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mithenTitle: Knightfall
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Bane, Dick Grayson, Brainiac,
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 4000
Summary: A tag team match between the Dark Knight and Nightwing versus Bane and the Kryptonian ends in disaster.
I wish I could’ve bottled that night to carry around in my pocket forever. Being in the wrestling business is like fighting in a war: Some of your unit make it and some of them don’t. It brings a tear to my eye to know that I’ll never enjoy a night like that with those guys ever again. --Chris Jericho
The phone sits on the dresser, silent. No buzzes, no beeps. Clark Kent resists the urge to reach for it and check it anyway. Instead, he watches the match again. How many times now?
It doesn’t matter.
Watch it again. Freeze at the moment.
Watch it again.
The Kryptonian strode down the ramp to his ominous, eerie music, taking a moment to cast a stony glare at the crowd before he entered the ring. The usual booing faces gazed back at him, lost in the delight of hating him. But near the end of his scan, suddenly two incongruous faces caught his eye again as they had before his match against Bane: an elderly man in a formal black suit and ramrod-straight posture, sitting next to a woman of about the same age, her frowning face framed by silver hair. They seemed out of place and nervous, and Clark wanted to give them a reassuring smile, but the Kryptonian gimmick held him in iron shackles. He paused and scowled deliberately at them instead, and the man suddenly smiled up at him, a warm smile that took Clark entirely aback. That formally-dressed man couldn’t be Alfred...could it?
The woman at his side continued to look more irritated than enraged, clearly not getting into the spirit of the match.
“And his tag team partner...hailing from the island of Santa Prisca--” Martial music blared as Bane stalked down the ramp, without acknowledging the boos and jeers on either side of him. “Bane!”
Bane climbed into the ring, locking eyes with the Kryptonian, who returned the gaze coldly. From the sidelines, Brainiac rubbed his hands and looked scheming; Bane spared him a contemptuous glance and he shrank back, cowed for a moment.
Nightwing came next, vaulting into the ring with his usual good humor, playing to the crowd, blowing kisses to all and sundry. He nodded at the Kryptonian warily, and beneath the Nightwing mask Clark saw Dick shoot him a look: We can get him through this.
And then the lights went out and the Dark Knight descended from the ceiling into the ring to the effervescent adulation of the crowd.
He had his championship belt around his waist, and it caught the spotlight in dizzying gleams of gold as he swung into the ring. Clapping Nightwing on the back, he took off the belt and held it up in front of Bane for just a moment, almost tauntingly, then handed it over to the ring announcer to keep during the match.
The referee stepped forward between the two teams, running a hand through his thinning blond hair: Sandy Hawkins, former “Golden Boy” and valet for the more famous Wesley Dobbs. He hadn’t quite made it as a wrestler, but Luthor made sure he still had consistent work as a referee. “Let’s keep this a good clean fight,” he announced loudly: The Kryptonian raised a contemptuous lip and Bane ignored him entirely.
Each team went to their corner. The Dark Knight started off the legal man with no discussion, he and Nightwing moving together with the grace and ease of long experience. The Kryptonian and Bane, on the other hand, nearly came to blows, each of them wanting to be the first to take on their hated rival. Bane eventually seemed to win the silent argument, but as he climbed into the ring the camera zoomed up close to show the Kryptonian’s expression, his eyes narrowed and his teeth gritted at his own partner.
It was a memorable match from the very start: the Dark Knight and Bane pulled off some amazing moves, many of them spontaneous. When it looked like Bane was getting the upper hand, the Dark Knight struggled to the corner where Nightwing was waiting and tagged him in.
The crowd erupted in delight at the hot tag as Nightwing sprang into the ring. According to the rules of a tag team match, both of them could be there in the ring for five seconds after a tag. The audience expected something spectacular in those five seconds, and the Dynamic Duo never failed to deliver. This time Nightwing slid between Bane’s legs, coming up into a leg sweep at exactly the same moment the Dark Knight executed a superkick to Bane’s head. The simultaneous attacks smashed Bane backwards onto the mat, giving Nightwing time to climb up onto the turnbuckle and prepare his next move as the Dark Knight stepped out of the ring just before the five seconds was up. From there, he watched as his refreshed protege danced around Bane, mocking and teasing him with quick, light jabs and acrobatic moves. The strategy was clearly to tire him out while giving the Dark Knight a chance to recover from his previous matches.
A savvy wrestler would tag in his own partner, take advantage of the format to catch his own breath. But Bane refused to tag in the Kryptonian despite his angry, silent gestures: his pride was such that he would not let someone else fight along with him. And because pride always goeth before a fall in such stories, that would be his eventual downfall: the Kryptonian, galled beyond bearing, would turn on him while the referee was distracted by Brainiac, stunning him with a mighty blow and leaving him open to the pin by the Dark Knight.
Clark furrowed his brow dramatically and glared past the match, making eye contact with Bruce waiting outside the far corner. The Kryptonian pointed at his old foe, silently threatening him as Nightwing feinted around Bane: How I yearn for the chance to crush you! In reality, Clark was assessing Bruce’s condition: he had shrugged off his previous three matches as quick and easy wins, but there was exertion involved in all three of them, and he truly needed the time to rest while Nightwing sparred with Bane. For his part, Bane showed no sign of it, but the match with Wonder Woman had been magnificent and strenuous, and surely he was tired.
Not much longer, Clark reassured himself. Soon Bane would execute his backbreaker on the Dark Knight, the Kryptonian would snap and slug him, and the match would be over. They could all celebrate pulling off a match for the history books backstage, and Clark would meet Alfred and then make sure Bruce got at least twelve hours of sleep after icing all his joints.
Nightwing ducked under a punch by an increasingly-frustrated Bane and did a backflip onto the top ropes to the gasps of the crowd, tagging the Dark Knight as he perched there. But Bane was too fast for him, and before he could leave the ring to safety, Bane’s fist caught him in the ribs, sending him plummeting out of the ring and to the apron to lie stunned. “Sorry, Dick,” Bruce had explained earlier, “But it can’t be the two of us against Bane the whole way through. Not very sporting.”
So now it was just the Dark Knight and Bane in the ring. Nightwing was “out cold,” and the Kryptonian was seething, helpless in his corner, ignored by his erstwhile ally. Everything was in place.
The Dark Knight and Bane were putting on a great show, brawling around the ring, trading blows and throws. Meanwhile, Brainiac had approached the fallen Nightwing and was indulging in kicking the supine wrestler to the thunderous boos of the crowd--boos which changed in a flash to cheers as Nightwing leapt up to seize Brainiac and toss him into a barricade.
Brainiac screamed in panic as Nightwing advanced on him: “Save me, Kal-El! Save me, my master!” and the Kryptonian immediately turned from the match to attack Nightwing, grabbing him in his fearsome Psionic Claw.
The Dark Knight looked at the action outside the ring and saw his friend being attacked, and in that moment of distraction, Bane pressed the attack and turned the tables. By the time the Kryptonian threw Nightwing’s limp and twitching body to the floor, apparently unconscious, the Dark Knight was facing a hail of punches and kicks. Reeling, he tried to fight back, but his defense was growing weaker, he was clearly out of reserves, exhausted.
The Kryptonian clambered back to his corner, his clenched jaw and baleful glare radiating barely-suppressed fury at Nightwing, the Dark Knight, his own partner. Finally, a haymaker from Bane left the Dark Knight lying on the mat, too dazed to stand. The crowd shrieked encouragement at him as he struggled to lift himself on limbs trembling with fatigue, but it was no good. The match was clearly coming to a crescendo.
The Kryptonian shook silent fists at his partner, but Bane just laughed. “I did not need your help, alien! Bane relies on no one!”
But it was at this point that Bane made what was going to be his fatal mistake: he turned his back on the Kryptonian in his corner in order to pick up the Dark Knight for his finishing move.
As he did, the Kryptonian reached out and tagged him with a fleeting touch that he didn’t even seem to notice. The Kryptonian was now the legal man and they were both able to be in the ring together for five seconds. Bane bent over the Dark Knight, picking him up; behind him the Kryptonian was climbing over the ropes, clearly itching for the chance to attack his own partner. Bane didn’t see him, too intent on finishing off his opponent.
(In his hotel room, Clark Kent pauses the recording and closes his eyes. Then he takes a breath and hits ”play” once again).
Bane lifted the dazed Dark Knight, and with a heave hoisted his body high over his head. For a long moment they stood there frozen, the crowd in caught in breathless, terrified anticipation. ”I shall break you!” Bane cried, bringing his foe down across his knee.
Later, Clark would be able to find the moment where everything went wrong, but even the most meticulous, the most agonized, reviewing could never give a clear answer as to whose fault it was. On the recording he could see how the Dark Knight’s weight shifted just the tiniest, key fraction, but whether Bane’s weary grip gave way or Bruce’s exhausted body was unable to hold the right position, Clark could never tell, no matter how many times he watched.
How many hundreds of times.
But in the match, there was no pause button, there was no rewind, and Clark did not realize something had gone wrong until the moment of impact, when Bruce dropped to the mat and lay there. No dramatic flopping, no emotive writhing, no heartfelt grimaces of pain or clutching at his back as there should have been: he just lay where he fell, and Clark felt his heart seize up and turn over.
Something was wrong.
Bane bent over the Dark Knight, sneering. Clark stood in the ring. The crowd noise seemed very far away, somehow. He could see Bruce’s fingers twitch and scrabble on the mat.
Something was badly wrong.
Bane swung away from the Dark Knight and faced the Kryptonian. This was the moment where the Kryptonian was supposed to attack him, but instead Bane lunged forward and grabbed the Kryptonian’s throat, dragging him close.
“It is bad,” Bane said quietly. “Throw me out of the ring. We must buy him time.”
For a moment they glared at each other, and then the Kryptonian seized Bane’s arm and countered the hold, hurling him out of the ring. Bane immediately started to stalk Brainiac, who scrambled away from him, eyes wild. The crowd’s attention was all on Bane and Brainiac, cheering on one or the other. Good.
Clark took a step forward, then another. Bruce was lying in the middle of the ring, looking up at the ceiling with an abstracted, inner-focused look on his face. He met Clark’s eyes as the Kryptonian glared down at him.
“I can’t feel my legs,” Bruce said below the roar of the crowd. He looked vaguely surprised.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said.
Clark stood up and walked to the edge of the ring. The crowd noise was expanding into a vast, buzzing maelstrom, meaningless and mad. The referee was bending over Bruce, whispering with him. Meaningless sounds. I can’t feel-- Meaningless. Bane finally had Brainiac in an iron grip, and the crowd was cheering him on, their attention dragged from the static tableau in the ring.
Clark watched the two men pretending to hurt each other and felt reality crumble and slip around him.
Bane chokeslammed Brainiac, and the audience’s attention swung once more to the ring, to the Dark Knight lying within. “Get up and fight him!” yelled someone.
Sandy was at Clark’s side, touching his elbow. “He says he’ll try to get to the Kryptonite. Stall.”
It would be easiest, Clark thought, to just pin the Dark Knight for the win. He could just lie down on the mat beside him, put his arm over him, and the referee would count to three and the bell would ring and it would be all over. It would all be over.
The Dark Knight was supposed to win this match. He wasn’t supposed to lose. Not in Gotham.
He says he’ll try to get to the Kryptonite.
Clark realized suddenly that he’d been turning in a slow circle, staring sightlessly out at the thousands of avid faces. Far up the ramp, Nightwing was crawling toward the ring--he was supposed to be out cold, but not hell itself would stop Dick Grayson from being there for Bruce if he needed him. The auditorium swum and spun, filled with babble and chaos. The well-dressed man in the front row was staring at him, his face white. The woman with him was clutching his arm. The crowd was starting to murmur, to rustle. What was going on?
Stall.
Stall.
The Kryptonian put his clenched fists up in front of him and shook them--at his enemies, at the audience, at the universe. And then the silent monster, the alien who had never uttered a sound, threw back his head and screamed.
It was a howl of rage and fury and desolation, so wild and raw that the audience fell silent in shock, staring at him.
The Kryptonian turned to glare at the Dark Knight, pointing at him. ”Look! Look at what happens when you fragile humans dare to oppose me! Witness the futility of your actions! See the inevitable consequences!” He strode over to the Dark Knight and stooped above him, howling, his face twisted into a frenzied mask : ”You break!”
“No!” From outside the ring, Milton Fine’s panicked voice broke into the Kryptonian’s roar: “No, no, no, no!” He was gesticulating wildly, making a throat-cutting motion. “Don’t do this!”
The Kryptonian bared his teeth, swinging from his opponent to glare at Brainiac. ”Shut up!” he bellowed, and Brainiac’s mouth clicked closed, his eyes bugging out. “How dare you! I will not be controlled, I will not be manipulated, I am not your puppet! Silence, or I shall crush you as this so-called Knight has been crushed!”
In the hush of the auditorium, the Kryptonian’s furious, heaving breaths echoed like sobs.
The referee put his palm on the Kryptonian’s chest, leaning in apparently to tell him to back off; the Kryptonian shoved him aside.
He’s ready, Sandy whispered.
“Yes!” cried the Kryptonian. “Destroyed as this human has been destroyed!” He turned to stride over to the Dark Knight, still lying on his back, and stood astride him, the conquering alien. “You are beaten, puny mortal!” he yelled into his face, bending close. “You will not rise again, you are finished, it is over!”
Bruce looked up at him. And then he winked. He winked.
The Dark Knight lifted his hand (it trembled slightly, so slightly) and blew a cloud of sparkling green dust into the sneering face above him.
Clark froze and then started to slowly topple over. As he did, Bruce grabbed his shoulder, letting Clark’s momentum lift him up and over so he flopped on top of the Kryptonian.
Clark could hear Sandy’s count over the cheers of the crowd as he lay.
”One!”
He could feel Bruce’s breath in exhausted, labored puffs against his shoulder.
”Two!”
He reached up and touched Bruce’s hair. He supposed there was a chance it might look like the Kryptonian was trying to push his opponent away with his failing strength and not a caress. He didn’t actually care.
”Three!”
The bell clashed in Clark’s ears: sweet defeat at last. Sandy rushed over and lifted Bruce’s hand while he still lay on the mat, and then there was a pause. The sound of the crowd poured over them in waves. Outside the ring, Clark knew the medical team would be getting a stretcher ready. Bruce’s skin was cool against his, slicked with sweat, his body heavy and solid on him as if he were asleep.
“Thank you,” mumbled Bruce against his shoulder.
Then the medical team was there, rolling Bruce over carefully, lifting him onto a stretcher. Clark staggered to his feet. The match was over but the show was not. Outside the ring, Bane and Nightwing were trading blows. Bane glanced over, met his eyes: Keep the audience distracted.
”Bane!” howled the Kryptonian, and staggered out of the ring to join the brawl. Nightwing met him halfway, and they locked up, Nightwing grabbing his shoulder and waist.
“Is he--” Dick murmured. Clark could feel him trembling, realized he was too. They were practically holding each other up.
“He’ll be all right,” Clark said. His voice sounded false even to himself.
“Damn it!” Dick yelled, shoving him away. “God fucking damn it!” He grabbed a chair, slammed it across the Kryptonian’s back: the sharp sting of impact felt almost soothing, it was a pain Clark could process.
The three of them brawled around the ring, always managing to steer clear of the stretcher. Between throws and punches, Clark caught glimpses of Bruce being strapped into a neck brace, of the medical staff in their referees’ jerseys talking to him. The seats Alfred and the woman had been in were empty. Everything felt unreal: the audience noise, the motions of the moves, the anguished rage inside him. All faraway and distant. The stretcher was lifted. Carried up the ramp.
Gone.
”What the hell happened?” Clark Kent stormed into the locker room and grabbed Bane by the collar, slamming him up against the lockers. “What have you done?”
The buzz of worried chatter stopped as all the wrestlers turned to stare at the two of them. Clark shook him once, hard.
“He slipped,” said Bane. “I would rather have taken the blow myself than hurt a fellow warrior. I will not forgive myself.”
Clark glared at him for a long moment. Then he dropped him, swinging away with an inarticulate snarl to punch the locker next to him with a deafening clangor. “Where is he?” he snapped at Jimmy.
“The ambulance--” stammered Jimmy.
”Which hospital?” Clark advanced on Jimmy as if he were going to tear the information out of him. ”Tell me!”
“Gotham General!” yelped Jimmy, putting his hands up. “Luthor says he’ll have a briefing soon, he’ll let everyone--”
“--I’m not waiting for a briefing!” Clark’s voice was raw and ragged. Everyone was staring at him. He yanked open his locker and started to drag out his civilian clothes.
“Hey, relax, man,” said Oliver Queen, making calming motions with his hands. “It’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.”
“And if he is?” Clark whirled to glare at Ollie. “Would you have a problem with that, huh?” He scrubbed at his face. Unreal, everything was unreal. ”Would you?”
“Jesus, man,” said Ollie, spreading his hands wide. “You should know me better than that. I don’t give a damn, Clark.”
“Well I do,” said Clark. It didn’t seem to quite fit as a response, but he couldn’t parse what else to say. “I give a damn. And I’m going to the hospital.”
He yanked off his stupid, inane leotard, stuffing it viciously into his bag. The locker room seemed to be swinging and swirling around him as he dragged on his jeans. There were people touching him on the back as they passed, patting his shoulder. He supposed it was meant to be supportive. Comforting.
He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and left the locker room, pushing past Lex Luthor as he came in. There was a brief look of surprise on Luthor’s face, but he didn’t call after Clark as Clark strode for the exit.
It was a cool, crisp fall night, an impassive full moon overlooking the city of Gotham. Clark hailed a cab and headed for Gotham General.
“I’m sorry, he’s in surgery right now,” said the brisk and efficient nurse, giving him a dubious look. Belatedly, Clark realized he hadn’t cleaned off all of his facepaint and the red contacts were still in place. “It may be a while still. If you want to take a seat in the waiting room, we can tell you when he’s out.”
“Please,” said Clark. He stopped by the restroom and scrubbed off his face, removing the contacts. He looked at them for a moment, the little discs of red plastic on his fingers, then flushed them down the sink. For good measure, he stuffed the Kryptonian’s suit into a trash chute. Then he had to wash his hands again.
He sat for a very long time in the waiting room, staring at the walls. Dick and Diana showed up and sat next to him. Diana took his hand and they sat in silence.
Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore and went back to the brisk and efficient nurse. “I’m afraid Mr. Wayne has been checked out of the hospital,” she said, looking at her computer screen.
“What?”
“After the surgery was over, he checked out. Under the care of his private physician, a Doctor Kinsolving.”
Clark gaped at her. “Where--Where did he go?”
The nurse frowned at him. “I’m afraid I can’t release his personal information to anyone but family, sir. Are you his brother?”
“No,” said Clark. Gone. Bruce was gone. “I’m not.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and turned back to her work.
There was nothing else to do and no reason to be there, so Clark turned around and left.
Diana and Dick made him eat some food. They said things to each other and to Clark. They took him back to his hotel room.
Bruce was gone.
Clark pauses the recording again at the moment of impact. Rewinds. The phone sits on the dresser, silent. He knows without looking at it that it has exactly forty texts to Bruce’s number over the last two weeks, and exactly ten phone calls.
None have a reply.
He watches the match unfold once more. Pauses at the moment Bruce slips again.
He has to stop doing this, has to move forward, can’t stay trapped, reliving this moment over and over again. He has to stop. He knows this.
Instead, he rewinds. Watches again. Pauses again.
Rewinds.
The phone remains silent.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Bane, Dick Grayson, Brainiac,
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion (click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 4000
Summary: A tag team match between the Dark Knight and Nightwing versus Bane and the Kryptonian ends in disaster.
I wish I could’ve bottled that night to carry around in my pocket forever. Being in the wrestling business is like fighting in a war: Some of your unit make it and some of them don’t. It brings a tear to my eye to know that I’ll never enjoy a night like that with those guys ever again. --Chris Jericho
The phone sits on the dresser, silent. No buzzes, no beeps. Clark Kent resists the urge to reach for it and check it anyway. Instead, he watches the match again. How many times now?
It doesn’t matter.
Watch it again. Freeze at the moment.
Watch it again.
The Kryptonian strode down the ramp to his ominous, eerie music, taking a moment to cast a stony glare at the crowd before he entered the ring. The usual booing faces gazed back at him, lost in the delight of hating him. But near the end of his scan, suddenly two incongruous faces caught his eye again as they had before his match against Bane: an elderly man in a formal black suit and ramrod-straight posture, sitting next to a woman of about the same age, her frowning face framed by silver hair. They seemed out of place and nervous, and Clark wanted to give them a reassuring smile, but the Kryptonian gimmick held him in iron shackles. He paused and scowled deliberately at them instead, and the man suddenly smiled up at him, a warm smile that took Clark entirely aback. That formally-dressed man couldn’t be Alfred...could it?
The woman at his side continued to look more irritated than enraged, clearly not getting into the spirit of the match.
“And his tag team partner...hailing from the island of Santa Prisca--” Martial music blared as Bane stalked down the ramp, without acknowledging the boos and jeers on either side of him. “Bane!”
Bane climbed into the ring, locking eyes with the Kryptonian, who returned the gaze coldly. From the sidelines, Brainiac rubbed his hands and looked scheming; Bane spared him a contemptuous glance and he shrank back, cowed for a moment.
Nightwing came next, vaulting into the ring with his usual good humor, playing to the crowd, blowing kisses to all and sundry. He nodded at the Kryptonian warily, and beneath the Nightwing mask Clark saw Dick shoot him a look: We can get him through this.
And then the lights went out and the Dark Knight descended from the ceiling into the ring to the effervescent adulation of the crowd.
He had his championship belt around his waist, and it caught the spotlight in dizzying gleams of gold as he swung into the ring. Clapping Nightwing on the back, he took off the belt and held it up in front of Bane for just a moment, almost tauntingly, then handed it over to the ring announcer to keep during the match.
The referee stepped forward between the two teams, running a hand through his thinning blond hair: Sandy Hawkins, former “Golden Boy” and valet for the more famous Wesley Dobbs. He hadn’t quite made it as a wrestler, but Luthor made sure he still had consistent work as a referee. “Let’s keep this a good clean fight,” he announced loudly: The Kryptonian raised a contemptuous lip and Bane ignored him entirely.
Each team went to their corner. The Dark Knight started off the legal man with no discussion, he and Nightwing moving together with the grace and ease of long experience. The Kryptonian and Bane, on the other hand, nearly came to blows, each of them wanting to be the first to take on their hated rival. Bane eventually seemed to win the silent argument, but as he climbed into the ring the camera zoomed up close to show the Kryptonian’s expression, his eyes narrowed and his teeth gritted at his own partner.
It was a memorable match from the very start: the Dark Knight and Bane pulled off some amazing moves, many of them spontaneous. When it looked like Bane was getting the upper hand, the Dark Knight struggled to the corner where Nightwing was waiting and tagged him in.
The crowd erupted in delight at the hot tag as Nightwing sprang into the ring. According to the rules of a tag team match, both of them could be there in the ring for five seconds after a tag. The audience expected something spectacular in those five seconds, and the Dynamic Duo never failed to deliver. This time Nightwing slid between Bane’s legs, coming up into a leg sweep at exactly the same moment the Dark Knight executed a superkick to Bane’s head. The simultaneous attacks smashed Bane backwards onto the mat, giving Nightwing time to climb up onto the turnbuckle and prepare his next move as the Dark Knight stepped out of the ring just before the five seconds was up. From there, he watched as his refreshed protege danced around Bane, mocking and teasing him with quick, light jabs and acrobatic moves. The strategy was clearly to tire him out while giving the Dark Knight a chance to recover from his previous matches.
A savvy wrestler would tag in his own partner, take advantage of the format to catch his own breath. But Bane refused to tag in the Kryptonian despite his angry, silent gestures: his pride was such that he would not let someone else fight along with him. And because pride always goeth before a fall in such stories, that would be his eventual downfall: the Kryptonian, galled beyond bearing, would turn on him while the referee was distracted by Brainiac, stunning him with a mighty blow and leaving him open to the pin by the Dark Knight.
Clark furrowed his brow dramatically and glared past the match, making eye contact with Bruce waiting outside the far corner. The Kryptonian pointed at his old foe, silently threatening him as Nightwing feinted around Bane: How I yearn for the chance to crush you! In reality, Clark was assessing Bruce’s condition: he had shrugged off his previous three matches as quick and easy wins, but there was exertion involved in all three of them, and he truly needed the time to rest while Nightwing sparred with Bane. For his part, Bane showed no sign of it, but the match with Wonder Woman had been magnificent and strenuous, and surely he was tired.
Not much longer, Clark reassured himself. Soon Bane would execute his backbreaker on the Dark Knight, the Kryptonian would snap and slug him, and the match would be over. They could all celebrate pulling off a match for the history books backstage, and Clark would meet Alfred and then make sure Bruce got at least twelve hours of sleep after icing all his joints.
Nightwing ducked under a punch by an increasingly-frustrated Bane and did a backflip onto the top ropes to the gasps of the crowd, tagging the Dark Knight as he perched there. But Bane was too fast for him, and before he could leave the ring to safety, Bane’s fist caught him in the ribs, sending him plummeting out of the ring and to the apron to lie stunned. “Sorry, Dick,” Bruce had explained earlier, “But it can’t be the two of us against Bane the whole way through. Not very sporting.”
So now it was just the Dark Knight and Bane in the ring. Nightwing was “out cold,” and the Kryptonian was seething, helpless in his corner, ignored by his erstwhile ally. Everything was in place.
The Dark Knight and Bane were putting on a great show, brawling around the ring, trading blows and throws. Meanwhile, Brainiac had approached the fallen Nightwing and was indulging in kicking the supine wrestler to the thunderous boos of the crowd--boos which changed in a flash to cheers as Nightwing leapt up to seize Brainiac and toss him into a barricade.
Brainiac screamed in panic as Nightwing advanced on him: “Save me, Kal-El! Save me, my master!” and the Kryptonian immediately turned from the match to attack Nightwing, grabbing him in his fearsome Psionic Claw.
The Dark Knight looked at the action outside the ring and saw his friend being attacked, and in that moment of distraction, Bane pressed the attack and turned the tables. By the time the Kryptonian threw Nightwing’s limp and twitching body to the floor, apparently unconscious, the Dark Knight was facing a hail of punches and kicks. Reeling, he tried to fight back, but his defense was growing weaker, he was clearly out of reserves, exhausted.
The Kryptonian clambered back to his corner, his clenched jaw and baleful glare radiating barely-suppressed fury at Nightwing, the Dark Knight, his own partner. Finally, a haymaker from Bane left the Dark Knight lying on the mat, too dazed to stand. The crowd shrieked encouragement at him as he struggled to lift himself on limbs trembling with fatigue, but it was no good. The match was clearly coming to a crescendo.
The Kryptonian shook silent fists at his partner, but Bane just laughed. “I did not need your help, alien! Bane relies on no one!”
But it was at this point that Bane made what was going to be his fatal mistake: he turned his back on the Kryptonian in his corner in order to pick up the Dark Knight for his finishing move.
As he did, the Kryptonian reached out and tagged him with a fleeting touch that he didn’t even seem to notice. The Kryptonian was now the legal man and they were both able to be in the ring together for five seconds. Bane bent over the Dark Knight, picking him up; behind him the Kryptonian was climbing over the ropes, clearly itching for the chance to attack his own partner. Bane didn’t see him, too intent on finishing off his opponent.
(In his hotel room, Clark Kent pauses the recording and closes his eyes. Then he takes a breath and hits ”play” once again).
Bane lifted the dazed Dark Knight, and with a heave hoisted his body high over his head. For a long moment they stood there frozen, the crowd in caught in breathless, terrified anticipation. ”I shall break you!” Bane cried, bringing his foe down across his knee.
Later, Clark would be able to find the moment where everything went wrong, but even the most meticulous, the most agonized, reviewing could never give a clear answer as to whose fault it was. On the recording he could see how the Dark Knight’s weight shifted just the tiniest, key fraction, but whether Bane’s weary grip gave way or Bruce’s exhausted body was unable to hold the right position, Clark could never tell, no matter how many times he watched.
How many hundreds of times.
But in the match, there was no pause button, there was no rewind, and Clark did not realize something had gone wrong until the moment of impact, when Bruce dropped to the mat and lay there. No dramatic flopping, no emotive writhing, no heartfelt grimaces of pain or clutching at his back as there should have been: he just lay where he fell, and Clark felt his heart seize up and turn over.
Something was wrong.
Bane bent over the Dark Knight, sneering. Clark stood in the ring. The crowd noise seemed very far away, somehow. He could see Bruce’s fingers twitch and scrabble on the mat.
Something was badly wrong.
Bane swung away from the Dark Knight and faced the Kryptonian. This was the moment where the Kryptonian was supposed to attack him, but instead Bane lunged forward and grabbed the Kryptonian’s throat, dragging him close.
“It is bad,” Bane said quietly. “Throw me out of the ring. We must buy him time.”
For a moment they glared at each other, and then the Kryptonian seized Bane’s arm and countered the hold, hurling him out of the ring. Bane immediately started to stalk Brainiac, who scrambled away from him, eyes wild. The crowd’s attention was all on Bane and Brainiac, cheering on one or the other. Good.
Clark took a step forward, then another. Bruce was lying in the middle of the ring, looking up at the ceiling with an abstracted, inner-focused look on his face. He met Clark’s eyes as the Kryptonian glared down at him.
“I can’t feel my legs,” Bruce said below the roar of the crowd. He looked vaguely surprised.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said.
Clark stood up and walked to the edge of the ring. The crowd noise was expanding into a vast, buzzing maelstrom, meaningless and mad. The referee was bending over Bruce, whispering with him. Meaningless sounds. I can’t feel-- Meaningless. Bane finally had Brainiac in an iron grip, and the crowd was cheering him on, their attention dragged from the static tableau in the ring.
Clark watched the two men pretending to hurt each other and felt reality crumble and slip around him.
Bane chokeslammed Brainiac, and the audience’s attention swung once more to the ring, to the Dark Knight lying within. “Get up and fight him!” yelled someone.
Sandy was at Clark’s side, touching his elbow. “He says he’ll try to get to the Kryptonite. Stall.”
It would be easiest, Clark thought, to just pin the Dark Knight for the win. He could just lie down on the mat beside him, put his arm over him, and the referee would count to three and the bell would ring and it would be all over. It would all be over.
The Dark Knight was supposed to win this match. He wasn’t supposed to lose. Not in Gotham.
He says he’ll try to get to the Kryptonite.
Clark realized suddenly that he’d been turning in a slow circle, staring sightlessly out at the thousands of avid faces. Far up the ramp, Nightwing was crawling toward the ring--he was supposed to be out cold, but not hell itself would stop Dick Grayson from being there for Bruce if he needed him. The auditorium swum and spun, filled with babble and chaos. The well-dressed man in the front row was staring at him, his face white. The woman with him was clutching his arm. The crowd was starting to murmur, to rustle. What was going on?
Stall.
Stall.
The Kryptonian put his clenched fists up in front of him and shook them--at his enemies, at the audience, at the universe. And then the silent monster, the alien who had never uttered a sound, threw back his head and screamed.
It was a howl of rage and fury and desolation, so wild and raw that the audience fell silent in shock, staring at him.
The Kryptonian turned to glare at the Dark Knight, pointing at him. ”Look! Look at what happens when you fragile humans dare to oppose me! Witness the futility of your actions! See the inevitable consequences!” He strode over to the Dark Knight and stooped above him, howling, his face twisted into a frenzied mask : ”You break!”
“No!” From outside the ring, Milton Fine’s panicked voice broke into the Kryptonian’s roar: “No, no, no, no!” He was gesticulating wildly, making a throat-cutting motion. “Don’t do this!”
The Kryptonian bared his teeth, swinging from his opponent to glare at Brainiac. ”Shut up!” he bellowed, and Brainiac’s mouth clicked closed, his eyes bugging out. “How dare you! I will not be controlled, I will not be manipulated, I am not your puppet! Silence, or I shall crush you as this so-called Knight has been crushed!”
In the hush of the auditorium, the Kryptonian’s furious, heaving breaths echoed like sobs.
The referee put his palm on the Kryptonian’s chest, leaning in apparently to tell him to back off; the Kryptonian shoved him aside.
He’s ready, Sandy whispered.
“Yes!” cried the Kryptonian. “Destroyed as this human has been destroyed!” He turned to stride over to the Dark Knight, still lying on his back, and stood astride him, the conquering alien. “You are beaten, puny mortal!” he yelled into his face, bending close. “You will not rise again, you are finished, it is over!”
Bruce looked up at him. And then he winked. He winked.
The Dark Knight lifted his hand (it trembled slightly, so slightly) and blew a cloud of sparkling green dust into the sneering face above him.
Clark froze and then started to slowly topple over. As he did, Bruce grabbed his shoulder, letting Clark’s momentum lift him up and over so he flopped on top of the Kryptonian.
Clark could hear Sandy’s count over the cheers of the crowd as he lay.
”One!”
He could feel Bruce’s breath in exhausted, labored puffs against his shoulder.
”Two!”
He reached up and touched Bruce’s hair. He supposed there was a chance it might look like the Kryptonian was trying to push his opponent away with his failing strength and not a caress. He didn’t actually care.
”Three!”
The bell clashed in Clark’s ears: sweet defeat at last. Sandy rushed over and lifted Bruce’s hand while he still lay on the mat, and then there was a pause. The sound of the crowd poured over them in waves. Outside the ring, Clark knew the medical team would be getting a stretcher ready. Bruce’s skin was cool against his, slicked with sweat, his body heavy and solid on him as if he were asleep.
“Thank you,” mumbled Bruce against his shoulder.
Then the medical team was there, rolling Bruce over carefully, lifting him onto a stretcher. Clark staggered to his feet. The match was over but the show was not. Outside the ring, Bane and Nightwing were trading blows. Bane glanced over, met his eyes: Keep the audience distracted.
”Bane!” howled the Kryptonian, and staggered out of the ring to join the brawl. Nightwing met him halfway, and they locked up, Nightwing grabbing his shoulder and waist.
“Is he--” Dick murmured. Clark could feel him trembling, realized he was too. They were practically holding each other up.
“He’ll be all right,” Clark said. His voice sounded false even to himself.
“Damn it!” Dick yelled, shoving him away. “God fucking damn it!” He grabbed a chair, slammed it across the Kryptonian’s back: the sharp sting of impact felt almost soothing, it was a pain Clark could process.
The three of them brawled around the ring, always managing to steer clear of the stretcher. Between throws and punches, Clark caught glimpses of Bruce being strapped into a neck brace, of the medical staff in their referees’ jerseys talking to him. The seats Alfred and the woman had been in were empty. Everything felt unreal: the audience noise, the motions of the moves, the anguished rage inside him. All faraway and distant. The stretcher was lifted. Carried up the ramp.
Gone.
”What the hell happened?” Clark Kent stormed into the locker room and grabbed Bane by the collar, slamming him up against the lockers. “What have you done?”
The buzz of worried chatter stopped as all the wrestlers turned to stare at the two of them. Clark shook him once, hard.
“He slipped,” said Bane. “I would rather have taken the blow myself than hurt a fellow warrior. I will not forgive myself.”
Clark glared at him for a long moment. Then he dropped him, swinging away with an inarticulate snarl to punch the locker next to him with a deafening clangor. “Where is he?” he snapped at Jimmy.
“The ambulance--” stammered Jimmy.
”Which hospital?” Clark advanced on Jimmy as if he were going to tear the information out of him. ”Tell me!”
“Gotham General!” yelped Jimmy, putting his hands up. “Luthor says he’ll have a briefing soon, he’ll let everyone--”
“--I’m not waiting for a briefing!” Clark’s voice was raw and ragged. Everyone was staring at him. He yanked open his locker and started to drag out his civilian clothes.
“Hey, relax, man,” said Oliver Queen, making calming motions with his hands. “It’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.”
“And if he is?” Clark whirled to glare at Ollie. “Would you have a problem with that, huh?” He scrubbed at his face. Unreal, everything was unreal. ”Would you?”
“Jesus, man,” said Ollie, spreading his hands wide. “You should know me better than that. I don’t give a damn, Clark.”
“Well I do,” said Clark. It didn’t seem to quite fit as a response, but he couldn’t parse what else to say. “I give a damn. And I’m going to the hospital.”
He yanked off his stupid, inane leotard, stuffing it viciously into his bag. The locker room seemed to be swinging and swirling around him as he dragged on his jeans. There were people touching him on the back as they passed, patting his shoulder. He supposed it was meant to be supportive. Comforting.
He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and left the locker room, pushing past Lex Luthor as he came in. There was a brief look of surprise on Luthor’s face, but he didn’t call after Clark as Clark strode for the exit.
It was a cool, crisp fall night, an impassive full moon overlooking the city of Gotham. Clark hailed a cab and headed for Gotham General.
“I’m sorry, he’s in surgery right now,” said the brisk and efficient nurse, giving him a dubious look. Belatedly, Clark realized he hadn’t cleaned off all of his facepaint and the red contacts were still in place. “It may be a while still. If you want to take a seat in the waiting room, we can tell you when he’s out.”
“Please,” said Clark. He stopped by the restroom and scrubbed off his face, removing the contacts. He looked at them for a moment, the little discs of red plastic on his fingers, then flushed them down the sink. For good measure, he stuffed the Kryptonian’s suit into a trash chute. Then he had to wash his hands again.
He sat for a very long time in the waiting room, staring at the walls. Dick and Diana showed up and sat next to him. Diana took his hand and they sat in silence.
Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore and went back to the brisk and efficient nurse. “I’m afraid Mr. Wayne has been checked out of the hospital,” she said, looking at her computer screen.
“What?”
“After the surgery was over, he checked out. Under the care of his private physician, a Doctor Kinsolving.”
Clark gaped at her. “Where--Where did he go?”
The nurse frowned at him. “I’m afraid I can’t release his personal information to anyone but family, sir. Are you his brother?”
“No,” said Clark. Gone. Bruce was gone. “I’m not.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and turned back to her work.
There was nothing else to do and no reason to be there, so Clark turned around and left.
Diana and Dick made him eat some food. They said things to each other and to Clark. They took him back to his hotel room.
Bruce was gone.
Clark pauses the recording again at the moment of impact. Rewinds. The phone sits on the dresser, silent. He knows without looking at it that it has exactly forty texts to Bruce’s number over the last two weeks, and exactly ten phone calls.
None have a reply.
He watches the match unfold once more. Pauses at the moment Bruce slips again.
He has to stop doing this, has to move forward, can’t stay trapped, reliving this moment over and over again. He has to stop. He knows this.
Instead, he rewinds. Watches again. Pauses again.
Rewinds.
The phone remains silent.