cannot stand there and tell me he feels that same way about you, Snow White with the scarred skin." The grin turned into a sneer. "The beast has broken you, but I will show you mercy and set you free. I will leave here with Bane, without a fight. And you can go back to America, to Gotham. To the cursed pit, for all I care. But when I leave, he will be by my side."
"He won't go," Camille warned, holding Talia's gaze. Matching fire for fire. "I can guarantee you that. He won't leave with you."
"And why not? Because he loves you? Because you two have such a unique connection? Your history together is nothing compared to my own with him. How can you possibly top it, Dr. Lane? How can you possibly trounce surviving hell on earth?" Her head tilted, her voice scathing. She stared at Camille as if she were a little girl saying such silly things like wanting to touch the stars. But little girls could never touch the stars. "Trust me when I let you know that you have nothing on me. Whatever you've survived, and I can see you've survived something from the state of your body, the pit will always be there to swallow it. Bane and I are connected, and always have been. We belong together. We died and rose again into power before the devil could devour us."
"Is that what you think?"
The wife's question surprised Talia, but she would only allow so much confusion onto her face. Superiority had always been hers, and she would refuse to give it up now.
But she didn't know that in spurts, when little sparks of it would ignite inside her, Camille would become her past profession. The mind of a psychiatrist, especially one who would always relate more to the broken than the whole, would shine like a beacon.
"It is what I know," Talia answered confidently.
"The past means so much to you? The past means so much, Talia al Ghul, that you would dare to use it against me? Bane has accepted what happened to him. He's made peace with his condition and his way of life. I've helped him do that. I've helped him go back to those prison days and see with a clear eye what was really going on. I've helped to redirect his thoughts and his emotions, to turn lies told to him into truth so that he can live in it peacefully. But there is this one thing you used to say to him, something you tried to engrain into his mind that I actually agree with." Her temper was building, her black eyes growing dark. It spread, wanting to consume. And soon it would. Soon it would become fury.
"The past means nothing," Camille said slowly, darkly. Drilling every single word into the other woman like a nail in a coffin. "That's what you used to say to him. The past means nothing. And guess what? It doesn't."
Talia hid her emotions well, but a very slight widening of her brown eyes told Camille that she was taken aback that she could know such a thing like old words between herself and Bane. Memories he'd obviously shared with the doctor.
A… meaningless past, apparently.
But Talia had not been the Head of the Demon simply because of her father or her birthright. The title was carved on her very soul and she wore it proudly, like a crown.
"It seems the past has a bad habit of following us around like a spirit, touching us in the dark," Talia murmured, taking a step forward and seeing this woman differently. The wife had a mouth. "Your past appears to be sliced on your body, like a book for everyone to read. Does that mean nothing, as well? Does all of this," she asked, waving her hand about Camille, the shoulder, the mouth, the cut on her chest and everything else in between, "simply disappear when you remove your clothes? When you stand in front of him bare and he can see all your old self-hatred?"
"You aren't tied to Bane anymore. He's free of you."
"Oh, pretty," Talia breathed sweetly, closing her eyes for a moment and basking in some sick satisfaction. "Who do you think gave him those scars on his body? Who do you think is the reason for why he wears that mask?"
Camille hated her then. It had been easy to despise the memory of her that came with her husband, or the figment in his head that had travelled with him before Camille had been there to ease the pain. And that pain, the kind Bane suffered with, was enough for Camille that she would forever wish she could trade places with Talia during those prison days, that she could've been there with Bane in the pit instead. It was easy for her to hate the traces of Talia without ever seeing Talia herself.
But now she hated the woman completely, as a being separate from Bane.
Before, Camille had never looked at the mask and saw Talia. Now…
She tried to tell herself that it was Talia's plan all along, to trip her up this way. The psychiatrist in her knew it. But the woman, the wife, felt like she'd just been stabbed in the gut.
Talia's eyes sparkled in the sun, as they always would since the first moment she'd climbed out of prison. "You say he's free of me? Impossible. And I will watch you cry, watch you beg him on your knees to stay with you as he takes my hand, and follows me into forever. I am still a queen, Camille Lane," she said happily, taking another step closer. And the wife, with all her pride, refused to move back. She liked it. "And you are nothing but the wretch left in a pool of her own blood. Bane has always done what I've asked of him since I was a little girl in his care. If I wanted food, he would maim a man to steal from and feed me. If I wanted someone dead, he would wrap his hands around their throat himself."
Talia smiled beautifully, and Camille had never seen anything like it. A devil's smile. "I am the queen and he is my right hand," Talia continued, her voice so delighted, so pleased. "One day soon, I will ask him to bring me the heart of Snow White. And he will."
Camille's face formed into a glare, her hands fisting at her sides much like how her husband's would in anger. Her pouting orange-red lips were falling into a snarl, her black eyes burning in dark fire and not able to soak up the glitters of the sun. "He won't leave with you," she replied with intense warning, her wedding ring digging into her gripping hands. "He won't."
At her side, Talia was slowly lifting her right hand, but Camille wasn't seeing it. "Are you so certain?"
"You're damn right I am, you bitch."
Superiority always felt like bliss. "Let me be the one to leave the next mark on you, pretty," Talia purred.
But before she could put a hand on an angry and unfocused Camille, the wife suddenly had an arm wrapped around her waist and was forcibly yanked away from Talia's reach. Talia snapped back to attention herself, drew her brows together quizzically that she'd not seen their approaching guest. She opened her mouth to let out a quick irritation, then closed it gracefully when she was suddenly staring down the barrel of a revolver.
Her eyes brightened in recognition instead of impending death. "Barsad, is that you? My, you've grown old."
Barsad said nothing as he held her gaze, as his arm remained steady with his finger on the trigger and the scope aimed right on her forehead. His other hand was full of Camille's shirt at her back, holding her away from Talia al Ghul and his body blocking hers. Camille couldn't know how dangerous Talia was, or that she could kill a body with one swift hand to the right places, just as she would've done had he not pulled Camille away in time. Once he'd served this woman Talia, had placed his life in her hands, but times had changed. He'd been immensely thankful for it.
He had a million reasons to squeeze the trigger.
"Why does everyone keep her away like she's made of glass?" Talia asked with annoyance, sighing some that she hadn't gotten a chance to leave that mark. But remembering the others on the wife's body, she lifted a brow. The woman was almost as scarred as Bane. "Hmm… Well, apparently she is."
"Bane will hear of this," Barsad said calmly.
"Does that mean you aren't going to shoot me? Now, that is certainly not the attitude we wanted when we initiated you. The League expects something a little tougher."
"Shoot her," Camille hissed, trying to get out of Barsad's grip. Her temper was flaring like a flame and clouding her judgment.
"You've interrupted girl time, brother," Talia said, batting her eyes at him with a knowing smirk. "Why don't you let us finish it?"
"No."
"No? I'm hardly in a physical position to take her out. Have you not seen the change in me? Do you not remember the state you left me to rot in? You, especially, Barsad, since a bullet nipped at you? The fragility of my body most definitely works in her favor." Talia shifted her gaze to Camille, approved of the desperation she held to get to her. It would make it easier to kill her later, although the image of the wife sobbing in heartbreak as she watched Bane leave her was immensely appealing. "I would guess that Bane didn't tell you of our locked eyes in the market?" she said to Camille. "It explains your deathly complexion when we first met. I wonder what else he hasn't told you."
"Bitch," Camille breathed. But the glare was hard to hold. A sad frown was taking its place.
"Release her, Barsad. She can have a go at me. I cannot physically stop her."
Liar, he thought, seeing the manipulation in her eyes as well as he could see it in Bane's. Talia may have become brittle from her injuries, but he was sure that didn't diminish her deadliness. It was lucky for her that Bane had not yet issued orders on what to do with Talia once she was found. Camille yanked on his grip some more, wanting to get to Talia and do… something, it seemed. But her temper was her undoing right now, whatever Talia had said to her before he'd arrived her weakness. She could make mistakes and Talia al Ghul would be able to use them against her.
The top priority was Camille. That had been one of Bane's orders, and he would carry it out.
He released the trigger of the revolver, slipped it back into the harness at his hip. Turning, he took Camille's arms and pushed her forward.
"Maybe you really should let Bane carve his name into your skin," Talia advised Camille, watching the wife struggle as she was led away. Yes, she decided then. She would definitely love to see Camille Lane shed a few tears over her protector. "It will be the only remembrance you will have of him soon."
Those words stole Camille's breath and crushed her chest. She stiffened in Barsad's grip.
"Move, Dr. Lane," he said equally gentle and insistent, pushing her back towards the safety of the compound. His marksmen senses were in tune with the woman they were forced to leave behind.
He didn't let her go until they were back inside the big house, the air cool and the scent clean. She shook him off then, took one step away before just standing in one spot, seemingly staring at the floor under her boots. Barsad thought he should say something to her, something… reassuring? But they didn't have that kind of relationship. The only thing connecting them was Bane, and it was Bane he should go in search for to report to. He sighed, took one step back as she'd taken that one forward. He'd done his job and kept Bane's wife safe, something he very much hadn't done a few years ago. But he had learned acceptance.
And perhaps tolerance, as well. All for this woman.
Thinking of priorities again, he decided to scan the grounds for Talia before finding Bane. And without another word, left Camille all alone.
No sign of Talia, but that didn't surprise Barsad when he went back to the spot by the cliffs. And neither were there tracks he could trace to her location. Again, not surprising for a soldier who once led them all into battle. He didn't know where Talia was hiding, didn't know if she had any help concealing her, as nothing livable was around for miles for her to use. But he knew the ways of the League, knew that she would do whatever was necessary to achieve her goal, which was taking Bane away. League members were known to sleep in the dirt if it meant success, and the Demon Head had been no exception.
He needed to find Bane and update him. He needed to relay to him all that he'd heard of Camille and Talia's conversation, and of the threats. He would be angry, Barsad knew, sighing some at the thought. Bane would be angry with Barsad and possibly even angrier with Camille for allowing such conversation instead of instantly running to him.
And because of that, Barsad decided to check on her first before going to Bane.
He found her where he'd left her, in the sparkling white kitchen that held all the state-of-the-art appliances, agreeable size, and enough counter space to please the lady of the house. Camille was sitting at the breakfast nook in one of the stools, a full pot of coffee within reach. He approached her, found her staring off into space. Traces of her lipstick stained the yellow mug she held in her hands. And her eyes, he saw as he inched closer, were far, far away. Lost.
He tapped on the steel of a nearby stool, made her jump. As soon as she noticed it was him, she went back to looking at her black coffee almost nervously.
He should've gone to Bane, Barsad told himself, sighing again. Now he had to deal with this sad face. But the pouting face was well deserved, he knew. It wasn't everyday your husband's old lover he'd once been devoted to showed up at the front door wanting him back.
Camille had gone through the ringer with Bane, had defeated even him when he'd tried to tear them apart years ago. Barsad couldn't fault her.
To kill the silent awkwardness, he nodded to the fresh steaming pot. "Shouldn't your beverage in times like these be something a little stronger than coffee?"
She seemed to blink, contemplating his question like he'd given her a math equation. Her mind got out of itself so she could answer. "I don't drink. Alcohol," she added, and felt a little dumb. "Bane and I… We don't drink."
"Pity," he sighed, then pulled the stool out, with two in between them, so he could sit. "May I have some? A woman shouldn't have to drink alone."
She stared at the pot of coffee, then back at him curiously. She tended to Bane regularly, helped out with the army when it needed her to. But never had she assisted Barsad with anything. They had come to a quiet truce over the years for peace, but she wouldn't say he was close to her. Not like how he was to Bane. But when he patiently waited for her answer, she decided he was nothing but serious. Nodding, she reached for another mug before pouring. "It's black," she told him.
"Then it's perfect." His finger tapped on the hot mug she slid over to him. More silence before he took a gulp, appreciating the taste of good black coffee. He glanced over at Camille two stools away, saw her staring into her own cup again. "I must report to him."
She took a deep breath. "I'm surprised you haven't already."
"After he snarls at me he will come looking for you to do the same. I find it's easier to take a lashing when you know it is coming. Is there anything significant you need to tell me? Anything Talia said that he needs to know?"
Camille drew her brows together. "He's going to make me tell him the entire conversation."
"And are you going to tell him?"
Tell Bane what Talia said about him? About her? Camille knew she shouldn't allow Talia's words to affect her marriage, but they would. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I don't want to."
"Why? Your former profession wouldn't support withheld information."
She swore she went to give him an intelligent answer. Instead, other words blurted out of her mouth. "I don't know why you're talking to me."
Barsad knew she didn't mean it as an insult. His eyes scanned the room, to look casual. All the nooks and crannies of the kitchen that was always spotless. Camille didn't know why he was talking to her because he never talked to her, not really. Never when Bane wasn't around and definitely not like this, during a crisis that was eating her up. He swallowed more coffee. "It may surprise you, but I never cared for Talia al Ghul."
Camille looked over at him then, so close for intimate conversation, yet so far away with multiple chairs between them. Still, it was closer than before. She decided to appreciate the effort and take all that Barsad was willing to give. "Seems like you have a problem with all of Bane's lovers," she said dryly.
"Not all. Only the ones that give him a certain look in his eye. The ones who stick around for the long haul. There've only been two." Only his gaze shifted, met her staring ones. There was a moment of acknowledgement between them.
Camille grinned a little as she looked away.
Barsad took it as a sign to continue conversation. "What I've always wanted for Bane was for him to never be within limits of leadership. For as long as I've known him, until the end of the revolution, he answered to a higher power. He was devoted to the League of Shadows, even after his excommunication. He believed in the cause, but most of all, he believed in Talia. Even before her father died, when he and I were nothing but training initiates, he prepared himself to serve her when she would finally become our leader. And it was the one thing I hated about being in the League." His own time of grief, Barsad remembered. Better to drown himself in an assassin group than to deal with his own suffering. The death of his daughter. "Bane was there to pick me up and pull me along. He saw something in me, and still to this day I don't know what it is. So when I had to watch him serving Ra's al Ghul and then Talia, most of all Talia…" He shook his head, feeling the old resentment he'd had to overcome.
"Bane was never meant to follow," he continued, an old belief he would always stand by. "The League of Shadows was full of mindless servants who would give up their lives because the Head of the Fang demanded it. I was one of those servants because I had nothing else. I only had my brother, and he was loyal. But throughout my years in the League, even during those last moments before the League would die with our revolution, I kept the desire to see Bane with none above him. I wanted him to be dedicated to nothing else save for his own goals. He was meant to lead an army," Barsad murmured, nodding faintly. "Talia was in the way of that, but as my superior there was nothing I could do, except long for her death so that he could finally rise. And then… he met you."
I hated you, is what Barsad wouldn't tell her now, although he was positive she knew his unspoken words. I got rid of you but you came back. Came right back to be with him, my brother.
"What he saw in a forlorn psychiatrist is another thing I will never know. But… there is that certain look in his eye, and yet he is still perfectly in command. I suppose that is what I appreciate most about you."
Camille slowly took a sip of her coffee that had steadily gone room temperature. She listened with a honed ear, usually always did when Barsad would speak to her. And what he was saying now was hardly anything new to her. She wouldn't tell him that. "It certainly wasn't my skill in psychiatry that attracted him to me. He gets annoyed with it mostly."
It was our equality, our brokenness. Our sameness, she thought, that kept them together all this time.
"Well," Barsad muttered, smirking some. "Who wants to be told with fancy words that they have mental and emotional flaws?"
"A lot of people, actually. A lot of people benefit from a few sessions."
"I feel a slight fear when I think of what you would say to me."
"I would say that you love Bane," she told him honestly, grinned halfheartedly when she saw his slight flinch out of the corner of her eye. "I know straight men don't like hearing how they can love other straight men, but it's true. I guess I appreciate that about you, too." Camille looked over at him fully then, studied his gestures. "I would also say that you have slight abandonment issues."
The words came out of his mouth before he could think. "You try losing a child."
He hadn't meant to say that and instantly regretted it. But by the calmness of her, by the blasted understanding look he supposed she would give all her past patients, Barsad could tell she knew of his loss. Bane must have told her at some point. It had never occurred to him that he could be so protective of Bane, could be so willing to follow him so that his brother would always be in a place of power, all because he was afraid of losing him as he'd lost his daughter. Damned woman.
But Camille didn't press him on his personal issues with her profession. She knew when to move forward and when to back off. Looking away again at her cup, she asked as a regular woman would, "What does that feel like? Losing your own baby?"
He didn't talk about this, not even with Bane. Maybe that was why he was talking now. "It is a death, but a part of me believes that true death is kinder. There is no consolation for it, no relief. You become a shell of a person, wandering the earth looking for some other purpose because your greatest purpose was taken from you. Bane brought me to the League, after. He literally picked me up by the scruff of my neck and threw me into training. Hauled me right through the air and then attacked me to refine my combat skills." Barsad took a deep breath, pictured his girl's face. She would be a young woman now. If only… "There is no recompense for that."
It seemed her husband's brother had been given his therapy after all. "Talia pities me because I can't give Bane a baby." It was better for Barsad to put the attention back onto her. She could give him that. "Not that I want to, or can. It's not possible."
"Anything is possible. The dead can even come back to life, apparently."
She frowned. Oh, they could come back, she thought. They could come back so swiftly that it knocked her right to the ground, and far away, it seemed, from Bane. Her mate she could not actually mate with.
Anything is possible.
What would she do if she really had to carve his name onto her skin, if only to remember him? Even as he remained right here, with her?
"I will tell you this only once because I feel you need it," Barsad said, sternly now and seeming more like his usual grumpy self. "Bane will not leave you. It doesn't matter if you fight for him and it doesn't matter if you don't. The way he looks at you, it goes beyond his eyes for Talia al Ghul. You need not fret over it." He stood then, giving her no glances as he drained his now cold coffee. Back to being a soldier, and it suited him. Made a dead man alive once again. "But if it were me," he continued, checking his various armor and weapons on safety. "I would snap her in two. And there are ways to do that other than physically."
Barsad looked at her one last time. "Don't forget that a loving woman is almost indestructible. I read that in a book once." He gave her a brisk nod. "Thank you for the coffee."
Camille watched him go as she twirled her wedding ring around her finger.
Then she stood before she began softly calling for Zaid.
Once he'd been briefed, Bane snarled and shoved Barsad aside, already striding out of the military extension of the compound to make his way to the big house.
"I've told you everything," Barsad called to him. "She can tell you nothing more. She won't want to."
"She will," Bane growled under his breath, and like a stampede, burst over his property in search of his woman.
This was his land, his home, his men. His wife. He would be damned if he allowed anyone, even Camille herself, to keep important information from him, especially if it concerned their current problem. Talia was trying to infect his environment again. Only this time she was a living, breathing thing. And as a living, breathing thing, hardly anyone here, especially Camille, could know firsthand how dangerous the League's former leader truly was. He'd seen Talia al Ghul manipulate men much larger than herself into telling her exactly what she wanted to know, would have them begging, crying even, to be spared her anger. In anger, Bane knew, the Demon Head would be vicious, would torture her prey as tears and blood trickled freely. But in mercy, at least they would be given a less painful death after she was done using them up. She had even twisted the Batman, had stabbed him right through the ribs because Bruce Wayne couldn't see her true face. But Bane knew. Once upon a time, he'd even admired her for it. Had loved her fiercely for it.
But now the ways of Talia al Ghul were a threat to Bane. Now there was Camille to look after, a woman above Talia when Talia thought none could rise before her.
And here his wife was, poking Talia, a beast, with a stick. Without him there to see to her safety.
Camille may have given up on him, but Bane would die before he allowed anyone to harm her again because of him.
Her own mother, the head of the Italian mob and her goons, the Nightwing, Jeremiah Arkham, the Joker. They had all hurt Camille because of her relationship with him. And even as she'd endured it, even as she returned constantly after the last harsh treatment before she would have to face the very next, she was still in love with him. Would still be right there, kicking him in her sleep restlessly or holding him close. Whatever he needed her to do because he couldn't live without her.
Without Camille he would try to run and find that he couldn't move. Without Camille he would try to fight, knowing he couldn't throw a single punch.
Any more encounters with Talia by herself, and Bane wouldn't be able to do anything at all.
With fury he climbed the stairs, up, up, up to the third story where they lived. The double doors of his master suite were closed and within sight. He would find her in there, he knew. He would find her and demand to know everything Talia had said to her word for word, then pack her things for her so that he could have Camille removed from this devastation so he could handle it and then retrieve her afterwards.
And somewhere deep inside him, it pained him to know that she would remain silent and do as he told her. Without a fight.
Just as he was about to barge in, another body slipped out of the master suite, softly closing the door. Bane stopped, watched with flaming eyes. Zaid was leaving his room. Zaid, with his preferred rags hanging off his slender dark body, with his poufy hair pulled back and a little smile on his wide mouth. The young man pulled his wrists back to crack them, flexed his fingers before covering his nose with his hand and inhaling deeply.
Bane saw red. A scorching, destructing red.
Zaid wasn't aware of him, wasn't as in tune with the shadowy ways of former League members. As he sauntered along in the wide hallways of the big house, he didn't see Bane waiting for him while lost in thought.
But he did flinch hard enough for his entire body to convulse when a large arm whipped out of nowhere, a gripping hand around his throat, and then his back slamming into the wall enough that his spine cracked from the impact.
The pressure on his neck was too intense that he couldn't even make a surprised sound. And most definitely not a quick apology for whatever it was he'd done now that his boss was glaring down at him.
"What are you doing up here?" Bane asked, his calm voice not matching his infuriated expression. The combination could've been admired another time.
There was no way he could speak. Zaid tried choking out something, but even that was cut off from the pressure. He could only reach up and grip Bane's forearm.
"This area is private," he continued, purposely cutting off Zaid's voice. "That room is where I sleep with my wife. There is never any business you must see to behind those doors."
Zaid's mouth was moving up and down like a fish. He released some of the pressure, allowed a few words to get through. "I wasn't doing anything—"
Bane squeezed again for the lie. Slowly, he reached for Zaid's arm, brought the hand he'd been smelling up to the grating of the mask. It hissed sharply as Bane inhaled as well, keeping his eyes on Zaid's, on the widening of the young man's gaze. What one man could smell, another could just as easily. Bane knew this smell on Zaid's hand.
It was the scent of Camille's hair, freshly clean.
There were no other women on the grounds, and the smells of her were distinct among the men. His hand gipped tighter on Zaid's neck, his blunt nails even sinking into his skin. He'd been touching Camille's hair. The fact sent Bane's heart racing and the mask snarling.
"It will take God himself to keep me from snapping your neck," Bane said lowly, his voice terrifying. "I have killed for much less."
Some pressure was released again. Zaid barely knew how to react. After all these years, he'd mostly stayed out of the boss' way when it came to punishment. "She needed my help with something. That's all I was doing, I swear."
"Please be more specific."
If Zaid could swallow, he would. When he'd first joined the army, he would've thrown anyone under the bus to keep himself safe. But now… He'd made a promise. The promise might very well get him injured, or worse. "I… She asked me not to tell you."
Wrong answer.
Bane lifted Zaid from his feet, sinking all his weight into the force of pinning him to the wall. The discomfort amplified, and Zaid actually groaned some from the pain.
"Your days here are done."
"No, wait, for God's sake—" Zaid was panting, sweat dripping from his face nervously, and his stomach churned. Bane was right. He'd definitely killed for less. Zaid saw it all the time. "I swear to you I was just helping her with something. You can't kill me, I'm… I'm way too valuable to you."
Bane scoffed angrily. The sound was like a snake striking its prey.
"Who else is gonna keep this place invisible?" he began desperately. If he was going to die anyway, he might as well try everything. "Who else is gonna keep it running? You need me to work the systems."
"There are a hundred men in the world ready to take your place. And none of them would dare to allow their disgusting eyes to wander when my wife walks into the room."
"None of them are as good as me."
Bane's voice lifted a little in amusement. Only a little. "Is that right?"
"Yes. I would never… Dr. Lane is—"
"Careful," Bane muttered, squeezing again. "Every time you mention her, I don't like it."
"I'm sorry," Zaid coughed, his feet trying to feel the floor. They couldn't. Not since he was now eye level with his boss. "God, I'm sorry. I wouldn't touch her that way, I swear. I didn't do anything. She asks me to help her with things now and then. I wouldn't disrespect you like that."
"No? You smell of her in places you shouldn't. The disrespect for that alone is tremendous."
"Please," he squeaked, grasping at Bane's hand around his neck. He had to talk quick. His head was feeling light from being held so high. "Don't just… Let me talk. Just listen. The way I figure it, if I did touch her inappropriately, and if I could somehow talk my way out of you choking me, I would hightail it outta here. But as soon as you release me I'm going straight back to work. It wouldn't matter if Camille—Dr. Lane," he corrected quickly as Bane's glare. "It wouldn't matter if she told you different because you would only hunt me down. But you won't have to because I'll be right here, and because I didn't do anything wrong. She asked me not to tell you, I'm only following her orders, as your wife. When it comes to running this place technologically no one is better than me. If you're still not happy after you talk to her, then come kill me."
Bane stared hard at him, inspected every inch of his expressions. He didn't know why he smelled of Camille, didn't know what possessed the man to enter his living suite when Bane wasn't there. But the boy was telling the truth. And if he dared to advance on Camille in another way that went beyond his pathetic, adolescent-like flirting, Zaid would constantly be living with the fear of God for what Bane would do to him if he ever found out. Because of that, and because Zaid truly was the best in his field, Bane released him, allowing him to drop straight to the floor at his boots. He instantly went into a coughing fit.
"Consider these your last twelve hours if I find out differently that you did nothing wrong," Bane warned, approving of the bruises already around Zaid's neck. "Never step foot on this floor again. If I catch you, I will throw you off the cliff."
"Yes, sir," Zaid wheezed, scrambling to his feet and scurrying down the stairs.
As soon as he was alone, Bane approached the closed doors of his suite. Camille was in there, probably upset about her encounter with Talia, probably overanalyzing it word for word. And she had clean hair, Bane thought, the detail useless to him since he was apparently the only one not allowed to be around her. She would talk to Talia and to Barsad and to Zaid, but she wouldn't talk to him. She'd given up, had thrown a towel in on the fight. Bane had wanted this, he told himself, remembering all the bothersome arguments he'd had with her when she would try to fight for him, to make him see things he would've kept hidden or ignored. He'd gotten his wish.
But this was the price. A closed door.
Bane had been prepared to barge into the suite, to demand Camille tell him everything before he sent her away. It was for her own good, he would say to her. He would come get her when her home was safe again, and then they could resume with their lives. Maybe then he could go back to touching her. He'd prepared so much in such a young day. Barely twenty-four hours since Talia had stood in his doorway.
But something in him cracked, causing a chain of other breaks inside him. Instead, Bane walked away from the doors feeling worse.
He should've killed Zaid to relieve some of the stress.
Camille's was a face he wouldn't see for the rest of the day, all the way till the moon rose high in the cloudless night sky. Their location in India gave him what he deemed perfect evening skies, a picture of calm and relaxation. Lovely art that would remind him he was no longer in prison. He needed the sky now, Bane told himself, wanting to feel the cool air on his skin and sufficing only with the armored vest upon his upper body. He wanted to see the stars, as he had the two nights before when he would either not go to Camille because he couldn't face her, or to face her once she knew of his issues and wanting only to touch her skin. They were those blasted odd emotions some humans could never figure out.
He was married to a psychiatrist, but Bane didn't want to delve into it.
He'd tried to find Talia while coinciding that with his mercenary company. Work still had to progress even though the land had been breached. Barsad was scouting for a trail, knowing the ways of the League as he did, but nothing turned up. Either Talia was sleeping in the dirt or waiting inside a nook in the mountains. Both options couldn't be ruled out. So far, he didn't have a body to be rid of.
And what would he do if he found her? Bane asked himself, making sure the systems were secure so that his wife was safe inside the big house while he wasn't there. He realized that he'd never given an order as to what to do with her once someone found her. What did that say about him? How could he forget something so crucial? Talia had been right there, right in front of Barsad and Camille. And still she'd somehow gotten away.
Bane rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, wanting to rub his entire face if the mask wasn't covering most of it. He wanted to take a Lumenis pill, wanted to be without the mask for a couple hours and feel the breezes on his face. His wife would not be there to taste, but at least it wouldn't be completely wasted if he could feel the elements. He walked out onto his land, the vastness of it that headed straight for the cliffs. Large boulders were placed here and there, a part of nature that couldn't be moved. Just like the stars, he thought, looking up, keeping his eyes on them as he headed farther out and away from the house. He gazed out to the dark mountains, wondered if Talia somehow occupied one of her own. Had taken a mountain for herself just to torture him and remind him that she was still right here.
He sensed her before he heard her or saw her or smelled her. They'd once had that kind of connection. His body instantly became tense and alert, as did his mind. Part of the ways of the League of Shadows was to become a shadow yourself. Talia was the darkest one of all. Bane turned his head and saw her, just standing there as her cloak flapped in the wind and her smile a content one on her thinned face.
"Just look at the stars here," she sighed, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing in deep. "We once dreamed of living in a place like this, didn't we, love? Away from the world, just you and me. Away from prison and the hurtful ones. It was nice to have a dream when we ruled Gotham. When we knew we were never going to make it. You make dreams sad that way, but still very sweet."
His skin warmed for a fight if it was called for. With his home behind him and Camille inside, he would gladly be the frontline man in battle. It was his duty as the dominant one in their relationship. When Camille couldn't fight, he would. Even against the dead.
It was still so surreal to be speaking to Talia. Still a shock to his already battered insides.
"You approached her," he said lowly. Defensively.
"Oh, Bane, how could you expect me not to? You tell me a woman is your wife and I'm truly supposed to leave her alone? What did you think I would do?" She came closer, seeming to drift along the dirt of the cliffs with the ends of her cloak billowing at her ankles, as if she didn't have to walk at all. She was a spirit in the moonlight. "Surely you haven't forgotten who I am? You used to know me so well. But apparently, I'm just an old flame whose past you speak of to your new bedmate. She seems to know a lot about us."
"I know exactly who you are. If you would have harmed her, I would've ripped your head from your neck."
She matched his intense gaze and eyed him carefully. Looking up at him, she smirked softly. "Don't make me blush, my love."
Talia could tell he scoffed by the scrunching of his eyes, expressing disgust. It didn't deter her. She had prepared herself for it after speaking with the wife. This man was a new Bane.
She still wanted him back.
Her penance. Her protector.
"You shouldn't have come here," Bane said, his voice deep and angry, and very much regretful for a million things. "You should've stayed dead. I preferred it."
"But you didn't once. Once, Bane, you longed for me. You can't deny it."
"I am no longer that man."
"I see. Because you spoke vows with another woman, one so inferior to the world that it has sunk its claws into her body and marred her in hopes of being rid of her. Allow me to remind you that you first pledged yourself to the League before some throwaway tramp. You gave your soul to our cause, to my father. To me, now that I remain standing. That pledge doesn't disappear with marriage to the meaningless and uninitiated. But before all of that, you gave me your heart. Trust me when I tell you, darling, that I still have it. I've never let it go."
"You're wrong," he told her, trying to pity her. He really only wanted to be done with her forever. "The League of Shadows is no more, Talia. It died with the revolution."
She brushed his words away as if he were speaking nonsense. "Death doesn't come to the immortal. We are only resting, like Lazarus himself. I will rebuild it."
"With what?" he demanded desperately. "With whom? There is no one who will follow you, even those in hiding. Gotham City is hardly a secret. Not one man will join you with the knowledge that you will demand him to die for you. You have sullied your reputation. Your cause is hopeless and it is absurd."
Talia lifted a brow, roamed her eyes along his face. She didn't hide it that it was done lovingly, as if she were seeing him for the very first time again. "That wife has definitely changed you."
Bane shook his head slowly, turned away from her and back to the mountain scape. He knew it would be worse for her if he didn't offer too much attention. "You changed me," he corrected. Her presence was becoming smoke. Hard to see through and impossible to breathe. "I saw you for who you were really were and rid myself of you. Finally, I knew what it was like to rise. To escape prison."
"I gave you your strength. I gave you freedom."
"You didn't. You gave me bondage."
Talia came to stand next to him, looking out to the dark mountains at his side. "Those are her words and not your own," she replied simply, as if she knew exactly what Bane and Camille had gone through together. "I gave a forgotten prisoner deep in the pit a purpose. I gave you worth. With me, Bane, you became a man."
And that… was something he couldn't deny. Talia had remembered him when she'd returned with her father. The League of Shadows had been his purpose, the mask his worth. He would've become a feral monster if not for Talia, a implement of madness deep inside a hole in the earth.
Talia knew that too.
"Once you loved me," she continued, wondering how long it would be before he touched her, before he would worship her again. She longed to feel his massive body over hers. "Once, we were unstoppable. We ruled the pit and we ruled Gotham. Royalty is what we were, Bane. Whatever she's told you, whatever conclusions you've come to about me, you must know that I will be for you whatever you want me to be. I'm ready to follow you now, and I will give you whatever it is you desire. Just tell me what and it's yours."
Bane stared at the edge of the cliffs, absently heard a howling animal out in the distance. Tonight, the night sky and the stars would not bring him comfort. The woman next to him had ruined even that, just as she'd ruined his wife's will to fight, had decimated two immovable people and sent them miles apart. Divided, as he was now with Camille. Or maybe, Bane thought as Talia's scent gusted up into the tubes of the mask he wore because of her, it was all his fault. He was the one to keep Camille away from him during times like these. He was the one who wouldn't go to her when he felt weak, and he was the one who created the distance now. He was the reason why Camille had given up.
And he was the one who was still allowing Talia to stand right where she was instead of pushing her off the mountain.
"What do you want, Bane?" Talia asked softly. Camille had asked him the same question that very morning, and he wasn't sure he'd answered her truthfully. But what was truth? He didn't live in lies anymore.
Almost as if he were underwater, Bane slowly turned, stared a little longingly back at his home, the big house.
Talia's eyes dashed over quickly, her mind working just as rapid. Oh, she thought, understanding him even though he thought he was giving her nothing. She knew what he wanted. That woman, the wife. The one sleeping in the house. And she was also quick to come up with a solution.
"Did you teach her of soul ties?" she asked him, keeping her voice meek and sweet again, wanting him to remember the innocence she'd once been instead of whatever he thought of her before she'd opened his door yesterday. "The heart and the body join and the soul has no choice but to do the same. Try to tear yourself away, and it is almost impossible. The soul is not so easily manipulated. I'm sure you taught her. I'm sure you helped her break her own…" She studied his eyes, saw the very slight softening of them as he continued to look at the house. "You took her body to sever her soul tie," she whispered up at him, keeping his awareness of her. "Did you give her your heart then? Did you do it before you let me go? That is very dangerous, my love. It means we are all connected, the three of us." Talia slowly lifted her hand, placed it on his chest, right in the middle. He was still solid, still heavy. Still perfect and without defect. She should have come for him sooner. "If you try to rip yourself away too quickly, parts of you are torn off, and it is painful. I can see your gaping wounds."
And she would love to feel his blood all over her. To know that he bled for her, and no other.
"I know what you want." She stepped closer, feeling her body shudder from being so close to him again. How she missed the power of him. "You can have both of us," she whispered, her voice taunting, tempting. "If you cannot give her up, I will allow you to keep her. She can sleep in our bed and you will share yourself. I can learn to love her for you, Bane. Does that appeal to you?" Talia moved her hand up his chest, her fingers lingering on the neckline of the armored vest. She wanted to pull him down, wanted to rip the mask off and kiss him, something she'd never done before. His mouth, she suspected, would yield under hers. "Do you want us both? You can show me where to touch her. Her mangled body would shiver under my hands, and you could watch."
It was like poison in his mind because he couldn't stop the image. And wasn't that exactly what he'd once tried to do with Camille years and years ago? Before he had fallen for her he'd wanted Camille as a vessel for Talia, had thought he could have them both because he'd wanted them both. It had gone nowhere, had given him unspeakable pain.
He had struck Camille in that pain. He had damaged her face. He could feel the impact on his hand right now, torturing him. And he could hear her cries in his mind, the soft mewing.
Something felt like fire on his chest. Looking down, he saw Talia's hand resting there, the source of the poison in his head and his heart. His soul. But gaping wounds could be healed, he reminded himself. Soul ties were severed, and woven again much more securely with another source.
He wanted that security back.
Bane looked into Talia's eyes, heard everything she would promise him again in his head. Her face, bony now but still beautiful, was confident. And because she looked that way, because she was still so lovely, Bane leaned down to her, so close that the mask was only a breath away from her wide grinning mouth. A mouth he had never tasted. He saw her take in an exhilarated breath, watched her eyes sparkle like the moon.
And then… he glowered at her with a fury unmatched.
He could manipulate her too.
"Trust me, Talia, and wait for it soon," he growled deeply at her, the mask now like hissing fangs. "I will be the one to kill you."
There was one moment, one very brief moment when she was unnerved by his words, his change of direction. Then the moment vanished like the wind. She grinned and didn't move away, even lifted her face a little higher towards him. Pressed her hand more securely on his chest.
"Such pretty words, my love," she murmured sweetly, tilting her head a little as if she could really kiss him. "Do you give them to her, as well?"
"I could do it now. You've grown weak and bony. Like a malnourished dog."
"Is that what I am?" She giggled softly, flicked her tongue out and swiped the tip over one of the tubes of the mask. She saw the disgust again in his eyes, although he didn't move an inch. "So be it, precious Bane. Kill me now. Lay your hands on me and snap my neck."
How he wanted to. Maybe he still would. "I would rather you bleed, Talia al Ghul."
"Oh, yes, that sounds better. My blood running down your hands, smeared all over your skin."
Picturing it sent a thrill in both of them, though each image was a misplaced emotion. Bane found that speaking to her this way, this aggressive deadly threatening, was even more surreal than her living. And Talia had always roused to destruction. Even her own. Once, he'd longed for her to submit to him.
Bane could hurt her if he wanted, but never would he end her life. No matter what he said.
But because he had spoken the words, she would punish him before she would pleasure him.
"However," Talia purred, running her hand back down his chest but keeping her mouth where it was, right under the mask. Right under his glower. "You will not be killing me tonight."
"Won't I?" he questioned mockingly.
"No." Talia smiled and lifted her shoulder a little in a sweet gesture. "Your wife is in the doorway, watching us. You should see the look on her deathly pale face."
Bane instantly straightened up, snapped his head back towards the house.
And there was Camille in the open door, seeing everything and most definitely misreading it.
His stomach plummeted.
Talia's hand curled into his vest as she giggled cruelly. "Won't you kiss me, Bane?"
Bane's eyes widened as he watched Camille turn away and go back into the house, dismissing him with the open door flapping in the wind. He shoved hard at Talia as if she were a man, didn't care to watch her fall onto her bottom from the impact, and charged right for his wife. He'd never moved so fast across land.
Talia sat in the dirt with her cloak spread around her, rubbing at the middle of her chest from Bane's furious hand. She watched him rush to his home, already on the distraught wife's heels. He may have slipped through her fingers again, but this change of events had definitely been worth it. Once the wife packed her bags, Bane would have no choice but to return to her. Her head leaned back as she laughed up at the moon, her hands patting on her lap in sick glee.
"I am no dog," she said into the air at Bane's back. "I am only master."
The wife will weep, she told herself, and the sound of it in her head was music to her ears. Once, he'd been forgotten, had waited for her with such desperation. Had followed her to death because of it.
Talia would be there to help Bane rise again, and no longer would once be in her memory.
Camille couldn't breathe but she could feel her heart hammering. She couldn't sob but she could feel tears building in her eyes, ready to fall at the slightest of jerks. And she most certainly couldn't scream, but she felt the little hums in her throat that would keep her on track as she fled through her home.
Everything was dark and shut down for the evening, the few men – including Barsad – who actually lived in the big house having gone to bed already and leaving the place deserted. The fridge softly hummed and the time on the coffee maker in the kitchen blinked as she past it swiftly, regular things that would happen in her regular home at night. Her supposedly favorite time to relax.
Camille felt like she was dying. Like she would literally drop dead right on the floor from a heart ripped in two.
She heard him behind her now, frantic heavy footsteps that were charging like a raging bull. She couldn't face him now, couldn't bear to look at him in case her rising tears would fall. She couldn't look at him, and see the mask that had been so close to Talia…
Desperately, Camille picked up the skirt of her long dark dress in hopes that it would make her move faster before he would catch up to her. But before she could fully clear the kitchen, she spotted his shadow right behind her.
Bane, whose expression was mostly consumed with fury but teetering on the edge of that same desperation, was too quick for her. His hand whipped out and snatched her upper arm, stopping her frantic fleeing feet. The jerk of movement was her undoing. The tears fell down her flushed cheeks, right to the edges of her painted red, frowning mouth.
"Don't touch me," she hissed through clenched teeth, refusing to look at him and instead staring with longing at the stairwell. The escape.
"Camille," he practically barked with anger, keeping her in place with force. "Camille, I love you."
"Don't you say those words. Don't you dare say that to me ever again."
His eyes glared although his mouth underneath the mask frowned. He decided to ignore that. "I would never be unfaithful to you."
No longer could she care about her state. Whipping around to look at him, to kill him with her crying eyes, her chin trembled as it tried to hold a glower he'd never seen before. "Let go and get away from me. Bastard," she breathed, then actually growled. "I said stop touching me!"
He ignored that too, even knowing it was the wrong thing to do. When she yanked herself away he only reached for her again, staying right on her heels and refusing to let her run from him. Desperation consumed him, infected his heart, and for once, Bane didn't know what to do. Didn't know how to manipulate the situation in his favor. The only thing he could do was keep her near him even though she was spitting like an angry cat.
"Let me talk to you," he said, his voice heavy as he grasped her hand, holding tight.
Camille gave a few hard yanks, tasted her tears in her mouth and felt her heart crumble inside her body. She couldn't release her hand from his, he was too strong. Feeling incredible defeat in that alone, she broke.
"Leave me alone."
"Never," he sighed, his other hand coming up so that he could hold her one in both of his. "You don't know what you saw. You couldn't hear—"
"I'm leaving," she said suddenly. Her crying black eyes looked up at him with challenge, her face a little distorted because she didn't know if she should burst into sobs or bite her arm off from his grasp. Heartbreak and temper warred furiously. "Do you hear that, Bane? I'm leaving you!"
He froze and she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand like even she couldn't bear to hear those words, like they killed her just as much as him. Camille made a weeping sound against her trembling palm, a choke. But quickly, in a panic-stricken stupor, she recovered for escape.
"I'm leaving," she whispered, and knew she would drop to the floor as soon as she was away from him. Anguish would knock her down. "I'm getting the hell out of here and you two can have each other. Oh, God," she moaned, rubbing black curls off her hysterical face. "I-I have to leave."
The desperation exploded into something worse inside him. All Bane could do was hold her hand tighter, enough to cause her pain. Neither of them was fully aware of reality.
"Let me go. Just let me go."
"No," he muttered, barely.
"I don't want to be here anymore. I tried, I tried everything. It's ruined. Everything is… ruined. I can't deal with this, I just can't." Her skin flared to life as she babbled and, God, she wanted relief. Wanted nothing more than to distract herself with a cut instead of suffering through this horror. She almost cried for the chance, almost begged to be sliced into ribbons instead of enduring this. "No more, Bane, no more. I'm done."
Camille went still and silent when she watched him drop to his knees.
Her hand was still in his, still clutched tightly like he would fall, or possibly like she would fly away where he could never see her again. She was only a little taller than him this way, although not larger by any means. If anyone happened to pass by, the sight of them would look like nothing more than a style of proposal.
But his eyes, his pretty eyes that melted her, were pleading to her, overwhelming her with intensity and a knowledge that if she really did leave, if she pushed him away, he would rot right where she would leave him kneeling before her. They were shiny and bright, frantic. Beautiful. Camille felt lifted from the ground as she fell into them, felt the rest of her flutter with need for him even as her mind experienced something different. Her tears plopped onto the floor by his knees, her hand instinctively grabbing onto his. Only near death had she ever seen him this anxious. And by the look of him now, it seemed to be exactly that.
He looked at her now and told her that if she left him, he would not survive it.
The first move was made by him and the first words said. Slowly he shook his head, trying not to believe her threats, trying, trying to keep her where he would always be able to see her. And when he spoke his voice was gravelly, a pit of despair all on its own as the mask gripped his face.
"Camille Lane," he eased out, overcome by the tears on her pretty face, by the simple grasp of her hand that kept them connected. "Woman of my heart."
And just as she broke, she was made anew.
Her skin stopped buzzing as he slowly pulled her closer, became a nothing of a sensation when he carefully wrapped his heavy arms around her, trapping her own at her sides in his embrace. From his place kneeling, Bane could feel the soft familiarity of her body, could feel her heart beating when, raw and vulnerable, he dropped his head down onto her chest so that he could be consumed by her. She wasn't big enough for him to fall into completely, but he would take every inch. Against her still chest the mask wheezed, digging into her pale skin as his arms squeezed around her upper thighs and hips.
"You can't leave me," he muttered hoarsely, closing his eyes against her chest and inhaling her scent. Inhalingeverything. "You can't."
Not that he could truly stop her. Not that she couldn't walk out of the door whenever she wanted to. But if she left he would have nothing. If she left, it was prison, it was madness and pain, all over again.
Finally she took a breath, let it out slowly through her mouth from the weight of him leaning against her. Her arms were still trapped by his own, so the only movement she was able to make was to rest her cheek on top of his head.
The silence of the world, the embrace of her husband, healed her. Healed them both. Bane didn't verbally apologize often, but he always had in a way that would get through to her. He felt her forgiveness in the give of her body, felt the soul tie strengthen to bind them into one functional piece again. And when he needed more, Bane released her and stood, hunching down to wrap his arms around her waist so that she could do the same around his neck. He buried his face in her neck, felt absolute tranquility just feeling her hair against his eyes. Camille sniffed and clutched at him, resting her cheek on his shoulder.
"You asked me what I wanted," he crooned, quieting her troubled soul until she relaxed. His palms slid all over the back of her dress, from shoulders to waist. "I just want you. Only you. Darling Camille."
With a rueful smile she felt whole again. "Only you," she agreed.
Bane grasped the back of her neck and tilted her face up to him. With a swipe of his thumb he brushed her tears away, then ran it down the scar through her bottom lip. Even with it, no one could beat this face to him. "We won't give Talia what she wants," he ordered, drilling it into both of them. "I told her I would end her life."
Camille rubbed her face against his hand like a cat. "She's probably gone by now."
And this was how it should've been all along. A untied force, a duo in arms. Thinking like one mind and touching like one body. It felt like ages since he was allowed to touch her, to hold her this way. No more division. "Camille…"
She held his wrist to keep his hand where it was, the backs of his fingers now sliding against her cheek. "You don't need to say it. I guess I wasn't thinking very rationally." She swallowed some before she continued. "I know you wouldn't cheat."
"I'm above such things."
Her eyes brightened for the first time in days, glittering like space above. "Of all things, you're above that." She meant to tease, but it came out as nothing but breathy praise.
Bane watched as her dark lashes fluttered as he caressed her. When her lips slightly parted, when her teeth nibbled down onto one of his fingers playfully, he wanted nothing more than access to her mouth.
"Let's go upstairs," he murmured.
At the sound of his heated voice, all the exhaustion and defeat from before was sucked out of her. She instantly warmed to him. "I won't wear anything tonight."
"I won't allow you to. And you will sleep right against me naked instead of pouting across the bed fully clothed."
"One thing you're not above is telling fibs. I don't pout."
His eyes trailed over her face, starting from her dark brows and ending on those pouty lips. Red red red, the color of wine, as was the dress on her body. The scar beginning on her bottom lip ended diagonally on her chin, the tone now the same as the rest of her skin. She could have marring over every single inch of her being and he would still know her to be incredibly beautiful. Made just for him, it seemed. Dragging the tip of his index finger over the faint vertical crease in her bottom lip, he said softly, "You please me, Camille."
And all the heartbreak would always be worth it for his little touches and eloquent words. "Let's go upstairs," she affirmed.
She eased away from him, allowing him to still hold her hand in his as if she would try to flee again. As they climbed the stories, she felt the ever present familiarity of his hand burrowing in her hair.
Bane suddenly stopped her, turned her around and seemed to be intently studying her head. His hand rubbed down her hair as if in experiment, a peculiar eyebrow arching.
"Something is different," he muttered.
His confusion sparked her own, then it clicked. "Oh, right. I did my hair. I blew it out." He didn't seem to understand the logic, even after being with her for years and becoming more in tune with the ways of females. She didn't bother explaining. "Do you like it?"
No longer was he anxious and could now see the difference in her. Camille's hair wasn't like how it normally was. Usually it was coarse and curly, unruly down her back like a pirate's windblown hair from the sea. Now… He lifted a hand again, picked up a big, chunky curl from her shoulder and fingered it. It was still curly but more tamed, soft and shiny, fat bouncy locks that he could actually run his fingers through. He touched her hair like he would an infant, like one wrong move could destroy it and he would be left without the chance to feel.
"Stupid question," she sighed, grinning at his wonderment. "Of course you like it. You have a fetish for a woman's hair."
He seemed a little put off by her declaration, although he didn't stop his touching.
Camille climbed the rest of the stories with his hand on her like a leash. And she'd never particularly minded the action. Once inside the master suite with the door closed and the lights off save for the glow of moonlight beaming through the windows, Bane sat on the foot of the bed as she went to retrieve what he wanted from her. He began unhooking the armored vest and kicking off his boots, tossing them aside.
At her vanity she pulled out a very small key, one of many she had on hand, and unlocked a small drawer. Resting inside was a lone blank prescription bottle, the only medicine she stored for him in their room instead of in her office. She had to keep the Lumenis pills close at hand lest they were ever stolen from or one of the men decided to pop pills within reach. As far as their discovery went, these were the only medications other than what was made for the mask for him to be without pain temporarily. They were precious, so they stayed with her. She made her way back towards him, noting the way his eyes were glued to her instead of the bottle that would allow him to be free of the mask. They kept returning to the silver zipper in the middle of her chest that held the top of her dress together.
Talia had wanted to separate them, and for a while she'd won. It seemed now they would finally come together to deny her.
"I can feel your excitement," he said, whipping off the back brace and other belts around his waist. "Every time I ask for those pills, I sense it from you."
Only you, she thought again as he grew more bare. Only he could make her shiver from the sight of him. Bullet scars and all. "What's not to be excited about?"
"Darling Camille," he said deeply, darkly. Wanting. "I hardly need the use of my mouth to make love to you."
She smiled softly. "That's true." Uncapping the lid, she shook out one little golden pill onto her palm. She would take him even if the mask could never be removed. But considering the state of them earlier, the near destruction of them, she knew they both needed the connection the pills could give. The easing of his pain aside, they just needed to merge in every way.
Bane grabbed her hips and pulled her between his open legs, his hands instantly sliding to her lower back. "Were you planning to tempt me with your soft hair and this silken dress?"
Barsad had advised to snap Talia in two. She'd thought of his words as she'd dressed, as she'd fixed her hair, her man's fetish. At some point she couldn't take the distance any longer. "You like my pretty things," she answered, taking the small bit of metal and slowly easing the zipper down some. She stopped once the middle of her lace bra was exposed.
"I do." And not just her underthings or her dresses, although he immensely appreciated them. Pretty things like her creamy skin and generous breasts, especially when they were slowly revealed. "I also enjoy removing all your pretty things."
Camille allowed him to drag his fingertips over the bits of lace of her bra that were uncovered as she carefully unlatched the mask, although she kept it pressed to his face, then lifted her palm up to him.
Bane kept his eyes on hers, other pretty things. No more distance, he vowed. He took a deep breath of the drugs, then moved his head down as she held the mouthpiece away. He placed his mouth on her hand, opened his lips against her palm. Flicking his tongue out, he consumed the pill and sent a shudder through her at the same time as it brushed across her skin.
His first taste of the night. He intended to have more.
Camille replaced the mask, keeping it loose as they waited for the Lumenis pill to kick in. She dropped her arms at her sides, watched his hands as they pulled at the zipper some more, the soft sound of it as it was dragged further down most arousing. He shrugged the straps off her shoulders until the whole thing pooled at her feet. With his eyes on her breasts, his hands reached up to cup them, to squeeze and slide his fingers over her cleavage above the lace, to push them together and make her sigh. No ruse tonight, he thought, making her arch her back so he could be given more of her chest. Just them, just her.
His wife who hadn't left him. Who would still wear her pretty things even in the midst of an attempt to ruin all that they were.
Bane suddenly craved her.
He felt the tingling in his body, the little simmering sensation especially in his spine and fingertips caused by the medication. Relaxing to it, he waited for it to finish its job.
Camille stepped out of her dress, went back to the vanity to lock the bottle away again. A gust of wind blew through the window, making the curtains dance. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warm breeze, felt the first flutters of calmness that had not been with her for the last two days. Her mind began to work once Bane was out of sight. Maybe they needed to stop and discuss what had happened downstairs, plan future steps and make sure these issues never transpired again. Maybe that was the healthy thing to do for the sake of the marriage and the infrastructure of their lives. Nodding slightly, she turned to tell him just that.
But Bane was already nearing her with the mask gone from his face, his very bare face that always made her feel a little foolish every time he took it off for her. Her eyes blinked as she stared at him, the towering height of him with the finely sculpted bones of his face past the scarring, his intense green eyes, and of course his mouth that was far more attractive than anyone who'd never seen him without the covering would believe. The skin of his face was weathered and once beaten, creasing deeply in some areas like the corners of his eyes and his forehead. But her husband was handsome. No one else in the world would ever admit to it or even see it because of who he was, because of what he'd done.
But she saw it all, and he made her breath hitch in her throat.
His full lips smirked a little. He always enjoyed her expression when she fully took him in. Taking her face he tilted her head up, rubbed his thumbs over her cheekbones again as if he could wipe more tears away that had ever fallen from her eyes. Her lips were already parted for him, pouty lips that flustered and entranced him. He leaned down slowly, anticipating her, before finally tasting her mouth.
The flavor of her first was always what she'd painted her lips with. Bane wondered if he was the only man in the world who would consume as much of the product as he did, but as was customary he would always suck it off slowly before he would delve in deeper. Like a little sample of drink before sucking it down for all. And as was customary with his wife, she would always hum in her throat when he did it, it being the only time she was okay with the removing of her paint. He pulled back a little to lick at his own lips, gathering any trace left. A red stain was left on her mouth, but her eyes were intently glued to his lips and tongue.
When his mouth connected with hers again, he opened it and took a gulp of her.
His hands slid down her body as hers clutched at him like before. Her skin was like moonlight and soft in all the areas where it wasn't raised from injury, and his was powerful and tight with muscle. Her long nails sunk into his traps before moving up to his neck and cheeks, feeling the sensitive skin of his face that was denied to her. Her heart pounded in her chest from arousal, her body hot and arching against him, begging to be given more of his touch as her mouth yielded to his kiss. Camille groaned deep in her throat when he widened her mouth, when he slid his tongue in to taste her. Bane manipulated her mouth, tilting his head this way and that to kiss her properly, to make her purr just as she was.
He went for her bra and unhooked it, pulling it away from her chest so her milky breasts could press against him. She was pliant as they both reached for the openings of his pants, her fingers fumbling against his own confident ones when he moved his tongue in her mouth a certain way to overwhelm her sweetly. After he kicked them off and away he went for her breasts again, his palms rubbing against them, squeezing her just on the brink of pain. With a wet smacking sound her mouth pulled away, going back just for a quick nip to his bottom lip before biting his jaw and going straight for his neck.
Bane kept his chin up to give her access, but he would only allow it for so long. Camille's mouth was always available to him. When the mask was off it was his time to taste her body instead. To distract himself he ran his hands over her bare back, one hand fingering the burn scar on her shoulder as the other cupped a cheek of her ass.
And then… that horrible sense. That cursed awareness that had returned as she had.
As Camille covered him in kisses and as her hands were insistent upon him, Bane's eyes darkly went to the window right behind his wife's half naked body. He scanned the land with disdain, saw nothing but darkness and barren earth. But he could feel it, like a little bug crawling all over him. Like little pinpricks of tiny knives. He held Camille close as she continued to kiss him, as he continued to search for Talia outside the open window.
Camille placed a hand on his cheek, turned his face towards hers for his mouth again. He halfheartedly kissed her back as his piercing gaze roamed his land almost desperately, just so he could know where the problem was so he could bring his wife somewhere else. Only when Camille licked at his lips, when she pulled his jaw down by her fingers to open his mouth and slide her tongue against his did he return his full attention back to her. He groaned into her mouth, pressed hard and cradled her on his chest.
"What's wrong?" she asked in a whisper, swiping her thumb against his shiny bottom lip.
He looked back out of the window, angry now. "She's out there. She's watching." His fingers dug into Camille's body from fury, but his wife didn't seem to flinch. "I can feel it."
Camille wouldn't give Talia the satisfaction of looking over her shoulder in search of her too. She could feel his sudden aggravation and most certainly didn't want to feel the softening of his erection she felt pressed against her lower stomach. But he was slowly growing uncomfortable.
"I'll take you where she can't see us," he told her. Wherever it was Talia was hiding and able to observe. "We can continue then."
They could do that, Camille thought, knowing with her heart that Bane would always remain with her. She'd forgotten for a small moment before, but the truth was right here holding her. To continue somewhere else would be the more refined decision. Instead… she splayed her left hand over her husband's chest, right over his heart.
"Or we can let her watch," Camille murmured. Only Bane's eyes drifted down to stare at her. His mouth went into an undecided line. "We can show her who wears your ring."
Bane lifted a brow, felt the coolness of her wedding ring on his chest. He looked over her shoulder, saw his own ring around his finger as he caressed her lower back right above her panties.
The awareness of Talia fluttered inside him, but it was weakened. Damaged.
Bane nipped at Camille's mouth, felt superiority. Felt pride as he backed her up against the small raised window seat, a dominant force that would ravish her. "I love it when you talk that way," he growled against her mouth. "Little vixen with her big temper."
She grinned lazily, tilted her head up when he set his lips on her throat. Then the grin fell away and was replaced with something a little more overawed when he began sucking hard at her neck and shoulder, each latch feeling more intense than the next before he would bite down, pulling at the skin roughly. It was close to painful, almost animalistic when he started to growl against her, his lips and teeth tugging at her skin until there was so much pressure she would whimper softly. Once he was satisfied with the mark it would leave, ones that were already darkening on her pale skin before turning into a purplish bruise, he would move to another spot. He kept them mostly on her neck and shoulder, the unburned one, and even placed his mouth on the cleavage of one breast to mark her there as well. He stayed clear of the other with the healing cut.
Camille squealed a little when his teeth sunk into her breast as he marked her, her hands digging into the windowsill behind her from the wonderful pain of it. His mouth made a loud sucking sound as he released the skin. He could see the imprints of his teeth.
"Easy," he hummed, soothing the spot with his tongue.
She pulled his mouth back to hers, ate at him as her hand moved between his legs to claw his underwear off. Bane sat her on the window seat, her eyes level his collar. He watched the way the marks continued to darken, the only ones he would be glad to see on her skin. Then he grunted when her hand wrapped around him, and suddenly that curly head of black hair dipped down.
The sound he made rolled into a groan. No longer was it her hand around his cock, but her mouth. Her sweet, hot, pleasurable mouth.
She was being bad and she knew it, almost disobeying unspoken orders that he would be the one to constantly use his mouth when free of the mask. But, he distantly thought, letting out a guttural breath when her tongue lapped at the head of him, perhaps he could allow this for a little longer. His hands wrapped themselves around her curls like a ponytail, her head bobbing between his legs and her throat taking him deeper. He unintentionally bucked once, heard a muffled cough, then tried to focus on not choking her. With one grip on her hair, the other hand ventured underneath her chin, feeling there the motions of her sucking mouth and constricting throat, as well as his cock inside.
"Camille," he breathed thickly, fisting her curls and pulling her slowly, slowly, away from his cock. She looked up with her pretty black eyes, her lips swollen. He growled at the sight of her like a hungry tiger. "Next time I will punish you," he threatened, although cheerfully.
"Next time," she echoed with an anticipating smile.
He made her lean back against the window, the wind kissing the back of her and ruffling her hair as he slid her panties off. He grabbed her shins to spread her legs, wanting to see the hot, glistening center of her that awaited him. Camille eyed his straining cock, tilted her hips up to accept him. He was shiny from her mouth but would be shinier once he pushed inside, and the thought made her almost whine with need.
Instead, Bane went to his knees a second time and bowed down. But now his mouth was for her.
Her chest made the motion of a gasp, her eyes blinking and her body still. Only he had ever been between her legs this way and perhaps she would never become fully used to the sensation. Bane liked to taste her every time the mask came off. It was part of the rarity of it, to finally reciprocate something he had in abundance with her. Camille breathed steadily through it, although those breaths intensified with every time the wide flat of his tongue swiped over her from bottom to top, lingering on that sweet spot that caused a sudden sharp moan in her. His lips followed his tongue, sucking her like he would suck the bottom lip of her mouth, softly but firmly and practically forcing her to enjoy it. The little sounds she made, the silky whimpers or the husky coos, fell out of her like rain from the sky. Bane draped her legs over his shoulders, her feet dangling helplessly over the girth of his upper body, and cupped her thighs as he bent to feast from her. He watched her as he opened his mouth against the whole of her, watched her eyes squeeze shut in bliss and her head tip back, her pretty hair blown by the wind over her shoulders like curling black curtains. Camille cried out and jolted, her thighs squeezing around him as her hands grabbed his head, her hips automatically pushing against him for more of his mouth. He complied although he pushed back, laying a large hand in the middle of her breasts to keep her steady and reclaim control over his now shuddering wife. He nodded his head between her legs, felt her entire body tense drastically.
He let her come with the force of his tongue, but he would most definitely make her come again. He knew this body under his mouth and hands, the heels digging into his back and the warms thighs against his cheeks. As she calmed, as she practically fluttered in pleasure, Bane stared up at her.
Camille met his eyes through dazed lust, then weakly whispered out, "More."
Bane smiled almost arrogantly. Her body was crying out for a deeper thrusting, and he would give it to her. He moved her legs off his shoulders, dragged his hand across his mouth to wipe away the shiny wetness, and grunted some as he stood, preparing to pick her up. He took her by the cheeks of her ass as her hands were already gripping his shoulders. Turning and taking only a few steps with his long legs, he got onto the bed on his knees and placed her down.
If Talia was still watching then he'd had enough of it. No longer would he give her more visuals of his wife from the window.
The way she looked, her skin flushed and marked from him, her eyes sparkling and full of hazy pleasure, her lips stained red and swollen in the prettiest way, made him stop and be still.
Because of the mask, Bane had mastered the way of eye movement, the ability to send one gaze to someone so that he was able to get his point across, be it approval or anger or a sharp glint in the midst of a good fight. Discounting the very few times when his emotions were wracked, he could keep people from knowing his true intentions through the eyes.
But the rest of his face… Without the mask, he wasn't as good at hiding.
His eyes remained intent at staring at her, but his mouth and jawline knotted into something that looked a little like the pain temporarily blocked from him. Camille saw it and could've mistaken it for something else, but she knew him and knew him well. Without the mask, he was only ever with her and didn't have to think to hide himself. He could be overcome by her as he was now, as she was constantly by him, and it could be okay. How she could've even uttered the words that she would leave him made her feel like something nasty, something other than who she really was. That was what Talia had tried to turn them into. Nasty, seething monsters that would spit lies like fire.
Camille reached up and took the back of his neck, pulling him down to her. She pecked his lips softly, kept her eyes on his to soothe him. Her legs went around his hips. "Take me," she whispered.
"Camille." His voice was raw and heavy, like it took the brunt of his strength to ease it out.
"I'm right here." It had always been her declaration to him. Her vow. Her lashes fluttered up at him, her hand wandering down between them to take his cock and guide him. His hips followed automatically, yearning for her touch and the inside of her. "My husband, my heart." She breathed out when he pushed into her, practically sang that word in Arabic he'd taught her that meant beloved. And he was.
Bane fell on her then with a low dragged out growl, his hands crawling up her body until he got to her arms and moved them over her head. She held them there as she arched up into him, her body finally feeling the fullness that only he could give her. Complete, she thought distantly. Only with Bane had she ever felt such a thing. His lips sucked on her chest as his hips rocked, her breasts beautiful offerings to him that he took into his mouth with greed. She moaned from the feeling, but it was quickly turned into a gasp when his hips snapped and his cock surged into her, white stars flashing in her vision from the impact. He wanted to be perfectly flush with her, wanted their skin to fuse together so that he could remain right there, right in the little home that was his wife. He bucked against her again, felt the bounce of her breasts on his chest and groaned into her neck. He felt one of her hands inch up his back, thrilled to the sharp pinch of her long nails as they dug into him. Turning his cheek to lay on her shoulder, he spotted her other hand stretched out to her side, gripping the sheets of the bed as her nails gripped skin and muscle. Bane reached out as well, down her arm until he got to her hand. He eased the fist she made, turned her palm over so that he could link their fingers. He could feel her wedding ring between them.
There had never been any assurance that he would leave Camille for Talia. Not once had the thought ever crossed his mind, even as Talia said to him all the things he'd once killed to hear. But he'd made his choice and it would always be the greatest one. Camille could hold his heart in one hand, something Talia had been happy to do, but of the two of them Camille was the one to rip her own heart out with her other, and offer it to him if he would want it.
He wanted it always.
With their hands clinging, Bane looked down and focused on her face, sliding his hand under her head so that he could feel the movement of her curls rubbing against his palm as he steadily pumped into her. She moaned and tilted her pelvis back, making him growl when her pubic bone pressed down on him. He had to thrust hard now from the slight restriction, but he knew how to ride her properly. And he did, keeping the grip on her hand and hair, leaning down to kiss her and eat her sweet sounds.
Bane picked up the pace. He fucked her hard enough to make the bed creak from the force, felt the slice of the wind on the slight perspiration on his back. He turned her head to the side to pant against her cheek, shifted the angle a little so that she moaned each time he surged inside.
"Come, Camille, come for me," he rumbled against her.
"Bane," she breathed.
"Let me feel it." Grunting each time he drove into her now, he was desperate for completion. "Kiss me," he demanded.
She did, and as soon as her tongue touched his she released, crying out into his open mouth. She felt the snarl in Bane's chest and the slam of his tensed thighs, but most of all she felt the spill of him into her as he came. She held him close as he purred against her, her large muscled man quivering from orgasm. And the last thing she felt, looking over, was the holding of their hands, hers adorned with his ring.
The beast has broken you, but I will show you mercy and set you free.
Talia was wrong, Camille thought, allowing Bane to catch his breath against her neck. The beast hadn't broken her because Bane wasn't a beast at all, no longer an animal meant to serve the beauty. Instead, he had been the one to give her freedom, and she had fashioned herself into the rope that would pull him from the pit and into the sky. The one who needed mercy was Talia.
Camille wondered if she would spare her any as she held her husband's hand.
He was lying in bed with his head on the pillows and covers thrown over his hips, observing his very naked wife as she roamed about the suite performing her little chores. With his hand idly dragging itself over his bare face, he watched Camille close and lock all windows and covering them with the curtains, wander to the doors to flick the deadbolts tightly, and reach into the side drawer for the small handgun they kept there. She checked for bullets fully loaded, cocked it, and placed it under one of the pillows on the bed. Only until she was satisfied with securement did she stop and admire her work.
"You look very attractive handling that gun," he said, scratching at his cheek.
She tilted her head. "You want me to use them only for self-defense purposes, remember?"
"Of course, and I stand by it. But you pick up that gun, fully prepared to use it should you need to, and I know that it's for me. So," he added, turning his palm up and waiting until she slipped her hand into it. "That makes you a stunning woman to my eyes."
"You fall into a dead sleep because of those pills. I need to make sure you're safe and secure."
He smiled. It always impressed her how very not menacing he looked sometimes when the mask was off. Past the injuries he'd sustained, he looked rather charming. "It soothes me to know my very deadly wife will shoot a man if he were to make an unfortunate choice like entering this room when I sleep."
He was teasing her and she sighed to it. No matter what he said and no matter how much he assured her that he would be fine, Camille would always batten down the hatches when Bane would pass out from the Lumenis pills. Including shoot someone if she had to. With the way things were now, like lurking women unfound, she would take no chances. Camille scooted onto the side of the bed and lounged next to him on her side.
Her hand found its way to his cheek, rubbing her fingertips into the skin she couldn't touch whenever she wanted to. She trailed her fingers along like she was blind and trying to see him; over his forehead, down the bridge of his once broken nose, across his lips and over his chin. His eyes were staring at her mouth like he were relaxing to the sight, and when her touch grazed over his cheek again, her brows drew together. His cheek felt rougher, she determined, going over the skin again and again like she were petting him. It almost felt like… stubble. Very slight, very faint stubble. Bane didn't have really any hair on his body save for his light eyebrows because of his condition caused by inhumane back surgery, but here she was feeling something akin to stubble on a man's face.
Camille placed herself back in time moments earlier when he'd been between her legs, pumping away and flush against her. She hadn't really been thinking of anything other than sex with him at the time, but her senses had distantly picked up a similar texture on his thighs. Experimenting, she reached under the sheets, probed his legs as far as she could reach before pulling back up.
Bane lifted a brow although he didn't stop her. "Usually you have more finesse. If you will give me only a few moments…"
"Do you feel like you're growing body hair? It seems like it."
Her hand crawled up and down his thigh to investigate. Bane sensed more of that excitement in her, but a different kind. Dr. Lane was in bed with him now. "I have noticed a different texture to my face, at times."
"Maybe the Lumenis pills are doing more than we thought." Her curly head popped under the sheets, inspecting a more intimate area on him. "Nothing here yet. Mostly just on your legs and jaw."
Bane cracked his back and placed one arm under his head as he watched the mound of her fiddle underneath the covers, her fingers sliding all over him. "Interesting," he muttered.
"I should write this down. I should keep notes." Her head slid out, her eyes sparkling with intrigue. "If continuous consumption of the pills will help you grow body hair, then I wonder if it'll help with anything else."
His other hand went to the back of her neck. "It might. We will have to wait and see."
"We should bring you and the pills to a medical doctor so they can test you, one who works in a lab. You haven't been tested properly in that capacity since before I met you. Even if they can't tell us anything life-changing, they can at least tell us something that's new. And this is new." She reached under again, all the way to his calf muscle. "Or, I hope it is. I need a pen."
She looked so giddy and it charmed him. He didn't want to tell her that the change could be nothing at all, just an odd reaction to the drugs. But when the mask was off, he would use his time wisely. "That will be investigated later. Please bring your mouth closer."
"Bane."
"If you're going to experiment on me underneath the sheets, then at least make it worth my while."
She gave him a deadpan stare. "I still have to bribe you? Really?"
"You're insisting that we return to our initial roles as doctor and patient. If that is the case then the answer is yes, you must bribe me."
"You're a bad patient."
"Thank you, my dear. You are beautiful."
The way he could be humorous without sounding humorous was a special talent he possessed. The exotic rasp of his voice was demanding of her, but looking at him, she could see the glint in his eyes. Camille grinned, then snuggled against him and leaned down to kiss his mouth. She teased him with her lips, pulling away when he would try to sneak his tongue between them. A thought entered her mind, and only then did she let him kiss her deeper before she pulled away. A light, wet smack of separation.
"What was Talia saying to you?"
Bane rubbed his lips together before he countered. "What did she say to you?"
She didn't react to that and hardly moved away. "Barsad told you what she said." She kept her eyes on his, hard and heavy. She didn't want to replay the image of the two of them so close until she could fully understand it. "If you won't tell me—"
"She offered to allow me to keep you as a pet if I would leave with her. Naturally I didn't respond very kindly. I told her I would kill her. I would've done so if she hadn't used you to distract me. I saw you…" His voice drifted off as his hand sunk into the back of her neck. After everything he'd been through with Camille, he'd never seen such anguish on her face as when she'd been standing in the doorway. "Chasing after you was more important."
Her eyes softened. Camille had once wondered if Bane would stay with her should Talia ever return. Before she'd married him, before she'd confessed her feelings, it had plagued her like a lingering nightmare. Talia had been dead and the scenario impossible – back then – but still she'd doubted Bane's monogamy to her when it came to a dead woman. In bed one night, he had told her that if Talia had stood in front of him and asked him to choose between them, then he would always pick Camille. She'd had to believe him because how on earth would he ever have to make that choice?
He was making it now and keeping his word to her. She had to remember that.
"Talia repeatedly told me that you would leave me for her, that your connection was too great and powerful for my own with you to overcome it. She said that you were a gift to her, a token of her suffering. She said that I would cry," Camille murmured, feeling his fingers drag over the bruises he'd left on her neck and shoulder. She felt his pride in them. "I would cry and you would walk away from me to be with her again. The unstoppable force."
Bondage, Bane corrected. A force he and Talia had never been. "And how did you respond to that?"
Camille smiled, one corner of her red stained mouth lifting up. "I called her a bitch and told Barsad to shoot her."
He gave a dark, breathless laugh, pulled her down so he could nip at her burned shoulder. "I will have to beat him then, for not obeying you."
She couldn't help the desire to rub her cheek against his, if only to feel the faint traces of the stubble that was probably nothing at all. The arm underneath his head moved, his hand taking her waist. The mass of him, the hard muscle covered in scars, warmed against her and vibrated with his deep humming of approval. Her hair fell around him, covering him in a world of black.
"I caught that boy leaving my room. Unacceptable," he breathed against her.
Camille shook her head at him. "I'm no expert on hair, especially my own. Zaid helped me blow it out. I couldn't do it myself, and I hope you didn't hurt him."
"Oh, I did."
She pushed herself up to look down at him with a pinch of bewildered alarm.
"He refused to tell me his reason for entering my living space and why he smelled of my wife," Bane explained nonchalantly.
"I asked him not to tell you so I could surprise you, you jerk."
"And how was I to know when you were avoiding me? Everyone else can touch you, but I cannot? Your infatuated assistant can fondle your hair when your locks are all mine?"
She sighed and rolled her eyes. So smug, she thought. "Leave him alone."
Bane grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. There was still wetness between her legs that he now felt on his lower stomach, hot traces of their pleasure. The day had brought on an apocalypse of emotions, but at least he got to feel her weight on him now. "How you frustrate me."
Her head tilted. "I thought I pleased you."
His hands filled themselves with her breasts. In his grip they always seemed smaller, but he knew it was untrue. His thumbs moved over her soft flesh as he hardened against his thigh. "You do both things to me, my darling. But I suggest you please me some more."
Not much longer until the pills wore off. Not much longer until she made a crucial decision. Camille leaned down to him, touched her lips to his, a sweet mouth kept from her. Falling into it, sinking deep into his touch as his hands roamed her bare back, she did as he suggested.
He pleased her, too.
Later, as time was dragged out but still ticking on, Bane was back to hovering over her, both of them panting and sweaty and nail marks now clawed into his back. His eyes, she could see, kept drifting closed and his weight collapsing on her, his limbs losing their strength as he fought to stay awake. The pills were beginning their side-effect on his body, pulling him into deep sleep as a consequence for being pain free. Weakly he adjusted his hips between hers, leaning down to rub his face contently over her breasts. He kissed and nipped and sucked at her everywhere on her chest; the cut above one breast, the darkening love bite over the other, the skin between both. He was steadily falling asleep on her, but he would keep on until the very last second given to him.
Camille could remember a time when he'd been… She didn't want to use the word shy, but simply unsure when it came to using his mouth on a woman's body. Hers had been the only one he could partake in, and she had let him discover the act on his own over the years, allowing him to taste where he wanted or bite where it seemed tempting. Now Bane was a madman when given use of his mouth. An addict for her skin instead of the drugs that were usually pumped right into him.
She adjusted his head for him as he was passing out, turning his cheek onto her breasts as makeshift pillows for him to rest upon. His weight was all-consuming and crushing on top of her, but whenever he wanted to sleep like this she would happily hold him. The last movements he made through sleepy grunting were to fist his hand into her hair as the other settled on the swell of one breast. Then he began to snore into her sternum.
With force she could push him off for when she needed to move, but until then Camille would keep him near and drag her fingertips over his bald head. Her heart beat against him as his pounded on her stomach, the cool metal of his ring resting on her cleavage.
It wasn't long until she closed her eyes and fell asleep too, crushed and unable to move from the weight of her very large, dead sleeping husband.
And it was these times when she felt most comfortable.
"Tell me about… your heart."
He blinked hard a few times before answering or even focusing on her question. His eyes were dry and reddened, his head pounding from his distorted vision. But when her words came back to him, like an echo reverberating off the walls of his brain, he swallowed in preparation to reply. His voice ceased to work at first from the pain. "It is slow. Weaker every day. If there is not a change to my care then I will no longer have the privilege of being wheeled here to play mind games with you. I will surely be dead."
She tapped the eraser of her pencil on the tabletop. "That's not what I mean. I meant your emotional heart. Your feelings, your desires. What do you love?"
"I feel as if you only ask the questions that will lead you to answers which will not satisfy you."
"Can you tell me what will satisfy me?"
He let out a condescending laugh, which made him have to shut his eyes for a moment when the pain felt like a hammer to his ribcage. "Hardly. What you seek from me is nothing but a fantasy." When her brows furrowed in confusion, he continued. "Your goal is rehabilitation, yet there is nothing for me to fix. I don't belong here."
"You keep saying that, but if you would answer my questions, even if they don't truly satisfy me, then you would discover that there's always something that needs to be fixed. We're like… cars or computers. The basic function is there but they never work quite like how we want them to. Not perfectly, at least. The mind is fragile and the heart is deceitful, yet we still go on like nothing's wrong. You say you don't belong here and yet you refuse to answer one basic question without ulterior motive. To me, that means something is most definitely screwy with you."
He was quiet then, staring at her as if she'd suddenly done a backflip in the treatment room. "And who, might I ask you, does anything without ulterior motive?"
"I'm inclined to help you."
"You do nothing here that isn't ordered by either your superior or the government. You aren't inclined to do anything other than what is expected of you as a public servant."
Those last two words made her go still. The silence grew uncomfortable when she just continued to stare at him as if just slapped across the face, although she tried to hide it. He didn't have the energy to break the quietness, but luckily he didn't have to. Her glossy mouth went in a straight line, unscathed. "You're being mean," she muttered bluntly, and accusingly.
The way she said it, the way she looked when she said it, surprisingly made him grin. He looked down onto his lap when he couldn't make it stop, his head shaking a little. The bend of his neck made the tension headache seep into his face, but he wouldn't move it back to face her.
"Why are you smiling?" she asked a moment later.
He almost said he didn't know why, but that would be the worst answer to give her. If he gave her something, even the truth, it would be better than telling her he didn't have a reason for his actions, letting her know that maybe he didn't know himself as well as he claimed to and making his declaration that he didn't belong in this place inadmissible.
"No one has ever said that to me before," he confessed, his finger scratching at a loose thread on the scrubs at his thigh. "After everything I've done, I have never heard that."
Her mouth softened, as did the discomfort in the air. "I would say you look a little charmed."
His eyes flicked up. "By you?"
Above her maroon skirt, her hands clenched together. "I apologize that our last exercise didn't go according to plan. It wasn't my intention to cause you more pain. But I do want to help you. I don't know how to convince you of that and I don't know what else I can offer you other than what I've already given. I'm only permitted to give so much. So, will you just work with me as…" Her voice cut off as she tried to grasp her next word out of thin air.
"As what?" he asked, a soft teasing tone to his voice. "My friend? Is that what you were going to say?"
She recovered by shrugging some. "Is that what you want me to say? Is that what you want me to be?"
"Don't backtrack. Your confidence wanes, and I don't like it. You could say anything I would want you to say in hopes of getting something from me, but you wouldn't mean it."
"Why do you say that?" she asked curiously.
"Because you are a woman desperately seeking relations."
He didn't want to say she gaped at him, but her expression was the closest thing to it she would allow while still trying to keep her control of the environment. Perhaps he didn't use the correct wording. Americans were delicate, after all. Shielded by their laws and their armies and their judges, with hardly any balance in the midst.
"I will rephrase," he wheezed out, sweat dripping down his back, yet he was terribly cold. "You seem as if you want some kind of relationship in your life, yet I picture you running the other way as fast as your legs can take you. Miles and miles away until you are alone, and then you begin to hate it."
Her sleeves were long and she tugged at them uneasily. All under the table, of course, so he couldn't see. "You picture me like that?" she asked with an almost pity. "You don't know me. But I'm curious as to why you think it."
"Of course you are," he sighed. "I picture you this way because here, when you speak to me, you give me your attention like you have this abundance of it inside you, and it has nowhere to go. For argument's sake, I will say that you wish us to be friends. But if I were to say yes, if I willingly told you all you wanted to know without you having to fight it out of me because of this new relationship between us, you would freeze up and flee. You would run so fast that you would trip in your heels and break your legs. And even then, you would try to crawl away with your feet trailing behind you like a sick cat. We cannot be friends, Doctor," he murmured, his heartbeats feeling like explosions in his hunched chest. "You are too detached from humanity."
She could pretend. Oh, how she could pretend. And with everything inside her, with every shred of experience left behind her deep in shadows, she willed it all back up for one final force of falseness. Of imagination. She cracked a half smile. "You have some theories," she told him.
He tilted his head a little as if to shrug. Too much, he thought, cursing himself. He didn't want too much of that attention on him. It would be harder to storm out of this place. "Perhaps it is only my mind growing weaker like my heart, yes?"
Not likely, she considered, but she let him think it. Unconsciously, her hands began to fiddle with the ends of the long braid of hair over her shoulder. She didn't pay attention to the way his dulled eyes lingered on the motions of her fingers. "Everyone loves something," she continued, leaving his theories of her far, far behind. "What is it for you?"
A little smile, sparkling eyes, a thank you on tiny young lips when food was offered, only enough to fit in the palm of his hand. But with him, she'd always eaten. It had been things like that. Now they were lost. "Do I look like a man who gives his heart away?"
"So are you a runner like me?" Her lashes fluttered and her voice was sweet. "Considering your theories are true?"
"I never run. I am a man of action, not cowardice. To run is to fear."
"Maybe it's cowardice, or maybe it's intelligence and a different kind of action. If something hurts you, you have to run."
"No," he replied simply, just one word that was so very big. "In that case, you fight. You fight until you breathe your last, and even then you try for blood. If there is something you love, you kill trying to protect it. If it is something you fear, you fight harder. No one truly deserves to be a shell for a possession of fear, but the weak will die. What I did here was try to eliminate the weak. If you run, you die. I'm not dead yet."
She frowned then, as she often did during their sessions. Why that was, was something she didn't want to delve into. Something that would force her to look in the mirror and see… a runner. A dead woman. One with nothing left to fight for because she was long gone, and possibly hating it.
"What do you love?" she asked abruptly. Harshly. Almost begging him to tell her.
He stared into her eyes, and for a moment, one small moment that felt like it hardly happened at all, he felt nothing. A sweet nothingness unlike the pain eating him alive now. Blackness, darkness, silence. Solitude in which he couldn't feel a thing. It felt… good.
"Nothing," he murmured. "Nothing at all."
She knew different. She knew his past, knew his reasons why. Why, for everything he'd ever done, everything he'd ever said. She knew it and he didn't know that she did, but she couldn't tell him. Just like how she couldn't tell him that if asked the same thing, they would be identical.
"Me either," she said softly, letting them linger in silence.
And that time, they both lied.
She was woken by a slight pain in her chest and heavy squirming on top of her, jolting a little underneath that weight since her body was on edge from being unable to move. She blinked herself awake and gathered her bearings before seeing to the problem. Bane was wriggling on her, his eyes squeezed tightly and his mouth formed into a painful grimace. Every few seconds his breath would hitch like he was suffocating, his hands fisting and pulling her hair while the other pressed into her skin. He needed the mask, his pain now returning even while he slept and couldn't wake to soothe it because of the pill. Another reason why Camille remained with him.
The mask was within reach as her husband lay mostly dead on top of her between her legs. She snatched it, lifted his head awkwardly and almost gasping a relieved breath when some of the weight of him was removed. Camille frustratingly reattached the mask over his mouth, latched it in place. Only when the gas hissed into him and he jumped slightly from the reintroduction of his drugs did Bane finally settle back into still sleep.
Her limbs were stiff and her back ached beneath him. With all the strength she could muster from only a couple hours of sleep, she groaned in resistance as she pushed Bane off of her and onto his back. Catching her breath from the exertion, she untangled his hand from her hair and the arm that had gone around her waist when she'd rolled him. Camille fell onto her side next to him, pulling the sheets up and over her breasts. Her face snuggled into his shoulder, and almost instantly she fell back asleep.
It didn't last very long.
A couple more hours went by when she was woken again. This time she found her upper body sprawled out on Bane's stomach, the up and down movements of his deep breathing feeling like a dreamy rocking to her, and the continuous hiss of the mask a comforting lullaby. But it wasn't her husband that had poked her awake. Camille found the master suite illuminated in a dimmed orange light, the source from outside the windows. It wasn't daytime yet, so she sat up in bed clutching the sheets against her front, and discovered the light was a bonfire from out on the grounds. Taking one of the sheets with her, she peaked out of the window.
The sudden fury was lit like the fire, although she kept her appearance calm and composed.
And as if she had all the time in the world, Camille dressed as her husband snored away.
She had been wrong before. How could she have been so wrong in only a matter of twenty-four hours? Camille had been wrong in her life most definitely. She wasn't perfect and, in fact, was extremely flawed. But never had she been so wrong that she would give up on the only thing worth living for. All because she'd been scared. All because she'd been shocked into surrender from one too many heartbreaking inner battles.
Camille couldn't fight for herself, but she could always fight for what she loved.
And, she thought, looking over, he was sleeping in bed.
She pulled on moveable black pants and boots, went deep into the closet to retrieve the black armored vest that was the female equivalent of her husband's, one that would hug her body and protect her. She lifted her hair into a ponytail, then felt her confidence escalate when she smacked her lips together after blotting them with blood red. She dressed without a lamp, uncaring of sound since Bane would wake when his body allowed him to, all within the orange glow of the fire from beyond her window. When she was ready, she sat on the side of the bed next to Bane, listened to the odd sounds of the mask as he snored. Taking his hand she placed the palm on her cheek, sighing into the warmth of him that had once thawed her chilled insides. She closed her eyes and sank, drifted so far down into herself where her love for him lingered and pulsed like a living thing. What do you love? she'd once asked him.
You, she answered instead, and placed a soft stained kiss on the inside of his wrist before leaving her fortress of a home.
Talia was waiting patiently by a sizeable boulder next to the bonfire she'd built. Her cloak covered her, giving her no shape as the shadows of the flames danced on her gleaming face above the stars. She grinned when she saw the wife exit the house, knowing one of the two would answer her hot signal. She'd only hoped that it would've been Bane.
"So," Talia chirped sweetly, nodding and accepting. "Snow White has come to bring me her heart herself."
"You need to get away from my house and stay gone."
"I see. You two decide to make a spectacle of yourselves, putting on a steamy show just for me. And here you had the expectation that I would leave and never return because finally, finally, I would witness the truth that Bane would never love me again as if it bashed me right on the head. Let me tell you, pretty, I have seen worse things and I have felt worse pain. Seeing Bane with another woman does nothing to lessen my ambition."
"I know why you're here," Camille said, putting an end to the other woman's pointless babbling. "I know the reason for all this theatricality. You want to get rid of me," she nodded, also knowing that wherever their bodies were now, Talia had most certainly killed those on patrol for the evening. "You speak to me as if I'm this annoying thing, this very fleeting pastime that Bane is distracting himself with. But if you know him as well as you think you do, you would also know that he could never stand to be with a woman who's stupid. And I can assure you that I'm not. I know why you're here," she repeated, locking her home up tight with everyone in it before taking a step forward into the brightness of the fire. "So let's just get it over with."
One eyebrow arched as amusement shined on Talia's face like the flames she stood next to. "You would challenge me? Do you know who I am?"
Camille didn't answer her. With acceptance in her heart and her temper slowly building, she told herself that she knew exactly who this woman was. She knew Talia al Ghul like how Bane knew her, every inch, every memory, every tainted word that had ever seeped from her mouth. She knew Talia as if she'd been alive the entire time, this demon hiding in the dark corner and laughing until she would strike. Camille had fought her countless times. She'd fought for Bane's heart, for his sanity, for his peace of mind. Now she would fight for the symbol around her finger. Now she would fight as wife.
Talia threw her head back and giggled as her hands reached up to her throat for the latching of the cloak. It dropped at her feet, revealing dark travelling clothes on her body that seemed brittle, fragile. Like a toothpick that had once been a mighty tree.
"If you dare to challenge me," Talia began, stepping forth into the makeshift ring by the fire, "then consider it your dying wish that I will happily grant you."
Camille stood firm, always one for sacrifice, always one to feel the pain and to become a martyr, her greatest ability and her biggest weakness. It had been too long since she'd had to fight or even defend herself in a real setting. Their fortress had never been breached until now and Bane always made sure she was safe when she would leave the grounds. His worries from a couple days ago rang in her head.
"I will not have you unable to defend yourself, Camille."
"I can defend myself. It was just you."
"But what if it is not?"
What if it wasn't? Camille looked at Talia now, a woman born into violence, a ruthless warrior whose very bloodline was infused with the will to maim and take a life. A demon, she thought again, whose fate had been sealed the moment her father had made his choice in life. What if it wasn't Bane?
Camille decided that she would have to find out. No other choice now. She supposed she should've been more open to Bane's offer to train her again. Oh well.
Talia grinned. "No weapons. I have been longing for a good fight and you will quench my thirst."
The two women faced each other, one determined and the other pleased. One hoping for victory and the other assuming she would be given it. One had sacrificed for Bane, and the other forced him to die for her.
All for you, Camille thought, picturing his face. Only for you.
They lunged at the same time.
Camille tried to keep body and sight in tune with each other, tried to fuse her reflexes with her brain just as Bane had taught her. She was to be attuned with everything around her, everything within reach and even beyond. She saw it when Talia went for a palm strike to her sternum, blocked it with a crashing arm before raising it against another swift hand of her opponent. She twisted her hips when Talia stepped forward, went to grab her upper body to bring her to the ground. The demon woman only spun out of her grasp as if in dance, her brown locks twirling about shining eyes. Camille set her jaw and relaxed her shoulders, lifting her hands for defense if needed. She charged for Talia with a big stride and a hard fist, another and another. Only once did her punch connect with Talia's ribs when her hands rose to block Camille's left hook, ribs she could feel one by one underneath her top. But Talia only moved her arms in such a way that had Camille landing onto her bottom.
"Do you wish to hurt me, my Snow White?" Talia purred, her frail body still somehow moving with the grace of a swan as she prowled Camille. "Please, make me feel pain."
She rose to her feet, ignoring the frustrations of combat and trying to use her temper as a weapon instead of a vice. Bane had once tried his hardest to make it so. Camille made Talia come to her then, successfully blocking the rather quick jabs of a healing woman. She caught a hook under the chin, countered it with a backhand before she unable to see Talia duck to swipe her leg right under her feet. But before she could fall, she quickly reached out and snatched Talia's top, pulling her down with her.
Camille held onto Talia's lapels until her knuckles were white, then gasped in a breath before slamming her forehead right into the woman's face above her.
Talia only flittered back like a feather in the wind.
"You fight like him," Talia breathed, nodding in approval. "With your heavy strides and your brutish maneuvers. You fight bigger than you are. I suppose he taught you that." She rubbed her hand along her forehead, although her tanned skin remained unmarked. "I am reminded of our training days. You should have seen him then. So young and powerful and willing to please my father. Back then, he would have stormed Heaven if I'd asked him to. You have made him soft," she spat, quickly ducking and blocking Camille's next attack, although the move gave her a raised knee to the face that made her stumble. Talia shifted back, still unaffected. "Three times he had the chance to kill me, and each failed miserably because of you. Because of his need to see to you when the Bane of the past, my old friend, would have ripped his enemies to shreds with bare hands. You made him weak, and therefore, you are weak as well. You do not live up to the potential of the League."
Camille's fists became quick then, her black ponytail zipping around her and her eyes set for concentration. Combat was a dance, Bane had said once, but Camille had not been dancing for as long as the demon. She gasped when the palm connected with her chest this time, stumbled back when Talia shoved.
Talia didn't fight like someone whose body had been broken, Camille thought. She didn't even fight as if she were bigger or younger or perfectly healthy.
She fought like she'd been born to do it, because she had been, despite all the injuries.
In the light of the fire, Talia al Ghul struck like a snake. Some were blocked, some struck. But one fist caught Camille in the middle of her face.
Blood erupted as she fell.
"Such spirit!" Talia said happily, barely winded, barely breathing at all. "Such bold blood. I can feel it inside you. And now I witness it with my own eyes on your face."
Her face instantly began to throb, her eyes feeling as if they were jarred inside her skull. Camille felt a wetness splashed onto her cheek. When she touched it with her fingertips, she saw the crimson red of her blood. Unable to deal with it, she rose to her feet.
This time, Talia was not so kind and gentle as Camille would later think she'd been at first.
The demon woman moved like the wind, becoming one with the dancing shadows of the fire and drifted within them, seeming to teleport so fast that Camille could barely keep up. Where Bane was strong with charging legs like an angry bull, Talia was as fast and unpredictable as lightning. Camille would take her fist to the cheek, then instantly double over when the other would connect with her lower stomach, followed by a swift foot to the side of her leg. Talia pummeled her until she began to sweat, until she actually had to back off and regain her breath from the exertion, the visible weakness of her thinned body finally showing its existence.
Camille swayed on her feet, refusing to go down again if she didn't have to. Her nose felt broken and lesions swelled on her face and revealing skin, gashes from Talia's knuckles scraping her as well as bruising her insides. The irritability of her burn scar, the healing cut on her chest, were only ghost pains now, long forgotten.
Still… she raised her hands and resumed the stance.
"Let's see if your love bites are so visible now," Talia said darkly, her gleeful expression going stoic. "You, my dear, are not fit to be Bane's wife."
Talia moved in a way to use the brightness of the fire against her, blinding her for a moment long enough for her to run up, jump and twist, the heel of her boot slamming into Camille right in the head.
She groaned painfully this time as she fell to the dirt, blood dripping from her already blood red lips.
And Talia only took her time pacing, like a playful shark.
Camille heard a loud incessant ringing instead of the popping and crackling of the fire, instead of the boots on Talia's feet. She closed her eyes against it, felt the rising burning of one as it swelled and blackened. Even with armor her chest hurt, her once broken ribs, the bones of her beaten face. She let out a big breath when she felt bile in her throat, her air whooshing out and puffing up the dirt in front of her face.
The earth felt cool underneath her. She wanted more as her hand rubbed along it, wanting it to soothe the aches and the pains. Her eyes cracked open and she saw her home, the big house. Moving her gaze just a tad, she watched the stars above sparkle like the blinking of angels.
Bane's land, she told herself, one eye steadily swelling shut. Bane's house. Bane's night sky that gave him comfort.
And she, Camille knew, was Bane's only wife.
She pushed herself up, spat blood onto the dirt. There was some caked in her hair from when her nose had ruptured, the texture nasty sticky on her back. Talia thought her unacceptable, Camille thought, trying to use what little strength she had left to analyze the woman, to find an unarmored part of the demon that could be struck. But Talia, with all her knowledge of Bane and their past together, had been left without.
"Have you…" Camille began, panting some as she struggled to sit up, struggle to keep her wavering vision on her opponent. She swallowed to clear her throat. "Have you ever kissed him?"
Talia's pacing slowly stopped as she eyed her, her chin lifting for pride. She remained still and quiet but Camille could see her mind overly working for the best answer.
"I don't think you have," Camille breathed, shaking her head for good measure. "You go on and on about how Bane is forever yours, yet you've never felt such a simple pleasure like his kiss. It's profound for him, you know. What it must mean for a man with his condition to remove the only thing that helps him just to kiss his woman's lips. You've never felt that."
Talia's mouth grimaced. "You couldn't know that. You know nothing. I was there first."
"I know you like how Bane knows you," Camille countered, groaning as she lifted herself, putting most of her weight on one leg as the other wasn't working quite right. "I know that you were nine when your mother was killed, a girl small for her age from malnutrition. I know that Bane played the guitar for you in prison and danced with you on his feet to keep you occupied. I know that he cut your hair and clothed you specifically to keep your gender a secret. And I know that you manipulated his love for you when you grew up, turning something that should've stayed platonic into something intimate and cruel. The past means nothing," she breathed, wiping her bottom lip with the heel of her hand. "He told me all of that. He told me everything. I know you how he knows you, and I'm afraid I don't like you enough to feel sensitive to your mental defects."
It seemed to Camille that Talia took only one step to backhand her. Again, she swayed.
"I will tell you who I truly am, Camille Lane," Talia snarled, her eyes full of fury. Full of a dark storm that had possessed her long ago.
Camille took more hits, although something in them didn't feel as hard and assuring as before.
"I am the League of Shadows," Talia barked, trying to keep the confident sweetness but darkness was taking it over like fungus. "I am the Demon Head to the Fang that commands balance and cleanliness."
"And you're all alone," Camille added, using her wits, her big brain that had brought her and Bane together in the first place. "While I stand right here, with my house and my husband and his men only steps away."
There were noises behind her, deep shouts in all tongues and doors slamming. Camille and Talia looked to the house, saw many heads exit it, watched the men as they rushed onto the land to see to the disturbance. Zaid raced out on his long skinny legs, flinched when he met Camille's eyes. But no eyes were worse to see than when Barsad pushed through the crowd, his gaze taking her in and seeing the damage of Bane's wife that he would have to explain. They went dark with his anger, and he made to rush forward.
"No!" Camille yelled, holding up a bloodied hand to make him halt. She was shocked when he did. She shook her head, willed him with her eyes to stay back. They had never been friends and he had betrayed her once, but if she had churned even a miniscule of respect or mutual understanding in him, then she needed to bring it all forth now. "No," she whispered.
Barsad set his jaw, and never had she seen him more conflicted. He took in the state of her, gave absolutely no attention to Talia. He would be a dead man if he allowed this as Bane slept. Once, he had been so to his brother. Dead to Bane for betrayal.
But his brother's wife was standing there, pleading. Bloody and barely able to stay on her feet in front of the woman who'd demanded sacrifice of him a long time ago. It seemed now that Camille would fight her for all that had been done to them because of Talia al Ghul. It seemed, Barsad saw, that she needed to protect them.
My fight, Camille was saying. And Barsad had to give it to her. Painfully, regretfully… he gave a slight nod and held his ground.
"She wishes to continue," Talia shouted with mockery, eyeing each and every man who didn't possess the balls to try to stop her. "With her army at her back and her blood dripping, she will keep fighting me. How foolish you are, pretty. There will be no mercy now," she growled, squaring her shoulders and fisting her hands as she approached Camille briskly. "I will end you and then I will take what is rightfully mine—"
Talia choked on her words as Camille's hard fist flew up into her neck.
And as Talia said, with her army at her back, with her blood leaking from her body, Camille fought.
She didn't stop.
You fight until you breathe your last, and even then you try for blood.
One jab after another, multiple hooks to the sides of Talia's face. Camille grabbed her neck and bent her down swiftly, kneeing her right in her weakened chest until Talia would grunt in pain. She eased her back as the other woman fought to expand her lungs, then Camille glared as she sent her head careening into her face once again, this time all her strength behind her like a moving truck. Camille pounced on her quickly, sinking down onto Talia's chest before her hands reeled back and those fists collided with her face, over and over again, forcing this demon, this queen, to bleed. Camille grabbed Talia's neck, her hand fashioned into a claw as her long nails dug into the skin of her throat. She held them there as she hit her, her claw a collar and her fist keeping her down.
Talia started to scramble then, trying to flee so she could regain the upper hand. She managed to spin around onto her stomach underneath Camille, grasped at the dirt to pull away. She was only met with the blazing fire, the heat of flames. Her weak body was giving out after using so much strength to beat the wife before, and she was quickly using up the last remnants trying to escape this constriction she found herself in. And she had most certainly not prepared for a second round with a furious bleeding wife. She yelped when Camille snatched her brown hair and yanked her neck back, keeping an awkward position that was slowly becoming her undoing on her body. Barely could she even breathe.
"The past means nothing," Camille told her again, panting through her own injuries. But inside she had snapped. Inside she knew her strength came in great spurts. Exactly what Bane had wanted for her in combat. Camille made Talia stare at the dancing fire, made her remember that she'd once wished for Bane to bring it behind him, a destroying inferno that would consume even him. But the fire had never come and her husband had been set free.
"Bane may have loved you first," Camille choked out, refusing to feel pain now. Only victory and closure. "But he married me."
She dropped Talia's neck, left the woman sprawled out on the dirt inches away from the fire. Camille could only see through one eye now, the lid blinking so that no more blood would seep into it and blind her. Weakly she rose to her feet, dragged herself closer to the house where some of the men and Barsad stood watching. It was silent, as silent as a graveyard, and no one ran to her side. Camille would stand on her own victorious. For those who'd died in Talia's name, for Barsad, for Bane, she was happy to give them back their souls the League had taken from them.
Talia shook in anger, in a rage that would always rival her father's and those before him. She stared down at the dirt, at the position she'd been reduced to from a former that had once been so mighty. How she despised that word now, she thought, her teeth gnashing and her heart throbbing as blood ran in cuts down her face. Once she had been stronger, faster, better. Once she had commanded an army of willing soldiers, including one who stood only a few feet away, her prized marksman. And once she'd had a giant serving her. A titan among men who had loved her, cared for her. Died for her over and over again because she'd demanded it of him. Once, she concluded fleetingly, she'd been a queen.
Once.
With a screech she scrambled to her feet, felt her heart racing at a dangerous pace her doctors had told her she should never approach in her condition. She stared at the broken wife, hated that she herself would be lowered so far on the scale of greatness that she even had to reach out and steady herself on the bounder nearby in case she would collapse. This inferior woman, this horribly scarred, deformed nobody of a female wore the ring, was given the vow. She has taken her tool, her precious Bane who'd been born to serve the Demon Head. He was all for her. All for her.
"No weapons," she hissed in a whisper, then smirked evilly. Reaching into her shirt underneath protective padding for her brittle bones, she aimed the pistol at Camille, cocked it. "I will do as I please."
The loud bang of the gun had Camille dropping to the ground from the jump of her pained body. Realizing her good eye had also squeezed tightly shut, she opened it when she heard nothing but silence. No yelling, no screaming, not even from her own mouth. She saw Barsad above her though, his cold and calculated stare remaining locked ahead of her. Her gaze shifted.
Talia's face had gone from maddeningly feverish to meek and panicky. Her breath came out in sharp gasps as her eyes went back and forth from her wrist now held within a giant forceful hand to the towering mass next to her. The barrel of the pistol smoked, and the hand squeezed enough to feel pops in her wrist that made her release it to the ground.
Bane's glare to Talia was more dangerous than any fire.
"So you will kill me then, is that it?" Talia asked him desperately, her voice crying and her eyes welling up because she made them do so. "You would kill me, Bane? Me? You can't," she spat, tears falling down her cheeks like blood, her body quivering. "I love you. Would you really do it?" she asked softly, morphing her face into the child he used to know. "Your greatest crime, remember? You loved me… once."
Bane's eyes were unblinking, hot like scorching coals and just as dark. The mask on his face made him menacing, made him a man no one would ever forget. But he would give her hope. A hope he had learned during his time with her that would cause her nothing… but despair. His large hand took the back of her head, felt her soft hair muddied with dirt and grime and sweat. When she calmed some, when her eyes glistened, he caught her hair in a mighty grip. A painful one.
Talia gasped as he pulled her intimately close.
"I hate you," he growled, the mask becoming sharp teeth that would rip her in half. "Goodbye, my friend."
Bane pulled her back by her hair, and slammed Talia headfirst into the boulder that instantly crushed her face in a sickening spurt of blood.
Her body bounced off the stone and fell back with a thud.
He stared down at her in the quietness, at a corpse he thought he'd never see. Years ago he concluded that he would never be able to see the dead body of Talia, that he wouldn't be able to take it because all he would see was the body of the woman he'd loved and the child he'd tended. He had once thought it comforting that he would never see such a sight. Now…
Talia al Ghul's crushed face and lifeless form gave him immeasurable relief and peace.
He'd told her he would make her bleed when he killed her. Her blood ran along the dirt like a river.
Bane looked up, looked to the sight of his men swarming around and his wife on the ground, having fallen from the sound of the bullet he'd prevented from striking her. He would always be thankful the pill's effect had worn off in time for him to see to the commotion outside his house. To the men, his voice boomed out with authority.
"Leave."
Camille closed her eyes and sighed greatly in relief, wincing some at the ache and throbbing of her swollen eye. She relaxed into the ground, never so grateful that one ordeal was over. She'd been through a lot in her time with Bane; mutilating depression, her ex-husband, her mother. But the completion of this one felt like she'd successfully swam the ocean and survived.
"You too," she heard Bane say, obviously angry with them. Opening her eyes, she spotted Barsad looming over her.
His face was expressionless for a moment, and then he grinned. He shook his head and chuckled some.
"Indestructible," he muttered, then retreated back into the house.
Bane slowly crouched down next to her, assessing all the damage done. His eyes had softened now, unable to be upset with her for deciding to take Talia on when she'd been in no shape to do so. He could be angry later when he was done being relieved that his wife was still alive. "Oh, Camille," he murmured softly, pushing his hand underneath her head to bring her up. The skin between her eyes was already black and blue. "Why would you do this?"
She smiled a little to soothe him, leaning into his hand that very gently probed her face for fracture. "You're never on your own," she told him, and for a minute she'd forgotten just that. Never again. "I'll always fight for you."
She saw him swallow, saw the frown in his eyes. To answer her, he smoothly sat her up and held her close.
"Let me see to your injuries," he muttered ruefully into her now crusty ponytail that had become loose. "After I put you to bed I will dispose of Talia."
"No," she sighed, pushing away from him. "I'm going with you. Help me up."
"Camille."
"Help me up please," she repeated, grasping onto the straps of the vest he'd pulled on in haste. "Don't want to aggravate anything trying to stand on my own."
Bane grumbled in disapproval, but lifted her anyway.
Every few seconds or so he looked over to check on her. She was hobbling right next to him, yet the darkness could make him miss something now that they were away from the fire. His instincts told him to bundle her up and wrap her protectively until she healed, but reality informed him that he would only be met with her pouting if he forbad her to come along.
It was quite a scene; Bane holding one of Talia's ankles and Camille with the other, the two of them dragging a dead body along the ground like mediocre mistakes who were covering up a fatal accident. As Camille had watched, Bane had wrapped the upper half of Talia's body with a castaway blanket, concealing the gruesome image of her crushed, unrecognizable face. Only her legs remained free, like leashes they would use to pull her without care or compassion.
They were quiet as they headed for the cliffs beyond their home, one of many edges of the world on a late night, or early morning now with a still starry sky. Bane was uncomfortable with Camille limping along, only one eye able to see and her nose needing to be set. To give her less strain he purposely walked slowly, taking very small steps so that she could keep up, determination to finish this with him in that one open eye. Why she would allow herself to be beaten by Talia was something he would never know. He did know, he corrected, but he didn't have to be happy about it.
So he slowed his strides and took most of Talia's barely there weight, all so that his beaten, bleeding, hard-headed, temperamental, most lovely warrior of a wife could help him throw Talia's body off the cliff.
Bane decided that it was very romantic, for them.
He heard a soft grunt of pain and inspected her again. "Camille?"
"I'm okay," she breathed, then turned to look at him at an awkward angle since the eye closest to him was the swollen one. She gave Talia's body a weak tug and continued on. "It's going to hurt worse when you start patching me up. I'll be thankful for what I feel now."
"I will try to be gentle."
She gave a little grin, knowing full well he didn't have tender hands when nursing her injuries. But his rough touch had always pleased her. "She said I fight like you."
He stopped for a moment to allow her to catch up. "I'm not sure if that relieves me or insults me."
Camille went to giggle, but it turned into a groan as her hand came up to her stomach. "Don't make me laugh, dammit, it hurts. I hope nothing scars. I'm running out of smooth skin."
Bane shook his head at her attempt to lighten the atmosphere for him. He also knew that there was plenty smooth pale skin for him to admire on his wife's body.
They finally reached the edge of the cliff, nothing but dirt and boulder and clay. So far up and so far away where no one in the world knew they existed. A jackal howled off in the distance somewhere, almost cheering for them to toss down whatever it was they would search out later for food. Bane pulled most of Talia to the edge, although Camille tried to help with her dwindling grip on the pant leg. He wrapped a large arm around his wife to help steady her so near the cliff's end, then placed his boot on the body. With no effort, he kicked out.
And down she fell. The only one left of the League of Shadows, the last in her line. What was left of Talia al Ghul careened down back into the pit where she belonged for the rest of their lives. Truly, this time. Bane felt Camille snuggle against him, her wedding ring twinkling in the starlight as she gripped at his stomach.
"Camille," he murmured, so soft it could've been a whisper, and hating the feeling of her crusted blood in her hair but touching her all the same. "I love you."
She smiled softly and heard the hissing of the mask, a sound as normal to her as the baritone of his unique voice or the solidness of his powerful body. No longer did she run, she thought, remembering all those therapy sessions that would end up paving the rest of her life. Now, with her husband, they fought together against the world that would continually try to hurt them.
"I love you," she breathed. Her pain had been worth it. His, too. Even the original pain.
Bane forgot about the cliff's edge and instantly turned his attention to his wife. He scooped her up, carried her all the way back to their home that waited for them.
Everyone loves something, she'd once said to him, a lost woman that he'd come to see. What is it for you?
Camille pulled his head down so she could softly kiss his cheekbone with her lips as red as blood.
The End
A/N: Please, oh please, if you enjoyed this I would greatly appreciate it to know so. I can't tell you how long I worked on this but I fought to finish it. A/U as I said before. You don't have to believe Talia was alive the whole time, but this was just a fun scenario to write. If you'd like to you can follow me on Tumblr and chat with me. I could write some drabbles there now and then if someone wants one. You can get there in the profile. Thank you bunches for your patience, and I hope it was worth it.