After years and years and years and YEARS, yes...I'm back in the DC fandoms. Yay me.

Here's another Nolanverse-ish story...but twisted, with added fandoms. *Superman has entered the chat* *Gotham Knights has entered the chat*

Lots of changes in the new story, Code Black—primarily the fact that we've jumped from a Nolanverse Batman story to a Superman focus. Yes, I know. Maybe someday I'll write an in-betweener but for now, Gotham Knights has inspired me to kill of the great Bat and play around with his widow slowly falling for his best friend, the Man of Steel.

And we've got lots of changes that I'm not going to bother to fix in THIS story...in which Marianne is no longer, in favor of a more stylish and focused Magnolia. Who isn't a doctor but is a former reporter. Yay, lore changes, because...well...Laziness. And reading this again, I can't bare to write another character named Marianne and the doctor angle was SO 10 years ago.

Read if you want, skip if you don't. I own nothing, as always.

Regardless, I give you...

Code Black

XxxX

"Clark Kent."

A file hitting the stainless table with a sharp smack was all it took to lift Bruce Wayne's gaze from the tablet of data he'd been hunched over. Most of the morning they'd been dedicated to cross-referencing a name Batman had beaten out of Cobblepot's no-brain lackeys. Sunlight was just beginning to pierce the dark sky outside these walls, and neither of them had slept. From this angle and light considered, he looked it.

He blinked at the file, once. Gaze lifted to the messenger, her brow cocked up in that this-is-important kind of way that made him smirk. Half expecting her foot to start tapping on the stone floor of the cave, he blew out a breath. Set the tablet down, screen up, and rolled his chair back from the table. Facing her, his lips lifted into a quirked smile.

"Clark Kent," he countered, anticipatory.

Obscure, the name meant nothing. Nothing really had significant meaning until they stepped into the sanctuary of the cave, to the welcoming graces of internet resources and a network of information. This was the secondary objective of the masks—information. Investigation. Knowledge. These tools pushed the boundaries of Gotham and made their little "family" effective agents of darkness.

Red Hood, Batgirl, Robin. Nightwing. Batman, Reacher. The masks allowed them to test the limits of the law and skirt the line between right and wrong, light and dark, in a way that badges, courtrooms—prisons—couldn't. It consumed them, body and soul, and everything the Wayne name had ever earned in this city. Some days, it bled them dry. Held them within an inch of death. Others were satisfactory victories, small moments of peace.

Ultimately, these things were removed. Exact justice, get information, and do what nobody in Gotham had been able to do better than them—these were the tools of the trade, the goals that never changed. There would be crime and corruption in the bones of this city, always. And where the foundation of the city was corrupted, the Waynes would quietly fight the unseen war.

It was exhausting. Any other family wouldn't have survived, any other marriage. But she understood. He was grateful for that understanding and the heart behind it. Without her–without Reacher—Batman would be incomplete. Without any of them, Batman would be nothing.

Without Magnolia Wayne, he would be nothing.

Frustrated with the silence and his lack of investigative questioning, she gestured to the file with a pointed hand, "You know how I told you I thought something was going on over in Metropolis between the Kryptonian and that investigative reporter from the Planet?" He nodded, reached for the file, and dragged it in front of him, "Well, I've been doing the digging. Pulled some archives, starting with the first appearance of Superman up to the last six months."

He dropped the file on his lap and thumbed it open. A cascade of printed articles, handwritten notes, social media posts, and even prints of camera footage fanned out across the file. Tried not to sigh, this was important to her, but not nearly cresting the top od his priorities list.

Magnolia been curious about Metropolis' Man of Steel since the papers had first printed his name. Curious, but ultimately, a secondary investigation. Her history of journalism had probed her to look into the frequenting stories in the Daily Planet, after suspecting that Superman was withholding comments from other sources, based on other publications not producing as detailed reports.

"Lois Lane. She has got to be involved with Superman on some level," she stepped forward and dropped a finger right over the portrait of the woman in question. Releasing a dismissive huff, she shook her head. "Not only does she have a Pulitzer, but her name is above the fold more than any reporter on the Planet's payroll. And she always—alllllways—covers every single Superman investigation. Interview. Exclusive features," she was ticking off fingers now, pacing slowly in front of him, "You know who else gets to write about Superman at the Daily Planet?"

His lips twisted into an amused line, and he lifted his attention from the file. Propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, and smoothed his hand over his mouth. Watching her in processing mode was entertaining. Sexy.

He wouldn't need the contents of her research if she kept on in this manner.

"Let me take a wild guess," his brow fell into an exaggerated wrinkle as if he were really thinking about it, "nobody. Which is why, I'm guessing, you're drawing conclusions."

"Not only does nobody report about Superman but Lane," she smacked the muscle of her thigh with a thwap, every ounce of her past life bubbling to the surface behind dark eyes and thoughtful expressions, "But guess who is always front page, below the fold, right under whatever splash Lois Lane gets to print?"

She gestured to him with a hand, palm-up, brow lifted in anticipation for him to follow her and make the connection. It wasn't hard, he'd been deducing a lot of what she said for some time now. She hadn't stopped talking about Lois Lane for nearly three weeks. Wondered if she was not just a bit green over the woman's career.

"Clark Kent?"

"Clark Kent," she echoed, eyes rolling to the cathedral heights of the cave ceiling, "The man reports just as much pertinent news as Lane does when she's not falling off buildings and interviewing the Kryptonian," her hands flipped into the air, "No Pulitzer, doesn't even mention Superman. Kansas roots, a degree from Metropolis U. Based on what he produces, he's on another planet—doesn't even connect the frickin' dots between events that correlate to the alien."

Stopping abruptly, Maggie looked at the file in his lap. "How does the only paper in Metropolis covering Superman so intimately have a front page reporter that isn't out there getting at least some of Superman's exploits? You can't tell me Lane doesn't take PTO." Her nose dusted with a warm red that lit up the sapphire of her eyes.

He chuckled, low. "That would confirm you're theory that something is going on between them," he shrugged a shoulder. "I'm not sure where you're headed with the Kent angle, babe. Why is this bothering you?"

Eyes darting back up to his, she stalked over. Grumbled under her breath about obviousness. Lifted the file, and began rummaging. "That's not even the best part," her eyes narrowed in focus and she plucked a printed story and photo, along with a New Hire portrait, from the file.

With a flick of her wrist, she discarded the file on the table, holding the photos out in front of him. It took him all of a microsecond to see that the two human beings were the exact same person. Right down to the little scar on the bridge of his nose, the perfect cut of a strong jaw. Facial recognition could've matched him from a mile away.

Or, at least, the best facial recognition software that money could buy. Software he'd practically invented.

His eyes widened for a click before his brow dropped into a furrow. "Fuck." His eyes fluttered closed, the word slipping beneath a strong exhale.

Clark Kent on the right, smiling like the doe-eyed Kansas boy he was. Kryptonian Man of Steel in a vermillion cape and slate-blue suit on the left, looking chiseled and like the city's beacon of hope. They were unmistakable if you looked passed glasses and restyled hair, of course. Nobody ever did.

People were stupid, woefully unobservant of things right under their noses. Absorbed by the digital world. Oftentimes you missed what was right in front of you.

"It's…he's," he caught her smug look of satisfaction, the little cock of her hip, and plucked the photos from her. "...aw, shit. No wonder he isn't covering any of Superman's activities. Clark Kent is never around when newsworthy events arise, and Superman only ever talks to Lois Lane because the other front-page writer is perpetually AWOL."

She nodded firmly, once. Sapphire eyes sparkled at him, entertained.

She chuckled, "Bingo. Did I bust this one open or what?" Fighting near giddiness, her lips twisted into an amused grin as her arms folded in front of her. Stepping up, she tapped the photo of Clark Kent with her nail, breath warm with her being so close.

"This wasn't that hard, Bruce. If we're not careful, somebody else could make this correlation, and Kent and Miss Lane would be at risk." She snorted, lightly, "Not that I'm worried about Superman. But Miss Lane, the Planet…."

His shoulders slumped, head kicking back to stare at the ceiling. He didn't need this. The Kryptonian's identity and whereabouts weren't one of his prerogatives. He already had his hands full with the Knights, Gotham. Keeping his wife alive, and protected. He shouldn't be worried about this—obviously, Kent was alright with his alias and the lengths he was going to keep himself, and those he loved, safe.

But he also knew what it meant to be alone. How fortunate he was that he had people in his life that held on to the secret of this family and everything he had built.

Not everyone had such resources, the luxuries of loyalty. Gotham even knew Superman enough to know he worked alone, his own enemies aside. One man could only protect himself so much, and Superman represented hope and stability to not just his own city, but to nations around the world. Something Kent and he didn't share.

The better investigation was simply, Could he risk this information being unchecked?

His eyes lifted to his wife. Maggie had stepped to the terminal. Short keystrokes reorganized the presented information on the eight large screens behind the six smaller ones that made up the communications center. Based on what she was probing, it was blueprints for one of Gotham's research labs.

Watching her, eyes skipping down the curve of her hips and the pull of her shoulders in athletic gear, his heart kicked against the cage of his ribs. He thought of her, Reacher, the Knights he'd come to raise—if any of their demographic data had been so easily manipulated, as Clark Kent's had been, the repercussions would be catastrophic. He had things in place if it ever happened. Did Clark?

If anyone ever harvested Magnolia's information—-

He stopped thinking. Punching the photos to the table, he stalked over to the terminal and brought up the Manor's intercom system, activating the access code. The system pinged online, Maggie watching him with a sort of confusion she didn't display often. Blinking, he reached for his encrypted phone and sent off individual texts for Barbara, Jason, Dick, and Tim.

He called for Alfred to have the Wayne Enterprises plane ready in two hours. A sealed, our-eyes-only flight plan. Non-specific location, he didn't want anyone to follow the trail Bruce and Magnolia Wayne would be leaving.

Then he called Lucius.

"I want legal looking into any conflict of interests or technicalities involved if we acquired any news organizations or social media platforms," when Fox asked him why and if he'd be releasing a series of press releases that would require such knowledge, he smirked.

" I don't think there are, but, get the investigation underway. And have the Board and underwriting on standby. Negotiations to follow." Fox's, "Planning to finally pitch that bid to Facebook, Mr. Wayne?" made him smirk.

He ended the call with a devilishly-chuckling Lucius Fox, working Batman's thick gloves off his hand. Bruce disconnected the internal modem, set it to charge, and finished ripping off the rest of his combat gear. A painful task, but necessary. He had bruises on his bruises, and gashes on his cuts. He needed stitches in one place that Alfred would chide him about.

His wife was leaning against the terminal, ankles crossed, looking mildly impressed when he'd shed the rest of his armor. Mental notes to address some of the damage and speak to Lucius about improvements that would come later. Diagnostics from the suit's onboard communication uploaded automatically into a secure server for them both.

Still half-dressed in her own body armor, she kicked off the terminal and he moved toward her. The lift of her brow was a silent question.

Wrapping arms around her armored waist, he crooked a smile at her while brushing the hair from her face. Magnolia had a way of pinning him with what he'd started calling "The Look," one that seemed to peel back his ribs and discern his beating heart in a way that nobody else could. They could communicate without words at this point.

The same translated to Batman and Reacher's more professional relationship. He found it infinitely funny.

She was sticky with the night's sweat, but not in an undesired way. "What are you up to, Bruce Wayne?"

Gripping his arms in her firm hands, he pulled her close and brushed his nose behind her ear, inhaling the scent of latex that mingled with her hair from the cowl. The steady beat of her heart against his breastbone floored him. She was more alive than he felt most days.

His finger traced up the length of her spine and she gasped, more in pain than surprise. It was delightful, either way. "Nothing I can't tell you later," he murmured. Planting a thick kiss on the artery at her neck, the pulse of her blood made his heart skip a beat.

"Tell me now," she said, with a bit more force than he'd wanted.

She struggled with impatience. A repercussion of being a spoiled billionaire's wife. He couldn't ask for a better partner, though, she was as giving as his mother. Money meant little to someone who knew life without it, and he never denied her. Couldn't.

He laughed, slipping fingers beneath her chin to guide her look to his.

"Wanna buy a newspaper, baby?"

Her wild look of confusion lasted seconds, maybe, before her eyes sparkled with innocent mirth, like a child at Christmas.

Clark Kent's secret was as safe as milk.

CONTINUED IN

Code Black