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: Reviewers, followers, favouriters – the story has almost reached its end. Your readerships and comments are always appreciated, especially since writer's block has started rearing its ugly head these past couple of days. My updates might be a little spotty the next couple of days for the holidays, but bear with me. I hope to have another chapter up soon. Thank you for the support! I hope you enjoy this installment!

Chapter Fourteen

Blake's guilt gradually started hardening in his stomach by degrees. He couldn't digest it. No matter how hard he chewed, the remorse stayed there – same size, same shape – until the only option left was to get used to it. The guilt, he knew, would be there for a long, long time. Blake didn't accept what he had done, but he was eventually able to tell himself the pit in his stomach wasn't going away and there was nothing more to do but finish what he started. End his contract to Bane, contact the family, secure Strange's experiment, administer the antidote. He'd had shorter shopping lists in the past. With Bane gone, there would be only Strange's creature left to worry about in Old Arkham. All Blake had to do was keep a clear head till then, which he could do. Right?

He threw a punch into the wall at his left, knocking a square foot of dry wall to kingdom come without feeling so much as a tickle in his knuckles. Blake almost punched again in frustration, but he tugged his arm back to his chest and held it there. Apparently, he needed more than just clear headedness, but the level of self-restraint required to keep the Venom at bay seemed like more than he could muster. It had felt good to lose control, hadn't it? It had been liberating to give in. Morality was just holding him back from his full potential, keeping him from doing what was natural and necessary and...

The needle stick didn't register, but the effect of the anesthetic did. Blake felt his own personal Mr. Hyde settle into a simmer and his own better judgment take hold. There was no accompanying dizziness or haze this time; either Bane had perfected the dosage or his other half was getting stronger. Blake wasn't sure which. "Sorry," he said, gesturing to the new hole in the wall.

"Destroying this facility would be no great loss," Bane said nonchalantly. He returned the now empty needle to a small collection of vials and hypodermics he had amassed on the bed. They were back in the exam room again, though it took Blake several seconds to recognize the space. The room looked different from his angle, huddled into a corner as he was.

He pushed the thin blanket from his legs and extricated himself from under the warmth of Bane's jacket. The room was cold, but the chill no longer tore into him as it had earlier. "I know that it was necessary and all, but thank you. For pulling me out of that room, bringing me back up here," his voice was back to its usual tones, serious almost to the point of severity. Blake could almost forget about what happened, or at least push it into the furthest corners of his mind along with everything else he was keeping in check. "I wouldn't have made it this far if you hadn't...if you weren't..." he didn't know how to finish that sentence, so he settled on saying, "Thank you," one more time.

Bane gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "You are, as they say, welcome, John."

Blake could scarcely believe his ears. He, a former cop and vigilante, had just thanked a mass murdering terrorist with no social skills, and the mass murdering terrorist had managed a polite, socially acceptable response. It was a testament to how screwed up the night was when this seemed like a natural trajectory for the night.

"Though my contributions have merely enabled you to recklessly endanger your own life and betray your rigid moral constitution."

One step forward, ten steps back. Blake could only nod in response, deflated but not surprised by Bane's addendum. He had that coming to him, that blunt honesty. He was almost thankful for it too. Bane was not being cruel, not unduly anyways. The mercenary was simply pointing out the obvious: just as much good might have resulted from leaving Blake to die in Strange's lab. Just as much evil too.

"I suppose it customary for me to thank you as well, for your assistance," Bane noted.

Blake immediately shook his head. "I made you a deal," he said. "You don't owe me anything."

"You are correct: I owe you nothing. But if you are thanking me without reason, I will return the favour. Thank you, John."

Ten years ago, if anyone told Blake he would one day be exchanging social niceties with the man that nearly destroyed Gotham, he would have laughed in their faces and then told them to go to hell. He would have included an explicit and graphic description of how they could get there too, one that drew from his own experiences during the Occupation. Now, he was too stunned to do anything. Even laughter seemed to elude him. The night had reached a harrowing, surreal pitch, and none of Blake's identities had any idea how to react.

Thankfully, Bane was there to remind him of appropriate social conventions. "It is customary for you to say I am welcome."

Now, Blake laughed, sounding sardonic and hysterical and more than just a little unhinged. The night was a hellish mess: he had just killed a man in cold blood, Bane was upholding social conventions, and there was still had a monster to contain in the basement and eventually the urge to kill would be overwhelming. And Blake was all alone.

His voice broke when he chuckled from the sobs clawing their way up his throat. Politeness was such a farce. All it did was cover up the awfulness of the world, hid the monsters looking to tear the fabric of existence to shreds. Like the monster inside Blake. Like the monster lying in pieces downstairs. His guilt swelled to the size of a boulder inside his small intestines. He wanted to not have to say it, wanted to sink into the hole he'd made into the wall and disappear.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't. He, John Blake, was not that thing lurking inside him. He still had the power to choose, and no matter how stupid Bane thought it was or how fake it seemed in light of recent events, he chose to be polite, to be grateful, to be gracious. Because as small and pathetic as the gesture seemed, it was the only thing standing between Blake and all the terrible things, outside and within, threatening to tear the world to pieces. His voice was strained, just barely containing all that misery and cynicism rearing up inside him, but Blake still managed to say, "You're welcome." The corners of his mouth curved slightly upward when he added, "It was necessary."

Blake had to flash a small, sad smile at Bane before the mercenary understood that it was a quip. His ensuing chuckle was a low, melodic, metallic tang, and the sound was almost hidden by the hiss of his mask.

The unerring quiet of Old Arkham overtook the room a second later. Blake closed his eyes, fought against the feelings of familiarity he was developing for the terrain. He was going to forget about Old Arkham when all this was over, rewrite the memories with the white noise of the cave or something equally soothing. Home. He wanted to go home.

"How long has it been since I decreased the dosage?" Blake asked, trying to hide his eagerness. The nightmare could be over soon.

"Long enough for the Venom to run dry. An hour since you were last aware."

' A rush of panic raced through Blake. "The Venom ran dry?"

"Yes. I became aware of its absence from my system not long after bringing you here. The detox has not been severe."

Blake made a frantic move to Bane's spine. How far had he decreased the dosage already? Too high and the mercenary could be killed from the shock. Blake prayed that it was low enough to be curtailed by Bane's anesthetic. Prayed that he had not lived through this entire night only to lose now. Not after fighting so hard.

Bane turned calmly, obediently, baring his back to Blake. The former detective blinked to clear his vision, panic having blurred his sight to the point where it was useless. He gripped the edges of the pump for support and stared at the small screen. Low. The dosage had been low. Just several CCs above nothing. Blake breathed a heavy sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face, too relieved to pay any attention to the tear him, hurt him, break him whispering through his mind. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"I am well," Bane replied, and his appearance did nothing to undermine his assessment. Still Blake had to be sure.

"I need to check your heart rate and your temperature. Your blood pressure, Your pupils," Blake tried to remember all the measurable physiological indicators of detox but his memory was still playing tricks on him. "I should have been paying closer attention. I'm sorry. I..."

"Once again you have nothing to apologize for. Had the symptoms become a problem, I would have roused you. My heart rate has been slightly depressed but is climbing. My temperature is slightly elevated but close to normal. I am not experiencing any sensitivity to light that would indicate dilated pupils. You may check my blood pressure, but it is not necessary. No, little bird, I think our time together has reached its end."

Blake wasn't convinced. He felt another pit developing in his chest, this one response to his failure to uphold the end of the deal. He shouldn't have allowed himself to be incapacitated for so long, not when a life was at stake. Not when another life was at stack. He scrunched his eyes till they hurt more than his head did, and then pressed his fingers into them until his vision was red and aching. "This could kill you."

"I have survived worse than this, little bird. Remove the pump."

"Just one more decrease!"

"I will not risk you losing your mind before honouring our arrangement," Bane said more forcefully. He glanced over his shoulder. "Your conscience is clear."

His conscience didn't feel clear. The weight of the kill grew heavier by the second. The weight of another would crush him. He wasn't a monster, and only a monster would leave Bane in the throes of detox.

"If you will not remove the pump, I will inject you with the antidote."

It was the first time Bane had ever made a verbal threat, the first time he ever had to, because for the first time, Blake was in complete control of the situation. The antidote was the last card Bane had to play. Luckily for him, unluckily for Blake, it was the only card that mattered.

Blake unscrewed the tubes from the top of the pump and detached the belt from Bane's midriff. "I can't remove the ports without damaging your spinal cord," he said, "but they shouldn't cause you much trouble."

Bane turned round on his heels, one hand poised for Blake while the other sank into the pocket of his pants. Blake didn't even bother to flinch. He had the strength now to fight back, his muscle mass almost meeting Bane's, but he didn't have the will to do it. Neither did Bane, obviously. He reached past Blake for his coat, withdrawing it from behind the smaller man. He held out a small leather pouch with his other hand.

"Ten CCs at your current size," Bane said, "but adjust the dosage as necessary depending on how large you've grown when you take it."

When Blake didn't reach for the pouch, Bane set it neatly into his lap. He rose to his full height, tossing the jacket over his shoulders in two swift jerking movements. Blake was stricken with immediate déjà vu: there, standing above him, was the man who broke Gotham. The man who escaped hell.

"I prepared syringes of the anesthetic for you on the bed. Inject one as needed."

"What if I need more?"

"Than you will have no more use for that," Bane pointed to the antidote. He levelled his gaze onto Blake in the same sobering way he did in the padded cell after Blake's outburst. Like he was a child instead of a grown man. Like he was in need of sound reason and logic. Like he needed saving from himself. "Do not allow yourself to be lost to Strange's serum, little bird, no matter how strong the compunction to destroy yourself becomes. A robin red breast in a cage puts all heaven in a rage."

"More Dante?" Blake spat.

"William Blake," Bane corrected him.

"Fitting."

Bane didn't wave or bade him goodbye. He just shut the door quietly behind him, leaving Blake alone in the silence.

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