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Hearing the rooftop door open, rather than the usual sound of footsteps on the fire escape, should have put him on guard. But Bane is still puzzling over Barsad’s latest unsolved case files when he hears it so – when he finally turns at the sound of Blake’s muted “Hey” – Blake’s appearance startles him.
Blake isn’t dressed in his customary nondescript navy or grey, the colours that allow him to better blend into shadow. Bane has grown accustomed to standing still whenever Blake first appears, letting his eyes resolve the details of Blake’s body from the gloom. But there’s no need for that this time. Blake is dressed in a tuxedo, dark hair slicked back. The tuxedo is clearly tailored to fit the clean lines of his body; it leads the eye from the angle of his shoulder, along his waist and down the lean length of his legs.
Bane’s throat goes dry. His first (unworthy) thought is that he’s glad for the mask; it hides the rasp in his voice. His second is: what kind of heist is he planning that he needs a tuxedo? “You’re late.”
Blake rolls his eyes. “You really know how to make a guy feel welcome.” But he strolls over to lean against the balcony beside Bane. “You called me here; what do you want?” His expression starts off irritated – likely annoyed at Bane for leveraging evidence of his last theft in exchange for this meeting – but it slides into curiosity by the end.
“Information.”
That wins him a blink and an incredulous smile from Blake. “Information dealing’s not really my shtick, big guy. You should know that. And isn’t that what you have your pet detective for?”
“The information I require is not attainable through... conventional means.”
“But a detective leaking confidential files to you is conventional? God bless this city.” Blake sighs with mocking theatricality and puts a hand over his heart. “Even the good cops are a little crooked.”
Bane’s mouth twists in irritation, even as he recognises Blake’s baiting for what it is. He chooses to ignore the jab at Barsad. “The information I require is stored on a computer that has been taken to Wayne Manor.”
“I’m not a hacker either.”
“I do not require the services of a hacker. I merely need you to acquire the physical hard drive.”
Blake tilts his head, deliberating. “From Wayne Manor? Fancy digs. But I don’t see why you can’t just get it yourself. The place has been deserted for years.”
“Not anymore.” Bane pauses. He watches a young couple, strolling arm-in-arm, across from the building they are standing on. Two figures – men, Caucasian, early to mid-twenties, he notes – detach themselves from the shadows of a nearby alley and follow them. Muggers or just coincidence?
Bane tenses, readying himself to leap down the fire escape if need be.
He watches until the two men take a left turn into the 7-Eleven. Only then does he relax, muscles uncoiling.
Blake had stopped to watch as well; although when Bane looks back at him, he sees Blake had been watching the flex of his shoulders, not the tableau on the street. Blake knows he’s been caught – Bane can see it in the slight shift of his body – but he raises his eyes to meet Bane’s; smiles slowly and drawls, “C’mon, Bane. It’s not nice to keep a boy waiting.”
His smile has dimples and is startlingly, disarmingly sweet – as forthright as Blake’s innuendo is sly – but Bane has learned to steel himself against it. He does take a moment to appreciate the sight, however.
Bane is dedicated to his mission, not dead, no matter what Barsad grumbles.
“It is rumoured that Bruce Wayne is returning to Gotham.”
“People have said that for years and he’s never come back. Hell, why would he? After what happened to him? And when he has the whole world to see?” Blake’s voice sounds wistful.
Bane thinks he can conceive of a few reasons for which he would return to Gotham. But it would be ridiculous – folly in the extreme – to voice such thoughts. So instead he says, “Wayne’s butler has been making alterations to the manor; it lends credence to the rumour. Those alterations include security upgrades, which I have already surveyed. Only a thief of your calibre will be able to circumvent them.”
It’s a statement, not empty flattery. Blake isn’t an amateur; there’s no need to stroke his ego to coax him into a job. And Bane is reasonably confident that Blake will take this job. It fits his overall M.O.: stealing impersonal or expensive items from well-protected, affluent targets. Blake doesn’t steal out of greed (much); never takes items that he deems to be of sentimental value. It’s the thrill of danger; the chance to strike the wealthy where it hurts most that lures him in.
It’s why Bane tolerates his activities in Gotham.
Bane waits while Blake glances away in an attempt at nonchalance. But he sees the interested smile curling at the corner of his mouth. Bane’s unsure whether he sees it because Blake is transparent or because he watches Blake so often.
Perhaps both.
Blake hums thoughtfully. “When do you need it by?”
“Next week, at the latest.”
“And what are you offering for it?”
“Nine thousand dollars. And—” Bane hesitates; but only for a fraction of a second, “—I have located the homes of the suppliers and dealers who are selling crack near the orphanage.”
Blake’s reaction is predictable; his body jerks like it’s been shocked by a live wire. “Give me those addresses.”
By any reasonable moral standard, Bane ought to feel ashamed for exploiting Blake’s weakness when it comes to the children of his heart – and a distant part of him is ashamed, if only for being the indirect cause of the pained, furious expression on Blake’s face – but he is pressed for time. The rumours surrounding Wayne; the sudden spike of crimes in the city... they disturb him. Still, he shakes his head at Blake’s demand. “Bring me the hard drive. I will handle the gang.”
“Forget the money,” Blake snarls. “Just make sure they don’t ever try dealing near the boys again.”
Bane raises his eyebrows. “Don’t be rash, Blake,” he scolds. “The orphanage could use the money. Nine thousand dollars and retribution against a small drug gang. That is my offer.”
Blake doesn’t hesitate. “Deal. I’ll contact you again after I’ve scoped out the manor myself.” He turns on his heel almost immediately and stalks away - to the fire escape, not the rooftop door, this time. He is swallowing convulsively as he goes, clearly trying to get a handle on his fury. Bane watches his progress across the rooftop silently.
But it feels wrong, letting Blake go right now, with his expressive mouth pressed into a thin line and his body rigid with anger. So he calls out, “What are you planning on stealing that requires you to wear a tuxedo?” He doesn’t expect Blake to answer. He merely wishes to end the conversation on a different note.
Blake stops at the ledge to the fire escape; looks at Bane over his shoulder, startled. Then the stiffness in his posture unravels a fraction, and his mouth curls into a sly smile. It seems both more and less like his usual self; as if Bane is looking at him through warped glass. “Who said I was going to steal anything?” Blake says, voice too innocent. “Maybe I just thought you’d like the suit.”
He vaults himself over the ledge.
Bane doesn’t watch him leave.