Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Never put a pig in a suit, you'll just ruin the suit. Ever want an example of that, you don't gotta look any farther than Bruno Mannheim. Matches Malone'd met a lot of guys over the years, some pretty slimy ones too, but nobody beat Bruno.

"Whaddya think, boys?" Bruno asked. He swaggered into the palatial suite, his arms wide and outstretched to indicate the room. "How's this one grab you?" He turned, grinning broadly at Matches and Flint. "I think I could get to liking this city."

Matches hated Metropolis. Too bright, too cheerful, and too fuckin' exposed. He looked out at the skyline, watching for the telltale flash of blue and red.

"You sure about this, Boss?" he asked. "Metropolis?"

Mannheim grinned, settling in at his desk. "Fuck, yes. You looked around lately? Metropolis is the shining jewel of the new age, or so they say." He put his feet up. "And with everybody on the run, the business opportunities are ripe."

"They're ripe for a reason, Boss," Matches insisted. "Big Blue tends to take it personal when you pull shit in his city."

Something in him stirred with the thought; agreed with it. He quashed it, shoved it down, and did his fucking best to ignore it. "I'm no coward, but there's the Bat and then there's him. Superman is fucking hardcore."

Mannheim grinned wider. "All in how you handle it, Matches. The way I figure it, we avoid being too obvious about it, and Big Blue'll occupy himself with whatever loudmouth gets in his face. You said it yourself, Matches. Superman's not the Batman. This guy's all flash in the pan. He's got no substance; it's all about the photo-ops. He catches planes, moves mountains, and he probably gets kittens out of trees on the weekend. This guy doesn't do subtle. I figure we keep to ourselves and Superman'll do the same."

Matches wasn't so sure about that. Superman was the one to break the racket in Metropolis in the first place. Stood to reason, he wouldn't be so excited about seeing something new take its place. Not that it was a good idea to tell Bruno that.

He might not've been a college grad, but Matches wasn't an idiot. . Matches was new to the outfit, still up and coming, but he learned fast and he had eyes. He knew when Bruno wasn't in the mood to hear something and he wasn't in the mood to hear this one. Last thing that Bruno wanted to hear was another plan wasn't going to work. Not after everything had gone ass up in Gotham like it did.

When the Bat strung Falcone up, and the Narrows went to hell, Matches had been reborn. At least, that's how it felt. He'd been aimless before that, but then that mess came down and blown everybody to hell and back. He'd come right out of that mess and slid into Falcone's operation, filling up space left vacant by the Gotham PD.

The way Gordon and his team had started busting people left, right, and center had made it so easy that Matches figured he ought to send the guy flowers.

Gordon had pretty much made him, though he figured the lieutenant wouldn't see it that way. Either way, Matches had slid into the outfit just in time to watch Bruno make a play for Boss.

Bruno's sudden relocation to Metropolis said just how good that went. A few boys, Matches included, had gone with him.

"Don't worry about it, Matches," Bruno said. "All else fails, I got me some pretty interesting sources. We got Superman good and covered."

Matches didn't like the sound of that one. Something in Bruno's voice said he didn't want to ask. "Okay, not gonna argue that one," Matches said. He flopped down in a chair, stretching his legs out as he thumped one fist against the leather upholstery. "You and the Metropolis boys figure out when you're gonna meet?"

"Took 'em a fucking dog's age, but yeah," Bruno said. "We got it covered. It's all set for tomorrow night." He took out one of his cigars, lighting it.

"All goes well; tomorrow night there's a new outfit in town."

"With you all set up as Boss?" Matches asked.

Bruno smirked. "Yeah, Matches, with me all set up as Boss." He turned in the chair, looking out on the city like a king surveying his kingdom. "I'm thinking of callin' it Intergang. What do you think?"

Matches nodded. "Sounds good to me. Kinda like the UN of crime or somethin'."

"That's what I figured," Bruno said. "Makes sense too. All us boys coming together after getting beat down. Almost makes a guy feel patriotic or something."

Bruno stood up, but kept his back turned to Matches and the boys as he walked to the window. "Metropolis is just what we need, boys. Nice, quiet, and Bat-free. I think I could get to liking it here."

-

"Fucking glass elevators," Matches grumbled. He slammed a fist into the panel, depressing one of the buttons. "Hate 'em," he said. "You can see everything. I swear everything in this whole fucking city's made of glass."

"No kidding," Flint said. Flint was a scrawny guy. Not much brains, but big on loyalty. Harmless enough. Matches kind of liked him, most of the time. Flint looked over his shoulder and out at the city. "Think Big Blue likes it this way? See everything that's going on?"

Matches slumped against the elevator wall, folding his arms. "Guy can see through concrete, Flint. Don't think he gives a rat's ass whether or not the walls are made outta glass."

"Yeah," Flint mirrored his posture. "True." He scuffed the tip of his shoe against the floor. "You think Bruno's right? Think we can make something out of this place?"

"Hope so," Matches said. He picked his words careful. Flint was loyal enough, but Matches wasn't so sure to whom. "Superman's gonna be a pain in the ass to deal with. Not so sure he's gonna ignore us as much as Bruno thinks, but y'know, what the fuck do I know?"

Flint shrugged. "Beats the shit out of me," he said. "You and Bruno, you know what you're doing. You guys'll figure something out." He lifted his gaze, looking past Matches as the sky. "God, it's too damn clean in this city," he said, a laugh stuttering from him. "Can't get used to how fucking clean it is. You notice, Matches? It's like the whole place kinda shines. It's freaky as hell."

Matches nodded. "Yeah, I know. It ain't Gotham, that's for damn sure."

-

Hovering unseen atop the elevator, Superman listened to the conversation with a frown. "Too clean?" he echoed. "That's -- " he thought about Gotham and its perpetually dingy, pollution-plagued streets. A small suggestion of a smile tugged at his lips. "I suppose perspective counts for something."

Still, perspective aside, he found himself wanting to defend his city. As silly as it probably was, he felt Metropolis deserved better than being insulted by two thugs.

Superman took a calming breath. "Take it easy, Clark," he warned himself. The whole thing could almost be funny if it wasn't for Bruno Mannheim and his plans. With Lex's disappearance, he'd been free to turn his attention to the other problems that plagued Metropolis. He'd started by breaking the back of the mob in the city. It had been his gift to the denizens of the city so happy to see him back and an atonement for years spent on a wild goose chase.

It hadn't been easy and it hadn't been quick. He'd been forced to gradually shift his public persona's journalistic interests towards the seedier side of the city. Few people had noticed the change in Clark and, mercifully, most had attributed it to his 'sabbatical'. None of them had been worried enough to look deeper.

But it had been a risk and one that Clark didn't like taking. Now that was all in jeopardy.

Angry, he looked down at the elevator. A slight push of his ocular muscles and he was looking past the metal ceiling into the car itself. The two thugs had fallen silent; all he could hear was the sound of their breathing, as they waited for the elevator to reach its destination. Unfortunate, he'd been hoping to gather more intel, but Clark took the opportunity to observe them both.

The younger one, Flint, wasn't much interest as yet. He was young and reeked of inexperience. The way he kept glancing at his companion and mirroring the man's actions spoke of it. Flint was little more than Bruno's errand boy.

The other one, however...

The other one had his attention. There was something about Matches Malone that intrigued him. Superman floated closer, risking discovery, as he stared through the ceiling. Malone was no one's fool. His research as Clark hadn't turned up much on the man. A small-time gang lord whose territory had been swallowed up in the turf wars between Carmine Falcone, Rupert Throne, and Sal Maroni. He'd fallen in with Falcone's lot after the Narrows and followed Bruno to Metropolis after the failed coup.

On paper it all made sense.

Watching the man now, however, Superman couldn't say that anymore. There was something in Malone's eyes.

He frowned. Matches Malone needed watching.

Close watching.

-

He was being followed. Didn't have a fucking clue who it was, but Matches knew. He stopped, looking over his shoulder, and grinned to see empty street.

He took a corner, stepping into the street. Drivers politely came to a stop, letting him cross. "Fuck, this town is creepy," he said. "Gimme a mugging and a couple flashers any fucking day of the week."

Still, he hurried across the street, looking over his shoulder all the way. This was probably why he walked into a wall.

Or, at least, that was what it felt like.

The wall grabbed him by the shoulder and, before Matches knew it, he was airborne.

"Oh shit," he breathed, looking into Superman's angry gaze.

-

It was just a second, and Flint didn't really get a good look, but the flash of red caught his eye so he looked.

"Fuck," he said. "If Matches got pinched by Big Blue, Bruno's gonna throw a fit."

He turned around and headed back toward Bruno's place at a run.

-

Matches Malone wasn't afraid of heights, not usually, but flying over Metropolis without a plane? "This just ain't natural," he shouted, grabbing fistfuls of cape.

He thought he saw Superman grin and pretty much hated him for it. "Put me down!"

That got the alien's attention. Superman brought them to a stop and looked down meaningfully. "I don't think you want me to do that," he said, as calm as if they were having afternoon tea. Matches'd never had it, but he figured you were calm when you had it.

Matches leaned over, looking down. "Oh God," he gulped. "Don't, man. Just..." he pressed his face against Superman's chest. "Don't."

Superman chuckled. "I'm not in the habit of murdering people, Mr. Malone."

Gusting out a breath, Matches ignored the firm chest he'd been pressed against. "Yeah, well, try not to 'accidentally' drop me, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Superman said. They began to descend. It was slower than their ascent, but Matches still refused to look down until he felt the gravel of a rooftop beneath his boots. "Better?"

"Fuck, yes," Matches tried to break free, but the alien held firm. "Lemme go, man!"

"Not until we have a little talk," Superman said. "Where's Mannheim's meeting going down?"

Matches grinned. Aha. So the boy in blue wasn't useless after all. "Wondered if you'd find out about that," he said. "And I ain't tellin'."

Superman frowned and they lifted off again. "No?" he smiled. "Then maybe we need to go higher the next time? You're going to tell me where that meeting is going to be, Mr. Malone, and that's all there is to it."

If nothing else was going to take Matches' mind off his current predicament, that did. He snickered. "Listen, Big Blue, I know you've got a job you've gotta do. You do it real good too; that catching planes and trains, and saving puppies and babies thing? It's good of you. People need that kind of stuff, y'know? They really need their heroes. It's great of you; you keep it up, but this thing with Bruno? Yeah, you really should just let that one go. Sometimes, it's safer just to stay out of the way."

Superman's eyes narrowed and his grip on Matches tightened. Considering, they were about six feet off the roof and climbing, Matches wasn't really complaining.

"Are you threatening me?" the alien asked. His voice took on a note of menace that sounded more like Gotham's Dark Knight than Metropolis's Angel. Matches kinda liked the change. Something deep in him didn't. It shifted as it decided to throw the alien a bone.

"No, you idiot," Batman growled, pushing the Matches persona aside. "I am trying to help you."

Superman's upward progress halted as if someone had grabbed hold of his cape. He looked at Batman with shocked eyes. "You?" he asked.

"Me," Batman said. From behind the shield of Matches' beard, he smirked. "Would you mind putting me down?"

-

Batman. The revelation sent the universe spinning around him. Batman was in Metropolis, undercover, and in his arms. He was holding Gotham's smirking Dark Knight in his arms, pressed against him with hands on his waist.

Well, when he'd heard Bruno Mannheim coming to town, this was not what he'd had in mind.

"If you don't mind," Batman said, "I prefer to discuss business with terra firma beneath my feet."

Shocked, Superman closed the distance to the rooftop with blurring speed. Before their feet had even touched the gravel, he released the vigilante and swept backward out of reach. He let his cape slide forward, cloaking his shoulders and providing him with a familiar comfort. "I'm sure you have a good explanation for why you're here - unannounced."

He disliked the defensive tone in his voice. While Batman had indeed intruded on his city unannounced, he was acutely aware he'd done the same in the past.

"I'm returning the favor," Batman rasped with a pointed look. He stood a few feet away, watching Superman. Though he wore Matches Malone's leather jacket and suit, it was easy to picture the batsuit on him instead.

Superman sighed, nodding. "Touché."

Smiling smugly, Batman took a step forward. "As I said, I'm here to help," he said. "Mannheim got his start in Gotham, he's my problem."

"The minute he relocated to Metropolis, he became mine," Superman said. "You have enough on your hands, you don't need to come here chasing him."

"Yes, I do," Batman said. "He's here because of my actions and that makes him my responsibility." He looked out at the city and then turned back to Superman with a wry smile. "Besides, you need the help."

"Exactly how's that?" Superman asked.

"You can't drive criminals out of Metropolis," Batman said, blandly. "As much as I'd like to do the same, it's just not feasible. Power abhors a vacuum."

Superman looked away before he rolled his eyes. "While the advice is appreciated, Batman, I can handle this."

"That meeting is going to go ahead, no matter what you do," Batman continued, ignoring him. Superman folded his arms, his fingers digging into the material of his suit. "Mannheim is determined to establish himself in this city and he will. Thanks to your efforts, none of the former families in this city is strong enough to oppose them."

"You never intended to stop him," Superman said. Anger crept into his voice and he took a step forward.

Batman kept his gaze on the horizon, his expression implacable. "I didn't," he said. "This was about intelligence gathering," he finally looked at Superman. "And gaining myself a foothold in Bruno's organization. He's going to need a point man in Gotham City, and Matches Malone will be that point man."

"Giving you the street credibility you need," Superman said, frustrated. "You didn't come here to help at all." He refused to acknowledge the pang of disappointment that lanced through him at the revelation. He spun, leaning on the roof's wall.

When brick crumbled beneath his fingers, he looked down at it in surprise. He tossed a guilty glance Batman's way, hoping that the Dark Knight hadn't noticed. "Let me guess, you want me to stay out of the way?"

Batman turned. The longer hair and beard made it difficult to discern genuine features, but there was something familiar about the man. "If you would," he said in mild tones. "This can work for you as well, Superman, if you'd let it."

"Oh really?" Composing himself, Superman folded his arms again. "Exactly what gives you that impression?"

"You're a smart man, Superman," Batman said. "At least you purport yourself to be. If you let the meeting go ahead, and allow Mannheim to succeed, you'll have a direct line to his inner circle. Yes, the mob will have returned to Metropolis, but with you privy to its secrets. You can't tell me the idea isn't tempting."

It was and they both knew it. Worse, Batman was right and they both knew that too. The superior glint in Batman's eyes said as much. He leaned against the wall; arms folded across his chest, and grinned. "What do you think?"

What he was thinking, neither Superman nor Clark Kent would say in a hundred years. He exhaled and met Batman's gaze. Those eyes locked on his and, again, he was struck by a wave of familiarity. He'd seen those eyes before...

"Well?" Batman prompted.

"It isn't as if I can stop you," Superman said, annoyed. "You'll do what you want, no matter what I say."

Batman's smirk widened and he nodded. "Of course." He looked down at the city. "I was never asking for your permission," he said. "I'm asking if you'd like to benefit from the situation."

Superman looked at him with assessing eyes. As much as he was loathe to admit it, Batman was right. It had been a mistake to wipe out the organized crime element in the city. He was left with the impending development of an unknown - and potentially more dangerous - organization to replace it. The opportunity to cripple that organization was almost irresistible.

Almost. While he had to admit the man was right, he wasn't in any hurry to admit it. Childish impulse that it was, he was only too happy to keep silent. At least for a few more minutes.

"Well?" Batman prompted.

Superman smiled.

-

"I don't know about this, Boss," Matches said. Opening the car door for Bruno, he cast a look up at the LeMarvin Bistro as he waited for the crime lord to get out. The squat, ivy-covered brick building housed one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. Again he felt a sensation of foreboding. "This doesn't look like our kind of place," he said dubiously.

"It is now, Matches. You know the old saying, when in Rome." Standing by the car, Bruno tugged on his gloves and looked up at the bistro with satisfaction. "We're businessmen here, Matches, and businessmen don't conduct business in dark corners of rundown, old spaghetti joints. We'll be finalizing our deal in a private dining room at one of the ritziest joints in town." He grinned, gesturing to the cars pulling in behind them. "Call me crazy, but I kinda like our changes of pulling this off. Don't you?"

"I dunno, Boss," Matches said. The sight of the approaching cars made him move closer to Bruno and slide a hand into his coat. Closing his hand around the comforting weight of his gun, he looked at his boss. "You're the optimist around here; I'm getting paid to be a paranoid cynic." He pressed his other hand to Bruno's back and nudged him toward the bistro's back door. "We'd better get inside before somebody takes a shot at you. Taking a bullet'd be a shitty way to start off the new job."

Bruno laughed, letting Matches move him along. "Wouldn't it just, eh? Finally get everything lined up and BLAM!" He shook his head. "No way, Matches. No way we let this get fucked over now." He stepped inside, brushing the snow from his overcoat. "How many boys we got in here?"

"Counting me and Flint?" Matches shared a nod with the approaching younger man. "Enough. Got a few people slipped in as busboys too." When Flint got close enough, he asked, "Anyone been in there?"

Flint looked at the door to the private dining room. "Not since our guys swept it for bugs."

"Good," Matches said. He scanned the bistro with a practiced eye. LeMarvin catered to a clientele comprised of the city's movers and shakers. At a glance, he recognized two city councilors, the Chief of Police, and a reporter from a local news station. Every last one of them avoided looking their way.

All save one. Matches' gaze lingered on the bespectacled man doing a terrible job of disguising his interest. He didn't look like much, hunched over a bowl of soup, but you never knew. Frowning, Matches grabbed the arm of a passing waitress and pulled her close.

He waved a hundred dollar bill in her face, then nodded in the man's direction. "Who's that? The guy with the glasses."

As if he'd heard the question, the man fumbled his cutlery quite spectacularly. His spoon seemed to sail freely from his hand and trace a graceful arc through the air. It came to a stop with a dramatic splat as it landed on a nearby table.

The man blushed a brilliant red and ducked his head.

Soft laughter rippled through the room and the waitress looked at Matches. She grinned. "Him? Oh, that's Mr. Kent, sir. The reporter from the Daily Planet?" She took the hundred from Matches. "He's a friend of the chef. Claude likes trying new recipes out on him, says he's got the most sensitive taste buds in the country. He's harmless."

Matches let her go. "Right," he said. "Harmless." Deciding to let it go for now, he turned back to Bruno and nodded. "We're good, Boss."

"Great, c'mon boys, let's talk," Bruno said, allowing a hostess to usher himself and his fellow mobsters into the private room.

With a smirk, Matches watched their bodyguards line up against the wall. "Sit down, will ya?" he asked. "For Pete's sake, you look like a fucking chorus line. Order somethin' and look like you're not about to blow somebody's head off."

He shook his head as the sheepish gangsters moved away from the wall, seeking out tables. "Buncha amateurs, no wonder Superman wiped 'em out," he muttered. "I'm gonna check out back, Flint. You keep an eye on this bunch."

Taking up position outside the door, Flint folded his arms. "Got it. You need anything --"

Matches nodded. "Got my cell, gun, and --- " he held up a pack of cigarettes. "I'm good." Ducking down the short hallway, he opened the door and pulled out a cigarette at the same time.

He stood there for a minute, looking out as he tapped the cigarette against the box. Outside, the snow had picked up to fall steadily and the parking lot was a pristine white. When Matches stepped out, his footfalls were muffled by the deepening snow. "Chilly," he said, his breath puffing up into the air.

Other than its automotive inhabitants, the parking lot was empty. Matches lit the cigarette and let it burn down, unsmoked. When it was done, he flicked the butt into the snow and turned around.

Flint was waiting just inside the door.

"Something wrong?" Matches asked, kicking snow off his boots. He cast a glance backward, just in case.

"Nope, nothing I can't handle," Flint said.

When Matches looked back, he didn't like the grin on Flint's face, but it was too late. With a dizzying blur, Flint's hand moved forward and Matches saw something glint.

He spoke, or tried to, but all that came out was an incoherent gurgle. Flint wiped the bloodied knife off on Matches' coat and gave him a shove backward, letting him fall out the door.

Matches slumped into the snow and, lying there, watched it turn red with his blood.