Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Batman or DC Comic franchises. All characters belong to their respective parties.

Author's Note: These moments inspired by another viewing of The Dark Knight Rises. And Tom Hardy. Always Tom Hardy. Oh, and I welcome any and all feedback. :)

Regret

Those unmistakable steps signaling his slow stalk across the carpet interrupt the muffled silence. His shadow eases out from behind me before its broad darkness creeps along the surface of the desk.

It must be much later in the evening than I had thought. I did not notice the dawn fade into darkness. Only a few table lamps light the soft leathers and dark woods of the office furniture—expensive products meant to substantiate the prestige of the person behind the desk.

No longer behind the desk. No longer here to dictate. No longer here to pass along inconsequential orders to his lesser employees.

The scattered papers were probably important to some Gotham businessman. I imagine him still in his suit; huddling with his wife and children in the basement of their downtown condominium—waiting out the lockdown.

Their naivety, their ignorant hope. Sickening.

He stops behind me. I barely hear his measured breathing—those deep filtered inhales and exhales that had lulled me into thoughts of safety when I was a child. The same breaths that had provided more solace than any other thing in this world precisely because they belonged to him. My protector.

But now…

I do not ask the pointless questions. He knows he should not be here. He knows our plan. I do not need to know how he found his way to me; how he remained undetected despite the crowds of people taking shelter in the abandoned corporate building. Pointless questions. We know each other's abilities.

This night though—the last night before our bomb destroys Gotham City. My last night of living with the festering regret. Tomorrow my father will be redeemed, and I…

…I am secondary.

His silence settles across my back and my shoulders straighten in response. Under the charged weight of his presence, my body reacts. This is not new. I have grown alongside this man. He has always been there—an extension of who I am. It has always been this way.

But adulthood brought about small changes. Changes in myself. My teeth would clench, eyes would glance away, and the fine hairs on my arms and neck would rise in awareness. If he noticed, he did not give anything away. Years have passed without either of us acknowledging it.

Sighing, I reach out and stroke the smooth surface of the desk.

"I do not understand." My low voice betrays nothing—practiced, monotone.

He does not reply. His breathing remains the same. His nonresponse has never bothered me, but he should not be here. He, more than anyone else, understands the discipline and devotion necessary for our cause. Any form of excess must be in pursuit of our mission. His being here carries no interest for our mission, but marks some kind of excess. It distracts—

"Nothing has changed. Everything is in place." Despite my control, and years of trained composure, frustration seeps into my voice. If I can hear it, then so can he. The thought makes it difficult to swallow my annoyance. "I do not understand."

My voice clashes with the quiet of the nightscape. The slow movement of my hand across the desk contrasts the charged stillness.

From the outline of his shadow I can see his thumbs looped into his armored fest. He remains motionless. No response.

My hand stills on the desk and the other hand clenches by my side. "Explain."

There is a beat of nothing before I feel him step closer.

I don't understand.

I can sense the hair's width of space between my back and his chest.

"You will not believe my explanation for coming here. Or you will refuse to believe my explanation."

It may be the careless volume and the typical nonchalance in his voice that tenses the muscles in my back, but it is undoubtedly the vaguely detectable and underlying threat that reverberates through my spine. Nails dig into palm.

After taking a deep breath I smother whatever emotion wavers at the back of my throat. "Explain your reasons, Bane, before I lose my patience."

This is unnecessary. Dismiss him. He cannot be here.

"I find myself growing impatient with the representative value in words, Talia. Right now I would rather express my explanation in an alternative manner."

"Please," I gesture for him to continue, some apprehension making me unwilling to turn and face him.

"Hm, I do wonder…" His shadow expands as he inhales deeply. "There have been very few moments in my life when I hesitate to act on impulses. And yet, right now, I hesitate. This impulse…it should have been acted upon ages ago." He pauses. "Perhaps that is the reason? Hesitation does not delay the act, it only feeds the impulse."

I can hear the grin in his voice.

"I do not understand." The words scrap through clenched teeth. "You have not explained your reasons for threating our plans. Do not flaunt your eloquent word games when you are with me. Not now, Bane. I do not understand."

"Allow me to explain."

I feel his arms graze my sides before he presses up against me. The edge of the desk presses into my hips and the pressure makes me grip the wood. The heat from his chest bleeds into my shoulder blades and I all but stop breathing when his palms drag across my ribs, down my stomach, and rest just below my belt.

With gradual pressure, he guides me back, until I feel his hips press on my lower back. It takes a moment for me to understand. All I can do is feel; the blood pumping in my throat, the moisture gathering under my palms, the crescendo of warmth collecting under his hand…

He flattens me against him, until—

My head snaps up. But before I can speak, he grips the fabric underneath my belt, spins me around, and lifts me onto the desk.

His gaze is unapologetic and too direct, but I can't look away. He waits expectedly, unblinking.

I force my lip to curl in an attempt at disgust, despite the flush creeping across my face.

The mission, Talia.

"Leave," I spit out.

"Shortly."

He leans back. I stare at his collar bone, inhaling deeply. How dare he—no, I….

"Why tonight? Do you doubt our plans, Bane? Have there been—"

"I do not allow myself to doubt, Talia. I shall, however, not live with the possibility of regrets. If I do this," He grazes his hands under my thighs, grips tightly, and yanks me up against his torso. "It means that tonight I am limiting the possibility of deep-seated…"

His hands trace their way from my knees, to my waist, to the center of my back. "…poisoned…"

One hand travels to the back of my neck where he grips some hair. He leans over until my back arches and my breasts push up against his chest. He murmurs the last words, "…utter regret."

There is beat of nothing. He stills, waits for me to refuse—to dismiss him. I think back to all those past moments; of looking at him and denying the emotions, but still feeling. Watching the iron bands of his arms fling an opponent across the street, recognizing the coiling intensity, waiting for the dark stare to turn on me. Appreciating.

Desiring.

I look into his eyes and curse the lost opportunities. So this is regret…

No.

"Then let there be absolutely no regrets, my friend." I feel for his belt buckle and pull him closer. My lips trace the contours of his shoulder and I bite the hot flesh. A growl resonates in his chest. I lick the reddened skin and murmur, "None."

His hand tightens at the nape of my neck.

"None," Bane agrees.

The guttural word seals a promise.