The huff is immediate, a half-derisive approval punctuated by a nod.
"Figured somethin' like that," he says, quietly. That they'd made such a big deal of it had only forced Blake from the soft landing they'd tried to provide, as if there's no situation he can envision where they not only want and need him but also care to keep him. Horse puns aside, bucking against that status quo happens to be something John Blake does better than most. He isn't a contrarian, per se, but he certainly doesn't find himself following much of any order without at least questioning why first.
Eyeing Dean, the conversation allows him to judge anew, but it's certainly not his first passing glance. The attire fits, but little else. Jabronies alone puts the man at odds with the landscape, a dissonance Blake feels starkly himself. It's raw and too new and it's so familiar it's shut down before it ever gets a chance to knot him up.
"You've assimilated." He leaves off the well at the end – he just doesn't know that yet – but the rest of it seems pretty clear: From the accusations spoken out of the side of his mouth about the portal to the immediate indication that what they've been told shouldn't be trusted, Dean's already placed himself firmly on the side of the line where Blake's hoping to be. He won't be running away, but he certainly isn't going to be buying into anything wholesale any time soon.
The wagon rocks on some deeply rutted ground and with it Blake sways, dark eyes pinging away to take in their surroundings, perhaps to give the other man any privacy he might need to process what could be considered an accusation. He's never been to the desert before. Hell, he's never left Gotham, and now that he's somewhere — elsewhere — he's almost afraid of what might blindside him if he doesn't keep his eyes open, doesn't keep taking it all in. That Dean's spared at the moment is simply a courtesy born of the favor of his company and it certainly won't last.
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"Figured somethin' like that," he says, quietly. That they'd made such a big deal of it had only forced Blake from the soft landing they'd tried to provide, as if there's no situation he can envision where they not only want and need him but also care to keep him. Horse puns aside, bucking against that status quo happens to be something John Blake does better than most. He isn't a contrarian, per se, but he certainly doesn't find himself following much of any order without at least questioning why first.
Eyeing Dean, the conversation allows him to judge anew, but it's certainly not his first passing glance. The attire fits, but little else. Jabronies alone puts the man at odds with the landscape, a dissonance Blake feels starkly himself. It's raw and too new and it's so familiar it's shut down before it ever gets a chance to knot him up.
"You've assimilated." He leaves off the well at the end – he just doesn't know that yet – but the rest of it seems pretty clear: From the accusations spoken out of the side of his mouth about the portal to the immediate indication that what they've been told shouldn't be trusted, Dean's already placed himself firmly on the side of the line where Blake's hoping to be. He won't be running away, but he certainly isn't going to be buying into anything wholesale any time soon.
The wagon rocks on some deeply rutted ground and with it Blake sways, dark eyes pinging away to take in their surroundings, perhaps to give the other man any privacy he might need to process what could be considered an accusation. He's never been to the desert before. Hell, he's never left Gotham, and now that he's somewhere — elsewhere — he's almost afraid of what might blindside him if he doesn't keep his eyes open, doesn't keep taking it all in. That Dean's spared at the moment is simply a courtesy born of the favor of his company and it certainly won't last.