Our Girl in Gotham (SV/DCU: Chloe/Dick)
Title: Our Girl in Gotham
Fandom: SV/DCU
Pairing: Chloe/Dick
Rating: T
Words: Just under 5000, like, omg
Notes: Written for ethrosdemon's A Very Small(ville) Crisis: a DCU in the Smallvilleverse challenge. I know nearly jack about DCU, outside of random JLU and some Batman movies, so if this blows on the Gotham factor, that's why. Don't blam resmin or anyone else that valiantly tried to help my sorry ass. But really, in the end it's all about Chloe.
Total crack reworking of SV canon up through S5. I followed the DC lead and here you go. Dick is modeled after Mike Erwin, because resmin always has the best ideas. Alexei, Mikhail, and Miss Yvonne are scarily close to real life people, minus the heavy Russian influence. That comes from somewhere else. The Russian translations are off the web, so if you know the correct just let me know. I know I might be wrong, but hey, send it in a private email. Polite like, y'know? Okay, I think that's it.
A/N: And this is what it is. Fun, not meant to be anything. Sorry, I think any Chloe talent left a long, long time ago and now everything is just for giggles.
Chloe knows Perry is particularly annoyed with her when he starts ranting about how some hick kid from Smallville left him at the town's railroad tracks. It sounds slightly deranged to the rest of the newsroom, but they don't know Perry like she does. Their first meeting occurred at a disastrous point in his career and he had not been favorably disposed to share his wisdom with a certain overly curious, snarky high school reporter. Upon mutual, un-spoken agreement, she and Perry never bring it up, but this particular rant is Perry's way of reminding her that she too could be writing stories about mutated yams with a snap of a finger.
But after a few outbursts Chloe learned where Perry kept his Bromo Seltzer and ever since, she's had a packet ready when he takes a moment to breathe -- then she steps back, crosses her arms, and waits for Perry to calm down. Invariably he does; Chloe is way more scared of Perry's eagle-eyed stare than of his bellowing.
"Sullivan," he says after finishing an especially loud outburst. "Did you have to compare the city manager's wife to a remora?"
"She's benefiting from his position! Her company's involved in 70% of the major public buildings project in the city."
"Contracted through fair and open negotiations, as far as we can tell. Where's the paper trail?"
"Right under your nose! Sniff, you can still smell the White Out!"
Perry sits back in his chair and groans, but Chloe just continues to talk over him.
"I know this type of thing is everyday business in Gotham, but this is Metropolis, Perry."
"And we should be better; yeah, yeah, I've heard it before. Five years out kid, and you've still got that shine on. Still fighting for truth, justice and the American way?"
She tries to look indignant, going so far as to tap her foot in her knock-off boots, the pointy toe making a satisfying sound on the cracked linoleum floor, but she knows he's right.
Chloe wants to tell him that it's hard to break old habits, even when she's seen enough to change her mind. She wants to tell him about how she found the body of her cousin, Lois, cold and stiff with rigor after a Russian mob lieutenant found out they were close to busting him for the murders of countless erotic dancers. She wants to tell him that while Lois' death was a tragedy, it was even worse to know that she hadn't been the last.
And that was just during her freshman year of college, she'd been plenty busy before and after.
She's seen the good, the bad, and the ugly, but no matter how cold her cynical heart becomes, Chloe has never quite been able to shake off the influence of her own messianic Kansas farm boy. For some, the memory of Clark Kent hangs around like a canker -- she and Perry are living proof.
"Kid, I know just the place for you."
If Perry is going to offer her the Big Bad World, by god, she's going to take it.
*
Our Girl in Gotham, read the card, tucked neatly in amongst a bouquet of Gerber daisies.
Cute, Perry, very cute.
*
The railroad tracks in Metropolis divide the city, wealthy and gleaming separated from working class and merely ordinary by lines of wood and iron. It took time for Chloe to get used to the division when she returned; in Smallville the railroad tracks merely separated field from field. But in her new home, the tracks of Gotham ran right next to her small converted warehouse apartment, rattling the dishes and shaking her precious few pictures off the walls.
But she learns to love the trains with their link to an idealized past, symbolizing so much to so many. And eventually she learns to let them lull her to sleep, despite their whistles and low mechanical rumbling. A good thing too, she needs all the sleep she can get -- dodging muggers, lobbyists and homicidal maniacs takes more energy than she expected. But she's getting good stories, though her initial messages are short, to the point, and not skimping on the snark.
From: sullivanc@metroexaminer.com
To: whitep@metroexaminer.com
October 24
Isn't this why we have the wire service?
November 3
Why didn't you just send me to Honduras? I bet it's cheaper.
November 15
A bat, Perry. A giant vigilante rodent!
From: whitep@metroexaminer.com
To: sullivanc@metroexaminer.com
November 16
IT'S CALLED COLOR, SULLIVAN. COMMENTATE. TAKE ADVANTAGE -- WE DON'T HAVE ANY.
From: sullivanc@metroexaminer.com
To: whitep@metroexaminer.com
November 16
Commentate? Are you sure you're an editor?
From: whitep@metroexaminer.com
To: sullivanc@metroexaminer.com
re: smartassery
Writers write, Sullivan. Editors...are God.
Go talk to that Wayne guy. You'll like him, he defines "color".
*
True to form, "talking to that Wayne guy" turns out to be easier said than done. She's been spoiled by the likes of Lex Luthor, a magnate that at least knows how to schmooze the media -- if not manipulate it outright -- so she does it old school, spending days calling around town, out-of-town even, trying to find a way to snag an interview with what is an increasingly Howard Hughes-like Bruce Wayne. In the end she even spends a day stalking around Wayne Tower, trying to catch him coming out of a meeting or anything, but in the end she has nothing to show for all her efforts but scuffed shoes, a sore ear, and a healthy dose of demoralization. She decides that the next day, if she doesn't make any progress she'll do something drastic, like pounce on him as he collects the morning paper.
Tonight though, she's going to The Heretic, because if she can't get Wayne for a story, The Heretic is her next best bet for juicy material. It's a typical bar for Gotham, she's learned. A basic hole in the wall, almost literal in fact, as the main door is rough-hewn out of the alley wall. It boasts stiff drinks, a questionable reputation, a juke box that doesn't skip, and it happens to be located within convenient distance to the Gotham waterfront, in case anything needs to be disposed of quickly. She's spent most of her adult, professional career in places like The Heretic, so much so that blanketed smoke and sticky bar tables are just as much a part of her job as a Crackberry and The Chicago Manual of Style.
She's just settling into her second drink when a man sits down two stools to her right. She spies him out of the corner of her eye, and she wonders why he chose that stool out of the whole length of bar. It's not very crowded tonight and patrons seem to prefer the tables and booths, so Chloe's hackles rise for a reason. She takes a sip of her drink, and casually glances over just as he flags down Pedro the bartender.
Pedro seems to know the man's order and just nods to him on the way past, but the mystery man holds up two fingers and adds, "Make it double, man." His voice is young and pleasant, and it matches his appearance. Perfect skin just this side of pale, dark hair, sideburns, authentic-with-damage black motorcycle jacket, and jeans. He'd be completely normal and non-descript if he wasn't kinda cute.
Huh.
"Careful, I could be a serial killer."
Chloe is startled out of her evaluation. "What?"
"Charming, handsome, mysterious" he turned to her with a knowing smile. "Women should be careful sitting next to a guy like me."
Snorting, Chloe answers, "Shows what you know -- guys should be careful sitting next to a girl like me. Besides, how do I know you're charming? Or handsome for that matter?"
He arches an eyebrow at that, the corner of his mouth quirking up. The guy drops his eyes, and proceeds to size her up from the tips of her scuffed boots to her split ends. Seemingly satisfied, he extends his hand.
"Dick."
"Excuse me?" She starts for a second, but it doesn't faze him.
"That's my name."
"Okay," she pauses, recovering. "Chloe." His handshake is firm; he doesn't pull any punches just because she's a girl. She likes that.
"Sorry to break it to you, Chloe. But you don't look that dangerous."
"Oh, it's still early yet. Wait till tomorrow morning." She tries for predatory, a smile learned by too much time with Lex during her formative years.
*
An hour later and he still doesn't believe her.
"Let me get this straight," he says, tipping his beer glass towards her as he holds it much more casually than an hour before. "Frozen boy, missile silo, possession by vengeful and psycho prom queen?"
"And a seventeenth century witch with remarkable fashion sense. And that was just high school. Yeah."
They're both leaning over the small table, stupid grins firmly in place. Chloe's a happy drunk, and she's happier still to discover that Dick is one too. Or at least he seems to be. All wariness is gone and Chloe hasn't felt this connected in a long time. It's making her all warm and fuzzy inside, but that could just be the alcohol.
"So, I could be risking my life, right now, as we speak?" The gleam in Dick's eyes belays the seriousness of the question.
"Maybe. Someone could've gotten my forwarding address." When she leans forward he leans back, appraising her. Chloe stays where she is, a slow smile spreading across her face, her cheeks hot and god, she hasn't blushed in how long? But then again, it's not every day that a sharp and hot guy looks at her like this, like he's picturing her clothes scattered all over his apartment, or what sound she might make when he nips at the inside of her thigh, soothing the hurt with a broad swipe of his tongue --
She could definitely deal with that. Chloe's smile grows sharper, and that's when Dick leans back in, his face so close she can feel his breath on her face.
"Want to get out of here?"
"Not a serial killer?"
He shakes his head, grinning.
"No mutant powers?"
"Not a one."
"Any ancient prophecies concerning your family?"
"Just that we're all extraordinarily limber."
Christ, she'd forgotten flirting could be so much fun.
"I think you just passed muster."
"Cool. I love it when I do that."
*
And as they walk out the door, Chloe a few conscious steps behind, it becomes apparent to her that he wasn't kidding about the limber part. Dick moves like an athlete, but unlike any athlete she's ever seen. Strong and lithe, muscular yet light, and she gets the feeling that he can will his body to do just about anything.
That's extremely promising.
It's not like she's been hurting for guys over the last few years, but since Lois' death she hasn't found someone she really clicked with. Good sex is one thing, a thing she's not going to turn down, but good sex with someone you still want to see the morning after? Even better. And maybe Dick isn't either one of those. Maybe he's really bad in bed, but Chloe's fingers tingle when she's close to him, like now, with her arm linked through his. The snow is falling and she should be chilled, but walking like this, chatting and laughing and all the while dancing with the expectation of what's to come -- it's a heady mix, and if she wasn't intoxicated before, she surely is now.
She's moments into a comment regarding the BBC World Service when Dick suddenly takes her elbow and spins her round, pulls her into the alley they are just passing. As he holds her against the wall, she can tell he knows what he's doing because he's not hurting her at all, even though they're pressed tightly together, his lips against her temple, and her wrists grasped in his hands.
Another piece of the puzzle falls into place with a tiny clink. "What --"
"Shhh," he quiets her. "Two lieutenants of the Stoyanovich family just exited a building half a block up."
"Stoyanovich? The 'In Soviet Russia, Cement Shoes Wear You!' Stoyanovich's?"
Distracted while watching the street for the lieutenants, Dick doesn't feel the first moves Chloe makes to get free. By the time he does notice, she is halfway out of his embrace, squirming for all she's worth.
"What are you doing?" he whispers harshly.
"I've got a score to settle with that family. I need to follow them, find out what they're up to." Because they were always up to something.
He looks at her with a peculiar look on his face, and then it's gone.
"That makes two of us."
She opens her mouth to speak, but before words can come out Dick's speaking again.
"But nothing's going to be served by the two of us rushing in there like berserkers. And I don't know about you, but I came weapons-lite tonight." He grins at her, all charm and resolve, making a promise.
And then there's a screech of tires nearby, the sound of glass breaking and metal slip-sliding against each other. Instinctively, she turns her head to look. When she turns back, there are no shoulders under her hands, no eyes to get lost in. Vanished into heavy, cold air.
She blinks, once, twice and then she stamps her foot on the ground, mittened hands curled into fists at her side.
"Dammit! Not again!"
*
Strong, smart, and and certainly capable of getting home on her own, Chloe doesn't have any fears about walking home alone, in the dark, on what isn't exactly the best side of town. Hell, she and Clark had played "Damsel in Distress" on the streets of Suicide Slums before she was able to drink legally, a ten block hike from The Heretic to her warehouse apartment isn't that big of a deal. Besides, as pissed off as she is at the moment, the one to mess with her would have to be a fool with a card-carrying death wish.
She shakes her head and tucks her scarf back into place. Another guy with a hero complex and the moves to back it up, it's just her luck. Years of being left in the lurch by Clark, while not leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, had acquainted her with the realities of life with the extraordinary. Much like dating a rock star, it sounded cool at the start, but then you started finding thongs everywhere and had to listen to endless conversations regarding wah pedals. The luster wore off, and quickly.
Going over the evening in her mind, Chloe starts picking out little things that she would've noticed earlier, had she not been distracted. That particular brand of hedging around a question, direction of interest to everything but them, and huh, maybe the extra large belt buckle should've been a clue too. Clark Kent might be off trekking across the Himalayas looking for himself, but he can still manage to curse her life. Damn him, he made her a superhero magnet and they make the worst boyfriends ever.
Smacking her forehead, Chloe huffs, "What kind of hero leaves the girl in Aparo Park?"
"The kind that's not worth the tights he prances around in."
A large arm wraps around her body while the man's right hand holds the handkerchief over her mouth. Seconds later, she's already well on her way to passing out. Her last thought before collapsing completely in the stranger's arms is, "Wow. How very old school of you."
*
Chloe wakes to a pounding headache, burning eyes and worst of all, a crick in her neck. The Russian voices around her sound casual, as if a blonde American girl is dropped in their midst every day. This, on second thought and remembering Lois in particular, might not be boding well for her future.
Finally gathering the wherewithal to sit up on the loveseat, Chloe untucks her legs and looks around the room. Rich reds and golds attract her eyes, and heavy dark furniture ground the room. All in all, it's a perfect compliment to the brawny Russian men that stand around her, paying her absolutely no mind, until one man, slighter than the rest, pokes his head out from behind a goon and beams at her.
"Ah! My zaychik! How are you feeling?" he asks in heavily accented Russian.
Chloe blinks, confused. "You're certainly friendly for a kidnapper."
He laughs at that, and after a beat, so does everyone else. Sitting beside her, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, like her father used to do. "You misunderstand, my dear. No kidnapping, you are here to help me."
She's recovering slowly, but now that she has a better look at the man, she knows exactly which lion's den she's been dropped into. Stiffening her spine and putting on her best "I Stood Up to Lionel Luthor and Lived to Tell About It" face, she says hello to her deluded host.
"Hello, Mr. Stoyanovich."
His smile widens. "Good, good. You know who I am."
"Of course I do. Your nephew murdered my cousin."
Alexei Stoyanovich's face falls for a moment, but the smile returns though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Yes, yes." He stands and makes his way over to the bar on the other side of the room. The rest of the men in the room, goons and non-goons alike, stay where they are, some watching her, some watching Alexei.
In his early 50s, he's a relatively young man to be head of the family, but Chloe's heard of his reputation. Strong, ruthless and extremely intelligent. He is the OCB's worst nightmare, a Boss that knows how to bide his time. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for all the family members. The murdering nephew, Vasili, has no such control.
Stoyanovich pours two fingers of vodka into a crystal tumbler and offers Chloe the same, but she declines. He continues talking, rapidly and almost happily, as he crosses the room and settles on a matching sofa across from her, an antique coffee table between them. "My nephew, Vasili, he is a brute. A costly nuisance I would rather dispose of permanently, you see."
Chloe's starting to catch on. "You want me to do it? Kill your monster of a relative? You're --"
"He is brilliant, and thoughtful."
Chloe shifts her gaze to another man, coming from one of the other rooms. He's about the same age as Stoyanovich, tall and slender like Alexei, but dark to Alexei's fair hair and skin.
"Oh, Mikhail," Alexei laughs. "Come here, properly introduce yourself to our guest," Alexei pats the space beside him.
"Yes, yes. So impatient, Alexei." As he weaves through the maze of bodyguards and yes-men, Chloe catches glimpses of something -- something Mikhail is carrying on a pillow. A little fuzzy grey thing that looks like it's seen better days. But it's not until Mikhail sits gracefully next to Alexei that Chloe makes a positive identification.
Alexei, noticing her attention to the pillow in Mikhail's lap, beams. "Oh, she is our baby."
Starring open mouthed already, Chloe doesn't have the heart to ask, "Baby what?"
Patting the ball of fluff, Alexei coos to it softly. "Miss Yvonne? Miss Yvonne, it's time for dinner."
The thing wakes up then, and raises its pitiful head; a teacup poodle, ancient and wilting, one closed, one eye open and utterly beloved by these two men. Chloe doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, but just then one of the goons brings out a crystal dish, reminiscent of a cocktail glass and exactly the right size for this mournful creature, and places it on the coffee table in front of Mikhail.
"Spasiba, Grisha. Now Chloe," Alexei continues after thanking his minion, "Vasili must be dealt with. I, of course," he smiles grimly and watches as Mikhail carefully carries Miss Yvonne from her place on the pillow and places her in front of her food dish.
This is the strangest meeting she's ever been to, by far. She's pretty certain that even Lex would be put out by the level of oddity going on at the moment.
"I have my own resources," Alexei continues, getting back to the subject at hand. "But you, you have a blood oath of revenge to consider."
"There's no blood oath --" she tries to correct him. Several dozen vehement swearings and minor destruction of property yes, but --
Alexei merely waves off her protests. "Nevertheless, I suspect you will gain a larger degree of satisfaction from his death than I. For me, merely business." Alexei shrugs, then picks up Miss Yvonne and places her back on the pillow, her one eye starring eerily at Chloe.
"Please consider my offer, Miss Sullivan. If you are indeed interested, he will be preparing for his newest project --"
"Insane! Really, Alexei, octopus?" Mikhail mutters, before Alexei places a silencing hand on his knee.
"As I was saying -- His newest project is rather, elaborate, but the loading of his submarine will begin tomorrow evening at eleven, Pier 23."
"Subma --" is all she's able to get out before the world goes black for the second time that night.
*
She wakes to the smell of coffee and hot, fried pastry, and powdered sugar. It's like waking up in her own personal Candyland, the only problem being that she doesn't remember getting home -- she can feel her big toe poking through her ratty chenille blanket -- much less getting home. And Christ but does she has a raging headache, and the heavy footsteps resounding through her apartment aren't helping.
Wait. Coffee? Footsteps? Edible food?
"Whoever's out there, I have a Tazer and good aim, instruments of blunt force trauma, and a headache. You do not want to proceed with the home invasion!"
A black motorcycle boot pushes her bedroom door open, just enough for the top of a curly black head to poke in. "God, you're cranky in the morning."
"Dick?"
Dick pokes his head around the door, "At your service."
His grin of self-satisfaction fades as Chloe jumps out of bed and starts stalking towards him. She may be cute and tiny, but Chloe knows how to work irritation to her advantage. "What are you doing here? Did you bring me home? How did you bring me home? Wait," she says, holding up her hand, picturing flights through the air on tiny black cords, "I don't want to know."
And then she notices she's only wearing a tank top and her old gym shorts, the ones with MetU spelled out on the ass, a present from Lana that never successfully disappeared. Chloe narrows her eyes at Dick, once again looking quite pleased with himself. "This was your idea?"
"You were remarkable dexterous considering," he shrugs. "You wiggled yourself out of your clothes and into that; I just picked it out."
Chloe snorts, "Yeah, well, it's bad enough." She throws a robe on and starts pushing him out of her room, towards the smell of coffee. If she's going to have to interrogate someone, it's better to be prepared.
"Is your name really Dick?" Because wow, if he picked that as an alias?
"Dick Grayson."
She pauses for a moment while Dick leans against the counter, sipping his coffee like he does this every morning.
"Dick Grayson. Bruce Wayne's Dick Grayson?" The final piece clicks into place.
He does a spit take at that and looks at her with wide eyes. "Could you find another way to put that?"
"Maybe. So, you, at The Heretic? Coincidence?"
"What do you think?"
"I think no, but I like to keep an open mind."
"You, a reporter of unknown quantity, were poking around Bruce Wayne." Dick crosses the kitchen, leans around her to grab a beignet, and then stands in front of her, powdered sugar falling all around him as he finishes off the pastry in two bites. "He tends to get a little nervous about that," he adds, licking his fingers clean. "You needed to be vetted, and that's where I came in."
"Uh huh, private detective," Chloe rolls her eyes.
"Hey, close enough to the truth in this case."
"And the rest of it?"
It's only a half a step and a fraction of a second before he's stepping in, kissing her. He tastes of confection, coffee and something she's come to identify as singularly Gotham. There is no hesitation in his kisses; he wants her to know that he means it, and when one hand settles at the small of her back, the curve of her ass, pulling her closer to him, all doubts are erased. Her hands clutch at his leather jacket when he pulls away, and if she's a little dizzy, she palms it off on the fact that she hasn't eaten anything yet.
"Does that answer your questions, because I gotta tell you, this isn't how I normally like to spend a --"
"One more thing," she assures him. "How did you get me away from Stoyanovich's men?"
She smiles like she's just eaten the proverbial canary. Truly speechless, Dick can only stand there gaping at her while Chloe laughs. "C'mon, Boy Wonder, give me a little credit. You're not the only one with deductive skills. Besides," she says as she leads him out of the kitchen, "You're not my first."
*
The arrest of Vasili Stoyanovich breaks Gotham City wide open. It's a reporter's field day, and Chloe is right in the mix, even scoring a hitherto unheard of exclusive with Alexei Stoyanovich himself. The details of the arrest, the charges -- murders stretching from Metropolis to Blüdhaven, arms smuggling, racketeering, and most shocking of all, unlicensed genetic experimentation -- provide water cooler conversation like never before.
Chloe arrives at the Metropolis Examiner like a conquering hero; Perry even gives her a hug. She makes him promise never, ever to do it again.
They sit down in his office to go over her stories, and more importantly, so Chloe can dish the dirt that isn't fit to print.
"So, Vasili is hand delivered to the GCPD with a nice little bow, now is he? Interesting."
Perry's fishing and Chloe knows it, remains passive. Non-committal 'hmmms' are all she'll give.
"Are you sure Uncle Alexei didn't tell you anything else. Speak in some kind of Russian code you couldn't comprehend?"
"No, he wasn't dropping hints. He was actually quite broken up about it all, despite what some of the other papers were reporting."
"Right. It's curious though," he says, leaning back in the leather chair, feet on his desk. "Your cousin is listed as one of the victims. You never mentioned that, Chloe."
"Didn't know about it," she lies. "Her murder was always a mystery. We were in a bad part of town and I didn't get a look at the guy who took her. I had no idea it was Stoynaovich."
"Right. You need to brush up on your fibbing skills, kid. That time in Gotham made you go soft. Now, what's this about a mutant octopus in Gotham Harbor?"
*
The sunsets over Gotham produce some brilliant, but really weird effects. To Chloe it looks like a child's finger-painting, but she sits back and relaxes anyway, enjoying the sounds drifting up from the street below. She's just closed her eyes and is trying to Zen out when someone's knee knocks her shoulder.
"Hey." Dick sits down and hands her a small tinfoil package. "Alfred had these made these for you."
She opens the foil to find three beignets; a crinkle of foil tells her that Dick has the other half.
"Did you remember the coffee?"
He shakes his head, grinning madly. "Champagne." In a thermos.
"Did Alfred let you get away with that?"
"Hey, give me some credit. I --"
She pulls him in for a kiss, slick and hot and promising and it warms her down to her toes in the chilled evening air. They finish their beignets and champagne and watch the sunset over the harbor, mutant octopus long gone to Cadmus Labs.
Later, when the sun has gone down, Chloe leads them down to her apartment and fulfills her promise. Gotham has been good to her; she'll be good to it.
-end-
Fandom: SV/DCU
Pairing: Chloe/Dick
Rating: T
Words: Just under 5000, like, omg
Notes: Written for ethrosdemon's A Very Small(ville) Crisis: a DCU in the Smallvilleverse challenge. I know nearly jack about DCU, outside of random JLU and some Batman movies, so if this blows on the Gotham factor, that's why. Don't blam resmin or anyone else that valiantly tried to help my sorry ass. But really, in the end it's all about Chloe.
Total crack reworking of SV canon up through S5. I followed the DC lead and here you go. Dick is modeled after Mike Erwin, because resmin always has the best ideas. Alexei, Mikhail, and Miss Yvonne are scarily close to real life people, minus the heavy Russian influence. That comes from somewhere else. The Russian translations are off the web, so if you know the correct just let me know. I know I might be wrong, but hey, send it in a private email. Polite like, y'know? Okay, I think that's it.
A/N: And this is what it is. Fun, not meant to be anything. Sorry, I think any Chloe talent left a long, long time ago and now everything is just for giggles.
Chloe knows Perry is particularly annoyed with her when he starts ranting about how some hick kid from Smallville left him at the town's railroad tracks. It sounds slightly deranged to the rest of the newsroom, but they don't know Perry like she does. Their first meeting occurred at a disastrous point in his career and he had not been favorably disposed to share his wisdom with a certain overly curious, snarky high school reporter. Upon mutual, un-spoken agreement, she and Perry never bring it up, but this particular rant is Perry's way of reminding her that she too could be writing stories about mutated yams with a snap of a finger.
But after a few outbursts Chloe learned where Perry kept his Bromo Seltzer and ever since, she's had a packet ready when he takes a moment to breathe -- then she steps back, crosses her arms, and waits for Perry to calm down. Invariably he does; Chloe is way more scared of Perry's eagle-eyed stare than of his bellowing.
"Sullivan," he says after finishing an especially loud outburst. "Did you have to compare the city manager's wife to a remora?"
"She's benefiting from his position! Her company's involved in 70% of the major public buildings project in the city."
"Contracted through fair and open negotiations, as far as we can tell. Where's the paper trail?"
"Right under your nose! Sniff, you can still smell the White Out!"
Perry sits back in his chair and groans, but Chloe just continues to talk over him.
"I know this type of thing is everyday business in Gotham, but this is Metropolis, Perry."
"And we should be better; yeah, yeah, I've heard it before. Five years out kid, and you've still got that shine on. Still fighting for truth, justice and the American way?"
She tries to look indignant, going so far as to tap her foot in her knock-off boots, the pointy toe making a satisfying sound on the cracked linoleum floor, but she knows he's right.
Chloe wants to tell him that it's hard to break old habits, even when she's seen enough to change her mind. She wants to tell him about how she found the body of her cousin, Lois, cold and stiff with rigor after a Russian mob lieutenant found out they were close to busting him for the murders of countless erotic dancers. She wants to tell him that while Lois' death was a tragedy, it was even worse to know that she hadn't been the last.
And that was just during her freshman year of college, she'd been plenty busy before and after.
She's seen the good, the bad, and the ugly, but no matter how cold her cynical heart becomes, Chloe has never quite been able to shake off the influence of her own messianic Kansas farm boy. For some, the memory of Clark Kent hangs around like a canker -- she and Perry are living proof.
"Kid, I know just the place for you."
If Perry is going to offer her the Big Bad World, by god, she's going to take it.
*
Our Girl in Gotham, read the card, tucked neatly in amongst a bouquet of Gerber daisies.
Cute, Perry, very cute.
*
The railroad tracks in Metropolis divide the city, wealthy and gleaming separated from working class and merely ordinary by lines of wood and iron. It took time for Chloe to get used to the division when she returned; in Smallville the railroad tracks merely separated field from field. But in her new home, the tracks of Gotham ran right next to her small converted warehouse apartment, rattling the dishes and shaking her precious few pictures off the walls.
But she learns to love the trains with their link to an idealized past, symbolizing so much to so many. And eventually she learns to let them lull her to sleep, despite their whistles and low mechanical rumbling. A good thing too, she needs all the sleep she can get -- dodging muggers, lobbyists and homicidal maniacs takes more energy than she expected. But she's getting good stories, though her initial messages are short, to the point, and not skimping on the snark.
From: sullivanc@metroexaminer.com
To: whitep@metroexaminer.com
October 24
Isn't this why we have the wire service?
November 3
Why didn't you just send me to Honduras? I bet it's cheaper.
November 15
A bat, Perry. A giant vigilante rodent!
From: whitep@metroexaminer.com
To: sullivanc@metroexaminer.com
November 16
IT'S CALLED COLOR, SULLIVAN. COMMENTATE. TAKE ADVANTAGE -- WE DON'T HAVE ANY.
From: sullivanc@metroexaminer.com
To: whitep@metroexaminer.com
November 16
Commentate? Are you sure you're an editor?
From: whitep@metroexaminer.com
To: sullivanc@metroexaminer.com
re: smartassery
Writers write, Sullivan. Editors...are God.
Go talk to that Wayne guy. You'll like him, he defines "color".
*
True to form, "talking to that Wayne guy" turns out to be easier said than done. She's been spoiled by the likes of Lex Luthor, a magnate that at least knows how to schmooze the media -- if not manipulate it outright -- so she does it old school, spending days calling around town, out-of-town even, trying to find a way to snag an interview with what is an increasingly Howard Hughes-like Bruce Wayne. In the end she even spends a day stalking around Wayne Tower, trying to catch him coming out of a meeting or anything, but in the end she has nothing to show for all her efforts but scuffed shoes, a sore ear, and a healthy dose of demoralization. She decides that the next day, if she doesn't make any progress she'll do something drastic, like pounce on him as he collects the morning paper.
Tonight though, she's going to The Heretic, because if she can't get Wayne for a story, The Heretic is her next best bet for juicy material. It's a typical bar for Gotham, she's learned. A basic hole in the wall, almost literal in fact, as the main door is rough-hewn out of the alley wall. It boasts stiff drinks, a questionable reputation, a juke box that doesn't skip, and it happens to be located within convenient distance to the Gotham waterfront, in case anything needs to be disposed of quickly. She's spent most of her adult, professional career in places like The Heretic, so much so that blanketed smoke and sticky bar tables are just as much a part of her job as a Crackberry and The Chicago Manual of Style.
She's just settling into her second drink when a man sits down two stools to her right. She spies him out of the corner of her eye, and she wonders why he chose that stool out of the whole length of bar. It's not very crowded tonight and patrons seem to prefer the tables and booths, so Chloe's hackles rise for a reason. She takes a sip of her drink, and casually glances over just as he flags down Pedro the bartender.
Pedro seems to know the man's order and just nods to him on the way past, but the mystery man holds up two fingers and adds, "Make it double, man." His voice is young and pleasant, and it matches his appearance. Perfect skin just this side of pale, dark hair, sideburns, authentic-with-damage black motorcycle jacket, and jeans. He'd be completely normal and non-descript if he wasn't kinda cute.
Huh.
"Careful, I could be a serial killer."
Chloe is startled out of her evaluation. "What?"
"Charming, handsome, mysterious" he turned to her with a knowing smile. "Women should be careful sitting next to a guy like me."
Snorting, Chloe answers, "Shows what you know -- guys should be careful sitting next to a girl like me. Besides, how do I know you're charming? Or handsome for that matter?"
He arches an eyebrow at that, the corner of his mouth quirking up. The guy drops his eyes, and proceeds to size her up from the tips of her scuffed boots to her split ends. Seemingly satisfied, he extends his hand.
"Dick."
"Excuse me?" She starts for a second, but it doesn't faze him.
"That's my name."
"Okay," she pauses, recovering. "Chloe." His handshake is firm; he doesn't pull any punches just because she's a girl. She likes that.
"Sorry to break it to you, Chloe. But you don't look that dangerous."
"Oh, it's still early yet. Wait till tomorrow morning." She tries for predatory, a smile learned by too much time with Lex during her formative years.
*
An hour later and he still doesn't believe her.
"Let me get this straight," he says, tipping his beer glass towards her as he holds it much more casually than an hour before. "Frozen boy, missile silo, possession by vengeful and psycho prom queen?"
"And a seventeenth century witch with remarkable fashion sense. And that was just high school. Yeah."
They're both leaning over the small table, stupid grins firmly in place. Chloe's a happy drunk, and she's happier still to discover that Dick is one too. Or at least he seems to be. All wariness is gone and Chloe hasn't felt this connected in a long time. It's making her all warm and fuzzy inside, but that could just be the alcohol.
"So, I could be risking my life, right now, as we speak?" The gleam in Dick's eyes belays the seriousness of the question.
"Maybe. Someone could've gotten my forwarding address." When she leans forward he leans back, appraising her. Chloe stays where she is, a slow smile spreading across her face, her cheeks hot and god, she hasn't blushed in how long? But then again, it's not every day that a sharp and hot guy looks at her like this, like he's picturing her clothes scattered all over his apartment, or what sound she might make when he nips at the inside of her thigh, soothing the hurt with a broad swipe of his tongue --
She could definitely deal with that. Chloe's smile grows sharper, and that's when Dick leans back in, his face so close she can feel his breath on her face.
"Want to get out of here?"
"Not a serial killer?"
He shakes his head, grinning.
"No mutant powers?"
"Not a one."
"Any ancient prophecies concerning your family?"
"Just that we're all extraordinarily limber."
Christ, she'd forgotten flirting could be so much fun.
"I think you just passed muster."
"Cool. I love it when I do that."
*
And as they walk out the door, Chloe a few conscious steps behind, it becomes apparent to her that he wasn't kidding about the limber part. Dick moves like an athlete, but unlike any athlete she's ever seen. Strong and lithe, muscular yet light, and she gets the feeling that he can will his body to do just about anything.
That's extremely promising.
It's not like she's been hurting for guys over the last few years, but since Lois' death she hasn't found someone she really clicked with. Good sex is one thing, a thing she's not going to turn down, but good sex with someone you still want to see the morning after? Even better. And maybe Dick isn't either one of those. Maybe he's really bad in bed, but Chloe's fingers tingle when she's close to him, like now, with her arm linked through his. The snow is falling and she should be chilled, but walking like this, chatting and laughing and all the while dancing with the expectation of what's to come -- it's a heady mix, and if she wasn't intoxicated before, she surely is now.
She's moments into a comment regarding the BBC World Service when Dick suddenly takes her elbow and spins her round, pulls her into the alley they are just passing. As he holds her against the wall, she can tell he knows what he's doing because he's not hurting her at all, even though they're pressed tightly together, his lips against her temple, and her wrists grasped in his hands.
Another piece of the puzzle falls into place with a tiny clink. "What --"
"Shhh," he quiets her. "Two lieutenants of the Stoyanovich family just exited a building half a block up."
"Stoyanovich? The 'In Soviet Russia, Cement Shoes Wear You!' Stoyanovich's?"
Distracted while watching the street for the lieutenants, Dick doesn't feel the first moves Chloe makes to get free. By the time he does notice, she is halfway out of his embrace, squirming for all she's worth.
"What are you doing?" he whispers harshly.
"I've got a score to settle with that family. I need to follow them, find out what they're up to." Because they were always up to something.
He looks at her with a peculiar look on his face, and then it's gone.
"That makes two of us."
She opens her mouth to speak, but before words can come out Dick's speaking again.
"But nothing's going to be served by the two of us rushing in there like berserkers. And I don't know about you, but I came weapons-lite tonight." He grins at her, all charm and resolve, making a promise.
And then there's a screech of tires nearby, the sound of glass breaking and metal slip-sliding against each other. Instinctively, she turns her head to look. When she turns back, there are no shoulders under her hands, no eyes to get lost in. Vanished into heavy, cold air.
She blinks, once, twice and then she stamps her foot on the ground, mittened hands curled into fists at her side.
"Dammit! Not again!"
*
Strong, smart, and and certainly capable of getting home on her own, Chloe doesn't have any fears about walking home alone, in the dark, on what isn't exactly the best side of town. Hell, she and Clark had played "Damsel in Distress" on the streets of Suicide Slums before she was able to drink legally, a ten block hike from The Heretic to her warehouse apartment isn't that big of a deal. Besides, as pissed off as she is at the moment, the one to mess with her would have to be a fool with a card-carrying death wish.
She shakes her head and tucks her scarf back into place. Another guy with a hero complex and the moves to back it up, it's just her luck. Years of being left in the lurch by Clark, while not leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, had acquainted her with the realities of life with the extraordinary. Much like dating a rock star, it sounded cool at the start, but then you started finding thongs everywhere and had to listen to endless conversations regarding wah pedals. The luster wore off, and quickly.
Going over the evening in her mind, Chloe starts picking out little things that she would've noticed earlier, had she not been distracted. That particular brand of hedging around a question, direction of interest to everything but them, and huh, maybe the extra large belt buckle should've been a clue too. Clark Kent might be off trekking across the Himalayas looking for himself, but he can still manage to curse her life. Damn him, he made her a superhero magnet and they make the worst boyfriends ever.
Smacking her forehead, Chloe huffs, "What kind of hero leaves the girl in Aparo Park?"
"The kind that's not worth the tights he prances around in."
A large arm wraps around her body while the man's right hand holds the handkerchief over her mouth. Seconds later, she's already well on her way to passing out. Her last thought before collapsing completely in the stranger's arms is, "Wow. How very old school of you."
*
Chloe wakes to a pounding headache, burning eyes and worst of all, a crick in her neck. The Russian voices around her sound casual, as if a blonde American girl is dropped in their midst every day. This, on second thought and remembering Lois in particular, might not be boding well for her future.
Finally gathering the wherewithal to sit up on the loveseat, Chloe untucks her legs and looks around the room. Rich reds and golds attract her eyes, and heavy dark furniture ground the room. All in all, it's a perfect compliment to the brawny Russian men that stand around her, paying her absolutely no mind, until one man, slighter than the rest, pokes his head out from behind a goon and beams at her.
"Ah! My zaychik! How are you feeling?" he asks in heavily accented Russian.
Chloe blinks, confused. "You're certainly friendly for a kidnapper."
He laughs at that, and after a beat, so does everyone else. Sitting beside her, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, like her father used to do. "You misunderstand, my dear. No kidnapping, you are here to help me."
She's recovering slowly, but now that she has a better look at the man, she knows exactly which lion's den she's been dropped into. Stiffening her spine and putting on her best "I Stood Up to Lionel Luthor and Lived to Tell About It" face, she says hello to her deluded host.
"Hello, Mr. Stoyanovich."
His smile widens. "Good, good. You know who I am."
"Of course I do. Your nephew murdered my cousin."
Alexei Stoyanovich's face falls for a moment, but the smile returns though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Yes, yes." He stands and makes his way over to the bar on the other side of the room. The rest of the men in the room, goons and non-goons alike, stay where they are, some watching her, some watching Alexei.
In his early 50s, he's a relatively young man to be head of the family, but Chloe's heard of his reputation. Strong, ruthless and extremely intelligent. He is the OCB's worst nightmare, a Boss that knows how to bide his time. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for all the family members. The murdering nephew, Vasili, has no such control.
Stoyanovich pours two fingers of vodka into a crystal tumbler and offers Chloe the same, but she declines. He continues talking, rapidly and almost happily, as he crosses the room and settles on a matching sofa across from her, an antique coffee table between them. "My nephew, Vasili, he is a brute. A costly nuisance I would rather dispose of permanently, you see."
Chloe's starting to catch on. "You want me to do it? Kill your monster of a relative? You're --"
"He is brilliant, and thoughtful."
Chloe shifts her gaze to another man, coming from one of the other rooms. He's about the same age as Stoyanovich, tall and slender like Alexei, but dark to Alexei's fair hair and skin.
"Oh, Mikhail," Alexei laughs. "Come here, properly introduce yourself to our guest," Alexei pats the space beside him.
"Yes, yes. So impatient, Alexei." As he weaves through the maze of bodyguards and yes-men, Chloe catches glimpses of something -- something Mikhail is carrying on a pillow. A little fuzzy grey thing that looks like it's seen better days. But it's not until Mikhail sits gracefully next to Alexei that Chloe makes a positive identification.
Alexei, noticing her attention to the pillow in Mikhail's lap, beams. "Oh, she is our baby."
Starring open mouthed already, Chloe doesn't have the heart to ask, "Baby what?"
Patting the ball of fluff, Alexei coos to it softly. "Miss Yvonne? Miss Yvonne, it's time for dinner."
The thing wakes up then, and raises its pitiful head; a teacup poodle, ancient and wilting, one closed, one eye open and utterly beloved by these two men. Chloe doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, but just then one of the goons brings out a crystal dish, reminiscent of a cocktail glass and exactly the right size for this mournful creature, and places it on the coffee table in front of Mikhail.
"Spasiba, Grisha. Now Chloe," Alexei continues after thanking his minion, "Vasili must be dealt with. I, of course," he smiles grimly and watches as Mikhail carefully carries Miss Yvonne from her place on the pillow and places her in front of her food dish.
This is the strangest meeting she's ever been to, by far. She's pretty certain that even Lex would be put out by the level of oddity going on at the moment.
"I have my own resources," Alexei continues, getting back to the subject at hand. "But you, you have a blood oath of revenge to consider."
"There's no blood oath --" she tries to correct him. Several dozen vehement swearings and minor destruction of property yes, but --
Alexei merely waves off her protests. "Nevertheless, I suspect you will gain a larger degree of satisfaction from his death than I. For me, merely business." Alexei shrugs, then picks up Miss Yvonne and places her back on the pillow, her one eye starring eerily at Chloe.
"Please consider my offer, Miss Sullivan. If you are indeed interested, he will be preparing for his newest project --"
"Insane! Really, Alexei, octopus?" Mikhail mutters, before Alexei places a silencing hand on his knee.
"As I was saying -- His newest project is rather, elaborate, but the loading of his submarine will begin tomorrow evening at eleven, Pier 23."
"Subma --" is all she's able to get out before the world goes black for the second time that night.
*
She wakes to the smell of coffee and hot, fried pastry, and powdered sugar. It's like waking up in her own personal Candyland, the only problem being that she doesn't remember getting home -- she can feel her big toe poking through her ratty chenille blanket -- much less getting home. And Christ but does she has a raging headache, and the heavy footsteps resounding through her apartment aren't helping.
Wait. Coffee? Footsteps? Edible food?
"Whoever's out there, I have a Tazer and good aim, instruments of blunt force trauma, and a headache. You do not want to proceed with the home invasion!"
A black motorcycle boot pushes her bedroom door open, just enough for the top of a curly black head to poke in. "God, you're cranky in the morning."
"Dick?"
Dick pokes his head around the door, "At your service."
His grin of self-satisfaction fades as Chloe jumps out of bed and starts stalking towards him. She may be cute and tiny, but Chloe knows how to work irritation to her advantage. "What are you doing here? Did you bring me home? How did you bring me home? Wait," she says, holding up her hand, picturing flights through the air on tiny black cords, "I don't want to know."
And then she notices she's only wearing a tank top and her old gym shorts, the ones with MetU spelled out on the ass, a present from Lana that never successfully disappeared. Chloe narrows her eyes at Dick, once again looking quite pleased with himself. "This was your idea?"
"You were remarkable dexterous considering," he shrugs. "You wiggled yourself out of your clothes and into that; I just picked it out."
Chloe snorts, "Yeah, well, it's bad enough." She throws a robe on and starts pushing him out of her room, towards the smell of coffee. If she's going to have to interrogate someone, it's better to be prepared.
"Is your name really Dick?" Because wow, if he picked that as an alias?
"Dick Grayson."
She pauses for a moment while Dick leans against the counter, sipping his coffee like he does this every morning.
"Dick Grayson. Bruce Wayne's Dick Grayson?" The final piece clicks into place.
He does a spit take at that and looks at her with wide eyes. "Could you find another way to put that?"
"Maybe. So, you, at The Heretic? Coincidence?"
"What do you think?"
"I think no, but I like to keep an open mind."
"You, a reporter of unknown quantity, were poking around Bruce Wayne." Dick crosses the kitchen, leans around her to grab a beignet, and then stands in front of her, powdered sugar falling all around him as he finishes off the pastry in two bites. "He tends to get a little nervous about that," he adds, licking his fingers clean. "You needed to be vetted, and that's where I came in."
"Uh huh, private detective," Chloe rolls her eyes.
"Hey, close enough to the truth in this case."
"And the rest of it?"
It's only a half a step and a fraction of a second before he's stepping in, kissing her. He tastes of confection, coffee and something she's come to identify as singularly Gotham. There is no hesitation in his kisses; he wants her to know that he means it, and when one hand settles at the small of her back, the curve of her ass, pulling her closer to him, all doubts are erased. Her hands clutch at his leather jacket when he pulls away, and if she's a little dizzy, she palms it off on the fact that she hasn't eaten anything yet.
"Does that answer your questions, because I gotta tell you, this isn't how I normally like to spend a --"
"One more thing," she assures him. "How did you get me away from Stoyanovich's men?"
She smiles like she's just eaten the proverbial canary. Truly speechless, Dick can only stand there gaping at her while Chloe laughs. "C'mon, Boy Wonder, give me a little credit. You're not the only one with deductive skills. Besides," she says as she leads him out of the kitchen, "You're not my first."
*
The arrest of Vasili Stoyanovich breaks Gotham City wide open. It's a reporter's field day, and Chloe is right in the mix, even scoring a hitherto unheard of exclusive with Alexei Stoyanovich himself. The details of the arrest, the charges -- murders stretching from Metropolis to Blüdhaven, arms smuggling, racketeering, and most shocking of all, unlicensed genetic experimentation -- provide water cooler conversation like never before.
Chloe arrives at the Metropolis Examiner like a conquering hero; Perry even gives her a hug. She makes him promise never, ever to do it again.
They sit down in his office to go over her stories, and more importantly, so Chloe can dish the dirt that isn't fit to print.
"So, Vasili is hand delivered to the GCPD with a nice little bow, now is he? Interesting."
Perry's fishing and Chloe knows it, remains passive. Non-committal 'hmmms' are all she'll give.
"Are you sure Uncle Alexei didn't tell you anything else. Speak in some kind of Russian code you couldn't comprehend?"
"No, he wasn't dropping hints. He was actually quite broken up about it all, despite what some of the other papers were reporting."
"Right. It's curious though," he says, leaning back in the leather chair, feet on his desk. "Your cousin is listed as one of the victims. You never mentioned that, Chloe."
"Didn't know about it," she lies. "Her murder was always a mystery. We were in a bad part of town and I didn't get a look at the guy who took her. I had no idea it was Stoynaovich."
"Right. You need to brush up on your fibbing skills, kid. That time in Gotham made you go soft. Now, what's this about a mutant octopus in Gotham Harbor?"
*
The sunsets over Gotham produce some brilliant, but really weird effects. To Chloe it looks like a child's finger-painting, but she sits back and relaxes anyway, enjoying the sounds drifting up from the street below. She's just closed her eyes and is trying to Zen out when someone's knee knocks her shoulder.
"Hey." Dick sits down and hands her a small tinfoil package. "Alfred had these made these for you."
She opens the foil to find three beignets; a crinkle of foil tells her that Dick has the other half.
"Did you remember the coffee?"
He shakes his head, grinning madly. "Champagne." In a thermos.
"Did Alfred let you get away with that?"
"Hey, give me some credit. I --"
She pulls him in for a kiss, slick and hot and promising and it warms her down to her toes in the chilled evening air. They finish their beignets and champagne and watch the sunset over the harbor, mutant octopus long gone to Cadmus Labs.
Later, when the sun has gone down, Chloe leads them down to her apartment and fulfills her promise. Gotham has been good to her; she'll be good to it.
-end-