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Heroes of the Squared Circle 30: Teamups and Breakups
Title: Teamups and Breakups
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Joker, John Stewart, Sinestro, Harley Quinn, Lex Luthor
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 3800
Summary: The Dark Knight loses a sidekick, the Joker acquires a valet, and the DCW has a new champion.
When you know each other on a personal, more intimate level, it just opens up the door for chemistry in the ring --Eddie Guerrero
"Of all the stupid--surgery? I can't have surgery!" Hal Jordan looked as if he'd throw something at Lex Luthor, if he could only lift his right arm. "I'm the champion! I'm the belt holder!"
"Feel free to throw a punch at me to prove your point," said Luthor. Jordan winced slightly at the thought, and Luthor went on: "What you are is an ex-employee of the DCW if you don't get that rotator cuff repaired." He looked out at the rest of the wrestlers, sitting uncomfortably on their folding chairs in the meeting room. "And if Jordan is going to be out for a couple of months, there are going to have to be some changes around here."
The room went still as the implications sank in: the championship was going to have to pass to another wrestler. Jordan and Sinestro had been swapping it back and forth for years, as the bookers felt Green Lantern and his greatest enemy had the best in-ring chemistry and most compelling storylines--not to mention moved the most merchandise. But Luthor probably wouldn't have called a meeting to tell them Sinestro was getting another championship run, that was old news. No, it had to be someone new. Everyone looked around, assessing, and Bruce caught Clark's eye and raised an eyebrow: This should be interesting.
"We've decided to put the belt on…" Luthor paused and there was a combination of eye-rolling at the theatrics and honest anticipation. "...John Stewart."
Everyone looked at Stewart, who crossed his arms and looked at Luthor and his toothy grin. "And if I say no?" Stewart said.
Luthor's grin vanished. "'Say...no'?" he said as if Stewart had suggested he might just eat a handful of live worms.
"Let's not bullshit each other here," said Stewart, leaning forward. The other wrestlers shifted uneasily. "Icon's the only black champion who's ever held the belt for more than a month. Hell, you made Martian Manhunter champ and then booked him to lose to Jordan the next show. It was a damn insult, that's what it was."
There were supportive mutterings from among the wrestlers, none of whom had forgotten the events that precipitated John Jones leaving the DCW for the JLI.
Luthor gritted his teeth. "I'm not going to apologize for the past. You're good on the mic, you're a good worker, I'll tell you I plan to keep you champion for longer than that, but there are no promises or long-term guarantees in this business. If you'd rather I give it to someone else, I can arrange that."
"Brother," said Waylon Jones from the side of the room, "A short run's better than none."
Stewart still looked dubious. "I won't turn heel to take it from Jordan."
Luthor looked honestly surprised. "The Corps is our best merchandise-mover, I'm not messing with that. No, we'll have Sinestro as a transitional heel champion, he can injure Jordan and take the belt, then you'll come back and get revenge on him."
"All right, that I can live with," Stewart said with a wicked smile--he and Sinestro had never gotten along.
"I'm not handing off the belt to--" Sinestro cut off under Luthor's ice-cold glare.
"The Corps has other enemies I could utilize," Luthor pointed out. "You are not, strictly speaking, necessary--no matter how friendly you are with the head booker. You are, to be blunt, expendable." He looked around the room. "Anyone who thinks they're not expendable, please do raise your hand and let me know."
Sinestro set his jaw into the silence and said nothing more, casting a last glare at the grinning Stewart.
"Other changes," said Luthor with the brisk tone of someone moving on. "I think it's time to get the Dark Knight more fully integrated into the roster. First, we're going to reveal that he's Robin's mentor, who's been training him in secret and has come to the DCW to protect him. Then Grayson is going to have a big falling-out with him and change his gimmick. Lots of drama potential there." He looked down at his papers. "And the Dark Knight will start up a storyline with the Kryptonian."
Clark sat up straighter, resisting the urge to shoot a grin at Bruce, as Luthor continued.
"The Green Lantern Corps is going to be dealing with other issues with Stewart as the head, so I think it's time the Dark Knight start interfering with the Kryptonian. We'll launch the angle at the next pay-per-view. You two work out the details," he said, waving a hand at them.
"You really trust them?" blurted Copperhead. "After they--" He fell silent, carefully not looking at Dick Grayson. Bruce and Clark's role in Zucco's trial was an open secret, not discussed in the locker room.
"I don't trust them to make my business decisions," said Luthor. "But I do trust them to run a damn fine storyline. Any further stupid questions?"
There were none.
"Back to work, then," said Luthor, and they were dismissed.
"So what's the script? You gonna clock him?"
Dick Grayson shook his head at Oliver Queen, smiling. "Don't know yet."
Oliver frowned. "You don't--but the match is in twenty minutes. You haven't practiced this? You don't know what he's going to say?"
"I don't need to," said Dick. "He swoops down and rescues me from Two-Face, and then we wing it. We've always winged it."
"You guys are crazy," Ollie said.
"It's got to come from the heart, he taught me that," said Dick. "You can't just read a prepared speech, it's got to be inspired. You have to feel the crowd, adapt to them. Milwaukee isn't the same as Detroit, and last week isn't the same as this week. It's all about rhythm and flow and kairos. That's Greek for 'the supreme moment, the perfect timing,'" He explained to Ollie's puzzled face.
"Okay," said Ollie as cautiously as if he were talking with a dangerous lunatic. "You...you have fun with your kairos."
Dick shook his head as Ollie backed away slowly, and looked at Clark. "Is it that crazy?"
"Not everyone can do it," said Clark.
"But you can, right? I've seen your older matches with Billionaire Brucie. You do the same thing."
Clark shrugged. "I try. I can't always keep up with Bruce, though."
"Who can?" laughed Dick, putting on his black domino for the last time.
"Don't you get it?" Robin held out one hand, appealing to the black-clad figure who stood before him, unspeaking. "I need to be my own man."
No answer.
"You taught me a lot, and I appreciate that. But you can't rescue me from every scrape I get into!"
The Dark Knight still didn't respond, and Robin looked around at the audience for support. He received it in a round of cheers, and when he lifted the mic again he seemed emboldened.
"Don't you see? It's time for me to step outside your shadow. I'm ready."
The Dark Knight tilted his head slightly, as if considering. He stepped forward. Robin smiled and stepped toward him as well.
And then the Dark Knight backhanded him across the face, one sharp and brutal blow that seemed to resound through the arena.
Robin staggered backward, dropping the mic and falling to his knees, clutching his face. The Dark Knight picked up the fallen mic, held it up, and spoke his first words in the DCW:
"You are not ready."
Then he dropped the mic by Robin's kneeling body, turned in a swirl of cape, and left.
"That was fantastic!" Dick was laughing, an ice pack pressed to his eye. "Did you hear them gasp? There was a woman in the front row, I think she was crying. Fantastic!"
Bruce peeled back the ice pack and winced more than Dick did. "I thought you saw that punch coming."
"Of course I did," said Dick. "But I thought it'd look more convincing if I just took it. You'd never do any real damage."
"You'll have an truly impressive shiner tomorrow," said Luthor from the locker room doorway. "So I guess we'll wait to shoot your promo. Then it's off to Europe and your quest of self-discovery for you."
Dick sighed as Luthor left. "It'll be weird, traveling without you."
"There'll be a place for Nightwing here when you get back," said Bruce.
From the monitors, the announcers' voices picked up in pitch and volume; everyone in the room turned to look at the match on the screen, where Sinestro was busily stomping Hal Jordan's shoulder, making him flop in agony on his way to winning the belt.
"Listen to them," Bruce said in disgust.
"Listen to what?" said Harvey, lacing up his boots.
"Exactly," said Bruce. "The audience isn't into this at all, they've seen these two trade the belt back and forth too often. Time to shake things up." He grinned at Clark. "And speaking of that, I've got some plans for our angle. Long-term ones. Shall we go discuss them?"
Clark grinned and grabbed his coat, knowing that when Bruce said "making long-term plans for our angle," what he really meant was…
...Well, most likely, actually discussing long-term plans for their angle together.
That didn't mean that was all they'd do, however.
"I don't need a valet!" Napier was practically dancing with outrage. "Why are you constantly mucking with my gimmick, Luthor? It's bad enough you halted the Dark Knight angle--"
"--you'll still wrestle the Dark Knight, just not exclusively," said Luthor.
Napier gnashed his teeth. "But to give me a valet! I don't need to share the limelight with anyone!"
"Oh, but I insist," said Luthor. "And I'm sure your wife and that charming little daughter of yours won't mind."
Napier tore at his hair, then slumped, defeated. "All right. What is it?"
"Allow me to introduce...Dr. Quinzel, your new therapist!"
Everyone stared as a young woman with her hair in two blond pigtails, wearing an outfit that could have been marketed as a "sexy nurse costume" sashayed into the room. "Hiya, everyone," she chirped with a wave. "Nice to meetcha all!" She had a pronounced Brooklyn accent and appeared to be chewing gum. "I'm just so thrilled to be really wrestlin', it's been a dream of mine since I was really little! And when I saw the Joker, I just knew I was meant to work with him, y'know? It's kismet!"
Everyone stared. Clark saw Selina and Ivy trading incredulous looks.
"We're going to have Joker enter therapy for his anger issues," said Luthor. He waved a hand at Napier, who was standing with his jaw actually hanging open. "Come on, it'll be hilarious!"
"I'm not working with her," sputtered Napier. "She'll slow me down, dilute the genius of my promos!" He whirled, glaring at Luthor. "I'm the best performer you've got and you know it, Luthor, and I'm not going to let you hobble my genius by taking away my best rival and saddling me with--with this bimbo faux psychologist!"
"Cool," said Quinzel, tilting her head to the side. "This is just what I thought you'd be like backstage: the demands for constant and unceasing admiration and positive reinforcement, the belittling of others in order to shore up your own lack of self-worth, unrealistic expectations of special treatment, deep envy of others while believing everyone envies you--textbook narcissistic personality disorder, yep!" She smiled brightly at him. "I'd almost go with a histrionic personality disorder instead, but that's got all that 'using sexual seduction and flirtation to get your way' angle, and that doesn't seem to be your thing so much. But then, the DSM's description of histrionic personality disorder tends to label as 'disordered' exactly the patterns of behavior demanded of women in our society, so I'm not sure I'm comfortable throwing the term around anyway. Really, pigeonholing personalities into tidy little boxes is just limiting in the long run, I think."
She shrugged, then seemed to become aware that everyone in the room was staring at her. "Ph.D. in Psychology from Cornell University!" she chirped, blowing a bubble and flashing a cheerful peace-sign at the room. The bubble popped and she grinned. "But my real love is wrestling, y'know?"
"Oh, I like her," said Ivy sotto voce to Selina.
"You ready?"
Clark didn't jump, even though Bruce's voice had come out of nowhere. He had known Bruce would check in with him before the match started. "Never been more ready."
"Shouldn't you be getting in position?" snapped Milton Fine, fidgeting from foot to foot. He always got the jitters just before performing. Clark supposed that made some sense, since he had to do all the talking for the two of them.
"I know how long it takes to get in position," said Bruce. "And I know how long this match will be. I've got enough time." He held out his fist for Clark to bump. "This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship," he said.
"Friendship," snapped Brainiac to the empty space Bruce had been in. "The correct quote is 'beginning of a beautiful friendship.""
"Well," said Clark, "That hardly fits when he's going to be my arch-nemesis, does it?" As well as for other reasons, he added mentally.
Brainiac snarled something wordless and might have retorted with more except that the Flash's introduction ended and the lights went out. Time for the Kryptonian's entrance.
Time to start the angle he'd been waiting for.
The crowd gasped as the Dark Knight descended from the rafters, his dark cape billowing. The Kryptonian stood over the prone Flash like a lion guarding its meat from an impudent jackal, and Brainiac grabbed the mic to intone on his behalf: "No one robs the Kryptonian of his win--not even you, Dark Knight!"
For a long moment they faced off in the ring, two immobile figures in black staring at each other, and Clark felt the atmosphere in the arena coil and tighten. Wait...wait...let it build… He could see the excitement in every line of Bruce's body, waiting for the Kryptonian's assault as you would await a lover's embrace.
When the Kryptonian surged forward and they met in the middle of the ring, it felt like a shock wave went out from their impact, electrifying the audience. The Kryptonian seized the rippling black cape and it came away in his hands, leaving the Dark Knight in his trunks and cowl, grinning. The Kryptonian balled the black silk between his fists. "Petty charlatan, purveyor of cheap tricks!" roared Brainiac. "As I tear this cloth asunder, so shall I tear you!"
The Kryptonian wrenched, and the cape tore with a sheer, liquid sound. Clark spared a brief flicker of regret (There'll be another, promised Bruce's eyes behind the cowl), then tossed it contemptuously aside as the Dark Knight rushed him.
It was better than before, Clark thought as the Dark Knight slammed the Kryptonian's head into the turnbuckle and he staggered backwards with the recoil, better than with Country Clark Kent and Billionaire Brucie. He rallied and started trading punches with the Knight, his every right hook to the jaw countered by a right hook to the gut in perfect rhythm, a waltz of violence and catharsis. He knew Bruce's body so well now, knew how its very sinews and tendons worked, could read every flex and strain. Bruce's body and eyes spoke to him and his spoke back, as clearly as if they were calling to each other, and it was more intimate and vulnerable and triumphant than anything they had ever done in bed.
They gave the audience thirty minutes of action, and the Dark Knight kicked out of the Kryptonian's armbar three times, each time ratcheting the crowd noise up another notch. It looked bad for the Kryptonian, staggered back against the ropes, reeling, and the Dark Knight was preparing to deliver his finishing move when Brainiac, driven beyond endurance, grabbed at his heels from outside the ring.
The Dark Knight turned to deal with the nuisance, oblivious to the rising roar from the crowd as the Kryptonian rallied his strength, raising his hands--and when the Dark Knight turned away from Brainiac he walked directly into the Psionic Claw. Twisting and writhing, his face seemingly caught in the vise of the Kryptonian's inhumanly strong grip, the Dark Knight went limp and the Kryptonian hurled him across the ring, then rolled his limp body over to pin him for the win.
They lay there for a moment, feeling their chests rising and falling together with their ragged breaths, victorious together as the crowd shrieked its fury. This is it, Clark realized. When people talk about the greatest rivalries of all time, they'll mention this match as the beginning.
He couldn't say anything to Bruce without breaking kayfabe; he didn't need to. They were just there together, victor and vanquished, friends and lovers, Clark and Bruce.
Then the Kryptonian arose from his fallen foe and cast a sneering glare at the audience. He left the ring and strode away up the ramp, followed by a cringing Brainiac.
Only when he was past the range of the cameras did he let himself smile.
The match between Sinestro and John Stewart for the Heavyweight Champion of the World was raging on the monitors as everyone watched. Sinestro had just delivered his Fearmonger spinebuster move, and Stewart was writhing on the mat as Sinestro preened and laughed. "C'mon, Stewart!" hollered a voice from the gathered wrestlers in the locker room. Waylon Jones shrugged a little sheepishly when people turned to look at him. "Got caught up in the moment," he muttered.
But Killer Croc wasn't alone in breaking into spontaneous cheers when Stewart finally got Sinestro into the Emerald Lock, basically making a pretzel of his legs and flipping him onto his stomach to stretch his body and put pressure on all his joints. Sinestro's face contorted with feigned pain and with real fury, and Clark wondered whether the match was booked to end with a humiliating tapout for the champion as another reminder that he was indeed expendable. Whatever the reasons, the cameras lingered lovingly on Sinestro's torment and on John Stewart's implacable resolve, a standoff between two titanic wills. From the monitor, the announcers' voices were lifted in shock or exaltation; the audience was on its feet cheering, and Sinestro made one last abortive attempt to reach the ropes and break the hold, then slammed his hand down on the mat, admitting defeat.
Stewart broke the hold immediately at the bell that signalled the end of the match, rolling away from Sinestro and covering his face with his hands as he gasped for breath. The referee brought over the heavyweight championship belt--ridiculously ornate, gleaming-heavy with gold--and shook Stewart's shoulder, placing it in his arms.
Stewart stared at the belt, and something like wonder dawned on his face as the ovations from the crowd rained down on him. Struggling to his feet, he paused for a long moment before thrusting the belt above his head as a thousand flashbulbs glittered and the crowd noise rose to a deafening pitch. There were tears on his face and he didn't bother to try and wipe them away.
Hal Jordan was the first in line to congratulate him when he came backstage. "Good job," he said, holding out his unbandaged arm for a handshake. "I couldn't ask for a better champion."
All the wrestlers cheered, and although the sound was thin and meagre compared to the rushing roar of the crowd, Stewart bit his lip, his eyes bright. "Thank you," he said to the room. "Your trust means the world to me. I'll do right by this belt, I promise."
Hours later, Clark and Bruce wandered out to take a last look at the auditorium before they headed off to their hotel room (Luthor was more relaxed about heels and faces being seen together than Max Lord, but it still was understood that if you left the auditorium together you'd wait until everyone was gone). They found John Stewart sitting at the top of the ramp, looking out over the hushed arena. He wiped his face as Clark and Bruce sat down next to him.
"It's funny," he muttered. "It's all fake, you know? I didn't beat Sinestro in a fair fight, I didn't win the belt through my physical prowess, it was all decided in advance. And yet, in the moment when I held that belt and realized I really was the champion…" He trailed off and shrugged.
"It's not fake at all," Bruce said quietly, and Stewart turned to look at him. "You won the belt because you've worked hard, you've got skills, you paid your dues. You're the champion because you never gave up, no matter how much people doubted you. You won that belt not because you're physically stronger than some purple space wizard, but because you're the right man to be the champion, the right man to headline the company. That's winning by willpower, Stewart. That's the only kind of winning that isn't fake."
Stewart looked at him for a long time. Then he nodded slightly. "Thank you," he said.
The three of them sat at the top of the ramp for a while, looking out at the empty seats and watching the janitors sweeping up. Then Stewart stood up, clapping both of them on the shoulders wordlessly and leaving.
"You always know what to say," Clark said when he was gone.
"About wrestling, maybe," said Bruce. "About everything else…" He shrugged.
"Is there anything besides wrestling?" teased Clark, letting one finger ghost across the back of Bruce's hand. Strange how there was so much physical intimacy in the ring, and so little space for it outside.
Bruce was silent for a time, and Clark realized he was seriously pondering Clark's question. "Not a whole lot," he said at last, and smiled into Clark's eyes as if he were putting something behind him. "Let's go practice the next match again."
"Only if you promise not to break another hotel bed," said Clark, standing up and holding out his hand for Bruce to take. "That was hard to explain to the hotel staff."
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Joker, John Stewart, Sinestro, Harley Quinn, Lex Luthor
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 3800
Summary: The Dark Knight loses a sidekick, the Joker acquires a valet, and the DCW has a new champion.
When you know each other on a personal, more intimate level, it just opens up the door for chemistry in the ring --Eddie Guerrero
"Of all the stupid--surgery? I can't have surgery!" Hal Jordan looked as if he'd throw something at Lex Luthor, if he could only lift his right arm. "I'm the champion! I'm the belt holder!"
"Feel free to throw a punch at me to prove your point," said Luthor. Jordan winced slightly at the thought, and Luthor went on: "What you are is an ex-employee of the DCW if you don't get that rotator cuff repaired." He looked out at the rest of the wrestlers, sitting uncomfortably on their folding chairs in the meeting room. "And if Jordan is going to be out for a couple of months, there are going to have to be some changes around here."
The room went still as the implications sank in: the championship was going to have to pass to another wrestler. Jordan and Sinestro had been swapping it back and forth for years, as the bookers felt Green Lantern and his greatest enemy had the best in-ring chemistry and most compelling storylines--not to mention moved the most merchandise. But Luthor probably wouldn't have called a meeting to tell them Sinestro was getting another championship run, that was old news. No, it had to be someone new. Everyone looked around, assessing, and Bruce caught Clark's eye and raised an eyebrow: This should be interesting.
"We've decided to put the belt on…" Luthor paused and there was a combination of eye-rolling at the theatrics and honest anticipation. "...John Stewart."
Everyone looked at Stewart, who crossed his arms and looked at Luthor and his toothy grin. "And if I say no?" Stewart said.
Luthor's grin vanished. "'Say...no'?" he said as if Stewart had suggested he might just eat a handful of live worms.
"Let's not bullshit each other here," said Stewart, leaning forward. The other wrestlers shifted uneasily. "Icon's the only black champion who's ever held the belt for more than a month. Hell, you made Martian Manhunter champ and then booked him to lose to Jordan the next show. It was a damn insult, that's what it was."
There were supportive mutterings from among the wrestlers, none of whom had forgotten the events that precipitated John Jones leaving the DCW for the JLI.
Luthor gritted his teeth. "I'm not going to apologize for the past. You're good on the mic, you're a good worker, I'll tell you I plan to keep you champion for longer than that, but there are no promises or long-term guarantees in this business. If you'd rather I give it to someone else, I can arrange that."
"Brother," said Waylon Jones from the side of the room, "A short run's better than none."
Stewart still looked dubious. "I won't turn heel to take it from Jordan."
Luthor looked honestly surprised. "The Corps is our best merchandise-mover, I'm not messing with that. No, we'll have Sinestro as a transitional heel champion, he can injure Jordan and take the belt, then you'll come back and get revenge on him."
"All right, that I can live with," Stewart said with a wicked smile--he and Sinestro had never gotten along.
"I'm not handing off the belt to--" Sinestro cut off under Luthor's ice-cold glare.
"The Corps has other enemies I could utilize," Luthor pointed out. "You are not, strictly speaking, necessary--no matter how friendly you are with the head booker. You are, to be blunt, expendable." He looked around the room. "Anyone who thinks they're not expendable, please do raise your hand and let me know."
Sinestro set his jaw into the silence and said nothing more, casting a last glare at the grinning Stewart.
"Other changes," said Luthor with the brisk tone of someone moving on. "I think it's time to get the Dark Knight more fully integrated into the roster. First, we're going to reveal that he's Robin's mentor, who's been training him in secret and has come to the DCW to protect him. Then Grayson is going to have a big falling-out with him and change his gimmick. Lots of drama potential there." He looked down at his papers. "And the Dark Knight will start up a storyline with the Kryptonian."
Clark sat up straighter, resisting the urge to shoot a grin at Bruce, as Luthor continued.
"The Green Lantern Corps is going to be dealing with other issues with Stewart as the head, so I think it's time the Dark Knight start interfering with the Kryptonian. We'll launch the angle at the next pay-per-view. You two work out the details," he said, waving a hand at them.
"You really trust them?" blurted Copperhead. "After they--" He fell silent, carefully not looking at Dick Grayson. Bruce and Clark's role in Zucco's trial was an open secret, not discussed in the locker room.
"I don't trust them to make my business decisions," said Luthor. "But I do trust them to run a damn fine storyline. Any further stupid questions?"
There were none.
"Back to work, then," said Luthor, and they were dismissed.
"So what's the script? You gonna clock him?"
Dick Grayson shook his head at Oliver Queen, smiling. "Don't know yet."
Oliver frowned. "You don't--but the match is in twenty minutes. You haven't practiced this? You don't know what he's going to say?"
"I don't need to," said Dick. "He swoops down and rescues me from Two-Face, and then we wing it. We've always winged it."
"You guys are crazy," Ollie said.
"It's got to come from the heart, he taught me that," said Dick. "You can't just read a prepared speech, it's got to be inspired. You have to feel the crowd, adapt to them. Milwaukee isn't the same as Detroit, and last week isn't the same as this week. It's all about rhythm and flow and kairos. That's Greek for 'the supreme moment, the perfect timing,'" He explained to Ollie's puzzled face.
"Okay," said Ollie as cautiously as if he were talking with a dangerous lunatic. "You...you have fun with your kairos."
Dick shook his head as Ollie backed away slowly, and looked at Clark. "Is it that crazy?"
"Not everyone can do it," said Clark.
"But you can, right? I've seen your older matches with Billionaire Brucie. You do the same thing."
Clark shrugged. "I try. I can't always keep up with Bruce, though."
"Who can?" laughed Dick, putting on his black domino for the last time.
"Don't you get it?" Robin held out one hand, appealing to the black-clad figure who stood before him, unspeaking. "I need to be my own man."
No answer.
"You taught me a lot, and I appreciate that. But you can't rescue me from every scrape I get into!"
The Dark Knight still didn't respond, and Robin looked around at the audience for support. He received it in a round of cheers, and when he lifted the mic again he seemed emboldened.
"Don't you see? It's time for me to step outside your shadow. I'm ready."
The Dark Knight tilted his head slightly, as if considering. He stepped forward. Robin smiled and stepped toward him as well.
And then the Dark Knight backhanded him across the face, one sharp and brutal blow that seemed to resound through the arena.
Robin staggered backward, dropping the mic and falling to his knees, clutching his face. The Dark Knight picked up the fallen mic, held it up, and spoke his first words in the DCW:
"You are not ready."
Then he dropped the mic by Robin's kneeling body, turned in a swirl of cape, and left.
"That was fantastic!" Dick was laughing, an ice pack pressed to his eye. "Did you hear them gasp? There was a woman in the front row, I think she was crying. Fantastic!"
Bruce peeled back the ice pack and winced more than Dick did. "I thought you saw that punch coming."
"Of course I did," said Dick. "But I thought it'd look more convincing if I just took it. You'd never do any real damage."
"You'll have an truly impressive shiner tomorrow," said Luthor from the locker room doorway. "So I guess we'll wait to shoot your promo. Then it's off to Europe and your quest of self-discovery for you."
Dick sighed as Luthor left. "It'll be weird, traveling without you."
"There'll be a place for Nightwing here when you get back," said Bruce.
From the monitors, the announcers' voices picked up in pitch and volume; everyone in the room turned to look at the match on the screen, where Sinestro was busily stomping Hal Jordan's shoulder, making him flop in agony on his way to winning the belt.
"Listen to them," Bruce said in disgust.
"Listen to what?" said Harvey, lacing up his boots.
"Exactly," said Bruce. "The audience isn't into this at all, they've seen these two trade the belt back and forth too often. Time to shake things up." He grinned at Clark. "And speaking of that, I've got some plans for our angle. Long-term ones. Shall we go discuss them?"
Clark grinned and grabbed his coat, knowing that when Bruce said "making long-term plans for our angle," what he really meant was…
...Well, most likely, actually discussing long-term plans for their angle together.
That didn't mean that was all they'd do, however.
"I don't need a valet!" Napier was practically dancing with outrage. "Why are you constantly mucking with my gimmick, Luthor? It's bad enough you halted the Dark Knight angle--"
"--you'll still wrestle the Dark Knight, just not exclusively," said Luthor.
Napier gnashed his teeth. "But to give me a valet! I don't need to share the limelight with anyone!"
"Oh, but I insist," said Luthor. "And I'm sure your wife and that charming little daughter of yours won't mind."
Napier tore at his hair, then slumped, defeated. "All right. What is it?"
"Allow me to introduce...Dr. Quinzel, your new therapist!"
Everyone stared as a young woman with her hair in two blond pigtails, wearing an outfit that could have been marketed as a "sexy nurse costume" sashayed into the room. "Hiya, everyone," she chirped with a wave. "Nice to meetcha all!" She had a pronounced Brooklyn accent and appeared to be chewing gum. "I'm just so thrilled to be really wrestlin', it's been a dream of mine since I was really little! And when I saw the Joker, I just knew I was meant to work with him, y'know? It's kismet!"
Everyone stared. Clark saw Selina and Ivy trading incredulous looks.
"We're going to have Joker enter therapy for his anger issues," said Luthor. He waved a hand at Napier, who was standing with his jaw actually hanging open. "Come on, it'll be hilarious!"
"I'm not working with her," sputtered Napier. "She'll slow me down, dilute the genius of my promos!" He whirled, glaring at Luthor. "I'm the best performer you've got and you know it, Luthor, and I'm not going to let you hobble my genius by taking away my best rival and saddling me with--with this bimbo faux psychologist!"
"Cool," said Quinzel, tilting her head to the side. "This is just what I thought you'd be like backstage: the demands for constant and unceasing admiration and positive reinforcement, the belittling of others in order to shore up your own lack of self-worth, unrealistic expectations of special treatment, deep envy of others while believing everyone envies you--textbook narcissistic personality disorder, yep!" She smiled brightly at him. "I'd almost go with a histrionic personality disorder instead, but that's got all that 'using sexual seduction and flirtation to get your way' angle, and that doesn't seem to be your thing so much. But then, the DSM's description of histrionic personality disorder tends to label as 'disordered' exactly the patterns of behavior demanded of women in our society, so I'm not sure I'm comfortable throwing the term around anyway. Really, pigeonholing personalities into tidy little boxes is just limiting in the long run, I think."
She shrugged, then seemed to become aware that everyone in the room was staring at her. "Ph.D. in Psychology from Cornell University!" she chirped, blowing a bubble and flashing a cheerful peace-sign at the room. The bubble popped and she grinned. "But my real love is wrestling, y'know?"
"Oh, I like her," said Ivy sotto voce to Selina.
"You ready?"
Clark didn't jump, even though Bruce's voice had come out of nowhere. He had known Bruce would check in with him before the match started. "Never been more ready."
"Shouldn't you be getting in position?" snapped Milton Fine, fidgeting from foot to foot. He always got the jitters just before performing. Clark supposed that made some sense, since he had to do all the talking for the two of them.
"I know how long it takes to get in position," said Bruce. "And I know how long this match will be. I've got enough time." He held out his fist for Clark to bump. "This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship," he said.
"Friendship," snapped Brainiac to the empty space Bruce had been in. "The correct quote is 'beginning of a beautiful friendship.""
"Well," said Clark, "That hardly fits when he's going to be my arch-nemesis, does it?" As well as for other reasons, he added mentally.
Brainiac snarled something wordless and might have retorted with more except that the Flash's introduction ended and the lights went out. Time for the Kryptonian's entrance.
Time to start the angle he'd been waiting for.
The crowd gasped as the Dark Knight descended from the rafters, his dark cape billowing. The Kryptonian stood over the prone Flash like a lion guarding its meat from an impudent jackal, and Brainiac grabbed the mic to intone on his behalf: "No one robs the Kryptonian of his win--not even you, Dark Knight!"
For a long moment they faced off in the ring, two immobile figures in black staring at each other, and Clark felt the atmosphere in the arena coil and tighten. Wait...wait...let it build… He could see the excitement in every line of Bruce's body, waiting for the Kryptonian's assault as you would await a lover's embrace.
When the Kryptonian surged forward and they met in the middle of the ring, it felt like a shock wave went out from their impact, electrifying the audience. The Kryptonian seized the rippling black cape and it came away in his hands, leaving the Dark Knight in his trunks and cowl, grinning. The Kryptonian balled the black silk between his fists. "Petty charlatan, purveyor of cheap tricks!" roared Brainiac. "As I tear this cloth asunder, so shall I tear you!"
The Kryptonian wrenched, and the cape tore with a sheer, liquid sound. Clark spared a brief flicker of regret (There'll be another, promised Bruce's eyes behind the cowl), then tossed it contemptuously aside as the Dark Knight rushed him.
It was better than before, Clark thought as the Dark Knight slammed the Kryptonian's head into the turnbuckle and he staggered backwards with the recoil, better than with Country Clark Kent and Billionaire Brucie. He rallied and started trading punches with the Knight, his every right hook to the jaw countered by a right hook to the gut in perfect rhythm, a waltz of violence and catharsis. He knew Bruce's body so well now, knew how its very sinews and tendons worked, could read every flex and strain. Bruce's body and eyes spoke to him and his spoke back, as clearly as if they were calling to each other, and it was more intimate and vulnerable and triumphant than anything they had ever done in bed.
They gave the audience thirty minutes of action, and the Dark Knight kicked out of the Kryptonian's armbar three times, each time ratcheting the crowd noise up another notch. It looked bad for the Kryptonian, staggered back against the ropes, reeling, and the Dark Knight was preparing to deliver his finishing move when Brainiac, driven beyond endurance, grabbed at his heels from outside the ring.
The Dark Knight turned to deal with the nuisance, oblivious to the rising roar from the crowd as the Kryptonian rallied his strength, raising his hands--and when the Dark Knight turned away from Brainiac he walked directly into the Psionic Claw. Twisting and writhing, his face seemingly caught in the vise of the Kryptonian's inhumanly strong grip, the Dark Knight went limp and the Kryptonian hurled him across the ring, then rolled his limp body over to pin him for the win.
They lay there for a moment, feeling their chests rising and falling together with their ragged breaths, victorious together as the crowd shrieked its fury. This is it, Clark realized. When people talk about the greatest rivalries of all time, they'll mention this match as the beginning.
He couldn't say anything to Bruce without breaking kayfabe; he didn't need to. They were just there together, victor and vanquished, friends and lovers, Clark and Bruce.
Then the Kryptonian arose from his fallen foe and cast a sneering glare at the audience. He left the ring and strode away up the ramp, followed by a cringing Brainiac.
Only when he was past the range of the cameras did he let himself smile.
The match between Sinestro and John Stewart for the Heavyweight Champion of the World was raging on the monitors as everyone watched. Sinestro had just delivered his Fearmonger spinebuster move, and Stewart was writhing on the mat as Sinestro preened and laughed. "C'mon, Stewart!" hollered a voice from the gathered wrestlers in the locker room. Waylon Jones shrugged a little sheepishly when people turned to look at him. "Got caught up in the moment," he muttered.
But Killer Croc wasn't alone in breaking into spontaneous cheers when Stewart finally got Sinestro into the Emerald Lock, basically making a pretzel of his legs and flipping him onto his stomach to stretch his body and put pressure on all his joints. Sinestro's face contorted with feigned pain and with real fury, and Clark wondered whether the match was booked to end with a humiliating tapout for the champion as another reminder that he was indeed expendable. Whatever the reasons, the cameras lingered lovingly on Sinestro's torment and on John Stewart's implacable resolve, a standoff between two titanic wills. From the monitor, the announcers' voices were lifted in shock or exaltation; the audience was on its feet cheering, and Sinestro made one last abortive attempt to reach the ropes and break the hold, then slammed his hand down on the mat, admitting defeat.
Stewart broke the hold immediately at the bell that signalled the end of the match, rolling away from Sinestro and covering his face with his hands as he gasped for breath. The referee brought over the heavyweight championship belt--ridiculously ornate, gleaming-heavy with gold--and shook Stewart's shoulder, placing it in his arms.
Stewart stared at the belt, and something like wonder dawned on his face as the ovations from the crowd rained down on him. Struggling to his feet, he paused for a long moment before thrusting the belt above his head as a thousand flashbulbs glittered and the crowd noise rose to a deafening pitch. There were tears on his face and he didn't bother to try and wipe them away.
Hal Jordan was the first in line to congratulate him when he came backstage. "Good job," he said, holding out his unbandaged arm for a handshake. "I couldn't ask for a better champion."
All the wrestlers cheered, and although the sound was thin and meagre compared to the rushing roar of the crowd, Stewart bit his lip, his eyes bright. "Thank you," he said to the room. "Your trust means the world to me. I'll do right by this belt, I promise."
Hours later, Clark and Bruce wandered out to take a last look at the auditorium before they headed off to their hotel room (Luthor was more relaxed about heels and faces being seen together than Max Lord, but it still was understood that if you left the auditorium together you'd wait until everyone was gone). They found John Stewart sitting at the top of the ramp, looking out over the hushed arena. He wiped his face as Clark and Bruce sat down next to him.
"It's funny," he muttered. "It's all fake, you know? I didn't beat Sinestro in a fair fight, I didn't win the belt through my physical prowess, it was all decided in advance. And yet, in the moment when I held that belt and realized I really was the champion…" He trailed off and shrugged.
"It's not fake at all," Bruce said quietly, and Stewart turned to look at him. "You won the belt because you've worked hard, you've got skills, you paid your dues. You're the champion because you never gave up, no matter how much people doubted you. You won that belt not because you're physically stronger than some purple space wizard, but because you're the right man to be the champion, the right man to headline the company. That's winning by willpower, Stewart. That's the only kind of winning that isn't fake."
Stewart looked at him for a long time. Then he nodded slightly. "Thank you," he said.
The three of them sat at the top of the ramp for a while, looking out at the empty seats and watching the janitors sweeping up. Then Stewart stood up, clapping both of them on the shoulders wordlessly and leaving.
"You always know what to say," Clark said when he was gone.
"About wrestling, maybe," said Bruce. "About everything else…" He shrugged.
"Is there anything besides wrestling?" teased Clark, letting one finger ghost across the back of Bruce's hand. Strange how there was so much physical intimacy in the ring, and so little space for it outside.
Bruce was silent for a time, and Clark realized he was seriously pondering Clark's question. "Not a whole lot," he said at last, and smiled into Clark's eyes as if he were putting something behind him. "Let's go practice the next match again."
"Only if you promise not to break another hotel bed," said Clark, standing up and holding out his hand for Bruce to take. "That was hard to explain to the hotel staff."
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Also; GIGGLING.
World Finest. Closest Friends!
Started off as ENEMIES.
HEE!
All the beginnings (or at least a lot), right in one fic.
Heck, right down to Harley being Brilliant, but Obessed (and chirpy).
**hugs the fic, pets it, gives it ice-cream**
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And ahhh, developing Clark and Bruce's kayfabe relationship is almost more fun thandeveloping their relationship behind the scenes, somehow. :) So glad you're enjoying! *steals the fic's ice cream and runs off happily*
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Hm such a Luthor thing to say. You get his charisma and character very clearly across in the first scene...
Oh J'onn... I suppose that means he won't really turn up again, will he?
First, we're going to reveal that he's Robin's mentor, who's been training him in secret and has come to the DCW to protect him
<3 <3 <3
Lots of drama potential there.
Ha! *cough cough* ... I know most of that drama only second hand, via summarized ship manifestos and such, but from what I've read I don't really want to know too much of the details.
"I don't trust them to make my business decisions," said Luthor. "But I do trust them to run a damn fine storyline.
That's my Lex. *pets him* utilizing talent every time.
"It's got to come from the heart, he taught me that," said Dick.
Bruuuuuce!
urgh but that scene in the ring, omg !
Harley was amazing and I am looking forward to Ivy-Selina-Harley shenanigans!
He could see the excitement in every line of Bruce's body
I am so happy for them!
The Kryptonian wrenched, and the cape tore with a sheer, liquid sound. Clark spared a brief flicker of regret (There'll be another, promised Bruce's eyes behind the cowl),
Oh the layers...
Hours later, Clark and Bruce wandered out to take a last look at the auditorium before they headed off to their hotel room (Luthor was more relaxed about heels and faces being seen together than Max Lord,
So glad that time is over!
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Yay, thank you! I think I'm starting to get the hang of writing him a bit in this world (the lack of murder really does help...)
urgh but that scene in the ring, omg !
It was hard to write, even knowing it was all kayfabe and Dick was enjoying putting on a show! Bruce was kind of annoyed he didn't roll with the punch better, lol...
Harley/Ivy/Selina are so much fun to write already! They're having a great time tearing up the locker rooms...
More soon, I fervently hope! *grin*