(FIC) Jaevel Av En Tango: (Ch. 6) Nightmares
I am working on this story, slowly but steadily! I am.. slow, that's all I can say. I'm a bit behind but I'm trying to catch up tonight! But.. here's today's post!
Series: Jaevel Av En Tango (A Devil of a Tango)
Title: Chapter 6 - Nightmares
Rating: PG-15 (for violent imagery)
Characters/Pairings: Bruce, Clark, Thomas Jr, Thomas Sr, Barbara Gordon
Word Count: 2000+
Summary: Owlman owes Bruce big time -a debt that has been uncollected for years- and Clark is starting to catch up with the true nature of The Storm, Vak and his associates.
All chapters found here.
jij did the kind beta, all other mistakes are mine, of course.
Two Years Ago
Bruce knew this was a bad idea. He had known it from the start, but the truth was, what Tommy wanted, Tommy got. And he owed him. Maybe not big, because it had been more of a trade than a theft -Timothy for Jason, a Talon for a Crow- but he had convinced Tim to leave Tommy right under Tommy’s nose, and he owed him.
Nevermind that Jason had betrayed him and left, putting in danger his whole operation, but as far as he knew, Jason had kept quiet about the Storm’s extracurricular activities. It wouldn’t have done him any good, after all, if Tommy found out they were smuggling women out of Gotham to Themiscyra and Owlman decided the Amazons deserved retaliation. Jason’s own mother had been smuggled out of the city, a promise of a better life -not easier, but better- with the Amazons better than anything Gotham could offer her.
So, even if the protégé exchange -that’s what Tommy was calling it now, but he had sure been angry when he first found out- left them more or less even, Tommy insisted Bruce owed him, and Bruce knew he did. He owed this to Jason, at least. A favor to his new mentor in exchange for his silence on the Storm’s out-of-Gotham operations.
Still, this was a bad idea.
He kept running from rooftop to rooftop, tumbling down fire escapes and sliding precariously down gutters, the sound of the GCPD’s sirens right behind him. He couldn’t lose them -it was the goddamn helicopter, he couldn’t shake the eye in the sky- and the plated cape kept getting in his way as he ran, the goggles too tight and obstructing his vision. He had no idea how Tommy managed to do anything in this suit, with the leather hugging his body like a boa constrictor and the Kevlar making every movement a complicated maneuver.
Who dressed up as a giant owl, anyway? It was ridiculous and impractical and it was going to get Bruce killed.
He jumped from a fire escape and landed in an alley, the plated cape falling around him like wings. He had to get back to the Mist. Tommy’s idea of a joke was supposed to have its punch line in the Mist, so he ran until he reached the kitchen entrance, kicking it open. He had been careful earlier that night not to lock it, and let himself in. He could see the siren light’s through the empty club’s windows, red and blue, against the walls and the band stage and the curtains. Tommy said this was the perfect way to get to their old man, to make him stop his crusade against the Storm that had already cost Bruce over two dozen men. Not a mob war like the papers were reporting, but a war against his father’s special forces, the ones that didn’t have a problem shooting first and asking questions later.
He didn’t hate his father the way Tommy did, but his old man was turning out to be a real pain.
“Owlman! You’re surrounded!” Someone yelled through a megaphone outside. Bruce snorted and maneuvered himself into a corner, the angle of the mirrors on the walls perfect for what they had planned. All he had to do now was wait.
Commissioner Wayne and four of his best men walked into the restaurant, guns in hand. His father snarled when he saw him standing in a corner in the dark, hands crossed over his chest.
“We’re bringing you in this time, Owlman,” Thomas Sr. said, his aim directed at Bruce’s head. Good idea, too, he didn’t think his father was carrying armor piercing rounds, and the goggles and his lower face were the most vulnerable spots.
“Hello, father,” he said.
“Don’t ‘hello, father’ me. You have hurt Gotham for far too long, your childish ambitions and petty plans have brought her nothing but misery.”
“Have I brought you nothing but misery too?”
Thomas Sr. looked disgusted.
“Haven’t I give you a purpose then, father? A reason to carry on? Isn’t that what family is about?”
“You are a disgrace,” the Commissioner spat.
“Am I?” Another voice asked from the shadows, and the sharp whistle of projectiles cutting the air preceded the fall of the men around the Commissioner. “I think I have done pretty well on my own, father. I have amounted to something, I have changed this city. I brought her order. My order. That’s more than you can say for yourself.”
The lights switched on, and Thomas Wayne Jr. stood behind the Commissioner, wearing a tailored navy blue suit and a gray shirt. He had been at a gala before coming to the Mist for the show. His father kept aiming at Bruce, his gaze shifting at Tommy’s figure through the mirrors.
He looked back at Bruce in Owlman’s suit. “Who are you? A stunt double? An actor? One of his freak friends, a shapeshifter, what? Who are you?”
Tommy had said his father would snap right there, that Bruce was his favorite now, his perfect dead son, that he would leave the Storm alone if he knew Bruce was leading it. Bruce felt a little bad for his father now, but he thought about all his men his father had killed, and shook his head. “A ghost, father. All your life is about ghosts.”
He pulled back the cowl, revealing himself. The Commissioner blanched, his gaze going from his son in front of him to the one behind him, only visible through the mirror. He looked shocked for a couple of seconds, and then color returned to him in a quick rush of blood, his eyes wide with anger and disbelief, his teeth bared and his voice a howl of pain. “You’re dead!”
Thomas Sr. shot once, twice, three times, and Bruce ducked, trying to protect himself from the rain of glass that followed as the mirrors all but exploded around him. Piercing heat ran down his scalp, his cheek, acute pressure and then the feeling of emptiness, a gut-wrenching void.
Bruce screamed, feeling the arms of his brother around him as he heard the rest of the police team raid the club, prompted by the Commissioner’s shooting.
“Talon! Take care of these men!” Tommy yelled at the young man by the kitchen entrance. “I’m sorry, little brother, I’m sorry,” he murmured, but Bruce couldn’t hear him, couldn’t hear anything but a sickening trickle, couldn’t feel anything but his head on fire.
::I’m sorry, Bruce. I didn’t think he would shoot you, not you. This is all my fault.
I owe you one, little brother.
I’m so sorry.::
---
Today
Bruce woke up with a gasp, the wisps of the dream still clinging to his mind, Tommy’s apologies mixing with the crashing mirrors and the piercing pain. He reached to touch his missing eye, taking a deep breath.
“You were starting to worry us, Vak. Welcome back to the world of the living,” Barbara said, her voice making his headache worse.
He opened his eye, fighting the glare of the dawn. Barbara was crouching next to him, offering him a glass of water. He sat up slowly, noticing the surroundings for the first time. He had been lying on one of the couches in his office. He reached to touch the back of his head, feeling a bump through the bandage. “Why are we at the office?” He asked, reaching for the glass of water.
“I didn’t know where else to bring you,” another voice said from his desk. Bruce turned his head slowly towards the sound. Clark Starr -with his black suit singed and torn- smiled at him as he leaned against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest.
“What is he doing here?” he asked Barbara, giving up the pretense of the foreign accent. His head hurt, and he was pretty sure the Mist has blown up inhis face again.
“He didn’t want to go. And I didn’t think you would want him gone, not after what happened,” Barbara said, sitting down next to him.
One of the Danes came into the room and sat next to Bruce, offering him a paw. He was smeared with soot and his fur was singed. Bruce caught the paw, seeing his own lacerated hands for the first time. “Where’s Geri?”
“Cass and Tim took him to the vet. He broke a leg.”
“Selina and Harvey?”
Clark shifted. “They’re okay. They took their friend to… I don’t know, home? They took him away. Why did he attack us?”
Bruce downed the glass of water, glaring at it so he wouldn’t have to look at Clark. “Didn’t you hear him? He thought you were Ultraman undercover. We all did, at first. And he’s… he hates the Syndicate. A lot.” Bruce leaned back, closing his eyes. “Fucking psycho.”
“He seemed… possessed.”
“I stand by my ‘fucking psycho’.”
“He doesn’t feel pain?”
“How should I know?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then turned his head slowly to look at Clark. "You... saved Harvey and Selina."
Clark's gaze shifted, then returned to meet his. "Yes."
"Thank you. They are..." he paused, thinking of all that could have been lost if they had died.
"Your friends?"
"Important," Vak corrected him.
"Maybe you should get some rest, big brother. I can keep Mr. Starr company until you're fit for business," Barbara said, giving Bruce a warning look. He was saying too much.
"Wait," Clark said, his brow furrowed. Clark knew too much, he wouldn't just drop the story and go home to protect his secret. "Crackerjack works for the rebels, the Justice Underground. What is going to happen to him? Is he going to meet with your aides in an alley? Did Selina and Harvey drag him to his death?" his voice was full of frustration and anguish.
"If you really thought that was true, Mr. Starr, you wouldn't have let them take him away, would you? You’re a good man. You wouldn’t let a, what do they call them, freedom fighter, go down.”
Clark was breathing heavily, his hands fisted by his side. “What’s going to happen to him, then?”
“I think you confuse me with a psychic. I don’t know. You said they took him away. That’s all I know of this business.”
“You lie,” Clark hissed, closing the distance between them in three strides. “All you do is lie. The Storm. Does it work with the Justice Underground?”
Bruce stood up, feeling very tired, his body aching. Freki stood with him, and growled when Clark made a move to grab his shoulder. “Barbara, please make sure Mr. Starr is comfortable while I’m out. Let me know when Timothy and Cassandra come back,” he turned to leave, wanting nothing but a handful of aspirins and to sleep the weekend away. “And you, Mr. Starr. Let me give you a word of advice. This is not Metropolis. We don’t stumble in the night, groping for results, but we do have something in common with your city: there is always someone listening. We’re lucky we’re not somewhere bugged, otherwise, you could be getting us both in a lot of trouble.
“So keep your thoughts to yourself, or to your doodled diary, or, I don’t know, whatever it is you keep your secrets. Otherwise you’re going to get us and your beloved Justice Underground killed.”
He smiled ruefully. “Owlman owes me, but he doesn’t owe me that big.”
“We’re going to talk, whether you want to or not. Now or later, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to leave. I’m not going to give up,” Clark called after him.
Bruce walked out of the room, heading for the penthouse elevator. He rubbed his forehead as he the doors closed, murmuring to himself.
“Why do all the stubborn jerks end up in this city?”
Series: Jaevel Av En Tango (A Devil of a Tango)
Title: Chapter 6 - Nightmares
Rating: PG-15 (for violent imagery)
Characters/Pairings: Bruce, Clark, Thomas Jr, Thomas Sr, Barbara Gordon
Word Count: 2000+
Summary: Owlman owes Bruce big time -a debt that has been uncollected for years- and Clark is starting to catch up with the true nature of The Storm, Vak and his associates.
All chapters found here.
jij did the kind beta, all other mistakes are mine, of course.
Two Years Ago
Bruce knew this was a bad idea. He had known it from the start, but the truth was, what Tommy wanted, Tommy got. And he owed him. Maybe not big, because it had been more of a trade than a theft -Timothy for Jason, a Talon for a Crow- but he had convinced Tim to leave Tommy right under Tommy’s nose, and he owed him.
Nevermind that Jason had betrayed him and left, putting in danger his whole operation, but as far as he knew, Jason had kept quiet about the Storm’s extracurricular activities. It wouldn’t have done him any good, after all, if Tommy found out they were smuggling women out of Gotham to Themiscyra and Owlman decided the Amazons deserved retaliation. Jason’s own mother had been smuggled out of the city, a promise of a better life -not easier, but better- with the Amazons better than anything Gotham could offer her.
So, even if the protégé exchange -that’s what Tommy was calling it now, but he had sure been angry when he first found out- left them more or less even, Tommy insisted Bruce owed him, and Bruce knew he did. He owed this to Jason, at least. A favor to his new mentor in exchange for his silence on the Storm’s out-of-Gotham operations.
Still, this was a bad idea.
He kept running from rooftop to rooftop, tumbling down fire escapes and sliding precariously down gutters, the sound of the GCPD’s sirens right behind him. He couldn’t lose them -it was the goddamn helicopter, he couldn’t shake the eye in the sky- and the plated cape kept getting in his way as he ran, the goggles too tight and obstructing his vision. He had no idea how Tommy managed to do anything in this suit, with the leather hugging his body like a boa constrictor and the Kevlar making every movement a complicated maneuver.
Who dressed up as a giant owl, anyway? It was ridiculous and impractical and it was going to get Bruce killed.
He jumped from a fire escape and landed in an alley, the plated cape falling around him like wings. He had to get back to the Mist. Tommy’s idea of a joke was supposed to have its punch line in the Mist, so he ran until he reached the kitchen entrance, kicking it open. He had been careful earlier that night not to lock it, and let himself in. He could see the siren light’s through the empty club’s windows, red and blue, against the walls and the band stage and the curtains. Tommy said this was the perfect way to get to their old man, to make him stop his crusade against the Storm that had already cost Bruce over two dozen men. Not a mob war like the papers were reporting, but a war against his father’s special forces, the ones that didn’t have a problem shooting first and asking questions later.
He didn’t hate his father the way Tommy did, but his old man was turning out to be a real pain.
“Owlman! You’re surrounded!” Someone yelled through a megaphone outside. Bruce snorted and maneuvered himself into a corner, the angle of the mirrors on the walls perfect for what they had planned. All he had to do now was wait.
Commissioner Wayne and four of his best men walked into the restaurant, guns in hand. His father snarled when he saw him standing in a corner in the dark, hands crossed over his chest.
“We’re bringing you in this time, Owlman,” Thomas Sr. said, his aim directed at Bruce’s head. Good idea, too, he didn’t think his father was carrying armor piercing rounds, and the goggles and his lower face were the most vulnerable spots.
“Hello, father,” he said.
“Don’t ‘hello, father’ me. You have hurt Gotham for far too long, your childish ambitions and petty plans have brought her nothing but misery.”
“Have I brought you nothing but misery too?”
Thomas Sr. looked disgusted.
“Haven’t I give you a purpose then, father? A reason to carry on? Isn’t that what family is about?”
“You are a disgrace,” the Commissioner spat.
“Am I?” Another voice asked from the shadows, and the sharp whistle of projectiles cutting the air preceded the fall of the men around the Commissioner. “I think I have done pretty well on my own, father. I have amounted to something, I have changed this city. I brought her order. My order. That’s more than you can say for yourself.”
The lights switched on, and Thomas Wayne Jr. stood behind the Commissioner, wearing a tailored navy blue suit and a gray shirt. He had been at a gala before coming to the Mist for the show. His father kept aiming at Bruce, his gaze shifting at Tommy’s figure through the mirrors.
He looked back at Bruce in Owlman’s suit. “Who are you? A stunt double? An actor? One of his freak friends, a shapeshifter, what? Who are you?”
Tommy had said his father would snap right there, that Bruce was his favorite now, his perfect dead son, that he would leave the Storm alone if he knew Bruce was leading it. Bruce felt a little bad for his father now, but he thought about all his men his father had killed, and shook his head. “A ghost, father. All your life is about ghosts.”
He pulled back the cowl, revealing himself. The Commissioner blanched, his gaze going from his son in front of him to the one behind him, only visible through the mirror. He looked shocked for a couple of seconds, and then color returned to him in a quick rush of blood, his eyes wide with anger and disbelief, his teeth bared and his voice a howl of pain. “You’re dead!”
Thomas Sr. shot once, twice, three times, and Bruce ducked, trying to protect himself from the rain of glass that followed as the mirrors all but exploded around him. Piercing heat ran down his scalp, his cheek, acute pressure and then the feeling of emptiness, a gut-wrenching void.
Bruce screamed, feeling the arms of his brother around him as he heard the rest of the police team raid the club, prompted by the Commissioner’s shooting.
“Talon! Take care of these men!” Tommy yelled at the young man by the kitchen entrance. “I’m sorry, little brother, I’m sorry,” he murmured, but Bruce couldn’t hear him, couldn’t hear anything but a sickening trickle, couldn’t feel anything but his head on fire.
::I’m sorry, Bruce. I didn’t think he would shoot you, not you. This is all my fault.
I owe you one, little brother.
I’m so sorry.::
---
Today
Bruce woke up with a gasp, the wisps of the dream still clinging to his mind, Tommy’s apologies mixing with the crashing mirrors and the piercing pain. He reached to touch his missing eye, taking a deep breath.
“You were starting to worry us, Vak. Welcome back to the world of the living,” Barbara said, her voice making his headache worse.
He opened his eye, fighting the glare of the dawn. Barbara was crouching next to him, offering him a glass of water. He sat up slowly, noticing the surroundings for the first time. He had been lying on one of the couches in his office. He reached to touch the back of his head, feeling a bump through the bandage. “Why are we at the office?” He asked, reaching for the glass of water.
“I didn’t know where else to bring you,” another voice said from his desk. Bruce turned his head slowly towards the sound. Clark Starr -with his black suit singed and torn- smiled at him as he leaned against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest.
“What is he doing here?” he asked Barbara, giving up the pretense of the foreign accent. His head hurt, and he was pretty sure the Mist has blown up inhis face again.
“He didn’t want to go. And I didn’t think you would want him gone, not after what happened,” Barbara said, sitting down next to him.
One of the Danes came into the room and sat next to Bruce, offering him a paw. He was smeared with soot and his fur was singed. Bruce caught the paw, seeing his own lacerated hands for the first time. “Where’s Geri?”
“Cass and Tim took him to the vet. He broke a leg.”
“Selina and Harvey?”
Clark shifted. “They’re okay. They took their friend to… I don’t know, home? They took him away. Why did he attack us?”
Bruce downed the glass of water, glaring at it so he wouldn’t have to look at Clark. “Didn’t you hear him? He thought you were Ultraman undercover. We all did, at first. And he’s… he hates the Syndicate. A lot.” Bruce leaned back, closing his eyes. “Fucking psycho.”
“He seemed… possessed.”
“I stand by my ‘fucking psycho’.”
“He doesn’t feel pain?”
“How should I know?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then turned his head slowly to look at Clark. "You... saved Harvey and Selina."
Clark's gaze shifted, then returned to meet his. "Yes."
"Thank you. They are..." he paused, thinking of all that could have been lost if they had died.
"Your friends?"
"Important," Vak corrected him.
"Maybe you should get some rest, big brother. I can keep Mr. Starr company until you're fit for business," Barbara said, giving Bruce a warning look. He was saying too much.
"Wait," Clark said, his brow furrowed. Clark knew too much, he wouldn't just drop the story and go home to protect his secret. "Crackerjack works for the rebels, the Justice Underground. What is going to happen to him? Is he going to meet with your aides in an alley? Did Selina and Harvey drag him to his death?" his voice was full of frustration and anguish.
"If you really thought that was true, Mr. Starr, you wouldn't have let them take him away, would you? You’re a good man. You wouldn’t let a, what do they call them, freedom fighter, go down.”
Clark was breathing heavily, his hands fisted by his side. “What’s going to happen to him, then?”
“I think you confuse me with a psychic. I don’t know. You said they took him away. That’s all I know of this business.”
“You lie,” Clark hissed, closing the distance between them in three strides. “All you do is lie. The Storm. Does it work with the Justice Underground?”
Bruce stood up, feeling very tired, his body aching. Freki stood with him, and growled when Clark made a move to grab his shoulder. “Barbara, please make sure Mr. Starr is comfortable while I’m out. Let me know when Timothy and Cassandra come back,” he turned to leave, wanting nothing but a handful of aspirins and to sleep the weekend away. “And you, Mr. Starr. Let me give you a word of advice. This is not Metropolis. We don’t stumble in the night, groping for results, but we do have something in common with your city: there is always someone listening. We’re lucky we’re not somewhere bugged, otherwise, you could be getting us both in a lot of trouble.
“So keep your thoughts to yourself, or to your doodled diary, or, I don’t know, whatever it is you keep your secrets. Otherwise you’re going to get us and your beloved Justice Underground killed.”
He smiled ruefully. “Owlman owes me, but he doesn’t owe me that big.”
“We’re going to talk, whether you want to or not. Now or later, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to leave. I’m not going to give up,” Clark called after him.
Bruce walked out of the room, heading for the penthouse elevator. He rubbed his forehead as he the doors closed, murmuring to himself.
“Why do all the stubborn jerks end up in this city?”