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Why was it, thought Clark Kent, that criminals always took so long to get to the point? He'd already been crouching on the upper catwalk in this derelict warehouse for hours listening to the very slow negotiations going on below him, and Bruno Mannheim himself had only just arrived. Thankfully for both Clark's patience and his knees, the presence of their boss seemed to be what the other crooks had been waiting for and the conversation was finally moving forward to the kind of private information and plans that Clark could actually make use of when he was distracted by a familiar breathing pattern on the other side of the warehouse.
Clark had been so focused on the talk going on below that he'd completely missed the newcomer's approach. It was sloppy of him, really. Batman would be displeased. And speaking of... He thumbed the mic of the tiny device clipped under his collar to the on position. "Bruce!" he whispered. "What are you doing?"
"It's Batman," came the prompt reply. "Listening. Shut up." Clark rolled his eyes and refocused on the conversation wrapping up on the warehouse floor. Hopefully, this wouldn't take much longer. Fortunately, Bruno Mannheim appeared to be in a hurry. Within the hour, Intergang had split, and Clark found himself in the alley behind the warehouse, watching a familiar, brooding shadow pace back and forth in front of him.
"How many times must I remind you to use codenames over the comms?"
"Nice to see you, too, Batman, and we were on a private channel. It's not like the whole League was listening."
"Someone is always listening. You of all people should know that."
Clark sighed. "What are you doing here, anyway? Not that I don't appreciate the help, but Intergang is primarily a Metropolis-based organization."
" - that is planning to expand into Gotham. If you've been following their movements over the past three months, it's obvious. More importantly," he continued, as Clark opened his mouth to ask why Batman had been tracking Mannheim's activities in the first place, "their meeting today indicates that Mannheim is continuing to contract with Paul Westfield, a former head scientist for - "
"Lex Luthor." Clark frowned. "So what do you propose we do? If I know you, you've already considered and discarded more strategies than it would take the rest of the League a week to think up."
"There's no need to involve the entire League unless the culmination of Westfield's plans proves far more imminent than I've anticipated. We should be able to head him off now before he and Mannheim can build enough influence to either impress Lex Luthor or gain a foothold in Gotham."
"Which one are they trying to do first?"
"Based on what we've heard today, Westfield is hoping that he can use Intergang's expansion into Gotham to get back into Luthor's good graces by offering him access to the criminal networks in my city. Mannheim just wants someone powerful enough in Metropolis to protect his interests here, especially if the arrangements he's making in Gotham fall through. He thinks getting in bed with LexCorp can do that for him. Our job is to make sure that not only does Mannheim's expansion fail, it completely destroys his relationship with both Westfield and Luthor for the foreseeable future." It was a far more complex conclusion than anything Clark had understood from the scattered bits of relevant information in the conversation they had just listened to, but he had no doubt that Bruce was correct.
"Well, then," he said, "what do you propose?"
Clark listened carefully as Bruce began to outline his strategy, looking for potential pitfalls or holes in the operation. He trusted Bruce's brain, but as Batman was constantly reminding the League, it always paid to double-check. The plan would work, Clark decided. It was simple, elegant, and probably the best solution to their problem, but… "There's still something important we need."
"The inside man," Bruce supplied. Clark nodded.
"Don't worry about it," Bruce told him. "It's been a while, but I can always rely on Matches Malone. He's been out of the game long enough that Intergang's probably never heard of him, and if they have, so much the better."
"Who's Matches Malone?"
Bruce stared at him for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed, not Brucie's high, false laughter or Batman's terrifying chuckle, but Bruce's real laugh, the one that even Clark rarely heard.
"After all these years - but I suppose there's no reason you would have - " Bruce began, then paused, considering. "I'll have Malone pay you a visit," he said, the hint of a smile still twitching the corner of his mouth. "He's an interesting man, but hardly a threat at this time. I'm sure you'll get along famously."
Clark was certain that there was something he was missing here, but Bruce suddenly went serious, pulling on his cowl and effectively closing the subject. "I'm needed in Gotham. Malone will drop by your apartment tomorrow. We'll discuss things after that." Clark opened his mouth to reply, but Batman had already vanished, slipping into shadows Clark didn't even know Metropolis held.
Clark Kent had lived in the same apartment since he first moved to Metropolis. His space might be small, but the building was clean and well-maintained, and the rooms were more than large enough for a single reporter who was rarely home. After they had been together for a few months, Bruce had offered to buy Clark a better apartment, but Clark demurred, so Bruce Wayne bought the building. Having his lover as his landlord did, Clark discovered, include the added benefits of not paying rent and finally being able to install better security without worrying about losing his deposit. Bruce had insisted on both.
Now, sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of tea and sunlight streaming through the curtains, Clark listened to the sounds in the street as families went by on their way to church and thanked luck that there were no serious crimes for him to be covering or countering on this particular Sunday morning. It was reaching 11 AM when there was a series of sharp raps on his door. Clark dragged his focus back to the apartment building and the person who had stopped outside his residence, scanning quickly through the door to ascertain that there were no guns, explosives, or kryptonite waiting on the other side. Living a double life made even the threats he was invincible to a serious inconvenience because as bulletproof as Superman might be, Clark Kent was not. Luckily, the man on the other side of the door appeared to have no immediate malicious intent, although the fluorescence of his outfit did not entirely distract Clark from the knife at the back of his belt.
Clark opened the door cautiously and was immediately treated to a slightly-yellowed, toothy grin that seemed just a hint too wide.
"Clark Kent!" the man exclaimed in a broad Jersey accent, landing a heavy hand on the reporter's shoulder. "Matches Malone. Hoped I'd find ya at home, but then plenty of folks are out worshippin' this time of the mornin', so how fortunate for yours truly that you're not a man of the church. I believe we might have a little business to attend to, so how's about we take this inside instead of loiterin' in the doorway, broadcastin' our private conversations to all and sundry?"
"Uh, sure," stammered Clark, standing aside to let Matches enter the apartment. The visitor was dressed in a truly hideous brown plaid jacket over a chartreuse shirt and yellow tie. The entire ensemble clashed horribly, but Matches seemed oblivious. He sauntered through the doorway like he owned the place, cast an appreciative glance over the case of journalism awards in the hall, and whistled as he continued into the kitchen.
"Mighty small place they got ya in here, Kent. Guess they don't pay you star reporters much over at the Planet."
Clark felt a bit defensive. What Matches said was pretty much true, but there was really no need for the stranger to comment. He forced himself to shrug. "Well, it's no penthouse, but it's big enough for me."
Matches snorted. "No penthouse? I bet a guy like you's never even set foot in one, 'cept maybe for a story. Must be pretty borin' in here, all on your lonesome. Haven't ya got a nice little lady to keep ya company, or somethin'?" he asked with a somewhat lewd smirk. Clark struggled to remain professional. This conversation was growing increasingly uncomfortable, and he still hadn't learned anything about the man. Matches hardly seemed the type of person that billionaire Bruce Wayne would associate with. Clark felt confident that whatever the capacity of Matches' past dealings, they were with Gotham's Dark Knight, not the city's most infamous playboy.
"I understand Batman sent you. How long have you worked for him?" Clark asked, attempting to return to the business at hand. The man across from him scowled, crossing his arms over his plaid jacket. He seemed offended by the very suggestion. "Matches Malone don't work for no one, pal. A friend asked me to drop by, said you and me might have somethin' of mutual interest to discuss, if ya catch my meanin'."
Not your average informant, then, but an actual friend who Bruce had never seen fit to mention? Or maybe that was just how Malone talked. Clark wasn't sure, but a more thorough scan showed that underneath the garish ensemble, his mysterious visitor was armed with a collapsible knife, padded body armor, and a multi-pouch utility belt not unlike Batman's. Clark also had a sneaking suspicion that the mess of electronics sewn into the armored vest was some kind of bio-dampener, subtly altering his visitor's detectable heartbeat. Whoever Matches claimed to be, he wasn't with Intergang, and he had access to resources suspiciously similar to those of Gotham's Dark Knight.
Matches slung a broad, heavy arm around the reporter's shoulders, pulling him close, and Clark had to resist the urge to throw him off. His clothes stank of smoke, liquor, and an overpowering, cheap cologne that just failed to mask a much more familiar scent. Clark's heart sped up as he recognized Bruce's unique odor. Who was this man that smelled so intimately of Clark's lover? No casual working relationship could explain that level of contact. Was Batman seeing someone on the side?
Clark immediately dismissed the idea as ludicrous. Bruce would hardly have sent Matches to him if he had something to hide (something regarding their relationship, Clark amended), and in addition, Matches hardly seemed like Bruce's "type." The visitor was charming, in a sleazy, smarmy sort of way, and his sheer audacity was almost admirable, but the grating accent alone would be enough to drive off most potential suitors. Clark knew from experience that Bruce had much higher standards than the average eligible male, and as much as Clark suspected Matches knew more than he was telling, the man's intelligence hardly seemed above that of a particularly canny low-level criminal. Something else was at work here that Clark was clearly missing.
"Think it through."
Clark had grown used to hearing Batman's voice in his head not long after they began working together. Even as his relationship with Bruce developed, it was always the Bat's growl that served as Clark's…well, not exactly his conscience.
"This situation has another explanation, Superman." The voice always called him Superman. Clark never thought of himself as Superman, but apparently his inner voice of reason did.
"Consider the data." Unfortunately, Clark wasn't sure exactly what data he was supposed to be considering. "Then collect more," the voice told him. Clark couldn't think of anything better to do, so he decided to let the situation play out. Perhaps Matches would reveal more about himself if the reporter just let him talk.
Unfortunately, despite the visitor's initial claim of information, it became almost immediately apparent to Clark that Matches was stalling. After half an hour of rambling about the weather and the decorations in the apartment without a single useful fact, Clark was beginning to lose patience. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what Matches wanted. The man wasn't fishing for information, not really, but neither was he divulging anything, deliberately and skillfully talking around any questions that Clark dared to pose. Clark let his hearing widen, monitoring the surrounding neighborhood and the rest of the city more carefully, in case Matches proved to be a diversion from some more serious threat. It appeared, however, that even this theory was false; Metropolis remained as quiet as before, with nothing more dire than the occasional escalating arguments or simple accidents that were the hallmarks of everyday life. Matches continued to ramble inanely, his obvious flirting and occasional lewd comments growing in frequency by the minute.
"Mister Malone," Clarks finally interrupted, irritation breaking through his patient facade, "I was led to believe you had useful information for me, but I fail to see any value in your detailed criticism of my mother's sewing efforts, and I am perfectly capable of deducing for myself that it will not, in fact, be raining this afternoon on the simple basis that there is not a cloud in the sky. Now, if you have something of actual merit to contribute to this conversation, please divulge it to me immediately, and if not, I will be more than happy to see you out."
"Alright, alright! I hate t'see a body so tense, 'specially one as handsome as yours, if ya catch my drift." Matches winked outrageously. "All ya had to do was ask, pal." Clark repressed the urge to point out that he had been asking for information for the past forty minutes and received nothing more for his troubles than a detailed analysis of the next week's weather forecast and several disparaging comments concerning the curtains his Ma had made for the living room.
"See, the way I hear it," Matches continued, "Mannheim's just not deliverin' on his promises. Last week one of his contacts ended up in the GCPD lockup, this week an interrupted shipment on the Gotham docks. It's almost like somethin' doesn't want Intergang in the city. Now Mannheim, he's assured his partner that everythin's under control, but criminals are superstitious, ya know, and old Bruno's men, well they're not the bravest of the brave. And so Westfield's havin' second thoughts right about now. The kinda doubts a fellow like you could capitalize on, if ya take my meanin'."
Clark blinked. Batman had been busy. "Um, Mister Malone, that's a lot of information, but I'm afraid I must ask where you've obtained it. You understand that I can't just take the word of a man I don't know on a matter of such importance."
Clark's visitor fake gasped, spreading a big hand dramatically over the front of his hideous shirt where he clearly imagined his heart to be. "Matches Malone never shares his sources. What do ya take me for, some common snitch? My information's always good; got plenty of important connections. I'm more than just a pretty face, ya know." Matches leered, dropping Clark an outrageous wink.
It was hardly a useful or reassuring statement, but Clark thought he knew what was going on now. Bruce had been a bit cagey about Matches and his background, but he had told Clark to trust the man. With Matches' vague but potentially useful knowledge about both Intergang politics and Batman's recent activities in Gotham, Clark was fairly certain that his visitor was actually a low-level enforcer for the Gotham mob. It fit with his speech, his outfit, the faint hints he kept dropping, but Matches' tech was almost assuredly Batman's, and it was that which convinced Clark that he could trust the man. However irritating Matches might be, Clark knew that if his suspicions were correct, the mobster was taking quite a risk coming to a reporter's house in broad daylight, presumably on nothing more than Batman's word.
Matches was still talking. "Now, the guy who sent me here, not that we're namin' any names, of course, he told me that you're a good-lookin' fellow, to be sure, but I'm thinkin' he clearly needs to be gettin' his eyes checked because woo wee, you are one attractive stud. Not that I usually go for the nice ones, ya know," Matches continued before Clark could think of an appropriate response to such blatant, unprofessional flirting. "But ya'd think he coulda given me a heads-up. Not his type of thing, I know, but it doesn't hurt to help a guy out, once in a while. We're real tight, ya know, me an our mutual friend."
Clark focused on Matches' breathing, listening for the truth of that final statement. The bio-masking might regulate the sound of the man's heartbeat, but it wouldn't hide the changes in his breathing. Clark knew that monitoring breaths was hardly a scientific method for determining the truth, worse even than heartbeats and especially difficult with near-strangers, who might have health conditions or nervous habits Clark knew nothing about. It was, however, better than nothing.
Matches' breathing was perfectly normal, which sent alarm bells ringing in Clark's head. Everyone had slight respiratory differences, habits or medical conditions or basic biological variation. There were patterns you could find if you listened long enough, patterns that changed when the person was nervous or excited or exceptionally calm. Matches had nothing. It wasn't quite true: There was a faint catch on his inhales, and the slightest, almost-familiar rasp on his exhales, but his breaths were perfectly even, calm and controlled and hardly varying at all as he rambled on energetically, leaning forward to drop Clark a smarmy wink and yet another ridiculous compliment. Clark knew only one person with that degree of bodily control, and the pieces started to come together. He refocused on Matches' flirting, a suspicion niggling at the back of his mind. It seemed impossible, but...
"So, we just gonna sit here starin' into each other's eyes?" Matches was saying. "Not that I'm complainin'! They say prolonged eye contact's great for bondin', ya know." And Clark couldn't help but remember.
It was all Batman's fault, Clark thought sourly, squinting at his League mate through a thick layer of rose-tinted, power-dampening gel.
"Kal! Are you alright? What happened?" Batman's deep rasp filtered through the malleable crystal substance, urgency coloring his tone. Clark hummed in frustration through the gel sealing his mouth shut, and Batman rushed forward, the blank lenses of his cowl meeting Clark's eyes through the barrier. The gel crawled away from Clark's face, leaving him free to speak. He swore in Kryptonian. Loudly.
"Did you just curse?"
Clark tried to nod and, unable to move his head, settled for blinking. "Yes," he admitted, sheepishly. "I'm perfectly fine, but this gel has a molecular half-life of over a year on Earth. With my powers drained like this, it won't be sufficiently decayed for me to break free for at least six months."
Batman frowned. "Can I cut you out?"
"No. Any external attempts to penetrate the gel will cause the crystals to solidify to roughly the strength of Kryptonian skin."
"What caused this?"
Clark grimaced. "It's a contingency plan for your protection, actually, designed to neutralize me in cases of malevolent intent. Kryptonians are especially susceptible to mind control, and the Fortress recognizes this. It must have interpreted our attempts to test your new suit as an attack."
Batman scowled. "That's ridiculous! How do we fix this?"
Clark hesitated.
"There must be some method that doesn't involve waiting six months," Batman insisted.
"There is."
"Well?"
"You won't like it."
"I don't like you trapped in the Kryptonian equivalent of a straightjacket, either, so just tell me."
Clark told him.
"... Eye contact?"
"Without the mask," Clark confirmed.
"Why would you need to see my eyes? That's the most ridiculous - "
"You were both the target of my supposed attack and the only other sentient being present. The gel will scan your retinas to verify your identity and review all images you have viewed since before its activation, as determined by retinal afterimage scarring, to confirm that I haven't been compromised."
Silence.
"Batman," Clark sighed, "I'm sorry. If there was any other way..."
"This cannot be real. I can't believe I'm even discussing this with you."
"I understand if you can't trust me. Just tell Diana - "
"Dammit, Kal." Batman reached up and shoved back the cowl.
Clark stared. "You're - "
"You really didn't know?" The figure in front of him seemed genuinely surprised, but Clark was distracted by the sound of the man's voice. It was no longer the familiar, harsh growl of the Bat, but neither was it the light, frivolous tones that Clark had come to associate with Gotham's playboy prince. Bruce Wayne's voice was a clear, smooth tenor, but there was a hint of Batman's gravitas biting at the edges of his words that left Clark no doubt of who he was dealing with.
"You made it clear you didn't want me to know," he pointed out, pleased that his own voice stayed calm and even in the face of this startling revelation.
Batman - Bruce - actually rolled his eyes. "The lead-lined cowl wasn't for you, Clark. And before you ask, I've known for months." Clark wasn't especially surprised. He'd have been more startled to discover that Batman didn't know his identity. Still...
"I find that hard to believe," Clark said. "The thing about the cowl, I mean."
"Well, at least not after I met you," Bruce conceded. "I might have conceived of the idea with you in mind, but I kept it in case of actual threats."
"I'm not an actual threat?" Clark grinned playfully. "I could kill you with my little finger. Or my breath. Or my eyes."
"A fact which makes it all the more insane that we're currently maintaining eye contact. Shouldn't something be happening by now?"
"I think..." and even as he spoke, Clark felt a slight shivering in the gel around him, and then the entire structure simply collapsed in a shower of tiny crystals. Clark stepped gingerly to his feet. "There we go."
"I trust that in the future we can avoid such displays of prolonged eye contact?" Bruce's voice was dry, but Clark thought he could detect an hint of teasing, usually hidden under Batman's harsh growl.
"I don't know," Clark smirked. "I've heard it helps with bonding."
Replaying the long-ago conversation in his head, Clark felt his creeping suspicion suddenly snap into reality, becoming a solid realization. Despite the almost impossible evidence in front of him, Clark was sure he was right. He let out a snort of frustration, slamming his hands (gently) on the table and hoping his sudden change of mood would distract the man in front of him from any momentary expression of recognition. "Can we please be serious?" Clark burst out, watching Matches carefully for any indication that he had given the game away. Matches just sighed, nasal and over-the-top and so quintessentially Matches that Clark almost had second thoughts. Almost.
"C'mon now," Matches drawled. "Relax a little! No harm in a bit of friendly canoodlin' between pals. Old Bruno and the gang aren't doin' anything until tomorrow anyhow, so what's the hurt in havin' some fun before headin' out to break up the party?"
Clark stared at Matches in what he hoped the other man would read as incredulity, although it actually felt far closer to sheer amazement. He took in the details of Matches' outfit and posture and attitude all over again, examining them with new eyes, looking for the hints of familiarity. Matches was a stranger, for all that Clark had heard from him in the past hour, and he was one of the most distinctive, genuine individuals Clark had ever met, with quirks and anecdotes, irritating mannerisms and personal habits. This man had his own life, contacts, employers, friends and almost certainly enemies, and a long, complicated history that Clark had no part in. The amount of work that must have gone into building such a cover was phenomenal, and it was fascinating, seeing it all up close like this, now that Clark knew exactly what he was looking at. He examined the man in front of him, marveling at the transformation. Even knowing Bruce's acting abilities and having watched him switch seemingly effortlessly and instantaneously from vacuous playboy to menacing vigilante, Clark had never experienced a physical metamorphosis so extensive from Bruce before.
"See somethin' ya like?" Matches asked brazenly, and Clark shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The discomfort wasn't hard to fake, already sitting just under his skin as he watched the man across from him.
Clark never felt out of place around Bruce when they were off the clock, and Superman and Batman were a matched set, two sides to the same coin who always managed to work better together than with anyone else, even at the height of their disagreements. Brucie, however, had been harder for Clark to understand. The ditzy, pampered playboy was everything that Bruce was not. Far from the slightly-exaggerated but sincere individual that was Clark's own alter ego, Brucie was what Bruce Wayne could have been but had never allowed himself to be. There was something deeply discomforting for Clark about interacting genuinely with a person he knew to be nothing of the sort.
At first, after the revelation at the Fortress, Clark had tried to separate Brucie Wayne from the man behind the mask and addressed the spoiled elite like any other irritating but ultimately harmless individual he might come across, but it still jarred, treating his friend and partner like a stranger in public, unable to acknowledge that he knew Brucie got the punchline, even as Clark was patiently explaining it to him, and he knew Brucie hadn't actually slept with every model at Gotham's Fashion Week, whatever the billionaire might proclaim to the public. It had taken a joke, of all things, to finally dissolve the tension between Clark and Brucie, a simple bit of snark at one of Brucie's many charity dinner parties with a wink for Clark's eyes only. No one else within hearing took the statement to heart; Brucie was far too foolish to have meant it, but that hint of familiarity was just enough to make Clark relax because he wasn't alone after all. Bruce wasn't trying to fool Clark, and he knew that Clark wasn't fooled. They were playing this game together, and once Clark had understood that simple, vital difference, he and Brucie were the perfect team as well.
Now they were playing a new game, although Bruce might not know that Clark was on board yet. He wondered how far he could push Matches in private before Bruce would break. Clark felt the tension subside as he relaxed, ready to throw Matches' game right back at him. This was going to be fun.
"Mister Malone!" Clark exclaimed. "This is completely inappropriate behavior for a professional business transaction." He paused, and then continued in a more moderated tone. "While I'm flattered by your interest, I'm afraid I'm already spoken for and must decline." He and Bruce were not exactly public with their relationship, and Clark paused, waiting for Matches' reaction to this somewhat private revelation.
"That so?" The mob man didn't miss a beat. "In that case, why not say somethin' sooner? Is it an illicit affair? A workplace romance? Surely not anythin' so serious as to prevent a bit of casual fun between pals, now is it sugar?"
"Sugar?" Clark sputtered.
"Sorry, babe. If that name's not workin' for you, I'm open to negotiations. Most important part of any relationship." Matches grinned, and Clark almost couldn't believe the man's audacity, his look of shock entirely un-faked.
"Fine," said Clark.
Matches frowned. "Fine? Whaddya mean, fine?" Clark wasn't sure if Matches was just playing along or if Bruce really couldn't tell that Clark knew. Time to find out.
"I mean fine. Alright. If it will get you to shut up, bedroom's this way," Clark stood, gesturing toward the door at the end of the hall and savoring the brief look of genuine shock that flashed across Matches' face. Then it was wiped away by a big, wide grin that could only be described as sleazy as Matches stood to follow him.
"Lead the way, handsome. I jus' can't wait to get my hands on that delectable ass."
Matches continued to ramble until they reached the bedroom door and Clark spun suddenly, pinning the mobster against the wall beside the doorjamb, fingers twisted in the garish plaid of Matches' jacket. The man relaxed in Clark's grasp, pressing up against him in a motion that almost felt familiar. Which it was, Clark realized suddenly. His companion let out a wheezy chuckle.
"How long have you known?" The accent was still there, but Matches' distinctive word choice and phrasing had faded, replaced by something closer to Bruce's own. It was an odd effect, and Clark couldn't help but laugh.
"I was suspicious as soon as you showed up at the door: That utility belt is pretty recognizable. Didn't realize it was actually you until you mentioned the prolonged eye contact, though."
Matches' eyebrows rose. "When you almost broke the table? I hadn't even propositioned you yet." He chuckled, the sound fading more toward Bruce's own laugh than Matches' nasal wheeze. "You play awkward and uncomfortable even better than I'd thought. I'm impressed, Kal." He paused. "Your initial discomfort was real, like with Brucie." It wasn't a question, and Clark didn't try to deny it. "But now..." he continued, and looked to Clark for confirmation.
"I'm good," Clark grinned.
An answering smirk spread across Matches' face, the sharpness of Bruce's gaze fading, not to Brucie's vacant indifference, but to a sly sort of predatory look that Clark recognized as pure Matches. The mobster stood, shrugging out of Clark's grip and sprawling on the bed to unbutton his jacket.
"Bruno and his pals will keep until tomorrow. How's about you and I find somethin' to occupy our time, huh pretty boy?"