Chapter 12
Clark wakes several times during the night. Never more than a few minutes and each time with increasing levels of confusion. He thrashes weakly, limbs getting tangled in his blanket, and calls out for his mother. Steve soothes him as best he can, smoothing down his hair and whispering comforting things until Clark drifts back to sleep.
He’s getting worse, not better. He can barely lift his head up and each time he looks at Steve it’s with a little less recognition. Steve’s not a doctor and this goes beyond the field first aid he does know. If he were home this is about the time he’d be relying on Bruce and Tony to put their giant brains together and come up with a cure. But Steve doesn’t have a Tony or a Bruce; he has a Jimmy and a Lois and a Perry…and possibly a batman.
Clark groans.
“Ma?” Clark tries to sit up, “I..I think there was somethin’ wrong with your soup.”
Clark flops back on the couch, mumbling, “Don’t feel good.”
“It’s ok Clark, you just need more sleep.” Steve says gently. He puts a hand on Clark’s head, still cold despite the sweat beginning to dampen his hair. Steve untangles one of the blankets and smoothes it back out over Clark’s chest. Clark watches him with confused and fearful eyes. Steve rubs small circles on Clark’s chest the same way his mother used to do for him when he was ill. She used to say it helped to open of the lungs. Steve isn’t sure if that’s true, but it always felt nice and helped him sleep when the coughing jarred him awake. Clark’s eyes close and his breathing evens out into a wheeze.
Steve stands up. He doesn’t know if Bruce Wayne and Batman are one in the same. He had mostly been looking into Batman’s identity on a lark, a bit of mischievousness that he never actually planned on using. Now, however, with Clark steadily declining, he prays that he was right, because he is going to need Batman’s help.
The sun is just beginning to pinken the sky as Steve steps outside and locks Clark’s door behind him. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving Clark alone in this state, but there’s nobody he can trust to watch him like this. It’s times like this that Steve misses the benefit of having a team. Being a superhero should never be a solo gig.
Steve catches the first train into Gotham. He goes over everything he knows about Bruce Wayne and Batman in his head again, looking for any hint that he might be wrong, but the more he reviews the data, the more convinced he becomes that he’s right. The train pulls into Gotham station and from there Steve hails a cab and requests it take him straight to Wayne Manor.
The cab driver takes in his costume that he forgot to change out of and his shield.
“Mr. Wayne having a costume party?”
Steve gets in, “Yeah. Can you get me there fast?”
“Mr. Wayne lives pretty far out of the city. I don’t usually go out that way.”
“You’ll get paid well.” Steve promises. He has only a few paychecks saved up in his bank account, but he’ll spend all of it if it gets him to Batman.
“Right away Sir.”
Now, on the last leg of his journey Steve starts putting together what he’s going to say to Wayne when he sees him. He doubts Wayne will be thrilled at him showing up on his doorstep, but he also doubts that the man would be cruel enough to turn him away when Clark’s life is at stake.
The taxi pulls up to the mansion. It’s large and stately, as rich and opulent as Stark Tower, but different. Stark Tower had an aura of “new” about it. All the latest gadgets and gizmos and Tony was always updating and renovating it. Wayne Manor is grand in an old fashioned way. The place just screams “old money” dating back several generations. Howard had made his fortune inventing during the war. Steve doubts the Wayne family can trace their family history back far enough to a time when they were poor.
Old money, new money; it hardly matters to Steve though. He knocks on the door. An old man in a suit answers it. If he’s flustered by Steve’s attire, he hardly shows it.
“May I help you?” He asks in a lilting British accent. He must be the butler. There’s a distinct Jarvis like way about him.
“I’m looking for Bruce Wayne.”
The butler looks him up and down, “I’m sorry, the master is rather busy at the moment and has no time for…solicitors.”
“I’m not—” The Butler starts to close the door, Steve catches it. “This is about Superman. He’s hurt and I need Batman.”
The butler freezes, his hand still on the door.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The butler says, “Now I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Please. Clark will die if he can’t help me.”
“Let him in Alfred.” A voice says from inside. It’s deep and familiar and Steve knows as soon as he hears it that his hunch was correct.
Alfred looks like he wants to argue, but good breeding prevents him and he steps to the side. His eyes follow Steve suspiciously, like he expects Steve to try to steal the good silver when his back is turned.
“Mr. Wayne. Thank y—”
“What happened to Clark?”
Straight to business. Good.
“We were investigating a Nazi that had started to make kryptonite weapons. Clark got hit with some sort of kryptonite gas bomb.”
Bruce Wayne gives Steve a hard stare, like he doesn’t full believe him.
“Why did you come here looking for Batman?”
“Because I had a hunch that you and him were the same person.” Steve says, he watches Bruce’s face closely, but he gives nothing away. Instead he laughs, adopting a smile that Steve has seen Tony give to the press numerous times over the years when uncomfortable questions start.
“And what possibly gave you that idea?” His voice holds amused contempt, but there’s an undercurrent of something far more dangerous.
“Because you remind me of an old friend, and once I saw the similarities between you and him, it was obvious that you were Batman.”
“What old friend?” Bruce asks, amusement gone.
“You wouldn’t know him, he’s gone.” Steve says with a sad smile. Bruce doesn’t seem appeased and he opens his mouth for another round of questioning, but Steve cuts him off.
“Please, he’s getting worse. Either help me or not, but either way I need to get back to him.” Steve says.
“Funny that you know both Clark and I, but I can’t find a thing on you. Absolutely nothing until you dropped into the spotlight a few weeks ago. Now in only a month, you know more about me or Clark than virtually anybody else. And given the logo on your suit, I can only assume you’re working for the government.” Bruce says coldly.
Steve stares at him. Was he serious? Clark is dying and he’s worried about secrets. Steve rips off his cowl.
“My name is Steve Rogers and how I got here is a very long and complicated story, but I promise to tell you if you save Clark.”
Bruce stares at him for a long time.
“You do political cartoons for the Daily Planet. You work with Clark.” He finally says.
“Yes,” Steve says impatiently, “Clark is a friend, now can you help him or not?”
“Follow me,” Bruce says.
Bruce walks off without another word and Steve suspects he’s the sort that doesn’t ask twice. They head towards the back of the manor, passing through one stately room after another. As they pass through the parlor Steve sees a giant portrait of a young boy and his parents. The boy, a young Bruce Wayne, is smiling.
In a closet off of the kitchen there’s paneled wall. With a push of a hidden button the wall slides away. Bruce says nothing but starts down the stairs. Steve follows. One flight of steps, and then another, and another. Steve is just beginning to wonder if this is a trick and he’ll end up outside on the edge of the property when the last flight of stairs gives way to a cave.
The cave is as state of the art as any of Tony’s labs and Steve marvels at the skill it took to build a lab inside of a cave. He looks up. Bats sleep, nestled together, along the ceiling. Real bats.
“You made a batcave?” Steve asks. Bruce ignores his question.
“Tell me everything you can about the kryptonite gas and Clark’s symptoms.” He says.
“The gas came out of a mustard gas container and at first the symptoms seemed to mimic that of mustard gas. He was coughing, displayed difficulties breathing, and had inflamed eyes. I removed him from the gas as fast as possible and took him home. I was hoping that once he was away from the kryptonite he would improve, but he’s only gotten worse,” Steve says, “I think the kryptonite particles may have entered his bloodstream. He’s confused, has muscle weakness, and is cold.”
As Steve speaks Bruce begins typing on a giant computer.
“I’ve known kryptonite was a weakness of his for a while. And so have most of his enemies. I’ve been trying to find ways to neutralize it for a while.” Bruce says.
“And have you?”
“The best I can figure is that he gets his strength from sunlight. The more powerful the rays, the more super the man. Enough sunlight should stimulate his immune system enough to destroy the kryptonite in his blood.”
“So we just need to ship him to Hawaii? We don’t have time for that.” Steve says.
“No, we don’t…and normal sunlight wouldn’t be enough in this case anyway.”
“I hope there was a “but” in there.” Steve says impatiently.
“It’s never been tested, but I do have something.” Bruce stands up looking over his calculations, “I just hope it’s strong enough.”
He walks over to a table filled with enough gadgets to make Tony jealous and picks up a short metallic paddle. He pushes a button on the handle and the flat ends flares to life with a blinding white light.
“Let’s go.” Bruce says, “We’ll take the jet.”
The jet is sleek and black with the bat symbol stamped on the side. Someday, Steve will have to ask him about the bat motif. Inside has all the bells and whistles Steve would expect from a private jet owned by a billionaire genius superhero. Though he does miss the soothing voice of Jarvis.
Bruce takes command of piloting the plane while Steve sits copilot and tries not to touch anything. Instead he watches from the corner of his eye the stiff way Bruce is clenching his jaw. He wonders how much of that stress is worry for Clark and how much is him secretly seething that Steve figured out his secret identity.
“So, talk.” Bruce says.
“About what?”
Bruce takes his eyes off the window to shoot Steve an unamused look.
“Who are you, where did you come from, and how did you learn to fight like you do?”
“Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, and the US army.” Steve says.
“Shields aren’t standard issued weapons.” Bruce says.
Steve shrugs leaning back in his seat, “I wasn’t a standard soldier.”
“You’re being evasive. I want real answers.” Bruce says impatiently, his grip tightening on the controls.
“I know.” Steve says, “and you’ll get them, but Clark deserves answers too and it will be easier to wait so I can tell you both at the same time.”
Bruce hardly looks mollified but he lets the matter drop. In less than half the time the train would take Steve sees the skyline of Metropolis appear over the horizon. Even after only a short time of living in Metropolis, the familiar landscape gives Steve feelings of comfort, like he’s coming home.
Bruce bypasses the main airport and sets her down instead on a small private airport just outside of the city. A car is already waiting for them.
“Get in,” Bruce says gruffly before turning to give the driver Clark’s address. Less than twenty minutes later they pull up to Clark’s apartment. Steve approaches the door, worried about the condition Clark is in on the other side.