Detox.

Perhaps the only thing that truly rattled Bane's nerves.

For Bane, the first week was always the worst. After being caught by the Bat yet again, the giant had been transferred to Arkham's infirmary; where he spent day after day writhing in bed, wracked with nausea and drenched in cold sweats. Being strictly restrained to the measly hospital bed by leather binds, Bane could only stare at the ceiling, pain flaring in his sore body with each second without Venom. He was less than polite to the nurses, who in turn often left him without proper detoxing medication; opting to close the curtain and leave him in his misery.

A week rolled by, and the pain subsided, the micro-dosing Venom in his IV doing little to ease the aching flares in his worn muscles. Still suffering from cold sweats and restlessness, Bane tried to focus on his inner monologue; stifling the noises around him. An old TV, mounted on the ceiling of the dreary infirmary, hummed the news, while nurses tended to other inpatients. Despite his typical self-control, Bane found himself unable to focus when a new inmate was led into the room by Arkham's stoic staff, being placed in the bed beside him, much to Bane's dislike.

Bane cast you a glance, attempting to gauge why you were in the infirmary. The giant's lips flatlined and he glared at the ceiling tiles, balling his fists with thinly veiled dislike.