A/N Trigger warnings - mentions of childhood sexual abuse, rape, and other types of abuse (none are graphically described). Standard disclaimer - This is a work of fiction for entertainment purposes only. Killing people for any reason is both illegal and wrong. Don't do it.


Chapter 27

"Bane?" Bruce said gently into the phone. "Is this a good time to talk? You're not driving?"

"No, it is fine, my friend," Bane said. He sounded weary, Bruce thought. Like he was carrying too much weight on the once-strong shoulders that had supported not only Bruce but his entire family these last few weeks. What had happened to the tranquil zen-like spirit that Bruce had become accustomed to leaning on, he wondered.

"We have pulled off-road for a while so that Jason could talk to Harley privately," Bane was explaining. "So now is, in fact, an excellent time to talk."

"Good," Bruce said. "I'm worried about you," he said softly, twisting Bane's friendship bracelet around his wrist. "Will you tell me what's going on?"

Bane let out a long sigh and then was quiet for a few moments. Bruce waited silently, but with an anxious tension in his gut. Finally, he heard Bane take a deep breath.

"You asked me once why I killed the Jesuit priest who mentored me in Peňa Duro," he said.

"Yes," Bruce said, surprised. A sick feeling crept into the pit of his stomach and he closed his eyes in painful anticipation of Bane's next words, because Bruce suddenly saw with clarity where this conversation was going.

"Why would I kill such a gentle prisoner," Bane mused sardonically. "A man who took it upon himself to educate little Bane, to see that he was a literate and well-read child, versed in spirituality as well as all of the diverse knowledge that his aged brain had accumulated in his years upon the earth."

"That sick bastard," Bruce half-whispered. Bane gave an empty chuckle.

"Yes, Bruce. He saw to it that Bane was educated in every way imaginable." His voice trailed off and Bruce found that his chest was heaving and his breathing had become ragged.

"I'm so sorry, Bane," Bruce choked out as tears of pain and rage started spilling out of his eyes. He sniffed and wiped his face impatiently, even though Bane wasn't on a video chat, because dammit, this wasn't about him, it was about Bane and what he had gone through, not what Bruce was going through in reaction to learning his friend's traumatic history.

"Tell me, Bruce," Bane said thoughtfully. "You are feeling rage? On my behalf?"

"Yes," Bruce said immediately and honestly.

"A murderous rage?" Bane asked him. Bruce exhaled in frustration.

"I don't kill, Bane. You know that," he said.

"Yes, yes, I know," Bane said. "But, you are tempted to? Or would be, if the priest were still alive?"

"Of course I'd be tempted to," Bruce muttered.

"Ah," Bane said. And then fell silent again. Bruce huffed.

"Do you think I've never been tempted to kill anyone?" he said a little more strongly. "My parents were murdered in front of me when I was seven," he said. "I fantasized every day about the time when I'd be strong enough to end their killers," he said. "And when the Joker killed Jason? I have never wanted to kill anyone more," he said fiercely.

"Yet you did not," Bane said. "Why is that, Bruce? What stops you from honoring the dead and the innocent with blood vengeance?" Bruce laughed helplessly.

"Once I started, I'd never stop," he said. "No matter how petty the crime. You don't know me, Bane. Not like you think you do. I'm not some morally superior being and I'm not someone who's too squeamish to cross that line, either. You have no idea how much darkness is inside of me," Bruce said bitterly.

"Tim could tell you," he continued. "Hell, anyone in Gotham could. After Nightwing and I drove you out of the city? When my back had healed? I tortured people, Bane. I tortured them and I enjoyed it," Bruce said in a thick voice. "It fed this ravenous hunger deep inside of me that I have carried my whole life."

"A hunger to hurt," Bane said.

"Yes," said Bruce honestly, but with regret. "You kill people, Bane, and I will never like it - but you're a far better man than I'll ever be. If I started killing people, I couldn't turn it off and on like you and Jason and Harley do."

"It is your addiction," Bane said with sudden understanding. "Killing is your Venom."

"Yes," Bruce said in wonder. "I never thought of it like that, but yes."

"Mm," Bane said. "You might share that with young Jason," he said.

"Jason?" Bruce said in puzzled confusion. "Why with Jason?" Bane hesitated.

"Not to breach our road trip confidences, but… Jason thought that the Joker was still alive when he returned to Gotham after leaving the Lazarus Pit."

"Oh, shit," Bruce said. "And he's pissed I didn't kill him. I'll talk to him," Bruce sighed. "Thank you."

"Of course," Bane murmured.

"But you and the priest…?" Bruce said hesitantly. "Do you want to talk about it? Did killing Harley's dad bring memories back up for you? You sounded pretty shaky earlier."

"How could you tell that?" Bane said quietly, but Bruce thought that he sounded pleased, and a warm sappy smile filled Bruce's face.

"I pay attention to you," Bruce said and Bane chuckled softly. "You don't have to deflect the question, though," Bruce added more gently. "We don't have to talk about it. I just wanted you to know that I'm here for whatever you need."

"Whatever I need," Bane said, and it wasn't a come on. He sounded almost wistful and a little sad.

"Anything," Bruce said more firmly. "And, always." Bane laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound.

"Bruce, Bruce," he said. "You do not know what you are offering to Bane."

"What if I do," Bruce said seriously with a surge of courage. "And what if I'm hoping like hell that it's what you want, too."

"Bruce," Bane said, and Bruce's insides lit up, because Bane's voice sounded shaky again, but in a good way, this time. Like he almost didn't believe him but really, really wanted to.

"I hate doing this over the phone," Bruce groaned. "But, listen, Bane. I'm a fucked up mess and frankly, a terrible catch."

"Bruce," Bane said again, but this time in gentle chastisement.

"Let me finish," Bruce laughed in embarrassment. "I'm not much and God only knows why you'd want to be with me, but you've - shit. You've become my Venom," Bruce mumbled. "And I'd really like to date you. If you want to," he added nervously.

"Venom has many negative effects, you know," Bane said teasingly as his voice became downright cheerful. "I am not so sure that comparing me to Venom is fair."

"Bane," Bruce huffed as amused annoyance overtook his nerves. "Can we resolve the metaphors after you give me an answer? Or are you going to leave my poor heart hanging out in the cold?"

"My apologies, Bruce," Bane chuckled. "Of course I want to date you." And dammit if Bruce's eyes didn't get wet as a relieved laugh escaped from his lips.

"Thank God," he groaned into the phone as he scrubbed the tears off of his face. "I haven't been that nervous since I first got laid." Bane let out a hearty laugh that dissolved into chuckles.

"And for the record," Bruce said with a bit of a growl as he got control of himself again, "I maintain that calling you my Venom was damn sweet."

"Mm," Bane murmured in a sexy tone. "When I return, you may attempt to convince me of that."

"With pleasure," Bruce answered, his eyes twinkling in the dark of his study.


"Hey, Tim?" Steph said as the two teens sat alone in front of the Batcomputer monitoring the Suicide Squad's patrol while Bruce was upstairs on the phone with Bane and Damian was working on a cake with Alfred in the kitchen.

"Yes, oh girlfriend, mine?" Tim said, smiling over at her with such genuine happiness lighting up his face that Steph couldn't help but smile more, too, despite what she wanted to tell him.

"Can I tell you something kind of bad?" she asked him. His eyebrows shot up.

"Of course," he said, automatically wheeling his chair closer to hers and picking up her hand in his. "What's up?" he said gently.

"It's something I talked to Harley about today," Steph said. "When she got all loopy. I thought it might help her come back to reality, and it did, but… I want to tell you, too."

"Ok," Tim said, a worried crease puckering up his forehead now.

"Um, when I was ten, one of my dad's friends tried to rape me," Steph said heavily.

"Oh, my God!" Tim said, his jaw dropping as his grip on her hand tightened automatically. "Steph," he said, leaning over from his chair to wrap her up in a big hug. Steph sank into his arms gratefully and wrapped her arms around his neck as Tim squeezed her almost tightly enough to crack a rib. But Steph didn't complain, because she didn't even mind. As she closed her eyes, Steph thought that she'd never felt so safe.


"Excellent work, Master Damian," Alfred said with genuine approval as Damian completed a perfectly formed buttercream rose on his metal spindle. "And now, we slide it off with the icing spreader, the blunt tool, that's right, and gently place it on the cake. Wonderful," he enthused as Damian positioned it just so.

"I do declare, Master Damian, you have quite a gift for piping," Alfred said with pleasure.

"I enjoy it," Damian said with a small smile as he started on another rose. "It is like killing people, but not like it," he said. Alfred glanced down at him with a sinking feeling in his chest.

"What do you mean, Master Damian?" the elderly butler said carefully in a neutral tone of voice.

"Well," Damian said, pausing as he finished his rose petals, "the attention to detail. The need for perfection. The knowledge that one misstep can destroy your mission or result in your death -" Alfred gulped here - "the pressure makes the process most enjoyable," Damian said thoughtfully.

"Does it," Alfred said, willing his tears not to fall.

"Yes," Damian said. "When I have a series of tasks that must be repeatedly executed with skill and finesse -" he slid another rose onto the cake - "it is relaxing," he said.

"When I had to assassinate someone and I would be thinking about how to hold the knife and how to approach my target and how to slit the throat with the right amount of pressure and the right angle to avoid getting blood on my clothes," little Damian said as Alfred swallowed, "then I wasn't thinking about who I was killing, or why, or that I was killing someone at all," Damian said.

"So I like this very much," he continued, forming another rose, "because it reminds me of that peaceful way of feeling inside. But instead of killing someone I am making a cake. So, I enjoy it more," he said.

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred murmured, surreptitiously dabbing his eyes with a dishtowel behind Damian's back.

"And," Alfred said, clearing his throat a little bit, "with cake decorating, there is not only the mastery of each skill, but the art form itself. Color composition, arrangement of elements, creating a unified theme, and so on," he said. "It becomes an artistic expression."

"Yes," Damian said pensively. "Killing was like that, too. Creating your own signature style and flair. But this is better," he said again.

"Indeed," Alfred croaked out around the lump in his throat. "Indeed."


"How are you doing, babe?" Jason asked Harley. He had gone off into the woods a small ways from their van to give both Bane and himself some privacy for their phone calls.

"Better," Harley said, slowly letting out a deep breath as she sat on her bed in Bruce's guest room. "I didn't mean to freak Bruce and the kids out like that earlier."

"Well, I'm just happy you're feeling better and you got out of that loop you were stuck in," Jason said seriously. "I'm really glad you stayed with Pops this week," he said. "I never thought I'd be saying that, though," he laughed.

"I know," Harley laughed with him. "I thought Bane was the worst for asking me to stay over here, but…"

"Eh, he's a smart guy," Jason said with a smile. "Maybe it wasn't only for Bruce after all that he asked."

"Maybe not," Harley said, smiling too as she leaned back into her pillows. "And honestly… your dad's not so bad, Jay," she said. "Not that I'm denying or excusing what he did to you back then. But I kind of like him, now."

"I know," Jason said. "I get it. I mean, he majorly fucked up and fucked me up back then, but… he's not the same person anymore who he was back then. I appreciate that he's trying to do better. And shit," he said, his voice clogging up a little bit with tears, "I loved him back then, Harls. Like seriously loved him. He was my hero. That's why I put the mask on, you know? I wanted to live up to everything he was and make him proud."

"Yeah," Harley said softly. "Well, it's nice that you two are figuring out how to rebuild something from the ashes."

"Yeah," Jay echoed. Harley sighed.

"Steph told me something really rough today," she admitted. "I didn't have time to go into it with you before dinner, but… one of Arthur's friends tried to rape her when she was a kid and appearances suggest that Arthur killed the fucker."

"Good for him," Jay said enthusiastically.

"Right?" Harley said. "But she feels guilty about it. I didn't have much to offer her, either. Maybe I've been killing people for too long, Jay," Harley sighed. "As a psychologist, I should have been able to understand that angle and help her through it. But all I could think of was why in God's name would she feel guilty that a blight was removed from the earth?"

"Well, it's been a rough day for you," Jason said empathetically. "Maybe you're too close to it right now. I can try talking to her about it when I get back. Bane probably will, too, if you ask him."

"As long as it doesn't trigger you two and drag you back down into your own stuff," Harley said cautiously. "Honestly, she ought to get real therapy, but Lord knows vigilantes can't be honest about anything to an outsider."

"I know," Jay said. "It's too bad you can't treat family members," he added, thinking about the psychology books he'd waded through that Harley had recommended to him, and the trauma management skills that she'd taught him that helped him contain his memories and manage his flashbacks better.

They walked a fine line as a couple; Harley rightfully refusing to become his therapist due to the power imbalance it would cause in their relationship, but still trying her best as his wife and partner and friend to help him find healing. But Jay suspected that she would be far less willing to even do as much as she did for him with anyone else. She had a strict sense of ethics that had perhaps gotten even more rigid after what the Joker had done to her and she was extremely sensitive to the damage that she could cause her loved ones if she blurred boundaries.

"Gotham really needs a dedicated vigilante psychologist," Harley sighed. "Although, honestly, it's not even ethical for a therapist to treat members of the same family, so we'd need what, like a thousand," she groused. Jason laughed.

"Not that many, baby," he said.

"Not yet," Harley said. "But give Bruce a few years and see how many more kids he adopts." Jason snorted.


Floyd leaned over from his gargoyle perch to show his phone to Killer Croc in the middle of the somewhat quiet Gotham night. Apparently, having the Suicide Squad on Batpatrol was a real crime deterrent, because after Floyd had followed through a couple of times on his threats to shoot criminals in their kneecaps (and once Killer Frost had gotten the videos posted to YouTube), it seemed that most of the Gotham riff-raff had decided to take the week off and wait for the Bat's contract with the team to be up.

"See here, Waylon, this is my kid coloring those pictures I used to draw her," Floyd said, showing off a picture from his weekend trip to STAR City to meet his baby girl for the first time in person.

"She's beautiful," Croc said, taking in the brown-skinned toddler's chubby cheeks and huge smile. "Good thing she takes after her mama," he laughed. "Cuz you're so fuckin' ugly," he cackled as Deadshot smacked the back of his head.

"That's not even fair, man," Floyd complained. "If I try to crap on what your future kids are gonna look like, you're gonna call me a specist and cry crocodile tears and play up your disability and shit."

"Because you'd be an asshole if you talked about my kids taking after me," Waylon growled.

"I just said that, didn't I?" Deadshot snarked back. "My point was, you gotta pick on me about something else because I can't take a fair shot back at you. So that makes you the asshole."

"Ehhh," Croc scoffed lazily. "I need another coffee before I can come up with more insults. You're gonna have to live with it. Or," he said, getting a gleam in his eye. "I could compliment your beautiful eyes, instead. To make up for it," he said, flicking his lizard like tongue out to lick his lips.

"Shut up, man," Floyd laughed. "Save that shit for Len." Croc snorted.

"I'll save it for June, thank you very much. I don't cheat on my lady. No matter how beautiful a certain man's eyes may be," Croc said, fluttering his scaly eyelids as Floyd cackled.

"What she sees in you," he said.

"My pure soul," Croc said smugly.

"Or else she's enchanting the shit out of your appearance," Floyd said thoughtfully. Croc shoved him, but not quite hard enough to knock him off of the gargoyle to his death. It still made Floyd yelp though. "Man, cut that shit out!" he said, giving him a dirty look as he clutched the gargoyle's neck tighter.

"You're the one sitting on its back like we're on a goddamn merry-go-round," Waylon said from his much less precarious position seated on the stone railing, his legs swinging casually off of the side of the building into the dark abyss below them.

"Hey, I gotta practice for when I take Kiara to the zoo," Floyd grinned. "Besides, I've been wanting to sit on these since the first time I came to Gotham."

"So why haven't you before now?" Croc asked, trying vainly to get a few last drops of caffeine from his cardboard cup.

"Cause me and the Bat have always been on the outs, that's why," Deadshot said. "I didn't need his sneaky ass following me up here and shoving me off. Like you just tried to do."

"He would've at least caught your legs with a batarang doohickey before you hit the ground, though," Croc said. "I would've just taken a video of you falling."

"You're an asshole," Floyd said.

"So are you," Waylon said back peacefully.

"So are you and June gonna have kids, or what?" Floyd asked him. Croc sighed.

"I dunno, man. She kinda wants them and I wouldn't mind but… I don't want them turning out like me. You know? Plus whatever freaky shit she's got going on. I don't know if it's hereditary or if she's possessed."

"I always figured it was an inter-dimensional alien type thing," Floyd mused, thinking of June's alter ego Enchantress, who seemed to possess magical abilities.

"Yeah, maybe," Croc said, kicking his heels against the balustrade. "But is it a separate alien that swaps places with her? Or did she get alien DNA fused with hers that she'd pass on to our kids? Anyway, they'd probably turn out like me no matter what and I can't see doing that to a kid," he said. "I sure as hell wish it hadn't happened to me."

"Aw, you ain't so bad, Lyle, Lyle," Floyd said encouragingly, reaching over to pat his friend on his large scaly back.

"My aunt thought I was," Waylon said. "I don't ever want my kids called the kind of names she called me."

"Oh," Floyd said, sobering. "That's shitty."

"Yeah," Croc grunted. "And the names were when she was being nice." Floyd was quiet for a minute.

"I could go kill her for you," he said seriously. "Where's she at?" Waylon looked over at Deadshot, surprisingly touched.

"I already killed her," he said. "When I was a teenager."

"Good," Floyd said. "That's more than I was able to do to my mom," he admitted.

"What'd your mom do?" Croc asked him. Floyd slid his gaze slowly over to the side without turning his head.

"If you'd have asked me when I was a kid, I would've said my dad was the abuser. Yelling at us, beating us, my brother and me and my mom. Alcoholic. The works. You know," he said and Croc nodded.

"But…" Floyd paused, flicking his eyes to face straight ahead. "My mom got it in her head that my dad had to die. But she wasn't gonna do it. Oh, no. Her precious hands had to stay clean," he mocked. "Me and Eddie had to do it."

"Shit," Croc said, sitting up a little straighter. Floyd shook his head slowly.

"No," he said. "That wasn't the … Eddie locked me in the boathouse," he said. "To keep me out of it. I didn't want him to do it, though. He was too good for that," he muttered. "I broke out and took one of the hunting rifles with me. I climbed a tree to get the shot off. I was just going to disarm him," he said quietly. "I was just going to…"

Waylon stared at him, horrified.

"You missed?" he said after a minute.

"The tree branch broke," Floyd mumbled. "Eddie died and my father the asshole lived. And I swore I would never miss another shot," he said, finally turning his head to look at Croc.

"Fuck," Waylon said quietly.

"Yep," Floyd said.

"I'll kill your mom," Waylon offered. "Hell, I'll even bite her in the jugular. Just for you." Floyd giggled.

"Don't tempt me," he said. "My therapist has worked very hard to get me to let go of the need to kill her."

"Come on," Waylon teased. "I know how you like seeing me chomp into stuff. Remember how much fun it was seeing me bite Fugit's hand off?"

"Man, you're making it sound like a porn addiction. Stop," Floyd said, starting to laugh. "I don't get off on you biting people."

"You like it, though," Waylon grinned at him.

"Not in a porno way, asshole," Floyd said.

"You're the asshole," Waylon said back.

"You wish," Deadshot grumbled. "You wanna go get some beers after we're done tonight?"

"Yeah," said Croc. "I do."


"Hey, Vik," Arthur Brown said to Viktor Frieze as he passed his cell late at night on the way back from the showers. One of Arthur's new perks was an unlocked cell and the ability to free range most of the prison, and while he missed having his Squad around, he was grateful to Harley for the upgraded privileges.

"Ah, Arthur," Mr. Freeze said, looking up from his massive science tome that he was reading by the dimly glowing lights on his cold suit. "Good evening to you."

"I wanted to say thank you for helping Harley out with that gig for my kid," Arthur said. "I really appreciate it."

"But of course," Viktor said. "Children can be so cruel, eh?" he said. "I hope her situation will improve."

"Me, too," Arthur said. "Good night."

"Gute Nacht, mein Freund," Viktor said back.

As Arthur walked back to his cell, he thought about receiving the call from Harley over the weekend about Steph being bullied at that fancy-ass school Bruce Wayne had her in. He had been shaken to realize that Steph was no longer living with her mom. He hadn't even asked Harley to check up on them since Her Majesty been out of Arkham, figuring his ex and his kid didn't want him snooping around.

And maybe, if he was being honest, maybe hearing an update on their lives would have stung too much knowing that they wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Yeah, he knew Crystal popped pain pills like candy, but so what? She'd always been more or less functional, never missing work, and he'd assumed that things would get better for her and Steph after he was in Arkham.

But that was him being a selfish prick again, he'd realized when Harley had called him. It was him trying to ease his own pain with the bliss of ignorance. Because despite all the turmoil he and Crystal had gone through in their marriage, it had ripped his heart up to hear that she was living on the streets somewhere using, maybe even dead, and he hadn't even known or been there for Steph. He'd cried like a baby after he got off the phone with Harley, feeling helpless and hating himself.

At least Steph had gotten herself adopted, or custodied, or whatever it was, by Gotham's favorite billionaire. Shit. She'd be sitting pretty now.

At least he would have thought. But Harley had said no, she was being bullied by the rich kids and even sexually harassed. When he asked her how she'd found that out, Harley had vaguely mentioned installing spycams in the school. She'd wanted to make sure that Steph didn't have any fallout when the Suicide Squad went viral and old Arthur Brown became a certified hero, and instead Harley had uncovered all this festering bullshit being levied at his little girl.

As if Steph needed sexual harassment. God, that was the last thing she needed, Arthur thought guiltily. Fuck.

But at least Harley fixed it. She was a good egg, Harley Quinn - er, Harley Hood, that was. Always looking out for people, taking care of her team and their families, too. She did right by people and Arthur hoped that one day Steph would see that her old man had started trying to do right, too.

He'd have to keep better tabs on her from now on. Make sure no one was causing her any more problems. Ask Harley to give him updates on her every few weeks from the school spycams.

He'd stay out of Steph's line of sight, though; Arthur knew better than to go pushing himself onto the daughter he'd pushed away, but he'd make sure he was taking better care of her from now on. Even if it was from a distance.