![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Falling Together
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Wildcat
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 2600
Summary: Superman and Batman kick off their feud together with a grueling match, while Bruce keeps working on his "side project."
Everything you do in the ring is real, only the outcome is predetermined. You can’t fake gravity. --Reno
Clark dodged a discarded Red Bull can on the sidewalk and walked right into a patch of slush. Winter was refusing to quite give up its grip on Gotham right now. He grimaced at his wet shoe and almost missed Bruce pointing.
“There it is,” Bruce said, and Clark looked up to see a fading sign: Wildcat Gym.
The door squeaked loudly on opening and banged loudly on closing. Ted Grant’s voice could be heard even before they saw him: “Tom! I’m never putting you in a match until you learn to not step back when you come up out of a roll! You show him again, Yolanda.” There was the sound of a body hitting a mat. “See? Even a pretty dame like Yolanda knows you gotta step forward with your left foot! Why can’t you get it? I swear to God, sometimes I wonder if you’re really mine.”
Clark let Bruce take the lead as they came into the gym proper and saw the former Wildcat--barrel-chested, broken-nosed, and cauliflower-eared--leaning against a wall, glaring at a practice ring. In the ring were a young woman with long auburn hair tied back into a loose ponytail and a young man with dark hair and a darker glower. He lacked the broken nose and cauliflower ears, but otherwise was clearly related to the man currently abusing his in-ring skills.
Ted turned and saw Bruce, and his face lit up. “Bruce!” He came forward, limping slightly, and captured Bruce’s outstretched hand in both of his own, dragging him into a hug. “Tom, Yolanda, this is Bruce Smith, one of my best pupils from way back when. Though I see you’re going by ‘Bruce Wayne’ now,” he said to Bruce, “That’s a clever gimmick there.” His gaze went past Bruce to take in Clark. “Who’s your buddy?”
“This is Clark Kent,” said Bruce.
“Ah,” said Ted. “Wow, you carry yourself really different out of the ring. I wouldn’t have even recognized you. Nice.”
He held out his hand to Clark, and Clark felt himself freeze. Ted Grant--Wildcat--was one of his first favorite wrestlers from his childhood, and even though he’d met plenty of huge names now, around some of them he still felt himself turn back into an awkward, tongue-tied child. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants leg, and shook hands with his hero.
“I’m a big fan of your work,” Clark said, then wanted to kick himself. Of all the banal-- “Your angle with the Psycho-Pirate was pure gold,” he said, rallying slightly. “That cage match gave me nightmares for weeks.”
Ted beamed. “Thanks, we was pretty proud of it ourselves.” He raised his voice back to the wrestlers in the ring. “Take a break, kids. Come back when you’re ready to lead with your goddamn left foot, Tom!”
Tom rolled his eyes as he left the ring, but was smiling and joking with Yolanda by the time the door closed behind them.
“So what brings two stars like you around to visit this dump?” Ted asked.
“You’re one of the best teachers in the business,” Bruce said.
Ted grinned widely. “True.”
“You trained Black Canary. You trained me, so I know how good you are. You’re better than this--running a tiny promotion with no funds.”
Ted shrugged. “I spent a lot of years working for Luthor’s pop. We got an understanding. I train kids, scout for good new talent. Sometimes I put in a good word for them with Luthor. In return, he lets me continue to operate. It’s a better deal than a lotta guys got.”
“It must be frustrating,” said Bruce. “Holding matches in warehouses for twenty people. What if you had a chance to set up in a state-of-the-art facility, working formally with the DCW? A combination school/promotion, where you train promising young wrestlers and teach them the business, get them ready for the big time?”
Ted leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’d say it sounded too good to be true.” He lifted his chin. “I’d say: convince me.”
The Dark Knight waited in the ring for Superman to arrive, microphone in hand. “What’s that?” he said, nodding toward the gray metal box Superman was carrying.
“You said you’d use any means necessary to defeat me,” Superman said. ”Any means. But I don’t believe you.” He lifted the box above his head. “This is Kryptonite,” he announced. The audience gasped and murmured. “I brought it here because I know you won’t use it against me.” He placed the box on the announce table; the commentators shrank away from it as if it could hurt them as well. “I’m your friend, Batman. We’ve been through so much together. I know you won’t resort to shortcuts to beat me. So let’s do this,” he said, getting in the ring.
The Dark Knight gave him a long look. Then he nodded and went to his corner.
The bell rang.
The sound of the crowd seemed to flow around the ring like water around an island; it felt like the two of them were alone together on it. Bruce kept his face grim, his mouth compressed in an angry line, but Clark could see the delight in every line of his body, feel the joy in his sinews as they came together for the first time in so long.
They hadn’t bothered to carefully choreograph the match. They knew the story they were going to tell, so when they met in the middle of the ring and grappled, Clark knew Bruce was going to get the best of him and throw him to the other side of the ring without having planned it. Superman was tentative, unsure: he was going to let the Dark Knight get the upper hand for a while because his heart wasn’t in the fight. He tumbled head over heels into the turnbuckle and looked up at Bruce, knowing the camera would catch his look of dismay and doubt.
The Dark Knight came forward and kicked Superman in the head, and Clark could hear the crowd groan. Two more kicks, and then Bruce grabbed his hair and dragged him up, leaning close as he prepared to whip him into the far turnbuckle.
“Reverse,” Bruce muttered between his teeth, but Clark already knew that was what had to happen; in the middle of the ring he shifted his weight and pivoted so that it was the Dark Knight that ended up against the turnbuckle. Superman rushed forward and hit him with a forearm, and then another, but fell back quickly when the Dark Knight returned the blows.
They paused, staring at each other, letting the energy of the crowd build. Clark saw the flicker in Bruce’s eyes that meant he was about to move, and ducked out of the way just in time as a strike went by his head, close enough that he could feel the draft from it on his cheek like a kiss. The crowd gasped.
There was a flurry of moves--kicks and dodges that Clark was no longer fully consciously aware of, it was just a matter of moving to the next spot dictated by the flow of the combat, the rhythm of the match. He was on the defensive almost the entire first half of the match, taking moves and barely staggering up from them. After a running bulldog he dragged himself to a sitting position in the middle of the ring, clearly dazed and swaying, his eyes half-closed. He could feel Bruce pacing around him, staring at him. He glimpsed Bruce’s clenched fist out of the corner of his eye and knew that the Dark Knight’s jaw was tight as if he were steeling himself against compassion.
He knew what was coming next because they’d decided on it as the turning point of the match, so he was intellectually ready for it. But the stiff, contemptuous kick Bruce leveled at his back still jarred the breath from his body and made it easy to throw his hands up and contort his face in pain. The crowd’s outrage peaked and crested like a wave, and Superman dragged himself to his feet as if it were lifting him up almost despite himself.
He launched himself forward, desperately flailing at the Dark Knight, his face a mask of pain--and more, disappointment. He clipped Batman and sent him reeling, and from that point the momentum of the match slowly started to favor him. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose, and now Batman’s fundamental lack of commitment to the fight started to become clear, as he fell back before Superman’s disjointed but fervent attacks.
Superman hoisted the Dark Knight onto the turnbuckle in preparation for the hurricanrana they’d planned out. After that was when the Dark Knight would finally panic and scramble out of the ring toward the inevitable close of the match. Clark crawled up the turnbuckle after him, so they teetered there together--
And Clark felt Bruce’s hands slip on his sweat-slick skin and his footing give way. He barely had time to register Bruce’s quick and sincere obscenity before the two of them were toppling out of the ring toward the stairs together in freefall.
Time seemed to slow down, and Clark felt Bruce trying to twist his body to cushion Clark’s fall. Fury sparked in him and he managed to leverage himself so that he took the brunt of the impact instead, the edge of the steps biting across his shoulders. He howled aloud--because what’s the use of getting hurt if you don’t let the audience see it?--and came to his feet grimacing. A quick mental inventory, and he gave Bruce and the ref the quick look that meant I’m okay, no major problems; continuing.
The Dark Knight was standing with his fists clenched, shaking all over. Clark was afraid he was hurt for a second, then caught a glimpse of his eyes just before Batman came forward and slapped him twice across the face, just barely pulling the blows. The audience seethed, and Clark didn’t have to feign his recoil before he came back at the Dark Knight for a quick flurry of punches. These were stiff but more properly pulled, and in the middle of the exchange Clark felt them fall back into sync, felt the flash of legit anger leave Bruce’s body.
They were running a little ahead of time because of the botched move, so they filled it up with some improvised work around the ring, one circuit in which kids could reach out to touch Superman and people wearing ironic t-shirts could give the Dark Knight the thumbs up. The Dark Knight started off with the advantage, but by the time they got back to the announce table he was reeling under Superman’s offense, clearly running out of energy and options. He staggered backwards, falling against the table, and the camera closed in on the sweat running down under his cowl, the exhausted gasps of his breath.
Superman closed in on Batman, and Batman stood at bay, backed against the announce table, his hands scrabbling at the monitors and papers as if he might crawl backwards onto the table.
His fingers fell upon the little metal box Superman had brought to the ring.
He yanked it in front of him, and the cover fell open, baleful green light spilling out as he held it between himself and Superman. Superman fell backwards, his eyes widening with shock and horror, and it was his turn to retreat, his back coming up hard against the ring apron. He grabbed the ropes and dragged himself into the ring, turning to confront the Dark Knight as he entered, still holding the box.
Batman stared down at the box in his hand as if not sure how it got there. A look of something close to horror clenched his jaw, and with a sudden, jerky motion he hurled it away from himself, out of the ring. He and Superman looked at each other for a long moment, and then Superman staggered toward him--whether to confront, or attack, or embrace was unclear. Batman met him in the ring halfway with a superkick to the jaw and Superman went down in a heap, barely-conscious.
Batman hesitated for only a split-second before throwing himself on top of Superman and making the pin. The bell rang and the referee raised the Dark Knight’s hand.
Lying on the mat, his eyes closed in defeat, Clark noticed that the cheers for the Dark Knight were noticeably more subdued than they had been when the match had begun.
Bruce was going to be in a good mood tonight.
“What the hell was that stunt you pulled there?”
Clark blinked at Bruce, casting his mind back. His blankness only seemed to annoy Bruce more.
“With that botch onto the stairs. How dare you try to take the impact. It was my error, I--”
“How dare I?” Clark almost laughed in disbelief. “How dare I worry about the safety of my partner--my partner who, by the way, broke his neck not too long ago? Like hell I’m letting you take the impact of that--and you know what? If you’ve got a problem with that, you can just find another person to feud with, Bruce.”
Bruce glared at him for a moment. Then he smiled, and the tension left his shoulders. “Well,” he said. “It looked great, didn’t it?”
“It sure did,” Clark agreed.
“Let me see the damage,” Bruce said.
Clark pulled off his t-shirt, turning his back so Bruce could see his shoulders, and Bruce hissed gently between his teeth.
“Impressive?” Clark said lightly.
“Very,” said Bruce. He waited a beat. “The welt is fairly spectacular as well.”
Clark snorted and snapped the t-shirt at him.
Bruce’s hand ghosted across his shoulder blades, following the mark the stairs had left. Then it traveled lower, to the small of Clark’s back. “You’re going to have a dramatic bruise here too. Where I kicked you.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Clark said.
There was a long silence as Bruce’s hands gently traced the marks of their combat; the signs of their trust.
“I’ll go get the ice,” said Bruce.
“You, me, and a lot of ice,” said Clark. “Sounds like a perfect post-match evening.”
“Everything’s going great,” Bruce said cheerfully over the steady tapping of computer keys a few hours later.
“You mean with the storyline?”
“That too,” said Bruce. “I’d say we’ve got all but the most hardcore smarks hating my guts. And have you seen how many hits the latest video got? We’re on a roll. But no, I meant with the...side project.”
“‘The side project’ was how Bruce referred to a Byzantine system of grids, graphs, and time tables that Clark found frankly baffling. “It’s all very complicated,” was all Bruce said when Clark asked. “I’ve got an M.A. in economics. Just trust me, it’s coming together.”
Clark wasn’t sure when Bruce would have found time to get a master’s degree in anything when working as a wrestler--but on the other hand, somehow he didn’t doubt him.
“It’s going to be snug work,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “Tricky stuff. Delicate. Dangerous. The timing’s got to be just right, or it’s going to be the most spectacular botch of our careers.”
“Well,” said Clark, “if it is, at least we’ll fall together.”
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Wildcat
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 2600
Summary: Superman and Batman kick off their feud together with a grueling match, while Bruce keeps working on his "side project."
Everything you do in the ring is real, only the outcome is predetermined. You can’t fake gravity. --Reno
Clark dodged a discarded Red Bull can on the sidewalk and walked right into a patch of slush. Winter was refusing to quite give up its grip on Gotham right now. He grimaced at his wet shoe and almost missed Bruce pointing.
“There it is,” Bruce said, and Clark looked up to see a fading sign: Wildcat Gym.
The door squeaked loudly on opening and banged loudly on closing. Ted Grant’s voice could be heard even before they saw him: “Tom! I’m never putting you in a match until you learn to not step back when you come up out of a roll! You show him again, Yolanda.” There was the sound of a body hitting a mat. “See? Even a pretty dame like Yolanda knows you gotta step forward with your left foot! Why can’t you get it? I swear to God, sometimes I wonder if you’re really mine.”
Clark let Bruce take the lead as they came into the gym proper and saw the former Wildcat--barrel-chested, broken-nosed, and cauliflower-eared--leaning against a wall, glaring at a practice ring. In the ring were a young woman with long auburn hair tied back into a loose ponytail and a young man with dark hair and a darker glower. He lacked the broken nose and cauliflower ears, but otherwise was clearly related to the man currently abusing his in-ring skills.
Ted turned and saw Bruce, and his face lit up. “Bruce!” He came forward, limping slightly, and captured Bruce’s outstretched hand in both of his own, dragging him into a hug. “Tom, Yolanda, this is Bruce Smith, one of my best pupils from way back when. Though I see you’re going by ‘Bruce Wayne’ now,” he said to Bruce, “That’s a clever gimmick there.” His gaze went past Bruce to take in Clark. “Who’s your buddy?”
“This is Clark Kent,” said Bruce.
“Ah,” said Ted. “Wow, you carry yourself really different out of the ring. I wouldn’t have even recognized you. Nice.”
He held out his hand to Clark, and Clark felt himself freeze. Ted Grant--Wildcat--was one of his first favorite wrestlers from his childhood, and even though he’d met plenty of huge names now, around some of them he still felt himself turn back into an awkward, tongue-tied child. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants leg, and shook hands with his hero.
“I’m a big fan of your work,” Clark said, then wanted to kick himself. Of all the banal-- “Your angle with the Psycho-Pirate was pure gold,” he said, rallying slightly. “That cage match gave me nightmares for weeks.”
Ted beamed. “Thanks, we was pretty proud of it ourselves.” He raised his voice back to the wrestlers in the ring. “Take a break, kids. Come back when you’re ready to lead with your goddamn left foot, Tom!”
Tom rolled his eyes as he left the ring, but was smiling and joking with Yolanda by the time the door closed behind them.
“So what brings two stars like you around to visit this dump?” Ted asked.
“You’re one of the best teachers in the business,” Bruce said.
Ted grinned widely. “True.”
“You trained Black Canary. You trained me, so I know how good you are. You’re better than this--running a tiny promotion with no funds.”
Ted shrugged. “I spent a lot of years working for Luthor’s pop. We got an understanding. I train kids, scout for good new talent. Sometimes I put in a good word for them with Luthor. In return, he lets me continue to operate. It’s a better deal than a lotta guys got.”
“It must be frustrating,” said Bruce. “Holding matches in warehouses for twenty people. What if you had a chance to set up in a state-of-the-art facility, working formally with the DCW? A combination school/promotion, where you train promising young wrestlers and teach them the business, get them ready for the big time?”
Ted leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’d say it sounded too good to be true.” He lifted his chin. “I’d say: convince me.”
The Dark Knight waited in the ring for Superman to arrive, microphone in hand. “What’s that?” he said, nodding toward the gray metal box Superman was carrying.
“You said you’d use any means necessary to defeat me,” Superman said. ”Any means. But I don’t believe you.” He lifted the box above his head. “This is Kryptonite,” he announced. The audience gasped and murmured. “I brought it here because I know you won’t use it against me.” He placed the box on the announce table; the commentators shrank away from it as if it could hurt them as well. “I’m your friend, Batman. We’ve been through so much together. I know you won’t resort to shortcuts to beat me. So let’s do this,” he said, getting in the ring.
The Dark Knight gave him a long look. Then he nodded and went to his corner.
The bell rang.
The sound of the crowd seemed to flow around the ring like water around an island; it felt like the two of them were alone together on it. Bruce kept his face grim, his mouth compressed in an angry line, but Clark could see the delight in every line of his body, feel the joy in his sinews as they came together for the first time in so long.
They hadn’t bothered to carefully choreograph the match. They knew the story they were going to tell, so when they met in the middle of the ring and grappled, Clark knew Bruce was going to get the best of him and throw him to the other side of the ring without having planned it. Superman was tentative, unsure: he was going to let the Dark Knight get the upper hand for a while because his heart wasn’t in the fight. He tumbled head over heels into the turnbuckle and looked up at Bruce, knowing the camera would catch his look of dismay and doubt.
The Dark Knight came forward and kicked Superman in the head, and Clark could hear the crowd groan. Two more kicks, and then Bruce grabbed his hair and dragged him up, leaning close as he prepared to whip him into the far turnbuckle.
“Reverse,” Bruce muttered between his teeth, but Clark already knew that was what had to happen; in the middle of the ring he shifted his weight and pivoted so that it was the Dark Knight that ended up against the turnbuckle. Superman rushed forward and hit him with a forearm, and then another, but fell back quickly when the Dark Knight returned the blows.
They paused, staring at each other, letting the energy of the crowd build. Clark saw the flicker in Bruce’s eyes that meant he was about to move, and ducked out of the way just in time as a strike went by his head, close enough that he could feel the draft from it on his cheek like a kiss. The crowd gasped.
There was a flurry of moves--kicks and dodges that Clark was no longer fully consciously aware of, it was just a matter of moving to the next spot dictated by the flow of the combat, the rhythm of the match. He was on the defensive almost the entire first half of the match, taking moves and barely staggering up from them. After a running bulldog he dragged himself to a sitting position in the middle of the ring, clearly dazed and swaying, his eyes half-closed. He could feel Bruce pacing around him, staring at him. He glimpsed Bruce’s clenched fist out of the corner of his eye and knew that the Dark Knight’s jaw was tight as if he were steeling himself against compassion.
He knew what was coming next because they’d decided on it as the turning point of the match, so he was intellectually ready for it. But the stiff, contemptuous kick Bruce leveled at his back still jarred the breath from his body and made it easy to throw his hands up and contort his face in pain. The crowd’s outrage peaked and crested like a wave, and Superman dragged himself to his feet as if it were lifting him up almost despite himself.
He launched himself forward, desperately flailing at the Dark Knight, his face a mask of pain--and more, disappointment. He clipped Batman and sent him reeling, and from that point the momentum of the match slowly started to favor him. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose, and now Batman’s fundamental lack of commitment to the fight started to become clear, as he fell back before Superman’s disjointed but fervent attacks.
Superman hoisted the Dark Knight onto the turnbuckle in preparation for the hurricanrana they’d planned out. After that was when the Dark Knight would finally panic and scramble out of the ring toward the inevitable close of the match. Clark crawled up the turnbuckle after him, so they teetered there together--
And Clark felt Bruce’s hands slip on his sweat-slick skin and his footing give way. He barely had time to register Bruce’s quick and sincere obscenity before the two of them were toppling out of the ring toward the stairs together in freefall.
Time seemed to slow down, and Clark felt Bruce trying to twist his body to cushion Clark’s fall. Fury sparked in him and he managed to leverage himself so that he took the brunt of the impact instead, the edge of the steps biting across his shoulders. He howled aloud--because what’s the use of getting hurt if you don’t let the audience see it?--and came to his feet grimacing. A quick mental inventory, and he gave Bruce and the ref the quick look that meant I’m okay, no major problems; continuing.
The Dark Knight was standing with his fists clenched, shaking all over. Clark was afraid he was hurt for a second, then caught a glimpse of his eyes just before Batman came forward and slapped him twice across the face, just barely pulling the blows. The audience seethed, and Clark didn’t have to feign his recoil before he came back at the Dark Knight for a quick flurry of punches. These were stiff but more properly pulled, and in the middle of the exchange Clark felt them fall back into sync, felt the flash of legit anger leave Bruce’s body.
They were running a little ahead of time because of the botched move, so they filled it up with some improvised work around the ring, one circuit in which kids could reach out to touch Superman and people wearing ironic t-shirts could give the Dark Knight the thumbs up. The Dark Knight started off with the advantage, but by the time they got back to the announce table he was reeling under Superman’s offense, clearly running out of energy and options. He staggered backwards, falling against the table, and the camera closed in on the sweat running down under his cowl, the exhausted gasps of his breath.
Superman closed in on Batman, and Batman stood at bay, backed against the announce table, his hands scrabbling at the monitors and papers as if he might crawl backwards onto the table.
His fingers fell upon the little metal box Superman had brought to the ring.
He yanked it in front of him, and the cover fell open, baleful green light spilling out as he held it between himself and Superman. Superman fell backwards, his eyes widening with shock and horror, and it was his turn to retreat, his back coming up hard against the ring apron. He grabbed the ropes and dragged himself into the ring, turning to confront the Dark Knight as he entered, still holding the box.
Batman stared down at the box in his hand as if not sure how it got there. A look of something close to horror clenched his jaw, and with a sudden, jerky motion he hurled it away from himself, out of the ring. He and Superman looked at each other for a long moment, and then Superman staggered toward him--whether to confront, or attack, or embrace was unclear. Batman met him in the ring halfway with a superkick to the jaw and Superman went down in a heap, barely-conscious.
Batman hesitated for only a split-second before throwing himself on top of Superman and making the pin. The bell rang and the referee raised the Dark Knight’s hand.
Lying on the mat, his eyes closed in defeat, Clark noticed that the cheers for the Dark Knight were noticeably more subdued than they had been when the match had begun.
Bruce was going to be in a good mood tonight.
“What the hell was that stunt you pulled there?”
Clark blinked at Bruce, casting his mind back. His blankness only seemed to annoy Bruce more.
“With that botch onto the stairs. How dare you try to take the impact. It was my error, I--”
“How dare I?” Clark almost laughed in disbelief. “How dare I worry about the safety of my partner--my partner who, by the way, broke his neck not too long ago? Like hell I’m letting you take the impact of that--and you know what? If you’ve got a problem with that, you can just find another person to feud with, Bruce.”
Bruce glared at him for a moment. Then he smiled, and the tension left his shoulders. “Well,” he said. “It looked great, didn’t it?”
“It sure did,” Clark agreed.
“Let me see the damage,” Bruce said.
Clark pulled off his t-shirt, turning his back so Bruce could see his shoulders, and Bruce hissed gently between his teeth.
“Impressive?” Clark said lightly.
“Very,” said Bruce. He waited a beat. “The welt is fairly spectacular as well.”
Clark snorted and snapped the t-shirt at him.
Bruce’s hand ghosted across his shoulder blades, following the mark the stairs had left. Then it traveled lower, to the small of Clark’s back. “You’re going to have a dramatic bruise here too. Where I kicked you.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Clark said.
There was a long silence as Bruce’s hands gently traced the marks of their combat; the signs of their trust.
“I’ll go get the ice,” said Bruce.
“You, me, and a lot of ice,” said Clark. “Sounds like a perfect post-match evening.”
“Everything’s going great,” Bruce said cheerfully over the steady tapping of computer keys a few hours later.
“You mean with the storyline?”
“That too,” said Bruce. “I’d say we’ve got all but the most hardcore smarks hating my guts. And have you seen how many hits the latest video got? We’re on a roll. But no, I meant with the...side project.”
“‘The side project’ was how Bruce referred to a Byzantine system of grids, graphs, and time tables that Clark found frankly baffling. “It’s all very complicated,” was all Bruce said when Clark asked. “I’ve got an M.A. in economics. Just trust me, it’s coming together.”
Clark wasn’t sure when Bruce would have found time to get a master’s degree in anything when working as a wrestler--but on the other hand, somehow he didn’t doubt him.
“It’s going to be snug work,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “Tricky stuff. Delicate. Dangerous. The timing’s got to be just right, or it’s going to be the most spectacular botch of our careers.”
“Well,” said Clark, “if it is, at least we’ll fall together.”
(no subject)
Date: 2016-03-24 08:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-03-29 03:46 am (UTC)