Identityinuendoathon! (distraction ficlets)

[iesika]

Keeping myself busy. batstalker  requested some Matches/Alvin and some Brucie/Tim, and it made me remember how hilarious and awesome identity porn (or nonporn, as the case may be - I'm not good at porn shorter than a few thousand words) is. So... Help me think of ideas?

I want canon personas interacting in some way with either other characters or other canon personas. Matches and Alvin will demonstrate. Prompt me in the comments and I'll add the ficlets to the main post.


Matches/Alvin, classy hotel

Alvin crossed his arms over his chest and looked around the room with disdain, taking in the bare bulb swinging overhead and the water stains on the walls. "This is your idea of 'classy?'"

Behind him in the door, the guy who'd picked him up at the diner chuckled and took the matchstick out of his mouth, flicking it to the pavement outside. "You see anything alive in there with more than two legs?"

Alvin took a reluctant step forward, peering under the bed with its stained blanket and crooked headboard. "Not alive." He muttered, turning back to look at Malone. He was a big guy, and the plaid jacket he was wearing made him look even bigger. With the way he was hulking in the doorway, Alvin was pretty sure he wasn't leaving until Malone said so.

"Anything dead with less than four?" Malone asked, grinning.

Alvin couldn't help smirking back. "I haven't checked the bathroom yet."

"I'd recommend you didn't. Might wreck the mood." Alvin snorted, and tugged absently at the scruff on his chin as he watched Matches shut and lock the motel door. "Hey, you got a quarter?" he said when he turned around.

Alvin scowled. "You said you were flush."

"I am! Just don't got no small change on me." He caught Alvin by the wrist and tugged him forward. Alvin was so surprised, he didn't realize what was happening until there was a hand in his pocket.

"Hey!"

"Relax," Matches said, and his hand withdrew to pat Alvin on the ass a few times. He let him go and sauntered over to flop on the bed, which creaked ominously. As Alvin watched, he toed off his snakeskin shoes and set his sunglasses on the rickety bedside table. He ran the quarter he'd snagged from Alvin's pocket across his knuckles and back, and then dropped it into the metal box attached to the frame.

The traffic noises from outside were drowned out by the sound of the bed shaking itself to life.

"You just going to stand there all night, baby boy?" Matches asked with a leer. "Get that sweet little ass over here."

Alvin rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

But he did as he was told.




Brucie/Tim- You dropped your fork, Tiger. (Except you didn't.)

It was easier to ignore the foot before the shoe came off. For the last several minutes, Tim had been trying to keep up normal dinner conversation with his parents while sock-clad toes inched their way up his leg, dragging up the cuff of his pants, teasing along his calf and up to his inner thighs. He took a sip of wine - he didn't normally have wine with dinner, but Bruce had insisted that Tim shouldn't miss out on a taste of the '97 Romane Conti burgundy Alfred had broken out just because of a silly thing like *age*.

If Bruce poured him another glass, Tim was really going to start suspecting the man of trying to get him drunk. It had been novel and a little heady, at first, until he'd watched Dana grow sillier and sillier, his father go red faced and sleepy under the weight of a thousand dollars of wine. Also, before Bruce had started feeling him up under the table.

"I think I've had enough," Tim murmured when Bruce reached for his glass the third time. Under the table, the toes traced his inseam right up to the top.

"Really, sport? You sure?" Bruce shook the bottle - their third, between the four of them - "I'd hate to see my investment go to waste." He turned to Dana with the full wattage of his playboy smile. "Top you up?"

Dana giggled with her hand over her mouth, then swallowed hard and closed her eyes. "Oh," she said. "I'm a little - can I borrow your restroom?"

Bruce winked at her. "Only if you'll give it back." He motioned absently and Alfred stepped forward to help Dana out of her chair.

Tim turned to gauge his father's reaction to this turn of events, but the only answer he got was a faint snore. The toes pressing against Tim's fly disappeared, and Tim didn't manage to hold back a quiet moan.

"Maybe you *have* had a little too much," Bruce said, setting the bottle back down and looking across the table with dark intensity in his eyes, familiar and yet incongruous when paired with his ingenuous smile. "Look at that!" He spun his butter knife across the table and it knocked Tim's dessert fork to the floor with a clatter. "You dropped your fork, Tiger." He kept smiling, blandly pleasant, even in the face of the glare Tim leveled at him. When Tim didn't say anything, the smile widened just a notch, and Bruce lifted up the table cloth. "Here, sport," he said, sliding out of his chair and down to the floor. "Why don't you let me get that for you."


Superman/Dick Grayson (not prompted, but Superman being hit on by teenagers is *hilarious*)

Bruce Wayne and Superman don't have an awful lot in common, but they both support youth charities, and that's why he's here. Most of the teenagers at the benefit are here to be awarded their scholoarships, their suits as cheap and badly fitted as anything in Clark Kent's closet. One of the boys stands out, though, handsome and confident in a designer suit. The girls flock around him like birds, and he chats with them as he waits patiently, watching the other kids hustle around, begging for autographs and photos and demonstrations of strength.

When the line finally clears, he trots up and holds out his hand to be shaken. "Wow. Golly, Superman, this is such an honor, having you here in our house!"

Superman beams down at him. "You must be Richard, then."

The boy makes a face. "Dick," he says. "Nobody ever calls me Richard." He brightens suddenly, his smile reappearing so fast it makes Superman's eyebrows climb in surprise. "Did you like the canapes? Our butler let me help him get the food ready, this morning."

"Aren't you helpful," Superman says, smiling down at him. Dick hasn't let go of his hand yet, though he's finally stopped shaking it. "They were delicious."

"Yeah?" Dick asks, and his grip tightens minutely. He steps a little closer, into Superman's space, and the hair on Superman's neck suddenly stands up at attention. "I'm a pretty good cook. You should see the kitchen here, it's incredible. Oh," he pauses, cocking his head and inching minutely closer, "has anybody given you the tour yet?"

Superman clears his throat, looking around at the rest of the party-goers.

"Come on," Dick says, tugging on his hand, a wicked smile twisting his full lips and a light dancing behind his eyes. "Bruce is too busy hitting on that reporter lady to be a good host, so it's up to me. There's a lot of cool stuff upstairs. And-" he winks, and his thumb drags across the back of Superman's fingers. "I can show you my bedroom, if you like."

Superman smiles bemusedly and lets himself be dragged through a side door.


Conner Kent, Steph Brown, and Tim Wayne (from Close to Home, though this isn't actually part of that story arc)

"So this is this is the guy who turned my boyfriend gay."

Kon turned around slowly, hoping against hope that the young woman behind him was talking to someone else. No luck.

She was pretty, even frowning. Her blonde hair was done up in a twist, and she was wearing a deep purple color that really suited her. Her fists were planted firmly on her hips, though, and Kon took an involuntary step back. "Hi?" he said, unsure what exactly he was supposed to do in this situation. He glanced around, but he didn't see Tim anywhere.

The girl cocked her head and paced around him in a slow circle, looking him up and down. "Hm. You're not *bad* looking, but he definitely knows hotter guys. Why he went for *you*..."

"We, ah. We've known each other for a long time," Kon mumbled, trying to remember all the details he and Tim had made up. As soon as the words left his mouth, though, Kon realized his mistake.

The girl's eyes narrowed and she stepped forward. "Have you." She said, her voice completely flat. Something about the tone made connections click into place in Kon's brain, and his eyes went suddenly wide.

"Oh," he said. "You're - you - " he looked around, but there were entirely too many people in earshot, and anyway, if he was wrong... It's not like he could *ask* her if she'd been Robin for a while.

"Yeah," she said, her jaw tight. "Tim introduced us in Zandia, remember?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "God, everything makes so much sense now. At first, when he wouldn't touch me, I thought it was because of the *baby*..."

People were *definitely* paying attention now. Kon tried to catch her by the shoulder and steer her away from the milling crowd, but she was surprisingly quick. "Tim didn't cheat on you," he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "If you'll let me explain-"

"I think it's pretty clear he'd rather get dicked by some farmboy with half a brain-"

"Hey!" Kon snapped. "Look, we can either go somewhere and actually talk about this, so I can tell you how *wrong* you are, or you can back the fuck off and stop insulting me."

A fleeting expression of triumph flitted across the girl's face, and it took Kon a moment to realize just how loudly he'd spoken.

"Is there a problem, honey?" Tim asked, breezing in from nowhere to drape an arm around Kon's shoulder and peck his cheek. He looked up and noticed the girl, looking visibly startled. "Stephanie...I *don't* believe you were invited."

"I'm Bab's plus one," she said with the kind of menacing false sunniness that only a pretty ex could manage. "Really, Tim, I'd have bought a strap-on if that was what it would have taken."

"Well, you're certainly butch enough for a penis," Tim said almost absently. He looked at his watch and faked a yawn. "I think it's time Conner and I take our leave. Honestly," he said as he steered Kon away from the fuming girl, "these things used to be *exclusive*, but now they'll let just anyone in-"

There was a cry of rage behind them, and then the sound of something flying through the air. A normal person wouldn't have been able to get out of the way in time, so Kon stood right where he was as he and Tim were pelted with a whole tray of full champagne flutes. They both spun around in time to catch sight of the very startled waiter Stephanie had taken the tray from backing slowly away from their little tableux.

Several flashbulbs went off.

"If I thought you could afford it," Tim said blandly, looking down at the damp sleeves of his jacket, "I'd demand payment for the suit you just ruined. As it is, I'll just thank you for the opportunity to lick champagne from my gorgeous lover's beautifully tanned skin."

"Oh god," Kon heard her mutter as he was dragged away. "How the *hell* did I not know he was queer."

(not sure if Steph was in on that one or not. ^_^;)


Caroline/Nightwing

If she hadn't had to park so far from the hospital, she wouldn't be in this situation now. The walk had been bad enough at dusk - it had felt like everyone she passed was staring, like everyone had *known*. Just a few hours later and the streets had changed completely, in that way some parts of Gotham had.

"Hey mamacita! Que onda?"

"No habla Espanol," she muttered as she passed, careful to keep her voice soft. She didn't care *what* Alfred said. These boobs were definitely too big.

"Hey, sweet thing - slow down! Lemme holla at'cha!"

She was going to do something *horrible* to Alfred as soon as she got back to the cave. She wasn't sure what, yet, or how she was going to pull it off, but- She dodged instinctively as the man she'd just passed tried to grab her arm.

He was a big guy, and he and the three guys on the stoop behind him were all wearing matching yellow bandanas. "I said slow down," he said, his voice menacing in it's cheerfulness. "You run off now, you're gonna hurt our feelings."

Caroline sighed and fought the urge to just kneecap the man and keep walking. "Sorry," she said. "I'm in a hurry."

One of the other men stood up and took a few steps to cut her off. "Aw, baby, don't be that way."

"I really need to get going."

"We just wanna talk to you," one of the others said. He ground his cigarette out on the door and jumped down off the steps to loom over her.

There was a man in front of her now, and a man behind her. She couldn't go forward and she couldn't go back, so she dithered for a moment - and then bolted to her right, into the mouth of an alley. One of the men gave a whoop as they took chase, their feet pounding the pavement behind her like thunder. She could run pretty fast, but she wasn't used to running in backless sneakers, and then about thirty feet into the alley, she dropped her purse and turned back for it. One of the men cackled, and another tackled her from the side, driving her back and pinning her against the side of a dumpster. She wasn't sure if the stink was his breath or the garbage, but it was bad enough that she coughed and turned her head.

When he tried to kiss her cheek, Caroline kneed him in the groin, hard enough to send him stumbling back and make him slump to the ground, his hands between his legs. She smiled a grim little smile of satisfaction and dropped her purse to roll up the sleeves of her scrubs. There were still three more men, and one of them had just pulled a switchblade.

And then, very abruptly, there were only two men standing. Caroline blinked into the darkness and then tracked the path of the movement she'd caught out of the corner of her eye. Oh *joy*. She was being *rescued*. She slid down the side of the dumpster, moving as little as she could to keep attention off herself, picked up her purse, and tried to slink away, back toward the street.

There was a series of thumps and groans, and then the switchblade went skidding across the ground toward her as its owner hit the ground. Caroline stopped it with her shoe and kicked it under the dumpster, then took a few more steps to the side, trying to escape before her rescuer decided to turn his attention on *her*.

"Now you *apologize* to the nice lady," Nightwing growled, dragging the last guy over by the collar of his jacket, one arm twisted up behind his back. Caroline ducked her head, letting her long hair fall in her face, and tried to meld with the brick wall behind her.

"I'm sorry!" the guy cried, in between gasps of pain. "I'm sorry, lady! I'm sorry!"

Nightwing hit him in the back of the neck with an elbow, and the guy hit the ground by Caroline's feet. He didn't get up.

"You okay?" Nightwing asked. He held out one gloved hand to Caroline, who stared down at it indecisively for a long moment before taking it and gingerly stepping over the prostrate thug in front of her.

"Thanks," she murmered, as quietly and softly as she could.

Nightwing...didn't let go of her hand. "Hey," he said. "You're safe now. Did they hurt you?" She shook her head without looking up, but Nightwing just reached out with his free hand and lifted her chin with his fingertips. He brushed the hair back from her face. "You're sure?"

Caroline looked into his mask for a long, tense moment. When Nightwing didn't say anything else, she seized the opportunity and darted forward, quick as lighting, to press a kiss to his startled mouth. He didn't stop her - in fact, he let her deepen the kiss, his fingers resting gently just behind her ear.

She pulled back from the kiss and let her hair fall into her face again. "My hero," she mumbled, blushing, and then turned and fled.


Gary Glanz/Dick Grayson

Haly's Circus doesn't stop in Gotham anymore. When he hears about the rest of their East Coast tour, though, Gary hitchhikes up the coast to Boston. For a two week limited engagement, Dick Grayson of the legendary Flying Graysons is doing a guest tour with the traveling show.

Gary had seen the Graysons perform once, when he was a little kid, and he's never been able to forget it.

So, he catches the show twice in Boston, and then when it moves on to Albany he gets a ride from a trucker headed to Syracuse and then there are three girls on spring break who think he's cute, and another two shows before the troupe heads into Connecticut. Gary follows.

He hadn't actually planned on sticking with the show this long, but Gary doesn't really plan much of anything. He hasn't got family or a job or obligations to tie him down.

He's out of money by the time they get to Scranton, but he manages to sneak in while the barker is distracted. One of the vendors recognizes him and gives him some free cotton candy, and then after the show as he's sitting on the fairground fence smelling hot dogs and popcorn and wanting, somebody in a hoodie wanders out of a side tent and sits down next to him.

When the hood comes down, Gary's heart stops.

"Hey," Grayson says, shaking his longish hair into something like order. "I've seen you around a few times. You following the show?"

Gary coughs to cover his embarrassment, but he can't help the light blush he feels heating his face. "I saw you once," he mumbles, and Grayson isn't looking away, so Gary finally has to. "You don't perform much, so I thought I should see you while I had the chance."

Grayson looks at him, unaccountably surprised and delighted. "Yeah? You're a fan, then?"

'Fan' is so ridiculously inadequate that Gary can't help laughing. He folds his arms and tucks his legs up onto the slats of the wooden fence. "You could say that, I guess."

"Heh. Kind of makes me feel like a rock star. You planning to stick around for the rest of the tour?"

Gary shrugs.

"Tell you what. Me and the tattooed lady, and a couple of other folks, we're headed into town for dinner in a bit. You want to come? Meet the crew?"

Gary grabs the fence so he won't fall off and then bites his lip and leans back again. "I, uh. I'm kinda short on cash."

Grayson shrugs. "My treat then. How are you getting around? Bus? Or you have a car?"

Gary looks away, suddenly embarassed. "Hitching."

"Yeah? Kind of dangerous for a pretty kid like you."

"I can take care of myself," Gary mutters, suddenly rebellious. Grayson apparently thinks this is funny, because he laughs loudly, throwing back his head, his eyes sparkling. Gary just watches him.

When he winds down, Grayson turns back to Gary and puts a hand on his arm, warm and strong. He smells like sweat and chalk. "So, kid." he says, grinning, "you wanna join the circus?"



Clark Kent and Matches Malone

Clark has to duck his head as he passes through the door - he's noticed that the older buildings on this side of town almost seem scaled for smaller people - and the stink of tobacco and spilt liquor and unwashed bodies hits him before he's taken his first step. The bar is crowded and noisy and exactly the kind of place Clark really hates, because his senses aren't just useless here, they're something of a liability. There's so much going on - shouting, rough-housing, even a couple of guys crying - that he can't make heads or tails of it. The alcohol here must be either very good or, more likely, very cheap for people to willingly submit themselves to this atmosphere.

Or maybe some people just like this kind of loudness and confusion, if the way the man staring at him from one of the bar stools is *dressed* is any indication. Clark knows he's hardly the world's most snappy dresser, but this guy... Lois and Jimmy would have a field day picking apart everything that's wrong with what he's wearing. The plaid jacket is kind of overwhelming, but the polka-dotted tie is the icing on the cake. If he didn't look like someone who could - and would - snap anyone who laughed at him into a couple of tiny pieces, Clark would probably have said he looked clownish.

Maybe 'clownish' has different connotations in Gotham, though.

The guy is wearing mirrored sunglasses despite the dim light and smokey haze, so Clark can't be sure without concentrating on his vision, but he *seems* to be staring right at Clark - unflinchingly. Well, if he's not the guy, he might be able to steer him in the right direction, so Clark walks over to him, gently nudging a dancing couple (the man is wearing a wedding ring but the woman doesn't exactly look like the marrying type) out of his way as he goes.

"Hi," he says, when he gets close enough, shouting a little to be heard over the din. "I'm looking for somebody called 'Matches?'"

The man just grins a shark-toothed grin and fishes something small out of his pocket. He bites the end of it, and Clark thinks it's a toothpick for a moment before he sees the match-head. "Charlie," he says to the man next to him. "Move over. My date's here."

Charlie flips him off and goes back to his beer. Without even turning his head, Matches shoves him hard, driving him off the stool. Charlie looks up, startled and angry, but his eyes flick back and forth between Clark and Matches for a moment, and then he gets up and collects his drink before wandering away from the bar as if he'd made the decision himself.

Clark is still blinking from this when Matches catches the head of the match between his fingers and uses it to gesture to the now-empty stool. "Sid'down, sweetheart, and buy me a beer."

Clark sits. He rests one hand on the bar, then realizes how sticky it is and drops it back to his lap with a flash of distaste. "I was told you were the man to talk to about-"

"Ah, tut tut tut," Matches cuts him off. He waves at the bartender with a practiced motion and a bottle comes sliding down the wooden bar. He catches it, knocks the top off easily against the side of the bar, and tosses back a swallow. "You were saying? And not so loud."

"Ah," Clark scratches his neck. He hadn't really thought about how dangerous it might be if they were overheard. "Somebody told me you were the man to talk to about Intergang."

His informant takes another swig of beer without removing the match in his mouth. When he's done, he rolls it along his lip with his tongue, dragging it against his mustache. "Metropolis boys're making a play for Gotham. Happens every couple'a years. Thing is - Gotham don't want'em here. Families here, they go back a long way. Some new player tries to move in, there's gonna be blood in the streets. Makes life difficult for a fellow like me."

Clark nods. He can imagine.

"So," he goes on, "the Sabatinos are looking to line up with the Irish mob, the Odessa's are sending longing glances at the Sabatinos...You get the picture. And everybody's gearing up - I never seen so many guns move through this city. It's gonna be the goddamned apocalypse - 'cept for one thing." He takes the match between his fingers and rolls it in the light. "Little guy like me, I'm just one man. Can't do nothin'." He cocks his head and looks at Clark over his sunglasses with blue, blue eyes. "Intergang ain't comin' if they don't have a welcome wagon. Senator Rothchilde's in their pocket. You take him down, you pull the rug out from under him, and all of a sudden, they ain't so anxious to be doin' business on our fair Jersey shores, you get the picture?"

Clark sucks in a tight breath. Rothchilde. Clark had always thought he was a jerk, but that was mostly because he had grabby hands and tried to corner Lois at parties. "You've got proof?"

"Me?" Matches placed a hand to his chest and at least seemed to *try* to look innocent. "Guy like me, what'do I know about politics? But I can tell you this - Rothchilde's top aide - Masterson - he's a family man. He doesn't like all this wheelin' and dealin'. An' I can tell you that, because a couple a' guys who drinks here, they picked up a little cash last week nabbin' the guy's daughter."

Clark sits up, very suddenly. "What?"

"Intergang's style, idn't it? Somebody goes to talk, you hit'em where it hurts. Only, in this town..." Matches grins. "Most days I don't like the Batman all that much. But the girl's safe and sound at a clinic near here, under a different name." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper - a photograph - which he slides across the bar to Clark. It's a little girl, no more than four, and there's bandage on her head and a bruise on her cheek, but she's got a naked darbie doll with tangled hair in one hand and an enormous cookie in the other, and she's smiling. "You take him that. You'll get yourself a solid snitch. I guarantee."

Clark - breathes out.

"Watch yourself, though. Those mooks see you talkin' to Masterson, they might just follow you home, you get me?"

"I'm willing to take that risk," Clark says. "This is important." He fishes in his pocket and pulls out his wallet. "What do I owe you?"

Matches shrugs and tips his bottle at Clark. "Like I said, life in Gotham'll get rough if this thing takes to the streets. Anyway," he grins, then drains his beer, setting the empty bottle down on the bar with a click as he stands. "I'm pretty flush."

Clark nods and thanks him for his time, and then he opens his wallet and counts out a few bills.

"See ya, farmboy," that gruff voice says, but when Clark looks up, startled, Matches is gone.