Disclaimer: I do not own and am not, in any way, affiliated with the Dark Knight franchise.

"I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
― Sylvia Plath, "Mad Girl's Love Song"

Chapter Ten

Days turned to weeks and, before she knew it, three had gone by.

Some days she still felt the pressing need to get back home. The fact that she had been gone so long and had not seen or spoken with her father weighed heavily on her. On those days she barricaded herself in her room. Others, however, were not so bad. Barsad seemed more relaxed around her now. They still argued, but they talked more too, and, to her, that was infinitely better than walking on eggshells. Occasionally she still read out loud to him, filling him in on the back story before picking up from wherever she was in her book.

There was something else, though, that unnerved her. Despite her best attempts to chalk it up to residual appreciation from his caretaking, she found herself attracted to him. Butterflies exploded in her stomach when he walked into the room. If they accidentally touched, her temperature spiked and her heart skipped a beat. When this happened she would force herself to think about the uninterested expression he'd worn when he'd shot Pence and that usually sobered her up.

This she reflected on from her spot on the balcony. The sky was clear enough that Audrey could actually see stars in the sky and, although faint, could pick out constellations: Orion's belt, the Big Dipper, Sirius. Tonight was one of the rare nights she had the apartment to herself. She took a sip of whiskey, warmth spreading in her chest as the liquid settled. It was freezing outside but worth it for the view.

It had been a surprisingly busy day. People had shown up in the makeshift clinic with wounds ranging from gunshot to staking, the latter of which had been interesting in its own morbid way. It had been a broom handle and likely the work of one of the released Blackgate inmates. Over the last week there had been a rise in wounded mercenaries and recruits. Audrey had tried expressing this concern to Barsad, but he had waved it away, mumbling that Bane would take care of it.

Like Bane was some magical cure-all.

The borderline worship of the man by his associates made her want to puke. That's all he was: a man. Granted, he was intimidating and would kill her without a second thought, but he had flaws and weaknesses. He's not a damn God and if he was, he certainly wouldn't be mine. She remembered a line from an essay she had read. "For humor distorts nothing, and only false gods are laughed off their earthly pedestals." So ha. Ha ha ha

"Should I be worried?"

"Agnes Repplier," she replied. Embarrassment stole over her like she'd been caught doing something naughty. She hadn't heard Barsad open the door but had grown used to him appearing out of thin air. "A Plea for Humor."

He planted himself next to her, free of his bulky vest and weapons. There was something different about him. He seemed… cheerful?

"What are you drinking?" he asked. Audrey grinned guiltily, wondering how mad he would be considering he was the one who'd left his bedroom door unlocked. She held out the glass to him and watched him sniff it before he drained it. His eyes narrowed when he looked at her. "Is this my whiskey?"

"I was going to put it back?"

"And get smashed without me? You wound me, woman."

She stood up. He started to protest, but she signaled him to be quiet. She went inside and grabbed a blanket, another glass, and the bottle. Wrapping the blanket around herself, she rejoined him on the balcony, filling both glasses, and setting the bottle between them.

"Good day today?" she inquired, sipping her drink as Barsad threw his back like a shot.

"You could say that."

"Am I allowed to ask more or is that above my pay grade?"

"Far above your pay grade, I'm afraid." He chuckled and her stomach fluttered. "And you?" he asked, studying her out of the corner of his eye as he poured himself another. "Did you finish your book?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," said with a slightly haughty tone to imply that she had been both busy and important all day, but had somehow managed to find the time.

"And? How did it end?"

"You don't know the ending to Jane Eyre?"

He shrugged. "Never got around to reading that one."

"Pffft. Have you ever finished a book on your own?"

He glared at her over the top of his glass. "Oy."

"Alright, alright. You're in for a treat then." Her tongue felt slightly heavy in her mouth. This was not her first, or even second, glass. Her face warmed as she turned to look at him. His cheeks were slightly pink, whether from cold or alcohol she didn't know. "Where did we leave off?"

"She'd found out about the mad wife."

"Right! Okay, so, we find out he's been trying to run away from his problems, fostering some illegitimate children, blah, blah, blah. Poor Mr. Rochester." Her dismissive sarcasm and eye roll were received with another low, sexy chuckle. Sexy? Really? She had to focus. "So what does he do? Offers to take her to Paris where they can pretend to be husband and wife."

"Bollocks! Jane is far too good for all of that. She wouldn't compromise herself, not even for him."

She arched an eyebrow. "You're right."

His eyes sparkled mischievously. "Let's just say I've known a few women like our Jane."

This good mood was throwing her off track. She found herself wondering what he had been like before Gotham. What had led him to Bane and this life? She felt eyes on her and looked over to see Barsad watching. There was patience in his gaze and something else. Something allusive.

"Sorry," she apologized, suddenly self-conscious. "She runs away and almost dies but she's taken in by this nice, incredibly religious, family. The sisters help her get better and the brother takes a romantic- if you can call it that- interest in her, but, of course-" she paused for a drink.

"She's still pining after Rochester?" He clicked his tongue in a scolding manner. Not expecting such a reaction, Audrey gave a spluttering laugh, a strand of hair falling in her face. He reached over, and tucked the stray piece behind her ear. "What a load of rubbish."

"Yes, she still loves him. Are- are you sure you want me to keep going?" She stumbled over her words, disoriented by the intimacy, and odd familiarity, of the gesture.

"Yes, yes, get on with it." He demanded refilling both of their glasses.

"Whoa, slow down there, cowboy! I'm already way ahead of you." She leaned over to him, fingers skimming his as she tilted the bottle up and away from her cup. She pulled her hand back like he'd shocked her, paused briefly, and cleared her throat. "Anyway, St. John, the brother, decides he can't live without Jane and asks her to marry him and travel with him to be a missionary. Oops- I forgot: they're cousins. Kind of important because Jane comes into money as a result."

She looked see if he was paying attention; he seemed to have moved closer. His face was inches away from hers. Or had she been the one to close the distance? She thought she might have to stop him from pouring her more, but had gotten so wrapped up in her head that she couldn't remember. His eyes locked on hers and her heart beat a little faster.

"So?" Barsad prompted, not looking away.

"She says no to the proposal. Claims she hears Rochester calling her so she goes home. Turns out the estate burned down and he was blinded in the process. Jane gets what she wants- autonomy. Rochester gets Jane. They marry and live happily ever after."

Neither had broken eye contact. Heat and longing swept through her body as she studied him: the way his blue eyes looked a little sleepy but still attentive, the dark scruff of beard on his cheeks and along his jawline, the pink tint to his cheek, his lips smirking.

He closed the distance between them. His lips were soft compared to the scratchy feel of his beard; his mouth tasted slightly honeyed from the whiskey.

Flustered, she picked up both glasses and the bottle. The blanket fell to her feet as she stood up and hurried inside. Once in the kitchen, she gripped the counter and took a couple of deep breaths. He's an expert killer, remember? Not some sexy body guard. Body guard. The word set off alarms in her head and she thought back to the party: the way he laughed, those eyes, the kiss- THE KISS.

"Audrey."

At the sound of her name, rumbly in his accented voice, her thoughts came to a screeching halt.

He was leaning against the entry way. Even at a distance he cut an impressive figure. She stood mesmerized by his increasing proximity as he sauntered toward her. He took her face in both of his hands, rough and powerful against her cheeks, and kissed her again. She closed her eyes and all the tension, worry, and stress of the last month and a half vanished as her mind went blank. A soft moan escaped her lips as she wrapped herself in his slightly metallic, vaguely woodsy smell.

She pulled away, eyes wide. "The party- it was you."

"It was," he confirmed.

"Barsad, I- how-"

"Say it again."

It registered what he was asking and her lips curved into a smirk. She wrapped one arm around his neck and her free hand in his hair. Giving it a firm pull, she brought his ear to her lips. "Barsad," she breathed and took the bottom of his earlobe between her teeth, gently tugging and releasing. He groaned in response, pushing aside dark locks of her hair, planting his lips behind her ear and kissing a trail down her neck. Every spot his lips touched created a tickling sensation that was slowly driving her insane.

She wanted more.

She touched his chin, leading his lips back to hers. This time when their mouths met there was a hunger behind it. One of his hands slid down to the middle of her back, pushing her body closer to his. Heat shot through her, pooling in her lower abdomen as she felt the length of him brush against her.

A thought, unbidden, came to her then. What if he's just exploiting this?

It was not out of the question. After all, how many times had she thought he could read her mind? She wasn't an idiot- she knew she had an easily readable face. She stiffened, hands dropping to her sides. This time he pulled away.

As she searched his face, she knew that she had not been the only one who had been wanting. Whether it was genuine or based on proximity, it was, at least, not manipulative.

She was standing on an invisible threshold from which there was no going back.

Then again- what did it matter? If they were going to die anyway, what did anything matter? She looked at him again, his blue eyes dark with desire.

That was all it took.

Basic instinct took over, roaring in approval as they locked lips again with renewed urgency.

"Bedroom," he growled.

They fucked, she would later think, like they fought. No holds barred.