Chapter 11
Clark is outside the museum at the back door when Steve shows up.
“What are you doing here?” Clark asks.
“Same thing I assume you are.” Steve shrugs. He looks past Clark at the door that Clark was about to rip off its hinges. The lock doesn’t look that complicated.
“But how did you know to come here?”
“You have your sources and I have mine.” Steve says. No need to tell him that they are the same sources. He squeezes past Clark to take a better look at the lock. One afternoon, in between disasters Clint and Natasha had taken it upon themselves to teach Captain America how to “be a spy.” Mostly it was an afternoon of stealthily summersaulting around Stark Tower, trying to avoid Jarvis, as if that was even possible. One lesson, however, was lock picking. Natasha had even gifted him with one of her spare lock picks. Since then Steve has had little reason to utilize his new skills, but he’s always carried around that lock pick. Mostly out of sentimentality, but also partly out of pragmatism. One never knows when he may encounter a door he can’t smash down with his shield.
He takes out the lock pick and gets to work. Clark watches him.
“Where did you learn to pick a lock?”
“A Russian spy taught me,” Steve says, listening carefully for the click of the lock.
“A Russian?” Clark asks. Steve gives a half nod just as the last tumbler falls into place. He opens the door.
“So you dress like the flag, fight Nazis, and work with Russian spies?” Clark asks following Steve inside.
“It’s not that ridiculous.” Steve says, “The Russians were our allies during the war after all.”
They’ve entered a backroom lined with shelves upon shelves of museum pieces waiting to be displayed. Most of it, Steve notes, Nazi oriented. He peeks in a box and finds Iron Crosses and other medals Steve hasn’t seen since the war. He shoves the box back on the shelf.
Clark is looking around very intense, almost like he’s not seeing the room but beyond it. He walks slowly up and down each aisle, Steve at his heels. Clark stops.
“Behind that wall.” He says pointing, “There’s a tiny room.”
Steve runs his fingers along the wall, looking for any type of switch or lever to open the secret door. He finds nothing.
“Maybe it’s not the wall but something else.” Clark says. He begins looking through the shelves. Steve turns to join him, but something stops him. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a very familiar face. Adolf Hitler stares balefully at him from his slightly crooked portrait. Odd that the portrait would be crooked when clearly owned by a supporter. Steve sighs. He tugs the portrait into the correct position. A portion of the wall clicks and swings open.
“Good work.” Clark says, “Did your spy friend teach you that too?”
“No, I just know how these guys think.” Steve says.
Inside the secret room is mostly bare, just a small table with some tools scattered on top. Among them is a gun, a browning, partially disassembled. Steve picks through the pieces, grateful that there doesn’t seem to be any kryptonite among the mess.
“Who knows how many guns he’s modified and gave out already.” Clark says.
“He must have kept some sort of record,” Steve says looking around, but finding nothing.
“We’ll just have to ask him as soon as we track him down. But until then, there’s no use for this.” Clark picks up the gun and crushes it, dropping it back on the table.
“What are you doing?”
Clark and Steve both jump, spinning around. Greks stands in the doorway and Steve curses. He’s knows better than to let his guard down.
“It’s over Greks.” Clark says.
“Yes it is.” Greks agrees. He’s wearing a large coat with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Raise your hands, slowly” Steve says. He raises his shield, prepared to jump in front of Clark in the case of more Kryptonite bullets. Greks smiles. His hands slide out his pockets. He’s clutching a canister, one Steve is all too familiar with. Mustard Gas. He breathes a small sigh of relief. Mustard Gas won’t necessarily be pleasant, but he knows from experience that the serum will fix whatever damage it causes.
“Carrying that in here, you’re only putting yourself at risk,” Steve says, “and trust me, Mustard Gas is nothing to play around with.”
“Oh don’t worry Captain,” Greks says, “The gas is modified. It’s quite harmless now. To humans.”
He pulls the pin. The familiar sulfuric smell of mustard gas wafts through the room, along with an emerald green cloud. Clark begins coughing.
“Did you make kryptonite gas?”
Clark collapses to his knees, coughing and spitting. Greks watches him with a too smug smirk on his face. Steve doesn’t waste any time. Greks is a middle aged museum owner who wants to glorify the Nazis but wouldn’t survive a day in their army and Steve is a super soldier. He’s across the room before Greks has realized that he moved. No time for quips or speeches. Steve punches once and Greks collapses, unconscious. Steve takes a few seconds to tie him to his work table and then rushes back to Clark’s side.
Clark is gasping as he coughs, trying to stand but falling back panting with every attempt. Steve has seen this kind of reaction before. He grabs Clark’s arms and hauls him over his shoulder. He’s hoping a little fresh air is all it will take to get Clark breathing properly.
Steve carries Clark outside and sets him down against museum on pavement. Clark leans over, still coughing, and spits.
“My eyes are burning,” he gasps and in the light of the dingy street lamps Steve can see how red they are. Steve stands up and grabs Clark. He can’t take him back to Jimmy’s apartment, there will be questions and he doubts a hospital will be able to treat this. Making up his mind, Steve picks up Clark and starts running.
“Just hang in their pal,” Steve says, “we’ll have you home and fixed up in no time.”
Clark’s apartment is cozy in a cluttered sort of way. Notes for his next article are piled on his table. Steve sets him down on his worn out couch, grabs a bowl and a wet towel.
“We need to wash out your eyes.” Steve says. Clark mumbles something that Steve takes as a yes. Steve keeps talking, if only to block out Clark’s labored breathing.
“Hopefully water will be enough, if not we’ll try something else. During the war the best way to wash off mustard gas was kerosene. Doubt you have any of that lying around though. Nobody does anymore. Gasoline works in a pinch though.”
Clark doesn’t respond. His redlined eyes flicker around the room, pained and not really seeing it. Steve wonders if kryptonians can go into shock. He checks Clark’s heartbeat and finds it racing by human standards. After this is over Steve is going to have to have a serious talk to Clark about Kryptonian physiology.
Clark is beginning to shiver so Steve tosses a blanket over him and goes back to cleaning his eyes until they’re no longer red with inflammation. Gently Steve sits him up and wraps a second blanket around his shoulders.
“I’ll be right back.” Steve says. Clark tries to respond but only lets out a hacking cough that wracks his whole body. Steve heads through the kitchen and starts shuffling through the cabinets for cups. He can still hear Clarks breathing, interspaced with coughs and gasps, from the other room. Steve closes his eyes and for a moment he’s back on the frontlines and men are choking out their last breaths and it’s impossible to save all of them.
His father died from mustard gas. Not immediately. He suffered through years of wheezing and deep painful coughing fits, according to his mother. Steve really hopes that Clark’s kryptonian body will afford him a happier fate.
Steve finds a glass and fills it with water. He goes back and finds Clark curled up on the couch leaning against the armrest with his eyes closed. He opens them at Steve’s approach.
“Drink some water. It will help.” Steve says placing the glass in Clark’s hands. He runs a hand over Clark’s forehead. He’s cold and clammy.
Clark sips on as he looks around.
“This is m—Clark’s apartment.” He says, his voice no more than a scratchy whisper. There’s a flash of fear in his eyes that he’s not strong enough to hide. Steve has never been afraid of his identity being known. He was a soldier first, a superhero second, and during the war his identity didn’t really matter; Nazis were going to shooting at him either way. The rest of the Avengers were equally as public. Steve can’t even imagine Thor successfully hiding the fact that he was Thor from anybody.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand Clark’s fear though. He’s seen what can happen to people who are different. If things with the government were to suddenly sour, the ability for Superman to slip back into his role as mild mannered Clark Kent is irreplaceable.
“Clark it’s ok. You’re secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you.” Clark says. He finishes the water, his eyes beginning to droop.
“Get some sleep,” Steve says, helping Clark lie down. Even with the two blankets over him, Clark is trembling enough to shake the couch. Steve finds two more blankets in the hall closet.
“Never got cold before,” Clark mumbles apologetically.
“First time for everything,” Steve says kindly. He takes the chair so he can keep an eye on Clark all night. Despite his pained breathing, Clark drifts quickly into unconsciousness and Steve settles in for a long night.