"Bane?"

When John woke up, he'd been in the middle of the bed, curled around Bane's pillow, so he had no idea if Bane had slept, or if John had been the worst bed-sharing partner in the world and pushed him out. The thought of Bane crawling over him, though, made him smile and he stretched out, loving the twinge of muscles overworked by sex.

His fingers brushed soft fur and he pulled Osito onto his chest. "Hey, buddy."

He could hear movement, but it was the smells which eventually pulled him into the kitchen. Bane, apron in place, was stirring several pans and the sizzle of bacon was making John's mouth water almost as much as the A-frame and low-slung pajama pants Bane was wearing.

"Smells good," John said, trying to flatten his hair and giving Bane an awkward smile when he turned from the stove.

"Hmmm. You may use the shower if you wish; the food is not yet ready."

" 'kay," John murmured, grabbing his stuff from his room and ducking into the bathroom. It was almost a relief to have a moment to himself, without Bane's presence overwhelming his senses. And then his cop brain was yelling at him, surrounded by steam and silence, to consider the things he didn't know about Bane, the questions he should be asking if he wanted anything real with this man. The secret John was withholding seemed like a betrayal. Selina was convinced Bane was keeping something from him, and hell, she might be right, she was probably right, but how was he any different? Could he really judge Bane for keeping things close to the vest?

Toothbrush in his mouth, he reminded his cop brain about the way Bane's eyes had looked when he'd revealed Talia and Barsad in his life, his "reason", and opening up to John in a way he couldn't reciprocate. His cop brain just flashed reminder after reminder that they were still in the same house where Bane had murdered a man. A man who'd been sent to kill him. And Bane, who was so very good at his job, didn't seem to notice how off that was.

John smoothed his hair and faced himself in the mirror. "Come on, Blake. Get your shit together." He broke it down in his head: things he could do, and things he couldn't do. And then he sighed and went to breakfast.

Bane had set the table differently, one plate on the end and one on the corner. He was dishing up what looked like eggs with some kind of cream sauce on an English muffin, french toast, and bacon onto two plates. There was enough to feed a small army, and it smelled divine.

"Holy shit," John said, trying not to drool, "is it still considered brunch if you eat enough for both meals?"

Bane cocked his head at him quizzically but just pulled off the apron and sat down, serving himself and cutting his food.

John sat, watching Bane carefully for signs of what exactly he wanted. But he just cleaved through the plating, which was, frankly, beautiful, chopping his food into small pieces. Maybe this could wait until after breakfast. This seemed like a solid "doing dishes" conversation. Because John had a pretty strong feeling that his list of "can do" and "cannot do" was going to fuck this up pretty badly.

"So," John said, filling his plate and ignoring the way their knees brushed every time he reached for something, "you seem like you've been up for a while— mmph!"

And Bane was kissing him. He'd taken off his mask, leaned over the corner of the table to grab John's shirt, and haul him in. The kiss was fierce and hard and fucking hot, Bane slotting their mouths together and not giving John an inch.

John's spine was starting to melt and his pants were getting tight when Bane broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard. John's fingers were fisted around the shoulder straps of Bane's shirt, and he didn't want to let go. When he unclenched them, the smug smirk Bane wore seemed well earned because John couldn't think straight. Holy fuck, the mask was a public service. That man's mouth was a menace.

"Um."

Bane reseated himself as if nothing had happened, while John flopped back in his chair, eyes wide, staring at him and trying to reconcile the thoughts he'd been wrestling with and the thoughts he was having right now. If he waited one more night, would it count as a betrayal? Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

"Um, Bane?" John's voice sounded shaky and he cleared his throat.

Bane raised an eyebrow, methodically eating food while his lungs would let him.

"Fuck, I'm… never mind. It can wait until we eat."

"Speak, little Robin," Bane commanded calmly, eyes focused on his plate, still chewing and swallowing.

John licked his lips. "Okay. Um. I have something to tell you."

Bane didn't look up.

"It's. It's from before I knew you, and I'm not really supposed to be telling you now. It's just that I can't…" John broke off, frustrated, wishing he could pace. He put his fork down. "I want this. I want morning breakfast, and you kissing me, and- and I can't keep lying to you."

Bane stopped at that, his eyes fierce on John. He still had food on his plate, cut and ready to shovel in, his fork frozen in mid-air.

John dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. "Gordon sent me here. As bait."

The silence was broken by the A/C in the window, rattling its complaints, and Bane's only response was to reach for the mask and refit it to his face, buckling the straps behind his head with practiced flicks of his fingers. He took several deep breaths, staring at his plate and abandoned food, and John couldn't stop his mouth.

"I was supposed to leave clues for Maroni's men, and when they showed up, Gordon was going to use them to catch Maroni, bring him down for good. And we—"

"Detective."

The word was a punch in the face and John winced. He tried to drag air back into his lungs. "I'm sorry," he said, unable to look anywhere but at the eggs on his plate. "I know you were just trying to do your job."

"My job," Bane said, a bitter twist to his words. His eyebrows were fiercely drawn together and he too addressed only his food. He cleared his throat, his large hands clenching open and closed on the table. "I also have something to tell you, Robin Jonathan Blake."

John braced himself, but knowing it was over already. The 'Detective' had told him that. His days of being just 'Robin' were done, and the sooner he got used to that idea, the easier it would be to stop the ache in his chest. It was the next in a long line of things in John's life that weren't fair, and he should really be familiar with it by now so it should stop being a surprise. But they hadn't even gotten a chance to get started.

"I was also sent here," Bane said. "By Maroni."

John looked up, not understanding. "What do you mean?"

Bane shifted in his seat, then looked John in the face. His forehead was smooth, his eyes flat behind the mask. "I am a mercenary, Detective Blake. I was sent to kill you."

John sat, his mouth opening and shutting and nothing coming out and his brain tried to keep up. "You… what? You were going to kill me?"

Bane's eyes just looked resigned. "Those are my orders. I have been attempting to convince them that you are not a necessary target. Seeing as how little you know about Gotham's police departments inner workings and the legal proceedings which would interest them."

"Convince them… you mean Maroni."

Bane hummed, and for once, John hated that sound. He wanted to run, to scream, to kick and bite and fight. He wanted to push Bane away and then have Bane there for him to turn to.

"So," John said, putting an elbow on the table and pressing his forehead into the heel of his hand. "What do we do?"

Bane didn't answer at first. "If I am unsuccessful in my mission," he started.

"If?!"

Bane met his outraged stare, his forehead furrowed. "If I am not successful, they will send others. Maroni wants to use you to send a message: that no one can escape his reach, especially not those Gotham wishes to protect. He is already concerned this has taken as long as it has."

John sat back in his chair, the two of them still sitting in front of their breakfast spread. "Is that why they sent that other guy?"

Bane gave an annoyed head shake. "He was trying to make a name for himself. Complete the kill Bane could not. He was weak."

"And what if you refuse to kill me?"

Bane looked at him, his shoulders rigid and his voice hollow. "They will send another. And another. And another. Until I make a mistake or until one of them gets lucky. They will not stop."

"What if…" John thought furiously. "What if you just tell Maroni I'm dead, and I go into actual Witness Protection?"

Bane gave him a look. "You are in actual Witness Protection. And you can see how well that worked."

John gritted his teeth and slammed his hand on the table, the sound explosive in the small space. "God damn it, Bane! There's got to be something! This is my life we're talking about here."

Bane's eyes narrowed. "I am aware. And there is one thing we can do."

"What?"

"I can protect you."

"But you just said!" John protested. "You said eventually they'd get lucky or you'd make a mistake."

"I have no intention of letting either of those things happen easily."

"But—"

"You thought I was your bodyguard once before," Bane interrupted. "Allow me to be one now."

John was already shaking his head before Bane got done talking. "And live my whole life like this? On the run? And what about you? What about Talia? And Barsad?"

Bane's face turned hard. "You will not—"

"No!" John shouted, rising from his seat. "I won't let you do this. I'm not going to let you give up everything that's important to you, everything you are, for me."

Bane rose, graceful and solid, to his full height. He looked down at John from where he towered above him. "I am a contract killer, Robin. That is what I am."

The name hit him in the chest and he ached with what he could never have. John's fists clenched and he looked at his boots. "Not to me."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving Bane standing over the breakfast he'd spent all morning making.

He fit what he could in his duffel bag and propped a newly repaired Osito on Bane's pillow before he opened the front door for the last time. He would never see this house again, and while he knew it couldn't possibly be cold, as he closed the door behind him, he started to shiver.

If he was being honest with himself, he couldn't believe it had taken as long as it had. But the few weeks he'd spent on the run, changing names and hotels and looking constantly over his shoulder had felt much longer, and he should have realized how much Bane had been doing to keep Maroni's men off his tail.

It was embarrassing, really. He was a cop. He grew up in The Narrows. He had the most street smarts one could acquire without actually being a criminal, but he supposed none of that stopped being clubbed over the head and dragged to a van with a bag over your head.

Maroni's men came for him at dusk, when he was pulling groceries from the back seat of the car he'd gotten for $500, and they left most of them scattered over the pavement of the motel parking lot. Except one of them grabbed his box of Twinkies. John could tell because he could smell someone eating them, the asshole, and the accompanying crinkle of the wrapper sealed his fate. When he finally got out of here, none of these assholes were going to see anything but the inside of a prison cell for the rest of their lives. Didn't they know how hard it was to find places that stocked Twinkies by the box?

He hollered things of that nature until he was hoarse and didn't get a single reply. The trip in the van lasted at least four hours, as far as John could gauge, and he was 75% sure they'd left west out of town, although he couldn't hear if they were on an interstate or smaller highway, and he was so angry, at himself, at his kidnappers, at Bane, at Gordon, that it wasn't hard to keep up a running litany of insults the whole way.

John's bladder was starting to complain when they finally pulled onto a side road, and he fell silent trying to keep track of turns and time spent navigating what felt like a low-maintenance road. Each jounce and rut made him grit his teeth and think about anything other than running rivers, or tidal waves, or waterfalls. After twenty minutes, the van slowed and finally stopped, the sliding door opening and everyone piling out. Almost as an afterthought, they grabbed John and he stumbled out of the van, hands tied behind his back and bag still over his head, crashing to the ground. He tensed, waiting for them to haul him back up, but they didn't. They just stood while he tried to take stock of how many of them there were, the type of grass his knees were pressed against, how far he could throw them if they made the mistake of bending over him. Eventually he got up on his own, and they just led him forward, letting his trip and stumble over every dip in the ground.

He fell twice more before they reached a wooden porch, from the sounds of it, and they shoved him up and through a screechy screen door and inside a place where the stale, muggy air reached him even through the bag.

He stumbled over the threshold, tripping and crashing through a low table with his shoulder and his face, and then he lay there, panting into the bag, blood from his probably-broken nose and a cut on his head running into his mouth.

"Ah, fuck," came a voice above him, "now he's got blood all over everything."

"You weren't supposed to talk, either, dumbass."

John felt a flare of hope at that, until another voice said, "Well, since you can't put the toothpaste back in the tube…" and a vicious kick landed on his left kidney. John grunted, determined not to add to their fun.

"Oh, you don't like that?" came the sneer, and he got a kick in the face for his trouble, the bones in his nose crunching together. John couldn't stop the cry torn from his throat, and he curled himself tighter.

"Ah, stop it. He's on his way. Said he wanted him alive."

"Yeah," came the first voice, "but it's a long drive. And did he say how many pieces he needed to be in?"

There was a metallic snick of a blade opening, and John stiffened, trying to back away, even though he knew it was useless.

"No," said the second with a smile John could hear, "no, he never said anything about that."

They laughed, a cruel, ugly sound, and John felt the sting of a blade pierce his forearm.

"Fuck!" he said, jerking back and consequently causing the knife to slice him where he dragged his arm away. They laughed again, taunts and jeers adding to it. The cut goddamned hurt, but not as much as the kick to the face had, and John gritted his teeth.

"Hey, guys? Come on. I'm just a guy, like you, just trying to live his life. Can we not do this? I have to pee, I've got blood in my eyes, and I don't fucking know anything." The anger he always felt crept into the last word and he swallowed again, blood and bile better in his stomach than in his nose and ears. He could feel the blood running down his wrists and for a moment he thought they might take pity on him. Then there was a sharp kick right in his overfull bladder. John grunted in pain, his balls drawing up as his bladder let go, soaking the front of his pants. The hysterical laughter crashed around his head.

It went on and on and on, John moaning into the floor, lying on broken pieces of wood while four men took turns kicking him, and cutting him only deep enough to be painful.

Finally, a fifth voice cut through the jeering laughter. "Alright, alright, you assholes. Jesus, he smells like piss. Clean him up, he'll be here soon. And don't untie his hands."

"Yeah, yeah, we fuckin' know," one of the other's mumbled under his breath, but John felt hands in his armpits hauling him up and he used a last surge of strength to kick out, trying to land a hit, any hit, on his captors. He caught one of them in the leg and the others laughed as the man howled, dropping John back to the floor, where he landed with a grunt on his knees. He tried to steady his breath, tried to make the next contact an attack, sick of being a victim.

"You fucker!" the man yelped before slamming something across the back of John's head hard enough to make him see stars.

"Get him up," the fifth voice, clearly the leader, said. "Change his pants and wipe enough blood off his face so Maroni knows who it is. You've got ten minutes."

John struggled, but between the four of them, they cut off his jeans and underwear and found a pair of too-large sweatpants to put on him. They mostly just put them over John's feet and held them steady while he thrashed and kicked, the sweats riding up with his movement and essentially dressing himself. John cursed himself, and them, a blue streak.

He was efficiently zip-tied to a chair and the bag was ripped off his head, drying blood pulling at his skin and fresh blood smearing across his face. John tried to catch glimpses of his attackers and their surroundings while his face was scrubbed by a wet wipe in painful swipes and the bag, turned inside out, was put back on his head.

They made their ten minute deadline by seconds because John heard the squeaky door open and a blast of air stirring the humid house while everything else fell still.

John panted breaths into the thick cotton, ears straining and trying to figure out his play if this really was Maroni.

"Officer Blake," came the heavy voice John recognized from trial footage and hours of TV coverage. "Or should I say Detective Blake? I hear you're in line for a promotion."

"I have to make it back alive, first," came John's muffled answer. Maroni laughed.

"Well, in that case, let's just stick to Officer. Don't want to jinx anything."

John grimaced as the bag was removed again and the bright light revealed Maroni, sitting comfortably on a plaid couch in a suit that cost more than John's apartment.

"Tell me, Officer," Maroni said, sitting forward and looking at John as if he actually gave a shit about anything he said. "Which do you think is more important in this world: money or power?"

John didn't say anything, not interested in playing this sick game. He just glared.

"No, this is the part where you answer, son. I'm interested in your perspective. I, as you know, have both, whereas you have neither. So, naturally, I feel my judgement is different than yours and I'm very curious what you think is the more beneficial."

The air hung heavy while he waited for an answer and John waited for the slap which was supposed to encourage him to talk. He wasn't disappointed. Except it was more of a punch, and his head swam and his cheek got cut open on his teeth. He spat out the blood at Maroni's feet, grateful he didn't have to swallow it.

Maroni just chuckled. "Oh, Officer Blake. You seem to think that ruining my shoes will upset me. What you haven't calculated is that I have many, many shoes, and that I'm already upset."

His voice changed from joking to cold, and John felt his stomach clench in fear and preparation.

"I am waiting for your answer, Officer."

His face was hard and angry, and the goon who had punched him looked giddy at the thought of getting to do it again.

John licked his split lip, his eyes on Maroni, and spit again. "Doesn't look like either of them would be very helpful right now."

Maroni tilted his head, studying John, as if he hadn't expected that answer. "Interesting. You're wrong, of course, because the correct answer is 'power', which is probably the only thing that could save you, if saving you were a thing that was even possible."

Maroni rose to his feet and started taking his rings off as he paced, placing them one at a time in his suit jacket pocket. There was a small, metallic clink as he dropped them in.

"You see, with enough power, you don't need money. You have reputation, you have clout." He leaned over John, his face close enough that John could smell the coffee on his breath. "People hear your name, and then," he gave an exaggerated shiver, "they just itch to obey." He grinned.

With a movement faster than John would have thought possible, Maroni's hand snatched John's jaw and yanked it painfully to the side. John squirmed, but Maroni held him tight, bringing his lips to John's ear. "That's why you're here, you see. You are affecting my most precious commodity. And while the people who steal money from me are punished, severely, those who attempt to steal power… well, let's just say that money would be a lot easier to return."

John glared at him from where his head was wrenched, hating this man with every beat of his heart. "You killed 87 people in the last ten years alone, and put hundreds of poor people in shitty housing so you could profit off their poverty. You bring in more and more potent drugs to keep people addicted, you make people feel like you're the only way to get out of their shit life, but then you just hold them there with your foot on their neck. You're a disease."

John spit the word at him, mouth full of blood again, and he felt a thrill of power when he saw a fleck land on Maroni's cheek. Maroni straightened with disgust and withdrew his handkerchief to wipe it away. He tucked it carefully away, only to reach into his jacket pocket and withdraw a set of brass knuckles. He fitted them thoughtfully over his hands.

"You may be right, Officer Blake. But if you're the medicine, you're not powerful enough to stop me."

He punched John so hard his head snapped back. His cheek felt like it exploded and when the next punch came, his vision went black he thought he'd lost his eye. Then he blinked the blood away in time to see Maroni's fist pulled back and descending.

John closed his eyes in preparation, steeling himself for the pain, but it never came. He heard the smack of flesh on flesh and opened his eyes to see 6'5" of muscled wrath descend on Maroni and his men.

Bane in motion was beautiful to watch. He wasted no movements, seemed to sense where the next man would be, and John had never seen a fighting style like his before. He was ruthless, and John could see it was not about martial arts. It was about carnage. Whatever movement lent the most pain, Bane brought to each man in spades. His wide fingers twisted joints, grabbed rib cages, and crushed necks. His heavy black boots kicked through shins and stamped on collarbones. And when each of Maroni's men had been brought low, mewling on the floor, Bane wrung the life out of them. And then he went after Maroni.

Maroni had fled, and John, still tied to the chair, shouted, "Out the front door!" to Bane as the last man went still. Bane gave chase, but if John had thought for one moment that an aging gangster in an expensive suit could out-run Bane, he hadn't been paying attention.

"Bane, you disloyal piece of shit," Maroni yelled and Bane hauled him roughly through the door. "You are done, do you hear me? You will never work again, not here, not anywhere. You will be stocking shelves for the rest of your life, do you hear me?"

Bane didn't reply, just dragged the man before the plaid couch and pushed him to his knees. He was lower than John, hands visibly shaking even as he tried to sneer up at him.

"Maroni," John said, revolted at the taste of the name in his mouth. "You'd better hope that the worst thing that happens to you is that Gordon locks you up for the rest of your miserable, disgusting life."

"Tch. You cannot touch me. Whatever harm you do to me will be nothing compared to what we'll do to your loved ones. You think we don't know about your boys' home? Gordon? The bitch? We will end them all. One word from me, and—"

Bane squeezed the man's neck hard enough to stop him from talking. "But how can you give the word, Maroni," he asked, his voice lethal, "if you do not have a tongue?"

With speed that defied logic, Bane's hand snaked out and yanked the muscle from Maroni's mouth, snapping off at least one tooth in the process. John grimaced at the spill of blood as Maroni screamed, hands digging helplessly at his mouth.

Bane dropped the tongue on the ground and Maroni floundered to retrieve it, still screaming. Bane just hauled him back to his knees and wiped his hand on Maroni's suit.

"Now, you will listen very closely," Bane said. "I gave a rule. A very simple rule, do you remember? I'll repeat it." He leaned close to Maroni's head, who had stifled his screams to whimpers to hear Bane whisper, "No one. Touches him. But me. Hmm? You remember. But that's twice now I've had to remind you. And I'm not a patient man."

Bane straightened, and looked to John. Bane's hand rested, calm and relaxed, on the back of Maroni's neck, and John didn't know how Maroni wasn't cringing away from the certain death it represented. John tensed, watching Maroni's face, for the moment he would know this nightmare was over. But Bane just stood there.

And suddenly, John knew what he was doing. He was waiting for John to take the lead. He was giving John the power Maroni said he didn't have. He met Bane's eyes, steady and sure, and John knew that Bane would follow whatever he decided. This was John's call, and John hated it. Because he knew what the right answer was, and he wasn't going to choose it.

He took a deep breath. He stared at Maroni, each beat of his heart pumping blood out of his mouth and down his chin, eyes wide and terror seeping out of his very pores. He knew the power was John's too, because his face was pleading with John.

John closed his eyes. "87 people," he murmured. "Slums and drugs and climbing your way to the top by creating stepping stones out of minorities and poverty-stricken people with no hope. You are scum, Maroni. And I may not be powerful medicine. But I think I know someone who is."

John met Bane's eyes, his teeth gritted, his heart racing, and nodded.

Bane nodded back, and the hand resting on Maroni's neck tightened. Bane bent the man forward with his other hand on the back of his head, and with a sickening wet 'pop' that would reverberate in John's mind forever, snapped his spinal column.

John slammed his eyes shut as Maroni slumped to the floor and held them shut as Bane cut his ties. His body started to shake uncontrollably and he slid out of the chair, only for Bane to catch him before he hit the ground.

Without a word, Bane lifted John into his arms and carried him out of the house.

"How did you find me?" John gritted through the pain, his eyes still closed, focused only on Bane's body, solid and comforting.

Bane hummed, and John thought he'd never heard a better sound. "I did not."

John forced his eyes open to look at Bane, this man in a mask who had saved his life, this man who had taken another's at his command. His eyes were crinkling.

"You failed to Selina."

The world went gray, and then, thankfully, black.

When John woke, it was to the beep of hospital monitors.

"Son?"

John turned to see Gordon in the doorway, cup 'o' noodles in his hand. John blinked, but the vision stayed.

"Nurse! He's awake!" Gordon rushed to his side, food in his hand forgotten and John would have found it funny if he didn't hurt everywhere.

He looked around. "Bane?" he croaked, reaching for the water.

"Don't move, I've got ya," Gordon said, swapping his cup for John's and bringing it to his lips. The nurses came in then, checking John over, asking him questions, recording the answers, and Gordon moved aside.

When they finally cleared out and it was just the two of them, Gordon said, "Thank God you're awake, John. I've got a pile of dead bodies and frankly no idea what to tell anyone. What in the holy name of Christ went down last night?"

"Last night?" John asked, head still fuzzy. "How long have I been out?"

Gordon shook his head. "No idea. Coroner put time of death at around 2 am, but you were unconscious when the hospital staff found you in one of Maroni's cars. Now you tell me— what the hell happened?"

John swallowed and let his head drop back on the pillow. "Bane."

Gordon's jaw dropped. "Bane did this to you?!"

"No, no, no," John said, irritated. "Bane happened to them. But he could have." He sighed, knowing he wasn't making sense. "Bane was one of Maroni's. He was supposed to kill me. But he… didn't."

Gordon looked flabbergasted.

"Look," John said, trying to keep Gordon in focus. "Bane was doing his job. Your job, I mean. The one you hired him for. Those men are dead and good goddamn riddance."

"But Maroni," Gordon insisted. "Now all of those cases will never get solved. All of those families waiting for justice, for closure… John, this is not how the criminal justice system gets stronger. People need to believe in it. People need to believe that good will win, that rules and order will bring down the bad. People need hope, God damn it. They don't need more death and they definitely don't need another killer to be afraid of."

"So give them hope, Commissioner," John murmured, his eyes feeling heavy. "You have your first six prisoners captured and put away by the Dent Act. They received life sentences. They're going away for a very, very long time. They'll probably never see the light of day again."

Gordon looked at him, his mouth hanging open, and then he let out one harsh bark of a laugh. Then he closed his eyes and sighed, running a hand down his face. "Jesus, I…" His mouth twisted, his heavy-lidded eyes that hid sharp intellect blinked open. "Yeah. Maybe. Hope, right?"

"Hope," John agreed, his eyes closed. He let his head drop back on the pillow.

"What about Bane?"

John hummed. "No one touches him but me."