Heroes of the Squared Circle 22: Truth and...

[mithen]

Title: Truth and...
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Lex Luthor, Selina Kyle, Waylon Jones, Jimmy Olsen, Jack Napier, Big Barda.
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 3400
Summary: At the tribute for the Graysons, Billionaire Brucie and Country Clark Kent put on a show.



“I knew then why I needed [the dirt sheets],” Hart said. “It wasn’t a story line, it wasn’t pretend. Wrestling writes its own publicity. I was always grateful for someone allowing the truth to come out.”

"Why didn't you tell us?" Barda sounded more confused than angry as she faced down Lex Luthor in the common room. Behind her, Clark could see other wrestlers--some shaking their heads, some stifling grins, some looking annoyed.

"Look, I'm very busy today, and--"

Barda grabbed Luthor's shoulder as he tried to brush by; Luthor looked at her hand and then at her face and she let go. "But if you'd said something--"

"If you think it's tacky to perform at a memorial program, you think it's tacky," Luthor said. "What difference does it make where the proceeds are going?"

"It makes a big difference!"

Luthor shrugged, turned his back and walked away while Barda stared after him.

"I don't understand him," she said, mystified.

"What happened?" asked Clark.

"All the money from tonight is going into a fund for Dick," said Barda.

"Minus our paychecks, of course," put in Jack Napier, looking up from polishing his hood. Everyone looked at him. "I'm just saying, we're still going to get paid."

"I don't understand--why didn't he just say so?" Barda shook her head. "I have to go talk to the bookers, see if they can still fit in a match for me tonight." She threw her hands up in disgust as she walked away. "I work for a megalomaniac control freak philanthropist!"

The show was only four hours away.

"Mr. Kent--Mr. Kent!" A harried-looking Jimmy Olsen grabbed his arm. "You haven't been here all day, we need you to shoot your promo for the tribute tonight. You're shooting something, right?"

"I...yes, I planned to." He hadn't had time to think about it, between running between Duffy, Zucco, and Gordon, but apparently he was out of time.

"OK, sit here." Jimmy led him to a corner with a black backdrop, sat him down in a chair. "Let me get the cameras together."

And he darted off, leaving Clark with nothing to do but sit and wait. And remember his lunch date--no, not date, just lunch--with Bruce.

Bruce had insisted Clark sit with his back to the door. "Plausible deniability," he said. "If you don't see the spy, Luthor can't weasel their identity out of you. No offense, Clark, but you're a terrible liar."

Clark had sighed, skipped the denials, and ordered a pepperoni pizza.

While they were waiting for their food, the little bells on the door jingled. Bruce's expression didn't change, but soon he started talking--ostensibly to Clark, who responded where appropriate, but his recap of the days investigations was both too succinct and too detailed to be conversational. "Can I see that bolt again?" Bruce asked. "This would be really useful evidence against Zucco, if only the police would pay any attention to us," he said, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. He put it down on the table and contemplated it wordlessly for a time.

Clark resisted the impulse to turn around as Bruce displayed the bolt and instead focused on his pizza. Eventually some almost-invisible tension went out of Bruce's shoulders; behind Clark, the door bells jingled again and Bruce picked up a piece of pizza in turn. "Out of our hands now," he said, looking down at his food. "So." He looked up with the air of someone dismissing unwelcome thoughts. "Let's talk about our match tonight!"

They had walked back to the auditorium together, still discussing moves and strategies. "You go get ready," said Bruce. "I...I need to talk to Dick again. He should hear about this from a friend before it shows up anywhere else."

"I can--" Clark started, but Bruce shook his head.

"No, I think this has to be me, Clark. I can't...really explain why, but it has to be me." He had shrugged. "Maybe more for my sake than his, but there it is."

And now he was off talking to Dick and Clark was stuck here in this chair and he still wasn't sure what he was going to say about the Graysons. But Jimmy was back and the cameras were focused on him, and the red light went on and he suddenly knew exactly what to say.

"I remember the first show I ever saw. Green Lantern was there, and Vandal Savage, and Dr. Mid-Nite--all the greats. But it was when I saw John and Mary Grayson's entrance that I knew I'd be a wrestling fan for the rest of my life." He looked into the camera, imagining it was Dick's eyes, talking to him rather than the audience. "When they did the Tightrope Stunner move--well, it was magic. They haven't done that move in years, but it was…" He shook his head, remembering. "John would grab his opponent's hand and jump up onto the top rope, then walk it like a tightrope to the corner, dragging his opponent with him before he dropped an elbow on them." He pointed toward the roof, the hand signal that John had always done to indicate to the audience he was about to pull off the Stunner. "And when they were tag-teaming, Mary would walk the top rope in the opposite direction and do this amazing flying kick and it was just--wow. Wow."

He realized his voice had climbed into an almost childish enthusiasm, decided not to try and check it; it was the greatest tribute to the Graysons he could give. As an actual wrestler, he'd come to appreciate the move even more, especially the difficulty of Mary's role--for she had to walk the top rope all by herself, while John could have help balancing from his "victim" as they walked together. But he couldn't explain that to the audience, of course, so he merely said, "They were everything that was beautiful and graceful and good about wrestling to me, and I'll always be sorry I didn't get more of a chance to work with them. But I know they left behind their greatest legacy in their son, and we'll always remember their genius."

The red light winked off and Jimmy grinned at him and wiped his eyes. "Good job, Mr. Kent."

It hadn't really been good enough, but it was all he had. He nodded at Jimmy and managed a smile. "Thank you."

Now there was nothing for it but to wait for the show to start and wonder what the fallout was going to be from lunch.

: : :

Clark could hear the buzz of the audience: muted tonight, but still electric in a different way. The Gorilla Position was full of wrestlers, including Dick Grayson at Lex Luthor's side, pale but composed. "You told him?" Clark murmured to Bruce.

Bruce nodded.

"He isn't going to do anything rash, like...I don't know…"

"Denounce Luthor on live television?" Bruce's smile was thin. "No. He was angry, but he said pulling something like that and hurting all the people he'd grown up with wasn't something his parents would be proud of."

Clark's eyebrows went up. "Good kid."

"One of the best," said Bruce. "But not really a kid anymore."

Clark looked closely at Bruce. "Are you all right?" Bruce had refused to do a video promo ("I don't want to break character") and there was something about his eyes--

"I'll be fine once we're wrestling," Bruce said, his voice tight. "I just--I don't handle non-kayfabe very well in situations like this."

Mercy Graves stepped forward. "All right everyone," she said, her voice crisp and professional, "We're on in three...two...one…"

And then the employees of the DCW went out onto the ramp together.

The crowd was nearly silent as Luthor addressed them, speaking of the tragic accident and the grief they all felt. He spoke simply and concisely, his voice free of any of the bombast of "Lex Luthor, CEO," and then handed the mic to Dick.

Clark heard Dick swallow; the mic picked it up and it echoed around the hushed auditorium. "Thank you all for being here tonight," he said. " I know my parents would be honored--" His voice cracked and he broke off, started again, "--would be honored that so many of you were here tonight. They loved the world of wrestling, and they loved the DCW, and they loved all of you fans." A ripple ran through the crowd, not applause but a kind of wordless support. "So thank you for being here for them, and for us, and for--for me," he finished, and handed the mic quickly back to Luthor.

The Jumbotron flickered to life as the sounds of the Graysons' theme music filled the hall: images of them beaming and smiling and performing. Clark recognized Mary's debut in her white costume from that night in Kansas City so long ago, and his eyes filled with tears.

Something seized his arm and he looked over to see Bruce, his face a white oval in the darkness, his lips moving slightly, his eyes gazing unseeingly up at the Jumbotron. He looked like he was going to pass out, and without thinking Clark put his arm around him. Bruce leaned against him for a moment, but as the tribute came to an end he pushed away, his face back to the polite Billionaire Brucie mask as the wrestlers went back up the ramp and backstage and the show began in earnest.

"Our promo is in ten minutes," he said when Clark gave him a look. "We're focusing on that."

The first of the interview spots was airing on the Jumbotron: Alan Scott, the original Green Lantern, his golden hair streaked with white, telling the story of how John and Mary first met. "It was love at first headlock," he said, smiling fondly.

The first match: Sinestro and Hal Jordan. Luthor was bringing out the big stars first.

Jimmy Olsen was there with the video cameras, getting ready to shoot Clark and Bruce's promo. He shot them a thumbs-up and Bruce nodded before the cameras went live.

As always, he went from serious and stern to animated and callow as if someone were flipping a switch. "What?" he said as if the cameras were catching them in the middle of an argument, "Come on. I know you hate me, but it's for the kid."

"It's for your ego, Mr. Wayne," Clark snapped.

"And for the kid." Brucie pulled a golden checkbook from his jacket and waved it at Clark. "Five thousand dollars to the Grayson Fund if you wrestle me." Clark paused, considering, and was opening his mouth to agree when Bruce added, "And ten thousand if you win."

Clark blinked at him, legitimately startled at the deviation from script, but then forged ahead. "I'm only doing it because I admired the Graysons," he said warningly.

"Whatever," Brucie said breezily, and walked off, leaving Clark to stare after him as the camera closed in on his face for a long moment.

"What the heck? We just barely managed to scrape together that five!" Clark ran after Bruce as the camera light blinked off.

"No problem," Bruce said, continuing down the hall. "My foster father works for a guy who's loaded, a real fat cat, and I think he can convince him to donate the extra five. It's chump change to him, and he's got a soft spot for kids in need of some help."

"Oh." Clark filed the new data away, then made some quick connections. "Did he--did he help you?"

"Clark." Bruce spun to face him. "Do I really look like the kind of person who needed a lot of support and assistance in my life? Me?" He smiled, but there was an almost feverish glitter to it, a brittle edge.

"Sometimes, yes," said Clark. Bruce's smile faltered a fraction. "And...sometimes you still do."

Bruce's smile did one of those complicated shifts that Clark felt would require a slow-motion replay to capture the full nuances of, going from bright and false to rueful and affectionate. "Clark," he said. He put a hand on Clark's shoulder and squeezed slightly. "Thank you."

And he whirled and was gone, leaving Clark unsure exactly what he was being thanked for.

: : :

On the Jumbotron, the pre-recorded message by Waylon Jones was running. He was reading a poem he had written from a slip of paper, his voice halting, tears slipping down his un-made-up face unheeded. The audience murmured in sympathy.

"The bookers might have to turn him face for a while," said a voice at his elbow. Selina Kyle was there, watching Jones. "It'll be hard to root against Killer Croc with this fresh in their memories." She glanced at Clark, took in his expression, and patted his arm. "Sorry, darling. I know that's cold-blooded of me. Old habits die hard. But to be honest, Waylon would love a turn as a face. Most people enjoy being heels, but some people just don't thrive."

Clark ruffled her newly-blond hair. "And you? Playing the victimized secretary? Whatever happened to the ruthless jewel thief we all know and love?"

"Love?" She batted her eyes at him and smirked. "Mmm. I've always been a bit of tweener anyway. Never a monster heel like Waylon." The footage was coming to an end; she smiled at him. "That's my cue to get ready. Enjoy your match with Bruce," she said, sauntering off.

: : :

If I had known, Clark would think later. If I had realized…

They hadn't had time to plan anything intricate, so they fell back on old, familiar moves: simple grapples and holds interspersed with their signature throws and aerial moves. Brucie got Clark in the Cash Clutch, his arms around Clark's neck from behind, bending his head back, and Clark arced his back and grimaced convincingly until Bruce threw him across the ring and into the turnbuckle. As Clark "shook off" the impact, giving Bruce time to set up his next move, he looked up and realized that Bruce was watching him. Not gloating, not sneering, not any of the vast repertoire of disdainful facial expressions he employed against his rivals. Just...watching him.

Clark staggered forward into a flurry of martial-arts blows, the "rich-boy judo" that Brucie liked to use, launching his own counterattack and grappling Brucie to the mat. "Something wrong?" he breathed into Bruce's ear under cover of the grapple.

"No." Bruce's voice was calm. "Kick to my ribs then a moonsault." He writhed out of Clark's grip, leaving no time to press further; Clark leveled a good kick at Brucie's ribs, then leapt onto the ropes and back-flipped from them, angling to land across Bruce's supine body.

In midair, a frozen eternal moment, he caught once again a glimpse of Bruce's face: looking up at him, not selling his pain or fear, not doing anything but watching him.

He landed across Bruce's torso, making just enough contact to be convincing, letting his knees and elbows catch most of his weight, then swiveled to pin Bruce once again. "Take it home?" he murmured. There were only a few minutes left for the match; it was almost time for him to pull off the hurricanrana that would knock Brucie out and end it.

Brucie struggled wildly against the pin; Bruce leaned close and said "We need to finish with the Tightrope Stunner."

Clark managed to resist the impulse to stare at him. Narratively, he was right, it would be the best possible homage. But…

"Are you kidding? I can't walk the rope like him, I don't have the skill, I--"

Billionaire Brucie reversed the pin and slammed Country Clark facefirst onto the mat, wrapping his arms around his neck in a stranglehold. "You can do it," Bruce said into his ear, his voice hoarse. "Because I'll be there. At your side every step of the way, Clark."

For a crazy moment Clark suddenly wanted to turn in his grip and see his expression, see what his face looked like when he said that. Because--

No time to dwell on it, he had to break the pin and get to his feet. A quick, simple kick and Brucie staggered to the ropes, leaning back against them, winded.

Time to do it right.

Clark stood in the middle of the ring and raised his hand to start making the lariat motion that signaled he was about to pull off his hurricanrana (he had told Creative that cowboys and farm boys were two different things; they hadn't cared). The crowd's roar picked up in anticipation, and then Clark paused in mid-motion, looking at Bruce.

Bruce had that look on his face that wasn't a smile, but was a satisfaction beyond smiling: I knew you'd know what to do.

Then instead of his own gesture, Clark pointed to the rafters, the Graysons' signal for the Tightrope Stunner.

The crowd...didn't get louder, but its roar changed sharply in timbre, fiercely approving, with a strange sorrowful edge. Clark held the gesture a moment longer and felt his eyes stinging as he looked upward, dragged his forearm across his face. No time for tears if he was going to pull this off.

He advanced on the hapless Billionaire Brucie, who was holding his hands up to ward him off, his face twisted with pleading horror. "No no no no no," Brucie begged, and Bruce's hand clasped his as he grabbed it, firm and solid.

Clark clambered to the top of the turnbuckle and began to walk across the rope.

There was a reason no one but the Graysons ever did this move: the top rope wasn't taut, but elastic, and it sagged and swayed beneath him; for a moment Clark was sure he was about to pull off nothing more than an ignominious plunge to the floor. But Bruce, while pretending to struggle against his grip, compensated for the rope and balanced his weight, keeping him steady. Step by step, they crossed the ring together.

After what seemed like an eternity, Clark made it to the far turnbuckle. Giddy with relief, he collapsed into a dropped elbow, letting Bruce catch his weight and go down under him.

"Perfect," said Bruce as Clark heard the referee counting above them. "Beautiful."

And it was. They were.

If I had only known…

: : :

Dick threw his arms around him as they went into the common room. "Thank you," he said, his voice muffled.

"It was Bruce's idea," Clark felt honor-bound to say.

Dick's shoulders shook in a hiccoughing laugh. "You have to stop giving him all the credit."

"Only what he deserves." Clark patted the back of Dick's head and Dick squeezed him once more and released him.

The show was heading toward its conclusion; Lex Luthor was on the screen now, pale against the black background, delivering his pre-recorded promo.

"The Graysons were more than employees to me, they were like family. I grew up with them on the road, and they were invaluable support when my own father passed. I know that they'll live on in all our memories, in the mentoring they gave to so many DCW employees, and most importantly, in the spirit of their son." He nodded, gravely. "Thank you to all of you for being here with us tonight as we grieve. Good night."

The screen went dark.

"Show's over," Luthor's voice came from the door, and everyone turned to find him standing there. "Good work. You all did very good work." He looked at Bruce. "I assume you're good for that ten thousand dollars, Wayne?"

Bruce pulled his golden prop checkbook out of his pocket, scribbled out a check, ripped it off and handed it to Luthor, who pocketed it without looking at it.

"Thank you" he said drily. "We leave for Akron in the morning, so everyone should get some rest."

Then he met Bruce's, then Clark's, very deliberately. "Oh, and Wayne. Kent. I'd like to see you in my office," he said.

He smiled, once, a switchblade flicker with no humor behind it, before turning and walking away.