Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of DC Comics, Christopher Nolan, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: After Hugo Strange uses him as a test subject for an experiment in the Narrows, John Blake ends up owing his life to Bane and relying on him to survive. Several years post-TDKR. AU.

Author's Notes: Whew! Well, for another more pensive installment, this chapter took me a while to put together. First I couldn't figure out exactly what the characters would say to one another, and then I was traveling, and then I was suffering from writer's block... Needless to say, I'm happy it's finished. I had to improvise a little in this chapter about why Bane ended up in the Pit, so I borrowed from the comics. I'm also writing under the assumption that Blake didn't understand Miranda's full role in the Occupation, given that her identity was only divulged in full to Bruce.

Thank you to those that favourited/followed, and those who reviewed. It was wonderful encouragement. I hope this next chapter is satisfying!

Chapter Thirteen

The shock left Blake reeling. He knew he was walking – though stumbling might have been a more accurate term – but he didn't know or care where. Every now and then Bane would give him a soft push around a corner or towards some stairs. Occasionally the mercenary's arm would even snake around his back to catch him when his feet got tangled on one another or his knees buckled. Blake was also aware that he had another fit of dry heaving and raspy apologies, but he felt like a third or fourth party witness to his breakdown rather than an active participant.

Bane disappeared at one point; Blake thought perhaps it was for good. He was alone and absolutely helpless, lost in a stupor that began and ended with killing. He had killed with his bare hands. Beaten every last ounce of life from someone's body, and then beaten them some more. Painted a room red, gray, and gory with their insides. There was no stiff-upper-lipping this one, no brave face to put on, no mystery to solve. Blake could only cower under Bane's coat, struggling for warmth and finding none, praying that when he finally woke up, he would still be himself.

The soft slap of a hand against his cheek roused Blake from his episode. Bane's face hovered just inches from his, black eyes and black mask contrasting sharply with his pale skin. Blake should have been terrified, but he doubted anything would ever terrify him anymore. There was something inside him worse than Bane, mindless and evil, something that had...had...

"The symptoms will pass but do try and stay alert, John," Bane remarked.

"Easier said than done," Blake shivered. "You sticking me with anesthetic every five minutes."

"You would prefer the alternative?"

No. God no. Not again. Blake shook his head. Never again with the alternative. He almost wanted to take the damn antidote now, provided that wasn't what Bane injected into him earlier. Based on the still increasing size of his shoulders and pectorals, Blake was willing to guess it wasn't.

"If it brings you solace, you may remind yourself that I had already sentenced the monster to die by removing his supply of Venom."

"That really doesn't bring me any solace," another chill rattled through Blake's body. When he tried to bury himself under the coat, Bane snatched him by the chin and held him steady. Blake felt his inner monster start rattling, hot and violent in his bones, but between the shock and the anesthetic, he was pretty wall contained for the time being. No matter how far Bane decided to twist his head back, it seemed.

Blake's hand jerked up defensively when his neck twisted to a breaking point. Bane pushed his arm easily back to his side without once letting go of his head. His hand splashed somewhere out of sight. "You would rather assume full responsibility."

"You..."

The next words died on Blake's tongue. Something wet and surprisingly warm for a place that had been without heat for ever and a day made its way to his next and scrubbed the gore for his skin. Bane's movements weren't gentle, per se; they were pragmatic. As hard or as soft as they needed to be without unduly harming Blake any further. They were also incredibly quick. Bane dried him off quickly to avoid chilling him any further.

Blake was paying very close attention now. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"Because you are unable to do it yourself," Bane replied casually, "And you are going to be administering to instruments attached to my body." He turned Blake's head to the other side and wiped down his cheeks, neck, and collarbone. The air prickled coolly against Blake's wet skin.

Once his face and neck were dry, Blake's head was released. He stretched his neck to relieve the stiffness, but the muscles were still so new, so fresh. They would need the full influence of the Venom to work efficiently. Meanwhile, Bane had already picked up his hand and started scrubbing there, this time more gruffly. Parts of Strange's experiment were buried under his fingernails all the way to the cuticles.

Blake couldn't help but stare. The mercenary had done a lot of things to him over the course of their night together – carrying, dragging, pinching, prodding, bending and folding, restraining, injecting – all of which he seemed born and bred to do. Causing pain came as naturally to Bane as removing it. His movements now seemed just as proficient though. Despite all his ruthlessness, his violence, his lack of morality, Bane knew how to take care of another person, and he would do so if the occasion called for it.

"What were you in prison for?" Blake asked quietly.

He didn't think Bane would reply at all, but the mercenary surprised him. "I was formally charged with murder."

Staring at his fingers, Blake could almost forget that he had used his fists for anything that night. There were no bruises, no scrapes, no marks of any kind, the Venom having swallowed up any injuries along with his mind. "But you weren't guilty?"

"I had to become a prisoner to become a killer."

"Why did you kill when you were in prison?"

Now Blake really didn't think Bane was going to answer. His eyes had taken on that far away quality, but something was different in his expression this time. Bane wasn't ignoring Blake; he was legitimately lost in his memory, in another time and place, and there was no distracting him from it.

"I was...protecting something," Bane scrubbed a little more firmly at Blake's wrist. "Something stronger than hope and fear. Stronger than the Pit."

"What was it?"

"A will. Stronger than even yours, little bird, and uncorrupted by foolishness."

"Whose?"

His hand fell back to his side and was hidden again by the coat. Blake flexed his now clean fingers, relishing the warmth still lingering from the water, and readied himself as best as his still sluggish mind would allow. Bane's face was set in silent deliberation about how to answer. Blake thought the choice was between using words or violence, but when Bane fished his other hand out from under the coat and started washing the blood away, he realized it was simply a matter of words.

"A child," Bane said simply.

"Who the hell would send a child to prison?"

"Powerful men. Frightened men. In lands like Gotham, where justice protects the guilty and punishes the innocent. I was a boy when I was sentenced to the Pit for my father's crimes. She was born there, her mother a sacrificial lamb for the sins of her husband."

For the first time – and perhaps the only time – Bane's ministrations softened, gentled, against Blake's skin. The water was colder now, but the chill didn't seem to bite away so fiercely at what little heat remained inside Blake's body. He felt himself warmed somewhat by understanding. Bane wasn't born evil. He wasn't some mythological monster sent from Revelation to bring about the end of the world. He had been a victim, once upon a time, back before he could truly defend himself. And the only way to beat a monster like the Pit and all the horrors surrounding it seemed to be becoming an even bigger monster. Something worse than Batman but with no less noble or redeeming motivations, at least at times.

Blake felt the emptiness welling up inside of him, stronger than his guilt over killing Strange's experiment. "What happened to her?" he asked. Was it her death at the hands of prisoners that had inspired the prison brawl that cost Bane his face? Bane's scrubbed more firmly at Blake's skin at that, not enough to bruise but certainly enough for the smaller man to understand how dangerous his line of questioning was becoming.

"She was killed," Bane replied, "But not in the Pit."

"She was released?"

"There is no release from the Pit. She escaped, returned for me..." the scrubbing stopped. Bane rinsed the cloth. Not that it did much good: the water was almost the same colour and consistency of the entrails being washed from Blake's hands. "She was killed in Gotham. In the last throes of our occupation."

Blake felt the chill stab right through his heart. The old puzzle pieces of the Occupation settled into place within his mind. Miranda Tate had been the little girl that Bane saved from the Pit. She had been the woman instrumental in his crippling of Gotham. And she had died being chased by Blake's predecessor. Ten years ago, when Blake's bitterness was at its pitch, he might not have known what to say, might not have said anything at all. What they had done to the city, what they would have done, was unforgivable. But with everything he had seen, done, and been through since, even within the past several hours, Blake said exactly what he felt. "I'm sorry."

The conversation was over though. Bane had returned to task, running the damp cloth over Blake's wrist again in short, staccato strokes, breaking the dried blood and freeing the skin underneath. Blake didn't want to push his luck – what little luck had had left – but he couldn't help himself to just one more question.

"Is that why you're doing this?" he clarified, realizing that question would generate a philosophical debate more than an answer. "Why you're helping me?"

Bane dried his forearm, inspecting his work to ensure he had not missed a spot. "You agreed to help me," was his only explanation.

That didn't satisfy Blake. Up until his episode decision to face Strange's serum, Bane was just as content to let him die. Something about his will had inspired something in the mercenary, or perhaps, Blake thought, something about his helplessness. He was identifying rather strongly with a very young girl trapped in hell on earth.

He didn't mention it though. Bane had already divulged more secrets than Blake expected, and he decided the best thing to do right now would be to give the mercenary a break. "You don't have to do this," Blake said. "I mean, I appreciate it, but I can...I feel a lot...clearer now."

Bane stared straight through him for several long moments, waiting for that fog to creep into Blake's eyes again, but the former detective held the mercenary's gaze easily now. There wasn't anything to be afraid of: Bane wasn't going to kill him, and they weren't really so different after all.

After an interminable silence, the wet rag ended up in Blake's outstretched hand. "As you wish," Bane replied before rising and retreating.

He didn't leave the room though. Just stood guard at the exam room door in silence, looking lost again.

Happy reading!