Chapter 9
Sunlight streams through Clark’s curtained windows. He breathes a light sigh as the warmth sinks into his skin, brushing away any aches or pains. There’s movement in the kitchen, the soft padding of footsteps of someone trying to be quiet. Clark listens as Dick riffles through his fridge for breakfast. He shifts guiltily. If he had known he’d be having a house guest he’d have more food in the apartment for him. Perhaps he should run to the grocery store and pick a few things up. Bruce wouldn’t be pleased if he knew that Clark was feeding his ward substandard meals.
His thoughts are cut off by Dick entering the room. In his hands is a plastic serving tray. Atop sits cereal, toast, and a glass of orange juice. He holds it out to Clark.
“It’s for you,” he says in response to Clark’s questioning look. It’s endearing how earnest Dick looks with his oversized sweatshirt and tray of breakfast.
“You didn’t have to, but thank you.” Clark says taking the tray. Dick sits down on the couch next to him, his eyes roaming over Clark’s too pale skin and the bandages peeking out from under his shirt.
“I’m going to be fine.” Clark says, “It just might take a day or two.”
Dick nods, not meeting Clark’s eyes. Clark sets his bowl of cereal down and grips Dick’s shoulder.
“I promise, this isn’t going to stop me from finding Bruce.”
Dick’s eyes snap up, “I know that!”
Dick shrugs, “I guess…I just never realized Superman could be hurt so bad. I’m sorry this is my fault. You were only there investigating because I asked for your help and—”
“Hey,” Clark says cutting him off firmly, “Bruce is my teammate and my friend. I want to find him. None of this is your fault, do you understand?”
Dick gives him a long searching look as if trying to find a hint of a lie in Clark’s words. Clark stares back steadily. Dick gives a small nod.
“Good,” Clark says simply before digging back into his hard earned breakfast.
Meanwhile and several miles away Steve and Bucky sit at their kitchen table as they go over last night’s mission. Bucky is scowling, and dark bags under his eyes tell of a sleep interrupted by nightmares. Steve feels only slightly better than Bucky looks. He pours them both large cups of coffee that is more like coffee ground sludge than anything resembling real coffee. Caffeine won’t work on them, but the taste reminds them both of the war and long stake outs with the Howling Commandoes. It’s comforting in its own way.
Steve looks over the list of addresses, rubbing his head.
“The building on Conway Ave is a possibility, but it’s rather close to the buildings surrounding it. His warehouse by the docks is private enough though.” Steve says thoughtfully. Bucky doesn’t respond. He’s hardly spoken more than a few words all morning and there’s a painfully familiar haunted look in his eyes. Steve sets down his list.
“What triggered it; Clark getting shot or the dead dogs?” Steve asks gently. Bucky grunts, a dark shadow passing over his face. Steve is patient, he doesn’t mind waiting for Bucky to find the words. Finally Bucky speaks. It’s so soft, Steve almost misses it.
“Both.”
Steve doesn’t press for details, but offers what comfort he can.
“Clark is going to be fine. Let him get some sunshine and in a few days it will be like he was never shot.”
Bucky gives him a weak smile and it breaks Steve’s heart to see how frail it looks, like the faintest hint of bad news will shatter him.
“I know,” Bucky says softly, “but there was so much blood…If he were a human he’d be dead.”
Slowly, telegraphing his movements, Steve reaches out. He lets his fingers encircle Bucky’s wrist, lets himself feel the pulse thrumming just below the skin.
“I know, but Clark can handle it. That’s why he does what he does.”
Bucky’s smile becomes a little more genuine, his eyes soft.
“And that’s why Captain America does what he does too?”
“Nah,” Steve says with a grin, “You know me, I’m just a Brooklyn boy too dumb to run away from a fight. Clark’s the noble one here.”
Steve leans back in his chair, satisfied, as Bucky lets out a snort. He picks up his list to read through potential places where Bruce could be stashed away as Bucky stares out the window. His smile slips away.
“Remember that dog that I wanted Clark to take?” Bucky asks. Steve looks at him from over the paper.
“Yeah?”
“He got adopted,” Bucky says.
“That’s great. I know you wanted Clark to have him, but as long as he’s going to a good home, that’s the important part.” Steve says smiling. Bucky doesn’t smile back. Privately, Steve wonders if he should start looking for a dog friendly apartment.
“What if he wasn’t…those dead dogs were probably taken from a shelter.” Bucky says, “They probably thought they were going to a good home too.”
“Buck…” Steve trails off, unsure of what to say.
“Forget about it.” Bucky mutters standing up. I’m going to the shelter.”
Steve watches him go, knowing that he won’t see him for the rest of the day.
That night when Bucky still isn’t back and with Clark still recovering, Steve heads out alone. He roughly silences the voice in his head calling him a hypocrite for going in without backup. With Bruce’s life on the line they don’t have time to wait. Besides, Bucky needs a break. Seeing Clark shot and the mutilated dogs triggered some of the worst flashbacks Bucky has had since coming to Metropolis. Steve had spent the night listening to Bucky shouting and begging from the endless stream of nightmares.
Steve checks the building on Conway first though he doesn’t have high hopes. The building is in a location with far too much foot traffic to successfully keep someone hidden. Still, his training has made him thorough in all his investigations. He finds the building empty with no sign of Bruce or anything useful. He leaves disappointed, but unsurprised.
Next, he heads down to the warehouse by the docks next. This location he’s much more optimistic about. The docks are a lonely place, far away from the hustle and bustle of downtown. Rundown warehouses and bars catering to shipmen line the empty streets. What little crime exists in Metropolis, that isn’t perpetrated by supervillains, happens primarily here.
Steve drops down from the rooftops to skulk through dirty alleyways. Despite their seedy reputation and even seedier aesthetics, Steve doesn’t mind the docks. They remind him of his Brooklyn, when every place had a thin layer of grime on it and crime was never far away.
A dim light shines through the dirty windows of the warehouse. Steve, who knows far more about being stealthy than any of his friends give him credit for, creeps inside. The war taught him how to slip silently between the shadows, unseen by enemy combatants. Steve uses that training now to find a shadowed corner where he can watch a group of men stacking dozens of crates against the wall. Curious, but not what he came for. Steve scans the room for Bruce, but comes up empty. Nothing, but endless crates and shipping containers. Disappointing, but that doesn’t mean tonight has to be completely wasted.
Steve holds his position until the men finish their work and head out for the night. He listens as their truck pulls away. Stepping further into the room Steve heads towards the crates first and using his shield as leverage on the lid, cracks one open. Inside are dozens of cases, each one carrying ten vials with a bluish milky substance inside. Tucked inside the cases are documents filled with graphs, citations and words like “increased metabolism” and “enhanced physiological capabilities.” Steve frowns. There are very few people Steve trusts with any version of the super soldier serum, and Luthor is not one of them. He slips a few vials into his pocket. Perhaps Tony, or if they find him soon Bruce, will be able to run a scan on it.
In the name of thoroughness Steve cracks open a few more crates. Most are filled with the same knock-off super soldier serum as the first one, when he opens the last one he sees something different. Kryptonite. Big slabs of it, tiny pebbles, and everything in between fill the crate. Steve breathes a sigh of relief that Clark isn’t here.
As he closes the lid he hears the sound of the truck returning. Steve curses, no time to hide. He has just enough time to raise his shield as the two men who he had watched unloading the crates walk through the door.
There’s a second where the two parties look at each other, frozen in time. Then the man on the left moves, his hand twitches towards his belt, where a gun is clearly visible. Steve snaps into action. He throws his shield and runs forward. The shield knocks his hand away from the gun and Steve follows it up with a solid punch to the jaw.
Behind him he hears the click of a gun’s safety going off.
“Move and I shoot.” The man shouts. Like the guards from the other night, he too seems to be military trained. Steve raises his hands and turns around slowly. The man grins. So does Steve.
Steve drops to the ground and kicks his legs out, sweeping the man off his feet. The gun goes off, the shot wild. Steve scoops up his shield and spins. It’s just in time to block a round of shots from the first man who has retrieved his gun. Steve plows into him, using his shield as a battering ram and knocks him to the ground.
He hits the man in the temple with his shield and his opponent goes still, knocked out cold. Steve turns back to the other man who is scrambling for his gun. Steve gets there first, kicking the gun out of reach and picking him up by his shirt.
“Where is Bruce Wayne?” He snarls. A glob of spit hits Steve in the face and the man smirks. Steve slams the man into the wall and watches with great pleasure as the smirk slides off his face.
“Don’t test me,” Steve warns while the man scowls at him. “Where is Bruce Wayne?”
The man doesn’t answer. Shrugging Steve pulls him away from the wall and drags his outside. He ignores the way the man struggles ineffectively in his grasp. Down the street they go like a parent and an oversized misbehaving child, until they hit the pier. As if sensing that things are about to get worse for him the man struggles harder.
“Keep trying son.” Steve says, as the first traces of fear flood the man’s face. The fear intensifies as Steve swings him out over the water and dangles him there.
“Now, let’s try this again, where is Bruce Wayne?”
“You wouldn’t drop me!” The man says, though the way he clings to Steve’s arm belies his doubt, “you hero types don’t do that kind of thing.”
Steve flashes him a grin he learned from Natasha.
“I’m not Superman,” Steve reminds him and loosens his grip just enough that the man slips a few inches. He yelps and scrabbles uselessly at Steve’s arm.
“Do you really want to take that bet?” Steve asks.
“I can’t swim!”
“Then I hope you can talk.”
The man stares at Steve and Steve stares back coldly. The man might not be a Nazi, but he’s a cruel man who willingly serves an even crueler one. That’s hardly an upgrade in Steve’s opinion. He lets the man slip another inch.
“I don’t know where he’s keeping him!” The man shouts.
“That’s unfortunate for you.” Steve says not moving him from over the water.
“But I know he’s alive!” The man says, his legs kick desperately over the churning water. Steve doesn’t let the relief coursing through him show on his face.
Anything else you can tell me?” Steve asks.
“The billionaire is tougher than anyone gives his credit for and the bossman ain’t happy about it.”
“Explain.”
The man falls silent a look of fear passing over his face. Steve gives him a shake as a wave crashes into the pier, spraying icy water against his dangling legs.
“Torture.” The words slip out, nearly lost to roar of the ocean beneath them. Torture is not unexpected, but it still feels like a punch in the gut to hear it spoken aloud.
“What does Luthor want from him?”
“I don’t know.” Steve can see from the wild eyes, filled with unbridled panic that he’s telling the truth. He switches gears.
“How bad is he?” Steve asks.
“I haven’t seen him for myself, but…”
“But?”
“From the rumors, he’s snapped, gone around the bend. There might not be much of him left by the time Luthor is done with him.”
Cold fury washes over Steve, covering up the sick feeling of fear in his stomach. He’s rescued men from prison camps like that. Men whose bodies healed, but their minds never did. It was heart wrenching to look into their eyes and see only blank fear looking back. No matter how much you reassured them they were safe, the unsettling blankness never left. It’s like their soul died and their body is just waiting to join it. It’s a fate Steve wouldn’t wish on anyone, much less a friend. He doesn’t even want to think about how this will effect Dick.
His hand twitches, longing to drop the man into the churning sea for his role in this whole affair. The man whimpers as if reading Steve’s thoughts from the scowl on his face. Steve lets him hang there for a second longer, letting the fear really sink in, before he roughly hauls the man back onto the pier. The man goes limp as soon as his feet touch solid ground and doesn’t struggle as Steve drags him back to the warehouse.
The other man is still out cold laying right where Steve left him. He grabs him as he passes and isn’t gentle as he ties both men to a support pole. Steve drops an anonymous tip to the police from a nearby phone booth, hanging up when the operator asks for a name.
With dawn approaching, Steve heads towards home, bitterly disappointed that Bruce will spend yet another day in the hands of Luthor’s monsters. He tries to cling to the silver lining that at least tonight brought confirmation that Bruce is still alive, but it’s a shallow victory and anger and worry still course through him with every step. He dreads telling the others about Bruce’s possible state. Squaring his shoulders he reminds himself that as long as Bruce is alive there’s still hope. And if they are too late, if they can’t save his life or his mind, then they will certainly avenge him.