Noir AU Part 1/6(?)

[icarus_chained]

 For the hell of it, and because I've always loved the genre, I've started a Bruce/Clark noir AU, set in an alternate Gotham circa 1948. Not everything will be period accurate, to warn you, but I do try.

Rating:  R, for violence this chapter

Pairing:  Bruce/Clark eventually, but mentions of Bruce/Selina, among others.

Warnings:  there will one major character death in later chapters, but just basic murder this one. Also, since I had to tone everything down a bit, Clark isn't exactly Superman here. Nor is Bruce exactly Batman. But they're close.

Summary:  "Two weeks ago I walked the darkest city in America. Two weeks ago I met the man of my dreams. Two weeks ago I was caught up in a web of treachery and murder to rival the best Raymond Chandler novel, embroiled in a story that beat out anything Metropolis had ever thrown at me. Two weeks ago I caused a woman's death. Two weeks ago, I was in Gotham."


Gotham Noir:  The Man with the Lonely Eyes

Chapter 1 : High Society

 There was a package waiting for me on my desk this morning. Not at the front desk, you understand, where the postman would have left it. On my desk, where no-one without a pass could have reached. That made me wary, right from the start. Made Lois wary too, come to that. We ain't either of us fools. In fact, the pair of us make one of the best investigative reporting teams in the world, handling everything from international crime to Metropolitan politics. Definitely the best team operating out of the Metropolis branch of the Daily Planet. And all that experience makes a body careful, you know?

Whatever concern we may have had turned out to be unwarranted, though. When I peeled back the layers of paper, opened the long shoe box they contained, the ticking bomb of our imaginations turned out to be nothing more sinister than a rose. At least, to Lois it wasn't sinister, nothing more than an excuse to send me sly and knowing looks. I knew better.

The black bloom drew a lot of admiring attention, especially from the ladies of the office, and a whole slew of giggled questions about who my secret admirer might be. I wondered what they'd say if I told them the truth. That it was a goodbye present, from another man in another city. The man with the lonely eyes. That it was a reminder, of one of the worst and best times of my life, two weeks ago this day.

Two weeks ago I walked the darkest city in America. Two weeks ago I met the man of my dreams. Two weeks ago I was caught up in a web of treachery and murder to rival the best Raymond Chandler novel, embroiled in a story that beat out anything Metropolis had ever thrown at me. Two weeks ago I caused a woman's death. Two weeks ago, I was in Gotham.

My name is Clark Kent. And this is the story of what happened those four January nights in Gotham. Four nights that changed my world forever.

***

It was a cold evening in Gotham the day we blew into town. A cold day for a cold city. If you've never walked the streets of Gotham, you won't know what I mean, but it's the truth. The Black Heart of America, they call her, the darkest city on the eastern seaboard, a raddled, schizophrenic old whore of a town, reaching up with broken, bejewelled fingers to grasp the sky. A city of beggars and billionaires, of psychopaths and philanthropists, of monsters and madmen and crazed clowns, and the ordinary, everyday folk just trying to stay alive. She has a pulse, Gotham, a dark and bloody thing throbbing beneath your feet as you walk her alleyways and avenues. The most criminal city in America, and I can quote you any crime statistic you care to name to prove it. More than that, I've seen it. Been a part of it.

But that first evening, I wasn't to know that. That evening, as the news blimp carried Lois and myself to the grand gala on the Gotham Towers Hotel, all I knew was that I was never going to look good in a suit, and that Lois was just itching to make trouble. The big glittering do we were heading for, with dignitaries and high-ups from all over the east coast, didn't sit well over the filth and crime of lower Gotham, and Lois had a stack of reports in her head just waiting to jump an unwary socialite. Like I said, Gotham's a schizophrenic old dame, but the higher you rise into her bright lights, the more the corruption and filth of the lower levels cling to your heels. There's no escape from crime in Gotham. None.

That night, though, she decided to be kind to us. As kind as she ever got, anyway. She wasn't so kind to everyone at that party, but that came later. First, you got to picture that place, that penthouse shindig. It was something to see.

When Gotham throws a party, she certainly does it in style. She has money to burn, seeded up from lowly corruption as well as honest enterprise, and she puts it out in style. There's a hard edge to the dazzle and shine of her elite, a sheen of diamond purity over a corrupt and rotten heart, and it showed that night. Walking into that room, you felt like Midas himself, like everything you touched turned to gold and gems beneath you, even as it died.

Great crystal chandeliers cast their shimmering light over the crowd through the cigarette haze, while big band jazz poured smokily out into the ballroom to mingle with the babble of inanities and the tinkling of polite female laughter. Dancers kept up a steady circulation at the center, pulling the rest of the crowd around it like so much social flotsam, and that great cycling mass was a-glitter with jewels, and beauties, and sober young men in their slim suits, and the more florid wear of the older generation. Champagne and brandy flowed like water, and the heated press of bodies seemed to float in a sea of gentle intoxication. I felt constricted just looking at it.

Lois, on the other hand, dived in without a qualm, elbowing for room where she needed it, flirting casually with any piece that caught her eye, smiling that sharp and predatory smile of hers at any bejewelled female that dared to try and ensnare her in pointless conversation. She cut a fine figure indeed, scything her way through the crowd, flaunting her tight, blackclad curves wherever it could provide a tactical advantage to do so, the bright calculation behind her eyes singling out the night's victims.

Is it any wonder I'm in such awe of her?

I wasn't the only one who noticed her that evening. Not half an hour into the proceedings, she had a devoted little coterie of besotted menfolk at her elbows, silly young pups who smiled desperately as she cut them down with velvet-lined repartie in front of their fellows, hunting for the real alpha in that dazzled pack. And she wasn't long in finding him. From my tentative perch over by the buffet, I had a fine view as the pack all but dissipated around her, and he stepped in.

You'd be hard pressed to find a woman in Gotham who wouldn't swoon for that man. Bruce Wayne, the biggest billionaire of them all, the playboy of the western world. Unlike the title character of that fine Irish play, however, old Brucie never had to kill his father. Gotham took care of that for him, and took his mother too, for good measure. Not that you'd know it from watching him. By all reports, the man was as shallow as he was rich, and too damned good-looking to care. But there was no denying he was a fine looker of a man, with a strong face, tousled black hair, and a lazy smile. He had the charm to go with it, too, a deft touch with words and a courteous hand. I was looking forward to see how he got on with Lois.

She played it smart, at first, accepting his arm and invitation to dance with a cool smile and easy appraisal, and got a flash of those perfect pearly whites as a reward. I think I was the only one in the room who caught her slight roll of the eyes as he looked ahead to lead them onto the dance floor. But I could be wrong.

"Well, there goes another one," came a low voice at my elbow, and I turned sharpish, into two sultry green eyes and a red mouth to make your knees go weak. I blinked a bit, as dazed as a cobra caught in a snakecharmer's gaze, and the woman let out a low rumble of a laugh, and bumped me casually aside with one shapely hip so she could reach the h'or d'oeuvres. I shuffled back in amazement at her audacity, and no little respect for the humour in her acknowledging smile. She scooped up a small pastry, and polished it off in no time at all, taking the time to slowly kiss the crumbs off one delicate red fingernail, and winking at me while she was at it. I pushed my glasses back up my nose, and grinned back. Damn, but she knew how to flirt with a man.

"Selina Kyle," she murmured richly, holding out one pale hand for me to kiss, like I was an old-fashioned knight in shining armour. It would have been churlish of me to refuse the gesture.

"Clark Kent."

"The reporter," she exclaimed, with a fair reproduction of delight. "Metropolis' finest, I do declare!"

"Ma'am! You're embarrassing me," I murmured back, smiling, and sketched a little bow for the fun of it. Her eyes sparkled.

"Am I now?" she mused. "Well, we mustn't allow that, must we? Please accept my humble apologies, Mr Kent. Old habits die hard, you know."

"I'm sure they do." I had to laugh. "What was it you were saying, just now?"

The sparkle in her eyes dimmed a bit, and she looked back out over the dance floor. "Oh, yes. I was saying that there falls another fair flower, Mr Kent. You'd think they'd know better. That man is poison."

I followed her gaze to where Bruce Wayne expertly swayed Lois around the dance floor, that easy smile haunting his lips as he appeared to parry her every conversational sally with either the luck of an idiot, or more skill than his reputation would have credited him. I frowned, turning back to the woman at my side.

"What do you mean?"

She flicked a measuring glance at my face, then went back to watching them with a curl of distaste in one corner of her shapely mouth. "Bruce Wayne. The man with a thousand smiles, and all of them false. It's death to a woman's heart to fall for him. He'll buy you any dream you wish, but he won't keep you, and he won't ever give you his heart in return. If your friend over there thinks she's going to be the first to get a hold on him, she's mistaken. No woman can even touch his heart, let alone hold on to it. That's providing he has one left in the first place."

"Voice of experience?" I asked gently, and she blushed a little, letting the acid drop from her tone.

"I thought I had him once, yes," she whispered, one painted hand coming up to brush nervously at the neckline of her satin dress, the red nails fading into its deeper crimson. "I thought he was going to take me away to live in a fairytale castle."

"What happened?" Though I knew, of course. She smiled sadly.

"What always happens, Mr Kent? A young woman's dreams are shattered, and she goes on to live her life anyway. It's the first lesson on the learning curve to survival, especially in Gotham. You never let your dreams blind you to the reality of the world. Walk around blindfolded in this city, and you're like never to see the morning again. I'd get your friend away from him, that's all I'm saying. Before she gets hurt."

I thanked her for the advice, touching her elbow gently in silent commiseration. It ain't easy, to be a beautiful woman in a city like that. The spirit behind those curves too often gets broken out from under you, leaving only a false smile, and the glitter of shattered dreams. Selina Kyle wasn't unique in that, though the humour with which she wore her world-weary cloak marked her out as something special still. But as she sashayed away with a sly smile tossed back for me to catch, I have to admit I wasn't so sure of her advice.

I'd noticed something, you see. Something I don't think anyone ever cared to notice before. Watching my partner dance with this heartless man, I didn't see the hand he curled in perfectly judged possessiveness in the small of her back, or the low and playful laughter that slipped easily from him, or the curve of lips well used to smiling. Looking above all that, watching as he listened with shallow attentiveness to Lois' diatribe on how he was a symbol of the worst forms of social inequality, I only saw that his eyes were the loneliest I'd ever seen. And when he leaned down suddenly, to shut Lois up by the only effective means available to him, there was a kind of sadness to the gesture, if you thought to look for it.

I stared after him as he tapped her nose in a calculatedly patronising manner, and prowled off among his squal of admirers, and wondered why a man with the intelligence to be lonely would bother with the shallow niceties of his public persona. Who had shattered Bruce Wayne's dreams, I wondered. And why?

***

Now that I've introduced you to most of the major players in that night's drama, I guess it's time for you to meet the star of it all. The big man himself, the reason two of Metropolis' best reporters were sipping champagne and making small talk with the gaudy excesses of the Gotham social scene. You didn't think that was our usual milleu, did you? Hardly.

The man in question was one Andre Weiss, a millionaire of mixed European heritage, and a hefty reputation in the gem trade. The 'Diamond Dog', in the colourful terms of the gutter press, and the man we'd all come to see that night. Or rather, the man with the diamond we'd all come to see. Let's be honest here. Weiss himself was a corpulent sack of wind, with an ego only his bank balance matched in size. No-one in their right minds would go anywhere just to see him. But the Sehri-At, the white diamond of the plains, that was a different story. The rock had been in his private collection for years, inherited through three generations of close-minded family, rather dubiously if you believed some of the stories. Gotham was hungry for her first glimpse of the fabled stone, and she wasn't alone.

The gala was the grand unveiling of Weiss' baby, his treasured jewel, where he was finally about to donate the diamond to the Gotham Museum after nearly 100 years of tenacious familial loyalty to its safety. Speculation was rife as to the why of it, though most sources agreed that there was some dark secret buried somewhere to prompt the donation of so valued an item. I was inclined to agree. Nobody parts with something like that until they've got no other avenues open to them. Weiss was in trouble. Everyone knew that. They just didn't know how, or from who. Which was a fact that made what happened that night all the more difficult.

I'm getting ahead of myself, of course, but then you all knew where this event was going to end. The first moment I opened my mouth, you knew this wasn't going to be no happy tale. Well, you were right.

The thing of it was, no-one saw what happened. No-one at all, save the killer and his victim. And Weiss knew it was coming, all right. When they found him, hunting him up for his big speech, nobody had any doubts that he had known what was happening to him.

The screaming alerted us first. Not that I blame her, but the maid had one hell of a pair of lungs, and she wasn't shy about using them. She cannoned into me as she streaked down from the upstairs suite, and when I regained my footing I turned after her with some vague idea that she might need help, but a woman in white had already seen to it, holding the distressed young lady gently by the arm, and murmuring soothing sounds in her ear. Once I saw she was alright, I turned back to the stairs, along with some of the braver souls, or maybe just the morbidly curious ones. Lois was in the front line, of course, having shimmied her way to the fore in a way my greater bulk would never have allowed. Bruce Wayne was at her heels, a man at his side that I recognised as the current Police Commissioner, Gordon. He was the only appropriate police presence at such a prestigious event, a role society dumped on those in authority and lapped up by most of Gotham's civil service. But I had to credit this man with the professionalism that instantly inhabited his every motion.

We expected a murder, after that scream, and we weren't disappointed. We also expected a theft, because it was only sensible, but there things went skewed.

The sight that greeted us as the four of us burst in the door stopped everyone in their tracks, though the pile of pushing bodies behind us caused some upset. An irritated snap of Wayne's fingers sorted that out fairly rapid, though. When pushed, there was an air of command to that playboy that brooked no argument. But the grisly scene itself gave most of the glory-seekers pause.

With economical movements, Gordon moved everybody back to the door. There was quite obviously nothing to be done for Weiss. When a man's head is resting some three feet from his neck, it's a reasonably sure sign that he ain't going to be getting up the next morning. It was a crime-scene, pure and simple. But even that wouldn't have been enough to so completely stun even the cop. No, it was the obscene, and somehow absurd, addition to his bulging features that shocked and horrified. I said the robbery we were expecting didn't happen. That's true. The Sehri-At was right there in front of us.

Protruding from between the man's blued and battered lips, sitting pretty on his blackened tongue.

Gordon had called in a homicide squad in no time at all, no doubt the celebrity status of the victim prompting so rapid a response. But that's just the cynicism talking. That happens to you, in Gotham. No-one stays optimistic very long. And Gordon's boys were professional in every respect. They didn't even sneer too much at all the swooning socialites, and I was tempted to that myself. Most of them hadn't even seen the thing. The mere thought that such unpleasantness could have happened in their austere midst was appalling enough. But even they were better than the avid questions of some, the morbid delight at the scandal that burned in their eyes and fleshy faces. It was enough to turn your stomach, even after the numbing effects of the sight upstairs.

But the night's little dramas weren't quite over yet. Not for me at least. There was one final scene that caught my eye and came back to haunt me in the coming days.

After we'd had our statements taken, as Lois and I were leaving for the apartments we were renting in Gotham for the night, I happened to look into the lounge off the hotel foyer. And I had to stop.

Selina Kyle, vibrant and alluring as she'd been upstairs, was standing in the center of the room, teetering on her high, red heels so she could get right up and spit in her companion's face. In Bruce Wayne's face. And the billionaire didn't even blink, only took hold of one of her wrists and shook her gently. She snarled at him.

"I told you! All that was done, ages ago! I told you, you rich bastard! Now let me the hell go!"

He stared down at her for a long moment, something hard and undefinable in his suddenly glacial eyes, before he silently released her, and stepped back. She backed away from him, never taking her eyes off his face. There was something small about her, in that moment, something fragile, and I was taken by the need to protect her. From him, from whatever haunted her. But Lois was tugging at my arm, and Wayne had turned away, turned back into the hotel, walking away. And she reached out a hand behind his back, a desperate gesture, quickly aborted.

"I was telling the truth, Bruce," she whispered, so low and lost I barely heard her, but he paused in the doorway and half turned, that strange sadness slipping back over his shadowed features.

"I know," was all he said. And it was enough to break her. She watched him leave, shrinking and abandoned, and the proud cast of her features only served to highlight her desolation. That was the last time I ever saw her, before an impatient Lois finally pulled me away, and there's little I've regretted more than that sad and lonely fact. But the night moves in ugly ways in Gotham, and you can't change the past. You can only try to live with it.

Chapter 2: Down These Mean Streets

Also has a Selina & J'onn, Bruce/Selina short prequel in the form of Gotham Noir: Whiskey On The Rocks