Gotham Noir, Chapter 8

[icarus_chained]

I know, I know, this is as late as can be. But if anyone is still interested?

Gotham Noir: The Man With The Lonely Eyes
Chapter 8:  Old Wounds
Rating:  PG-13
Chapter summary:  Bullock tries to shake down J'onn, and Clark realises a few things. Not least of which that he should have asked Lois' help from the start ;)
Wordcount:  4073

Chapter 8: Old Wounds

We froze, Lois and I, not daring to try and move farther back, for fear the noise would carry through the silence outside. And it was silent, hard and heavy, the kind of silence opponents dare each other to be the first to break. Completely silent, except for the heavy fall of feet, as someone swaggered inside, up to the bar, the measured thumps as their backup filed in around the door, and then a thunk, as if whoever it was had set something heavy on the bar.

Like a gun, maybe.

"Howdee, boys," the newcomer sneered, voice cheerful and humming with suppressed violence, and beside me Lois winced. I couldn't blame her. Under the circumstances, Bullock was probably the last copper in Gotham I wanted to have to deal with. So, naturally, it had to be him.

"Detective Bullock," John answered, calm and courteous, his soft voice carrying clear through the wall, and somehow, you felt calmer for hearing it. "How may I help you?"

There was a creak, and the groan of a heavy man setting himself down, and I thought Bullock must have taken a vacant barstool. Possibly even the one I had just left, and wasn't that a funny thought? I stifled a snort, realising I was still hovering close to hysteria, despite it all. Lois tightened her hand around my arm, her narrow little nails digging in pointedly, and I squeezed her arm gently back in return. I got the message.

"Oh, nuthin'," Bullock wheezed, something ugly in his voice. "Just lookin' for someone. A murderer. Thought you might have seen 'im, is all."

"I have seen no murderer," John answered immediately, calm but sharp. "No murderer has ever sat at my bar, officer, I give you my word."

Well, that was pointed, and not just at Bullock. But it's hard to be angry at the stubbornness of a man who is currently protecting your life. Without saying a word of a lie, as far as he saw it.

"Now, see, I rather doubt that," Bullock returned, slow and sweet and full of venom. "Kind of place you run, and all." The silence behind him took on a sharp and very deadly edge, and I could imagine them, all John's regulars, slowly straightening in their seats. And, surprisingly, I felt my own spine stiffen in raw affront.

I couldn't trust John. Not here, not now. Not after it all. But I sure as hell respected him, and where did Bullock get off, implying something like that?

"I'm sure I do not know what you mean," John answered, stiffly. "I have given my word, officer. I don't know what else you want."

"Well, see, it's like this," and there was such vicious triumph in that voice, "I'm callin' you a liar, freak. And what I want, is the truth. Not your 'word', whatever that is, and whatever you think it's worth." There was a scrape, of something metal drawn across wood, the click of a weapon set more firmly in front of its owner. "Clark Kent. I know he's here. Scared his bird into running for 'im, didn't I, leading me right to him. And where did she lead me but here, eh? So rustle him up, or I'm not gonna keep being so friendly."

I swallowed bile, suddenly glad I couldn't see John's face, or those of his regulars. Suddenly glad I wasn't in Bullock's shoes, with the alien strength I had felt in John's arm, or the quiet composure of a dangerous man that he exuded, or the vibrating fury of the woman at my side. I blinked down at her in the dimness behind the door, and there was a world of apology in her eyes as she met mine, a world of hurt regret at being used like that to find me. I smiled at her, and clenched my fist so tight that on any other man it would have drawn blood. In that instant, I was fairly sure I hated Detective Bullock.

When John spoke, all warmth had been leached from his voice, all hint of gentleness. There was something old about it, suddenly, something remote and cold and alien. "I have told you the truth, Detective Bullock. There is nothing more I can offer you. No murderer has entered this bar, and no murderer has left it. That is the truth."

There was a creak, of someone leaning heavily on the bar, and I guessed Bullock was leaning into John's face, trying to intimidate him. I didn't rate his chances much. "I didn't say murderer, this time," he said, low and cold and ugly. "I asked you about Clark Kent." He paused, waiting for his answer, and I stiffened, but John said nothing. The moment stretched on, interminable, and still not a word passed his lips. And when Bullock went on, I could hear the smirk in his voice.

"I know about you, you know," he explained, quiet and up-close. "Heard it, seen it. How you always tell the truth, yeah? How you ain't ... quite normal, and this truth thing is like your way to make up for it. But I got news for you, freak." He stopped, and stood, his voice ringing out. "There ain't no way to make for being what you are. Ain't no way for anyone to make up for what they are. And right now, I couldn't give a toss if you think you're tellin' the truth. I know the boy's here, and I know you know it. I'm giving you five minutes to produce him, or ..."

"Or?" snarled someone in the back, over the scraping of chairs as people got ready to deal with this, with this threat to their bar, to their friend.

And then there was another sound. A scratching sound, followed by a flaring hiss, and it took me a minute to realise what it was, what it meant.

"Well," Bullock ruminated, slowly, as he lit a cigarette. "Like I said, I know about you. Listened to what they say, don't I? Got my ear on the street. And when they talk about you, about this place ... they mention stuff. Like how you ain't allowed smoke in here. Like how the barkeep, he don't like fire so much." He stopped, and I could hear the smile. "Like how very flammable these old places are. Hard to escape, hard to get out of if, God forbid, there should be some kind of blaze. Catch my drift, yeah?" There was a stillness so perfect it felt as if the whole world were holding its breath, not just everyone in the room. "Now. Don't suppose anyone here suddenly remembers seeing the kid? Clark Kent? Ringing any bells?"

I froze, biting my lip, as the world went red in my eyes, and something roared in my ears. I ... am vulnerable to fire, as I am not to many things. I remembered John saying that, and the desperate truth behind it, and the memory in his eyes of how close he had once come to dying by fire ... How dare he! How dare he! I moved, instinctively, automatically, because this couldn't happen, it could not, not to John, of all people, and Lois tightened her grip desperately on my arm, as if to stop me, as if she had a real chance against my strength, and outside fifteen people stood up in raw and ready affront, determined to protect their friend, and I was this close to joining them, to surrendering, and somehow I knew that John knew of my intent, but he could do nothing to stop it, and then ...

A woman's voice, fury so deep it was almost palpable, snapping out across the room, and the furious stride of boots, and a slap that rang like a thunderclap in the stillness. "How dare you," Montoya spat, her voice vicious, and there was a click as she armed her sidearm. "How dare you call yourself a policeman!" I heard her turn on the spot, Bullock stunned breathless behind her, and snap at the other men by the door. "Out! All of you! We're leaving, right now! Get out!"

And after a stunned second, they did. Because man or not, copper or not, even in Gotham, they were smart enough to obey an armed, pissed off woman, inferior rank or not. They filed out, and she turned back to Bullock, the gun still in her hand, though I doubt it was pointed at him. Because the rich disappointment in her voice, instead of fury, said she didn't want to shoot him. "Harvey, what the hell?"

He didn't answer. Maybe he was still stunned. Maybe it was something else, something different. But he didn't answer, and he didn't move, and she didn't hit him again.

"I think," John cut in, almost gently, "that you should leave, Officer Montoya. Detective Bullock. What you want is not here."

"Yeah," she answered, distractedly, and shifted in place. "Come on, Harvey. We're leaving, yeah? I'm sorry, John. Everyone." And he followed her, up the steps and out of the bar, and everyone in it slumped in relief as he left. Before I knew it, relief rushing like a drug to my head, I was in a heap on the floor, my forehead pressed tiredly to the wall, and Lois knelt beside me with her hands rubbing soothing circles on my shoulders, and her head shaking in sad exasperation.

Moments later, and the door to the bar opened beside me, and I looked up to meet John's tired and strained eyes. I opened my mouth, to say something, thank you or I'm sorry, or anything, but he shook his head sadly, and gestured beyond us, towards the stairs. I frowned.

"They are still outside. You will hear them if you go to the window in the second room to the right. Go. Listen." He paused, and then continued, very sadly. "You will understand, a little, if you do." Lois stood, looking at him with that strange, inquisitive expression of hers, and I followed her more slowly, but John seemed too tired to elaborate. All he said, as we turned in resignation to the stairs, was this:

"In this city, even the worst of them is not necessarily what he seems."

I mulled that over as we climbed, struggling to match Lois' rapid pace. She sensed something, some piece of the puzzle, some fragment of a story in the instruction, and she followed as she always did, a hawk stooping towards the kill. I tagged along behind, listening in the silence to the sadness in John's voice, and the layers of meaning in that sentence, in this city, in this case. Even Bullock, even after such a threat. Even ... even Bruce, after that betrayal.

How could anyone hold that kind of faith, offer that kind of forgiveness. How could John extend that, as hurt as he was?

And why couldn't I?

And then we were there, crouched in the loveseat by the window, looking down on their hunched figures, listening to the tired, angry voices that curled like smoke up towards us, and the story that unfolded with them.

"What were you thinking, Harvey!" Montoya ranted, fury and fear in her voice. "Threatening him like that, threatening them like that! You know who they are, what they can do! Even if you haven't the basic humanity not to coerce someone into something, surely you know better than to do it to them! Jesus! I knew you were a bent cop, but this!" And for some reason, there was sadness in her voice, as she said that. And he laughed at it, a rasping, broken chuckle, and I could see his head shaking in the dimness.

"Ain't no man can make up for what he is, eh?" he said, echoing himself, and why was everyone in this city so damned tired? So old, all of them, so bitter and broken and tired. "I am what I am, girl. Always will be." And the contempt had fled from him, so that there was no edge to it, not even to 'girl', and he sounded almost as if he was speaking to someone he respected. Something twisted in her, and she reached out in the darkness to touch his shoulder, hesitant and angry, sad.

"You ain't been that in a long time, Bullock," she said, roughly. "Not under Gordon. Not now, not with us. You ain't that man, Harvey."

He shook his head. "Always, girl. Leopard can't change his spots, after all." And his voice hardened, chilled. "I am what I am, and I'm what Gotham makes me! Ain't never gonna apologise for that!" And then it dropped, saddened and firmed, like an oath, like a promise. "Difference is, now I got someone worth doing it for. Someone actually worth it."

She paused, looking at him. "Gordon?" she asked, slowly, and nodded in time with him. "Is that what this is about? All of this?"

"Straight cops don't last too long around here," he agreed. "Gordon's good. He's damn good, but the city's against him, and he don't even realise. He don't know how bad things are." His voice was dull, now, and old. "Seen it, ain't I? The old Commissioner, he was a bastard. Made the likes of me look like nuthin', penny ante. Arranged a thing or two, had me and others like me arrange a few more. Hated his guts, but he knew the way things worked, knew how to put the pressure on, so I did it. Then he got whacked, and we get Gordon." He turned to her, turned to face her, and the life was vicious in him. "Gordon never asked nuthin' of me, 'cept my job. Never asked nuthin'. Not one 'arrangement', not one little job. And if I've got to do a few of me own on the side, make sure he can keep on not askin' anyone, make sure he can be as straight as he likes ... I'll be as bent as you please, and I'll not apologise for it!"

She was silent, looking at him, and there was something that I thought might be pity, in her shadowed expression, and something that might have been pride, and everything that was loyalty. She agreed with him, down to her bones, even if she mourned the way he was with it, the things he did.

Even if their methods were different, their ends were the same. They'd die for that man, for that tired and intelligent man that had stood with me as they took Selina away, and looked at her with compassion. They would die for him, and I could hardly blame them.

"Why Kent?" she asked, at last. "Unless you know something I don't, there's no proof he had anything to do with the murders." She frowned. "You don't know anything new, right?"

He shrugged easily. "Nah. Alibi won't hold, but that means bugger all. Gordon knows he didn't do it, down to his gut, and Gordon ain't wrong about stuff like that. If Kent did it, I'll be real surprised." She stared at him, and I did too, stunned and angry. All that, everything downstairs, threatening John, using Lois, and he didn't even believe I'd done it? What was wrong with this man?

"Then ..." she said slowly, dangerously, and he shrugged sadly.

"He's the safest suspect," he answered. "Ain't got no-one to stand for him, no-one to make life difficult for us or Gordon. That's what's important." And he turned towards her, urgency slipping into the movement as he cut off her shocked argument. "Because this case, girl ... diamonds and blood, and Wayne everywhere you look ... this is high up, Montoya. This is high class murder, and Gordon's heading right into it. And much as he's done, much as he's managed in this city, I guarantee, guarantee you, Gordon will not survive accusing the likes of Wayne with murder. Not the way things are in this city. And he'll do it. You know he'll fucking do it, and damn the consequences to himself. And I can't, I will not let that happen. Not to him. Not to him." He stopped, staring at her, pleading her to understand, and I had to look away. I could feel my eyes blurring, feel the pain knifing up through me, and I had to look away.

Because he was right, wasn't he? In Gotham, you didn't bite the hand that fed you, or you'd pay the price, and Gordon ... Damn it, Gordon was a good man. I'd known it from the first time I say him. If he suspected Wayne, he would ...

But Bruce wouldn't! He wouldn't. Goddammit, lies, betrayal, duplicity, all that I knew him guilty of ... even Selina, with the pain in his eyes as he fought with her ... maybe even that, I could see, though something deep in my heart still screamed denial, after everything he'd done. But to coldly destroy Gordon, to destroy that honest man the way Bullock implied ... No. It wasn't in him. Not Bruce. Not purely for the crime of being right, of finding the truth. The man who had looked at me with those pained, lonely eyes, who had opened himself up to blackmail to convince me, who had yet to strike against me, with all that I knew ...

I buried my head in my hands. No. No. Goddammit, but no. Bruce couldn't, wouldn't, was not that man. John was right. John had to be right. Because there was nothing in my heart that could believe there was a murderer behind those eyes, nothing in me that could believe he would do what everyone in Gotham thought he would, nothing ... nothing that could believe he had killed Selina, would destroy Gordon.

I felt the tears running down my cheeks, heard Lois murmuring in panicked whispers at my side, tracing her hands over and over my shoulder, my head, soothing and calming, desperate. I ignored her. I had to. I wasn't ready, not yet. I wasn't ready to explain why this hurt, why it mattered so much to me. Why I wanted to ... to protect them. All of them. Gordon. John. Bruce. Oh, god, but especially Bruce.

He had wanted me gone. Wanted me to leave, angry and betrayed, while he did something. Wanted me out of harm's way, out of Gotham's reach as the endgame played out in her streets and her rich manors. Because he couldn't harm these people. But more than that. Bruce wanted to protect them, same as me. I knew it, suddenly and completely, deep in my bones. He wanted to protect me, and he wanted to protect them. Gordon, and his men. The few bright, honourable things Gotham had to offer. That's why he did what he did. That's why Matches walked Gotham's night, why John supported him, why all these people counted him a friend without ever knowing the truth of him, the depth of him.

He wanted to protect them. Protect me. And in the process, he was more than willing to hurt me, and even more willing to harm himself.

I felt the presence at the door, even before I heard Lois' gasp of surprise, even before I heard the creak of floor. I knew he was there, even before I raised my head to meet his eyes. John looked down at me, impossibly sad and indescribably proud. He knew I understood. I didn't know how, and I didn't care. He knew, and he was proud of me for it, even as my pain hurt him in turn. And for some reason, there were few things that mattered more to me in that moment, than the feeling of his pride and his respect. But John's like that. He just like that.

"What do I do?" I asked him, voice hoarse. "What can I do?" And the sadness increased tenfold in his eyes, along with the compassion, and a kind of depthless determination.

"I do not know," he answered, calm and quiet. "Bruce has not confided in me since this began. It is too deep, too close to him for him to trust another, even me. He is hurting, and he is secretive and nearly self-destructive when hurt. Selina should not have died. That she did ... it has almost killed him, and he will do anything to stop her killer. But ... he has asked no help, shared no knowledge. Without knowing who he is after, who is after him ... I do not know what to do."

I nodded, feeling the helplessness rising in me, and the anger. Because dammit it, couldn't he have trusted me? Or if not me, even John? People he cared for were dying, and he had not even the sense to ask for some help!

"Bruce? Bruce Wayne?" a voice asked beside me, sharply, and I turned to look in surprise at Lois, and then shame. Of course. Lois didn't know. Lois didn't know any of it. I hadn't told her. Even in pursuit of someone I suspected of murder, even about to take a murder rap myself ... I hadn't even told her.

And I called Bruce an idiot for not asking for help.

Meeting her gaze sheepishly, I could see from her arched eyebrow and scowling mouth that Lois agreed with me on that. One hundred percent. The glitter in her eyes called me an idiot louder than any words or accusations.

"I think," she enunciated, very clearly, "that the pair of you have some explaining to do, yes? And sooner, rather than later?" I met John's eyes above her head, seeing the rueful agreement in them as he nodded, and shook my head sheepishly, before turning to face that fierce, intelligent expression, and tell my friend all I knew.

Her expression shifted many times, in that explanation, though she didn't interrupt. Something like amusement, and frowning contemplation, when I mentioned the first sight of those lonely eyes. Anger, and maybe a hint of admiration, at my recklessness in following him that first night. Confusion, and consideration, as I explained Matches, and John. Sorrow, as I explained confronting Bruce, and what had come of it. Anger, at what I thought Bruce had done to me, at what he had done to me.

And then, as John took up his part of tale, her expressions shifted a little to match mine. Incredulous admiration, as he explained what Bruce was to them, what he did. Patrolling Gotham. Fighting crime. It sounds so cliched, but when you see it, when you see Gotham and what she takes out of you, when you've seen Bruce and all it has cost him ... you understand. You really do. Why they fight for him in return. Why they count him a friend.

But as much as John could tell us about Bruce, as much as he could explain what the man we suddenly fought for did to make it worth it, he knew nothing of this case. He didn't know why Weiss and Selina had died. He didn't know why it mattered so much to Bruce, aside from all that Selina herself had meant. He didn't know who was killing these people, or why, or why Bruce seemed to know. Because he did, apparently. Bruce knew who he was hunting. But John did not, and I did not, and if Bruce was fighting them right that minute, there was not a damn thing we could have done about it. It showed, in our expression, in our hopelessness. It had to. And Lois looked at us, listening, watching, and while I all but despaired, something sharp and triumphant slipped into her eyes, though I didn't see it until she opened her mouth, and shut us both up.

"Gentlemen," she said, compassionate but with that instinctive pride she always had when she knew something you didn't. "I think I can help you with that." And while we stared at her in shock and dumb hope, she reached into her bag and pulled out, with the flourish of a magician performing her best trick, a thick manilla envelope.

A casefile, marked GCPD, bearing so many stamps screaming 'Confidential' and 'Keep Away' it was a wonder there was any room for the subject. Andre Weiss. The man whose murder started all this. And, it turned out, the cause of all this, and more besides, stemming back years to a crime all but forgotten. An old murder. An old motive. And one very angry survivor.

I knew I should have asked Lois from the start.

Chapter 9: Diamonds Are Forever