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Heroes of the Squared Circle 5: Mortal Combat
Title: Mortal Combat
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Booster Gold, Ted Kord
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2700
Summary: Clark and Bruce start planning out their first match together.
"“Part of McMahon’s particular genius was to cut out the middleman, end any pretense of dignity, and give the people exactly what they wanted: homophobia locked in mortal combat with homoeroticism" --David Caron, "Wrestling Babylon"
The New York streets were quiet in the pale gray of dawn as Clark Kent walked to the gym down the street from where the wrestlers were staying. He got there ten minutes before six to find Bruce Wayne already standing there, wearing a pair of Oakley sunglasses against the morning sun.
"They're not open yet," Bruce said, tapping the door with his sneakered foot.
"Ah," Clark said.
A rather awkward silence fell. Clark dropped his bag on the pavement and leaned against the brick wall; Bruce hummed something tuneless under his breath.
"I noticed that--" Bruce started to say at the exact moment Clark blurted out "Is it okay that--". They both stopped talking; Clark chuckled slightly into the silence, and Bruce waved at him to continue.
"I just was going to say, is it okay that we're here together? A heel and a face, in public?"
Bruce looked thoughtful. "It should be okay as long as we don't act too chummy. We can probably even talk as long as we're being macho and confrontational about it." That brief flicker at the corner of his mouth that Clark was beginning to realize counted as a smile. "If people start to look suspicious, I can always deck you."
The gym door opened and Bruce hoisted his bag and went inside, leaving Clark unsure how serious that last statement had been.
: : :
"Is that all you've got?" Bruce's voice was sharp. "No wonder Marvel's been beating you so easily."
Clark finished another pull-up and glared over at Bruce. "I'm not going to show you everything I've got, city boy," he snarled.
"Oh?" Bruce pouted as he lowered the dumbbell behind his back slowly, triceps straining, then raised it again. He cast a look at Clark through lowered eyelashes. "What a shame."
There were snickers from some of the other people working out in the gym. Clark blinked; he hadn't expected Bruce to take his heel persona in that direction. He shot Bruce an annoyed glance, sorting rapidly through various snappy comebacks and insults, discarding both the homophobic and the too-passive. "Shame? As if you know the meaning of the word," he snorted, then waited for the next comeback.
They'd worked out in silence at first, but then Clark had wanted to ask Bruce why he was choosing to do a certain set of exercises, and the only way to do it had been by insulting his choice and seeing what he said in reply. Bruce had responded in kind, and somewhat to Clark's surprise he had found himself enjoying the rapid exchange of abuse, shooting back as good as he was given.
"All I know is it would be a shame if someone didn't teach you your place," Bruce purred. His bare chest was lightly sheened in sweat, but his face showed no strain as he kept lifting his weights.
Bruce was certainly making it hard to keep this conversation free of subtext, Clark thought, hoisting his body up to the bar again. Everything he said seemed to have more than one layer of meaning, and it was difficult not to respond to the more...suggestive ones. But Country Clark was fairly naive, so noticing that subtext was out of the question. In fact, it might be best--and most amusing--if he was totally oblivious to it. "And I bet you think your place is on top," Clark blustered. "Don't flatter yourself."
"On top, on bottom, I'm not choosy," said Bruce, to gasps and laughter from the other people in the gym. "But in the ring, I'm afraid the only option for you is complete...and total...defeat." He lifted and dropped the barbells in rhythm with his last words, then swung them down to the floor. "Good luck with the rest of your workout," he said silkily, and headed toward the locker room.
Clark rolled his eyes and let him go, since he was fairly certain keeping up kayfabe while undressing and showering together would be a challenge he was...not quite up to facing right now. He could hear people in the gym chattering about Bruce--and some talking about him as well, which was a surprise.
By the time he wrapped up his workout and got to the showers, Bruce was gone.
: : :
He got back to his hotel room--a rickety old fleatrap with a rusting fire escape clinging to the side--and pulled out a book. They weren't leaving New York for Philadelphia until tomorrow morning, and most of the wrestlers were off seeing local friends or otherwise entertaining themselves. Clark pulled out his dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby--on this re-reading he was finding a lot of material about being a Midwesterner in the glittering East to work into his persona--and settled down on the sagging bed to lose himself in the Roaring 20s.
His phone buzzed.
Picking it up, he saw a message: Want to talk about our match? I've got some ideas. --B.
Love to, he typed back. What have you got in mind?
Better to talk in person.
Clark frowned. I agree, but we can't meet in public. And if Max catches you coming to the babyface hotel, he'll tear you a new one.
There was a long pause, long enough that Clark went back to his book and finished the chapter. Then his phone buzzed again.
Open your window.
Looking from his phone to the window in disbelief, Clark got up and went over.
Crouched on the fire escape was Bruce Wayne, unsmiling as usual, but his eyes were alight with mischief. "Hey," he said, swinging himself into the room when Clark opened the window.
Clark looked down at the street. "Did you--? You know what, never mind," he said, closing the window.
"Nice work in the gym this morning," said Bruce, dropping into the worn-out chair next to the unbalanced table. "We got some good flow going there, people will remember that. Now, can you pull off something like that in front of a real crowd?"
"Of course I can," Clark snapped, stung.
"Good, good," Bruce said absently, pulling a notebook and pen out of his pocket. "I don't like to script too strictly, there should always be room for improvisation and inspiration."
Clark dropped onto the bed and propped his feet up on the table. "So we get to have some interaction in the ring before we start to wrestle?"
"Yep." Bruce scribbled a few notes. "Lord said we get to cut a promo together to kick off the feud. Set the tone."
"So what's Billionaire Brucie's motivation? Why's he suddenly got a beef with Country Clark?"
"We need something that uses Clark and Brucie's background." Bruce tapped his mouth with his pen, looking thoughtful. "Talk to me about Clark."
"Well, he's a farm kid, grew up in Kansas." It was surreal to be talking about himself in the third person, but at the same time it was somehow reassuring--it wasn't him, it was Country Clark. "Simple guy, tends to believe the best of everyone. His Ma and Pa raised him to treat others with respect and they'd respect him back." He ignored Bruce's small snort. "He's proud of his upbringing, of the fact that he's planted corn and milked cows and gotten his hands dirty in his life."
Bruce sat up in his chair. "That's it."
"What?"
"Brucie is a billionaire, right? He's got a huge mansion outside Gotham with a gigantic staff of people catering to his every whim. And he loves bossing people around and lording it over them. So maybe he needs a new stablehand to take care of his polo ponies or something, and he decides with his farm background, Country Clark would be perfect for the job. Lots of condescending possibilities there."
"OK, but Clark's not the kind of guy who'd get bitterly angry at being condescended to. He's likely to just let it all roll off his back--if he even notices it."
"True." Bruce scribbled something on his notebook, his eyes narrowed. "It's got to be a real babyface reason, not a personal slight. Clark's the kind of guy who gets mad on behalf of others, not himself."
They sat in silence for a time, contemplating it. Then Bruce bounced to his feet as though he couldn't stay still any longer and began to pace back and forth across the room. After a few revolutions, Clark couldn't resist putting his foot out in Bruce's path. Bruce jumped quick as a cat and avoided it, turning in midair to come down and kick his calf lightly. "Don't interrupt me when I'm thinking," he said.
"You're always thinking."
A quick gleam of a near-smile. "Exactly."
"Oh, come on." Clark stood up, dropping into a crouch and extending his hands as if about to grapple him.
"I'm thinking," Bruce snapped, batting his hands away.
"You can think while you wrestle, right?" Clark lunged forward and he dodged back, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I assume your brain doesn't turn off when your body engages."
Bruce shot him a dangerous, assessing look, his eyes narrowed. Clark feinted at him again--and found himself flat on his back on the ratty carpet, his legs kicked out from under him.
"Oof," Clark said, blinking up. "Wow, that was a good throw. Judo training?"
Bruce put his foot on his chest and looked down at him. "A little. I wrestled in Asia for a while before debuting here."
Clark was about to grab his foot and see if he could toss him onto the bed when there was a knock at the door. "Hey, Clarkie!" Booster's voice came clearly through the thin door, "We're not going to let you spend yet another night cooped up in here reading!"
"Yeah!" Ted Kord sang out. "Come out and playyyyy, Clarkie!"
"Oh man," Clark hissed, scrambling to his feet. He went to the door, opening it up just a slit. "Hey guys. Um, I'm not feeling really well tonight and--"
The door banged open and Booster and Ted tumbled into the room, laughing, with Orion, Dmitri, and Scott following after them. "Dude, you're going to shrivel up and die if you stay in here every night!" He barged through the entranceway and into the room proper. "You must have a great porn stash or something and--oh my God!"
"Look, I can explain," Clark said, hurrying back into the room. "It's not--"
"--The Great Gatsby?" Booster shook the book in the air. "My friend, this is an intervention. You need professional help."
Clark blinked, looking around the room. Bruce was gone, and there was no sign he had ever been there.
: : :
"Ugh. I'm too hung over, I can't drive," grumbled Ted Kord as he, Booster, and Clark piled into his rusty car. He lobbed the keys at Booster. "You take the wheel."
"Why not make Kent? He's never hung over."
"Because I drove all the way here and I deserve a break," said Clark. "I'm willing to be designated driver most nights, but I'm not going to do all the highway driving too."
"Yeah, yeah," Booster griped, but he sat down in the driver's seat.
"Shotgun!" Ted yelled as always.
Soon they were on the road, making their way from New York to Philadelphia and the next show. "When's Max going to get us busses?" Ted complained. "The DCW has busses for their wrestlers. They don't have to freaking carpool everywhere." He dropped the his seat almost into the back seat and put his bare feet up on the dashboard.
"Max can't even afford vans," Booster snarked. "Hell, sometimes he can't afford wrestlers."
"We got our take after the last show," Clark said. "Not bad, either."
"Gonna be worse now that Marvel's gone, the bastard."
Clark sighed. "Well, we'll just all have to be better to make up for it."
"I wonder who's going to get the belt next? Once he has a new belt made, I mean."
"I'm betting Scott," said Ted.
Booster shook his head. "Nah, it'll be Guy. Heel champions are more of a draw than face champions anyway."
"Guy's overdue for a face turn, he's been a heel for ages now."
"Wish he'd let us have a heel turn," Booster said wistfully. "Heels have all the fun and get all the heat. Babyfaces are boring."
The two of them took off into a long disquisition of what they could accomplish as heels--"I think our heel motto should be 'Bite me!'," Ted explained--and Clark mostly tuned them out as he watched mile after mile of strip malls and Applebee's go by. Without meaning to, his mind drifted to his Man of Steel persona. He'd wear red and blue--with yellow accents, not white, to avoid looking simply like a patriotism gimmick. He'd do all sorts of charity work, donate tons of time to the Make a Wish Foundation--the idea that some sick kid might want to see him seemed impossible to even imagine. He'd cut promos against bullying and intolerance, and who knew? Maybe he could make just a little bit of difference in the real world outside of wrestling, the world that mattered.
He sighed and dragged himself back to reality as another Cracker Barrel went by. Country Clark Kent, well-meaning hayseed, was never going to be able to do anything like that.
His phone buzzed.
I got it.
Clark blinked at Bruce's message. Good morning to you too.
Yes, good morning. I got the hook, how we start our feud.
Do tell.
Bruce started to lay out his plan, and Clark found himself nodding, making suggestions on how to get the tone just right. They got stuck on one point and he received a set of coldly blistering messages informing him that his knowledge of crowd psychology was fatally flawed and simplistic in the extreme, which annoyed him enough to shoot back some rather heated comments in return, but eventually they ironed that out and--
"Geez, Kent, the least you could do is help make this a little less boring," Booster complained, breaking off from where he and Ted were reading each other riddles from the wrappers of a bunch of gum they'd bought at the last pit stop. "You haven't done anything but stare at that phone for the last two hours."
Clark looked up from his phone, blinking. He hadn't been aware time was passing so fast.
"Okay, here's one," said Ted, smoothing out the little scrap of paper in his hand. His voice was slightly muffled from a large quantity of gum. "Where did the general put his armies?"
Booster hemmed and hawed. "In the barracks? On the field? On horses?"
"Help me out here, Kent," Ted said, throwing an appealing look into the back seat.
I'll message you when we get into town and we'll plan some more, Clark typed. If I don't help babysit, Booster and Ted might do something stupid. "In his sleevies," he said, pressing "send," and Ted and Booster both groaned in pain.
"Okay, okay, here's another. How do you turn your soup to gold?"
Clark's phone buzzed. "Might"? I'd say the odds of them doing something stupid approaches 100%.
Smiling, Clark slipped his phone back into his bag to reduce temptation. "I don't know, Ted, how do you turn your soup to gold?"
"You add fourteen carrots," said Ted. "Ha!"
"Ha! Wait, I don't get it," said Booster.
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Booster Gold, Ted Kord
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2700
Summary: Clark and Bruce start planning out their first match together.
"“Part of McMahon’s particular genius was to cut out the middleman, end any pretense of dignity, and give the people exactly what they wanted: homophobia locked in mortal combat with homoeroticism" --David Caron, "Wrestling Babylon"
The New York streets were quiet in the pale gray of dawn as Clark Kent walked to the gym down the street from where the wrestlers were staying. He got there ten minutes before six to find Bruce Wayne already standing there, wearing a pair of Oakley sunglasses against the morning sun.
"They're not open yet," Bruce said, tapping the door with his sneakered foot.
"Ah," Clark said.
A rather awkward silence fell. Clark dropped his bag on the pavement and leaned against the brick wall; Bruce hummed something tuneless under his breath.
"I noticed that--" Bruce started to say at the exact moment Clark blurted out "Is it okay that--". They both stopped talking; Clark chuckled slightly into the silence, and Bruce waved at him to continue.
"I just was going to say, is it okay that we're here together? A heel and a face, in public?"
Bruce looked thoughtful. "It should be okay as long as we don't act too chummy. We can probably even talk as long as we're being macho and confrontational about it." That brief flicker at the corner of his mouth that Clark was beginning to realize counted as a smile. "If people start to look suspicious, I can always deck you."
The gym door opened and Bruce hoisted his bag and went inside, leaving Clark unsure how serious that last statement had been.
: : :
"Is that all you've got?" Bruce's voice was sharp. "No wonder Marvel's been beating you so easily."
Clark finished another pull-up and glared over at Bruce. "I'm not going to show you everything I've got, city boy," he snarled.
"Oh?" Bruce pouted as he lowered the dumbbell behind his back slowly, triceps straining, then raised it again. He cast a look at Clark through lowered eyelashes. "What a shame."
There were snickers from some of the other people working out in the gym. Clark blinked; he hadn't expected Bruce to take his heel persona in that direction. He shot Bruce an annoyed glance, sorting rapidly through various snappy comebacks and insults, discarding both the homophobic and the too-passive. "Shame? As if you know the meaning of the word," he snorted, then waited for the next comeback.
They'd worked out in silence at first, but then Clark had wanted to ask Bruce why he was choosing to do a certain set of exercises, and the only way to do it had been by insulting his choice and seeing what he said in reply. Bruce had responded in kind, and somewhat to Clark's surprise he had found himself enjoying the rapid exchange of abuse, shooting back as good as he was given.
"All I know is it would be a shame if someone didn't teach you your place," Bruce purred. His bare chest was lightly sheened in sweat, but his face showed no strain as he kept lifting his weights.
Bruce was certainly making it hard to keep this conversation free of subtext, Clark thought, hoisting his body up to the bar again. Everything he said seemed to have more than one layer of meaning, and it was difficult not to respond to the more...suggestive ones. But Country Clark was fairly naive, so noticing that subtext was out of the question. In fact, it might be best--and most amusing--if he was totally oblivious to it. "And I bet you think your place is on top," Clark blustered. "Don't flatter yourself."
"On top, on bottom, I'm not choosy," said Bruce, to gasps and laughter from the other people in the gym. "But in the ring, I'm afraid the only option for you is complete...and total...defeat." He lifted and dropped the barbells in rhythm with his last words, then swung them down to the floor. "Good luck with the rest of your workout," he said silkily, and headed toward the locker room.
Clark rolled his eyes and let him go, since he was fairly certain keeping up kayfabe while undressing and showering together would be a challenge he was...not quite up to facing right now. He could hear people in the gym chattering about Bruce--and some talking about him as well, which was a surprise.
By the time he wrapped up his workout and got to the showers, Bruce was gone.
: : :
He got back to his hotel room--a rickety old fleatrap with a rusting fire escape clinging to the side--and pulled out a book. They weren't leaving New York for Philadelphia until tomorrow morning, and most of the wrestlers were off seeing local friends or otherwise entertaining themselves. Clark pulled out his dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby--on this re-reading he was finding a lot of material about being a Midwesterner in the glittering East to work into his persona--and settled down on the sagging bed to lose himself in the Roaring 20s.
His phone buzzed.
Picking it up, he saw a message: Want to talk about our match? I've got some ideas. --B.
Love to, he typed back. What have you got in mind?
Better to talk in person.
Clark frowned. I agree, but we can't meet in public. And if Max catches you coming to the babyface hotel, he'll tear you a new one.
There was a long pause, long enough that Clark went back to his book and finished the chapter. Then his phone buzzed again.
Open your window.
Looking from his phone to the window in disbelief, Clark got up and went over.
Crouched on the fire escape was Bruce Wayne, unsmiling as usual, but his eyes were alight with mischief. "Hey," he said, swinging himself into the room when Clark opened the window.
Clark looked down at the street. "Did you--? You know what, never mind," he said, closing the window.
"Nice work in the gym this morning," said Bruce, dropping into the worn-out chair next to the unbalanced table. "We got some good flow going there, people will remember that. Now, can you pull off something like that in front of a real crowd?"
"Of course I can," Clark snapped, stung.
"Good, good," Bruce said absently, pulling a notebook and pen out of his pocket. "I don't like to script too strictly, there should always be room for improvisation and inspiration."
Clark dropped onto the bed and propped his feet up on the table. "So we get to have some interaction in the ring before we start to wrestle?"
"Yep." Bruce scribbled a few notes. "Lord said we get to cut a promo together to kick off the feud. Set the tone."
"So what's Billionaire Brucie's motivation? Why's he suddenly got a beef with Country Clark?"
"We need something that uses Clark and Brucie's background." Bruce tapped his mouth with his pen, looking thoughtful. "Talk to me about Clark."
"Well, he's a farm kid, grew up in Kansas." It was surreal to be talking about himself in the third person, but at the same time it was somehow reassuring--it wasn't him, it was Country Clark. "Simple guy, tends to believe the best of everyone. His Ma and Pa raised him to treat others with respect and they'd respect him back." He ignored Bruce's small snort. "He's proud of his upbringing, of the fact that he's planted corn and milked cows and gotten his hands dirty in his life."
Bruce sat up in his chair. "That's it."
"What?"
"Brucie is a billionaire, right? He's got a huge mansion outside Gotham with a gigantic staff of people catering to his every whim. And he loves bossing people around and lording it over them. So maybe he needs a new stablehand to take care of his polo ponies or something, and he decides with his farm background, Country Clark would be perfect for the job. Lots of condescending possibilities there."
"OK, but Clark's not the kind of guy who'd get bitterly angry at being condescended to. He's likely to just let it all roll off his back--if he even notices it."
"True." Bruce scribbled something on his notebook, his eyes narrowed. "It's got to be a real babyface reason, not a personal slight. Clark's the kind of guy who gets mad on behalf of others, not himself."
They sat in silence for a time, contemplating it. Then Bruce bounced to his feet as though he couldn't stay still any longer and began to pace back and forth across the room. After a few revolutions, Clark couldn't resist putting his foot out in Bruce's path. Bruce jumped quick as a cat and avoided it, turning in midair to come down and kick his calf lightly. "Don't interrupt me when I'm thinking," he said.
"You're always thinking."
A quick gleam of a near-smile. "Exactly."
"Oh, come on." Clark stood up, dropping into a crouch and extending his hands as if about to grapple him.
"I'm thinking," Bruce snapped, batting his hands away.
"You can think while you wrestle, right?" Clark lunged forward and he dodged back, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I assume your brain doesn't turn off when your body engages."
Bruce shot him a dangerous, assessing look, his eyes narrowed. Clark feinted at him again--and found himself flat on his back on the ratty carpet, his legs kicked out from under him.
"Oof," Clark said, blinking up. "Wow, that was a good throw. Judo training?"
Bruce put his foot on his chest and looked down at him. "A little. I wrestled in Asia for a while before debuting here."
Clark was about to grab his foot and see if he could toss him onto the bed when there was a knock at the door. "Hey, Clarkie!" Booster's voice came clearly through the thin door, "We're not going to let you spend yet another night cooped up in here reading!"
"Yeah!" Ted Kord sang out. "Come out and playyyyy, Clarkie!"
"Oh man," Clark hissed, scrambling to his feet. He went to the door, opening it up just a slit. "Hey guys. Um, I'm not feeling really well tonight and--"
The door banged open and Booster and Ted tumbled into the room, laughing, with Orion, Dmitri, and Scott following after them. "Dude, you're going to shrivel up and die if you stay in here every night!" He barged through the entranceway and into the room proper. "You must have a great porn stash or something and--oh my God!"
"Look, I can explain," Clark said, hurrying back into the room. "It's not--"
"--The Great Gatsby?" Booster shook the book in the air. "My friend, this is an intervention. You need professional help."
Clark blinked, looking around the room. Bruce was gone, and there was no sign he had ever been there.
: : :
"Ugh. I'm too hung over, I can't drive," grumbled Ted Kord as he, Booster, and Clark piled into his rusty car. He lobbed the keys at Booster. "You take the wheel."
"Why not make Kent? He's never hung over."
"Because I drove all the way here and I deserve a break," said Clark. "I'm willing to be designated driver most nights, but I'm not going to do all the highway driving too."
"Yeah, yeah," Booster griped, but he sat down in the driver's seat.
"Shotgun!" Ted yelled as always.
Soon they were on the road, making their way from New York to Philadelphia and the next show. "When's Max going to get us busses?" Ted complained. "The DCW has busses for their wrestlers. They don't have to freaking carpool everywhere." He dropped the his seat almost into the back seat and put his bare feet up on the dashboard.
"Max can't even afford vans," Booster snarked. "Hell, sometimes he can't afford wrestlers."
"We got our take after the last show," Clark said. "Not bad, either."
"Gonna be worse now that Marvel's gone, the bastard."
Clark sighed. "Well, we'll just all have to be better to make up for it."
"I wonder who's going to get the belt next? Once he has a new belt made, I mean."
"I'm betting Scott," said Ted.
Booster shook his head. "Nah, it'll be Guy. Heel champions are more of a draw than face champions anyway."
"Guy's overdue for a face turn, he's been a heel for ages now."
"Wish he'd let us have a heel turn," Booster said wistfully. "Heels have all the fun and get all the heat. Babyfaces are boring."
The two of them took off into a long disquisition of what they could accomplish as heels--"I think our heel motto should be 'Bite me!'," Ted explained--and Clark mostly tuned them out as he watched mile after mile of strip malls and Applebee's go by. Without meaning to, his mind drifted to his Man of Steel persona. He'd wear red and blue--with yellow accents, not white, to avoid looking simply like a patriotism gimmick. He'd do all sorts of charity work, donate tons of time to the Make a Wish Foundation--the idea that some sick kid might want to see him seemed impossible to even imagine. He'd cut promos against bullying and intolerance, and who knew? Maybe he could make just a little bit of difference in the real world outside of wrestling, the world that mattered.
He sighed and dragged himself back to reality as another Cracker Barrel went by. Country Clark Kent, well-meaning hayseed, was never going to be able to do anything like that.
His phone buzzed.
I got it.
Clark blinked at Bruce's message. Good morning to you too.
Yes, good morning. I got the hook, how we start our feud.
Do tell.
Bruce started to lay out his plan, and Clark found himself nodding, making suggestions on how to get the tone just right. They got stuck on one point and he received a set of coldly blistering messages informing him that his knowledge of crowd psychology was fatally flawed and simplistic in the extreme, which annoyed him enough to shoot back some rather heated comments in return, but eventually they ironed that out and--
"Geez, Kent, the least you could do is help make this a little less boring," Booster complained, breaking off from where he and Ted were reading each other riddles from the wrappers of a bunch of gum they'd bought at the last pit stop. "You haven't done anything but stare at that phone for the last two hours."
Clark looked up from his phone, blinking. He hadn't been aware time was passing so fast.
"Okay, here's one," said Ted, smoothing out the little scrap of paper in his hand. His voice was slightly muffled from a large quantity of gum. "Where did the general put his armies?"
Booster hemmed and hawed. "In the barracks? On the field? On horses?"
"Help me out here, Kent," Ted said, throwing an appealing look into the back seat.
I'll message you when we get into town and we'll plan some more, Clark typed. If I don't help babysit, Booster and Ted might do something stupid. "In his sleevies," he said, pressing "send," and Ted and Booster both groaned in pain.
"Okay, okay, here's another. How do you turn your soup to gold?"
Clark's phone buzzed. "Might"? I'd say the odds of them doing something stupid approaches 100%.
Smiling, Clark slipped his phone back into his bag to reduce temptation. "I don't know, Ted, how do you turn your soup to gold?"
"You add fourteen carrots," said Ted. "Ha!"
"Ha! Wait, I don't get it," said Booster.
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"In his sleevies,"
Claaaark noooo.
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Claaaark noooo.
*giggles* Oh man, I actually took that bit straight from a documentary about indie wrestlers on the road...they're so bored and kill time in the car by reading bubble gum riddles. :)
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Oh, I LOVE the interaction between Bruce and Clark. I love the rapid-fire insults and the discussions and the Batmanning in and out of Clark's room and the really, really dumb jokes!
This is pure gold. You don't even have to add 14 carrots.
P.S. We will probably go to your local castle instead of the museum when we come to visit (our hotel is close to both). I thought we would be there through the 1st, but it turns out we'll be leaving early that day instead of late, so we won't have time to do anything that day. :/ We will be arriving on the 30th and be there all day on the 31st, though.
I've got your quinoa - did your significant other want anything? Peanut butter cups or anything? Let me know soon! We're leaving Thurs am. :) Oh, and speaking of castles, did I get a membership card or anything for the Castle Club? ^_^ (Sorry, I'm really excited!)
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Oh wait, I re-sent my email, but I just realized you meant a physical card for the club, not the account itself--I didn't get anything, drat! I wish, but I've been looking for anything Licca-related...
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Clark blinked; he hadn't expected Bruce to take his heel persona in that direction
Clark you have no idea what direction Bruce is driving at, at least not yet!
But Country Clark was fairly naive, so noticing that subtext was out of the question. In fact, it might be best--and most amusing--if he was totally oblivious to it. "And I bet you think your place is on top," Clark blustered. "Don't flatter yourself."
Clark being meta is such a turn on. Also funny!
I like how you're dropping only little hints about Clark's attraction.
Open your window.
Oh Bruce, you didn't! LOL
It was surreal to be talking about himself in the third person, but at the same time it was somehow reassuring--it wasn't him, it was Country Clark.
Meta again, so fun! You the writer writing about Clark who's thinking about his persona. Plus the Superman level which is missing, but always there in the back of our minds. YAY
Clark's the kind of guy who gets mad on behalf of others, not himself.
This story teaches us so much about Superman's essence.... I think that's part of the appeal of elseworlds isn't it? Switch the circumstances, gender, appearance whatever... and reveal the core.
"I'm thinking," Bruce snapped, batting his hands away.
The Bat is showing through
After a few revolutions, Clark couldn't resist putting his foot out in Bruce's path. Bruce jumped quick as a cat and avoided it, turning in midair to come down and kick his calf lightly.
I like this on a symbolical level. Clark trips him up, doesn't he? *g*
Yay for Bruce having wrestled in Asia!
"Heels have all the fun and get all the heat.
Bruce certainly seems to enjoy being one. By the way, is The Rock a heel or a face or did he get turned at some point? I'm just wondering... I watched a promo of him two days ago goading his next challenger (Cena I think?), but couldn't figure out what he was. He seems to have the audience on his side but wikipedia says heels sometimes are more popular than babyfaces... confusing.
I love Clark dreaming about his future Man of Steel persona. Maybe he could make just a little bit of difference in the real world outside of wrestling, the world that mattered. YESSSS
PHONE ROMANCE! Yay! This seems so realistic...
I don't get the joke either...:-( ah the disadvantages of not being a native speaker... :-)
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*grin* Oh my, Bruce flirting under cover of his persona makes me so happy to write...
Oh Bruce, you didn't! LOL
Bruce is a ninja in any world! *grin*
Meta again, so fun! You the writer writing about Clark who's thinking about his persona. Plus the Superman level which is missing, but always there in the back of our minds. YAY.
This part is just getting more and more fun to write as I settle into the world.
I think that's part of the appeal of elseworlds isn't it? Switch the circumstances, gender, appearance whatever... and reveal the core.
Yes! I've really enjoyed that here--take away the flying and the heat vision and what do you have that makes Superman Superman?
Yay for Bruce having wrestled in Asia!
Oh God, I have a whole crazy backstory about that which will come out eventually, lol. Suffice to say the promotion was run by Henri Ducard, who had lots of interesting ideas about how to craft a persona...
By the way, is The Rock a heel or a face or did he get turned at some point? I'm just wondering... I watched a promo of him two days ago goading his next challenger (Cena I think?), but couldn't figure out what he was. He seems to have the audience on his side but wikipedia says heels sometimes are more popular than babyfaces... confusing.
This is an excellent point, and one that will crop up again in the future. Some wrestlers (the Rock is one of the best examples) eventually become so famous and well-known that they CAN'T really be heels anymore. Even if they play a heel character everyone cheers them. :) They're usually dubbed "tweeners" at that point, for a character that hovers in between heel and face. In modern (postmodern?) wrestling a lot of the wrestlers are actually tweeners--people who are technically heels but people admire as good wrestlers, for example.
And the joke, lol! It's a pun on carrot and caret (the way you measure the purity of gold). :P Puns, curse them. My college adviser always used to say that "in heaven, all puns will translate perfectly." :)
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Yes, that's what it is! He protects himself (and has fun!) - testing the waters :-)
Bruce is a ninja in any world!
So true! I couldn't imagine a Bruce who isn't able to sneakily appear behind people, LOL.
Also, YAY for crazy backstory! I am looking forward to it!
Thank you for clearing the heel/tweener thing up for me. That makes sense. Also thanks for explaining the joke..I feel so dumb now. Caret is "Karat" in German, but the stress is on the second syllable so it doesn't really rhyme with carrot. Ah well.
"in heaven, all puns will translate perfectly." LOL I certainly hope so.