Their sedan pulled up to the curb outside Viola Weatherby's bungalow and John bathed his face in the blissfully cool air flowing from the vents.

"Goodbye, sweet, re-circulated Freon air. I'll miss you so," John crooned, delaying exiting as long as possible. Bane ignored him, as usual.

His body was blocking the sun when John finally sighed and opened the door, so John appreciated he could at least melt into the concrete while standing in the comfort of a giant shadow. That is, assuming he expired before entering the sauna that was the small house. John had no idea how Bane was so unaffected by the heat, his only telling sign a sheen of sweat on his scalp. Even his arms, crossed in annoyance, didn't appear to be flushed.

"Bane, how are you—"

But then Bane stiffened, his eyes tracking everywhere.

"Quiet."

And the niggle in the back of John's mind bloomed into a full-grown hurricane. Every muscle in Bane's body screamed, "Warning! Warning! Danger!" and John's body reacted instinctively.

"Get down!" Bane barked, but John was already dropping into a crouch, fingers reaching for a gun that wasn't there and cursing when he couldn't grab it.

A single bullet flew past John's head and embedded itself into the side of the car.

"Jesus!" John yelped, flinging himself to the side.

Bane was already in motion, yanking open the door of the car and shoving John behind it and whatever cover it offered. Bane opened the glove box and withdrew a handgun, not police issue, John's brain noticed, and he hunkered down next to John, eyes scanning everywhere.

"They're in the house," Bane remarked as he sighted the front window, his voice steady like he dealt with this every day. Maybe he did.

"How many?" John croaked, wishing for his gun, his kevlar, his badge. He hated feeling this helpless.

Bane arched an eyebrow without humor. "It only requires one."

It wasn't funny, but John had the demented desire to laugh. "Oh, good. Glad there's two of us, then."

And to his surprise, Bane turned to look at him, the crinkles next to his eyes indicating he was smiling. "Indeed."

He rose to a crouch, poised for action, and handed John the gun. He nodded to where the curtain was twitched aside and a bullet hole was in the glass. There was no movement. "There. Stay behind me, Detective. They're after you, not me. As soon as I pass into the shadow of the house, get into the car. I'll need you to cover the front in case he gets past me, or if there are more of them."

"Fuck that, Bane. If you're going in, I'm going in. I can clear the yard and come in through the back if you don't want me on your six. But, for god's sake, take the fucking gun."

Bane made that non-committal hum. "No."

He was up and moving before John could react, and John cussed under his breath, checking the gun and raising it to cover him. There was still no movement, no shots fired.

John's senses were on high alert; he could see a bee buzzing near the flower box and hear a bird call and feel the sweat under his armpits running down his ribcage, all nearly drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. The few feet from car to shadow took Bane hours to cross.

When he finally made it to the shade, time snapped back to brutal accuracy and John could feel the seconds slip by as he scrambled up and broke left, sprinting to the backyard. Another shot rang out behind him but he kept moving, until he was behind the house. He paused to catch his breath, more winded than the short distance merited, and then headed to the back of the house.

The small space didn't take long to clear and John eased the back door open. He could hear a murmur from the front room and Bane's unmistakable voice answering in something other than English. John cleared the rooms quickly, one at a time, his instincts screaming at him to hurry, hurry. When he finally got close enough, he could see Bane standing over a man on his knees, holding his hands out like he was pleading. Bane's calm voice was in disagreement with the wide hand he had around the man's throat. Bane spoke a single sentence, even and placid, and the man looked to John, his eyes terrified, then back to Bane. The man tried to reply, his hands going for his pocket, when a crunch rang out. Bane, with a flick of his wrist, snapped the man's neck as easy as John would snap his fingers.

John flinched as the man flopped back onto the rug, his legs and neck at an unnatural angle. Bane gave John a perfunctory glance. "Wait here," he instructed, then retrieved the phone from his pocket and stepped past John out the back door.

As soon as he was out of sight, John sagged against the wall, putting the safety back on with hands that were trembling with adrenaline, and taking deep breaths. Then, he stowed his weapon and approached the body to check for a pulse. Seeing as how his spinal cord was no longer attached to his neck it seemed unnecessary, but when he failed to find one, he noted the time on his watch. There was protocol to follow.

The thing was, though, his instincts were still screaming hurry, hurry, even after Bane had eliminated the man sent to kill John. Because even though he couldn't be certain, John thought that the last word out of the man's mouth had been, "Bane."

Bane was currently having a telephone conversation in the yard, and as John moved closer to hear it, he kept well out of Bane's sight. Because he didn't know who Bane was talking to, but it definitely wasn't Gordon. Or the cops. Because it wasn't in English.

Bane disconnected and turned abruptly, before John could move out of his line of sight. Caught and knowing it, John stepped out, arms crossed.

"Question. Are you going to call the cops now?"

Bane eyed him, as if insulted by the challenge, pressed the speakerphone button on his phone and dialed a number.

"Gordon."

"Commissioner. I trust you understand I would not contact you unless necessary."

"... yes?"

"Excellent. We've had a break-in. One of Maroni's men was waiting for us and attempted to eliminate Detective Blake. I took the liberty of eliminating the mercenary instead."

There was a heavy pause on the other end before Gordon said, "I understand. Thank you for calling, Bane. I'll send a team."

Bane shot John a look that seemed to say, "Good enough for you?" He ended the call and turned to head into the house. John trotted to keep up.

"How did you know it was one of Maroni's?"

"Do you have a plethora of people who'd like to kill you, Detective Blake?"

"I might," John said following him back to the body. "You don't know it was one of Maroni's."

"I do," was the assured reply.

"How?" John challenged sarcastically. "Do you know him or something?"

Bane turned to look at John, annoyed, the toe of his black boot touching the body in a way that made John flinch on behalf of his forensics professors.

"I know his kind." Bane leaned down and pulled the man's lifeless hand out of his pocket before fishing in his jeans with his bare hands. John squawked in disbelief, which Bane ignored. "Here you are."

He passed John a cream colored business card, held between his two fingers, and John accepted it only after wrapping his hand in the hem of his t-shirt.

The card had a gold 'M' in the middle, nothing more. But John had seen enough of them dropped on top of bodies in the street to know Bane was exactly right.

"How did you…?"

But Bane was leaving, out the front door and stopping on the sidewalk with his hands up, just in time for three cruisers to pull up, lights and sirens blaring. John sighed and raised his hands too.

The officers who showed up were local, and very excited to work a case. Fortunately, the chief had been briefed by Gordon, so he took cursory statements from John and Bane himself, then let everyone else do their jobs, even though there was no crime to solve. They chatted with John, tried to impress Bane, and the noise and flow was comfortingly familiar.

And then, they left. With Voila Weatherby's rug void of any dead bodies, he could almost pretend it hadn't happened.

For the first few days, John felt numb about almost being killed. So when Bane insisted on exiting the house first, driving around buildings before entering, and checking the yard first before John went outside, John didn't argue. But after a while, John started to wonder at Bane's reaction to the attempted "elimination," as Bane had called it.

He'd expected Bane would ramp up the already ridiculous amount of protection he provided John— cancelling their scheduled outings, more security cameras, etc. But Bane didn't. He was even more closed off than usual, which John hadn't known was even possible. He seemed to have the same low level of anger burning in his gut which John knew so well. He also had more phone calls in the yard.

They were short, generally. Bane seemed to argue with whomever he was talking to, and then act as if the call hadn't happened. John stopped keeping track, after a while.

John's new life revolved around their list of outings, and he still had a job to do, so he gritted his teeth and tried to do it. He planned ways to be as obtrusive as possible, introducing himself over and over, with an odd enough backstory to sound suspicious.

The trips to the library were Bane's favorite, and John found a few decent paperbacks and a series of graphic novels he hadn't ever picked up before but, as he had recently come upon an abundance of free time, he figured why the hell not. Bane would check out a large stack of books every time, topics ranging from a mathematics text to a biography of the Ayatollah to Evelyn Waugh. John tried not to feel stupid.

The grocery store, though, was painful. Bane would sneer at John's box of Twinkies, so he would get two. After which Bane would spend literal ages picking out produce until John wanted to scream. When they'd first arrived at John's new "home", Bane had brought in fast food or they'd made individual meals for themselves which they'd eaten in separate rooms. John was just fine with that. There was a reason he went to the gym, and it certainly wasn't the GPD physical fitness requirements. But the more times they went to the grocery store, the more Bane seemed interested in actual food, scanning each aisle like the shelves might contain unspent munitions. He never had anything specific he was looking for but he refused to let John wander the aisles on his own.

"Stop being an infant. I will not make inferior meals simply because you refuse to stand still long enough to acquire the necessary ingredients."

"Well, when your superior meals start to benefit me, I'll stop complaining."

Bane just shot him a look which made John go examine the avocados a little closer.

When they finally made it back to the house, John found himself taking a deep breath in relief as they came out of the heat. And then hating himself just a little. This should not now, or ever, be a place he wanted to come back to and the fact that he was, for a short moment, glad to be here just indicated he was going insane.

Bane's dinner smelled delicious. John had been pouting in his room, plotting ways to slip Bane's massive, albeit somewhat comforting clutches, but the smell of searing meat made his mouth water. When he peeked into the kitchen, Bane was wearing a floral apron with ruffled edges, and John bit his lip at how tiny it looked on his huge frame.

"Smells good," John ventured.

Bane glanced at him, his eyes bright as he poured a drizzle of red wine into the pan and swirled it. To John's surprise, Bane retrieved a spoon and dipped it in the sauce, then held it out to John expectantly.

It looked savory, a slice of mushroom clinging to the spoon. Even just this spoonful smelled amazing and John would never again assume there was something Bane couldn't do.

He just tasted it at first, tongue rescuing the drip on the bottom of the spoon and lips catching about half the sauce into his mouth. He wanted to savor the mushroom, instinctively knowing this one mouthful wouldn't be enough, and he was right. His eyes slipped closed so he could focus on the combination of flavors. He had no idea what Bane was making, probably something with an unpronounceable French name, but it was unlike anything he'd had before. It was rich and smooth, decadent, a punch of flavor in a tiny sip. A sound escaped his throat before he chased down the rest of the spoonful, chewing the mushroom slowly to release another burst of succulence.

"Holy shit," John said, then licked every drop from the spoon like an idiot. He didn't care. "That was fucking delicious. What is that?"

"Do you like it?"

John's eyes jerked to Bane's at the huskiness in his voice. Bane was watching him, his pupils dilated, and okay, holy fuck. John had never been so instantly aroused in his whole life. His tongue flicked nervously over his lips and Bane's gaze followed it.

This was a really, really, really stupid idea, John, bad, no, nononononono— "Yeah," John said, his voice low.

"It is Coq Au Vin, Detective Blake," Bane said, breaking the tension and pulling away, his focus once again on the pan. "It will be ready in five minutes."

John was left standing there, holding a spoon and feeling, once again, like an ignorant asshole. "For me, too?"

Bane looked at him and hummed.

"Oh. Uh, okay, I'll set the table," John mumbled. There had to be a way to speed Maroni's guys along. He didn't know how much more of this he could take.

When they were settled and Bane was spreading his napkin on his lap, John realized with a jolt that Bane would have to remove his mask to eat. For some reason, it hadn't quite occurred to him to wonder what Bane looked like under there. After the initial shock wore off, the mask had always just been a part of Bane's face. John kept his eyes on his plate as Bane reached for the clasps on the back.

"You may look, Detective. I am aware of the mask and what it hides. You might as well be also. After all, we all wear them."

John cocked his head at that, but put his fork down and watched. The mask was mostly plastic with bits of metal for the respirator part on the front. It had to have been custom made as closely as it fit Bane's head. There were faint lines on his cheeks from where the mask hugged his face, and Bane wiped his nose and mouth as he pulled it away. He seemed completely unselfconscious, but John knew that if that were the truth, it was hard won.

The left side of Bane's nose and mouth were mangled. A chunk of his upper lip was missing, scar tissue twisting what must have originally been a very handsome face.

"What does it do?" John asked, nodding to the mask Bane had lain on the table, but Bane just gave a short head shake.

"After," he said, and his voice sounded both different and the same without the interference of the mask. The same intonation, the same strange, hard-to-place accent. But his pronunciation due to his missing lip was more noticeable now that he could see it and the flash of teeth. He was glad Bane had let him look and sorry that he had needed to so badly.

Bane ate quickly, moving food he'd previously cut into small bites efficiently from plate to fork to mouth and chewing perfunctorily. He paused only to wash it down with large gulps of water, his napkin held to his mouth to smoothly catch stray drops. As soon as the last bite of food was gone, Bane reattached his mask with a sigh of relief.

John barely noticed. If the spoonful at the stove had been foreplay, this was an orgasm on a plate. The chicken was tender and the mushrooms were seared perfectly, and there were those tiny onions which John had known existed in a detached way but had never actually eaten. He delighted in spearing them and crunching them between his teeth like a giant. He groaned, and exclaimed, and took seconds, and finally sat back with a sigh after wiping his plate clean of every drop with a slice of bread.

"Oh my God," he said, letting his head drop back. "I'm letting you cook forever. I will never complain about produce shopping again."

Bane was watching him, the look in his eyes hard to read. Amused? Assessing? Aroused? Some other word that began with 'A'? John almost didn't care because he had found heaven and it was in the desert and was covered in doilies and cat hair.

He supposed it would be an asshole move to pop the button on his pants and take a nap, but that didn't mean he didn't want to. Bane just twirled his fork, watching him. When Bane shifted, John sighed and sat up.

"I'll get the dishes. You cooked."

Bane's eyebrows drew together and he shook his head. "I'm afraid there are plenty for both of us. I shall assist you."

His voice was familiar again and John found himself smiling. And that's how John wound up washing while Bane dried, a man who was supposed to be bad at his job but was unfortunately very good, and a man who had trouble eating but had made the best food John had ever tasted in Viola Weatherby's galley kitchen. A man he should have been concerning to him but was, somehow, making him smile.

John watched him out of the corner of his eye, and Bane let him.

"So, you like to read."

Bane hummed in that way he had and John handed him another dish.

"And you like math. And chemistry."

Bane just kept wiping.

"And you like cooking but you don't like eating."

Bane looked at him then, his eyebrows frowning.

John shrugged. "You're a contradictory guy, Bane."

Bane put the dish gently in the cupboard as if it were made of crystal. "It is for administering pain medication, as well as oxygen when I need it."

John thought he'd forgotten and hadn't been about to ask again. But he was curious. "How many times a day do you take pain medication?"

"Continuously."

His voice said the topic was now closed, and John nodded. He drained the sink and hung the dishrag over the faucet like he'd done when he was a kid helping his mom. He couldn't remember anything she had cooked.

John blinked at the stray thought and looked up to find Bane had already left, moving like the fog. John shook his head to clear it and turned out the kitchen light as he left.

Bane sank into the recliner John now thought of as "Bane's" and John settled on the sofa, wishing for the ten thousandth time he still had a phone. Bane was deep into the life of the Ayatollah so John grabbed his own book, putting the small reading lamp to its intended use.

He tried to read. He really did. He was sick of feeling stupid around Bane and it wasn't like this was brain-draining stuff. It was just that he could feel Bane in the room. His presence was pressing in on him, the quiet domesticity of a man who could literally lift him over his head if he wanted, and yet he was sitting there, feet away, sedately flipping pages at a rate much faster than John's own. John sighed.

His wandering eyes landed on Viola Weatherby's sewing basket and the neatly folded shirt that still lay beside it, repaired tear puckering the fabric. On impulse, John stood and retrieved both.

Bane's eyes followed him, but John ignored him. He'd learned at St. Swithins at the feet of one of the nuns and had been mending his own clothes for most of his life. He was pretty good at it, actually. He could at least do this for the man who'd made a dinner good enough to moan about.

He quickly ripped out the uneven stitches Bane had laid in and threaded the needle. He chose a catch stitch so the soft fabric could still stretch over Bane's biceps, and got to work. His lip firmly between his teeth so he could concentrate, he smiled to himself when he heard the pages resume their flipping. It didn't take long, and when John clipped the thread, he felt a sense of pride the small job probably didn't deserve. But he didn't care. He returned the items where he'd found them, shirt folded neatly again as if Bane hadn't just watched him, and stretched.

"I think I'm going to head to bed," John announced to the room. "I've got a lot of digesting to do."

Bane hummed and John took that to mean "good night." He counted it as a win. Maybe he and Bane could get even work up to a talking stage someday.

In his bed, in the dark, though, sleep was an elusive bitch. John tossed and turned for an hour before he heard the tread of Bane's boots crossing the hardwood and movement on the other side of the wall. Finally, there was a creak which signaled Bane settling into his own lumpy mattress and then nothing. John's mind helpfully filled in what Bane looked like, what he was (or rather what he wasn't) wearing, stretched out and sighing as he relaxed with his hands behind his head, biceps on display.

John glared at his cock, tenting the floral sheets, and knew exactly what his body wanted in order to fall asleep. He tried to remind it that it had only been four days since he'd last jacked off and if he really needed to, he could wait until his morning shower. His cock reminded him exactly how Bane's thighs had looked braced on either side of the bench press and how delightfully sturdy they'd be to straddle. He reminded his cock it was rude to jerk off thinking about people on the other side of the wall, and his cock reminded him how quick and quiet he could be.

"Damn it," John whispered to himself and licked his palm.

The first touch of his own hand made his balls ache, and he ran his fingers lightly over his length, still covered by his boxers. Then he eased them down enough for his cock to spring free. His left hand stroked through the short hairs there, cupping his balls and sighing as he tugged. With his right hand, he rubbed the flat of his palm over the head, the spit-slicked slide of friction making his toes curl.

John sucked in air through his teeth and relaxed back into the mattress, getting down to business and stroking his shaft slowly and firmly. He pictured rubbing off against the muscles of Bane's back and almost moaned, squeezing his eyes and lips shut to keep the noise inside. A slow breath out and he could start stroking again, lighter this time. Fingertips and thumb instead of his whole hand, teasing himself until he was straining upward, stomach tensed and thighs pushing toward his relief.

John stopped and slapped his cock against his palm a few times, then his stomach, his balls drawing up at the sharp sound, and John bent his knees to press his feet into the mattress.

"Mmm." The hum wasn't loud, but he clenched his teeth against it anyway. He was so close. He just needed a few more—

John sped up, his precome making a soft squelching sound and, fuck, he didn't care because he could practically feel Bane stretching his ass with those thick fingers. John would sit on his lap, humping his abs, clinging to his traps like a fucking lifeline, as Bane's voice rumbled filth in his ear.

Spikes of pleasure rippled through his whole body, his groin aching for release, and John was so fucking close. He gasped into the darkness, his dick hot and urgent in his hand, and then Bane's voice in his mind growled, "Do you like it?"

John came so hard he thought his eardrums bulged. "Fuuuck," John breathed through his orgasm, rocking his hips into his fist. He worked himself through it, thighs shaking with the aftershocks and his whole body jerking as a few more drops joined the pool on his belly. Holy shit, that had been hot.

John panted, catching his breath as his eyes rolled back in his head, his muscles molten. Fuck. Fuuuck. Fuckfuckfuck yes.

Then he froze as he heard the sound of Bane turning over on his mattress.

The sound he could clearly hear. As if it had been in the same room. A sound which his own mattress had just been rhythmically making.

Ah, shit.