Chapter Text
No matter how he looks at it, the guy is just massive.
They call him Bane, he remembers Gordon saying, his mouth twisted in a subtle expression of disdain. He’s smart and ruthless and, well, terrifying. Don’t get on his bad side.
Bane has lived up to his reputation. He’s this great, hulking thing, and though John can’t actually see his arms or chest through his sheepskin coat, he can practically feel the sinew and muscle radiating off the guy, rippling beneath his skin like a threat in and of itself.
Then, of course, there’s the mask. But everyone knows the story behind the mask.
John doesn’t dwell on that, though, because otherwise he might lose his nerve. Gordon had told him it would be dangerous, so what else had he expected? Nevermind the fact that he is waltzing into the den of one of the most notorious drug lords in Gotham, Ra’s al Ghul, a man of both dubious character and intention, whose right-hand man is this—whatever he is, a bear-human hybrid or something equally fear-inducing.
Were he not in front of said right-hand man at this very moment, he would have sighed. What has he gotten himself into?
“You’ve already been assigned your first job, Mister…” Bane starts, his eyebrows drawing together in a silent question. John’s heard his voice before, of course, but the civilized manner of it still surprises him anew with every word. He expects something dirty and nefarious, but instead gets a kind of distorted Englishman-type deal. It's somewhat unnerving, really, the tameness of it, and John almost wants it to be terrifying so he can hate the guy just for that. As it is, he can only despise Bane based on stories and rumors, which just isn't satisfying.
Maybe it's wrong to want to hate someone like that, but he does anyway.
“Blake. Robin Blake.” The name burns on his tongue like acid, but he uses it all the same. He could have used a fake name, sure, but he feels his real name has some authenticity to it—a perusal into his background will reveal some scrawny orphanage kid with nowhere in particular to go, whereas a cover identity will seem inorganic. He has been studying Ra’s people for a long time; with them, authenticity is far more than favorable, it is mandatory. One ounce of suspicion in his direction could mean death and, well, he isn’t looking to die anytime soon.
“Right, Mister Blake. I’ve heard you’re good with a gun.”
“I am, sir.” He doesn’t deserve such respect, but the ruse must be upheld.
“I trust you’ll confirm that this afternoon.” What little of Bane’s expression he can see is challenging. “Go and prepare. We’re meeting at the nearby gas station in an hour.” Pause. “Don’t be late.”
John nods sharply, removing himself from his chair and turning to leave.
“Oh, and Mister Blake?”
John looks back.
“Do yourself a favor and don’t disappoint me.”