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Bruce's entire body feels like lead.
Physically, nothing contains him. His hands are not bound, his ankles are not shackled. He could reach forward, if he wished, and touch the front of the tank before him.
But the poison in his veins prevents it.
It steals everything away from him, fogging his thoughts and making even the slightest twitch of his fingers into a herculean effort. His eyes move slowly, dragging across the room, but there's nothing he hasn't seen before.
He doesn't know how long he's been there, but he knows it's been too long just the same. Any amount of time would be too long. Any amount of time is time away from his family, away from Gotham, away from his position as Batman.
Bruce isn't sure he's going to have a chance to get back to any of those ever again. He's trapped, the drugs he's being fed keeping him useless and ineffective, unable to secure his own escape. Dick and the others must know he's missing—it would be hard to miss—but Bruce doubts they have any leads. The whole thing is too random.
His capture, after all, seemed almost like an accident. Like they'd have taken anyone, and had gotten him instead. A million dollars of winnings from a two dollar scratch card, if the looks of joy on his captors faces are anything to go by. He can hear them, sometimes, when they stand outside the tank they've placed him in. Even groggy as he is, he can recognize the broad strokes of their plans—they're going to sell him, if he understands right. They mention names that they think might make high offers, names which do not inspire confidence. Would Slade buy him? Ra's? Hush? Black Mask? Who has the most money, they wonder to themselves, and who is most likely to pay?
They dress him to be sold. They pull him out of the tank, strip him down to nothing, and then press half his cowl to his face. They've broken it, cut it in half, and the sharp edge of it digs into his face in a way that threatens to drive him mad. The cowl, he suspects, exists to make it clear what's on offer. Without it, he's Bruce Wayne. With it, he's Batman. How many people have seen his face already, he wonders? How many people know now? His ability to gauge time is all but gone. He finds himself unable to sleep, even as the exhaustion sets in.
It's the drug, he realizes. He wonders how long he has before it will drive him insane.
It feels like the end, floating in the tank, unable to sleep, unable to wake. He feels barely alive, living a half-life that could end at any moment. He is trapped in himself, unable to do anything, nausea and exhaustion pressing in on all sides.
It's almost a relief when they bring in his first buyer; it's a break from the monotony, a light at the end of the tunnel.
Even if Bruce suspects that the light is the front of a train coming to run him over.
He knows the buyer is coming because everyone's behavior's changes. Even drugged, it's difficult to miss: the people outside his tank are more present. The warehouse space he's being kept in is cleaned up. Someone sets up a table nearby, and some chairs.
Bruce would laugh at the ridiculousness of it all if he could even hope to laugh.
When the buyer finally comes—the first, Bruce suspects, of many—Bruce is surprised. It's not Ra's, who he'd consider the number one most likely candidate. It's not even Luthor, who's the richest of his candidates.
It's Bane.
His silhouette is impossible to mistake for anyone else, but Bruce doesn't have to wonder. Bane comes right up to the tank immediately, staring up at him as if surprised by his identity. He knows, of course. Bane has known who he was for a long, long time.
But it feels different, being helpless in front of him. Being exposed.
"We thought you might be interested," one of his keepers says, standing by a table several feet back. "We understand you aren't likely to have the sort of cash that someone like Mr. Sionis might, but your control of Santa Prisca... I thought we might come to some arrangement."
Is he in charge? Bruce can't tell. Everything he sees is blurred by the fluid he's floating in, rendering everyone around him into little more than smears. Bane is unmistakable, but everyone else? Interchangeable.
"I am certain that we could," Bane replies. He's still staring up at Bruce, and the seller seems to realize they wont be sitting down at the table. He moves over instead, standing beside Bane and joining him in watching Bruce. "Has he placed an offer?"
"We've let him know that we might have something that would interest him, but you're the first being shown this particular merchandise. If you make an amazing enough offer... Well, a lot of dangerous people want him, and I'd prefer to not have to deal with them."
He's an idiot. Even as drugged up as he is, Bruce recognizes the error he's just made. He's admitted to Bane that he's the only one who knows. He's admitted to Bane that it would be significantly cheaper to kill him.
Bruce doesn't have it in him to be horrified when Bane kills him. It's over fast—one swing of his arm, and a snap loud enough that it echos in Bruce's ears—and then the man's body is crumpling to the floor.
Bane stares up at Bruce where he floats in the tank, and then he turns away and leaves the room behind. Bruce is left alone with a corpse, unable to do anything. Unable to even turn his head and look away.
At least it's Bane. Bane has never been interested in torture; he's not like Sionis or Ra's, who would keep him around for a long, long time to come.
It's those bitter, awful thoughts that occupy him until Bane—and someone else—return. He's a tall man with a dark complexion, but anything beyond that is lost in the blur. They speak for a while (or at least Bane speaks, his voice distinct enough to make out), and then the other man steps forward, inspecting the equipment keeping Bruce alive.
He's one of Bane's without question, familiar in a way that Bruce finds relief in. He probably already knew who Batman was under the mask. Bruce knows it will probably never again matter, but he finds a bit of comfort in it anyway.
Bane's man turns, gesturing to him, and then Bane approaches the tank.
"Can he hear me?"
More gestures. Bruce's exhausted, drugged up brain finally connects the dots; he's signing. There's nothing for Bruce to hear, save Bane's one sided conversation. He clearly gets his answer, though, because he turns back to Bruce, staring up at him once more.
"You deserve better than to be bought and sold."
Bane winds up, and then punches the tank. It shatters immediately, and suddenly things seem to be happening all at once. The fluid all pours out, carrying Bruce with it, only he's bound up in wires and tubes that immediately start to tug at him. He's no longer choking on the one down his throat; instead, it's suffocating him, a spike of agony that only ends when Bane grabs him, providing support that minimizes the amount of strain.
Bane's man—Zombie, his oxygen-starved brain provides—leans over, beginning to strip away the various tubes. Bruce is certain he looks like a mess, but the pain is already starting to slip away, replaced with a bone deep exhaustion. Whatever was keeping him awake is no longer pouring into his veins, and the days he's been awake—surely it must have been days—are crushing him.
"Sleep," Bane says, and Bruce has no choice but to do as he's told.
It's not a peaceful sleep. He jerks in and out of consciousness, struggling to keep his grip on what's happening around him. Bane has him over his shoulder, going through the halls. The smell of smoke, thick in the air. The bounce of a car, driving somewhere. The scream of sirens. They're just flashes, unconnected scenes. Was the car smoky? Was that in the halls? What about the sirens?
Bruce fights against his exhaustion and gets nowhere.
His next memory is a heavy hand against his chest. It's uncomfortable, a heavy weight, but it's something. It's a sensation he can focus on, even if he can't do anything about it. His arms are too heavy to lift, his eyelids made of lead.
"Sleep," the voice comes again, and this time he does.
When he jerks back awake, it's a sudden, shocking thing. There's a stabbing pain, and when he drags his eyes open he realizes that it's because he's literally being stabbed. Zombie is there, inserting a needle into his arm, and Bruce lets out a frustrated groan of pain that he wants to be a no and doesn't come across as anything of the sort.
Again, the same heavy hand. He doesn't remember Bane being there before, but he is right then, his hand pressing lightly at Bruce's chest, keeping him from lifting himself up. It's a pointless gesture, the movement beyond his abilities, but the sensation is at least familiar.
"It will help to clear your mind," Bane says simply. "Give it time to work."
"Nnnnnoooo," Bruce slurs, struggling against Bane's hand. But even that he manages is enough of a surprise that Bruce's eyes widen. Whatever Zombie's done, it's working; he's able to move, which is something he hasn't been able to do since not long after he first got caught.
Bane doesn't argue with him, which is frustrating. Bruce wants to argue. He's who-knows-how-longs worth of energy, bundled up and ready to go.
And yet getting that energy out is still difficult. Attempts to talk become a slurred, incoherent mess. Attempts to struggle are even more pointless than they usually are with someone as strong as Bane. The act of trying is exhausting, and he slips back into the bed, all his energy burned.
"Rest," Bane says, and then he simply gets up and walks away.
Bruce doesn't want to, but he does anyway. He drifts in and out, struggling to mark the time. He tries to make note of the time of day when he wakes, but each successive time he's already forgotten what he was trying to remember. Sometimes Bane is there, lingering nearby and watching him. Sometimes Zombie is, fiddling with an IV line that seems to have sprung from Bruce's arm like a dandelion from concrete.
He has so many things he needs to do. He needs to get home. He needs to find out what's happened. The longer he stays in the bed, the more the worries press in. He's been there for weeks, at least, and his muscles are likely degrading. Bruce is past worrying about being Batman when he gets home; he's instead started worrying if he's going to be able to walk when Bane finally deigns to let him out of bed.
Finally, though, Bane comes to visit. There's a finality to it, a level of formality. It means something, that Bane stands at his bedside, eyes wandering across Bruce's still form. It makes Bruce aware of his condition, and his nudity. He doesn't have the batsuit. He doesn't even have a pair of underwear. He has nothing.
"Can you speak?"
His mouth is impossibly dry, but Bruce already knows the answer.
"Yes."
Bane seems to recognize his discomfort, because he turns away, returning a moment later with a glass of water. It's just in a plastic cup, but it feels unbelievably decadent as Bruce forces himself half-upright to drink it, spilling much of it on himself despite his efforts. When Bane pulls the empty cup away, Bruce laments its absence, sinking back into the bed with a groan.
"Better?" Bane asks. Bruce is having a hard time working out Bane actually cares, but decides that he must, for whatever reason. Bane does not do things simply because they are done. When Bane does things, there's always a purpose.
"How long are you going to keep me here?"
Bane's mask covers much of his face, but the small turn of his lips makes it obvious he's surprised.
"Do you think that I'm keeping you here?"
"I recover quicker than this," Bruce says. It's true. He's been through much worse and bounced back much quicker. Whatever Bane's been giving him, it's been slowing his recovery, whether intentional or not. Charitably, it might be a side effect of purging the drugs from his system, but it's difficult to feel charitable while he's so vulnerable.
Bane's reaction is confusing, because he seems almost amused as he leans forward, studying Bruce. His voice, though, is the same neutral tone he's had for the entire conversation.
"How long do you think I have kept you prisoner so far?"
Bruce grinds his teeth. He doesn't know the answer, and suspects that he's going to be horribly wrong. His gut instinct keeps bouncing between 'weeks' and 'months', which isn't helpful.
"Long enough that I'm wondering what your game is," he snaps.
"Wayne," Bane starts, and then seems to reconsider what he's saying. He seems to relax a bit, straightening up rather than looming over him. "It's been two days."
Bruce's brain stops working.
There's no way. Two days? He's counted... he doesn't even know, weeks worth of days. He's felt his body falling apart. He's...
He doesn't even know.
"That can't be true," he says without meaning to. His brain isn't providing any sort of filter, he realizes, but he's unsure of whether it's a side effect of the drugs or something Zombie's slipped into his IV.
"Two days and a night," Bane corrects. "The drug that was given to you impaired your ability to process time. You should be free of it now."
Bruce stares into space. Is it possible? Can it even be true?
Bane reaches out, lightly taking Bruce's wrist and flipping it over. His finger taps a small scab pointedly.
"Your injuries have not yet healed because it has not yet been long enough for them to do so. You simply needed time to recover."
Bruce sags back into the bed the moment Bane releases him. It doesn't feel true, and yet the more he thinks about it logically, the more obvious it is. He's sore because his injuries haven't had time to heal. His muscles haven't degraded at all. He's hungry, but he's not starving the way he should be. He suspects if he checks, he'll even find the bruising on his ribs from when he was first caught. How long did they even have him? Was it as long as it felt?
"Two days," he says, the words bitter on his tongue. "What now?"
That's the big question, really. He's awake, but why? Why did Bane even let him wake up at all? What's his plan? What's the point?
"Someone will bring you food. Once you can be trusted not to spill on them, you'll be brought some clothes. Then..." He pauses, apparently considering. "Then you will be dropped in a large enough city for your medical care to be a non-issue."
Bruce is having a hard time believing what he's hearing.
"You're going to... let me go?" There are more things he wants to say, most of which are simple statements of disbelief, but he manages to bite his tongue.
"Yes. Keeping you here poses significant risks for me. Once you are well enough to not immediately be preyed upon, it would be better if you left."
Bruce can't prevent himself from gawking. Never would he have guessed that Bane would just let him go. It's absurd. Nonsensical.
"Just like that?"
"Did you expect me to keep you?" Bane asks, leaning in. "Did you expect me to make you my prisoner?"
Bruce's mouth hangs open. Bane feels painfully close, and even if his tone is even, his words are a threat. The implication is there. Did he expect that? He almost feels the need to justify himself.
No, scratch that, he does, even if it feels absurd to do so.
"You've tried to kill me more times than I can count," Bruce points out. "We're not friends."
"And yet we have been allies, at times. When there is a greater need."
"You just saved my life." It doesn't hit him until he's said it, but it's true. Bane did save him. If Bane hadn't intervened...
Bruce doesn't want to think about it. The thought of what might have happened makes his throat feel tight, his vision narrowing.
A hand touches his shoulder, and Bruce jerks back, head snapping up.
It's Bane. Of course it's Bane, he's the only one there.
"Do not get lost in your own head. You will not find answers there."
"I don't— I'm not even sure what answers I want. What happened—" He forces himself to stop, eyes squeezing closed. "There's no coming back. They saw my face. They know who I was."
"They will tell no one." Bane's hand comes again, resting on his shoulder. It's a firm, steady presence, and Bruce finds that it grounds him, even if it shouldn't. "They wished to hide you from the world, to keep you secret. Even among their own people, few knew about you. All of those people are now dead."
Bruce refuses to open his eyes. He keeps them tightly closed, trying not to think. Trying not to look.
"You killed them."
"They were no allies of mine. Better to be rid of them as soon as I had the opportunity."
"That isn't why you killed them, though."
Bane doesn't answer immediately. He's watching Bruce closely. Is he trying to decide what to say? Is he trying to word it just right? Bane doesn't do that sort of thing. He's normally so decisive. This feels different, and Bruce hates it. He doesn't understand what's happening, and he's struggling to come up with a plan.
His options are so limited.
"Yes, you are my enemy," Bane says, "but you have always treated me with respect. If you were to die, it should be a good death. A clean death."
"But you aren't giving me a clean death. You're letting me go."
Bruce isn't sure what to make of that. What Bane's saying, what he's doing... none of it makes sense. Is he trying to comfort him? What is even happening?
"Yes," Bane confirms.
"Why?"
Bane blinks at him.
"Would you prefer I not? Would you prefer I kill you, or perhaps take you prisoner?"
Bruce chokes, jerking back. That gets a short laugh from Bane, and it occurs to Bruce that he isn't sure he's ever heard the man laugh before. There's even a hint of a smile, which spends Bruce spinning mentally.
He just doesn't understand.
"Rest," Bane simply says, getting to his feet and clearly preparing to leave.
"Why?" Bruce asks again. "I just— I don't get it."
Bane doesn't turn back to look at him.
"Perhaps you will before it is time for you to go."
He leaves, and Bruce feels himself spiral in confusion.
He spends the next few days swimming in and out of consciousness. Even though he is no longer drugged, he is still recovering, and his body needs time to pull itself together. He's fed simple, easy to digest foods—rice and a bit of fish the first day, and some sort of lightly spiced porridge the second—and left largely alone.
Bane visits him, but never for long. He hangs in the doorway, staring at Bruce without a word, and then leaves the moment Bruce acknowledges his presence. It's baffling, but not quite as much as his supposed pending release. No matter how much time he spends thinking about it, no answer presents itself.
And then, rather abruptly, Bruce runs out of time. He falls asleep in the room Bane's stuck him in, and he wakes up in an ambulance.
It's disorienting, which seems to help his situation.
"Mr. Wayne?" A young woman says, leaning over him. He feels groggy, and his brain isn't getting up to speed the way it was just... was it yesterday?
"What...?"
"Do you know where you are?"
It's a deeply loaded question, and Bruce is awake enough to avoid any possible issues that his answers might imply.
"An ambulance...?"
"Well, he's awake," someone else says. Another EMT, he realizes when he cranes his neck. "Try not to crowd him."
Bruce sags back onto the gurney, squeezing his eyes shut. He has a throbbing headache that wasn't there when he went to sleep. Drugs, he guesses, but he doesn't understand why.
And then, suddenly, he does.
"Drugged," Bruce mumbles. It's a cover story, he's realized: a way to avoid answering too many questions. If he was drugged, it will raise less questions.
Bruce just doubts that will be enough. How is he going to explain where he's been? How is he going to be able to explain being dumped naked in... wherever he is?
But Bane seems to have seen to that as well. The police—he's in Chicago, he realizes from the emblems they wear—ask him a whole lot of questions that Bruce admits to not really following before they helpfully inform him that they're happy that he made it back, and that they weren't sure if Bane would uphold his part of the bargain.
"Bargain?" He asks stupidly, mentally kicking himself the moment it's out of his mouth. "Ransom," he corrects, playing it off as a mental flub. "How much did he get?"
"You do not want to know," one of the cop says with a shake of his head.
Alfred arrives less than an hour later, having dropped everything the moment he heard. The rest of the family follows shortly after, crowding into the hospital room and violating the hospital's rules on the number of guests one person can have. They do not ask him the questions they obviously want to ask, clearly aware that a public hospital is not the place for it.
The doctors insist on keeping Bruce overnight, but are convinced (mostly by Alfred) to release him into his family's care the following morning. Physically, very little is wrong with him, outside of some bruises and what turns out to be an extremely minor fracture in his left leg. Mentally is another story, as far as they're concerned, and Bruce plays the part of a deeply traumatized billionaire as if he hasn't experienced much worse plenty of times before.
Only once they're safely on the plane back to Gotham does he allow himself to really speak.
"Tell me what happened from your point of view," he says as he sinks back into the seat.
"You vanished mid-patrol. Total connection loss—all the tracking in your suit died in one go. Whatever cut you off, it was powerful. Tim was closest, so he headed straight for where we lost contact, but by the time he got there..." Barbara trails off, her eyes flicking over to Tim.
"Signs of a struggle," he explains, picking up where she left off, "but not much of one. You didn't go down fighting. You were gone, and so was whoever grabbed you."
"Was it Bane?" Dick cuts in. "When he contacted us and offered to ransom you, it seemed... out of character for him. Like, I had a hard time believing it, you know?"
"It wasn't Bane," Bruce confirms. He sees no reason to hide the truth from them. "Someone else—a little gang. They got lucky."
"And they gave you to Bane?"
Bruce's face scrunches. That should be correct. It's what makes the most sense.
But it isn't the truth.
"No," he says simply. "He saved me from them."
He just doesn't know why.
Despite Bane having made off with a frankly absurd amount of money, Bane doesn't seem to be making use of it. He lays low in the month it takes for Bruce to recover enough that Alfred lets him go out at night, and even Bruce's attempts to track him down as Batman go nowhere.
Bane's a ghost, and Bruce feels little better. He's lost in his own head, struggling to focus on the day to day minutia of being Batman with the knowledge of Bane—of everything he did and has done—looming overhead.
He doesn't know how he feels, but that seems like a distant second priority to knowing how Bane feels.
That seems to matter most of all, a fact that bothers every single member of his family, leading to a whole lot of concerned looks any time Bruce seems too quiet, or too talkative, or pretty much anything else.
But that doesn't stop Dick from tipping him off when Bane finally is seen.
"Metropolis, south sides. Down near the docks," Dick says, his expression twisted with concern. "But be careful, alright? I don't know what he's after."
Bruce doesn't even thank him for the information, and he makes no promises. After all, that's the problem: More than a month on, and Bruce doesn't know what Bane is after either, and he can't get the man out of his head. He's convinced there must be an ulterior motive, one that will explain everything, and yet he's utterly unable to come up with an explanation that would do so.
He needs to hear it from Bane. That's the simple reality of it.
Bane's men aren't hard to find from Dick's directions. They're keeping a low profile, unloading something off a ship, and Bruce perches well above them, watching carefully for the man himself. He should be stopping them, he recognizes, but they aren't in Gotham and he knows he wouldn't be able to focus anyway. Let Clark deal with the weapons or drugs or whatever it is that Bane's brought in.
He doesn't spot Bane, but he does find Zombie overseeing things. Bruce slips across the shipping containers, and then drops down a few feet beside the man. Zombie doesn't startle, but everyone else does; a few guns are drawn, but no one shoots, hesitating and glancing towards where Zombie stands.
Zombie gestures in response, and while there's some hesitation, they eventually turn away, keeping an eye on Bruce even as they go about their work. Bruce keeps an eye on them in turn, wary of someone taking advantage of his focus being elsewhere, but does turn towards Zombie.
"I want to speak to Bane."
Zombie shrugs and signs at him, clearly assuming Bruce won't be able to follow. He does, though; he hasn't spent the time since his rescue sitting on his hands. Figuring out what type of sign language was difficult, but Bruce made do.
"He'll make time," Bruce responds, enjoying the momentary look of surprise from Zombie.
"He may not wish to see you," Zombie signs back.
"Yes, he does," Bruce says, fixing Zombie with a look.
Zombie returns the look, staring at him for a few moments before shaking his head and gesturing for him to follow.
Bane is not anywhere near where the ship is being unloaded. He's in another ship, in another part of the yard. It's far more discrete, only one watchman up on the deck that looks startled when he spots them. He vanishes beneath the deck, clearly going to warn the others, but Bruce pays no mind to him.
The only person who really matter is the man he's there to see.
And Bane is clearly waiting for him as well. He's alone when Zombie finally delivers Bruce to him, standing in a small office that's been emptied out. There's no pretense that he's doing anything else. He's clearly been waiting for Bruce, and Bruce wonders just how long he's been waiting.
Did he know Bruce was going to come before Bruce himself did?
"I want to talk," Bruce says, as it that wasn't self evident. It isn't even true, though; if he had his way, he wouldn't speak at all. Bane would be the one talking, explaining what he was thinking.
"You wish to ask a question," Bane corrects, and Bruce scowls. He has a lot of questions, but Bane clearly isn't willing to play 20 questions with him. He's going to have to choose his words carefully, because if he asks the wrong one it seems very likely that Bane will simply walk away.
Yet the question comes easy.
"Are you attracted to me?"
He knows immediately that it's the right question. Bane even smiles a little bit, even though it's gone before Bruce can even blink.
It is, after all, the question that matters. The question that feels right. Because there are so many options, and none of them make sense, but this...
This at least starts down the road to making sense.
"Yes."
Bruce's stomach does a little flip. He hadn't let himself think about the question before he'd asked, and he certainly hadn't thought about the answer. Even so, it makes sense. It explains things that Bruce could not otherwise explain. Bane saving him would work for respect, yes, but why keep him around? Why watch him to make sure he recovered? Why offer him support?
Because what Bane feels isn't just respect, apparently.
"I don't know how I feel about that," Bruce admits. He can't allow himself to think about things, to be cold and calculating and detached. This is something he has to just respond to. Something he has to follow his gut on.
"Because I have been your enemy," Bane says. He sounds certain, but he's wrong.
"Because I haven't thought about it," Bruce counters. "By default, I try not to think of anyone that way without reason. It's a policy that's served me well."
Bane steps forward. He does it suddenly, but he's slower than Bruce would expect. Methodical. He's trying not to startle him, is Bruce's guess.
But he isn't holding back, either, as he looms above Bruce, staring down at him. Bruce has enough experience with Bane to not allow himself to be intimidated, but the new vantage point lets his mind wander to other things. The way their bodies would fit together. The size of Bane's hands, and the way they'd feel on Bruce's back.
Bane is, Bruce decides, a handsome man, even with his face largely hidden under his mask. Bruce isn't sure he has a type, but he imagines that if he did, Bane would fit squarely within it. Muscular. Larger. Competent.
Terrifyingly smart.
How much of all of this was planned? Was everything Bane did carefully calculated to lead to this exact point?
Does it even matter in the end?
"And you would like to pursue something," Bruce says, the realization settling over him like a blanket. That's what the whole thing was about, after all. All of it was leading to this. To a chance.
"Yes."
Bruce stares up at him, letting it all sink in. Letting the reality of it all hit him. Is he actually considering getting involved with Bane? There are a million reasons that it's a bad idea.
"I'll have conditions," he says anyway.
"I would assume as much," Bane says, looking amused. "I would be truly disappointed if you did not."
"There won't be anything easy about this. I won't stop being Batman, for one."
"I am far more curious to know how you plan to broach the subject with your extensive family."
Bruce dies inside just thinking about it.
"That's a problem for later," he says, choosing his words carefully. "If we find we suit each other."
Bane's hand raises, and Bruce goes still as the hand settles against his hip. He was right, he realizes: Bane's the perfect height.
"I think you will find that we do. I would not have pursued you otherwise."
It feels flattering, said like that. Like Bane has considered everyone he's ever met and decided that Bruce is the one he wants.
So Bruce decides to be the one to take the initiative, leaning up to press a kiss to Bane's lips. For all his meticulous planning, Bane seems taken off guard, hesitating for a moment before pulling Bruce in closer, returning the kiss.
Bruce is under no illusions that it will be smooth sailing, but he figures, if nothing else, that it will be worth a shot.