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mithenTitle: Moving Forward
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd, Lex Luthor, Jean Paul Valley
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 3000
Summary: In the wake of Bruce's injury, the DCW keeps moving forward, because it must. Clark Kent, however, has a harder time of it.
One of the things I learned? When someone suffers a serious injury and is going to be out for a long time: all your friends make that one customary visit or that one customary call. It’s like, “Hey, man, I hope you get better.” Then everybody disappears. I don’t think anybody wants to end up in that situation, seeing you with a neck brace. They’re reminded: “That could be me.” --Lodi
Clark Kent walks past the laptop screen, frozen as always at the moment before Bruce begins his descent, his fall. He can see his own face behind them, looking over at Dick Grayson. Oblivious to what was about to happen. Two weeks. It’s been two weeks. He can’t move forward.
The lights of Gotham gleam outside the hotel window. At this moment, in Akron Ohio, the DCW is putting on a show. If he were to turn on the television, he would see them there: Hawkman and Green Lantern, Batgirl and Poison Ivy. Gleaming and glowing like phantasms, stories come to life.
But not the Kryptonian.
Never again.
The common room was nearly silent the night after Bruce’s accident. People sat around playing solitaire or looking moodily at their phones; a red-eyed Selina was scrolling through web page after web page of cute cat gifs without seeming to see them. So when a commotion suddenly broke out behind the door of Luthor’s office, no one really had the option to pretend they didn’t hear it. People traded nervous glances at the sound of Dick Grayson’s voice lifted in anger, of Lex Luthor’s voice remaining utterly calm.
The door opened and Dick Grayson stormed out, clearly too agitated to even speak clearly. He glared at Luthor as Luthor emerged from his office holding the Dark Knight’s cape and cowl. Luthor tossed the cowl across the room--at Jean Paul Valley, who almost didn’t get his hands up in time to catch it, then sat there, looking shocked.
“You’re the Dark Knight from now,” said Luthor. He pivoted, looking at each surprised face. “The gimmick is hugely over, and I’m not letting it go to waste just because Wayne got himself injured. Bane is supposed to fight the Dark Knight at the Pay per View this weekend, and by God he will.” He pointed at Jean Paul. “I suggest you get training.”
Jean Paul looked down at the cowl in his hands. “You ask me to impersonate the belt holder, when I haven’t actually earned the belt,” he said.
Luthor cast his eyes skyward: save me from wrestlers who take themselves too seriously. “News flash, Valley: it’s all rigged. You’ve earned the belt by being able to do Wayne’s moveset. That’s good enough. Get with the program.”
“But that’s not fair,” said Tim from the corner. “Dick should take Bruce’s place. He--”
Luthor leveled a look at him. “Yes, do tell me how to run my business, kid whose name I do not remember.” He snapped his fingers a few times, as if trying to jog his memory. “You’re my lightboard operator, right? The one who thinks he can be a wrestler. Snake.”
“Drake,” muttered Tim, lifting his chin.
“Well, I suggest you stick to lighting,” Luthor snapped.
Clark looked at Dick, who was standing facing the wall, his chest heaving as he took great breaths of air. “He’s right, though, Luthor. Dick has the right to--”
Luthor pulled out his phone, held it up in front of Clark’s face. Clark’s heart did a sudden dull thump as he read:
Herniated disc in my neck. Doc says I’ll be back in eight to ten weeks. I’m thinking four or five.
Noted. I’ll take the doctor’s word over yours. Also, I’m keeping the belt on the Dark Knight.
Of course. I’d suggest Valley, he’s the right build and knows my moves. Anyone but Grayson.
Don’t lecture me, Wayne. I’ll do what’s best for business.
Clark’s first reaction was a surge of relief: Bruce was capable of typing, he wasn’t permanently injured. He held on to that relief as Luthor put his phone away, eyeing Clark with an expression as neutral as milk.
”Anyone but Grayson,” Dick said, his voice choked. ”Anyone but Grayson!”
“You’ll be ready by Sunday?” Luthor said to Valley.
Jean Paul nodded, still holding the empty cowl in his hands. “The Dark Knight cannot be defeated,” he said.
Dick punched the wall hard enough to make several people jump, then threw himself out of the common room. Roy Harper, Starfire, and Barbara Gordon traded worried looks and followed after him.
Luthor watched them go with a shrug, then turned to go back to his office.
“Where is he?” Clark said to his back.
Luthor stopped in mid-step, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said.
“He’s your employee. You must have an address--”
“--I’ve got two or three, Kent. Different apartments, scattered about. I’ve got a bank account that I’ve been paying into regularly. I’ve got the same phone number you’ve probably got. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.” He gave Clark an assessing look. “You need to focus on the pay-per-view,” he said. “You’ve got a big match against--”
“No,” said Clark.
“No?” Luthor’s brows drew together sharply.
“I’m done with that gimmick. I won’t play the Kryptonian again. That’s over,” said Clark. He was surprised at how level his voice was. “I won’t do it.”
Luthor eyed him narrowly for a very long time. Then he sniffed, once. “It was getting stale anyway,” he said, “I’m going to give you a month to think about a new gimmick. We’ll come up with a kayfabe reason the Kryptonian’s not around--it shouldn’t be hard, with that crazy stunt you pulled. Brainiac can say you’ve retreated to the North Pole to think things over.” He pointed at Clark. “It’s about time you took some initiative, Kent. One month, then you pitch me something better. What you do with the rest of the month is your own business. Rest, train, go home and milk cows. Do what you’ve got to do--find what you’ve got to find--to get your head back in the game.” He looked at Tim Drake, who was deeply absorbed in his computer. “What do you think of that plan, kid?”
Tim looked up, surprised. “Well, I think--”
“It doesn’t matter what you think!” Luthor barked, then turned around and walked back to his office with his hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling.
Clark’s duffel bag felt oddly light as he crossed the street to the pizza joint he always went to with Bruce when they were in town. Strange how pitching the Kryptonian’s gear had immediately made everything lighter. Or perhaps it had made him feel stronger?
Peeking in the window, he saw Dick sitting with Barbara, Tim, and--he blinked in surprise--Jason Todd. Dick was gesticulating angrily, phone in hand, as the other three were listening to him. Tim glanced away and spotted Clark standing on the sidewalk. He jerked his head slightly and raised his eyebrows: come on in.
Clark went in.
“Have a seat,” said Jason, scooting aside to make room for him. “Dick needs more audience for his freak-out.”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s been texting us all nonstop--where’s Bruce, is he okay, what should we do?” Tim mimicked.
Jason flushed and slumped lower in his seat. “It’s none of my business,” he muttered, “I just happened to be in town--I’m out of your stupid playacting biz.”
“Oh, shut up,” Barbara said, slapping the back of his head, and he blushed brighter.
“Look at this. Just look at this bull,” snapped Dick, shoving his phone over to Clark.
Why the hell did you tell Luthor to choose Valley over me? Why??
Glad to hear you’re worried about me.
Of course I’m worried about you, you bastard! We’re all worried! Clark’s going crazy! Don’t change the subject!
Would you do me a favor?
Bruce’s messages continued without waiting for Dick’s answer.
Would you tell Clark…
Clark stared at the phone. The little dots that indicated Bruce was typing swirled on the screen. Stopped. Swirled again. Stopped. Clark waited some more.
Tell him I’ll see him soon.
Clark looked at the words on the screen for a long moment, then handed the phone back to Dick.
“I still say if you guys are so worried, you should go find him,” said Jason with a nonchalant wave that said not that I’m worried.
“Come on, Dick, you know him the best of all of us,” said Tim. “Any idea where he’s holed up?”
Dick looked down at his phone and grimaced. “I...don’t know anything for sure,” he said. “I’ve got some hypotheses, but--” He shot a sudden furtive look at Clark, “--but I don’t know if he’d appreciate my sharing them with you.”
Barbara was idly twirling a french fry between her fingers, looking at it intently. “If he wanted to be found, he’d have given you an address,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t he want to be found?” Tim said with a plaintive edge to his voice.
She smiled at him, but it had a weary edge to it. “You’ll understand when you’re a full-time wrestler. Look, our jobs, our livelihoods, depend on being there for the person we’re working with, right? Our partner needs us to be totally reliable.” She shrugged. “I can only speak for myself, but when I hurt my back that time, and the doctors didn’t even know if I’d walk again--well, I didn’t want anyone I might work with seeing me like that.” She stabbed the fry into her ketchup a few times. “When Pamela jumps off the top rope, I don’t want her to remember me lying in bed, in pain, unable to move.”
She tucked the fry into her mouth and chewed for a moment, staring into space. No one said anything.
“I don’t mean I wanted to sit alone feeling sorry for myself. Well, not most days,” she added with a rueful smile. “But I didn’t want my co-workers to see me like that. I didn’t want anyone but my family there. If Bruce is like me, he’s not sure he wants any of us to see him in a neck brace, watch him struggling to move his arms. I say we give him his space. We’ll be here for him when he comes back.”
Dick looked for a second like he was about to argue with her, then seemed to remember he was angry at Bruce and closed his mouth again.
“All right then,” said Jason, “I guess we wait.”
“We?” said Tim with a small smile.
“You guys can wait for him to come back so you can give him a hug. Me, I’m waiting for him to come back so I can kick his ass for hiding from us,” Jason said.
“I look forward to seeing you try,” said Barbara.
They settled into a steady stream of bickering and pizza-eating, and Clark let the sound wash over him, looking out the window. Thinking about pain, and about family.
“Thanks for the ride, sir.”
Bill Ross gave Clark a small wave as the passenger-side door slammed shut. As he drove off, Clark turned to look up the winding driveway to the little white farmhouse. A face appeared in the kitchen window, and Clark saw a hand fly to his mother’s mouth. A moment later the front door opened and she met him halfway down the driveway, laughing as she threw her arms around him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” said Clark, “I couldn’t--”
Martha hugged him tightly. “You never need to call ahead, Clark. Pa’s off in town buying some nails--he’ll be so pleased to see you!” She used her apron to wipe the corners of her eyes. “Come in and have something to eat.”
“So,” she said later as Clark was finishing his second piece of pie. “Is it bad?”
Clark swallowed a mouthful of blueberries and whipped cream. “Is what bad?”
“The boy who got hurt at the last show, that Dark Knight.” She frowned at him. “I can tell when my son is frightened and in pain, no matter how much of that horrible makeup he’s wearing. Is he a...special friend of yours? Is he okay?”
Clark couldn’t help but smile slightly at her tiny hesitation. Clark had never said anything to his parents. He had never needed to.
“I love him, Ma,” he said simply, then had to close his eyes against a rush of emotion. “And I don’t know if he’s okay. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Oh,” said his mother, and reached across the table to clasp his hands tightly. “Oh, my dear boy.”
“My boss gave me some time off,” Clark said. “I--I can’t be the Kryptonian again, I can’t stand it.”
“Of course you can’t,” said Martha. “It was never a good thingy for you, dear. A gimmick, isn’t that what you call them? You weren’t meant to glower and scowl. Now you just have to decide what to do next.”
“I don’t know what to do next,” said Clark. “I just need to...to think.”
“Well, your father could use some help patching up the chicken coop,” said Martha. “You can think while you hammer and paint.” She squeezed his hands once, tightly, and let go. “No reason you can’t get some work done around here while you’re thinking. And then when you’re done thinking, you can move forward again.”
For two weeks, he worked around the farm, doing odd jobs: weeding, cleaning the gutters, tuning up the tractor. He cleaned the spyware off his parents’ computer. He took a selfie of himself milking the cows and sent it to Luthor, who did not dignify it with a reply. Now and then he would send a message to Bruce--a picture of a sunset, a quick “thinking of you.” No reply there either.
He watched the pay-per-view with his parents: when the Dark Knight appeared at the top of the ramp, his mother reached out and patted his arm, and he realized he had made a small, hurt sound at the sight of Jean Paul Valley in Bruce’s costume, the championship gold gleaming around his waist. The match was a good one--Valley made a convincing Dark Knight, and he beat Bane triumphantly. The roof of the Gotham auditorium rattled.
Clark wondered if Bruce was watching with his father. Was the older woman who had been at the match his mother? Bruce had never mentioned a foster-mother.
Sometimes he lay on his back and watched the clouds, thinking of Krypton. What if the Kryptonian hadn’t come here as a conqueror after all? What if he had actually come here as a child--a desperate gamble, a message of hope in a tiny metal bottle against the vastness of space? What if he had landed right here in a corn field? What would he be then? He pulled out old sketchbooks, studied the costumes he had designed as a child. Pictures of himself as a wrestler outrunning bullets, stopping trains. Dreams in blue and red.
He ate far too much of his mother’s cooking.
He didn’t watch the video of the match--still paused at the moment before the accident--even once.
He missed Bruce a lot.
And then he went back to Gotham and a bare hotel room, and opened his laptop, and started the video of the match again.
The image is frozen on the screen: Bane lifting the Dark Knight high, the slip just about to happen. The moment he has never been able to get past.
He paces around the room for a full ten minutes, then sits down in front of the screen.
Time to move forward.
He unpauses the video and forces himself to watch the moment of impact. He feels his hands trembling as he watches everyone stall for time. The camera refuses to dwell on Bruce: instead, it follows the Kryptonian, Bane, and Nightwing as they brawl. He sees Bruce only in flashes, glimpses at the corner of the screen; the Dark Knight’s titanic struggle to reach the green powder that will let him win the match is barely visible.
He watches the Dark Knight stun his foe with the Kryptonite, watches himself topple over. They lie together on the mat for a moment, and then the bell rings and the referee is lifting Bruce’s hand briefly as the medical team puts the stretcher down on the mat next to him. The enraged Kryptonian charges at Bane, leaving the ring.
Before the camera cuts to the new fight and away from the ring, Clark sees the older woman with Alfred trying to scramble over the barricades, trying to get to the ring. Security bars her way, and she tries to push them aside.
“You don’t understand--I’m a doctor!” cries the woman, “Let me help him! Let me--”
Alfred takes her arm. There are tears on his face, barely glimpsed before the camera cuts away again. “Leslie, no,” he says, barely audible over the crowd noise.
Clark stops the video again. He stands up and looks out at the city of Gotham, at the millions of twinkling lights outside his window. Millions of souls.
He picks up his phone and sends a text to Bruce.
Barbara says that right now you probably don’t want your co-workers to see you. That you don’t want the people who have to put their life in your hands to see you as fragile or struggling. I understand that. Right now you want to be with your family, with the people who love you.
That’s why I’m coming to find you.
Because I don’t care if I never work with you again--I love you and I want to be there for you. I want to be a part of your life outside of work. I want us to have a life together.
So I’m going to find you, Bruce. You have my word.
He waits all through the night, falling asleep with the phone on the pillow next to him, fearing it will buzz, terrified he will see a message telling him Don’t.
In the morning, there is still no response, and he feels his heart ease in his chest.
He rewinds the paused video, watches Alfred and the woman one more time.
Then he opens up a search engine and starts to look for doctors in the greater Gotham area with the first name of Leslie.
He moves forward.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd, Lex Luthor, Jean Paul Valley
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 3000
Summary: In the wake of Bruce's injury, the DCW keeps moving forward, because it must. Clark Kent, however, has a harder time of it.
One of the things I learned? When someone suffers a serious injury and is going to be out for a long time: all your friends make that one customary visit or that one customary call. It’s like, “Hey, man, I hope you get better.” Then everybody disappears. I don’t think anybody wants to end up in that situation, seeing you with a neck brace. They’re reminded: “That could be me.” --Lodi
Clark Kent walks past the laptop screen, frozen as always at the moment before Bruce begins his descent, his fall. He can see his own face behind them, looking over at Dick Grayson. Oblivious to what was about to happen. Two weeks. It’s been two weeks. He can’t move forward.
The lights of Gotham gleam outside the hotel window. At this moment, in Akron Ohio, the DCW is putting on a show. If he were to turn on the television, he would see them there: Hawkman and Green Lantern, Batgirl and Poison Ivy. Gleaming and glowing like phantasms, stories come to life.
But not the Kryptonian.
Never again.
The common room was nearly silent the night after Bruce’s accident. People sat around playing solitaire or looking moodily at their phones; a red-eyed Selina was scrolling through web page after web page of cute cat gifs without seeming to see them. So when a commotion suddenly broke out behind the door of Luthor’s office, no one really had the option to pretend they didn’t hear it. People traded nervous glances at the sound of Dick Grayson’s voice lifted in anger, of Lex Luthor’s voice remaining utterly calm.
The door opened and Dick Grayson stormed out, clearly too agitated to even speak clearly. He glared at Luthor as Luthor emerged from his office holding the Dark Knight’s cape and cowl. Luthor tossed the cowl across the room--at Jean Paul Valley, who almost didn’t get his hands up in time to catch it, then sat there, looking shocked.
“You’re the Dark Knight from now,” said Luthor. He pivoted, looking at each surprised face. “The gimmick is hugely over, and I’m not letting it go to waste just because Wayne got himself injured. Bane is supposed to fight the Dark Knight at the Pay per View this weekend, and by God he will.” He pointed at Jean Paul. “I suggest you get training.”
Jean Paul looked down at the cowl in his hands. “You ask me to impersonate the belt holder, when I haven’t actually earned the belt,” he said.
Luthor cast his eyes skyward: save me from wrestlers who take themselves too seriously. “News flash, Valley: it’s all rigged. You’ve earned the belt by being able to do Wayne’s moveset. That’s good enough. Get with the program.”
“But that’s not fair,” said Tim from the corner. “Dick should take Bruce’s place. He--”
Luthor leveled a look at him. “Yes, do tell me how to run my business, kid whose name I do not remember.” He snapped his fingers a few times, as if trying to jog his memory. “You’re my lightboard operator, right? The one who thinks he can be a wrestler. Snake.”
“Drake,” muttered Tim, lifting his chin.
“Well, I suggest you stick to lighting,” Luthor snapped.
Clark looked at Dick, who was standing facing the wall, his chest heaving as he took great breaths of air. “He’s right, though, Luthor. Dick has the right to--”
Luthor pulled out his phone, held it up in front of Clark’s face. Clark’s heart did a sudden dull thump as he read:
Herniated disc in my neck. Doc says I’ll be back in eight to ten weeks. I’m thinking four or five.
Noted. I’ll take the doctor’s word over yours. Also, I’m keeping the belt on the Dark Knight.
Of course. I’d suggest Valley, he’s the right build and knows my moves. Anyone but Grayson.
Don’t lecture me, Wayne. I’ll do what’s best for business.
Clark’s first reaction was a surge of relief: Bruce was capable of typing, he wasn’t permanently injured. He held on to that relief as Luthor put his phone away, eyeing Clark with an expression as neutral as milk.
”Anyone but Grayson,” Dick said, his voice choked. ”Anyone but Grayson!”
“You’ll be ready by Sunday?” Luthor said to Valley.
Jean Paul nodded, still holding the empty cowl in his hands. “The Dark Knight cannot be defeated,” he said.
Dick punched the wall hard enough to make several people jump, then threw himself out of the common room. Roy Harper, Starfire, and Barbara Gordon traded worried looks and followed after him.
Luthor watched them go with a shrug, then turned to go back to his office.
“Where is he?” Clark said to his back.
Luthor stopped in mid-step, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said.
“He’s your employee. You must have an address--”
“--I’ve got two or three, Kent. Different apartments, scattered about. I’ve got a bank account that I’ve been paying into regularly. I’ve got the same phone number you’ve probably got. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.” He gave Clark an assessing look. “You need to focus on the pay-per-view,” he said. “You’ve got a big match against--”
“No,” said Clark.
“No?” Luthor’s brows drew together sharply.
“I’m done with that gimmick. I won’t play the Kryptonian again. That’s over,” said Clark. He was surprised at how level his voice was. “I won’t do it.”
Luthor eyed him narrowly for a very long time. Then he sniffed, once. “It was getting stale anyway,” he said, “I’m going to give you a month to think about a new gimmick. We’ll come up with a kayfabe reason the Kryptonian’s not around--it shouldn’t be hard, with that crazy stunt you pulled. Brainiac can say you’ve retreated to the North Pole to think things over.” He pointed at Clark. “It’s about time you took some initiative, Kent. One month, then you pitch me something better. What you do with the rest of the month is your own business. Rest, train, go home and milk cows. Do what you’ve got to do--find what you’ve got to find--to get your head back in the game.” He looked at Tim Drake, who was deeply absorbed in his computer. “What do you think of that plan, kid?”
Tim looked up, surprised. “Well, I think--”
“It doesn’t matter what you think!” Luthor barked, then turned around and walked back to his office with his hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling.
Clark’s duffel bag felt oddly light as he crossed the street to the pizza joint he always went to with Bruce when they were in town. Strange how pitching the Kryptonian’s gear had immediately made everything lighter. Or perhaps it had made him feel stronger?
Peeking in the window, he saw Dick sitting with Barbara, Tim, and--he blinked in surprise--Jason Todd. Dick was gesticulating angrily, phone in hand, as the other three were listening to him. Tim glanced away and spotted Clark standing on the sidewalk. He jerked his head slightly and raised his eyebrows: come on in.
Clark went in.
“Have a seat,” said Jason, scooting aside to make room for him. “Dick needs more audience for his freak-out.”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s been texting us all nonstop--where’s Bruce, is he okay, what should we do?” Tim mimicked.
Jason flushed and slumped lower in his seat. “It’s none of my business,” he muttered, “I just happened to be in town--I’m out of your stupid playacting biz.”
“Oh, shut up,” Barbara said, slapping the back of his head, and he blushed brighter.
“Look at this. Just look at this bull,” snapped Dick, shoving his phone over to Clark.
Why the hell did you tell Luthor to choose Valley over me? Why??
Glad to hear you’re worried about me.
Of course I’m worried about you, you bastard! We’re all worried! Clark’s going crazy! Don’t change the subject!
Would you do me a favor?
Bruce’s messages continued without waiting for Dick’s answer.
Would you tell Clark…
Clark stared at the phone. The little dots that indicated Bruce was typing swirled on the screen. Stopped. Swirled again. Stopped. Clark waited some more.
Tell him I’ll see him soon.
Clark looked at the words on the screen for a long moment, then handed the phone back to Dick.
“I still say if you guys are so worried, you should go find him,” said Jason with a nonchalant wave that said not that I’m worried.
“Come on, Dick, you know him the best of all of us,” said Tim. “Any idea where he’s holed up?”
Dick looked down at his phone and grimaced. “I...don’t know anything for sure,” he said. “I’ve got some hypotheses, but--” He shot a sudden furtive look at Clark, “--but I don’t know if he’d appreciate my sharing them with you.”
Barbara was idly twirling a french fry between her fingers, looking at it intently. “If he wanted to be found, he’d have given you an address,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t he want to be found?” Tim said with a plaintive edge to his voice.
She smiled at him, but it had a weary edge to it. “You’ll understand when you’re a full-time wrestler. Look, our jobs, our livelihoods, depend on being there for the person we’re working with, right? Our partner needs us to be totally reliable.” She shrugged. “I can only speak for myself, but when I hurt my back that time, and the doctors didn’t even know if I’d walk again--well, I didn’t want anyone I might work with seeing me like that.” She stabbed the fry into her ketchup a few times. “When Pamela jumps off the top rope, I don’t want her to remember me lying in bed, in pain, unable to move.”
She tucked the fry into her mouth and chewed for a moment, staring into space. No one said anything.
“I don’t mean I wanted to sit alone feeling sorry for myself. Well, not most days,” she added with a rueful smile. “But I didn’t want my co-workers to see me like that. I didn’t want anyone but my family there. If Bruce is like me, he’s not sure he wants any of us to see him in a neck brace, watch him struggling to move his arms. I say we give him his space. We’ll be here for him when he comes back.”
Dick looked for a second like he was about to argue with her, then seemed to remember he was angry at Bruce and closed his mouth again.
“All right then,” said Jason, “I guess we wait.”
“We?” said Tim with a small smile.
“You guys can wait for him to come back so you can give him a hug. Me, I’m waiting for him to come back so I can kick his ass for hiding from us,” Jason said.
“I look forward to seeing you try,” said Barbara.
They settled into a steady stream of bickering and pizza-eating, and Clark let the sound wash over him, looking out the window. Thinking about pain, and about family.
“Thanks for the ride, sir.”
Bill Ross gave Clark a small wave as the passenger-side door slammed shut. As he drove off, Clark turned to look up the winding driveway to the little white farmhouse. A face appeared in the kitchen window, and Clark saw a hand fly to his mother’s mouth. A moment later the front door opened and she met him halfway down the driveway, laughing as she threw her arms around him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” said Clark, “I couldn’t--”
Martha hugged him tightly. “You never need to call ahead, Clark. Pa’s off in town buying some nails--he’ll be so pleased to see you!” She used her apron to wipe the corners of her eyes. “Come in and have something to eat.”
“So,” she said later as Clark was finishing his second piece of pie. “Is it bad?”
Clark swallowed a mouthful of blueberries and whipped cream. “Is what bad?”
“The boy who got hurt at the last show, that Dark Knight.” She frowned at him. “I can tell when my son is frightened and in pain, no matter how much of that horrible makeup he’s wearing. Is he a...special friend of yours? Is he okay?”
Clark couldn’t help but smile slightly at her tiny hesitation. Clark had never said anything to his parents. He had never needed to.
“I love him, Ma,” he said simply, then had to close his eyes against a rush of emotion. “And I don’t know if he’s okay. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Oh,” said his mother, and reached across the table to clasp his hands tightly. “Oh, my dear boy.”
“My boss gave me some time off,” Clark said. “I--I can’t be the Kryptonian again, I can’t stand it.”
“Of course you can’t,” said Martha. “It was never a good thingy for you, dear. A gimmick, isn’t that what you call them? You weren’t meant to glower and scowl. Now you just have to decide what to do next.”
“I don’t know what to do next,” said Clark. “I just need to...to think.”
“Well, your father could use some help patching up the chicken coop,” said Martha. “You can think while you hammer and paint.” She squeezed his hands once, tightly, and let go. “No reason you can’t get some work done around here while you’re thinking. And then when you’re done thinking, you can move forward again.”
For two weeks, he worked around the farm, doing odd jobs: weeding, cleaning the gutters, tuning up the tractor. He cleaned the spyware off his parents’ computer. He took a selfie of himself milking the cows and sent it to Luthor, who did not dignify it with a reply. Now and then he would send a message to Bruce--a picture of a sunset, a quick “thinking of you.” No reply there either.
He watched the pay-per-view with his parents: when the Dark Knight appeared at the top of the ramp, his mother reached out and patted his arm, and he realized he had made a small, hurt sound at the sight of Jean Paul Valley in Bruce’s costume, the championship gold gleaming around his waist. The match was a good one--Valley made a convincing Dark Knight, and he beat Bane triumphantly. The roof of the Gotham auditorium rattled.
Clark wondered if Bruce was watching with his father. Was the older woman who had been at the match his mother? Bruce had never mentioned a foster-mother.
Sometimes he lay on his back and watched the clouds, thinking of Krypton. What if the Kryptonian hadn’t come here as a conqueror after all? What if he had actually come here as a child--a desperate gamble, a message of hope in a tiny metal bottle against the vastness of space? What if he had landed right here in a corn field? What would he be then? He pulled out old sketchbooks, studied the costumes he had designed as a child. Pictures of himself as a wrestler outrunning bullets, stopping trains. Dreams in blue and red.
He ate far too much of his mother’s cooking.
He didn’t watch the video of the match--still paused at the moment before the accident--even once.
He missed Bruce a lot.
And then he went back to Gotham and a bare hotel room, and opened his laptop, and started the video of the match again.
The image is frozen on the screen: Bane lifting the Dark Knight high, the slip just about to happen. The moment he has never been able to get past.
He paces around the room for a full ten minutes, then sits down in front of the screen.
Time to move forward.
He unpauses the video and forces himself to watch the moment of impact. He feels his hands trembling as he watches everyone stall for time. The camera refuses to dwell on Bruce: instead, it follows the Kryptonian, Bane, and Nightwing as they brawl. He sees Bruce only in flashes, glimpses at the corner of the screen; the Dark Knight’s titanic struggle to reach the green powder that will let him win the match is barely visible.
He watches the Dark Knight stun his foe with the Kryptonite, watches himself topple over. They lie together on the mat for a moment, and then the bell rings and the referee is lifting Bruce’s hand briefly as the medical team puts the stretcher down on the mat next to him. The enraged Kryptonian charges at Bane, leaving the ring.
Before the camera cuts to the new fight and away from the ring, Clark sees the older woman with Alfred trying to scramble over the barricades, trying to get to the ring. Security bars her way, and she tries to push them aside.
“You don’t understand--I’m a doctor!” cries the woman, “Let me help him! Let me--”
Alfred takes her arm. There are tears on his face, barely glimpsed before the camera cuts away again. “Leslie, no,” he says, barely audible over the crowd noise.
Clark stops the video again. He stands up and looks out at the city of Gotham, at the millions of twinkling lights outside his window. Millions of souls.
He picks up his phone and sends a text to Bruce.
Barbara says that right now you probably don’t want your co-workers to see you. That you don’t want the people who have to put their life in your hands to see you as fragile or struggling. I understand that. Right now you want to be with your family, with the people who love you.
That’s why I’m coming to find you.
Because I don’t care if I never work with you again--I love you and I want to be there for you. I want to be a part of your life outside of work. I want us to have a life together.
So I’m going to find you, Bruce. You have my word.
He waits all through the night, falling asleep with the phone on the pillow next to him, fearing it will buzz, terrified he will see a message telling him Don’t.
In the morning, there is still no response, and he feels his heart ease in his chest.
He rewinds the paused video, watches Alfred and the woman one more time.
Then he opens up a search engine and starts to look for doctors in the greater Gotham area with the first name of Leslie.
He moves forward.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-10-16 12:21 pm (UTC)I am so relieved to see this chapter at last, though not as relieved as I'll be when we see their reunion. My heart has been aching for them all.
That scene of Bruce's whole wrestling family gathered together, even Jason (especially Jason oh gosh!) warmed my heart to see. And perfect understanding Kents, yes!
“It doesn’t matter what you think!” Luthor barked
DEAD OF LAUGHTER OH GOD. That and Clark's milking selfie XD
Can't wait to see the two yearning hearts united, and to see Clark figuring out his gimmick. I can see him telling Bruce, and Bruce's eyes lining up and the two of them feverishly running over ideas together
(no subject)
Date: 2014-10-16 12:40 pm (UTC)Oh, I know. And you know what's great? I had NO IDEA Jason was going to be there, it was just Barbara, Tim, and Dick and then he strolled in and said "Hey, I'm part of this family too, you know!" I love him...
DEAD OF LAUGHTER OH GOD.
All credit to Dan for that line! He comes up with half of Luthor's lines, I think. We were walking through Tim's conversation with him and he came up with that and I just fell over. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2014-10-17 05:10 am (UTC)Also good on Martha.
Also? Dear Bruce - Your hide in a hole and lick your wounds bullshit didn't work with you were 8, it's not gonna work now.
(no subject)
Date: 2014-10-19 05:27 am (UTC)