Gardens of Wayne Manor: Investigations (29/40)
Title: Chapter Twenty-Nine: Investigations
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None necessary
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 3700Summary: Clark and Bruce investigate their leads, but the key revelations are on more personal topics.
The train clattered over the bridge toward Gotham, swathes of spring sunlight cut into squares by power lines and girders falling across its passengers.
“Where do we even start?” Clark looked down at the list of twelve names in the little black notebook. On the opposite page was a map of Gotham, with twelve numbers penciled in.
“Let's just start at the top,” Bruce said.
Clark frowned. "But these three--" He tapped the fourth, sixth, and ninth names on the list, "--They're all in roughly the same neighborhood. It would make sense to check them out in a bloc."
Bruce shook his head. "Patton's address looks close to the others, but Knowles park is between them. You have to go around the whole park--and trust me, you had better go around the whole park--and that puts it in a totally different neighborhood. Mireles' grocery is practically in the middle of the East End, and Chen's address is a block of old brownstones nearby."
"Well, we should start there anyway, since you know the area. Plus the nearest stop is right on this line." Clark penciled in light circles around the two names, and after a moment, Bruce nodded.
As the train rattled along, Clark sneaked glances at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. Gone was the sharp pinstriped suit of yesterday in which the heir of Wayne Enterprises had visited his domain; today Bruce was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a black t-shirt with white letters: I failed the Turing test. There were still dark circles under his eyes, though a quick scan showed that the scars on his arms were fading. He looked for all the world like a normal teen studying on the train, and not at all like someone who did pushups until he collapsed from exhaustion.
The East End managed to seem gloomy even in bright daylight, with peeling graffiti on the walls and piles of garbage on the street. "Don't go that way," Bruce said warningly as Clark peered down a dark, narrow alley. "That's going into Black Dragon Gang territory, that's trouble we don't need."
Clark skirted a puddle of puce vomit and grimaced to himself.
The Mireles house was a small place, sandwiched between blocks of decaying flats. The teal paint was faded but not peeling, and the lace curtains were clean despite being yellowed with age. A glint of red light near the front door caught Clark's eye and he nudged Bruce. "They've got a security system. It looks brand-new, too."
"A state of the art security system on a house that still has a decades-old air conditioning unit in the window," said Bruce. He jerked his chin slightly toward the yard. "They got a new dog, too."
"How can you tell?"
"There are dog toys in the yard, but they're not really worn or faded by the sun yet. Toys made for a pretty big dog, too. Let's keep moving," Bruce said as the lace curtains shifted in one window.
They strolled away from the house, keeping their gaze elsewhere. "How about we go to Mireles Market and see what's up there?" Bruce said. "It's about ten blocks north of here."
Clark nodded, and Bruce set off unerringly, with the unconscious confidence of someone who knows an area intimately. Clark followed more slowly, frowning as the neighborhood became increasingly familiar. By the time Bruce stopped in front of a restaurant with red awnings, Clark's hands were bunched in his pockets and his stomach was knotted. There, it was right over there.
Bruce flashed him a smile, seemingly oblivious to Clark's turmoil. "This place has the best pizza," he said. "We should stop and get some."
"You eat here often?" Clark heard the tightness in his voice and looked away from Bruce's face.
"Well." Bruce chuckled a little. "Not inside. But the dumpster out back was one of my favorite dining spots on Tuesdays--they have a buffet, that means a lot of wasted slices." His smile fell away as Clark wheeled away from him, crossing the street. "Hey, where are you going?" he said, hurrying after him.
Clark's spine felt stiff, almost brittle; it turned his stride into a stalk as he cut left into an alley. "Here," he said, looking at the cobblestone street. "It was right here."
Behind him, Bruce's voice was puzzled. "What was here?"
Clark turned on him. "You were! Don't you even remember? This is where I found you."
Bruce looked toward the entrance of the alley. "Here?" He looked confused, peering around the garbage-strewn street. "I must have been totally out of it," he muttered under his breath to himself. "This is way too close to East Side Kings territory, not at all a safe place to crash." He looked at Clark, his eyes narrowed. "What were you doing here all alone? You shouldn't have been here."
"I was--You weren't moving. Your skin was cold when I touched you, and I wasn't even sure if you were--" Clark broke off and looked away from Bruce's darkened eyes. "Why?" he heard himself say thickly. "I don't understand, Bruce--you were right here, right in Gotham, starving, and at any time you could have called us, we would have come and helped you. You could have bought a dozen pizzas, you didn't have to root in a dumpster as if you didn't have anyone who cared about you at all!" His voice cracked and he shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the street, unable to look at Bruce. "What were you running away from? What was so...so horrible you had to do this to yourself?"
He heard his voice run out and stood there shaking, waiting for Bruce to storm off, to yell at him, to simply turn and leave him alone. He waited a long time. Then Bruce said, "I made a vow once. A long time ago." His voice was cautious, careful. "I made it in front of you. I don't know if you remember."
"Of course I remember," Clark managed.
"I was eight years old. Children vow a lot of things. Sometimes they're just...childish. Sometimes they're not possible. And I began to wonder, what if I didn't really mean it? What if it was just a fantasy, a child's fantasy." There was a pause. "I had to find out if I was willing to do whatever it took to get there, or if I was just...playing. And then..." Bruce took a deep breath. "Do you know how hard it is for Bruce Wayne, last heir of the Waynes of Gotham, to test himself? I'd go to a dojo, and I'd beat every student there on the first day. And the sensei would say 'You are so skilled, Mister Wayne, train with me, Mister Wayne,' and I would see the greed in his eyes, the sycophancy in the students I had defeated. And I wouldn't know if they had let me win. I couldn't know."
A sudden shift in movement, as if Bruce had started to punch the wall and stopped himself.
"I could go to Hudson University, I could take classes there. I could study chemistry in Wayne Hall, take lessons from the Kenneth Wayne Endowed Chair for the Sciences. I'd get excellent grades, of course I would! It would be easy." His voice turned savagely inward. "It would be easy! That was the problem. Was I as smart and as determined and as capable of enduring as I needed to be, or was I buying myself reassurance with my name? If it was the name, then I was just wasting my time, playing stupid vainglorious games. So I made myself a deal, that Christmas, that last night I saw you."
Clark almost turned then at the sudden ache in Bruce's voice, but he held himself steady, listening.
"I set myself a year. A year to prove that even with home just a few miles away, I could do it. To prove that I could starve and freeze and fight on the streets to live, that I could get by on my wits and my skills. Without my name or my money, with both of them just a few minutes away. There were two conditions for failure. If I cracked at any point and called for help, used my position to make life easier, then my vow was annulled. And if I ever harmed a person who was not hurting others, I was done. If either of those two things happened, I told myself, I'd go home, go to college, become...I don't know. A teacher, a doctor. Live a normal life and stop dreaming of being something impossible."
"It was more than a year," Clark said, his voice small in the darkness.
Bruce's chuckle sounded almost surprised. "Yes. I told myself I'd live in each of the worst six neighborhood for two months each and get to know them from the ground up, but I hadn't thought of some things. Like the fact that no one homeless stays below Sixth Avenue in the winter because there are no heating grates there, or that I might need to stay an extra month in one neighborhood because I'd found...a job there that needed finishing." His voice went grim for a moment that hinted at nightmares. "And there were...other things I needed to do, things I came later to believe I needed to understand."
Clark heard sneakers scrape on the cobblestones, but was still unprepared to feel Bruce's hand on his shoulder, even more unprepared to hear Bruce's next words. "Thank you, Clark. For bringing me home. Probably for saving my life. I'm...pretty sure I haven't said that yet."
His hand was still on Clark's shoulder. It was warm. "No," said Clark. "You haven't."
"Probably Alfred thanked you on my behalf," said Bruce. "But that doesn't count. This is another thing I need to be able to do on my own." Laughter touched his voice for a moment. "This might be harder." The hand on Clark's shoulder tightened. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Clark muttered, still unable to look at him.
Bruce made a surprised sound and suddenly the hand on his shoulder was running down his bicep, squeezing slightly. "Hey," said Bruce, "You're actually really--"
Clark pulled away from the touch, turning away from Bruce's startled eyes. "Let's get to Mireles Market," he said hastily, making sure to slouch as he headed back out of the alley.
Bruce stared after him for a moment before following.
: : :
Mireles Market had bins of bananas, onions, and oranges out on the sidewalk under a faded sign. "New security system here too," Bruce observed. "It must have taken a big chunk of any savings they had."
Clark watched "So the question is, who is Mireles protecting himself from?"
"It's fishy," Bruce murmured. As they watched, a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair began to wheel the bins into the store. "That's Hernando Mireles," said Bruce. Mireles pulled the shutters down on the store, shooing away some customers who tried to enter.
Clark glanced at his watch. "It's pretty early to be closing shop."
"Mireles usually stays open until ten," Bruce agreed. "There's definitely something going on here." He made a growling noise in his throat. "If only we could get some better information!"
Clark shot him a quick glance, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I've got an idea," he said.
: : :
Bruce almost dropped his little binoculars and had to stop himself from scrambling down off the roof to grab Clark. “What the hell are you doing, Clark?” he hissed helplessly to himself.
When Clark had suggested Bruce take up a surveillance position on the roof, Bruce had assumed that Clark would do the same on the opposite side. That they’d collect information, maybe go through the trash, the usual.
Instead Clark had walked right up to the Mireles door and rung the doorbell.
Bruce watched Clark stand on the doorstep, one foot scuffing nervously. The door opened a crack, and Clark started to say something, but immediately dropped his notebook and pen. He crouched, scrabbling for them, and the door opened up enough to reveal a large black Doberman staring Clark in the eye, its teeth bared.
Clark recoiled and fell on his behind, staring up at the dog and the man behind it, who was frowning at the ridiculous figure sprawled on his doorstep.
Bruce was too far away to hear what Clark said, but from the way his hands gesticulated wildly it was something placating. Mireles put a hand on the snarling dog’s neck and it subsided, still glaring. Clark tried to pick up his notebook but dropped it again, shooting a nervous look at the dog. Mireles rolled his eyes and picked up the notebook to hand it to Clark. Clark said something else, and Mireles frowned, but opened the door enough for Clark to step into the house.
Incredulous, Bruce moved to a new position on the rooftop to get a look at the inside of the Mireles living room. Clark was sitting on the edge of a chair, his shoulders hunched, looking up at Mireles through his dark, shaggy hair. He looked so cowed that Bruce felt a sudden urge to straighten his shoulders and tell him to stop cringing. He was talking, earnestly.
Mireles had his arms crossed and was shaking his head. Bruce could see his face well enough to read his lips: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There was a motion in the back of the kitchen and Bruce saw a girl slip from the staircase to edge into the room. She was maybe eleven or twelve, with the coltish look of someone who had yet to grow into all of her limbs. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was watching the conversation intently.
Bruce watched her face carefully.
Eventually Mireles seemed to reach the end of his patience. “Get out,” Bruce saw him say. “Now.”
As Clark rose he, said something else to Mireles, and the man’s face tightened further. But he kept the Doberman on a tight leash as he showed Clark the door.
Clark’s shoulders sagged further as the door closed behind him.
Bruce scrambled down the fire escape on the far side of the building and caught up to Clark as he stood on the sidewalk, irresolute.
“Gee, that went great,” sighed Clark. He shook his head. “I told him I worked for the high school newspaper and was doing a story about Cobblepot’s recent retrial, and how awful it would be if a criminal like that went free. He denied knowing anything about it, but he’s the one, I can tell.” He kicked a rock on the sidewalk. “But I didn’t get through to him at all. Or get any useful information. I just--”
“--Don’t be too hard on yourself,” said Bruce. “Let’s get a cup of coffee.” He pointed to a place across the street. “And wait a bit,” he added mysteriously.
Clark sipped his coffee moodily, staring down at the table. “Stop moping,” said Bruce. “I can tell you, your act works really well.”
Clark stopped in mid-sip, eyeing Bruce warily. “What?”
“The act. The spiel. You know, the whole Golly gee, I’m so inept and clumsy, I’m no threat to you at all, thing you’ve got going on there.”
Clark didn’t look gratified. If anything he looked frightened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh come on,” Bruce scoffed. “An aggressive alpha-male could never have even gotten in the Mireles door and you know it. You’re playing it up,” he said admiringly. “The ugly, unflattering clothes, the thick glasses--I bet you don’t even need them,” he said, grabbing them off Clark’s face. Clark made an inarticulate protest, his eyes squinted shut. “Okay, I guess you do,” he said hastily after looking through them. Clark grabbed them back and put them on, looking indignant. “But you’re practicing having an innocuous persona so you can get people like Mireles to trust you.” Bruce nodded. “I think it’s smart.”
“You do?”
“Sure,” Bruce said, taking a sip of his coffee. “But you can’t let many people get as close to you as I did earlier, or they’re going to figure out you’re damn toned under the slouch.” Bruce remembered with shocking vividness the feel of Clark's muscular shoulders under his hands, the powerful arms. It hadn't been what he'd expected at all. Bruce tore his mind from the memory of the sensation, trying not to show how flustered it was making him feel.
“I can’t let people get close,” Clark mumbled. “No.” He started to say something else, but Bruce cut him off with a gesture.
“Don’t look directly,” he said. “The sidewalk to your left.”
The girl from the Mireles house went by, her dark ponytail bobbing underneath a Knights baseball cap. The Doberman was trotting obediently at her heel. As she went by the cafe she glanced over at Clark, then kept going without any change in expression.
“That’s--”
“--I know,” said Bruce. “Finish your coffee.” He tapped Clark’s cup. “I think you had more influence than you thought.”
: : :
The girl turned left into an alley, and Bruce and Clark followed her. The low growl of the Doberman bounced off the brick walls, and she put her hand on its head. “Hush, Placido,” she murmured, and the improbably-named dog quieted.
Clark walked up to her while Bruce hung back a bit, letting his face stay shadowed. “Who’s your friend?” the girl said, glancing over at him.
“He goes by Tony,” Clark said. “He’s helping me. My name’s Clark Kent.”
“I heard,” she said. “I’m Renee Mireles. You were talking with my father.” Her jaw set. “And you’re right, he’s the one. Some men came to the house--they told him he had to.”
“How much did they offer him?” asked Bruce.
She shot him an angry glare. “My father can’t be bought,” she snapped. “But...I have a little brother, and...” Her voice faltered. “They said my brother was cute, and that I was...almost a young woman. That I had a bright future ahead of me. But I'm not stupid," she said, lifting her chin. "I knew what they meant. Papa did too."
Bruce felt his fists tighten. Clark nodded again. “I see.”
She sniffed hard, once. “But it’s not right, I know it’s not,” she said fiercely. “Papa hates it, and so do I. Can you...can you help?”
Clark glanced at Bruce with a hint of a question in his eyes. Bruce chewed his lower lip. “If we had definite proof--saying who this boss was and proving he was threatening you--then the police could act on it.”
“The police,” she said, her forehead wrinkled dubiously. “I don’t know--”
“You can go straight to Jim Gordon,” Bruce said. “You can trust him, I promise.”
“But how can she get proof?” said Clark.
“I’ve got a tape recorder,” she said. “They come back every couple of nights to...check on Papa. If I can catch them saying something...could the police use that?”
Bruce felt a flare of excitement. “That could work.”
Clark was frowning. “It’s dangerous,” he muttered. “I just wanted you to confirm--I didn’t want to get you involved--”
She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed. “But I am. And I’m not an idiot. This is bigger than me, bigger than Cobblepot, too. It could be bad for everyone, for all of Gotham. You need my help.”
“She’s right,” said Bruce. Clark still looked mutinous. “Clark, we weren’t much older than her when we were running around in the dark getting shot at by smugglers.” The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, and Bruce knew he--and the girl--had won.
“How will I get in touch with you if I get the tape?” Renee asked. “I’m sure they’ll be back sometime this week, but I can’t call you, and you don’t want to be caught hanging around...”
Clark grimaced thoughtfully, then brightened. “I know. That movie theater on the corner. We'll go see the Gray Ghost movie there on Friday at seven. You can pretend to be going to see another movie and catch us as we come out. Gives us all an excuse to be there.”
She nodded quickly, then glanced toward the mouth of the alley. “I have to get back before my parents start to worry. I’ll see you on Friday and give you the recording, if I can get one.”
“Excuse me?” Bruce finally found his voice as Renee slipped out of the alley. “The Gray Ghost movie? Are you serious?”
“Why not?” Clark’s smile was blinding. “We need an excuse to be in the neighborhood--and I did promise not to see it without you, right? Why not now?” His smile faded. “Do you not want to see it?”
“It just, I don't know, kind of sounds like a date,” Bruce said teasingly.
Clark reddened slightly and looked away. “Don’t be stupid,” he muttered. “We’re just going to a movie together. Friends do that--we can do that, right?” He looked at Bruce, his eyes shadowed and unreadable behind the thick glasses. “Right?”
Bruce fought a crazy impulse to take Clark’s glasses off again, to try and see if his eyes were still the impossible shade of blue he remembered. “Right,” he echoed. Clark grinned, relieved, and Bruce made a mental note to stop teasing Clark about things like dates, since it obviously made him so uncomfortable.
Which was natural, because Clark was straight, after all, Bruce reminded himself.
No matter how much Bruce might be wishing otherwise.
(Chapter 30)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None necessary
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 3700Summary: Clark and Bruce investigate their leads, but the key revelations are on more personal topics.
The train clattered over the bridge toward Gotham, swathes of spring sunlight cut into squares by power lines and girders falling across its passengers.
“Where do we even start?” Clark looked down at the list of twelve names in the little black notebook. On the opposite page was a map of Gotham, with twelve numbers penciled in.
“Let's just start at the top,” Bruce said.
Clark frowned. "But these three--" He tapped the fourth, sixth, and ninth names on the list, "--They're all in roughly the same neighborhood. It would make sense to check them out in a bloc."
Bruce shook his head. "Patton's address looks close to the others, but Knowles park is between them. You have to go around the whole park--and trust me, you had better go around the whole park--and that puts it in a totally different neighborhood. Mireles' grocery is practically in the middle of the East End, and Chen's address is a block of old brownstones nearby."
"Well, we should start there anyway, since you know the area. Plus the nearest stop is right on this line." Clark penciled in light circles around the two names, and after a moment, Bruce nodded.
As the train rattled along, Clark sneaked glances at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. Gone was the sharp pinstriped suit of yesterday in which the heir of Wayne Enterprises had visited his domain; today Bruce was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a black t-shirt with white letters: I failed the Turing test. There were still dark circles under his eyes, though a quick scan showed that the scars on his arms were fading. He looked for all the world like a normal teen studying on the train, and not at all like someone who did pushups until he collapsed from exhaustion.
The East End managed to seem gloomy even in bright daylight, with peeling graffiti on the walls and piles of garbage on the street. "Don't go that way," Bruce said warningly as Clark peered down a dark, narrow alley. "That's going into Black Dragon Gang territory, that's trouble we don't need."
Clark skirted a puddle of puce vomit and grimaced to himself.
The Mireles house was a small place, sandwiched between blocks of decaying flats. The teal paint was faded but not peeling, and the lace curtains were clean despite being yellowed with age. A glint of red light near the front door caught Clark's eye and he nudged Bruce. "They've got a security system. It looks brand-new, too."
"A state of the art security system on a house that still has a decades-old air conditioning unit in the window," said Bruce. He jerked his chin slightly toward the yard. "They got a new dog, too."
"How can you tell?"
"There are dog toys in the yard, but they're not really worn or faded by the sun yet. Toys made for a pretty big dog, too. Let's keep moving," Bruce said as the lace curtains shifted in one window.
They strolled away from the house, keeping their gaze elsewhere. "How about we go to Mireles Market and see what's up there?" Bruce said. "It's about ten blocks north of here."
Clark nodded, and Bruce set off unerringly, with the unconscious confidence of someone who knows an area intimately. Clark followed more slowly, frowning as the neighborhood became increasingly familiar. By the time Bruce stopped in front of a restaurant with red awnings, Clark's hands were bunched in his pockets and his stomach was knotted. There, it was right over there.
Bruce flashed him a smile, seemingly oblivious to Clark's turmoil. "This place has the best pizza," he said. "We should stop and get some."
"You eat here often?" Clark heard the tightness in his voice and looked away from Bruce's face.
"Well." Bruce chuckled a little. "Not inside. But the dumpster out back was one of my favorite dining spots on Tuesdays--they have a buffet, that means a lot of wasted slices." His smile fell away as Clark wheeled away from him, crossing the street. "Hey, where are you going?" he said, hurrying after him.
Clark's spine felt stiff, almost brittle; it turned his stride into a stalk as he cut left into an alley. "Here," he said, looking at the cobblestone street. "It was right here."
Behind him, Bruce's voice was puzzled. "What was here?"
Clark turned on him. "You were! Don't you even remember? This is where I found you."
Bruce looked toward the entrance of the alley. "Here?" He looked confused, peering around the garbage-strewn street. "I must have been totally out of it," he muttered under his breath to himself. "This is way too close to East Side Kings territory, not at all a safe place to crash." He looked at Clark, his eyes narrowed. "What were you doing here all alone? You shouldn't have been here."
"I was--You weren't moving. Your skin was cold when I touched you, and I wasn't even sure if you were--" Clark broke off and looked away from Bruce's darkened eyes. "Why?" he heard himself say thickly. "I don't understand, Bruce--you were right here, right in Gotham, starving, and at any time you could have called us, we would have come and helped you. You could have bought a dozen pizzas, you didn't have to root in a dumpster as if you didn't have anyone who cared about you at all!" His voice cracked and he shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the street, unable to look at Bruce. "What were you running away from? What was so...so horrible you had to do this to yourself?"
He heard his voice run out and stood there shaking, waiting for Bruce to storm off, to yell at him, to simply turn and leave him alone. He waited a long time. Then Bruce said, "I made a vow once. A long time ago." His voice was cautious, careful. "I made it in front of you. I don't know if you remember."
"Of course I remember," Clark managed.
"I was eight years old. Children vow a lot of things. Sometimes they're just...childish. Sometimes they're not possible. And I began to wonder, what if I didn't really mean it? What if it was just a fantasy, a child's fantasy." There was a pause. "I had to find out if I was willing to do whatever it took to get there, or if I was just...playing. And then..." Bruce took a deep breath. "Do you know how hard it is for Bruce Wayne, last heir of the Waynes of Gotham, to test himself? I'd go to a dojo, and I'd beat every student there on the first day. And the sensei would say 'You are so skilled, Mister Wayne, train with me, Mister Wayne,' and I would see the greed in his eyes, the sycophancy in the students I had defeated. And I wouldn't know if they had let me win. I couldn't know."
A sudden shift in movement, as if Bruce had started to punch the wall and stopped himself.
"I could go to Hudson University, I could take classes there. I could study chemistry in Wayne Hall, take lessons from the Kenneth Wayne Endowed Chair for the Sciences. I'd get excellent grades, of course I would! It would be easy." His voice turned savagely inward. "It would be easy! That was the problem. Was I as smart and as determined and as capable of enduring as I needed to be, or was I buying myself reassurance with my name? If it was the name, then I was just wasting my time, playing stupid vainglorious games. So I made myself a deal, that Christmas, that last night I saw you."
Clark almost turned then at the sudden ache in Bruce's voice, but he held himself steady, listening.
"I set myself a year. A year to prove that even with home just a few miles away, I could do it. To prove that I could starve and freeze and fight on the streets to live, that I could get by on my wits and my skills. Without my name or my money, with both of them just a few minutes away. There were two conditions for failure. If I cracked at any point and called for help, used my position to make life easier, then my vow was annulled. And if I ever harmed a person who was not hurting others, I was done. If either of those two things happened, I told myself, I'd go home, go to college, become...I don't know. A teacher, a doctor. Live a normal life and stop dreaming of being something impossible."
"It was more than a year," Clark said, his voice small in the darkness.
Bruce's chuckle sounded almost surprised. "Yes. I told myself I'd live in each of the worst six neighborhood for two months each and get to know them from the ground up, but I hadn't thought of some things. Like the fact that no one homeless stays below Sixth Avenue in the winter because there are no heating grates there, or that I might need to stay an extra month in one neighborhood because I'd found...a job there that needed finishing." His voice went grim for a moment that hinted at nightmares. "And there were...other things I needed to do, things I came later to believe I needed to understand."
Clark heard sneakers scrape on the cobblestones, but was still unprepared to feel Bruce's hand on his shoulder, even more unprepared to hear Bruce's next words. "Thank you, Clark. For bringing me home. Probably for saving my life. I'm...pretty sure I haven't said that yet."
His hand was still on Clark's shoulder. It was warm. "No," said Clark. "You haven't."
"Probably Alfred thanked you on my behalf," said Bruce. "But that doesn't count. This is another thing I need to be able to do on my own." Laughter touched his voice for a moment. "This might be harder." The hand on Clark's shoulder tightened. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Clark muttered, still unable to look at him.
Bruce made a surprised sound and suddenly the hand on his shoulder was running down his bicep, squeezing slightly. "Hey," said Bruce, "You're actually really--"
Clark pulled away from the touch, turning away from Bruce's startled eyes. "Let's get to Mireles Market," he said hastily, making sure to slouch as he headed back out of the alley.
Bruce stared after him for a moment before following.
: : :
Mireles Market had bins of bananas, onions, and oranges out on the sidewalk under a faded sign. "New security system here too," Bruce observed. "It must have taken a big chunk of any savings they had."
Clark watched "So the question is, who is Mireles protecting himself from?"
"It's fishy," Bruce murmured. As they watched, a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair began to wheel the bins into the store. "That's Hernando Mireles," said Bruce. Mireles pulled the shutters down on the store, shooing away some customers who tried to enter.
Clark glanced at his watch. "It's pretty early to be closing shop."
"Mireles usually stays open until ten," Bruce agreed. "There's definitely something going on here." He made a growling noise in his throat. "If only we could get some better information!"
Clark shot him a quick glance, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I've got an idea," he said.
: : :
Bruce almost dropped his little binoculars and had to stop himself from scrambling down off the roof to grab Clark. “What the hell are you doing, Clark?” he hissed helplessly to himself.
When Clark had suggested Bruce take up a surveillance position on the roof, Bruce had assumed that Clark would do the same on the opposite side. That they’d collect information, maybe go through the trash, the usual.
Instead Clark had walked right up to the Mireles door and rung the doorbell.
Bruce watched Clark stand on the doorstep, one foot scuffing nervously. The door opened a crack, and Clark started to say something, but immediately dropped his notebook and pen. He crouched, scrabbling for them, and the door opened up enough to reveal a large black Doberman staring Clark in the eye, its teeth bared.
Clark recoiled and fell on his behind, staring up at the dog and the man behind it, who was frowning at the ridiculous figure sprawled on his doorstep.
Bruce was too far away to hear what Clark said, but from the way his hands gesticulated wildly it was something placating. Mireles put a hand on the snarling dog’s neck and it subsided, still glaring. Clark tried to pick up his notebook but dropped it again, shooting a nervous look at the dog. Mireles rolled his eyes and picked up the notebook to hand it to Clark. Clark said something else, and Mireles frowned, but opened the door enough for Clark to step into the house.
Incredulous, Bruce moved to a new position on the rooftop to get a look at the inside of the Mireles living room. Clark was sitting on the edge of a chair, his shoulders hunched, looking up at Mireles through his dark, shaggy hair. He looked so cowed that Bruce felt a sudden urge to straighten his shoulders and tell him to stop cringing. He was talking, earnestly.
Mireles had his arms crossed and was shaking his head. Bruce could see his face well enough to read his lips: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There was a motion in the back of the kitchen and Bruce saw a girl slip from the staircase to edge into the room. She was maybe eleven or twelve, with the coltish look of someone who had yet to grow into all of her limbs. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was watching the conversation intently.
Bruce watched her face carefully.
Eventually Mireles seemed to reach the end of his patience. “Get out,” Bruce saw him say. “Now.”
As Clark rose he, said something else to Mireles, and the man’s face tightened further. But he kept the Doberman on a tight leash as he showed Clark the door.
Clark’s shoulders sagged further as the door closed behind him.
Bruce scrambled down the fire escape on the far side of the building and caught up to Clark as he stood on the sidewalk, irresolute.
“Gee, that went great,” sighed Clark. He shook his head. “I told him I worked for the high school newspaper and was doing a story about Cobblepot’s recent retrial, and how awful it would be if a criminal like that went free. He denied knowing anything about it, but he’s the one, I can tell.” He kicked a rock on the sidewalk. “But I didn’t get through to him at all. Or get any useful information. I just--”
“--Don’t be too hard on yourself,” said Bruce. “Let’s get a cup of coffee.” He pointed to a place across the street. “And wait a bit,” he added mysteriously.
Clark sipped his coffee moodily, staring down at the table. “Stop moping,” said Bruce. “I can tell you, your act works really well.”
Clark stopped in mid-sip, eyeing Bruce warily. “What?”
“The act. The spiel. You know, the whole Golly gee, I’m so inept and clumsy, I’m no threat to you at all, thing you’ve got going on there.”
Clark didn’t look gratified. If anything he looked frightened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh come on,” Bruce scoffed. “An aggressive alpha-male could never have even gotten in the Mireles door and you know it. You’re playing it up,” he said admiringly. “The ugly, unflattering clothes, the thick glasses--I bet you don’t even need them,” he said, grabbing them off Clark’s face. Clark made an inarticulate protest, his eyes squinted shut. “Okay, I guess you do,” he said hastily after looking through them. Clark grabbed them back and put them on, looking indignant. “But you’re practicing having an innocuous persona so you can get people like Mireles to trust you.” Bruce nodded. “I think it’s smart.”
“You do?”
“Sure,” Bruce said, taking a sip of his coffee. “But you can’t let many people get as close to you as I did earlier, or they’re going to figure out you’re damn toned under the slouch.” Bruce remembered with shocking vividness the feel of Clark's muscular shoulders under his hands, the powerful arms. It hadn't been what he'd expected at all. Bruce tore his mind from the memory of the sensation, trying not to show how flustered it was making him feel.
“I can’t let people get close,” Clark mumbled. “No.” He started to say something else, but Bruce cut him off with a gesture.
“Don’t look directly,” he said. “The sidewalk to your left.”
The girl from the Mireles house went by, her dark ponytail bobbing underneath a Knights baseball cap. The Doberman was trotting obediently at her heel. As she went by the cafe she glanced over at Clark, then kept going without any change in expression.
“That’s--”
“--I know,” said Bruce. “Finish your coffee.” He tapped Clark’s cup. “I think you had more influence than you thought.”
: : :
The girl turned left into an alley, and Bruce and Clark followed her. The low growl of the Doberman bounced off the brick walls, and she put her hand on its head. “Hush, Placido,” she murmured, and the improbably-named dog quieted.
Clark walked up to her while Bruce hung back a bit, letting his face stay shadowed. “Who’s your friend?” the girl said, glancing over at him.
“He goes by Tony,” Clark said. “He’s helping me. My name’s Clark Kent.”
“I heard,” she said. “I’m Renee Mireles. You were talking with my father.” Her jaw set. “And you’re right, he’s the one. Some men came to the house--they told him he had to.”
“How much did they offer him?” asked Bruce.
She shot him an angry glare. “My father can’t be bought,” she snapped. “But...I have a little brother, and...” Her voice faltered. “They said my brother was cute, and that I was...almost a young woman. That I had a bright future ahead of me. But I'm not stupid," she said, lifting her chin. "I knew what they meant. Papa did too."
Bruce felt his fists tighten. Clark nodded again. “I see.”
She sniffed hard, once. “But it’s not right, I know it’s not,” she said fiercely. “Papa hates it, and so do I. Can you...can you help?”
Clark glanced at Bruce with a hint of a question in his eyes. Bruce chewed his lower lip. “If we had definite proof--saying who this boss was and proving he was threatening you--then the police could act on it.”
“The police,” she said, her forehead wrinkled dubiously. “I don’t know--”
“You can go straight to Jim Gordon,” Bruce said. “You can trust him, I promise.”
“But how can she get proof?” said Clark.
“I’ve got a tape recorder,” she said. “They come back every couple of nights to...check on Papa. If I can catch them saying something...could the police use that?”
Bruce felt a flare of excitement. “That could work.”
Clark was frowning. “It’s dangerous,” he muttered. “I just wanted you to confirm--I didn’t want to get you involved--”
She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed. “But I am. And I’m not an idiot. This is bigger than me, bigger than Cobblepot, too. It could be bad for everyone, for all of Gotham. You need my help.”
“She’s right,” said Bruce. Clark still looked mutinous. “Clark, we weren’t much older than her when we were running around in the dark getting shot at by smugglers.” The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, and Bruce knew he--and the girl--had won.
“How will I get in touch with you if I get the tape?” Renee asked. “I’m sure they’ll be back sometime this week, but I can’t call you, and you don’t want to be caught hanging around...”
Clark grimaced thoughtfully, then brightened. “I know. That movie theater on the corner. We'll go see the Gray Ghost movie there on Friday at seven. You can pretend to be going to see another movie and catch us as we come out. Gives us all an excuse to be there.”
She nodded quickly, then glanced toward the mouth of the alley. “I have to get back before my parents start to worry. I’ll see you on Friday and give you the recording, if I can get one.”
“Excuse me?” Bruce finally found his voice as Renee slipped out of the alley. “The Gray Ghost movie? Are you serious?”
“Why not?” Clark’s smile was blinding. “We need an excuse to be in the neighborhood--and I did promise not to see it without you, right? Why not now?” His smile faded. “Do you not want to see it?”
“It just, I don't know, kind of sounds like a date,” Bruce said teasingly.
Clark reddened slightly and looked away. “Don’t be stupid,” he muttered. “We’re just going to a movie together. Friends do that--we can do that, right?” He looked at Bruce, his eyes shadowed and unreadable behind the thick glasses. “Right?”
Bruce fought a crazy impulse to take Clark’s glasses off again, to try and see if his eyes were still the impossible shade of blue he remembered. “Right,” he echoed. Clark grinned, relieved, and Bruce made a mental note to stop teasing Clark about things like dates, since it obviously made him so uncomfortable.
Which was natural, because Clark was straight, after all, Bruce reminded himself.
No matter how much Bruce might be wishing otherwise.
(Chapter 30)