Bane found his control waning, approaching his climax faster than he wanted, he gripped Jane's hips, his fingers squeezing the supple flesh as he groaned lowly.
His unbreakable hold slowed her pace of sliding up and down his rigid shaft.
Bane tightened his hold until the sharp pain from each scarred pad of his fingertip, the discomfort brought the full weight of her attention back to him.
Jane dropped her hands over his, squeezing his wrists, her eyes searching his.
"I," Bane started to say before Jane released one of his wrists and pressed her fingers over his mouth, the soapy water dripping down his chin.
"Don't say something you don't mean," Jane whispered, her voice strained as the deep touch of his cock began to overstimulate the spongy nerves cluster inside her aching center.
She couldn't help but tighten her thighs around Bane as she felt herself propelling towards her own climax with each poke inside from the smooth head of his sensitive cock.
Jane's small shift was Bane's undoing, his lust turned supernova as his orgasm bloomed, making his cock pulsate and throb before sharply ejaculating his warm, sticky seed deep into Jane's center.
Jane kept her fingers on Bane's mouth as her back arched sharply when a coil of pleasure was released low in her belly.
Bane didn't want the soft expression on Jane's face to change, deliberately choosing not to return to the words that had nearly spilled from between his lips.
They both dressed in shared silence, each landlocked within their own thoughts and the residual feelings in the wake of their wet intimacy.
On the way back to their van, Bane couldn't help but feel familiarity and reminder of his long ago home.
The encampment was so much like bustling bazaars where you could find anything you wanted, no matter how illicit.
So many people had come to the encampment over the passage of time, all manner of people that sometimes brought their wares and then left it behind if they moved on and were killed.
There was an unusual amount of sturdy canvas coveralls.
Bane's followers would be able to imitate nearly anyone in the service industry.
He'd be able to move his disciples around and infiltrate every part of Gotham City from the clogged toilet at the Governor's Mansion to the pilot light that needed to be relit in any home of any Gotham citizen.
Bane's devout would swarm through various retail malls and industrial complexes.
Dressed as janitors.
Masquerading as electricians.
Impersonating mechanics.
Scores of Gotham elites would be killed picking up their prescriptions for blood pressure medication and penis assisting pills.
Others would die in their homes, grocery stores and shopping malls.
Lives would end in cubicles, on walking trails and in hospital waiting rooms.
Bane would clothe his followers in the zippered, monochromatic coveralls, fill their bellies with words of promised glories and treasures.
Recognition.
Importance.
Value.
The ground was hard this time of year, and the dead were beginning to pile up past the tree line and tangled blackberry bushes.
After his chest tube was removed and he had fully recovered, Bane would pick up a shovel and dig into the unforgiving earth.
The savior would bury the dead.
While they'd been in the tub together, Tom Sky had arranged for some of the medical supplies Jane requested to be dropped off right outside their stolen morgue van.
Tom Sky had a vast network throughout the city and connections that even the most corrupt politicians could not purchase.
"I wonder if there's anything under my pillow," Jane said as she looked through the bags that Tom Sky had arranged to be couriered over, he still had items on his list of acquisitions.
Bane watched Jane sift through the bags before she climbed into the van.
He found her spreading out the medical supplies, separating the various gauze squares and rolls of tape.
She spoke when she felt Bane's eyes on her, not looking over as she examined the edges of the scissors, packages of needles and sutures.
"The doctor will see you now," she said, a wink in her tone.
Bane climbed into the van and settled on the edge of the gurney.
Jane looked over at that moment, "please lay back."
She arranged a folded sweater under his head as a pillow of sorts before she turned her full attention to the modified chest tube sticking out of his side after she removed the bandages that kept water and dirt from entering the open wound.
Jane squirted an alcohol-based sanitizer all over her hands and the stainless-steel instruments before pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
She told Bane ahead of time of each touch she had planned from injecting a numbing solution to carving away dried skin and flecks of blood to the moment she grasped the end of the straw, warning him he might feel discomfort that the analgesic wouldn't touch.
Bane reached out and lightly closed his hand around her closest wrist.
"You could end my life easily?"
Jane held his eyes, considering his words. "Not easily," she finally said, adding, "I could hobble you."
"Do I need to be concerned you're going to make the attempt?"
Jane blinked once, "no, I think I've demonstrated my ability to capitulate."
She looked back at Bane's side and continued with removing the straw and cleaning the area right after she removed it, the end wet with mucus, blood, and other thicker fleshy bits.
"I want more than your surrender," Bane wheezed, his tone strained from the breakthrough pain the topical anesthetic couldn't smother.
"What more do you want?" Jane scoffed, irritation encroaching on her tone, using a sterile swab to clean around the wound's edges.
"I want you to accept me."
Jane paused her hand, holding a sponge to the weeping wound bed before looking up at him, frowning. "Haven't I?" she asked.
"Are you merely echoing my requests?" he quickly rebutted.
"Does it matter?" Jane snapped as she continued to wipe the sponge in a circular motion before picking out a suture to close the wound.
"It matters," Bane finally said after Jane began to close the wound with tiny, even stitches, adding when she gripped a fresh piece of silk suture, glancing over to her already opened packets of petroleum gauze. "I want you to choose to be here, choose to be at my side," he added softly when she resumed stitching his flesh together.
"What do you want me to say?" Jane asked as she narrowed her eyes down at her sutures, waiting to see if there was any seepage from the wound before she thoroughly bandaged it.
"I want more than your words," he rasped, the numbness rapidly fading, making his words hitch as he attempted to suppress the pain.
Jane was not a doctor for the living, but she could recognize what he was not articulating as she injected further anesthetic into the freshly stitched flesh.
Bane's words froze in his throat as Jane pulled off one of her stained gloves and rubbed her bare hand in slow circles in the middle of his chest, attempting to soothe. "What else do you want?" she murmured.
He reached out and captured her left hand, "I want you to join me."
Jane frowned, "I'm here, do you want me to sign something?" she added in an easy tone.
"I want you to give me every part of yourself, join your life with mine, marry me."
Jane's lips parted as she struggled to find her words, "aren't you going to just quickly leave me a widow?" she asked, nodding in the direction of his unfinished list.
Bane shook his head.
Jane frowned at his wordless answer, her eyes moving to his messily stacked papers, the last page held room for one, possibly two names.
It was suddenly the mid-1940's.
Europe, where Bane was writing a very important list.
"Or am I your plus one in death?" she added in the wake of Bane's continued silence.
She squinted at the list of names that was facing her, recognizing a lot of the GCPD officers and detectives from their frequent trips to the morgues to observe autopsies and collect evidence scraped from under fingernails, stuffed in dead throats or filling cold orifices.
"Detective Sergeant Anthony Hill," Jane murmured in a voice just above a whisper as she read the list of police officers, detectives, and those in the Special Prosecutor's office.
"Detective John Blake," she added, looking up to find Bane's eyes still firmly fixed upon her. "How did he blaspheme you?"
Bane's eyelid twitched before he answered, "he is complicit," he finally said.
It became clear that Bane was not going to further expound.
Jane eventually broke her eyes away from his and focused her gaze on bandaging his wound, while further away in the heart of Gotham City, further disciples of Bane moved together in a small group, their destination, the Gotham City Police Department.
Geo led the pack, a six-foot, nine-inch, three-hundred pound man, a lot of mass, dense tissue, deep visceral fat hugged his organs.
Troy flanked Geo, he was wearing his dark grey hoodie with the number sixty-nine stitched in turquoise thread.
When Troy's body was later autopsied and his skull opened, it would reveal a misdiagnosis and the presence of a tumor nestled right next to his pituitary gland, every day he'd lived since the tumor began to encroach on his pituitary was a bloody miracle.
The placement of the tumor rendered it inoperable even if it had been discovered quite early, just another benefit of state provided health care*.
A couple other encampment residents rounded out the quartet.
Tom Sky skipped catching up with the traveling group, following them up the steps of the police department, taking the stairs two at a time so he could reach the doors first.
Tom held open the door for Geo to walk through, followed by Troy and the others.
Inside the station, Blake and Gordon were talking in the break room. They each dropped their plastic wrapped sandwiches, Gordon nearly choking to death on a bite of ham when the sound of gunshots began to ring out.
Gordon and Blake had their firearms out as they moved out of the break room and along a wall with faux wood wainscoting, nearly knocking over the fat-ass desk Captain M. Cass.
The gunshots had suddenly ceased as rapidly as they had begun.
The only sounds were people crying, shouting, or scrambling around rendering first aid in direct competition with other GCPD officers calling out the locations of the shooters and those who'd been hit.
Gordon saw that Blake was itching to pull the trigger against whomever brought violence to their doorstep, he sensed the young man's impatience.
"Watch your corner…..," Gordon barked as Blake decided to become an army of one and take the goddamn ridge.
Geo had been waiting for Blake to rise, patient, waiting out the detective.
Bane's words reverberated in the front of Geo's mind, he was transported back to staring up at Bane as he preached to them around the fire, passing out food and bottles of booze.
"Hold hope for what you do not yet see," Geo could still hear Bane saying as Blake appeared in his line of sight.
Geo smiled and pulled the trigger, Bane's words on repeat in his frontal lobe.
"Wait for it with patience."
Gordon shouted as he unloaded his revolver into Geo.
Commissioner Gordon was a good shot and Geo was a fantastic target when aiming for center man.
Each bullet tore through the meat of Geo's chest, exiting with explosive wetness out his broad back.
Geo was big game on the Serengeti, he was accustomed to being an apex predator.
Geo didn't consider himself prey.
He was not the hunted.
Each bullet that Gordon fired was true.
Each bullet destroyed Geo's chest cavity, shredded his lungs.
Each bullet became death.
Geo's chest exploded in spectacular fashion as the one-hundred twenty-five grain bullets moving at 1450 feet per second tore through his liver, sending bile throughout his abdominal cavity.
Each fired bullet from the 357's higher chamber pressure capacity ripped through Geo's aorta, making him drop to his knees.
Geo was a rapist.
As he fell to the floor and died, his only real weapon hung floppy and flaccid now between his thighs as he neared complete cardiac death.
The last straight cast bullet that Gordon fired tore through his xiphoid process at the center of his chest.
Geo's victims had always been five-foot one to five-foot three, their unfortunate height made the tips of their nose press to the hard, bony prominence that connected his ribs as he had taken their present and forever tainted their future.
Geo fell to the floor like a giant, felled tree.
Gordon turned his attention back to Blake.
Geo died on the shitty linoleum floor of the Gotham City Police Department, no one really stopped amidst the chaos to witness his passing.
Tom Sky had perched on the station's information desk, sipping a paper cup of ice-cold water as he watched the gun show play out, swinging his skinny legs.
He slurped at the cup until it was empty and then took a bite out of the paper rim, chewing thoughtfully as he watched Commissioner Gordon scramble to Blake's fallen body, his skull misshapen, some of the pieces scattered from where the bullet had entered, exiting through a ragged hole, accompanied by a spreading pool of blood.
Gordon still felt compelled to try to put back together that which was definitely dead.
All he needed was a pink pillbox hat and he could be a recreation from a fatal convertible ride in 1963 as his hands scrabbled to put Blake's cranium back together.
"Get that fucking clown out of here," Gordon shouted when he looked up from attempting to reassemble Blake's decimated skull, pointing to where Tom Sky was still sitting on the desk with a goofy smile plastered on his thin face.
Gordon's index finger dripped with blood; grey matter jammed under his fingernails as he pointed at Tom Sky.
Tom Sky hopped off the desk and rose to full height before he squared his shoulders, sniffing hard before he addressed Gordon.
His voice was high-pitched at one point and then eloquent, belonging to one that resided in an Ivory Tower. "I am not a clown," he said, tucking his handkerchief in his stained breast pocket. "I wish you good day sir," Tom Sky added with a huff, pivoting on his heel, before leaving the station.