Gardens of Wayne Manor: A Bat and a Bell (38/42)
Title: Chapter Thirty-Eight: A Bat and a Bell
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Bruno Mannheim, Alfred Pennyworth
Rating: PG
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: 2500Summary: Clark is a reluctant guest of Bruno Mannheim, and Bruce is driven to action in response.
From: Clark Kent
To: Bruce Wayne
Subject: Are you having fun?
The gossip pages are all abuzz about your performance at the Sionis party last night. If you intended to leave all of polite society assuming you're something of a rake and a scoundrel, then congratulations--mission accomplished.
Don't forget I'm coming by today. I'm going in to the Planet for a little bit, then catching the train. If you have any other inspired ideas for fun things to do this weekend, I really wish you'd put them off until we've had a chance to talk. Okay?
Clark grabbed the first clean polo shirt in the drawer and pulled it on, because he was not going to fret over wearing exactly the right clothes to Gotham as if he were a teenage boy. He was an adult man, and well past being vain about his appearance, and--the dark blue of the shirt actually showed off his eyes pretty well, he thought as caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Slipping his glasses down his nose, he flashed a smile at the mirror. "Long time no see, Bruce," he murmured, then immediately felt ridiculous and shoved the glasses back up. Grow up, Kent.
He got off the train at Gotham Central and was walking toward the subway when a limousine pulled up to the curb next to him. The tinted window slid down to reveal Bruno Mannheim's face. "Mr. Kent," said Mannheim. "It's a pleasure to run into you this fine day."
"Um, can I help you, Mr. Mannheim?"
Mannheim seemed to think this was amusing. "Yes, I'm hoping you can, Mr. Kent," he chuckled. "If you'd be so kind of to get in the car?"
"Well, I was kind of on my way to..."
"I am aware of that," Mannheim rumbled. "But I'm extending a rare opportunity to come to my place for dinner." When Clark hesitated, he added, "Vinnie, Razor, would you please help our guest into the car?"
As both his elbows were gently but firmly grasped by large gentlemen, Clark decided it might be wisest to play along.
For now.
: : :
"Can't I have my cell phone back, Mr. Mannheim?"
Mannheim gave Clark a deeply sympathetic look. "I understand, you're one of those young people today, always needing to be connected. But this way you can focus on the delicious meal we're sharing, and our delightful conversation. Your generation needs to think more about people and less about technology. Human relations. I'm doing you a favor, really." He gestured and Clark's wine glass was refilled for the second time. "So let's talk about your old friend Bruce Wayne."
"I told you, we're not that close. My mother is his gardener, but--"
"--Surely during the many years you lived so nearby you got to know him rather well?" Mannheim patted his thick lips with a linen napkin. "Mr. Kent, you seem to be under the impression that I wish our mutual friend Bruce harm, when nothing could be further from the truth. I've invited you here tonight so you could illuminate me on how best to make his life a little more pleasant."
"Pleasant?"
"Bruce is a nice fellow, but he doesn't seem to realize the benefits of working with me. I've offered him the usual incentives of wine, women and song, but the man's already practically rolling in booze and broads, and he doesn't seem the Philharmonic type, you know?" Mannheim leaned across the table, fixing Clark with a narrow look. "So what's his deal, huh? What do you get the man who has everything?"
Clark gulped down his wine as if he were nervous, letting his eyes dart around the room. "I don't think kidnapping me--"
"--Kidnapping?" Mannheim looked offended. "I merely invited you to a pleasant dinner."
Clark pushed back his chair. "May I go, then?"
"Sure, sure." Mannheim leaned back in his chair. "Gotham's a dangerous town, though, and I would be a bad host if I let you walk back in the dark. As soon as Razor gets back from his errands, he'll be delighted to give you a ride home. But until then, please. Have a seat. I'd just like to hear your reminisces about your childhood with Bruce."
Clark sat back down. Mannheim had no way of knowing he'd "invited" an alien with super-hearing and an eidetic memory into his Gotham hidey-hole. Clark had already picked up a fair amount of information: names, numbers, dates. But he was hoping for something more concrete, something that would give him a clear lead on Mannheim's activities. The longer he stayed, the more likely it was he would overhear something.
But as he picked up his wineglass again, for a moment all he could think about was Bruce Wayne, waiting for him at the Manor.
: : :
From: Bruce Wayne
To: Clark Kent
Subject: Re: Are you having fun?
It's almost seven o'clock, and no sign of you yet. You sounded quite disapproving in your last mail--have I incurred your wrath? Shall I beg for forgiveness on bended knee for my naughty behavior last night?
I've been having some fun, I admit it. But in order to have a truly optimal experience, I'd really have to have the right partner to share it with. There are many lovely people in Gotham, but they all seem to be lacking a certain intangible...something. A set of the jaw, maybe. A glint in the eye. I'll know it when I see it, and I'll keep looking until I find it.
Don't be so disappointed with me, Clark. I'm the same Bruce I ever was--surely by now you know me well enough to know I'm never going to change?
Bruce paced back and forth across the library floor, looking down at the phone in his hand. At his fiftieth turn, he flipped open the phone and punched out a number from memory, listening to the voice on the other end ("--number you have dialled cannot be reached at this time--") and grimacing. He glanced at the clock: eight o'clock. His fingers hesitated over the keypad for a moment, then tapped out a different number.
"Hello, is this Ms Lois Lane? I'm a friend of Clark Kent's, and I was wondering if he was working late with you right now?" He paused and listened, and his face wrinkled with chagrin, although his voice remained light and friendly, "Yes, this is he. You have a good memory for voices, Ms Lane." The voice on the other end spoke again, and the chagrin disappeared, replaced by a blank intensity. "Are you certain? Well, thank you, Ms. Lane, and I'm sorry to bother you."
"Any news?" Alfred appeared in the doorway as Bruce sat down at the computer.
"She says that Clark was at work for a few hours in the morning, but he left early because he wanted to make sure to catch the eleven-fifty to Gotham." Bruce's fingers danced across the keyboard, a pounding rattle. "I know he's not mad at me, so something went wrong along the way."
Alfred placed a sandwich on the desk with a hopeful but not optimistic air. Bruce hadn't touched a bite all day. "Don't take this the wrong way, sir, but how can you be so sure he's not angry at you?"
"I just know," Bruce stated with a final flourish of keys. "There we go."
On the screen, a window opened up, showing grainy video footage of people hurrying by, many pulling suitcases behind them. "Good heavens," said Alfred, peering over Bruce's shoulder. "Are those security cameras?"
"Gotham Central Station's records," Bruce said, shifting the video rapidly to the right time.
"I'm not sure this is technically legal," Alfred pointed out, but before he could say anything more Bruce went rigid in his chair, his eyes narrowing.
"Neither is kidnapping," Bruce growled in a voice that made Alfred glance anxiously at him. Frozen on the screen was Clark Kent, being escorted into a long black limo by two large men. "Mannheim," he grated.
The computer screen became a blur of opening and closing windows as Bruce hunched over the keyboard. "He's not at either of his Gotham penthouses. Or his two 'secret' safehouses. That means he has another one somewhere. Can't be far, he wouldn't risk a long car trip." He didn't even register the look Alfred gave him, torn between admiring and appalled.
"Shouldn't you call the police?"
Bruce shook his head, relaxing his shoulders with some effort. "He hasn't been missing for twenty-four hours yet. And I don't want to worry his mother if I can--" he glanced at Alfred, "--well, get things sorted out without having to tell her." He stood up. "I'll make some calls, see what information I can get. Then we'll act on it in the morning."
Alfred looked dubious, but nodded. "You...won't do anything rash, Master Bruce?"
Bruce was able to give him a genuine smile. "I won't do anything without considering it very carefully, Alfred. I promise."
He waited until the still-suspicious Alfred left the room, then threw open the trunk on the floor. In a few minutes he cast a critical eye on his reflection in the mirror: ninja-dark clothes, a mask covering his nose and mouth, black gloves. He checked the belt, pulling out and examining an assortment of shuriken, then fastened it around his waist. The carved ebony box he hesitated over, touching the lid lightly, then put away.
He hadn't been lying to Alfred, he reflected as he walked his motorcycle silently down the drive. He wasn't doing anything he hadn't been considering for years. And he was going to make some calls and get some information.
They'd just be made in person.
: : :
Mannheim had two safehouses in Gotham that Bruce knew about, one in the East End and one out near Cape Carmine. The East End safehouse was an abandoned textile factory in a crumbling brick building. Poised on the roof outside a skylight, Bruce felt a rush of adrenaline as he saw the guard standing below him. He breathed deeply and evenly, trying to temper the surge of anticipation: at last, at last, I'm going to strike a blow for Gotham, for my parents, for everything good and true in this city. For everything I love.
As he dropped through the skylight toward the guard, he thought a name like a talisman.
The gun skittered across the catwalk with one kick, and a sharp jab to the stomach doubled the guard over, wheezing. Bruce grabbed him from behind, bending him backwards. "Where's Mannheim?" he said, keeping his voice low.
The man choked something unintelligible and writhed in Bruce's grip. Bruce slammed him against the handrail. "I said, where's Mannheim?"
There were running steps below the catwalk. "There's some guy up there! He's got Jerry!" a voice yelled, and there was a ping of a bullet against the rail.
Out of time. Bruce readied a grapple, shook the hapless Jerry one more time. "Talk," he growled, with a push that threatened to send him over the railing.
He saw the whites of Jerry's eyes flash in the dim lighting as the man twisted in his grip. Then there was a sharp blow to his left shoulder. Jerry scrambled away, the bare knife glinting in his hand, as bullets buzzed around them, yelling "Stop shooting, you morons!"
Bruce shot the grapple, let it carry him upward to the roof. He looked down to see a scattering of red drops falling from his dangling left arm, spattering the catwalk as he was jolted toward the skylight. He crawled onto the roof, leaping out into the shadows before the guards could make it up the stairs, the pain in his left shoulder starting to blaze toward bitter agony.
Failure.
: : :
There was a ticking sound, a low, steady metronome in the silence of the library. Not from the grandfather clock, standing stopped in a corner. Bruce sat in his father's leather chair and listened to his blood drip to the ground, trickling down his arm, gathering then falling from his dangling fingers drop by drop.
The moonlight through the open window fell across a bust of Shakespeare, which seemed to stare at him disapprovingly. You were silent, you were swift, but they feared Mannheim more than you. You have failed.
His head swam, a wave of dizziness making the room waver at the edges. Blood loss. Next to the chair he saw the tiny golden bell, unrung for so many decades. He could call Alfred to him, stop the bleeding. But why? His dream was over, failed as soon as it began. Clark was in danger and he hadn't helped, Gotham was in danger and he was bleeding, maybe dying, impotent and useless.
The guard had called him "some guy." Some guy. Some guy was never going to be a force to stop chaos in Gotham. The city needed more than that. Gotham ran on fear. The citizens were afraid of the thugs. The thugs were afraid of their bosses. And the bosses were afraid of no one.
The room whirled again and Bruce blinked hard. There was a high whine in his ears, and a thought at the edges of his half-delirious mind that he groped for. Fear. They hadn't been afraid of him.
He had to be more.
More than human.
More than fearless.
To be more.
He had to be fear.
A darkness at the window, silent wings. A shape wheeled through the moonlight, casting mad shadows around the room, and through the pain Bruce felt the old terror grip him, freezing his muscles. The shadow landed on the bust of Shakespeare, folding leathery wings around its body and gazing at Bruce.
Bruce met the bat's inhuman and merciless eyes, and he saw the answers he needed there.
The handle of the bell was smooth and warm in his hand. Its golden chime drowned out the inexorable beat of his dripping blood, drowned out his doubts.
I shall become a bat.
( Chapter 39)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Bruno Mannheim, Alfred Pennyworth
Rating: PG
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: 2500Summary: Clark is a reluctant guest of Bruno Mannheim, and Bruce is driven to action in response.
From: Clark Kent
To: Bruce Wayne
Subject: Are you having fun?
The gossip pages are all abuzz about your performance at the Sionis party last night. If you intended to leave all of polite society assuming you're something of a rake and a scoundrel, then congratulations--mission accomplished.
Don't forget I'm coming by today. I'm going in to the Planet for a little bit, then catching the train. If you have any other inspired ideas for fun things to do this weekend, I really wish you'd put them off until we've had a chance to talk. Okay?
Clark grabbed the first clean polo shirt in the drawer and pulled it on, because he was not going to fret over wearing exactly the right clothes to Gotham as if he were a teenage boy. He was an adult man, and well past being vain about his appearance, and--the dark blue of the shirt actually showed off his eyes pretty well, he thought as caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Slipping his glasses down his nose, he flashed a smile at the mirror. "Long time no see, Bruce," he murmured, then immediately felt ridiculous and shoved the glasses back up. Grow up, Kent.
He got off the train at Gotham Central and was walking toward the subway when a limousine pulled up to the curb next to him. The tinted window slid down to reveal Bruno Mannheim's face. "Mr. Kent," said Mannheim. "It's a pleasure to run into you this fine day."
"Um, can I help you, Mr. Mannheim?"
Mannheim seemed to think this was amusing. "Yes, I'm hoping you can, Mr. Kent," he chuckled. "If you'd be so kind of to get in the car?"
"Well, I was kind of on my way to..."
"I am aware of that," Mannheim rumbled. "But I'm extending a rare opportunity to come to my place for dinner." When Clark hesitated, he added, "Vinnie, Razor, would you please help our guest into the car?"
As both his elbows were gently but firmly grasped by large gentlemen, Clark decided it might be wisest to play along.
For now.
: : :
"Can't I have my cell phone back, Mr. Mannheim?"
Mannheim gave Clark a deeply sympathetic look. "I understand, you're one of those young people today, always needing to be connected. But this way you can focus on the delicious meal we're sharing, and our delightful conversation. Your generation needs to think more about people and less about technology. Human relations. I'm doing you a favor, really." He gestured and Clark's wine glass was refilled for the second time. "So let's talk about your old friend Bruce Wayne."
"I told you, we're not that close. My mother is his gardener, but--"
"--Surely during the many years you lived so nearby you got to know him rather well?" Mannheim patted his thick lips with a linen napkin. "Mr. Kent, you seem to be under the impression that I wish our mutual friend Bruce harm, when nothing could be further from the truth. I've invited you here tonight so you could illuminate me on how best to make his life a little more pleasant."
"Pleasant?"
"Bruce is a nice fellow, but he doesn't seem to realize the benefits of working with me. I've offered him the usual incentives of wine, women and song, but the man's already practically rolling in booze and broads, and he doesn't seem the Philharmonic type, you know?" Mannheim leaned across the table, fixing Clark with a narrow look. "So what's his deal, huh? What do you get the man who has everything?"
Clark gulped down his wine as if he were nervous, letting his eyes dart around the room. "I don't think kidnapping me--"
"--Kidnapping?" Mannheim looked offended. "I merely invited you to a pleasant dinner."
Clark pushed back his chair. "May I go, then?"
"Sure, sure." Mannheim leaned back in his chair. "Gotham's a dangerous town, though, and I would be a bad host if I let you walk back in the dark. As soon as Razor gets back from his errands, he'll be delighted to give you a ride home. But until then, please. Have a seat. I'd just like to hear your reminisces about your childhood with Bruce."
Clark sat back down. Mannheim had no way of knowing he'd "invited" an alien with super-hearing and an eidetic memory into his Gotham hidey-hole. Clark had already picked up a fair amount of information: names, numbers, dates. But he was hoping for something more concrete, something that would give him a clear lead on Mannheim's activities. The longer he stayed, the more likely it was he would overhear something.
But as he picked up his wineglass again, for a moment all he could think about was Bruce Wayne, waiting for him at the Manor.
: : :
From: Bruce Wayne
To: Clark Kent
Subject: Re: Are you having fun?
It's almost seven o'clock, and no sign of you yet. You sounded quite disapproving in your last mail--have I incurred your wrath? Shall I beg for forgiveness on bended knee for my naughty behavior last night?
I've been having some fun, I admit it. But in order to have a truly optimal experience, I'd really have to have the right partner to share it with. There are many lovely people in Gotham, but they all seem to be lacking a certain intangible...something. A set of the jaw, maybe. A glint in the eye. I'll know it when I see it, and I'll keep looking until I find it.
Don't be so disappointed with me, Clark. I'm the same Bruce I ever was--surely by now you know me well enough to know I'm never going to change?
Bruce paced back and forth across the library floor, looking down at the phone in his hand. At his fiftieth turn, he flipped open the phone and punched out a number from memory, listening to the voice on the other end ("--number you have dialled cannot be reached at this time--") and grimacing. He glanced at the clock: eight o'clock. His fingers hesitated over the keypad for a moment, then tapped out a different number.
"Hello, is this Ms Lois Lane? I'm a friend of Clark Kent's, and I was wondering if he was working late with you right now?" He paused and listened, and his face wrinkled with chagrin, although his voice remained light and friendly, "Yes, this is he. You have a good memory for voices, Ms Lane." The voice on the other end spoke again, and the chagrin disappeared, replaced by a blank intensity. "Are you certain? Well, thank you, Ms. Lane, and I'm sorry to bother you."
"Any news?" Alfred appeared in the doorway as Bruce sat down at the computer.
"She says that Clark was at work for a few hours in the morning, but he left early because he wanted to make sure to catch the eleven-fifty to Gotham." Bruce's fingers danced across the keyboard, a pounding rattle. "I know he's not mad at me, so something went wrong along the way."
Alfred placed a sandwich on the desk with a hopeful but not optimistic air. Bruce hadn't touched a bite all day. "Don't take this the wrong way, sir, but how can you be so sure he's not angry at you?"
"I just know," Bruce stated with a final flourish of keys. "There we go."
On the screen, a window opened up, showing grainy video footage of people hurrying by, many pulling suitcases behind them. "Good heavens," said Alfred, peering over Bruce's shoulder. "Are those security cameras?"
"Gotham Central Station's records," Bruce said, shifting the video rapidly to the right time.
"I'm not sure this is technically legal," Alfred pointed out, but before he could say anything more Bruce went rigid in his chair, his eyes narrowing.
"Neither is kidnapping," Bruce growled in a voice that made Alfred glance anxiously at him. Frozen on the screen was Clark Kent, being escorted into a long black limo by two large men. "Mannheim," he grated.
The computer screen became a blur of opening and closing windows as Bruce hunched over the keyboard. "He's not at either of his Gotham penthouses. Or his two 'secret' safehouses. That means he has another one somewhere. Can't be far, he wouldn't risk a long car trip." He didn't even register the look Alfred gave him, torn between admiring and appalled.
"Shouldn't you call the police?"
Bruce shook his head, relaxing his shoulders with some effort. "He hasn't been missing for twenty-four hours yet. And I don't want to worry his mother if I can--" he glanced at Alfred, "--well, get things sorted out without having to tell her." He stood up. "I'll make some calls, see what information I can get. Then we'll act on it in the morning."
Alfred looked dubious, but nodded. "You...won't do anything rash, Master Bruce?"
Bruce was able to give him a genuine smile. "I won't do anything without considering it very carefully, Alfred. I promise."
He waited until the still-suspicious Alfred left the room, then threw open the trunk on the floor. In a few minutes he cast a critical eye on his reflection in the mirror: ninja-dark clothes, a mask covering his nose and mouth, black gloves. He checked the belt, pulling out and examining an assortment of shuriken, then fastened it around his waist. The carved ebony box he hesitated over, touching the lid lightly, then put away.
He hadn't been lying to Alfred, he reflected as he walked his motorcycle silently down the drive. He wasn't doing anything he hadn't been considering for years. And he was going to make some calls and get some information.
They'd just be made in person.
: : :
Mannheim had two safehouses in Gotham that Bruce knew about, one in the East End and one out near Cape Carmine. The East End safehouse was an abandoned textile factory in a crumbling brick building. Poised on the roof outside a skylight, Bruce felt a rush of adrenaline as he saw the guard standing below him. He breathed deeply and evenly, trying to temper the surge of anticipation: at last, at last, I'm going to strike a blow for Gotham, for my parents, for everything good and true in this city. For everything I love.
As he dropped through the skylight toward the guard, he thought a name like a talisman.
The gun skittered across the catwalk with one kick, and a sharp jab to the stomach doubled the guard over, wheezing. Bruce grabbed him from behind, bending him backwards. "Where's Mannheim?" he said, keeping his voice low.
The man choked something unintelligible and writhed in Bruce's grip. Bruce slammed him against the handrail. "I said, where's Mannheim?"
There were running steps below the catwalk. "There's some guy up there! He's got Jerry!" a voice yelled, and there was a ping of a bullet against the rail.
Out of time. Bruce readied a grapple, shook the hapless Jerry one more time. "Talk," he growled, with a push that threatened to send him over the railing.
He saw the whites of Jerry's eyes flash in the dim lighting as the man twisted in his grip. Then there was a sharp blow to his left shoulder. Jerry scrambled away, the bare knife glinting in his hand, as bullets buzzed around them, yelling "Stop shooting, you morons!"
Bruce shot the grapple, let it carry him upward to the roof. He looked down to see a scattering of red drops falling from his dangling left arm, spattering the catwalk as he was jolted toward the skylight. He crawled onto the roof, leaping out into the shadows before the guards could make it up the stairs, the pain in his left shoulder starting to blaze toward bitter agony.
Failure.
: : :
There was a ticking sound, a low, steady metronome in the silence of the library. Not from the grandfather clock, standing stopped in a corner. Bruce sat in his father's leather chair and listened to his blood drip to the ground, trickling down his arm, gathering then falling from his dangling fingers drop by drop.
The moonlight through the open window fell across a bust of Shakespeare, which seemed to stare at him disapprovingly. You were silent, you were swift, but they feared Mannheim more than you. You have failed.
His head swam, a wave of dizziness making the room waver at the edges. Blood loss. Next to the chair he saw the tiny golden bell, unrung for so many decades. He could call Alfred to him, stop the bleeding. But why? His dream was over, failed as soon as it began. Clark was in danger and he hadn't helped, Gotham was in danger and he was bleeding, maybe dying, impotent and useless.
The guard had called him "some guy." Some guy. Some guy was never going to be a force to stop chaos in Gotham. The city needed more than that. Gotham ran on fear. The citizens were afraid of the thugs. The thugs were afraid of their bosses. And the bosses were afraid of no one.
The room whirled again and Bruce blinked hard. There was a high whine in his ears, and a thought at the edges of his half-delirious mind that he groped for. Fear. They hadn't been afraid of him.
He had to be more.
More than human.
More than fearless.
To be more.
He had to be fear.
A darkness at the window, silent wings. A shape wheeled through the moonlight, casting mad shadows around the room, and through the pain Bruce felt the old terror grip him, freezing his muscles. The shadow landed on the bust of Shakespeare, folding leathery wings around its body and gazing at Bruce.
Bruce met the bat's inhuman and merciless eyes, and he saw the answers he needed there.
The handle of the bell was smooth and warm in his hand. Its golden chime drowned out the inexorable beat of his dripping blood, drowned out his doubts.
I shall become a bat.
( Chapter 39)