Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/228186.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      DCU_-_Comicverse
  Relationship:
      Clark_Kent/Bruce_Wayne/Tim_Drake
  Character:
      Gary_Glanz, Pete_the_Penman, Matches_Malone, Superman, Batman, Robin_III
  Additional Tags:
      Identity_Porn, Undercover, Gangsters
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-07-07 Words: 6974
****** The Triple-Cross ******
by gloss
Summary
     The con is complicated, but not half so much as the geometry among
     these three.
Notes
     I ignored Waid'sBirthright, in that Clark's not a vegetarian.
     Enormous thanks to Rom for bringing Pete the Penman to my attention
     in the first place. For Te's birthday.

Gary Glanz:
[Gary Glanz]
Matches Malone: [Matches Malone]
Pete the Penman: [Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeete]
A sunny afternoon in Metropolis brings along its own pleasures -- the vaulting
cerulean sky, a smile on every passing face. Everywhere, the bright urban
glitter reflects into the harbor, then back into the hearts of every citizen.
Clark moseys down to the Future's Diner for his favorite lunch. He doesn't
usually have time to indulge, but it's proving to be a slow week, news-wise,
and Lois is on assignment in Norway, so there's no one but Perry to question
his love of smoked meat and deep-fried potatoes.
The menu calls his sandwich a "Reuben", but, having been to New York, Gotham,
and Montreal, Clark knows it's something else entirely. Pastrami and roast
beef, piled high as a clubhouse, drizzled with cheese sauce and sweet gherkin,
openfaced atop two slabs of hearty whole-wheat bread. Sided with homefries left
over from breakfast *and* fresh fries, as well as crispy onion curls, the
sandwich is enough to fill -- if not kill -- the largest man.
He's about to take his first bite, jaw cracking open wide, when someone slides
into the booth across from him. "Kent? Clark Kent?"
Clark sets down his fork regretfully and pats his mouth with his napkin.
"Hello, Tim."
Tim shakes his head impatiently.
He certainly looks different from the small, neat young man Clark considers a
friend. He looks, indeed, like one of those vagrant skateboarding children that
thePlanetdid a series on a while back. From beneath a ratty green knit cap, his
hair springs out in short twisted braids; his ears sport curious rings that
don't emerge from the lobes but rather *occupy* them, spreading them slightly.
More rings, traditional ones, decorate his eyebrows and upper lip.
"You're Clark Kent, right?" the boy-who-is-not-Tim demands. His voice is
rougher than Tim's, accented differently and raspier. "Right?"
"Yes, I am." Clark touches the edge of the table. "How'd you get here? To
Metropolis?"
"What do you care?"
"Humor me."
"Hitched. Look, this is important --" He looks over one shoulder, then the
other, then leans halfway across the table. His eyes continue to dart, almost
manically, before his gaze locks onto Clark's. "You know Pete, right?"
Clark suppresses the urge to lean away. "I'm afraid I don't..." He catches
himself. "You can't mean Pete Ross?"
The kid blinks rapidly. His eyes seem to be bloodshot; his hair rattles when he
shakes his head. "The hell's Pete Ross?"
"Former U.S. President...?"
"Don't vote." Not-Tim shrugs, as if he's old enough to make that (bad) choice.
"This is hella important, Kent."
"I'm all eyes." Clark spreads his arms. "Ears. All ears."
"You know Pete. The Penman, Pete the Penman, right?" His voice has lowered even
more and he gnaws at his lower lip, picks at the cuticle on his thumb, waits
for Clark to respond.
All Clark can do is laugh. "That's a name I haven't heard in a very long time."
Not-Tim scowls extravagantly and hunches his shoulders. "He's gonna fucking
have my *hide* if I don't bring him back the Penman."
"Tim --" Clark tries to touch the boy's hand, but he yanks it back, twists it
in his lap.
"Gary," Tim says, his lip curling. He sighs deeply, heavily, as if the world's
problems rest on his narrow shoulders. "Look, if you don't know the guy, I
should go."
Clark cannot let that happen. He tips up his chin and says firmly, "I know him.
What do you want with him?"
Gary rolls his right shoulder up and rubs his jaw against it. When he does
reply, it is in a resentful mutter. "Just do."
"I can help you," Clark says, "but you have to let me."
Gary's lips part and his eyes widen. Those eyes are hazel, dull-colored, rather
than a darkly arresting blue, but Clark is frozen all the same. "Don't need
your help, mister."
"My mistake." Clark feigns a slump, then a shrug. He suspects it's not a tenth
as convincing as Gary's was. "If you don't actually need to get in touch with
the Penman, then I've misinterpreted you."
Gary lunges forward, elbow knocking Clark's vanilla milkshake over, and grabs
Clark by the shirtcuff. "I do, Jesus, you've got no idea what he'll *do* --"
Clark covers Gary's hand with his own. "Who? Are you in danger? Is that why
you're dressed --"
Gary checks over his shoulders again, then curls his index finger, beckoning
him closer. Clark regards him warily, uncertainly; sighing again, Gary releases
his wrist and tugs at Clark's shirt-collar until they're cheek to cheek over
the middle of the table. "You know. *Him*."
"Who?" Clark whispers.
"Him," Gary hisses, breath damp and warm against Clark's ear. The ring on his
upper lip brushes Clark's jaw. "Matches Malone."
"Ahh," Clark says. It all makes sense now, though that sense is a trembling,
slick, mercurial little thing. "Ah."
*
Malone's got a real nice set-up here. Swank, almost. Old brownhouse in the
heart of Gotham, looks like it was last decorated by Diamond Jim Brady,
cluttered with heavy dark furniture, doilies hanging off everything, ornate
lampshades that shake and rattle when you pass them.
In the nearest mirror (of many), Pete checks his hair and smoothes down his
mustaches.
Some lower-rank goon makes Pete cool his heels in the parlor. The insult of
that, the lack of common respect, rankles. A word or two, shared with Mr.
Malone, should do the trick and set that moron back in his rightful place.
As it turns out, he does not need to say anything to Malone. After he has been
waiting for nearly twenty minutes, a roar goes up in the back of the building
and heavy footsteps hurry down the narrow hall.
"Penman!" says Malone, tucking his electric-blue nylon sport shirt into his
garish tartan trousers, before he grasps Pete's hand in both his meaty paws and
shakes gently. "Don't want those valuable fingers getting hurt," he explains.
The eponymous matchstick bobs gaily in the corner of his lips. He squeezes
Pete's shoulder. "'scuse me for half a sec."
Just as quickly, his mood returns to stormy as he cuffs the goon and shoves him
into the entryway. "You keep the Penman waiting? Were you raised in a
*cathouse*?"
When Malone returns, he's all smiles again, taking Pete by the elbow,
apologizing and leading him to the back. Next to him, Pete is a drab sight,
crisp white shirt and gray trousers fading beside Malone's riot of colors and
patterns.
"Ya hungry? Dinner? Snack? Something to wet the old whistle?" Malone gestures
to a chair beside an overstuffed suede loveseat. "Sit, sit. Don't stand on
ceremony around here."
"Thank you." Pete hitches up his trousers and sits down gingerly.
"Get comfortable!" Malone braces one beringed hand on his knee and leans over.
"We're all buddies here, ain't we?"
"That," Pete says carefully, "remains to be seen."
Lamplight catches the pomade in Malone's hair as he shakes his head, slowly,
regretfully. "Pete, Pete, can I call you Petey?"
"I'd prefer..."
"Pete, then," Malone says quickly. The sunglasses he wears obscure his eyes,
but his face takes on an intent look. "I'll be honest, okay?"
"Yes, of course."
Malone palms the back of his hair and takes a deep breath. "This job we're
looking at, Petey. It's big. Real big. Big like a mother's love and the great
outdoors, you know what I'm saying?"
Pete shifts in his seat. "Big."
Malone's grin twinkles with expensive caps and a few gold teeth. "Smart man.
It's *big*. Biggest job *I've* ever set up, at least."
"I find that difficult to believe," Pete says.
Matches smacks his lips and lets the stick roll to the other corner. "You talk
pretty fancy, huh?"
Pete runs his index finger over his mustache. "Suppose I do."
"A criminal *and* a gentleman! Love it!" Matches claps his hands. The sound
reverberates around the small room, tinkling the crystal chandelier. Just as
suddenly, Matches lowers his voice and leans in confidentially. "So. Petey."
"Yes...?"
"Any questions you got, you know you've got my ear. You, baby, you come to me
*any*time, and I emphasize *any*, you hear?"
"Ah," Pete says. Matches looks entirely earnest, if a man well over six feet
and 250 pounds, wearing his attire, with his slicked-back hair and toothy grin,
*can* look earnest. "Well. I do have one question."
Matches nods. "Hit me."
Pete glances around the room, assuring himself that they're alone. When he
looks back, Matches has his chin in his palm, his posture ramrod straight, the
very picture of Sunday-school attentiveness. "What, precisely, is this job?"
Matches clucks his tongue as he shakes his head. "Eager beaver, now, now."
Pete squares his shoulders and tightens his jaw. "If I'm going to be in on this
--"
"Blue-eyes, you *are* the job!" Matches grasps Pete's knee, far less gently
than he shook his hand. "You bow out, I got *nothing*."
"So what's the job?"
"No, no, tricky," Matches says, ticking his index finger back and forth. With
his other hand, he squeezes Pete's knee. He glances down. "Huh. Got some real
definition there, don't ya?"
Pete eases back and crosses his legs. "I take care of myself."
"I'll say." Matches grins and holds up his hands. "Okay, big boy. You win. You
wore me out."
"I did?"
The sunglasses slip a little down Matches's nose and he winks over their edge.
"You got yourself some kinda *charm*."
Pete nods, accepting the compliment.
Matches continues, "The job's pretty hush-hush right now. Lookin' like I've
found some buyers for some municipal bonds that've, shall we say, *wandered*
away." He holds his palms up again. "Swear to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
that's all I can say, I've already said too much."
"All right," Pete says. "And me? Why me--. Why the Penman?"
The matchstick dips perilously low, nearly brushing Matches's chin, before
snapping back perpendicular to his mouth. "You're the best, aren't you?"
"Well --"
The chesterfield creaks under Matches's weight as he slides forward, nearly
falling to his knees. He braces himself for balance on the arm of Pete's chair
and takes hold of Pete's leg again, "You're a goddamn *legend*, you know that?"
He squeezes. "Folks like me, why, we're s'posed to wanna *be* you when we grow
up."
Pete does not reply for several moments. The chandelier shivers above them;
somewhere, an ancient clock gulps down the seconds. Finally, he clears his
throat. "And do you?"
"Stick around, do this job --" Matches sits back, as if satisfied; his legs are
spread wide, as if he's got a frozen turkey between his thighs. This time, his
smile shows no teeth at all. "And, laddie, you just might find out."
*
Pete is given a room upstairs -- "One big happy family," Matches explains with
another wink -- and sits down a generous dinner brought in from the Hungarian
restaurant around the corner.
Only after the dinner is consumed and the dishes washed and put away does Gary
Glanz put in an appearance. Matches notes, right off, that Gary managed to
avoid any work at all.
"Crafty, that's me," Gary mutters as he pulls off his jacket. "Hey, Penman.
How's it hanging?"
Before Pete can shake the boy's hand, Matches intervenes, blocking Gary off.
"You think you can just come 'n go as you please?"
"Don't *think*," Gary says, letting his jacket drop behind him as he sidles
into the kitchen. "Just do." He fishes in the refrigerator for a bit, emerging
with a stalk of celery dangling from his mouth, an obscene imitation of
Matches's stick. "You do the thinking, isn't that how it goes?"
Matches raises his hand, threatening a slap, but when Gary ducks, the gesture
becomes a one-armed hug. Gary's dragged up against Matches's chest, celery
snapping in two when it collides with Matches, forehead rubbing against the
pelt of dark hair peeking up through Matches's open collar.
"Sassy little bitch, ain't he?" Matches asks fondly, addressing Pete over
Gary's head. He pets Gary's riotous hair, clucking his tongue. "Brat."
Although he squirms away, Gary doesn't get far. He wiggles until Matches swats
him on the ass. Over his shoulder, he says to Pete, "He's a pathetic, dirty old
man. Best thing you can do, just indulge him."
Pete grabs hold of the kitchen counter, as if his balance has tilted. Vanished.
"I don't know about that --"
Chuckling, Matches hauls Gary back, just long enough to bite his cheek. "Nah,
he's right. I get what I want."
"So he thinks," Gary says. The bitemark glows crimson beneath the kitchen's
fluorescent fixture.
"You missed dinner," Matches chides and pinches Gary's waist. "Skinny little
thing, you gotta *eat*." He slides behind Gary and runs his hands up Gary's
sides. With his chin resting on Gary's skull, his matchstick touches Gary's
forehead. Gary scowls, but doesn't make a move to escape. "Could only be
prettier if he had tits."
A shocked burst of laughter escapes Pete's mouth. "I --"
Matches buries his face in Gary's neck and stage-whispers, "Where're your
titties, baby? Where's that nice set of falsies I gotcha?"
Gary's examining his fingernails. "Lost 'em."
"This is --" Pete slides away. "I'm interrupting, I should --"
"Not at all!" Matches pushes Gary away. "Just gettin' to know each other."
"I see," Pete says, slowly and distinctly. "Of course. Well. Gary --"
Matches grins broadly. "He's one bright kid."
Gary rolls his eyes. "Whatever."
"Sharp as a damn katana --"
"Watch yer language, mister," Gary singsongs nastily, ducking the next swat.
Matches cocks his head and murmurs, "Kid's gonna see us *all* to our graves."
At that, Gary kicks his skateboard up into his hand and shoves past Matches,
making for the back door.
"Where do you think you're going?" Matches shouts.
"Out."
"Out where?" Matches's hands close into fists at his sides. Pete edges into the
nearest corner. "Answer me."
"Out, *Daddy*," Gary says in an alto whine. He looks over his shoulder.
"Errands."
Matches takes two heavy steps forward. "Errands for me?"
"No, errands for the Red Hood. Couple beheadings, shoot some mules, blow him in
the back of a cab...the usual." Gary's shoulders square suddenly. "Yeah,
errands for you. What is this, sudden onset Old Timer's?"
"Alzheimers," Pete says and clears his throat when Matches turns, startled, to
him. "It's called Alzheimers."
Snapping his fingers, Gary gestures at Pete. "Give the man a shiny prize. I'll
be back."
"When?" Matches holds the door as Gary passes under his arm.
"When I'm back."
*
Matches's sense of urgency becomes clear later that evening. Gary returns just
five minutes before the prospective buyers arrive.
Gangsters in sober, broad-shouldered suits, some of them Yakuza with the
tattoos snaking around their necks, others Tong and Vietnamese, they all have
impassive expressions and hands as big as smoked hams.
The head man is displeased. "I was led to believe this would be a private
meeting, Mr. Malone."
Matches scratches the side of his neck. "Whaddaya want, Lee? I'm a sociable
guy. That a crime now?"
"*Private*."
"Didn't I make the intros?" Matches smiles ingratiatingly and moves around the
room, naming three of the goons -- Pinky, Goldy, and Lou -- as well as Pete. "I
think you all know the Penman."
Lee tilts his head; his men follow suit. "An honor."
"It's mutual," Pete says.
On the floor, in the far corner of the room, Gary is hunched over an upturned
skateboard. He digs a churchkey into the wheels and flicks grit onto the carpet
as he bobs his head to music piped through tiny earphones.
"And this --" Matches palms the back of Gary's head, "this little boneless
slice of chicken, this is Gary."
Brow furrowed in annoyance, Gary glances up sharply and tugs one earbud free.
"What?"
Matches's jaw tightens. "Be nice to the nice men," he says, then looks around
the room, grinning, as he pulls Gary's hair. "Gunsels. Don't make 'em like they
used to."
"That's for sure," Pete says, and says it in halting Japanese as well as
Cantonese. He adds an aphorism about the young and their rudeness. Lee's men
elbow each other, nodding gravely, and the tension of the moment is forgotten.
Huffing out a sigh, Gary replaces his earbud and slumps further down.
After haggling and working out several kinks, Lee and his people accept
Matches's proposal. Working from two originals salvaged from the quake, Pete
will counterfeit a number of Gotham City and Bristol Township real-estate deeds
and municipal bonds. Gary will provide technical support and "miscellaneous"
duties, while Matches will remain the contact-man and overseer.
"Or so they think," Matches says after seeing them out. He's rubbing his hands
together, nearly bouncing on his toes, the brass buckles on his red-leather
loafers glinting as he moves.
It's just him, Pete and Gary left now. Pete rolls his celebratory glass of
brandy in his palms. "How so?"
"Lemme tell you a secret, boyo..." Matches wriggles into the small space next
to Pete on the loveseat. The frame groans beneath him. "You ain't gonna do a
good job."
Pete leans away, but there isn't far to go. "I beg your pardon?"
The matchstick ticks back and forth, a horizontal pendulum. "Such *manners*,"
Matches says eventually. His hand closes around the nape of Pete's neck.
"Listen up good, Petey. Those bonds? You're gonna fuck 'em up. Not obvious-
like, but just enough that they're worthless."
"I'm not sure I follow..."
The signet ring on Matches's thumb twinkles as he rubs it against his chin.
"Sub-tle," he says, pronouncing itsub tell. "That's the angle. Thinking large,
but subtle."
From his corner, Gary snorts. "*That's* your angle?"
After sharing a quick, *knowing* grin with Pete, Matches grimaces. "Suppose
you've got a better one?"
"That isn't even an *angle*!" Gary jumps to his feet, his baggy pants dropping
low on his hips, exposing the ruffled elastic of his boxers and the sharp juts
of his pelvic bones. He kicks the skateboard halfway across the room. "That's a
fuckin' gentle slope!"
When Matches swallows, his Adam's apple mirrors the jerky dip-and-rise of his
matchstick. "Language, kid."
Gary's dreads describe a scimitar-curved arc as he shakes his head. "If you had
a *fraction* of the balls you pretend're weighing down those nightmare pants --
"
"Slacks, they're *slacks*." Releasing Pete, Matches rubs his hands up and down
his thighs. For the occasion, he changed to another tartan, clingy-rough nylon
that scrapes and buzzes under his touch. He pokes Pete's knee to get his
attention. "Like he can talk *style*. Looks like he just rolled outta bed, am I
right?"
"Kids," Pete says, as if that explains anything.
Sighing dramatically, Gary dials up the volume on his music player.
"Personally? I blame all the disco," Matches says. "No style, kids today."
"Sad," Pete replies. "Sad. Is what it is."
"Used to be --" Matches shifts, then leaves his leg pressed alongside Pete's.
"Used to be a young man, he knew how to dance."
Pete nods as Gary sniggers and flips them off, turning on his heel. Before Pete
can reply -- if, in fact, he was going to say anything at all -- Matches is
lunging forward, grabbing Gary by the back of his collar and dragging him back.
Swatting his ass.
"The fuck?" Gary splutters.
Matches swats him hard enough for the sound to carry. "Uncouth, that's what you
are."
Gary starts laughing. Dangling from Matches's meaty paw, the scuffed rubber
toes of his sneakers just brushing the floor, he is seized by laughter.
Finally, sounding slightly choked, he manages to say, "Pot and fucking kettle,
old man."
One more swat, and Matches drops him. Gary doesn't stumble, but he does glare
at Matches as he rubs his buttocks. "Can I *go* now?"
Matches has his back turned to Gary. To Pete, he says, "Long night. Ready to
hit the sack?"
Pete peers around the bulk of Matches, but Gary has already departed
soundlessly. After a moment, the front door bangs shut.
Sighing, Matches shakes his head slowly. His sunglasses slip down slightly to
reveal hooded, sad eyes. "Two peas, him and me."
"Sure," Pete says and stands up. "I can see that. Clear as day."
He proceeds Matches up the swaybacked, creaking stairs. None of the rest of the
gang is staying in the house, yet Pete's bedroom is adjacent to Matches's own.
Many hours after Matches's heavy tread up the stairs, a much lighter step might
be heard. It pauses on the landing, then continues, only to pause again before
opening the door to Matches's room. Some time later, were anyone still awake to
hear, low voices tangle and slide into moist, needful sounds below language.
*
The next morning, Matches and Gary argue about, of all things, breakfast. Pete
pulls his chair as close into the table as he can, and rhythmically shovels
scrambled eggs, cooked up by Goldy by the dozen, into his mouth.
"Learn your place, kiddo," Matches says, low and dangerous.
Gary shakes the dreads out of his eyes, his shoulders lifting with laughter.
"Why should I?"
"There's plenty of eggs," Goldy says diffidently from the kitchen doorway. "I
can poach 'em, no problem."
"No," Matches says, without looking away from Gary. "He eats what he's served."
Gary pushes his chair away and jumps to his feet, rubbing his stomach. "Y'know
what? Got more'n enough protein in me already."
"Come back here," Matches calls and Gary ignores him. Under his breath, he
adds, "Damnable brat."
"It's a difficult age?" Pete suggests.
Goldy points the spatula at Pete. "He's right, Matches. Listen to the Penman."
Matches pours a slug from his flask into his coffee cup. "Yeah, Petey's the
freakin' expert on juniors."
"You're very hard on him," Pete says when Goldy has returned to the stove.
"That's all."
"Me?" Matches snorts and sucks down his coffee. Somehow, the matchstick is
never disturbed, let alone wet. "I'm a softie, honey. Trust me."
"Oh," Pete says.
"You think I never had these problems before?" Matches tosses his napkin in
disgust before standing up and striding away. From the hall, he pokes his head
back into the dining room. "Think again, pretty boy."
*
A con that is doubled, two-timing the criminals, so the other criminals can
reap the benefits: it doesn't, necessarily, make much sense. Not outside of
Matches's mind, at least.
Pete works down in the basement of the brownstone, where he has been provided
with all the supplies a penman could want. Gary works next to him, mixing
chemicals for the paper treatments, bringing him lunch, adding varnishes and
patinas to the various printing plates.
Pete keeps to himself. He navigates the vicious riptides that surround Gary and
Matches as well as he can, keeps his ears open and mouth shut. It's the best
way, really.
Late in the afternoon, dark orange light filters through the narrow windows
that abut the basement's ceiling. Gary spins in his workchair, clockwise, then
counter, snagging his foot on the leg of Pete's table in order to switch
direction.
Pete's etching blade jumps from the plate and he sets it down with a sigh as he
turns to Gary.
For once, Gary is not scowling. He still looks fierce, but his expression has
softened. "Ever think about it?" he asks. "Getting out of this game?"
Pete plays along. "Sometimes, sure. Always wanted a house of my own, big garden
in back. Work in the dirt, grow things. Sounds like the life, doesn't it?"
Gary scratches idly at his belly. His fingernails are painted today, a dark
indigo that is already chipped. "Like flowers'n shit?" His posture is curved as
a piece of drapery, his stomach, exposed beneath the tiny shirt, wrinkling
oddly. "That's nice, I guess."
"No, no," Pete says, getting more enthusiastic. "Food. Vegetables, maybe some
corn. Fruit. Don't you think eating what you've grown yourself
sounds...*wonderful*?"
Gary taps two fingers against his waistband. "Guess so. Got a friend out in
Bristol with his own grow-op. Now, *that's* convenient."
They are both trapped in this life. This situation, this specific set of
circumstances, and yet here they are. Trying to reach past it, towards each
other.
Pete ducks his head and shrugs. "Convenient, yes."
Gary's touch to Pete's arm -- his sleeves are rolled far above his elbows -
- comes lightly at first, then more insistently.
"Do you?" Pete asks. "Ever think about...other paths?"
Gary clears his throat. "Me and Malone, we're kinda..."
"Yes, of course." Pete straightens his back and glances at Gary. The lad's
cheeks seem slightly flushed, his eyes downcast. "He's quite a presence, after
all."
Gary's hand moves, almost absently, down Pete's arm to his wrist, then back to
his elbow. "You're a lot nicer than he is." His lips curl. "Handsomer, that's
for sure."
Laughing effortfully, Pete tries to pull away. The tug-of-war that had seemed
to be solely between Gary and Malone has jumped in scale, involved him, and
there must be a word for *this*.
It isn't as if either of them have anywhere else to go. This brownstone is
their world; there is nothing else. Pete can no more rescue this child than he
can *fly*.
Finally, Pete says, "I'm sure he cares about you. In fact, I know he does."
Gary plucks violently at the knot in his shoelaces. "Sure he does, whatever.
Just --" He kicks a jug of developer over and slumps even more. "Forget it."
"Tell me," Pete says. He puts his hand consolingly on Gary's knee -- it's a
gesture he must have picked up from Matches, of all people. His hand is just as
wide as Gary's thigh; the fabric of Gary's trousers is surprisingly soft,
nearly velvety. "I'd like to hear it."
This time, when Gary sighs, the sound is soft, and appears to deflate him.
"You're a good guy," he says. "Just sorry you're here."
Pete's fingers tighten on Gary's knee, crablike, grasping at the delicate bone
beneath muscle and skin and yard after yard of fabric. Gary twists at the
waist, turning the chair with him, and kisses Pete. Chastely at first, arm
around Pete's neck and lips closed against Pete's own. But when Gary goes up on
one knee, and Pete's hand duly slides up his thigh, the kiss breaks open, goes
deeper and wetter.
"Just really sorry," Gary mutters. Now he's pulling back, away, running up the
stairs, running away.
"I'm not," Pete says, and touches his lips, and repeats the sigh. "I'm not."
*
There is an erotics to violence. Every gangster knows this; those who don't
rarely survive long enough to realize their mistake. Those who *do* understand
-- innately? -- how the crack of knuckles that loosens a jaw sparks an equal
reaction in the dick, torquing up the testicles just right. It's a hunger,
violence, like desire. A good beat-down, well-delivered, well. That's just
better than sex a lot of the time.
Thus Matches is pontificating late that night, sharing wisdom with his crew as
they return from a successful rumble. Not in so many words, and with much more
boxing of the ears and grabbing of the crotch, but the gist is the same.
When they see Pete standing in the entrance hall, arms crossed and chin
lowered, the members of the crew mumble their apologies and peel away.
Matches hangs up his pink-and-gold checked sportcoat, fussing with the cuffs.
"You know what I mean, doncha, Petey?"
"I need to talk to you."
Matches picks at the spray of dried blood on his crimson golf-shirt. "Nothing's
stopping you, brother."
Pete remains immobile. "About Tih--. *Gary*."
Matches makes a show of peering around Pete as he whistles low, as if for a
dog. "Where *is* he, anyway?"
Pete's hands are valuable, but his arms are intractable. He shoves Matches
against the stair-railing and repeats Gary's name. "Gary. Gary. What'd you *do*
to him?"
The stick rolls hectically in the corner of Matches's mouth for two moments.
When it snaps to stillness, Matches smirks. "You wanna get with him?" The smirk
widens to show molars. "'cause I ain't his pimp, y'know."
Pete lifts Matches to his toes and knocks his legs apart. "You're --"
"Boy does his own thing," Matches says, calm as a monk. "Me? I can only stand
back and --. *Admire*."
Pete's got a good hold on Matches's shoulders, and he shakes Matches until
Matches shuts up. "What've you *done* to him?"
"You want a full inventory, or...the highlights, like?" Matches cocks his head,
waiting for the reply.
It doesn't come. Pete's reflection, doubled, on Matches's shades stays utterly
still, perfectly furious.
"Right," Matches says and sighs. "Upstairs."
In the privacy of Matches's room, perhaps there they can talk. Man to man, as
the saying goes, and *honestly*. Unburden themselves with frankness and
something close to camaraderie.
Perhaps some day, but not tonight. As soon as the door clicks shut behind Pete,
Matches is pressing him up against the doorjamb, hands roving over his sides.
"Not Gary you're worried about, is it?" Matches's mouth slides, moist and
sticky, down Pete's throat. "Not him."
Pete's stance shifts; he lowers his head, unknots his fingers at his sides.
"Yes," he says hoarsely. "Yes, him, I --"
"Nah, not him." Matches tugs at Pete's cardboard belt. "You like 'em...a little
bigger, doncha?" His hand slips inside Pete's trousers, fingers scrabbling and
stroking. "Now, let's see if your pen really is mightier..."
With open palm, Pete shoves Matches away, sends him sprawling over the foot of
the bed.
Now is not the time. Matches is laughing, hoarse and near-hysterical, as Pete
does up his pants and ducks his head, retreats, stumbling, out of the room.
"You just say the word," Matches calls after him. "Bro."
*
They might be fighting over Pete; they might be dancing around each other,
using Pete as their Maypole. They might, they could, they --. Maybe, perhaps,
possible and plausible.
Pete copies originals until they're better than they were. He forges the
appearance of truth from miscellaneous materials; his work depends on the fact
that people want to believe what they see.
Gary and Malone's work is not half so obvious.
Their game, whatever its object, is at once unconscionable and
incomprehensible. Pete concentrates on his work, dedicates himself to the con.
He rarely looks up from his workdesk. He was brought in for his particular
talents, and he applies those talents, closeting himself in the basement for
hours and hours at a stretch.
*
Lee accepts the bonds, the crew departs for celebration at various dives and
stripclubs, and it will not be until dawn, with its cold blue light, breaks
that those bonds, those nicely-worn twenties, will start to lose their value.
In twelve hours, eighteen at the outside, Gordon's MCU will be sweeping up
worthless paper and booking every hood in a twelve-block area.
For the time being, however, Matches is ebullient as they return to the
brownstone. He spars with thin air, shouting and chuckling, shouldering Gary
aside, then yanking him back, a crazed jig of joy and challenge.
Pete pauses on the stairs, hand slipping off the banister. "Is that it?" he
asks over the noise. He should not begrudge the man his elation at a job well-
done. He pinches the end of his mustache. "Can we stop now?"
Gary cocks his head interrogatively; Matches slings his arm around Gary's
shoulder as he replies, "Stop?"
Pete takes another step upward.
"Get me a brandy, sweetness --" Matches shoos Gary away and calls after Pete.
"Where're you going? Game's just gettin' *started*."
"Perhaps," Pete says without turning. He climbs the rest of the way with his
hand on the banister.
In the room that had been his, he packs his small valise. With it in hand, he
takes the back stairs -- the *servant's* way -- down to the basement, where he
sets to ridding the space of any trace of their recent activities.
The basement is cool, of course, and shadowed, sharp with the scents of
developer and various inks. One could pretend, perhaps, that there is nothing
above the ceiling. That this house, like so many others, was shaken apart in
the quake, neatly razed or scattered story by story, brick by brick.
Upstairs, above the ceiling, all is quiet. Not at peace (never so), but
strained with silence, stuffed with it. The occasional spit of consonants or
low growl sifts down to the basement, where Pete sweeps the concrete floor as
slowly and carefully as a peasant's wife.
If there were someone here who could hear every twitch on the whiskers of the
mice scurrying through the walls, who could see through masonry and wood,
plaster and brick, well, then --. There is much more than silence and stillness
to be perceived.
In the master bedroom, for example, three flights up, Matches slurps from his
snifter between spanks delivered to Gary's bared ass.
"Not my fault," Gary is protesting, bracing one hand on Matches's calf. Sweat
beads his hairline, his face is flushed nearly as dark as his buttocks, but his
voice remains fairly steady. "I didn't --"
Matches does not speak. He finishes the brandy and lobs it against the opposite
wall; the glass shatters against printed cabbage-roses and romping bunnies. His
hand rises and falls against Gary's ass, each smack resounding, his rings
imprinting the skin, dark as printer's ink, commas and exclamation points.
"Oh," Gary breathes, and, "*fuck*, fuck --" as he squirms on Matches's lap,
rubbing himself hard.
On the last swat, Matches's hand rests there, fingers spread, index finger
nestled up Gary's crack. He looks down at his handiwork, touches the ring-marks
and tests the heat of the skin.
"Why, baby?" he asks, and bats Gary's hand away from between his legs. "Why?"
Gary grunts, then whimpers as Matches pinches his buttocks, bringing up a
brighter flush, nearly stone-white, that soon sinks back into the brick-red.
"Why? Don't want to hurt you, just want you --"
Gary crawls, face down, until he's in the middle of the bed. His pants are
tangled below his knees, his shirt long since cast-off. "You don't get it.
Because you only get *this* --" He slaps the mattress and does not look to see
Matches shake his head.
"Just want --" Matches plants his knee on the edge of the bed, leans in,
kissing the small of Gary's back, tasting the heat of his hand, describing the
curve of ass with his broad tongue. "C'mon, baby boy, lemme --"
Gary rocks back, and up, fist pressed to one eye socket, sweat coating his
cheeks and shoulders. "Do whatever you want. You always do --"
Tongue down the crack, nose spreading the buttocks, Matches licks and sucks
until Gary's breathing trembles and his voice drops out, replaced by sucked-in
sighs and bangs of his palm against the bed.
"Bet Pete wouldn't do this," Matches says, working the tip of his thumb inside,
licking and wetting its entry, scraping his teeth over the grundle. "You want
him to make you feel this good? Never happen."
"Fuck, fuck, *fuck* --" Gary's thighs spread until he's reached impossible
angles, and his ass rises higher, shoving his face and chest into the bed.
"Could happen. It *could*."
Matches laughs, rolling his face in Gary's crack, tongue working furiously.
"He'd sooner fuck *me*, sugar."
Gary's arm flails outward, then down, hand seeking his dick. He pulls and
pulls. "Thinking about him right now. Right -- *fuck*."
If this is a performance, it requires an audience. Every con does, every game
needs its players. Pre-come shines on Gary's fist, saliva glows over Matches's
cheek, and they smile as one when the door flies open.
"You're both lying." In nearly the blink of an eye, Pete is at the side of the
bed, shirt open. "You both --"
"So show us the error of our ways," Matches says; he pulls Gary up onto his
knees.
The only truth to be had, anywhere in the vicinity, is on their skin. In the
fact of their bodies, arrayed like this, erections and sweat, grunts and wide,
dark eyes. Skin, its desire, is as close as any of them can get to the truth,
and for a moment, they're all caught there, in the afterglow of realization.
And then, finally, at last, snickering with impatience, Gary moves, hands
shaking as he tugs down Pete's trousers, smears them with pre-come, Matches
still holding him around the waist. They part, and eyes flicker upward, and
Pete falls between their bodies, arms outspread, accepting.
And this *does* count as truth, a body in each arm, two pairs of hands
stripping him, mouths moving over his throat and jaws. The smallest, slimmest,
of them by far, Gary gets up on one knee, and kisses Pete, fully, shuddering as
Pete scrapes a nail over one nipple and Matches sucks with teeth bared on the
other.
This has to count for something, the taste of them all over each other, and
Pete reclining between them, watching with one eye their hands interlaced up
and down his cock (together, they can enwrap it), his fingertips straying over
the muscles in Matches's shoulder, around the hollow at the small of Gary's
back.
Throughout, those two move together, as if this was choreographed and
discussed, but even when he shifts to upset that balance, when his hand closes
in Matches's pomaded hair and shoves him downward, they adjust. Together.
It's not together beyond two, but it ought to be, just now, temporary and
contingent as it is. Three, together, as Matches's cheeks hollow around the
slick head of Pete's cock and Gary's sharp little tongue darts down the shaft,
then over one testicle, teeth tugging at the hairs before he takes the entire
thing between his lips.
The heat of their mouths, their roving touch, form him, confirm and affirm some
truth below names and wardrobes. He could -- he *will* give himself over to
this, and them, together, even as he pulls free to change position.
The truth is something familiar -- scents and memories, unspoken names and
bitten-off grunts -- and unexpected, simultaneously. The hunger, its desperate,
gagging violence, is unexpected. As is the jerky rock of Matches's fist on his
own cock when Pete takes the boy in his arms and kisses the breath out of
Gary's lungs.
"Can't -- *sit*," the kid says, brow furrowing with frustration. So Pete holds
him upright, two fingers petting his crack. He reaches for Matches with the
other hand, pulls his hair until he's moving down, mouth open.
Pete shifts their bodies until the kid's rocking between them, moaning in
shock, swaying. He clenches down on Pete's two fingers when they cross inside
him, and jolts forward, fucking Matches's wide mouth. Pete's thumb curves up
the slick skin between back and front, brushing the tightening sac, squashing
it against Matches's chin, getting a quick lick over the nail. His own mouth
latches onto the kid's ear, tongue spinning out secrets, teeth closing around
the soft meat.
"Come on him," he's whispering as the kid's torso lengthens, ribs standing out,
and his wails slide up the scale. "Pull out. C'mon..."
He spreads apart his fingers, deep inside where it's as *plush* as it is tight,
then more widely. Gary's eyes wheel in his head as it hits Pete's shoulder and
he trembles, seizes, pumping, until he ejaculates three times, the come ropy
and voluminous, all over Matches's face.
In his eye, down his cheek, smeared over his upper lip.
When the kid shudders back to consciousness, and, cursing low and fast, Matches
has swiped himself relatively clean, Pete reaches for the man's cock.
"Nuh-uh, big boy," Matches mutters, biting his lip, shoving at Pete's shoulder.
The kid cannot be seen, not for the bulk of this sweaty man, kissing him even
as he fights the touch.
"Yes," Pete is saying, thrusting until his dickhead rubs against Matches's
pubes. "Yes, oh --"
Bumping shoulders, pulling hair, biting mouths and cheeks, hands on each
other's dicks, slippery together, aching apart, they wrestle for the upper
hand, panting and mauling. Balance is an awkward, passing thing, as they jerk
and pull, whisper and grunt against the other's tongue, his skin.
"I will know you" battles with "never, no", both equally true and
incommensurable as they fuck palms and fists. Entangled like this, balance
wavering and elbows catching flesh, they won't last long.
"Someday, I'll get my whole hand up here --" the boy says, grave and intent.
Behind Matches, hunkered like a sentinel, fingering him deep and rough.
It's *that* promise, its image -- wrist-deep inside, fist turning slow as the
earth -- that makes Matches come over Pete's groin. That yanks the pleasure out
of Pete, whites out his vision.
White brightens into the unwritten page, the uncarved plate, the promise of
nothing and all its possibilities.
*
Amnesia may be contrived, but it is also eminently convenient.
A week and a half later, and Superman visits the Bat-Cave on JLA business.
Arthur is being recalcitrant again, or perhaps Bialya's native population is in
revolt, or the Scottish Dadaist threatens the stability of reality yet again.
Whatever it is, they will, no doubt, take care of it.
What is less certain, far less so, is Superman's place here. What he should do,
if he *ought* to do anything, whether he needs to spare a careful word or two.
When Batman disappears into the laboratory to retrieve some data, Robin wanders
past, his boots off and jersey untucked. He glances at Superman from beneath
sharp bangs, his lips slightly curved.
At the foot of the stairs, he strips off the jersey and finds Superman's eyes
on him, still.
"Coming?" Robin asks, gaze flickering upward, shadows of bats in motion
whispering over his chest.
"I --" Superman folds his arms.
"You're needed," Batman says from behind him.
If there is manipulation at work, its agent is, as yet, unknown. Superman's
cape snaps as he rises in the air, carving a new shadow over the boy's chest.
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