Work Text:
Gotham hadn’t stopped bleeding since the day the bridges fell and hell opened over the city like a wound that refused to close. It was late 2013 now, maybe early 2014—time blurred when you spent your nights leaping between rooftops and your days trying to hold broken pieces together. The Wayne Manor stood on the hill again, no longer a shadowed mausoleum for one grieving man, the orphans needed a home and he was so glad Bruce stepped out even after dead. So the sprawling mansion became St. Swithin’s new heart—high ceilings echoing with children’s voices instead of silence, marble halls scuffed by small sneakers, the grand library turned into a reading room where storytime happened every evening under crystal chandeliers that still sparkled like they remembered better days.
John Blake walked those halls more often than he walked his own apartment these days. He wasn’t an official staff member; he was just the guy who showed up. The guy who fixed the boiler when it coughed black smoke, taught the teenagers how to change a tire, sat with the little ones when nightmares came screaming through the dorms. The kids didn’t call him officer, to them he was still “Mr. Blake” or “John” or sometimes just “Night visitor”.
That Tuesday the rain came down in sheets so thick it felt personal, like the sky had decided Gotham hadn’t suffered enough. John arrived soaked through, leather jacket dripping onto the polished foyer floor, boots squeaking as he kicked them off in the mudroom. The air inside smelled like cinnamon toast and damp wool and the faint lemon polish the older girls used when they wanted to feel useful. Laughter bounced off the high walls, the kind that still surprised him every time he heard it.
He followed the sound to the old conservatory, now a playroom with mismatched couches and beanbags and a wall of windows that looked out over the sodden gardens. A tight knot of kids were crouched in a circle on the Persian rug, heads bent over something small and fragile.
“John!” One spotted him first. The boy was nine going on thirty, gap-toothed grin wide enough to light the room. He scrambled up, waving both arms like he was directing traffic. “You gotta see this! Hurry!”
John walked to them, water still trickling from his hair. The kids parted for him like he was somebody important. In the center of their circle sat an open cardboard box lined with a faded Wayne Enterprises sweatshirt that had once belonged to Alfred. Curled inside was the smallest black-and-white kitten he’d ever seen—barely bigger than a coffee mug, fur damp and matted, one tiny ear bent forward like it had given up halfway. Huge blue eyes stared up at the ring of faces, wide with terror but refusing to blink first.
John dropped to one knee. “Where’d it come from?”
One girl answered, arms folded, chin high. She was ten and already carried herself like the general of this little army. “Found her behind the service entrance dumpster this morning. She was meowing so loud we could hear her through the rain. Couldn’t just leave her out there getting drowned”
The boy poked the box gently. “She’s super sneaky. We called her Shadow. ‘Cause she’s all black and white like she’s hiding in shadows even when she’s right here”
The kitten—Shadow—let out a tiny, raspy hiss and swatted at Tommy’s finger with a paw no bigger than a quarter. The kids giggled.
John rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble he hadn’t bothered shaving. “You know the rules about animals in the manor. Dr. Leslie’s already on thin ice with the health inspector after the raccoon incident last month”
“But look at her face” Piped up another little girl, six years old and missing two front teeth. She clasped her hands under her chin. “She’s so tiny and sad. She needs us”
John looked at the kitten again. Those eyes locked on his—defiant, exhausted, daring him to look away. Something twisted hard in his chest. He knew that look. He’d seen it in mirrors, in police reports, in the faces of kids who’d lost everything and still refused to break.
Before he could answer, another kid edged closer. Seven years old, pigtails dripping from playing outside earlier, always the first to catch a cold. She leaned in to see better—and froze. Her nose wrinkled. Eyes watered instantly. A second later she sneezed so hard she stumbled backward into Mia.
“Allergic” The ring dealer declared, matter-of-fact, like she’d already diagnosed it. “Really bad. She started wheezing last time we tried to bring a stray hare inside. Remember?”
The girl rubbed her eyes, nodding miserably. “It feels like bees in my face”
The group went quiet. Shadow blinked up at them all, tail flicking once, twice.
John exhaled through his nose. “Okay. Listen. You can’t keep her here. Ellie can’t breathe around her, and we’re not splitting the manor into cat zones and no-cat zones. That’s not fair to anybody”
Groans rose in a chorus. Shoulders slumped their lips trembled.
“But she’ll die out there” One whispered. “The rain’s so cold”
John looked down at the box again. Shadow had tucked her chin over her paws, still watching him, still refusing to look scared even though her whole body was shaking.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Rainwater dripped from his sleeve onto the rug.
“Alright” He said finally. “I’ll take her. Just for now. Until we figure out something better. But she’s my responsibility, got it? No sneaking her back here. No secret visits. Deal?”
The kids celebrated—cheers, hugs, high-fives. One kid fist-pumped him so hard he nearly knocked the box over. The girls gave him a single, solemn nod, like he’d passed some unspoken test.
John lifted the box carefully. Shadow hissed again, softer this time, more warning than threat. He tucked the sweatshirt around her tighter.
“You’re coming with me, little thing” He murmured, mostly to himself. “Let’s get you out of this mess”
As he headed for the door, the kids trailed after him like ducklings, chattering nonstop.
“Feed her tuna!”
“Don’t let her climb the curtains!”
“Tell us when she does funny stuff!”
John paused in the foyer long enough to ruffle heads, promise updates, and tell them to dry off before they caught pneumonia. Then he stepped back out into the storm, box cradled against his chest, the kitten’s tiny warmth seeping through the cardboard and into his soaked shirt.
Behind him the manor lights glowed gold against the gray afternoon and John started down the long driveway toward his truck, rain hammering his shoulders. He had no idea what he was doing, he had even less idea how completely this tiny, hissing thing was about to upend his life, but right then, with Shadow’s faint purr starting up against his heartbeat, none of that seemed to matter quite so much.
Back at the apartment, John kicked the door shut behind him with one wet boot, the cardboard box still pressed protectively against his chest. Rainwater pooled on the scuffed hardwood floor as he set the box down on the kitchen counter with exaggerated care. The kitten immediately poked her tiny head out, whiskers twitching as she sniffed the new air. Then, deciding she hated it all, she launched herself out of the box in a black-and-white blur and shot straight under the couch like she’d been fired from a cannon.
John stared at the empty box. “Great” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck where rain still dripped down his collar. “I’m tending to a cat now. Fantastic”
He peeled off his soaked jacket and hung it over a chair to drip. The apartment was small—kitchen bleeding into living room, one bedroom down a short hall, bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. Third floor of a leaning brick walk-up on the edge of the city. The L train rattled past every twenty minutes, shaking the light fixtures. He’d chosen it because it was cheap and anonymous, because no one asked questions when a guy came home bruised and bloody at four in the morning. It had never felt like a home until tonight.
He wasn’t a cat person. Never had been. Dogs, sure—he’d always pictured some big, dumb mutt someday, the kind that would lope alongside him on late-night runs through the parks, bark at shadows, maybe even ride shotgun on patrol if he ever figured out how to make that work without getting the animal killed. Cats were different. Cats were aloof. Cats judged you. Cats knocked things off shelves just to watch you clean them up. Selfish little tyrants in fur coats. He’d told himself that a dozen times while driving back from the manor, the box on the passenger seat making tiny, indignant noises every time he hit a pothole.
He dropped to his knees on the floor, peered under the couch. Two glowing blue eyes stared back from the darkness, unblinking.
“Come on out, furball” John said, keeping his voice low and even, the same tone he used with skittish kids at the manor. “I don’t bite. Promise”
A soft hiss answered him.
John chuckled despite himself. “Yeah, yeah. Tough guy. Or girl. Whatever you are” He sat back on his heels. “Look, I get it. New place, some strange human. You’re freaking out, I would be too”
No movement.
He sighed, stood up, and rummaged in the pantry until he found a can of tuna he’d bought for emergency protein shakes. The pop of the lid echoed in the quiet apartment. He flaked some into a chipped saucer, set it near the couch, and backed away slowly.
“Food’s here when you’re ready” Blake told the shadows. “No rush”
He went to change—stripped off the wet clothes, pulled on dry sweats and a faded hoodie. When he came back out, the saucer was empty. The tuna was gone. And perched on the windowsill, silhouetted against the rain-streaked glass, sat the kitten. Tail curled neatly around her paws, staring out at the city lights like she was already plotting her next move.
John leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You move fast when there’s food involved. Noted”
She didn’t look at him. Just flicked one ear.
He didn’t push. Left the box open on the floor, lined the bottom with an old towel. Improvised a litter pan from a shallow plastic storage bin he’d meant to use for spare gear parts—filled it with shredded newspaper for now. Then he grabbed his night gear and headed out. Patrol waited. Gotham never paused for kittens.
Three nights later he staggered home just before dawn, ribs screaming from a bad landing after some new lunatic who thought he was some kind of avant-garde terrorist had turned an alley into a glittering death trap. John’s left forearm was wrapped in hasty gauze, blood already seeping through. He kicked the door shut, dropped his escrima sticks on the table with a clatter, and limped toward the fridge for ice.
Shadow was on the couch.
Not under it. Not hiding. Just sitting there in the middle cushion, tail wrapped primly around her paws, staring at him with those huge blue eyes. She looked… expectant.
John froze mid-step. “You… decided to grace me with your presence?”
She blinked once.
He exhaled through his teeth, pain flaring in his side. “Okay. Hi”
He eased himself onto the far end of the couch, careful not to jar anything. She watched every move. Didn’t run. Didn’t hiss.
After a long moment he reached out—slow, palm up, fingers loose. “Hey. It’s just me”
Her ears flicked forward. Then, miracle of miracles, she leaned in, the softest brush of whiskers against his knuckles. Then her head bumped his hand. A low rumble started in her chest.
John blinked. “Huh”
The purr grew louder. She stepped closer, placed one tiny paw on his thigh, then another. Kneaded once, twice, claws pricking through the sweats then curled into a tight ball right against his hip, eyes slitting in contentment.
He stared down at her. “You’re ridiculous” He whispered.
The purring didn’t stop.
Weeks blurred after that. Patrols, bruises, the endless grind of keeping the city from eating itself. But the apartment changed. Shadow stopped hiding the second he walked in. She’d race down the short hallway, tail high like a flag, chirping—a high, demanding trill that sounded suspiciously like scolding. Where have you been? You’re late. Pet me now.
He’d scoop her up before he even took his boots off. She’d butt her head under his chin, purr vibrating through his chest like a second heartbeat.
He took her to the vet on a gray Thursday morning. The carrier was a battle—yowling, claws, the works. She hated it. Hated the car. Hated the waiting room. But on the exam table she turned into a well behaved angel, sat perfectly still while the vet—a kind-eyed woman named Dr. Patel—checked her ears, teeth, weighed her and gave her the first round of shots.
“Healthy little girl” Dr. Patel said, smiling. “We’ll spay her in a few months. Name for the chart?”
John hesitated, scratching behind Shadow’s ears while she leaned into it shamelessly. “Shadow. But… make it official. Shadow Batgirl Blake”
Dr. Patel’s eyebrows climbed. “Batgirl?”
He shrugged, cheeks warming. “She’s got… attitude. And she’s kind of taken over my life. Figured she deserved a full name”
Back home he opened the carrier. Shadow shot out, did a victory lap around the living room, then leaped straight onto his chest when he collapsed onto the couch.
That night she curled over his heart again, purring so hard the vibration rattled the loose change on the coffee table. John stared at the ceiling cracks, hand resting on her warm little back.
“I was not a cat person” He said aloud to the dark. “I thought cats were annoying. Selfish. Always knocking stuff over, ignoring you when you wanted attention, disappearing for days. I figured they’d just use me for food and a warm spot, then act like I didn’t exist”
Shadow kneaded his shirt, claws catching fabric.
“But you…” He laughed quietly. “You’re this ridiculous, affectionate fur ball who acts like I’m the center of your whole universe. You figured out how to open the cabinet under the sink just to steal my spare socks. You’re so damn smart it’s scary”
He scratched under her chin. She stretched, belly up, completely trusting.
“How the hell did you do this to me?” John murmured. “I’m supposed to be out there stopping psychos, not lying here getting owned by an eight-pound kitten who thinks my hoodie is a bed”
Shadow yawned hugely, showing tiny needle teeth, then tucked her face against his neck.
John closed his eyes. The city sirens wailed somewhere distant. The L train rattled past. He was stupidly, completely, embarrassingly in love with this tiny black-and-white menace who’d decided he belonged to her.
And somehow, against every expectation he’d ever had, that felt like the most right thing in a very wrong world.
Bane showed up two weeks later.
No knock. Never a knock. Just the window sliding open at 3:17 a.m., the metal frame groaning under the weight of one gloved hand as a massive silhouette filled the gap against the sodium-orange streetlights. Rain still tapped the glass in lazy aftershocks from the earlier downpour. He stepped inside, boots silent on the warped floorboards, the mask’s rhythmic hiss cutting through the apartment’s quiet hum of his refrigerator and rumble of the outside world.
John was sprawled on the couch in faded gray sweats and an old GCPD tee, legs stretched out, one arm behind his head. Shadow was curled in a perfect black-and-white comma on his chest, rising and falling with each breath, purring so steadily it felt like a second heartbeat wired straight into his ribs.
Bane stopped three steps inside the room and stared at them.
John cracked one eye open, then the other. “Hey”
Bane tilted the head the smallest fraction, the motion almost clinical. “You have acquired a… creature”
“Cat” John’s voice was rough from half-sleep. He didn’t bother sitting up yet. “Her name’s Shadow”
The big man’s gaze shifted downward. Shadow cracked one blue eye open, registered the intruder, and instantly flattened her ears to her skull. A long, low hiss rolled out of her tiny throat—venomous, sustained, the sound of something far larger than eight pounds declaring war.
John snorted, the sound half amusement, half resignation. “Yeah. She doesn’t like you”
“I have noticed” Bane’s tone stayed even, but there was a new tightness beneath the calm. He took one measured step closer. Shadow’s back arched into a perfect Halloween-cat curve, fur spiking along her spine until she looked twice her size.
John reached up lazily and scratched under her chin with one finger. “Easy, girl. He’s not going to eat you”
“Yet” Bane said under his breath.
John’s eyebrow climbed. “Jealous already? That was fast”
Bane crossed his arms. The leather of his coat creaked. “Of a flea-ridden scavenger? Hardly”
Shadow launched herself off John’s chest in a single fluid movement, landed on the floor with a soft thump that somehow carried authority, and stalked forward—low to the ground, tail lashing side to side like a whip. She stopped almost in Bane’s boots. Planted her paws. Looked straight up at the towering wall of black tactical gear and scarred muscle.
Hiss—longer this time, ending on a sharp, warning growl.
Bane looked down at her. “It challenges me”
“She’s protecting her house” John said, finally pushing himself upright. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, smirking wide enough that it hurt his split lip from earlier patrol. “You gonna back down from a kitten, big guy?”
Bane crouched—slow, careful, the movement of a man who knew exactly how much force it took to crush bone. He extended one gloved hand, palm up, fingers loose.
Shadow didn’t hesitate. She swatted—fast, hard, claws fully extended. A thin line of leather parted with an audible rip. Tiny beads of red welled up on the back of Bane’s hand.
John burst out laughing so loud, his head tipping back against the couch. “Holy shit. She drew blood. On you. That’s got to sting the ego”
Bane flexed his fingers once. The tear gaped wider. “Insignificant”
But he didn’t pull away or stand.
Shadow circled him, tail still whipping. Then sat directly in front of him, planted, staring up without blinking. Daring him to try again.
Bane exhaled through the mask, the sound harsh and mechanical. “It fears nothing”
“She’s got good instincts” John assured. He stretched, joints popping, then stood. “Are you staying tonight?”
“For a time” Bane rose to his full height again, towering. “The streets are restless. New players moving pieces. I observe”
John nodded once. “I know”
They didn’t say much more right then. Bane claimed John's armchair—always did—like it was a command throne, it was almost too small for him but what wasn't for Bane? John moved to the kitchen and started the ancient coffee maker. The machine gurgled and hissed like it was arguing with itself. Shadow leaped back onto the couch, circled once, then claimed John’s lap the second he sat down again. She glared across the room at Bane the entire time, pupils narrowed to slits.
Bane glared back.
John watched the silent standoff over the rim of his mug, lips twitching. “You two gonna fight over me or what?”
“Absurd” Bane answered flatly.
Shadow flicked her tail hard enough that it slapped John’s thigh.
John grinned wider. “She’s winning, you know”
Bane didn't seem to find it funny.
The visits became a pattern after that. Every few weeks—sometimes less—Bane appeared. Always through the window. Always silent until spoken to. Always bleeding someone else’s blood on his coat or gloves, the metallic tang of it mixing with the rain and the city’s perpetual damp rot.
One night, a month later, he arrived with fresh crimson streaking the left sleeve in long, dark ribbons that caught the dim light from the single lamp. Said nothing about it. Just crossed the room in three long strides and dropped into the armchair, the frame creaking under his weight like it was protesting the intrusion.
Shadow was bolder by then. The second he sat, she hopped onto the armrest, stretched up on her hind legs, sniffed the edge of his mask, and then hissed directly into the breathing apparatus, so close her whiskers brushed the metal vents and fogged them briefly.
Bane didn’t flinch. “Persistent”
John was in the kitchen scrambling eggs in the small cast-iron pan, the sizzle filling the room with the smell of butter and pepper. He called over his shoulder, spatula scraping the bottom of the pan in lazy arcs, “She’s marking territory. You are a hunter, she is a hunter and well, danger is danger. She hates it”
“I am danger” Bane answered looking straight at him now.
“Yeah, well, she doesn’t care” John plated the eggs—two generous helpings on mismatched plates, steam curling up in lazy spirals. He carried both plates over, set one on the coffee table in front of himself, and dropped the other on Bane's lap.
Bane stared at the plate for a long second, then looked up at John with that amusement on his eyes “This is for me?”
John shrugged, already forking a bite into his mouth. “I made extra. You’re here. Eat or don’t. Your call”
Bane’s eyes stared at John trying to evidently pull this game again, he wanted to see what Bane look under the mask, it was more than evident and at this point is more stubbornness than anything justice related, they are such a strange mix and not even Bane can understand why he keeps playing this game instead of killing the pretty bird.
The second the plate was within reach, Shadow jumped down from the couch arm, positioned herself in Bane's thighs and stared fixedly at the untouched food on Bane’s lap.
Bane put the plate in the floor and nudged it toward her with the toe of his boot “Take it, beast”
Shadow sniffed once and then batted the plate sideways with one precise paw. Eggs and toast skidded across the floor in a sad yellow smear, leaving a greasy trail on the hardwood.
John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand while he chewed. “Great. Now I have to clean that up”
He set his own plate aside, stood, and grabbed a roll of paper towels from under the sink. The ripping sound echoed in the quiet room as he tore off several sheets. Bane watched him kneel and wipe up the mess without comment, the mercenary’s posture rigid in the armchair.
Bane watched the cat with narrowed eyes. “Why you keep it? That beast is problematic”
“Like someone else I know” John muttered, balling up the soiled towels and tossing them into the trash with more force than necessary.
Bane’s gaze flicked to him while he decided to leave the armchair, if it was to intimate John, it wasn't working “You mock me”
“No” John wiped his hands on his sweats, then dropped onto the couch while Bane stood before sitting next to John instead of the other end, the cushions dipped sharply under his weight, tilting John toward him. Close enough that their shoulders brushed, the heat of Bane’s coat seeping through the thin fabric of John’s tee. “It’s just… hilarious. The terror of Gotham, the guy who broke the city’s back, getting outmaneuvered by eight pounds of spiteful fur. She’s got you figured out”
Bane was silent for a long beat. "She is… tenacious”
John laughed almost fond. “That’s one word for it”
Later after the plates were cleared, after John had rinsed them in the sink and left them to dry on the rack, after the rain picked up again outside, John stretched out and sat on the floor, head tipped back against the wall, eyes half-closed in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds.
Bane stayed in the couch at first, Shadow immediately climbed onto John’s stomach, turned three tight circles with her tail high, and flopped down, paws tucked under his chest, still shooting venomous looks at the intruder across the room.
Bane watched every movement.
Then without a word, he rose, the floorboards creaking under his boots, Bane crossed the small space and stared at John in the floor. Shadow’s head snapped up. Ears flat. A warning growl rumbled in her throat, low and vibrating.
John cracked a grin, not bothering to open his eyes fully. “Here we go”
Bane reached one massive arm around John’s shoulders and held John while he returned to the couch, to get comfortable and pulled until John was tucked against his side, half in his lap. John let himself be moved, too tired to argue, too comfortable to care. He shifted his legs, settling more fully against the solid wall of muscle and leather.
Shadow stood up on John’s thighs. Stared at Bane like he was an armed enemy who’d just crossed the DMZ. Then she decided to return to the ground, jumping out of John's lap before launching forwards, her tiny teeth sinking into the fabric of Bane’s tactical pants just above the knee. Not hard enough to break skin. Just hard enough to say mine. She tugged once, twice, growling around the mouthful of cloth.
John lost it—head falling back against Bane’s shoulder as laughter shook through him, deep and breathless. “Oh my god. Look at your face. You’re staring at her like she’s got a detonator strapped to her chest and a dead-man switch”
Bane’s eyes were locked on the cat. Unreadable behind the mask, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable, the cords standing out under the light “She is attempting to remove me”
“She’s biting your pants to drag you away from me” John wheezed, wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand. “That’s adorable. You’re being evicted by a kitten who weighs less than one of your boots”
Bane said nothing but did not dislodge her and just sat there while a tiny black-and-white cat gnawed on his leg like it was a personal mission, tiny growls punctuating each tug.
John finally caught his breath, still chuckling. “You never show anything. Stone face 24/7 but when she’s around, I get to watch you look personally offended by a house pet. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from you outside of… well, you know, with me in bed”
Bane’s voice dropped lower, almost a rumble. “I have broken stronger opponents”
“Yeah, but none of them purred, kissed and slept with your partner or whatever we are before” John shifted, settling more comfortably against Bane’s chest, the steady hiss of the mask right beside his ear. “Admit it. She’s got you overpowered”
“Never”
Shadow finally released the pant leg with a final, disgusted shake of her head, whiskers twitching. She climbed back onto John’s lap, purposely stepping on Bane’s thigh with all four paws as she did it, claws pricking just enough to make a point and curled up tight against John’s stomach, and resumed glaring at the mercenary over her own fluffy tail.
John looked up at Bane, eyes half-lidded, voice softer now. “You know, if you weren’t… you know. The guy who almost turned Gotham into a crater. The psychopath mercenary with a philosophy degree and a vendetta the size of the city. I might feel bad for you right now. Getting out-jealoused by a cat who literally just tried to kill you”
Bane’s arm tightened around him. Not hard but either gentle. “And yet here you are with a criminal you should be fighting, but you are stupid and naive to enjoy my company, I could kill you right now”
“Yeah, whatever you say” John said quietly, letting his head rest fully against the broad shoulder behind him. “Here I am but so are you, not killing me and returning to me”
He didn’t understand it either—not really. How they’d ended up in this strange, jagged orbit. Sex had never been the problem; Bane fucked like he fought; overpowering and taking what he wanted, leaving John wrecked and boneless every time but the rest? The quiet after, the shared silences, the way Bane sometimes lingered longer than necessary, just breathing in the same small space? That part made no sense. John wasn’t sure he wanted it to. Some things were better left unexplained in a city that thrived on chaos.
Shadow hissed once more for emphasis, then tucked her face against John’s shirt and started purring anyway, the sound vibrating through both of them.
Bane exhaled—a long, slow sound through the mask.
John smiled while petting her “You’ve got competition now. Two jealous creatures fighting over me. Think you can handle it?”
“I have faced worse” Bane assured him while his fingers keep holding John and touching his skin.
Shadow opened one eye and hissed again, tail flicking once in warning.
John laughed under his breath and relaxing with Bane's soft touch, the circles that he was making on his hips always relaxed him “Sure you have”
They stayed like that until the sky started to lighten—mercenary, vigilante, and furious little cat. John never thought he’d have this but he still didn’t know what “this” even was, however right then, with Bane’s heartbeat steady against his back and Shadow’s purr vibrating through his chest, it felt dangerously close to enough.