(no subject)
TITLE: Awake in the Dark (part 1)
Pairing: Bane/John Blake
FANDOM: The Dark Knight Rises
DISCLAIMER: Don't own them. Just doing this for kicks.
SUMMARY: A fill for nolikereally get get her through a tough time. Original prompt can be found here!
WARNINGS: This story is kind of dark. It alludes past underage dub- and non-con, and also mentions watersports and some breath stuff (I'm not sure I'd call it "play").
NOTES: There will be a second part to this! I am just a slow-as-hell writer.
It's not mind control, that's not what's happening to him. It can't be, because mind control doesn't exist. The solitary confinement cell may have mashed John Blake's mind into a fucked-up pulp of despair and loneliness, but he hasn't gone completely insane, not yet. He hopes he never breaks so completely that he believes the rumors that were going around before his abduction: that Bane is a supervillain; that Bane has red eyes and supernatural powers and eats human flesh; that Bane has metal bones, metal teeth behind his mask, a metal heart behind metal ribs.
John can't speak for Bane's bones or what's behind that spidery mask, but he can vouch for his voice. His voice is metallic, scraping out of his throat and through the bullhorn of his mouth.
The solitary cell at Blackgate Prison is nearly pitch black on the inside. It's bewildering, even once John's eyes have adjusted to the dim light from the narrow, barred window. It's always night in here, no matter what time of day it is out in the world. Time holds no sway. The darkness and disorientation have finally started to pulverize John, break him down into bite-sized pieces perfect for his enemy's consumption. If Bane doesn't eat people, now might be a perfect time to start.
Tonight, hunger and stress are tearing a hole in John's stomach. He's pacing around a tight circle in the center of the room, barefoot, sifting through his mind to try to keep himself sharp. Too often lately, he's found himself drifting to thoughts that will only make him weak. Memories of nights at St. Swithuns when he was young; fantasies he's had over the years about men and women out of his class and out of his league; anonymous bodies, strong and broad, with thick arms and wide hands to hold him down. So tonight he tries to distract himself by reciting out loud lists of scanner codes he learned in his time at the Academy: 10-91A, animal, stray; 10-91B, animal, noisy; 10-91C, animal, injured; 10-91D, animal, de--
"You're very restless tonight, John." That voice claws its way into the cell through the slot in the door where they slide food in. Of course John can't see him, but he imagines Bane crouched down by the slot, looking in on him.
Bane's voice has stopped John in his pacing. "Go away," he says quietly, the sound of his voice a dull echo in the mostly empty room. "Go to hell." He learned a little while ago that insults bounce right off this guy. Words don't make a goddamn bit of difference. In the first couple of days after they locked him up, John tried to hurl out every threat and insult he could dream up in an attempt to get himself killed. All it earned him was ridicule from Bane's men, loud music poured into his cell, and a starvation diet until he calmed down. So he's quiet these days, as he finds more subtle ways to push his boundaries.
"Oh, now," Bane replies dismissively. "I know hell, John. I'm never going back."
John rubs his eye with the heel of his hand and wanders closer to the door, only to be stopped by a single word through the opening: "No." John pauses, lets the silence stretch out a beat, then takes another step forward. "No, John," Bane says again, his tone that of a man training a willful dog. "Turn around. Go to your bed."
"Or what?"
"I'll leave." It's a matter-of-fact statement designed for maximum impact. John doesn't know how Bane got so deep inside his head, but he seems to know John's worst fear is being alone -- worse, alone in the dark.
So John knuckles under and obeys, shuffling over to the filthy cot in the corner. "I hate this bed," he says absently as he sits on it. The springs of the frame groan, and the mattress crackles, thick canvas stuffed with old, dry straw.
"Do you." Bane's voice is vaguely disinterested, until suddenly it isn't. "Or do you hate what it does to you?"
John swallows. "What it --"
"What it makes you think about. What it reminds you of." Another beat of silence floats between them before Bane adds, "Do you hate what you think of when you lie in it?"
Bane breathes in like it's a chore, like he's shoving air through his mask, and the sound makes John's heart shudder in his chest. Bane is right, that's exactly why John hates this bed, why he hates this cell. The darkness forces his mind to wander; voices he wants to ignore crop up in the heavy silence.
"You remember, don't you?" Bane's voice makes John flinch. It seems to be coming from inside the room now, but that's impossible, too, like mind control. Mind control and invisibility, two things he refuses to believe in.
"Remember what?"
"Those long nights when you were a boy." Another abrasive intake of breath, and when he speaks again, every sound is hyper-articulated. "So unprotected. A lonely boy in a house full of other lonely boys. Your body so slender, so easy to break. But you didn't break, did you, John. You were very strong. You didn't cry like the others, did you. You didn't even make a sound."
"Shut up." John brings his knees together. "You don't know what you're fuckin' talking about."
"But you know," Bane replies evenly. "Those nights galvanized you," he continues, his voice taking on a sarcastic air, "into the pillar of moral rectitude you are today. Detective Robin John Blake, protector of Gotham City." In the pause the follows, John shifts on the bed, feeling uncomfortably hot in the chilly cell. He runs a hand through his hair, only to find his forehead slightly damp with sweat. He jerks again when Bane's haunted-house voice starts back up: "But who is protecting you? I was able to take you with no effort at all."
The double entendre of take is not lost on John, even though the other meaning hasn't happened. Not yet.
"Were you afraid of the dark, John? As a boy?" Bane's words seem to be encroaching on him, as imposing and powerful as the man himself, making John feel claustrophobic.
"No," John replies, defensive. Then a moment goes by, and it's clear Bane doesn't believe him, so he decides the truth won't hurt. "Sometimes."
"Why?"
"Can't tell what's coming for you in the dark."
Bane's laugh creeps into John's ears like a tarantula. Through the mask, the laugh sounds inhuman, a cold talon down John's spine. As much as Bane frightens him, though, his body continues to heat up, more sweat beading up at his hairline while his dick hardens in the loose prison uniform they've got him wearing.
"Is that why you joined the police machine, John?" Bane asks, even though it doesn't sound like a question. It sounds like he already knows. "To protect people from what's out there in the dark?"
"I joined it to fight men like you." John's voice rings through the cell, echoing back at him in mockery.
"Men like me," Bane repeats thoughtfully. Another inhale. "Your colleagues don't call me a man, John. They call me a monster and a beast. The type of thing that waited for you in the dark when you were a boy. But you know better. Nothing is that simple."
"Stop."
"Men and women lie with you now because you are a convenient thing. Even your own commissioner would take you, if he didn't cleave to his own deceitful moral code. But they don't know your strength."
"Stop."
"If you told any of them what you really want, they would vaporize. Disappear like a mist in the wind. Humans are predators, John, and most of them don't want their meals fighting back. Giving you what you want, what you truly want, requires energy they're not willing to expend on you. Your body exists for them to use and discard. A wine glass, a china bowl, money, this is all you are to them."
Involuntarily, John moans. He shifts again on the bed and leans against the wall, letting the dank stone at his back cool him down a little. It only works for a minute before his blood starts to heat back up and rush down to his groin. He can deny it all he wants, but he's hard, his dick curving and jutting up against the rough cotton of the prison whites. He won't touch, not yet. Maybe it will go away and he won't have to think about it. Maybe Bane will go away and he won't have to think about him.
"You think you want that," Bane speaks up again, "because in the morning, you protect the very people who have used your body and cast it aside." His voice is weary, as if he's disappointed with John. "There are some, though, who would rather degrade you and then keep you."
The promise sends a dark thrill through John's body. He hates where this is going, but he doesn't want it to stop. He closes his eyes and lets Bane's words sink down into him, waiting for more. They don't come. Nothing comes, only silence. "Hey," he says tentatively, unfurling himself from the bed and setting his feet on the floor. "Hey." He stands up too fast, gets a little woozy and has to adjust to the dark again. "What's that mean?" he asks the silence. "What's that mean, 'keep me'? How long am I gonna be in here?" He makes his way to the heavy door and pounds on it, shouting. "Hey, speak up! How long!" Dropping to his knees, he looks through the food slot. The corridor is dark, but he can't feel any presence. The acrid sound of Bane's breathing has disappeared.
John pounds the door again and grunts out a swear. Alone in the dark. Confused on top of that, with Bane's words banging around in his head. After everything he's seen in his short time as a Gotham City detective, he knows better than to throw himself a pity party. He's been degraded, sure -- paraded in front of Bane's men like a prize, knocked around til his brains were rattling, and then locked up in this pitch-black dungeon -- but things could always get worse. Bane made it perfectly clear just how he'd like to make things worse for John.
Bane seems like he knows the dark, like he's comfortable in it. He could open the door and swagger into this cell and there'd be nowhere for John to hide. Trying to hide, John imagines, would make things even worse. Bane's hands are fucking huge, and John's a strong guy with top marks in restraint training, but Bane could still toss him around like a damn rag doll. Bane could get John slammed up against the wall in seconds and hold him there with just two fingers at the back of his neck. When John closes his eyes, he can see it. He can practically feel it, the way Bane's knee would shove against the backs of his thighs, forcing them open and forcing John up until his toes barely touch the ground. He'd be pinned there, helpless, probably bleeding.
"Fuckin'..." He slides his hand down and kneads his stiff, aching dick through the fabric of his prison uniform. "Blueballing motherfucker," he mutters, letting his forehead thump against the solid metal door. He shouldn't be so disgusted with himself; it's not like he doesn't know how he likes to get fucked. Bane would be just the man to give him what he needs.
When John closes his eyes against the overwhelming dark, he can see himself on his knees in front of Bane. Bane's a talkative sonofabitch, but John can't imagine him running his mouth while he's getting sucked off. And Bane said he wanted to keep him, right? Why not, it would only make sense for him to want a GCPD officer chained up in a cage like an animal. So maybe he'd want a collar and leash on John, all the better to keep John on his knees, keep his mouth at the right level for when he needs to blow a load or even take a piss. And John's very interested in keeping all his bones intact, so he'd be a good dog. He'd suck Bane off however he wanted, let him fuck his throat raw.
Alone in the dark of the cell, he moans and decides to finally give in and give himself some relief. He shoves the front of his pants down and takes his cock roughly in hand. He's not in any mood to fuck around or tease tonight.
He braces his other hand against the door as he begins to stroke himself, letting Bane's voice invade his head again. How did he know all that shit about John's life in the orphanage? How did he know who John fucks, how he likes to get fucked? Is it that obvious? Does Gordon know? Does Gordon want to fuck him? "I'd let him," John mutters aloud, despairingly, as he jerks himself off. Bane's sick enough, has enough experience in head-games and torture, that he's probably planning to make the Commissioner fuck him, just to make sure everyone knows just what Robin John Blake is good for. Gotham's hope, a fresh-faced protector of the status quo, getting his ass nailed in front of the entire city.
John slaps his cock once, twice, but the sound is muffled by his oversized shirt. He pulls it off over his head and throws it in the corner, a move he's sure he'll regret later, but right now he could give a shit. He slaps himself again, and this time the sound echoes a little as his dick smacks against his abdomen, leaving a sticky string of pre-come there. He grasps his shaft again and starts up a smooth rhythm of jerking himself off from base to tip, twisting his hand on the upstroke.
"Fuck," he gasps. "C'mon, fuck me." He spreads his fingers, trying to even approximate the size of Bane's hand, but he knows he can't. Bane's hand could span across most of John's chest, slam him down and knock the breath out of him. Which is fine, because John's sure Bane doesn't care whether his fucks are conscious or not.
He sits back on his heels and slides his other hand down, still cold from the door, to tug and roll his balls. His body is overheating as he imagines Bane's sounds, the way all the usual grunts and moans of sex would come off as menacing through that mask. He can't hear Bane using the typical vocabulary -- "fuck", "yeah", "dick", "cock", maybe "come", but maybe not. No, he'd probably make more pronouncements, put John right in his place and keep him there physically and mentally. "Your body was made for submission," he'd probably say. "This is your purpose." No. "This is the purpose I have chosen for you. Do not disappoint me."
On that word, disappoint, John finally loses it, whining out an undignified groan. His balls draw up tight in his palm and his cock shoots, spattering come against his skin and dribbling it all over his speeding hand. He keeps up his brutal pace even after he's come, until it's too painful and he has to drop it. He lets himself melt down onto the floor on his side, curled up with his pants still down around his thighs. It's cold on the floor, but it feels good against his hot skin. "Jesus fucking Christ" he sighs. "Jesus Christ."
Apparently, he falls asleep like that, because he's jolted awake by the sound of a food tray being pushed through the slot. His heart thuds in his chest as he pushes himself up and fixes his pants. He leans forward and knocks on the door and says, groggy and deadpan, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," comes the snide answer. The guy's just a guard.
Nobody important.
Pairing: Bane/John Blake
FANDOM: The Dark Knight Rises
DISCLAIMER: Don't own them. Just doing this for kicks.
SUMMARY: A fill for nolikereally get get her through a tough time. Original prompt can be found here!
WARNINGS: This story is kind of dark. It alludes past underage dub- and non-con, and also mentions watersports and some breath stuff (I'm not sure I'd call it "play").
NOTES: There will be a second part to this! I am just a slow-as-hell writer.
It's not mind control, that's not what's happening to him. It can't be, because mind control doesn't exist. The solitary confinement cell may have mashed John Blake's mind into a fucked-up pulp of despair and loneliness, but he hasn't gone completely insane, not yet. He hopes he never breaks so completely that he believes the rumors that were going around before his abduction: that Bane is a supervillain; that Bane has red eyes and supernatural powers and eats human flesh; that Bane has metal bones, metal teeth behind his mask, a metal heart behind metal ribs.
John can't speak for Bane's bones or what's behind that spidery mask, but he can vouch for his voice. His voice is metallic, scraping out of his throat and through the bullhorn of his mouth.
The solitary cell at Blackgate Prison is nearly pitch black on the inside. It's bewildering, even once John's eyes have adjusted to the dim light from the narrow, barred window. It's always night in here, no matter what time of day it is out in the world. Time holds no sway. The darkness and disorientation have finally started to pulverize John, break him down into bite-sized pieces perfect for his enemy's consumption. If Bane doesn't eat people, now might be a perfect time to start.
Tonight, hunger and stress are tearing a hole in John's stomach. He's pacing around a tight circle in the center of the room, barefoot, sifting through his mind to try to keep himself sharp. Too often lately, he's found himself drifting to thoughts that will only make him weak. Memories of nights at St. Swithuns when he was young; fantasies he's had over the years about men and women out of his class and out of his league; anonymous bodies, strong and broad, with thick arms and wide hands to hold him down. So tonight he tries to distract himself by reciting out loud lists of scanner codes he learned in his time at the Academy: 10-91A, animal, stray; 10-91B, animal, noisy; 10-91C, animal, injured; 10-91D, animal, de--
"You're very restless tonight, John." That voice claws its way into the cell through the slot in the door where they slide food in. Of course John can't see him, but he imagines Bane crouched down by the slot, looking in on him.
Bane's voice has stopped John in his pacing. "Go away," he says quietly, the sound of his voice a dull echo in the mostly empty room. "Go to hell." He learned a little while ago that insults bounce right off this guy. Words don't make a goddamn bit of difference. In the first couple of days after they locked him up, John tried to hurl out every threat and insult he could dream up in an attempt to get himself killed. All it earned him was ridicule from Bane's men, loud music poured into his cell, and a starvation diet until he calmed down. So he's quiet these days, as he finds more subtle ways to push his boundaries.
"Oh, now," Bane replies dismissively. "I know hell, John. I'm never going back."
John rubs his eye with the heel of his hand and wanders closer to the door, only to be stopped by a single word through the opening: "No." John pauses, lets the silence stretch out a beat, then takes another step forward. "No, John," Bane says again, his tone that of a man training a willful dog. "Turn around. Go to your bed."
"Or what?"
"I'll leave." It's a matter-of-fact statement designed for maximum impact. John doesn't know how Bane got so deep inside his head, but he seems to know John's worst fear is being alone -- worse, alone in the dark.
So John knuckles under and obeys, shuffling over to the filthy cot in the corner. "I hate this bed," he says absently as he sits on it. The springs of the frame groan, and the mattress crackles, thick canvas stuffed with old, dry straw.
"Do you." Bane's voice is vaguely disinterested, until suddenly it isn't. "Or do you hate what it does to you?"
John swallows. "What it --"
"What it makes you think about. What it reminds you of." Another beat of silence floats between them before Bane adds, "Do you hate what you think of when you lie in it?"
Bane breathes in like it's a chore, like he's shoving air through his mask, and the sound makes John's heart shudder in his chest. Bane is right, that's exactly why John hates this bed, why he hates this cell. The darkness forces his mind to wander; voices he wants to ignore crop up in the heavy silence.
"You remember, don't you?" Bane's voice makes John flinch. It seems to be coming from inside the room now, but that's impossible, too, like mind control. Mind control and invisibility, two things he refuses to believe in.
"Remember what?"
"Those long nights when you were a boy." Another abrasive intake of breath, and when he speaks again, every sound is hyper-articulated. "So unprotected. A lonely boy in a house full of other lonely boys. Your body so slender, so easy to break. But you didn't break, did you, John. You were very strong. You didn't cry like the others, did you. You didn't even make a sound."
"Shut up." John brings his knees together. "You don't know what you're fuckin' talking about."
"But you know," Bane replies evenly. "Those nights galvanized you," he continues, his voice taking on a sarcastic air, "into the pillar of moral rectitude you are today. Detective Robin John Blake, protector of Gotham City." In the pause the follows, John shifts on the bed, feeling uncomfortably hot in the chilly cell. He runs a hand through his hair, only to find his forehead slightly damp with sweat. He jerks again when Bane's haunted-house voice starts back up: "But who is protecting you? I was able to take you with no effort at all."
The double entendre of take is not lost on John, even though the other meaning hasn't happened. Not yet.
"Were you afraid of the dark, John? As a boy?" Bane's words seem to be encroaching on him, as imposing and powerful as the man himself, making John feel claustrophobic.
"No," John replies, defensive. Then a moment goes by, and it's clear Bane doesn't believe him, so he decides the truth won't hurt. "Sometimes."
"Why?"
"Can't tell what's coming for you in the dark."
Bane's laugh creeps into John's ears like a tarantula. Through the mask, the laugh sounds inhuman, a cold talon down John's spine. As much as Bane frightens him, though, his body continues to heat up, more sweat beading up at his hairline while his dick hardens in the loose prison uniform they've got him wearing.
"Is that why you joined the police machine, John?" Bane asks, even though it doesn't sound like a question. It sounds like he already knows. "To protect people from what's out there in the dark?"
"I joined it to fight men like you." John's voice rings through the cell, echoing back at him in mockery.
"Men like me," Bane repeats thoughtfully. Another inhale. "Your colleagues don't call me a man, John. They call me a monster and a beast. The type of thing that waited for you in the dark when you were a boy. But you know better. Nothing is that simple."
"Stop."
"Men and women lie with you now because you are a convenient thing. Even your own commissioner would take you, if he didn't cleave to his own deceitful moral code. But they don't know your strength."
"Stop."
"If you told any of them what you really want, they would vaporize. Disappear like a mist in the wind. Humans are predators, John, and most of them don't want their meals fighting back. Giving you what you want, what you truly want, requires energy they're not willing to expend on you. Your body exists for them to use and discard. A wine glass, a china bowl, money, this is all you are to them."
Involuntarily, John moans. He shifts again on the bed and leans against the wall, letting the dank stone at his back cool him down a little. It only works for a minute before his blood starts to heat back up and rush down to his groin. He can deny it all he wants, but he's hard, his dick curving and jutting up against the rough cotton of the prison whites. He won't touch, not yet. Maybe it will go away and he won't have to think about it. Maybe Bane will go away and he won't have to think about him.
"You think you want that," Bane speaks up again, "because in the morning, you protect the very people who have used your body and cast it aside." His voice is weary, as if he's disappointed with John. "There are some, though, who would rather degrade you and then keep you."
The promise sends a dark thrill through John's body. He hates where this is going, but he doesn't want it to stop. He closes his eyes and lets Bane's words sink down into him, waiting for more. They don't come. Nothing comes, only silence. "Hey," he says tentatively, unfurling himself from the bed and setting his feet on the floor. "Hey." He stands up too fast, gets a little woozy and has to adjust to the dark again. "What's that mean?" he asks the silence. "What's that mean, 'keep me'? How long am I gonna be in here?" He makes his way to the heavy door and pounds on it, shouting. "Hey, speak up! How long!" Dropping to his knees, he looks through the food slot. The corridor is dark, but he can't feel any presence. The acrid sound of Bane's breathing has disappeared.
John pounds the door again and grunts out a swear. Alone in the dark. Confused on top of that, with Bane's words banging around in his head. After everything he's seen in his short time as a Gotham City detective, he knows better than to throw himself a pity party. He's been degraded, sure -- paraded in front of Bane's men like a prize, knocked around til his brains were rattling, and then locked up in this pitch-black dungeon -- but things could always get worse. Bane made it perfectly clear just how he'd like to make things worse for John.
Bane seems like he knows the dark, like he's comfortable in it. He could open the door and swagger into this cell and there'd be nowhere for John to hide. Trying to hide, John imagines, would make things even worse. Bane's hands are fucking huge, and John's a strong guy with top marks in restraint training, but Bane could still toss him around like a damn rag doll. Bane could get John slammed up against the wall in seconds and hold him there with just two fingers at the back of his neck. When John closes his eyes, he can see it. He can practically feel it, the way Bane's knee would shove against the backs of his thighs, forcing them open and forcing John up until his toes barely touch the ground. He'd be pinned there, helpless, probably bleeding.
"Fuckin'..." He slides his hand down and kneads his stiff, aching dick through the fabric of his prison uniform. "Blueballing motherfucker," he mutters, letting his forehead thump against the solid metal door. He shouldn't be so disgusted with himself; it's not like he doesn't know how he likes to get fucked. Bane would be just the man to give him what he needs.
When John closes his eyes against the overwhelming dark, he can see himself on his knees in front of Bane. Bane's a talkative sonofabitch, but John can't imagine him running his mouth while he's getting sucked off. And Bane said he wanted to keep him, right? Why not, it would only make sense for him to want a GCPD officer chained up in a cage like an animal. So maybe he'd want a collar and leash on John, all the better to keep John on his knees, keep his mouth at the right level for when he needs to blow a load or even take a piss. And John's very interested in keeping all his bones intact, so he'd be a good dog. He'd suck Bane off however he wanted, let him fuck his throat raw.
Alone in the dark of the cell, he moans and decides to finally give in and give himself some relief. He shoves the front of his pants down and takes his cock roughly in hand. He's not in any mood to fuck around or tease tonight.
He braces his other hand against the door as he begins to stroke himself, letting Bane's voice invade his head again. How did he know all that shit about John's life in the orphanage? How did he know who John fucks, how he likes to get fucked? Is it that obvious? Does Gordon know? Does Gordon want to fuck him? "I'd let him," John mutters aloud, despairingly, as he jerks himself off. Bane's sick enough, has enough experience in head-games and torture, that he's probably planning to make the Commissioner fuck him, just to make sure everyone knows just what Robin John Blake is good for. Gotham's hope, a fresh-faced protector of the status quo, getting his ass nailed in front of the entire city.
John slaps his cock once, twice, but the sound is muffled by his oversized shirt. He pulls it off over his head and throws it in the corner, a move he's sure he'll regret later, but right now he could give a shit. He slaps himself again, and this time the sound echoes a little as his dick smacks against his abdomen, leaving a sticky string of pre-come there. He grasps his shaft again and starts up a smooth rhythm of jerking himself off from base to tip, twisting his hand on the upstroke.
"Fuck," he gasps. "C'mon, fuck me." He spreads his fingers, trying to even approximate the size of Bane's hand, but he knows he can't. Bane's hand could span across most of John's chest, slam him down and knock the breath out of him. Which is fine, because John's sure Bane doesn't care whether his fucks are conscious or not.
He sits back on his heels and slides his other hand down, still cold from the door, to tug and roll his balls. His body is overheating as he imagines Bane's sounds, the way all the usual grunts and moans of sex would come off as menacing through that mask. He can't hear Bane using the typical vocabulary -- "fuck", "yeah", "dick", "cock", maybe "come", but maybe not. No, he'd probably make more pronouncements, put John right in his place and keep him there physically and mentally. "Your body was made for submission," he'd probably say. "This is your purpose." No. "This is the purpose I have chosen for you. Do not disappoint me."
On that word, disappoint, John finally loses it, whining out an undignified groan. His balls draw up tight in his palm and his cock shoots, spattering come against his skin and dribbling it all over his speeding hand. He keeps up his brutal pace even after he's come, until it's too painful and he has to drop it. He lets himself melt down onto the floor on his side, curled up with his pants still down around his thighs. It's cold on the floor, but it feels good against his hot skin. "Jesus fucking Christ" he sighs. "Jesus Christ."
Apparently, he falls asleep like that, because he's jolted awake by the sound of a food tray being pushed through the slot. His heart thuds in his chest as he pushes himself up and fixes his pants. He leans forward and knocks on the door and says, groggy and deadpan, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," comes the snide answer. The guy's just a guard.
Nobody important.