
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/765650.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dark_Knight_Rises_(2012)
  Relationship:
      Bane/John_Blake
  Character:
      John_Blake, Bane_(DCU), Barsad, Bruce_Wayne, Talia_al-Ghul_|_Miranda
      Tate, Selina_Kyle
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Developing_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-18 Updated: 2013-04-25 Chapters: 3/? Words: 5484
****** Nothing New and Nothing True ******
by Sibilant
Summary
     John's heard all the rumours about Bane. But he's never been one to
     leave well enough alone.
     (High school AU - wherein John is the school paper's newest reporter,
     Bane is the football team's preeminent linebacker, and no one knows
     how to properly express their feelings.)
Notes
     Prompted by princess-joseph, and originally intended to be a series
     of drabbles. But it kept growing, and growing, and took on a life of
     its own. As always.
     Rated E for eventual explicit content, but currently gen.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John slides into his Social Studies class right before Mr. Gordon swings the
door shut.
“Just made it, son,” Mr. Gordon says.
“Sorry— sorry,” John gasps out breathlessly. He starts to explain, saying, “I
was talking to Ms Vale about joining her Journalism class, I lost track of
time,” but Mr. Gordon waves him off, his mouth twitching into a smile beneath
his moustache.
John gives him a grateful look. He turns and heads for the fifth row, where
Bruce has one foot resting on the table next to his, saving it for John.
The rest of the class is still settling down, chairs squeaking and the tail
ends of conversations petering out, which is probably why Bruce feels
comfortable saying out loud: “Someone’s the favourite.” He doesn’t look up from
his phone, blithely ignoring the irritated looks being sent his way by other
students for blocking the aisle.
“Shut up,” John grins. He shoves Bruce’s foot off the table as he takes his
seat.
Bruce gives him a brief smile – brief but real – before tucking his phone away
when Mr. Gordon points a finger at him and gives him an even more pointed look.
However, ten minutes later and one introductory lecture on the principles of
government and something something policy something—
(God— John likes Mr. Gordon and everything, but sometimes he really hates
school)
—John’s phone buzzes in his pocket.
It’s unexpected enough that it makes John jump a little. He looks up, but Mr.
Gordon has his back to the class, writing on the whiteboard. A few students
glance over disinterestedly at John, then away.
John slouches down a little in his seat and slides his phone out of his pocket
slowly. He peers at the screen. It’s a text – from Bruce, of course.
Why journalism? You hate writing.
 John glances sidelong at Bruce, but Bruce is putting on a perfect display of
distant boredom, not looking at John. John types back quickly, still keeping
one eye on Mr. Gordon: But I like investigating.
Lol. John Blake, super sleuth. What are you going to investigate?
John hesitates, then types back: Bane.
 
                                      ---
 
“Bane? Seriously, Bane?” Bruce demands, once school lets out and he manages to
find John amidst the crush. John had dodged him immediately after class had
ended. And he’d kept dodging him, right up until Bruce’s fawning, unofficial
fan club had mobbed Bruce, and stopped him from following.
But there’s no fan club to save John from Bruce’s horrified stare or firm grip
on his shoulder this time.
“It’s not that big a deal,” John says, pushing Bruce’s hand off gently.
“It is that big a deal,” Bruce says, and his expression is still horrified. His
reaction is actually starting to make John a little nervous, but like hell
John’s going to show nervousness in front of Bruce, of all people. He rolls his
eyes instead, affecting nonchalance.
“WhyBane?” Bruce asks after a brief silence.
“Because the article is going to be about school bullying,” John says over his
shoulder, as they wind their way past clusters of students. “I thought maybe I
could use Bane as like the, you know, focus of the piece or something. Make the
article more immediate. Or something.”
“Eloquent,” Bruce says dryly. John flips him off with easy familiarity. Bruce
grins for a second then sobers again.
“Using Bane for your article on school bullying is like using Hannibal Lecter
for an article on serial killers – you’re going to end up eaten,” he warns as
they walk out the school gates.
“Wow,” John says, kind of impressed despite himself. “Maybe you should be
writing for the school paper.”
Bruce ignores the joke. He gives John his ‘I’m just concerned about your
welfare’ Student Council President stare as he says, “Have you heard what
people say about—”
“Yeah. I have,” John interrupts. “And don’t you think it’s weird? There’re all
these rumours about Bane being a psycho, but no one’s done anything about him.
If he’s done even a tenth of the stuff people say he has, he should be
expelled. Then locked in juvie.”
They come to a halt at the curb. “Nothing’s been done because people are too
scared to say anything,” Bruce says, shaking his head. He waves at Alfred as
the butler pulls up in the Bentley.
John waves at Alfred too then turns back to Bruce. “Well— that’s not right,” he
says stubbornly. “Someone should do something.”
“Does that someone have to be you?” Bruce asks. John just keeps looking at him.
There’s a beat, then Bruce sighs, shoulders slumping a little: “All right –
what do you need?”
John gives him a grin at full-wattage. Bruce just sighs again, opens the rear
passenger door, and gestures for John to get in too.
 
                                      ---
 
John doesn’t ask Bruce for much - just a voice recorder and camera. Any basic
ones that Bruce can loan him will do.
But he forgets that this is Bruce he’s dealing with.
So, the following day, what he ends up with is a new phone (complete with voice
recorder app), a high-end DSLR, and a freaking laptop – all to keep.
“I can’t take these,” John protests when Bruce hands them over before school
starts. Bruce raises his eyebrows.
“Well, I’m not taking them back,” he says, and then he’s pulling his hands away
and raising them up.
John rolls his eyes. Because Bruce is freakishly tall and, with him holding his
hands up like that, John has no hope of pushing them back in his hands.
He wants to protest that he’s not Bruce’s damn charity case. That Bruce doesn’t
need to shovel money at John to secure his friendship, because he knows part of
Bruce still thinks that way—
“Think of it as me investing in our school’s future,” Bruce says, in the glib,
carefree voice he always uses in public. John punches him in the arm. Bruce
grins.
John tries for a different tack. “Look, I appreciate all this. But I can’t
exactly keep these in my locker, man. And I can’t take them back to St
Swithin’s. The other guys would probably try and steal it all.”
That’s... kind of a lie. John’s not close to many of the other St. Swithin’s
kids, but they all share a bond. Sort of. It’s not exactly one they wish they
shared, but it’s a bond all the same. And though they’ll steal anyone else’s
stuff without hesitating or showing a glimmer of remorse, they’ll never try to
steal one another’s crap. They’ve got enough shit to be dealing with, without
heaping more on one another.
Still, it’s a convenient stereotype to play on, and Bruce – for all the shit
he’s been through himself – is still old money rich, and doesn’t know any
better.
Bruce purses his mouth for a second. “Okay, fine,” he says, expression
reluctant. “You can give them back to me, after school. And I’ll bring them to
you in the mornings.”
John nods, satisfied.
And, just like that, he’s all set to investigate Bane.
 
                                      ---
 
It turns out to be easier said than done.
Because John’s never actually interacted with Bane, or even gotten close to
him.
Well— he’s seen Bane. It’s hard to miss a six-foot-something linebacker when
they part crowds like a cruise ship parts the sea. But he’s only ever seen Bane
from across crowded halls, or opposite ends of the cafeteria. He can hardly
just wander up to Bane and start grilling him for information. Especially if
Bane really is the psycho everyone says he is.
So John starts with easier avenues: gathering information from the witnesses
to, and victims of, Bane’s bullying; it should be easy. The rumours surrounding
Bane are legion.
By the end of the week, John has ten pages of neatly typed, double spaced notes
in eleven point font. They document every incidence of bullying Bane’s
committed since coming to Gotham County High – John even has them grouped by
type.
But what John doesn’t have is one victim. Oh, he’s gotten plenty of hearsay –
lots of ‘I heard that he…’ and ‘Stacey’s boyfriend saw him…’ sorts of
statements.
But no confirmed victims. Not one. Not even a witness.
Confused, John shakes his head. He’s just starting to close the Word document
when someone slaps his laptop shut; John barely has time to snatch his hands
out of the way.
“I was working on that, dickhead,” John snaps. He looks up—
—and meets the flat stare of Bane’s closest friend, Barsad.
For a beat, they just stare at each other.
Then John goes on the offensive.
“The fuck do you want?” He asks, tilting his chin up challengingly.
“Nothing,” Barsad replies. “At least, not from you.” The implied ‘and it’s not
like you have much to give’ rings clear in his tone.
John bristles instantly. Fuck this school and its class consciousness,
seriously. And fuck Barsad too, because he’s not loaded either – he’s just
friends with Miranda Tate and a potentially psychotic linebacker. The familiar
thread of anger starts to wind its way through John’s body.
But he puts on his best smirk when he says, “Well, if you don’t want anything
from me, I guess we can return to mutually ignoring each other, happy in the
knowledge that we’ve been enriched by this conversation.”
He tries to tug his laptop out from beneath Barsad’s hand. Barsad presses down
harder. Concerned for the state of his laptop (because while Bruce won’t care
if it’s broken, John does), John snaps, “Jesus, what is it then?”
Hostile blue gaze. “You’ve been spreading gossip about Bane.”
“Bullshit.”
“I saw what you were writing.”
“That’s information I’ve been collecting about Bane,” John says sharply. “I
don’t spread rumours—”
Barsad scoffs. “You write for the school paper.” It sounds like he’s saying
‘you write for a tabloid’.
“Yeah, and what do you do in your spare time?” John snips. “Besides going
around and trying to break people’s stuff.”
“I stop nosy, ignorant slackjaws from spreading lies about my friends.”
Slackjaw? Who the hell uses that word? Whatever. John lets out an annoyed
breath. “Do you have a hearing problem, man? I told you. I don’t spread lies, I
don’t do that—”
“Then why are you so interested in Bane?”
“Get your hands off my stuff and I might tell you.”
Barsad’s mouth tightens, but he pulls his hand away. John shoves his laptop
into his satchel, in case Barsad changes his mind. Then he pulls his chin in a
little, studying Barsad narrowly.
He recognises that tone of voice. He even recognises Barsad’s expression. It’s
the same tone of voice and expression that John uses when he goes to Bruce’s
defence against stupid, petty rumours made up by jealous little shits, and—
John’s mouth drops open.
“Barsad,” a voice says from behind him, “we need to— what are you doing?”
John glances over his shoulder when a shadow falls over him.
And then he freezes.
Because the shadow caster, standing less than three feet away from him, is
Bane.
Chapter End Notes
     *sigh* What was it that I used to say, about trying to keep the
     number of WIPs to a minimum?
     I just can't seem to help myself when it comes to this fandom. All
     these prompts, they're just so fun. Arrrgh. This fandom has ruined
     me. Ruined me, I say.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Bane steps forward.
Then he steps forward again, and just keeps coming closer, until he’s standing
immediately behind John. The hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up, and he
desperately tries to cling to his sudden revelation: those rumours might not be
real— they might all be bullshit—
But it’s really hard to keep that in mind with Bane looming right over him.
Because with his closely buzzed hair, enormous shoulders, and fists like
bricks, Bane already looks like the embodiment of every high school reject’s
worst fear. But combined with those scars— those huge fucking facial scars that
make him look like he’s been raked across the face by Freddy Krueger, well—
—the combined effect is enough to turn Bane into pure nightmare fuel.
“What are you doing?” Bane says again, and he’s clearly talking to Barsad, but
he’s looking at John. John stares back. Bane’s gaze is intense, sharper than
he’d expected; John has to force himself to keep his back and shoulders
straight, to not curl in on himself.
“I’m dealing with gutter trash,” Barsad replies, and— what the fuck did he just
say?
John whips back around. “Fuck you,” he snarls. “Gutter trash? This coming from
you, the guy who has fucking nothing except the ability to be a kiss ass—”
His words die out when Bane’s hand settles on his shoulder, gripping firmly.
“Choose your next words carefully,” Bane says slowly. “That’s my advice to
you.”
And that’s— sensible advice. Really sensible. John should listen to that
advice. But his mind is still on fire from Barsad’s hypocritical insult, so
what he actually ends up doing is glaring back at Bane and saying, “Why don’t
you take your goddamn advice and shove it up your ass, Bane? Or, better yet,
shove it up the ass of your friend here.”
Complete silence.
Shit, John thinks.
Yeah, but try not to actually shit yourself, though, another part of him says.
The silence stretches on and on. It goes on long enough for John to get really
creative in imagining what he’s going to look like when Bane’s finished with
him. John glances around, deeply regretting his decision to come to the least
populated school courtyard. Because what he wouldn’t give for some people to be
wandering past right now—
And then Bane snorts out a laugh.
John gapes.
“Perhaps you should apologise to the so-called gutter trash, Barsad,” Bane
says, and what? Just— what? John’s brain reels. Did Bane seriously just tell
Barsad to apologise? To John?
Stunned, he turns his head to look at Barsad.
Barsad looks pissed. Extremely pissed. He glowers at John for a second then
lifts his chin, crosses his arms and says, “He’s one of the bastards spreading
lies about you.”
Bane looks down at John. “Are you?”
“No,” John says immediately. Barsad snorts, but John barrels on before he can
interrupt further. “I’m not spreading anything, which some people would know if
they listened before throwing around accusations.” He glares at Barsad before
turning back to Bane. “I was just— collecting information.”
Bane raises an eyebrow. “Information on me?”
John’s righteous indignation falters slightly. “...Yeah.”
“Why?”
And John’s never been the best with words, but— for once in my life, he thinks,
trying to bargain with his own tongue, don’t fuck up when I’m speaking.
“It’s... for an article.”
“An article on me.” Statement, not a question.
John gets a hand up quickly, trying to placate Bane, or maybe just ward him
off. “Not an article on you. Just— it’s— it’s an article on school bullying.”
And shit. Shit. So much for not fucking up in speaking, because there’s no way
Bane’s not going to take that the wrong way.
There’s a flash of— something in Bane’s eyes. Irritation, or maybe frustration;
John’s not entirely certain. He’s never been the best at relating to other
people either. But after a moment that flicker of something vanishes. Bane’s
voice is completely neutral when he says, “You believe I’m a bully?”
John eyes him. No trace of emotion in Bane’s voice or expression at all. It’s a
perfect mask, really.
But John knows all about masks, about why people use them, and he feels a
sudden twinge of sympathy for Bane then. It makes his voice go quiet and
sincere when he says, “I don’t believe you’re a bully.”
Bane tilts his head, and he seems mildly curious now. But that’s okay. Curious
is good. Curious is much better than pissed or murderous, and John’s just about
to relax when—
“Of course you don’t,” Barsad says, voice as scathing as molten lava. “You
don’t believe he’s a bully, so you target him for your article. Of course.”
Jesus – Barsad’s like a fucking terrier or something, latching on and refusing
to let go.
“I didn’t know what to believe,” John snaps, twisting so Barsad can see the
full extent of his scowl. “That’s why I was gathering information. I don’t
believe shit just because people say it’s true. And I don’t jump to
conclusions, which is more than I can say for you.”
Barsad scowls back at him. John narrows his eyes. He’s pretty sure they’re
going to be locked here until the end of time now, because like hell John’s
going to be the one to back down first—
“Very commendable of you,” Bane says.
Who talks like that? John thinks. Who seriously talks like Bane and Barsad,
using words like slackjaw and commendable like they’re just a part of normal
conversation? And was Bane being sarcastic just then, or what?
Bane skirts around John to put a hand on Barsad’s shoulder. Barsad looks away
from the glare-off the second Bane touches him, so, ha— John wins by default.
He spends a second basking in that small victory, before he realises he’s being
scrutinised by Bane. Again.
John meets Bane’s eyes, frowning a little.
The corner of Bane’s ruined mouth twitches upward then; John swears it’s almost
a smile. It’s such an unexpectedly human expression that John finds himself
smiling back reflexively.
Except that’s apparently the wrong reaction because Bane straightens up
suddenly, blinking. He hovers for a second, looking at John with seeming
uncertainty, before he settles on giving John a polite nod. And then he’s
turning away – firmly steering Barsad away too – without waiting for John to
respond.
John blinks at the sight of their retreating backs. Is that it? He wonders.
The pair of them have almost rounded the corner before John’s brain finally
kicks into proper gear, and Christ— he’s so not cut out for this reporting
stuff—
“Hey!” He calls out.
Both Bane and Barsad stop. However, after a pause, Barsad mutters something to
Bane and keeps walking, vanishing around the corner. Well, that’s fine – John
doesn’t want to talk to Barsad anyway, that jackass. And while he’s still not
one hundred percent certain on whether Bane is or isn’t a bully, his gut and
the scant evidence he does have is pointing towards ‘isn’t’. So maybe—
“You ever think about getting your side of the story out?” John asks, when Bane
turns back.
“I appreciate the offer,” Bane says. “But I don’t believe you’d find many
interested readers.”
John frowns, puzzled. Bane seriously doesn’t sound like what he would’ve
imagined. At all. Not that John’s spent a lot of time imagining what Bane
sounds like; he’s got better things to do with his time. But he’d assumed Bane
would be loud and kind of alpha dog, like Bruce when he’s putting on his
biggest party boy act. Or hissing and menacing, like Crane when he’s in full
drug pusher mode.
Instead, Bane just sounds calm, civil, and... kind of like someone force-fed
him a dictionary for breakfast. Bullies don’t sound like that.
“You don’t think people would be interested in knowing the truth?” John asks.
“Why would they be, when fiction is so much more interesting?”
John makes a face. Bane’s got a point there. After all, Bruce has never been
able to silence all the rumours surrounding him either, and he’s president of
the freaking Student Council. The unfairness of it all has never failed to piss
John off.
He bites down on that irritation – hard – so he doesn’t sound pissed at Bane
when he says, “People being uninterested shouldn’t be a reason to not get your
side of the story out. If we only show people the stuff we think they’re
interested in, all we’d have is entertainment news and shitty reality shows on
TV.”
“Isn’t that what we have?” Bane’s tone is distantly polite, but there’s
amusement lurking in there somewhere – John can feel it. He grins at Bane. And
while Bane’s too far away for him to see properly, he thinks Bane might be
giving him that almost-smile again.
Bane says slowly, “As I said, I appreciate the offer and the spirit in which it
was given—”
Dictionary for breakfast,John thinks.Maybedictionaries, plural.
“—but I don’t believe clearing my name would serve any real purpose.”
And then Bane’s gone, around the corner and out of sight.
“Why?” John says into the now-empty courtyard. There’s no answer other than the
echo of his own voice, and John frowns to himself.
Seriously. Why?
Chapter End Notes
     I solemnly swear this won't be eighteen chapters of slow burn XD
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
[A series of text messages. John: I think the stories about bane might be
bullshit. Bruce: Why? John: No evidence. Bruce: Lot of stories about him tho.
John: Lot of stories about you too. Bruce: Touche. Bruce: Maybe he's killing
them all after he's done bullying them. John: Don't be a dick.. Take this
seriously. Bruce: Sorry. That was Selina. John: What is Selina doing with your
phone?]
 
John checks his phone periodically throughout the first ten minutes of lunch.
However, when it becomes clear that no other reply is forthcoming, he rolls his
eyes and slides his phone back into his pocket. He picks desultorily at his
food, resigned to the fact that he’s apparently eating alone today.
“John Blake?”
Or not.
John looks up from his less than appealing lunch, and takes in the far more
appealing sight of Miranda Tate standing in front of his cafeteria table. She
smiles at him when he meets her eyes. John looks around before deciding that,
yes – against all probability and reason – Miranda Tate is smiling at him.
He turns back to her, staring.
Stares for long enough that Miranda’s pleasant debutante smile turns bemused.
“...You are John Blake, yes?”
“Uh—” John starts. He coughs and clears his throat. “I— sorry. Yeah. I’m John.”
The smile slides back into place. “I’m Miranda,” she says, like everyone in
school doesn’t know her name and her face. She holds out her hand. John wonders
if she expects him to kiss it or something, before taking it and shaking it
gingerly.
“Yeah, I, uh... know who you are,” he says, and Miranda’s eyebrows arch.
“Yes. You do seem to know a lot about me and my friends,” she says, and John
winces. Shit— is that why she’s here?
He glances around again. The cafeteria’s noisy and packed out, but John’s
sitting in the corner closest to the exit, slightly separated from everyone
else. A few people are glancing over – some surprised to see John in the
company of a rich kid whose surname doesn’t rhyme with ‘pain’, others (mainly
guys) giving Miranda not-so-subtle once-overs. But no one is actually staring.
He could probably dodge out of the cafeteria easily, before Miranda decides to
call some kind of teenage hit squad on him—
“May I sit?” Miranda asks, interrupting his escape route planning. She points
at the vacant seat opposite John.
John stares at it for a beat, then wordlessly gestures for her to take it.
Miranda sits down then folds her arms on the table. “I have a proposition for
you,” she says.
“Okay...” John says cautiously.
“I want you to find out who is starting rumours about Bane.”
...What?
“I— sorry?” John asks, eyebrows climbing.
“Bane told me you investigated all the rumours about him. Now I want you to
find out who is starting those rumours,” Miranda repeats, still smiling her
lovely, demure smile.
John stares at her for a beat, then folds his arms on the table and leans
forward as well. “Okay, I don’t know if you’ve missed it somehow, but most
people gossip about Bane. He kind of stands out.”
Miranda waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t care about the people spreading the
gossip,” she says. “I want to know who is creating the gossip in the first
place.”
“Why?”
“Because Bane is my friend,” she says, looking at him with wide, guileless
eyes. “Wouldn’t you do the same, if you were in my place?”
John shrugs, even though he has done the same for Bruce, and more besides. He’s
gotten into shouting matches and fist fights both, defending Bruce against the
people trying to tear him down. It’s earned him the unflattering reputation as
‘Bruce Wayne’s personal attack dog’, as well as spawned a recurring rumour that
he and Bruce are more than ‘just friends’. However, it’s also earned him
Bruce’s enduring friendship.
And John knows that Miranda knows that, because the look in her eyes has
transformed into an annoyingly shrewd one. God, he hates it when people look at
him like that, like they know him.
His irritation makes him curt when he says, “Bruce is president of the Student
Council. People spreading shit about him undercuts his leadership.” He
conveniently ignores the fact that he’s told Bruce, more than once, that the
Student Council is beyond a waste of time. “Bane on the other hand? He plays
varsity football. What the hell does it matter if there are rumours about him,
really? We’re all going to get out of this place in a year and then we’re never
going to see each other again.”
Miranda’s eyes go slightly flinty. John smirks, part of him perversely pleased
to see her jostled out of polished perfection.
“You live in a group home, don’t you?” Miranda asks eventually.
And then it’s John’s turn to turn cold. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Bane is an orphan too.”
“Yeah? Am I meant to feel bad for him?” And that’s nasty of him – John knows it
is. Still—
But Miranda doesn’t glower, or rear back, or snap at him. She simply fixes him
with a stare as hard as granite. It reminds John disconcertingly of Bane.
“Bane is an orphan,” Miranda repeats. “He has no money. No connections. He
refuses anything that might seem like charity—”
“You think that makes him a special case or something? That’s what it’s like
for most of us.”
Miranda tilts her head. “Perhaps. But Bane has two advantages: he’s
intelligent—” John raises a sceptical eyebrow, “—and he is exceptionally
talented at football.”
And, oh—John gets it now. “He’s trying to get a full-ride scholarship into
college.”
Miranda’s expression is equal parts pleased and grim. “He is. But these rumours
– especially the newest rumours – they will poison him in the eyes of the
scouts. No scout will select him if they think he’ll be toxic to the team.
He’ll lose his chance to go to college.” Miranda’s gaze turns fierce, all
traces of the debutante suddenly burning away. She lowers her voice. “But that
will not happen. He will not be taken down by some pathetic, insignificant
maggot who is too cowardly to even own up to their words. I will notlet that
happen, do you understand?”
John stares at her. Then he nods mutely.
A few seconds of silence pass. Miranda takes a deep breath, and the pleasant
facade slips back onto her face like it had never left; she smiles placidly at
John.
What the hell, John thinks. What. The. Hell.
Miranda looks around and, after a beat, John does too. They’re drawing longer,
more curious glances now, although no one seems close enough to be able to
listen in. Still, it’s more attention than John’s used to, without the buffer
of Bruce’s popularity, and it sets him on edge.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Miranda says sweetly. “We can discuss things further
outside.”
 
                                      ---
                                        
John’s heard all the rumours about Bane and Miranda too, and the rumours he’s
heard are these: Bane is Miranda’s brother. Bane is Miranda’s illegitimate
half-brother. Bane is Miranda’s cousin. Bane is Miranda’s boyfriend. Bane is
Miranda’s brother/half-brother/cousin and her boyfriend.
After fifteen minutes in Miranda’s company, John can see how the idea that she
and Bane are related came about. They have the same sharp grey eyes, the same
way of tilting their head, and the same kind of terrifying manner.
But fifteen minutes is also enough for John to realise that all those rumours
are complete and total bullshit too. It never ceases to amaze him, how ass-
backwardly moronic the students of Gotham County High can be.
They’re completing a slow circuit of the athletics field, avoiding the
bleachers and clusters of students enjoying the sun. They’ve almost returned to
their starting point when Miranda turns to look at him. Her chin is tilted up
in that instinctively arrogant manner – the one that usually gives John the
urge to shove said chin-tilter over. With Miranda, the urge is downgraded to a
mild itch in his palms.
“So do we have an agreement?” She asks. The wind keeps blowing her curly hair
into her eyes, and she tosses it out of her face impatiently rather than brush
it aside.
John jams his hands into his pockets. “Well, there’s still the issue of what
exactly I’m meant to get out of all this.”
“I did say that you’d be compensated for you time and effort,” she says
lightly.
“That’s great,” John says. “But I’m going to need something a little more
concrete than ‘you’ll be compensated’. Bane’s not the only poor kid in school.”
It’d be one thing if this was Bruce asking. But it’s not. This is Miranda and,
by extension, Bane – people he doesn’t know at all. John believes in fairness,
but he’s not going to stick his neck out just to be nice.
Weirdly, his statement makes Miranda beam. “At least you are not so stubborn
about receiving money,” she says. She nods briskly. “Name your price then.”
This... is kind of crazy. John Blake, super-sleuth, he thinks.
John takes his hands out of his pockets, floundering a little. “I— fifty bucks
an hour,” he says eventually. “And I get to charge you for any one-off
expenses.” He has no idea why he says that. What expenses is he going to rack
up, investigating some schoolyard gossiping?
“A pre-paid credit card for expenses would be easier,” Miranda says
immediately. “Would you like the money to be paid into your bank account or
would you prefer it in cash?”
John stares. Miranda stares back resolutely, looking every inch the business
tycoon’s daughter. He shakes his head at her. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”
He says. “You just— throw money at a problem and it’s fixed.”
“It wasn’t always so easy,” is her reply. John waits, but Miranda doesn’t
elaborate.
“Cash at the end of the week is fine,” he says after another beat, holding out
his hand. Miranda shakes his hand, and she’s instantly all pleasant smiles
again. John eyes her warily.
And then he hears, from over his shoulder: “Hey! There you are!”
John winces. It’s Bruce, and he’s speaking with that annoying bray in his voice
that means he has company. John turns to look.
Bruce strides up to him, grinning. He has one arm draped around the waist of
Natascha Patrenko – the Russian exchange student with legs for days – and his
other arm around Selina Kyle.
“Hey Bruce,” John says. He nods at the girls. “Selina, Natascha.”
Natascha smiles blithely, but Selina smirks. John’s instantly on his guard.
“You weren’t in the cafeteria,” Bruce says. He grins his dopey grin (variant
#1) when John looks at him. “But, uh, I can see why you didn’t stay.” He turns
his stupid grin on Miranda. “Hey Miranda.”
“Hello Bruce,” she says coyly. Bruce waggles his eyebrows at John, deliberately
unsubtle.
“I was interviewing Miranda for the paper,” John says automatically. He isn’t
quite sure why he lies. Miranda looks back and forth between them, expression
thoughtful.
“Well,” Bruce says, “it’s convenient that you’re both here, because Selina had
a fantastic idea.” He takes a deep, dramatic breath. “Party at the manor this
Saturday.”
John rolls his eyes. “You have a party every other weekend.”
“This will be a themed party,” Bruce says, like that somehow makes it
different.
“What’s the theme?” Miranda asks, smiling.
“It’s—” Bruce pauses then grins at Selina and Natascha. “You know what? I
forgot for some reason.”
John rolls his eyes harder.
“Anyway,” Bruce says, waving a hand airily. “That doesn’t matter. The point is
that you’re all invited.” He raises his voice to address everyone in the
immediate surroundings. “Party at the manor this Saturday, seven o’clock!
You’re all invited!”
Christ, John thinks, as everyone around them erupts into indiscriminate
cheering and applause. What the fuck has gotten into Bruce?
The answer comes from Miranda, who leans in close and says into his ear
quietly, “I heard that Harvey Dent introduced Rachel Dawes to his parents
yesterday.”
Oh God.
Miranda moves away from him and turns to Bruce. Her smile is toffee-sweet. “May
I invite some of my friends?” She asks.
Bruce gives her Dopey Grin, Variant #2. “Are they good looking?”
“I think they are.”
Her tone is amused, sly, and John’s eyes go wide. He tries shaking his head at
Bruce as subtly as he can. Bruce either doesn’t notice, or he’s deliberately
ignoring him. “Sure,” he says cheerfully.
John closes his eyes and counts to ten. When he opens them again, Miranda is
talking to Selina and Natascha. But Bruce has moved away from them to stand by
John’s side.
 “You are going to come, right?” He asks. To anyone else, Bruce would probably
sound casual. But John knows Bruce better than that, and he can hear the muted
(lonely) unhappiness in his voice.
John sighs. “Yeah, man. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Bruce smiles and claps him on the shoulder.
Chapter End Notes
     Next chapter: Paaaaaar-taaaaaaaay. Featuring teenagers being
     teenagers, under aged drinking, and Seven Minutes in Heaven.
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