All Bane had ever known about sex was that it always goes hand in hand with violence and is usually heavily laced with pain for one of participants. All he ever saw of that nature took place in prisons. In the Pit rape was a common occurrence, trading one's body for favours or protection — a repulsive commodity. In his mind, men that seek sex are no more than animals, mindlessly rutting against the weaker — in body or mind — person, chasing pleasure without a care for the other. It's disgusting in its ugliness.

He always prided himself to be above those baser urges, never ever contemplating sating them in any way. That is, until he met Blake.

It's a relatively quiet afternoon. The sun has yet to set, and its rays highlight the growing decay of the streets of the cursed city. Bane decides it is fitting — the ugliness of its occupants no longer hidden, reflected in the wreckage and desolation around. He is walking alone; Gotham is theirs, the resistance is scarce and too scattered to pose a real threat, so he has no need to worry about safety. Fear is a powerful and crippling emotion, and people are too afraid of him to try anything, really. Besides, bringing an entourage to his meeting with Talia would be counter-productive to its secrecy.

So he is alone on a deserted street when he spots what looks like a splash of paint on a corner wall of a building that forms one part of an entrance to a dingy alley no more than 5 feet wide. Naturally, Bane goes to investigate.

He is always cautious, being on high alert is part of ingrained survival instinct, but, looking and listening hard, he doesn't detect anyone's presence. When he comes closer, the splash resolves itself into the familiar shape of a simplistic depiction of a bat. The paint is fresh, his fingers are stained red. This is the instant he senses: someone is near.

All in all, it's a matter of seconds:turning around with a lightening-fast speed, Bane catches his attacker's hand. Tugging it up and simultaneously throwing him forward onto the opposite building, Bane pins him with his body. And stares into the face of Detective Robin John Blake, the only fair cop in all Gotham City. Bane would know, he read their files, after all. That Blake was able to snuck up on him is an actual credit to detective's skills. Nobody has accomplished it in a long time. The fact that a gun is still pointing at Bane's head is more than surprising.

They stare at each other, Bane with a gun at his tempe, Blake with a hand around his throat, no more than a couple of inches between them. He doesn't perceive this position as dangerous since Bane is confident he can overpower the detective easily, gun or not. There's a stillness to this moment, a kind of calm before the storm. The silence is punctuated only by harsh breathing. That's when Bane becomes aware of the fact that Blake is hard against him. What is even more shocking is a horrifying realisation that he himself is equally as hard. It's a jolt to the system; eyes wide, he looks at the detective, speechless.

There is a sort of turbulence to Blake's gaze, spite mixed with anger and a dash of recklessness, but not a hint of fear. He is riding high on adrenalin, perhaps. For once in his life, Bane is feeling helpless, cruelly betrayed by his own body; he doesn't know how to react. Maybe because of that when Blake snarls "Shut up!" (despite or maybe because of Bane's obvious silence) and pushes at him, reverting their positions, Bane actually goes with it.

His back connects with the brick wall, Bane watches as the gun disappears from sight and, unzipping his trousers, Blake goes down on his knees. Hands go to his belt buckle, and then his cargo pants and underwear are halfway down his things. Blake is glaring daggers at him and is holding his gaze even when he licks the head of Bane's cock and with a guttural sound takes it in his mouth while all Bane is actively doing consists in gaping behind his mask.

Bane is lost. At first in confusion, and then in pleasure. He just feels lost in general. He is caught of guard, wrong-footed, and the overall surrealism of it all is the only explanation as to why he doesn't do anything, does not protest. He can't understand the detective, nor his motives.

He feels is no urge or desire to grab Blake's head and hold it still while he fucks his mouth in quick thrusts. He expects violence to surge forward to the forefront of his mind, it doesn't. All Bane can do at the moment is stare at him as Blake sucks him, one hand unmoving at the base of Bane's cock, and steadily jerks himself off with the other.

There're heat, and wetness, and warm skin; and it's overwhelming for someone who is never touched willingly by another person with intent other than harm; for someone who never touches himself with the goal of pleasure; who has never experienced anything even vaguely close to sexual encounter. Bane thinks he might go into sensory overload, a slight edge of hysteria to that thought.

They don't break eye-contact to the end. It feels like a train wreck in slow motion — unavoidable and inevitable. Orgasm slams into him, hard as an unexpected blow to the head, and he is coming down Blake's throat while the detective is trying not to choke and moves his hand faster until his fingers are coated white. Blake spits on the ground, wipes his hands with a tissue (it must have been in his pocket, but Bane has no recollection of its appearance, so for him it looks like a magic trick), and runs an open palm over his swollen red lips.

Returning to a standing position, Blake rightens the state of his clothes, snorts, and for some reason does the same for Bane. And, after looking directly in his eyes and growling, "Not a word," briskly walks onto the street, disappearing from sight within mere seconds.

The sun has enough time to set before Bane goes anywhere.

* * *

Next time Bane comes across the detective a week later. He not so much sees him as catches a glimpse of a familiar profile in what used to be a cosy italian restaurant. Now it is abandoned, jagged glass shards of the windows stand out like broken teeth. It's evening, and the only source of illumination is a lamppost still working by some miracle. Not being in the habit of lying to himself, despite the emotional turmoil, Bane admits that he does want to see the detective, however ill-advised that may be. He goes in, anyway.

The door creaks on the hinges; littering the floor bits of broken furniture crunch under his feet, mostly because, for once, he is not trying to be subtle. As soon as Bane is fully inside, he steps to the left, and Blake is on him. Strong hands push him into the wall, and Bane feels a body against him, again. The Pit left him with an excellent night vision (it's the too bright light of day that caused problems in the beginning), and with their nearness it is no trouble to see the wild look in Blake's eyes. They are so close, in fact, that if not for Bane's mask, their noses would be touching.

Like the last time, they don't talk. Blake pulls at his clothes, tugging his coat open. Unlike the last time, Bane is not a passive observer, but an actual participant. He starts tentatively map Blake's chest with the tips of his fingers, not sure if he, too, is allowed to touch. Underneath the coarse material is firm flesh; he charts its planes, with each careful brush gradually moving to Blake's shoulders.

Making a noise of encouragement, Blake rests a hand on Bane's bare arm, points of contact — like branding iron. The detective then turns his head andinhales. Suddenly, hot breath on Bane's neck is followed by a slow, drawn-out lick; involuntary, he shivers. He is not sure, but the detective might be smiling. Humming, Blake presses closer, bringing their bodies below the waist into collision and, oh.'This is what desire is like,'Bane thinks abruptly. He wants more touches, more skin-to-skin contact, justmoreandsomething.

And Blake again is the one to deal with their pants; only this time, once it's done, he stays upright, chest plastered to Bane's. And when he moves in the same way he did moments before, only this time there is no barrier between them, Bane feels as if electric current is coursing through his veins.

Blake pushes up and forward, and it's strange, butgoodkind of strange. Glorious even. It is the kind of strange that makes Bane's breath hitch, a moan stucks inside his throat. He finally allows his hands to caress the detective a little more strongly.

His touches are still light, he strokes Blake's spine and shoulder blades. In contrast, Blake takes hold of them both with surety, wrapping his fingers over their cocks — sliding them together — and, moving his hips and hand in a steady rhythm, he tightens the grip on Bane's arm. Every so often, with a brush of a callused thumb, Blake spreads and mixes their precome. He licks and sucks the skin just above Bane's collar bone.

Gaining confidence, Bane starts to thrust in turn, though keeping his movements deliberately shallow, and it's not long before Blake speeds up, erratically, and bites on his neck. Hard enough to leave a mark, but it's not exactly painful.

Apparently, the second time it's even better.

This time, they don't talk at all.

Bane is still left reeling by the absence of violence.

* * *

After that it becomes somewhat of a routine, however infrequent their meetings are.

He would walk down a street, glimpse Blake in the distance, and follow him; or the detective would suddenly appear in his way. They would join in dirty alleys, abandoned buildings or — once — behind an overturned car. It happens only when he is alone and there's no chance of being seen by anybody.

Bane doesn't know why Blake does it, but he thinks of gift horses and sharp smiles and doesn't question the detective. He doesn't want it — whateveritis — to end.

It seems as if when they are together, the world ceases to exist. There's nothing but the two of them, rough breathing, warm flesh under his clumsy fingers, lips on his skin.

There are times when Blake rests his forehead on Bane's shoulder, quick exhales cooling his sweat, and just stays motionless. Bane likes those moments of closeness the most.

Occasionally, Blake looks into his eyes like he is searching for something and is perplexed for not finding it. And while Bane doesn't want to dwells on this, the detective is constantly in his thoughts, distracting.

It feels like a constant itch just beneath his skin: no matter how hard Bane tries, he finds no way to scratch it. And while he forces himself to ignore it, it is persistently irritating. He can stop thinking about Blake no more than he can reverse the flow of his blood. It is becoming a problem. Barsad's thoughtful gaze follows him everywhere, but as always his friend keeps silent.

Gradually, the expression in Blake's eyes changes from mutinous anger to surprised contemplation. To Bane it looks like he mulls over something but can't reach a conclusion and is frustrated by it. Sometimes Bane is met with his hands, other times Blake uses his mouth; the common theme running through all their interactions is the total lack of aggression in their actions.

Bane doesn't know what to call their strange relationship. 'Fraternising with the enemy' might fill the bill for the detective aptly, he thinks wryly, but it doesn't fit Bane since he doesn't consider Blake as such.

He doesn't see what's in it for Blake. They don't talk much if at all, so he can't be digging for information. The thought of an assassination attempt is so ridiculous at this point that Bane laughs out loud, inadvertently making a group of hired mercenaries loitering nearby flinch. Fact is, if Blake wanted him dead, he would have pulled the trigger that first time in the alley. He certainly had the chance.

Of course, Blake might be hoping to gain his trust before starting interrogation. It's not a new or unheard of tactic, but ultimately it would be an exercise in futility. Bane hopes the detective is smart enough to realise that. Also, it would place thissomething(he hesitates, not wanting to put a label just yet) in a different light — reduce it and devalue… And Bane does not believe there's anything in the world the detective would whore himself out for.

Briefly, he thought about recruiting Blake to the League of Shadows, but again — speak of exercises in futility — he will never support their cause.

Thing is, Blake is an anomaly. He doesn't hesitate to show kindness and is not afraid to express his desire for the monster from under the bed. It's a tangled mess of conflicting emotions.

Of course, it can't continue like that.

* * *

Ironically enough, Bane is returning from a meeting with Talia when he hears a commotion in a chinese corner shop. It is very early in the morning, and the sound of breaking glass on an otherwise deadly quiet street is more startling than a gunshot. It instantly attracts his attention.

It must be a food raid, he decides, supplies are scarce and tightly regulated. The city is swallowed by anarchy, vandalism brought to a new height, devastation lies everywhere. There's nothing just, nowhere safe. Gotham drowns, dissolves itself with its own acid.

He almost walks past without stopping, but then he catches angry shouts and for some reason — call it sixth sense or premonition — halts and steps closer to listen.

"Oh, come on, Donnie, just shoot him already!" whines a nasal voice. "He broke my wrist!"

"Fuck, J-J! It's the pig who threw me behind bars, I tell ya! I wanna make him suffer!" answers another (no more pleasant than the first) and then adds to somebody else in a different tone, "Remember me, faggot? You gonna pay for what you've done! For starters, we'll put your mouth to good use!"

Several people laugh and jeer. From that exchange Bane concludes it must be an unfortunate policeman caught by a gang. With the start of new order people began to form packs — safety in numbers, or so the saying goes. And while he doesn't like the obvious fate of this cop — 'it is dishonorable', whispers Melisande in his mind — it is just one more sign of moral decay, one more — unnecessary — confirmation. He is not going to interfere with internal affairs: Gotham citizens have brought it on themselves.

"Donnie Fino," says a new voice, leaden with contempt, and a cube of ice forms in the pit of Bane's stomach. "How can I forget… After all, you were the laugh of all precinct for months — a thief that couldn't even successfully rob a stall and pissed himself while being apprehended."

"Shut up, bitch!" snarls Donnie, now sounding like a rabid dog. "I'm gonna make you squeal like a pig you are!"

There are noises — a scuffle is going on, something solid hits flesh, but Bane doesn't listen. Quite abruptly, he is filled with cold rage at the only possible implication he can draw. He knows that voice, knows who that person is, and no one have the right to harm him.

Nobody ever expects a man of Bane's size to be so light on his feet. He steps with cat's grace, silently. The door to the shop is open; creeping between the aisles, he stays concealed from view. It is as he imagined: the signs of general wreckage, common in a disturbing way; cleared of the majority of merchandise shelves; broken jars on the wet floor, evidence of a recent fight. And near the back, where the till used to be, he sees people.

Five men are in front of Blake, two more are forcing him to stay on his knees. They all bear the same insignia that marks their belonging to one of the lowest gangs on the proverbial food chain. Only one of them — presumably Donnie — is armed with a gun; as if bound on confirming every bad stereotype, others spot an assortment of weapons — crowbars, baseball bats, and even pipes.

Though they all sustain some kind of injury, they must have overpowered Blake by sheer number. The sight of blood on the detective's face — his lip is split — and what will soon become a black eye awake Bane's fury. The one nearest to Blake has an arm poised to strike, and Bane is surprised by how much he wants to rip it off.

Despite his actions speaking to the contrary, Bane is not a cruel person. He usually doesn't take pleasure in inflicting pain, using force only as a tool, but this time he wants to tear these men limb by limb, with a passion. He descends on them like an avalanche. Kicking one's kneecap, he snaps the neck of another and uses his sagging body as a shield when Donnie opens fire.

Of course, using the distraction to his advantage, Blake joins the fray. And while Bane pours consuming him anger, ferociously breaking bones, the detective incapacitates his opponents with brutal efficiency.

In the end, only two men are left alive — the duo that held Blake and whom he knocked unconscious. Bane acted with the intent to kill — Donnie's body lying in a heap of broken limbs, windpipe crushed, is the indisputable testimony.

Immediate threat eliminated, breathing hard, Bane looks at Blake. Blood on his face and clothes; he is favouring left leg. Eyes wild, without conscious effort Bane moves toward him. He desperately needs to confirm that no permanent harm has befallen the detective. As soon as he touches his arm, pained noise escape Blake's tightly clenched lips, and Bane recoils as if hit.

"I'm okay. Just a sprain, nothing serious." Blake grimaces, but something in Bane's face must have changed, so he adds, "I'll be fine in no time."

And while Bane doesn't doubt his judgement, he still wants to make sure… And maybe resurrect and kill again those worms who dared to hurt his detective.

As if sensing his distress, Blake steps forward. Bane finally surrenders to the urge and gently embraces Blake. He doesn't know how long they stay like this.

Indeterminable time later Blake murmurs, "Thanks for the rescue."

Bane nods, hugging him closer, and only then notices that his hands are trembling.

Against his wish, he says, "You should go."

"Yeah," Blake sighs. "I should." But for some reason, stays a little longer.

After he is gone, Bane doesn't waste time. Two quick snaps, and he dials Barsad with an order to dispose of the bodies.

* * *

Something had changed during their last encounter. Bane doesn't see the detective for twenty four days. During this time, he is unbelievably restless. He doesn't want to admit to being worried, but… not knowing makes him ill at ease.

At first, he tried to reason that Blake was healing, recuperating at a safe place, but as days turned to weeks, he became convinced that he must have scared the detective away. Seeing the reminder of Bane's monstrous nature must have returned him to his senses. Still, he doesn't regret his actions. And worse of all, he is not sure that Blake is safe.

Bane is a patient man, always have been, otherwise he wouldn't be able to stay sane, but this suspended uncertainty is unbearable. Every time he receives new report from Crane's court proceeding, he expects to hear the detective's name.

At least, Barsad is the only one to note his state. His friend knows Bane too well to miss it, but he is too loyal — to Bane personally — to pose a problem.

When after twenty four days of absence Blake materialises in his way, Bane is actually slightly shocked since he finally convinced himself in the futility of hope.

The detective appears healthy, for which Bane is glad, but the look in his eyes… It's pure determination. He is the illustration for "a man on a mission," hell-bent on something, but his purpose eludes Bane. And while he waits for accusations to start or any other of numerous scenarios he imagined and steeled himself for to begin unfolding, Blake seems to be watching him with the same scrutiny. He is not sure if it's a positive sign.

It seems like eternity has crawled at a snail's pace, awkwardness saturating its every moment, when Blake says, "I missed you, you know." And the tension is broken.

Before Bane has the chance to formulate a reply, though, the detective says, "Come," and strides away, clearly expecting him to follow. It's not as if he is wrong in this assumption.

They walk for about forty minutes. Once or twice Bane spots people in the distance, but Blake leads him through side-streets and hole-in-the-wall kind of passages, cleverly avoiding detection. As it turns out, their final destination is an apartment complex in the East End. It doesn't exactly stand out in a row of similarly decrepit buildings. Time of the occupation hasn't changed poor neighborhoods all that much.

Through backdoor they go to the stairs. It is not better inside — the stink of cat piss is nauseating, lights don't work at all, a pile of brown-stained rags dumped in the corner. Using a flashlight, Blake heads to the third floor, where he unlocks the door. The detective brought him to his home.

It's a tiny one-bedroom apartment. In front of TV is an old couch that eats up half the space of the main room, several bookcases along the walls, a lone potted fern on the sill, cardboard boxes on the floor near a side table, no framed photo or knick-knacks of any kind in sight; all speaks of practicality, but despite the sparseness of decorations, it is a surprisingly cosy place. Itfeelslike home.

"Welcome to my humble abode," the detective waves in a grand gesture encompassing the room. "I like to think of it as a sanctuary of sort, so please do try and keep it secret."

Bane murmurs, "Of course," though he is not sure the reply is necessary.

After taking off his coat, Blake throws it on the couch and makes his way to a closet-sized bedroom, where he stops in front of his bed and turns around to face Bane. Whose attention is not actually on the detective at the moment. On a chair that substitutes for a nightstand next to a dog-eared copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows lies an old Bible.

Following the trajectory of his gaze, Blake says, "Gotham is not Sodom or Gomorrah, and you certainly aren't God, nor one of his angels. Besides, there are more than ten innocents here."

Then he sighs. "Come here."

And when he is right next to Blake, the detective indicates Bane to undress. And when he complies, Blake takes his bulky coat and lays it down right over the books. Soon, the chair is completely hidden under the pile of their clothes.

It is the first time when Bane sees the detective fully naked. There are scars on his skin, marks that can be read like a map, a history of a difficult life. And while Bane wants to trace them, learn them all, he is acutely aware of scars and marks of his own that, too, have stories to tell to a careful observer.

They study each other. Every touch, Blake's hungry gaze when he looks at Bane, pupils blown wide, every almost soundlessly whispered word is committed to Bane's memory.

The detective pushes him on the bed and climbs onto his lap. And doesn't waste time: leaning over him, Blake fishes a bottle from under a pillow, and, still kneeling over him, with quick strokes efficiently prepares himself to take Bane in for the first time. Soon enough he deems himself ready and, liberally spreading lube on Bane's cock, slowly lowers himself onto it.

The level of concentration Blake is showing would be fascinating to watch if not for all Bane's willpower being put to test in order to stay still. Going all the way down, Blake bites his lower lip, hard. And when Bane moves to brush off the blood from his chin with a thumb, he turns to the touch, presses his cheek to Bane's palm and just breathes.

It's almost agonising.

Then Blake finally starts moving, keeping both hands on Bane's shoulders for purchase, while Bane, as always mindful of his strength, supports his thighs. Bane has to squeeze his eyes shut, least it all ends then and there. Still, the sight of Blake (head thrown back, sweat pooling in the hollow of tantalisingly exposed throat makes Bane desperately want to lick it) stays behind his closed eyelids. As it is, he doesn't last long anyway.

Blake speeds up, his movements become erratically uncontrolled, and swearing, without even touching himself, he comes all over Bane's chest; cock buried deep inside the detective's body, with a choked off moan Bane follows suit.

Still panting, Blake says, "That wasn't so bad." And for some reason chuckles.

If Bane wasn't so blissed out, he might be inclined to take offence. Instead, he murmurs, "Indeed."

Blake exhales, sighs, and unsteadily stumbles (presumably) to the bathroom, only to return not a minute later to throw wet cloth at Bane.

By the time the detective is back, Bane is already fully clothed and ready to leave. He isn't willing to risk overstaying his welcome. Blake walks him to the door in silence, indecisively eyeing him up and down; and when Bane decides the detective is not going to say anything, he proves him wrong by muttering, "What the hell," which is not exactly a meaningful declaration of any kind, and kisses Bane on the neck.

"Your mask is highly inconvenient." He smiles. "I suppose, I will see you when I see you." Another sigh escapes his lips. "Feel free to step by when you get the chance."

On the way back to the base, Bane allows himself to think over the implications of this meeting. He is still coming to terms with the fact that the detective brought him home. It's baffling. He did consider the possibility of ambush but discarded it almost as soon as it crossed his mind.

What really scares Bane, though, is the degree of trust he had placed in Blake without even realising it.

* * *

Next time he visits the detective, Bane half expects to find the apartment empty, cleared of all possessions. Blake is there. He seems surprised and sleepy but genuinely glad to see him and steps aside to let him in without a question.

Bane never lingers, but over time and with a growing sense of familiarity, he starts staying longer. Long enough to have an actual conversation. It begins with a book.

Bane reads a lot, practically all he can put his hands on, and nowadays his reach goes pretty far. He borrows rare editions from libraries in opulent estates, where he stays, reasonably concluding they are of no use to original owners. And since the shelves in Blake's apartment are full of science fiction, he reasons that the detective might be interested in the first edition of Frankenstein. He brings all three volumes.

Blake's eyebrows do a complicated dance across his forehead, and after some deliberation, he finally says a simple, "Thanks."

A week later Bane sees the second volume lying open on the side table. And four days after that, Blake actually comments on the plot.

So every so often Bane brings books, and the detective initiates a discussion. It all feels sonormal, mundane — something he'd only read about and never experienced before. A book club of two. Bane thinks they need to start drinking tea. Endless rows of tea-cups. And that he should wear a hat.

"Where do you think I can find a Wellington Hat?"

"What?"

"A top hat."

"I don't know, but I'm sure it will look fetching on you."

Next time he stops by, porcelain tea-set is on the table.

That evening Blake introduces him to the wonders of DVD. Sitting side by side on the couch, they watch The Sound of Music together.

* * *

Meanwhile, Bane's perception of Talia starts to shift. Gradually, he begins to see little discrepancies in her behavior, glimpse a vicious glint in her eyes, the rot in her soul underneath the innocent facade. It's like peeling a seemingly perfect apple with a tiny black spot and discovering that a worm's spoiled it to the core.

It's time to say their farewell, and Talia absent-mindedly pats his cheek, already distracted by some more important thought.

Looking at her too-sweet smile, inexplicably, he feels like a pet — amusing, useful, but ultimately just that — a pet. He is no more than a tool, easily discardable when no longer needed. You don't consider it an equal or a friend.

However slowly, he is learning the difference, and the realisation ispainful.

* * *

"How crucial is your mask?"

"Very much so."

A monster is about to eat Kirk on TV screen.

"No, yes, of course." Blake exhales in frustration. "I mean, can you take it off or do you need to wear it all the time?"

"I can," he pauses to look at Blake. "Otherwise, I would have died from starvation by now."

"Yeah. Okay."

In the background Spock Prime is telling Kirk something about Romulan Empire.

"Not for long, though."

"Will you?"

Bane hesitates. "Why?"

"I want to try something."

Bane only ever takes it off when he is alone. And not a minute ago he openly admitted to having vulnerability. Unsurprisingly, the decision is simple to make. Clasps open with a soft click, he pulls the mask off. And for the first time Bane is literally face to face with the detective.

For several moments Blake studies him with a peculiar look on his face. Then his gaze falls at Bane's mouth and stays there. The detective moves so close that Bane feels Blake's breath on his exposed skin, it'sstrange… Blake glances up and, holding eye contact, closes the distance. His lips are really soft, Bane thinks inanely. At the first touch of Blake's tongue, he opens his mouth, and Blake deepens the kiss.

By the time Bane can no longer ignore steadily growing discomfort and needs to put the mask back on, Blake's gravitated onto his lap.

"How's that?"

Electrifying, magnificent, intense. "Good."

They turn to watch Nero's refusing to surrender. Blake keeps his head on Bane's shoulder till the screen darkens.

"You should probably go. No need to make your henchmen worry." His wry smile carries more than a hint of sarcasm.

"No one will be worried." Bane is sure it will make them happy.

"Then stay."

It is tempting.

* * *

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Threaten to blow up Gotham, for a start."

"We gave the City control of itself—"

"Oh, cut the crap." Blake throws his hands up, emphasizing the point. "I heard your grand spiel. It's total bullshit, and you know it. Gotham was safe for eight years. We didn't need any'interference'." He glares. "You are not stupid nor you get off on suffering. If anything, you are ruthless and efficient. Your actions don't exactly paint the same picture."

Bane's eyes widen a fraction, but that's enough, and even if he doesn't answer, Blake is not an idiot, quite the opposite. So he hums and mutters, "That's what I thought," like Bane's silence is in fact a confirmation. Seemingly satisfied, he doesn't raise that line of questions again.

* * *

A week later Bane finally says, "How would you call what is between us, detective?"

Blake just looks at him for a long moment. "Why do I suddenly have a feeling you refer to me as 'the detective' inside your head?"

Bane feels as if his ears are growing hot. The silence is awkward.

"You absolutely do." Incredulous, Blake laughs. It's a nice laugh — not offensive in the least, not mocking. "I believe it's high time for you to call me John, or Blake if you insist, though we're way past formalities." He pauses. "And we are in a relationship."

The corners of Bane's eyes crinkle, which is the only visible indication that he is smiling, but John notices and smiles back.

Though he doesn't want to spoil the mood, Bane is compelled to ask, "But why?.."

"Maybe I'm trying to rub my morals off on you," sighing, John suggest half-seriously.

Bane chuckles. "In this case, you should try harder."

Blake does.

* * *

One question won't leave Bane alone. It's annoying, like a splinter in a thumb that he can't pull out. No matter how insignificant or unimportant it really is, it's always on the forefront of his mind. John is so strong willed and opinionated, how can he so willingly submit to being used? When he can no longer hold his curiosity and inquires about that, Blake looks at him like Bane is being ridiculous, but answers.

"It's not about dominance, it's about pleasure." Thoughtful, John suggest, "Let me show you."

Bane thinks about refusing, but it would be… cowardly, somehow. Besides, he is intrigued by the concept. And so it is this question that leads to Bane lying on the bed, Blake's licking every inch of his skin. John traces each one of Bane's scars with his tongue, his every touch is a show of reverence. It feels like he is worshiping Bane's body.

And later on, when Bane is on his hands and knees, Blake's kisses — like butterfly wings on his back, John whispers, "You are so beautiful," (And isn't it an absurdly ridiculous thing to say?) and twist his fingers inside of himjust so… And Bane thinks and maybe says, "Oh!.." And in that moment of white-hot pleasure, he understands.

He falls asleep that night. And when he wakes, as if by unspoken agreement, Blake is the one to take him.

* * *

In the morning Bane meets with Talia. She speaks poisonous words — sweet like her favourite perfume, with a bitter tang hinting at its venomous nature. It's like he sees her clearly for the first time; the blindfold is ripped to shreds, and the picture is not pretty.

She is so damaged inside that all she does is seek an outlet to inflict her pain tenfold, as if this way it will be somehow easier to bear. Perhaps, Bane reasons, she doesn't understand that it leads only to accumulation of general ugliness in the world… And has to discard this notion. He is no fool, he has no need to make one of himself.

He might have been blind, but he is not anymore. And the malicious gleam in her eyes as she talks isn't so craftily hidden, not when he is searching for a chink, anyway.

And when she comes closer and rests her hand on the lapel of his coat, Bane sees it for what it really is. He feels like Talia is jerking the strings that are hooked deep into his limbs. And still, he lets this happen.

He looks at her, and when did the innocent child whom he swore to protect at all costs from all imaginable horrors disappeared?

Bane watches her lovely face as she speaks of deserved retribution, how the City must suffer for robbing her of her father, for its various, uncountable sins, and is struck by the thought that at a different time she might have been the goddess of vengeance.

She wielded his unquestioning loyalty for so long, it seems like eternity. And now he feels betrayed, a tinge of failure on the back of his tongue.

He feels adrift, lost in the wind like a balloon, whose string is no longer held by the owner's hand. His compass is broken, and besides, it was twisted wrong all along. He doesn't know what to do. It's not a notion Bane had ever anticipated.

* * *

When Bane appears on his doorstep three days later and looking into John's eyes says, "I will show you where the bomb is," Blake recovers from shock admirably quickly.

"It's the power of love." He smiles. "Dumbledore would be so proud."

This story was brought to you by the mental image of Bane looking deeply into Blake's eyes and saying, "Ride me hard into the sunset like I'm your pony."

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