Chapter Text
Sweat was dripping into Wayne’s eyes, down the back of his neck in itchy little trails, and it was driving him fucking insane. The heat was sweltering and the smell, God the smell, was so fucking bad it was making his head hurt. Making him feel sick to his stomach. And it took a lot to make Wayne sick at a crime scene. He’d seen a hell of a lot in his years with the GCPD.
Standing over a body, drowning in the scents of human decay and blood wasn’t a new thing. Hell, he’d learned a thing or two about using Vick’s beneath his nose to help with the stench or chewing a piece of gum to settle his stomach. But there was something about finding a bloated body in the middle of a heat wave in Gotham that made it more grotesque than usual. Made his skin crawl and his eyes water as he tried to focus on taking it all in—in the most clinical way possible.
Flies were swarming around the body, trying to get in their pound of flesh and he had to keep batting at his face to keep them away. He’d already filled a few pages in his notepad with observations, all eerily similar to about a half-dozen murders that had cropped up since May. The classic calling cards of the John Doe Killer were all the same. Wayne had no doubt that was who they were looking at.
He crouched on the pebbly sand of the river, cocking his head as he tried to picture what sort of face used to be attached to the corpse. White, male, possible mid-thirties. Any dirt or grime had been washed away by the river, but it was entirely possible the victim was homeless. The JD Killer tended to target victims that were easy and without any ties. He always took a trophy, something physical from the victim. He always removed the face, crudely burned off the fingerprints, removed all the teeth. Any identifying information was shredded in attempts to make it harder to link a name with the missing face.
That didn’t mean they hadn’t. Because they had.
Enough missing person’s cases filed with similar matching descriptions and the GCPD had managed to gain a couple of identities to tag with their victims. The rest were unfortunately still John Does. All male. All around the same age.
Hence, the moniker for Gotham’s latest serial killer.
Only this time, their little pervert had traipsed too close to city lines and this body had been fished out of the river. Jurisdiction could go either way. MPD wanted the case, but the GCPD would fight them.
And the rivalry would live on as it had for the better part of a hundred fucking years. Same shit, different day.
Speaking of—Bruce hissed out a breath as he saw a familiar person approaching him and stood, giving in to the urge to wipe the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.
The face, the plaid, with that stupid half-smile just managed to irritate him worse on an already irritating day. He had no interest in sharing his crime scene with Clark-fucking-Kent.
“Looks like you’ve already gotten started. Without me.”
Wayne slanted a look at the other detective who’d come to join him at the body and scoffed, “This case belongs to the GCPD Kent. I didn’t have to wait for your fuckin permission.”
Kent rolled his shoulders, looking decidedly unbothered by the sweltering heat and the stench filling the space between them. “It’s undecided still. The MPD sent me down anyways. You know we’ve had a few murders like this over the last months on our side of the river too. We have just as much stake in catching this guy.”
“Is that so?” Wayne growled, snapping his notepad closed, “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”
“So soon?” Kent’s eyes were dancing behind his black-rimmed glasses, clearly enjoying his ability to piss Wayne off without even doing much more than breathing. “I was hoping we could discuss the case. Share a few pointers over lunch.”
Wayne lifted a brow, “Share a few pointers?”
“Well, it’s looking like there might be rumblings of making a joint-task force. We might even be working together. On the same team for once.”
Yeah, Wayne had heard as much. Had no interest in it.
“I don’t work on a team.”
Kent studied him for a moment, “No. But it isn’t about what you want, is it? It’s about catching a killer.”
“Fuck you,” Wayne snapped, stepping around Kent on his way back to his unmarked cruiser. Kent didn’t bother following, which was a blessing, but Wayne could feel the other man’s eyes on the back of his sweaty neck all the way till the door. When he slammed the door and flipped on the A/C to full blast, he got a summons to return to the station.
Chief wanted to speak to him. Which could mean only one thing--And Wayne didn’t think he was going to like it.
“Chief, I don’t—Kent and I have a history.”
Chief Borden looked about as thrilled with the idea of working with the MPD as Wayne felt. But he clearly wasn’t going to be told any different. And to some degree, Wayne understood that. He knew it made sense. Both the sister cities were being affected by the JD Killer and a joint-task force made sense. It could only help to pool their resources. Hell, they were lucky the FBI hadn’t decided to step in and take the entire case over themselves. It would be just like them to do it. Sticking their fat noses in where they didn’t belong.
Wayne should feel lucky he was even being allowed to remain on the case. But he didn’t. He felt a little—trapped. Frustrated by his own inability to not let Kent get a rise out of him.
“I’m aware of the rivalry between the two of you. It’s been legendary whenever we battle the MPD during our baseball season. But that isn’t going to affect this case, am I understood? You’re going to fully cooperate. Hell, you’re going to fucking lick Kent’s shoes if it means we catch this bugger. Am I understood, Wayne?”
Wayne swallowed thickly, looking down at his black Nikes, feeling that sickness from earlier rise into the back of his throat. “Yeah. It’s understood Chief.”
“Good. Now, get your ass over to the MPD station and make it snappy. I want you and Kent to meet up and discuss who you’d like on your teams. If you think you’ve been putting in long hours before all this, think again. The next weeks or God forbid, months, are going to feel like hell. But I need you on this Wayne. You’re my best detective. You close cases better than anyone.”
Wayne nodded, “You can count on me.”
And the Chief could. He always had.
Wayne took a detour on his route to the MPD headquarters and stopped for lunch at a café near downtown. He poured over his notes, enjoyed the hum of air-conditioning, and reminded himself why he liked his job. Why he was fucking good at it. Because he always, always put the job first. He didn’t let something as petty as feelings get in the way.
Sure, Kent made him—uncomfortable. Made him angry. Itchy.
But he was just a means to an end. And he was a good cop. A good detective. Two heads, theoretically speaking, were better than one. Even if Wayne was fairly certain he could run circles around Kent when it came to investigative police work.
By the time Wayne got to the station, he was firmly back in control of himself and feeling a lot less hostile. When Kent suggested they take a corner office to discuss leads, look over notes, before going down to the morgue to be briefed by the Medical Examiner, Wayne was feeling better about being forced into this task force.
He and Kent could work together without making a fuss. Sure, they’d come to blows a few times over the years, particularly after a heated baseball game between their precincts, but they could let bygones be bygones for the good of the public.
“You hungry?”
Wayne blinked up from a file he’d been pouring over and frowned, “No. I ate on the way over here.”
“Too bad. Cafeteria makes an excellent ham and cheese.”
Wayne scowled and focused harder on the files. They looked almost identical to some of the cases sitting open on his desk. It was definitely the same killer. The fucker had been picking up victims on both sides of the river as far back as a year previous. Maybe longer.
“Coffee?”
“What?” Wayne blinked up, forced his gaze to meet Kent’s who was smiling over at him from across the table. “Oh—yeah. Sure.”
“Black?”
“Any other way to drink it?”
Kent pursed his lips, “Cream and sugar too girly for you, detective?”
Wayne scowled, “Let me guess, you like copious amounts of it?”
Kent shrugged, moving to where a pot of burned, stale coffee was waiting on a folding table at the far wall. It would probably scald a hole into his stomach but at least it would have caffeine in it.
“You know, if we’re going to work together, we might at least try to be a little friendlier,” Kent said softly, offering Wayne the cup of black coffee he’d asked for in a Styrofoam cup. Wayne took it gingerly and sipped at it a moment before speaking.
“You broke my nose the last time we met, you remember that?”
Kent’s eyes danced up to his, held a moment, “Hard to forget that howling. You sounded like a feral dog.”
Wayne bristled, “You know what? Never mind. Let’s just—forget it.”
“No, I’m sorry,” and Kent actually looked it for a moment, “You’re right. I’ve been a bit of an ass in our previous dealings. Granted, I think there is blame on both sides of the net. But still, I don’t want that to color this working relationship.”
There was something about the word, relationship—that made Wayne feel like his stomach was dropping to his toes. Like he was sweating again even though he had goosebumps on his arms from how low they were keeping the A/C. “Right. Sure. Whatever gets the job done.”
Another half-hour passed in relative peace before the boy scout piped up again and Wayne internally sighed, biting the inside of a cheek to prevent himself from snapping.
“You really as rich as they say?”
Wayne tipped his head, “Is my name Bruce Wayne?”
“Well—”
“Then yeah, I’m as rich as they say. And it has nothing to do with how I work as a cop. I think I’ve proven that after fifteen years hitting the streets.”
“I wasn’t trying to insult you, Bruce.”
Wayne stilled at the use of his first name and kept his eyes on the file in front of him. He wasn’t about to show Kent that it bothered him to be addressed so personally when the two of them weren’t even friends. They were borderline enemies. Probably always would be.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s just—interesting, you know? I mean, you could have done anything. You could be anything. And yet, you chose to slum it with the regular people and work a job that pretty much sucks the majority of the time. But why? I mean, there are so many other ways you could have--”
Wayne ground his teeth, “What are you getting at Kent? Are you seriously trying to psychoanalyze my life choices when we have mounds of paperwork to get through? Is now really the time?”
Is ever?
That earned him a sheepish look finally and Kent backed off, falling silent in favor of actually getting some goddamn police work done. Another hour later and they got paged by the morgue to come down.
It was a silent trip, and Wayne was glad of it.
The morgue was similar to Gotham PD’s. Just as filled with stainless steel, white tile scrubbed with bleach and antiseptic. The smell of death was heavy and musky when they walked shoulder to shoulder into the main room where the medical examiner was standing over their most recent corpse.
“Hi, Franklin Cope, ME. Do I know you?”
Kent spoke for him, “This is detective Wayne with the GCPD. He and I have been assigned on a joint task force for the JD Killer.”
The medical examiner sighed, “It’s about damn time. This is the twelfth body found between the two cities.”
“Politics gum up the works,” Wayne said quietly, looking down at the faceless body, “What can you tell us?”
“Nothing much until I do a full autopsy. But I can tell you it’s by the same man. Same distinctive cutting with an obviously sharp instrument. My guess would be an actual scalpel.”
“Could the killer be medically trained?”
The medical examiner frowned, “It’s possible. But I would wager, no. He uses a scalpel, but it’s done frantically. Almost—sloppy. No clean lines.”
“Any roots left of the teeth?”
“I’m afraid not. Fingerprints are gone too. But I can tell you from bone structure, that he was likely in his mid to late thirties. Possibly early forties. He doesn’t look to have been in good health. Hair and nails are brittle. Maybe another homeless victim. Or a prostitute.”
“Sexual assault?”
“It looks that way. But if the victim was a prostitute? It would be hard for me to determine any damage done separately.”
Wayne nodded, “Prostitutes are easier to lure into your car.”
“The promise of a paycheck is hard to deny,” Kent added, frowning down at the victim.
“I’ll have my full report to you as soon as possible. I know we’re working against the clock.”
Kent sighed, “He’s been killing roughly once a month.”
“Best of luck detectives.”
“Thanks.”
Wayne didn’t believe in luck. But he figured it couldn’t hurt their chances any either.
***
Clark Kent was an averagely average guy. Sure, what he did in his day job was considered exciting if not, out of the norm, but in his home-life, he was absurdly normal. Boring even.
He watched sitcoms after shift. Ate TV dinners and shared his bed with an overweight Tabby named Abigail. Clark wasn’t the stereotypical cop. Nor would you expect him to be if you met him outside of work. He was soft-spoken, inquisitive, kind. One of the friendliest men on the streets of Metropolis.
Clark volunteered at a local homeless shelter in his free time. He spent countless hours reading any sort of fiction he could get his hands on until his eyes blurred. He sent money home to his parents who lived on the little farm he’d been raised back in Kansas, once a month.
“Sure Ma,” Clark hummed into the phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder, as he rummaged in his cabinets for something to eat. It was close to ten and he’d still not eaten anything for supper. His stomach was damn near cramping. And he was godawfully tired. “Yeah, I’ll drive down next month. Work has been so busy.”
“I don’t know how you handle all that blood and gore Clark.”
“It’s part of the job Ma. I’m used to it.”
“I don’t like it.”
Clark smirked, reaching into the back of his stash of ramen to fish out a box of shrimp flavored noodles. It would do in a pinch. His mother would be horrified if she knew how badly he was eating. He’d lost a couple pounds in the last month because he’d been too busy to do a decent grocery shopping. Let alone fix something not microwaved.
“How’s Pa?”
“Oh, you know. Works too hard. Complains you don’t visit enough.”
Clark smiled, dropping the noodles into a bowl then filling it with water. When he clicked the microwave shut and sat back to lean against the counter to wait, he could hear his mother yelling at the dog to hush up. Rusty was barking up a storm.
“Damn possums. Always running under the house and spooking the dog.”
“Let him out. He’ll be overjoyed to chase it off.”
“He might kill the poor thing.”
Clark shook his head, “Poor thing.”
“Everyone has their place. Possums too,” she sighed over the phone, sounding tired, “I’m going to call it night, son. Get some rest. And be sure to visit soon. We miss you.”
“Sure thing, Ma. Goodnight.”
Clark ate his noodles, took a quick shower, then bee-lined it for bed. He only made it down the hall before his front door was being banged on. Grumbling, Clark glanced longingly at his bed then switched directions to answer the door.
No one bothered him this late at night. Which meant it was work related.
But nothing could have prepared him for a rain-soaked Bruce Wayne standing at his door. Clark stared for a solid ten seconds before backing up to let the man in and when he did the detective looked equally shocked to be standing in front of Clark. Though he was the one who’d come to Clark’s apartment.
“I uh—” Wayne swallowed, looked down at the steady drip of rainwater from his jacket to the floor, “There’s another body. I tried calling. Couldn’t get through so I just—your address was in your personnel file.”
“It’s fine,” Clark said roughly, struggling to tear his eyes away from Wayne’s wet hair. It was an even deeper shade of black when wet and was dripping down his neck, into his white button-up. The front of which was almost translucent.
Suddenly, it was very difficult to swallow. Or make thoughts happen at all.
And it wasn’t as if Clark wasn’t aware that he was attracted to Wayne. Because he’d been aware of it for years. Had studiously ignored it and then layered that attraction in vague animosity. It seemed to suit them. They bickered, hurled insults, and occasionally broke down into fist fights during their precinct baseball games.
But having Bruce standing in his apartment, dripping from the rain and looking decidedly out of his element was a bit—jarring. It had Clark feeling like he should have changed out of his Loony Toons pajama pants or worn a sweater to cover up the ratty t-shirt. He felt a little—naked.
“Let me just—let me go change.”
Bruce nodded stiffly, glanced down at the water pooled at his feet again and scowled, “I’m sorry. I’m soaking your carpeting.”
“It’s fine. It’s a crappy apartment. Don’t worry about it.”
Clark dressed quickly. Tossing on a pair of jeans and a Metro-U sweatshirt. By the time he’d tugged on some sneakers and a cap, Bruce had found the dishrag from the kitchen and was trying to sop up some of the water.
“You really don’t have to do that. It’s fine.”
Bruce blinked up at him with eyes so gray they could be goose-feathers, then frowned again, “If I fucked something up, I like to fix it.”
“It’s fine.”
Bruce dropped the rag to the floor then stuffed both hands into his pockets, “You ready? We’re late enough as it is. I don’t want my ass handed to me because you were moving too fucking slow while primping.”
Clark fought the urge to smirk and simply nodded, “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Good. My car is downstairs.”
Bruce’s cruiser was nicer than Clark’s. Leather seats, stringently organized rubber gloves, extra notepads, and a hoard of other random things that Clark imagined could be helpful on the scene. He wasn’t nearly as organized, and it was a little humbling.
By the time they arrived on scene, the blare of blue and red lights was a beacon in the deluge of rain. Any evidence would have already been washed away, even if they had a body. They’d already gotten DNA from a couple of rape kits on other victims, but that DNA wasn’t in the system. CODIS had no matches. The perp was a ghost.
An umbrella was pretty much useless in the late summer gale and Clark squinted to see as they tromped through muddy puddles and down the river embankment to where yellow plastic lines had been drawn for the scene. The kill was fresh. Not bloated and water logged from the river, like the previous body. A younger male, clothes torn off. Body not even in rigor. It made Clark’s stomach jump when he saw the fresh streams of blood-red pooling beneath the dark hair. The face was gone, like all of them, but Clark could see the man had probably been attractive. He had good cheekbones, long limbs, slightly muscled. Maybe a prostitute. But the nails were manicured and aside from the missing teeth and fingerprints, he looked well-groomed.
“A fucking waste,” Bruce growled at his side, dipping to stare sightlessly at the body, “He’s escalating.”
“The other body was older. We don’t have a timeline of when he was killed.”
“He’s escalating,” Bruce reiterated, glaring now up at Clark, “This guy wasn’t a nobody. He picked someone harder to get and used him. Raped him. Sliced and diced him right here on the riverbank in full view of possible witnesses. Took the face as his trophy.”
Clark’s stomach rolled, his chest tightened, “The rain will have washed most everything away.”
“He’s smart,” Bruce continued, eyes going distant, rain carving veins down his forehead and throat, “He would have picked tonight for a kill because it’s good cover. Half the city is drowning under the rain. Response times are slower by a solid two minutes. Even if someone heard the screams, he would have been able to make his escape in time.”
“Yes.” Clark agreed.
“God,” Bruce stood, then turned to the CSI who was trying desperately to put up plastic to preserve more evidence, “Do what you can.”
“Yeah,” Clark thought the guy’s name was Harold. He nodded briskly, “Yeah, we will.”
There wasn’t much to be done right away. The scene needed to be processed. So Clark and Bruce left and without speaking ended up at a diner nearby, sopping wet and silent as they sucked down hot coffee in a booth by the fluorescent sign flashing, Open, in bright blue.
“I want to catch this fucker.”
Clark looked up from his drink, “We both do.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched in a parody of a smile, “At least we’ve got one thing in common.”
“I think we have a lot in common.”
Bruce snorted, “Kent, I’m in a sour mood. Let’s not try and make friends tonight.”
“Alright,” Clark shook his head, “Some other night then. Where we don’t talk about work. We could try to get to know one another. It would help us work better together.”
“I have no interest in getting to know you better.”
“But you do have an interest in closing this case, in catching the JD Killer.”
Bruce gave him a venomous look, but Clark pushed on, determined to make the stubborn ass in front of him see reason. Sure, they didn’t like each other and Clark’s own attraction to the man made things a little complicated but aside from all that—they had a case to work. And if they were on friendlier terms, it would make working the case more productive. Trust built was worth a few barbs along the way, as far as Clark was concerned.
“And trusting one another, learning each other, will help us do that.”
Bruce’s mouth flattened, his hands tightening viciously on his mug, “Fine.”
Clark resisted the urge to smile. But only just. “We could have lunch tomorrow.”
“We’re going to be buried in casework for the next week with that body.”
“All the more reason to start building a bridge between us. Besides, we have to eat, and we can’t work twenty-four seven.”
Bruce’s scowl darkened, “Fine. But I’m fucking picking where we go. And it won’t be in Metropolis.”
Clark raised both hands in surrender, “Fine by me. Besides, I haven’t seen your neck of the woods yet, and I’d like to.”
Bruce took Clark back to his apartment an hour later. Clark wasn’t going to be able to sleep a wink having drunk three cups of coffee, but he felt better about working with Bruce Wayne than he had the day previous. He felt a hell of a lot better. And that was something.
They’d work out the tension and the kinks between the two of them and then they’d catch their killer. That was the job. And the job came first.