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mithenTitle: How to Suffer Beautifully
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Waylon Jones, Harvey Dent,
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 2900
Summary: Clark and Bruce strike a deal, two more wrestlers advance, and Bruce begins training his first class.
In wrestling, a man who is down is exaggeratedly so, and completely fills the eyes of the spectators with the intolerable spectacle of his powerlessness. --Roland Barthes
“I’m--Clark, it’s a crazy idea.”
The hotel’s AC was wonky, and Bruce’s chest was lightly sheened with sweat. Clark touched his tongue to the salt of it, tracing the absurdly chiseled lines of his pectoral muscles. “I think you’d be good at it.”
Bruce’s laugh was weak and incredulous. “I’m no one’s idea of a good mentor.”
“Dick seems to disagree. He thinks the new wrestlers could learn a lot from you.”
“That Cain kid is already twice the wrestler I was at her age.”
“She desperately needs some coaching on the mic.”
“Tim gets ring psychology already.”
“You know he needs to work on his physical skills.” Clark propped his head up on his hand and gave Bruce an affectionate glare. “You’ve got so much to give. You’re the whole package. I just don’t see how you can turn your back on them.”
Bruce closed his eyes and turned his face away, but by now Clark knew the difference between “I reject your idea” and “I’m thinking.” He waited.
“I’ll trade you,” Bruce said at last. “I’ll give it a go if you agree to be the Kryptonian again--just enough to set up the face turn,” he added hastily. “You don’t have to wrestle as him. But the story needs you to be him for a while.”
“You’re going to hold a bunch of kids who need a mentor hostage for a storyline?”
Bruce’s smile gleamed in the dusty light of the hotel lamp. “Come on, Clark.”
Clark sighed and flopped onto his back. “All right. You win. I do your angle, and you teach those kids.” He waited a beat. “I was already going to agree to be the Kryptonian, you know.”
“Yes,” said Bruce. “I did.”
The Dark Knight swung at the Joker, but the Joker ducked under the blow, then slid under the ropes and out of the ring. Grabbing a microphone from the startled announcers, he turned back to address to furious Dark Knight, still standing in the middle of the ring with his fists cocked and ready:
“No, no no, no,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, but no, it just…” He wiped away an invisible tear. “It just doesn’t feel the same. You’re literally not the man you used to be, Dark Knight! The magic is gone. I can’t--”
He broke off as Dick hurled himself backwards, then used the ropes to slingshot himself forward, over the top rope, at the Joker, who dropped the mic with a feedback squeal as the Dark Knight crashed into him, sending them both into the Spanish announce table.
The brawl raged around the ring; elated, terrified fans reached out to touch them, to feel the sweat and the greasepaint for themselves, as if they were breathing avatars of order and chaos.
Finally, the Dark Knight threw the Joker back into the ring, tossing him to the mat and climbing the turnbuckle to deliver a perfect senton bomb--Clark heard the crowd catch its breath as if it were a single being. He pinned the Joker, but the Joker managed to kick out just before the three count among gasps of horror. Staggering slightly, he lurched to his feet--and then slithered out of the ring to pick up the microphone again.
“You know,” he said, his voice breathless, “Maybe I take it back, kid. Maybe you’ve got something after all. I might have underestimated you.” He chuckled, dark and dangerous. “No more joking around, then.” Tossing the mic aside, he leaped back into the ring to begin the battle anew, and for a time it seemed he might get the upper hand. The cameras closed in on the faces of small children in the arena, their eyes anguished, when the Joker hit the Whoopie Cushion--a signature move that looked as deadly as the name was silly. It all seemed over--but then Dick kicked out, sending the Joker staggering back in astonishment.
The Dark Knight rose up as if buoyed by the cries of the crowd, launching himself forward shoulder-first into the Joker’s midsection, causing the clown’s narrow, wiry body to fold up like a jackknife. The Joker landed with arms and legs splayed wide and abject, and didn’t move a muscle as the referee counted him out and the crowd cheered madly.
Beaming beneath the Dark Knight cowl, Dick jumped up onto the turnbuckle to throw his arms out to the adoring audience, letting the waves of excitement lap around him. He was so rapt that he hardly noticed the cries of joy changing to alarm as the Joker staggered to his feet behind him.
When he finally turned and saw the Joker standing pale and grinning in the middle of the ring, his smile vanished and he jumped off the turnbuckle, wary.
The Joker nodded to him, slow and respectful. Then he held out his hand.
The Dark Knight paused, irresolute. The audience screamed at him not to do it. But he was a babyface, and a true babyface always shakes hands after a good match; clearly gritting his teeth, Dick stepped forward and took the Joker’s hand in the middle of the ring.
He immediately convulsed, twitching, and collapsed to the ring; the Joker brandished his hand triumphantly in the air, showing off the joy buzzer hidden in the palm. “Why aren’t you laughing?” he demanded of the horrified crowd (the camera closed in on a woman with tears in her eyes, her mouth a circle of anguish). “That was comedy gold! See, he won the match, but--ahh, it’s not funny if I have to explain it,” he said in disgust.
And he strutted up the ramp as the medical staff rushed to the ring to give the dazed and groggy Dark Knight first aid and then help him out.
El Dragόn paused on the turnbuckle, his arms raised above his head; even from that height he seemed barely taller than his towering opponent. Killer Croc stood in the middle of the ring, apparently staggered by a kick to the chest, vulnerable. The crowd was on their feet, delirious with hope that the diminutive wrestler could take down the green-skinned monster.
When El Dragόn leaped from the turnbuckle in his signature diving crossbody, his body limned by a thousand flashbulbs going off, soaring in defiance of gravity--
And then Killer Croc caught him out of the air as if he were a doll, slinging him across his shoulders with a careless shrug. For a moment he stood there, El Dragόn kicking futilely against his grip, and then tossed him into the air. As he came down, Croc hit him with an uppercut that seemed to resonate through the arena, and El Dragόn flipped over in midair and hit the mat like a dead weight. Leaning over him, Croc pinned the unmoving El Dragόn until the bell rang and the match was called.
Killer Croc straightened up, grinning as the referee lifted his hand above his head. Then he yanked his hand away, glaring out at the booing audience. “Oh, come on,” he yelled, annoyed, “Did you really think he had a chance? What are you people, idiots? I’m six foot ten and four hundred pounds, people! This squirt’s lucky I didn’t turn him to jelly!” He whirled, pointing at the back stage. “And the same goes for that pipsqueak who calls himself the Dark Knight!” He raised his voice to a bellow. “Are you listening, Little Knight? Come next week, your delusions of being a champion are going to be stopped by the cold, hard reality of a Killer. Nothing can save you when I come crashing down on you, Little Knight.”
“This is gonna be great,” Waylon Jones was chortling as he and Dick Grayson came into the locker room together. “Oh man, kid, this is gonna be great, we are gonna tear it up next week. Did you see the way Dragόn sold that uppercut? Bam!” He punched the air gleefully, re-enacting it. “We set it up great tonight, now you and me just gotta take it home next week and the crowd’ll eat it up.”
“So what did Luthor say?” said Harvey, looking up from wiping off his makeup from his promo of the week. “Which of you is going over? Or are you going to be a prick like Batson and not tell us?”
“You kidding?” Waylon clapped Dick on the back. “Nothing’s getting in Grayson’s way. My money’s on him to win it all.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Harvey said with just a touch of ice in his voice. He stood up and gave Dick a long, measuring look. “Luthor’s told me I’m going over Copperhead next week too. So it looks like it’s come down to you and me, kid.”
“Looks it,” said Dick.
“Luthor’s going to decide the belt goes to me, you know. So don’t get your hopes up.”
Dick didn’t look away. “We’ll see,” he said.
“How’d the conversation with Luthor go?” asked Clark as Harvey headed for the showers and Dick sat down hard on a bench.
Dick rubbed the back of his head and looked rueful. “The Dark Knight’s going to beat Croc next week, but Luthor isn’t convinced I should win it all, not by a long shot. He says--” He broke off and grimaced. “He says the crowd loves the Dark Knight, but that doesn’t mean they love Dick Grayson. It’s the gimmick they’re cheering, not the person.”
“That’s not true,” said Bruce’s voice, flat and factual. He had appeared behind Clark at some point and was loosening the “Billionaire Brucie” tie he had worn for their promo together tonight. Clark watched his fingers tugging at the silken knot and remembered with a sudden pang how Bruce had so often joked about “his butler” picking out his clothes, how they had all rolled their eyes at him.
“That’s pretty much what I said--well, maybe not so politely,” Dick said with a grin. “And I’ve got a plan to prove it. It needs your help, though--I’ll run it by you later. For now,” he said, jumping to his feet, “It’s time you gave me a straight answer: are you going to be training the kids, yes or no?”
“I--” Bruce cast Clark a look, ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it in disarray. He looked back at Dick. “I’ll teach one session. If nobody comes, or if nobody wants a second class--” He broke off and leveled a finger at him, “--or if they treat it like a joke--then that’s the end of it.”
“Yes, sensei,” said Dick, bowing. He straightened up with a glint of laughter in his eye. “Or is that treating it like a joke?”
Bruce waved a hand. “I gave up on you taking anything seriously a long time ago,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing. Clark trains with me.”
“What?” said Clark.
“Duh,” said Dick.
“Wait, what?”
“I need someone I can demonstrate moves with, and you’re the person I trust most to do them with me,” said Bruce. “Deal?”
Clark made a grumbling noise to hide the fact that he wanted to grin. “I guess I can probably find time in my schedule,” he said.
“We’ll be in Bludhaven tomorrow,” said Bruce. “First session is at eight in the morning, at the local branch of Grant’s Gym.”
“I’ll get the word out,” said Dick.
Clark was brushing his teeth when he heard murmuring from the other room. Turning off the water, he tilted his head, focusing.
...long history...great names of the past...pain and sacrifice…
Clark poked his head around the door. “Bruce?”
The murmur stopped.
“Are you…” Clark went into the main hotel room, where Bruce was standing with one arm in mid-gesture, looking sheepish. “Are you practicing a speech for the training session tomorrow?”
“So what if I am?”
“You’re nervous. That’s adorable,” said Clark. Then he yelped as he found himself locked in a half-nelson on the floor.
“The Dark Knight is not adorable,” breathed Bruce in his ear, dark and menacing.
“So you don’t deny that you’re nervous?”
His head thumped face-first onto the ratty carpet as Bruce released the hold and stood up. “What do you think of ‘You have chosen to enter a profession full of heartbreak and glory’ as a first line?”
“It’s not bad,” said Clark.
“It’s true,” snapped Bruce.
“Of course it is.” Clark stood up, brushing off his knees. “You’ll do great and those kids will learn a lot. Just...relax and be yourself.”
Bruce cast him an ironic, opaque look as Clark kissed him and headed back to take his shower.
Under the running water, he could faintly hear Bruce saying once more: “You have chosen to enter a profession…”
“Probably no one will even show up,” said Bruce as he grabbed his gym bag out of the back seat and threw it over his shoulder. He managed to sound worried and hopeful about this possibility at the same time.
Clark made a vague, uncommitted noise, rubbing at his eyes in the early morning light. But he made sure to stay close enough to Bruce’s side so that he could hear the small sound Bruce made, like taking a hit to the solar plexus, when he opened the gym doors and saw how many people were sitting in folding chairs in front of the practice ring. For just a moment Bruce froze in place, then they stepped forward together into the light of the gym.
The murmurs of conversation died as they headed to the ring. Bruce ducked under the ropes, then turned to look out at the people gathered there, scanning their faces. They looked back at him, waiting. He put his hands behind his back, and Clark was reminded of a general about to address his troops. He took a deep breath, threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin, clearly preparing to launch into his opening speech.
Then he stopped.
He looked down at the assembled young wrestlers and his expression softened, his shoulders dropping out of their military rigidness. Stepping forward, he put his forearms on the top rope and grinned at them. “God, isn’t wrestling the best?” he said.
A ripple of agreement from the kids listening to him.
“It’s the stupidest, craziest, best thing in the world. I mean, we put our bodies on the line day in, day out, without even the simple joy of victory through physical dominance that ‘real’ athletes--” His fingers carved irony into the air, “--get. No, the only reward we get is the satisfaction of telling a story with our bodies. The only fame we get is based on the illusion of combat we create with our comrades. And yet here we all are, longing to get into the ring, to put on a show that leaves people breathless, to weave the eternal tale of triumph and loss one more time.”
He shrugged with a wry smile, and Clark felt a strange blossoming under his breastbone, a nearly painful expansion, pure and luminous. The listening wrestlers were entirely still.
“I can’t teach you how to tell that story,” said Bruce. “Each of you will have a different take on it. But if you’re patient, and stubborn, and brave, I can give you the tools to find that story within yourself, and the means to tell it.” Another small smile. “I already know you’re patient, because you sat through my spiel without complaining.”
Laughter sparkled through the gym.
“Now let’s see how stubborn and brave you are.” Bruce gestured. “Row. Bluebird. Get up here and show me how you take a bump.”
A young woman with blue streaks in her short hair and a silver nose-ring stood up and scrambled into the ring. “You know my name,” she said, half-question and half surprised statement. “I don’t even wrestle with DCW, I’m with Sora.”
Without responding, quick as lightning, Bruce threw a punch at her and the girl’s back hit the mat as she dropped.
“Good reflexes,” said Bruce, putting out a hand to help her up. “But you need sharper movements. Crisper. Watch,” he said, and fell with a snap that resounded through the gym, as if he’d been punched by an invisible giant. “Try it again.”
She tried it again. The students watched avidly as Bruce Wayne walked her through each step: critiquing, arguing, praising. He called up another student, traded blows with him. “No, no!” he said in disgust. “If you no-sell another wrestler like that they’ll start hitting you for real, and you’ll probably deserve it, Osamu. Your job isn’t to be stoic in the ring. Your job is to suffer. How will anyone care about you if you don’t suffer!” He pointed at Clark. “Kent. Come up here,” he snapped.
Clark hoisted himself into the ring, doing a backflip over the ropes that made a smattering of applause break out. The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched but his face remained stern.
“All right, Kent. Let’s show them how to suffer beautifully,” Bruce said.
Clark nodded, bowed slightly, then lunged forward into the fight, into the dance, into Bruce’s beautiful vicious embrace.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Waylon Jones, Harvey Dent,
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 2900
Summary: Clark and Bruce strike a deal, two more wrestlers advance, and Bruce begins training his first class.
In wrestling, a man who is down is exaggeratedly so, and completely fills the eyes of the spectators with the intolerable spectacle of his powerlessness. --Roland Barthes
“I’m--Clark, it’s a crazy idea.”
The hotel’s AC was wonky, and Bruce’s chest was lightly sheened with sweat. Clark touched his tongue to the salt of it, tracing the absurdly chiseled lines of his pectoral muscles. “I think you’d be good at it.”
Bruce’s laugh was weak and incredulous. “I’m no one’s idea of a good mentor.”
“Dick seems to disagree. He thinks the new wrestlers could learn a lot from you.”
“That Cain kid is already twice the wrestler I was at her age.”
“She desperately needs some coaching on the mic.”
“Tim gets ring psychology already.”
“You know he needs to work on his physical skills.” Clark propped his head up on his hand and gave Bruce an affectionate glare. “You’ve got so much to give. You’re the whole package. I just don’t see how you can turn your back on them.”
Bruce closed his eyes and turned his face away, but by now Clark knew the difference between “I reject your idea” and “I’m thinking.” He waited.
“I’ll trade you,” Bruce said at last. “I’ll give it a go if you agree to be the Kryptonian again--just enough to set up the face turn,” he added hastily. “You don’t have to wrestle as him. But the story needs you to be him for a while.”
“You’re going to hold a bunch of kids who need a mentor hostage for a storyline?”
Bruce’s smile gleamed in the dusty light of the hotel lamp. “Come on, Clark.”
Clark sighed and flopped onto his back. “All right. You win. I do your angle, and you teach those kids.” He waited a beat. “I was already going to agree to be the Kryptonian, you know.”
“Yes,” said Bruce. “I did.”
The Dark Knight swung at the Joker, but the Joker ducked under the blow, then slid under the ropes and out of the ring. Grabbing a microphone from the startled announcers, he turned back to address to furious Dark Knight, still standing in the middle of the ring with his fists cocked and ready:
“No, no no, no,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, but no, it just…” He wiped away an invisible tear. “It just doesn’t feel the same. You’re literally not the man you used to be, Dark Knight! The magic is gone. I can’t--”
He broke off as Dick hurled himself backwards, then used the ropes to slingshot himself forward, over the top rope, at the Joker, who dropped the mic with a feedback squeal as the Dark Knight crashed into him, sending them both into the Spanish announce table.
The brawl raged around the ring; elated, terrified fans reached out to touch them, to feel the sweat and the greasepaint for themselves, as if they were breathing avatars of order and chaos.
Finally, the Dark Knight threw the Joker back into the ring, tossing him to the mat and climbing the turnbuckle to deliver a perfect senton bomb--Clark heard the crowd catch its breath as if it were a single being. He pinned the Joker, but the Joker managed to kick out just before the three count among gasps of horror. Staggering slightly, he lurched to his feet--and then slithered out of the ring to pick up the microphone again.
“You know,” he said, his voice breathless, “Maybe I take it back, kid. Maybe you’ve got something after all. I might have underestimated you.” He chuckled, dark and dangerous. “No more joking around, then.” Tossing the mic aside, he leaped back into the ring to begin the battle anew, and for a time it seemed he might get the upper hand. The cameras closed in on the faces of small children in the arena, their eyes anguished, when the Joker hit the Whoopie Cushion--a signature move that looked as deadly as the name was silly. It all seemed over--but then Dick kicked out, sending the Joker staggering back in astonishment.
The Dark Knight rose up as if buoyed by the cries of the crowd, launching himself forward shoulder-first into the Joker’s midsection, causing the clown’s narrow, wiry body to fold up like a jackknife. The Joker landed with arms and legs splayed wide and abject, and didn’t move a muscle as the referee counted him out and the crowd cheered madly.
Beaming beneath the Dark Knight cowl, Dick jumped up onto the turnbuckle to throw his arms out to the adoring audience, letting the waves of excitement lap around him. He was so rapt that he hardly noticed the cries of joy changing to alarm as the Joker staggered to his feet behind him.
When he finally turned and saw the Joker standing pale and grinning in the middle of the ring, his smile vanished and he jumped off the turnbuckle, wary.
The Joker nodded to him, slow and respectful. Then he held out his hand.
The Dark Knight paused, irresolute. The audience screamed at him not to do it. But he was a babyface, and a true babyface always shakes hands after a good match; clearly gritting his teeth, Dick stepped forward and took the Joker’s hand in the middle of the ring.
He immediately convulsed, twitching, and collapsed to the ring; the Joker brandished his hand triumphantly in the air, showing off the joy buzzer hidden in the palm. “Why aren’t you laughing?” he demanded of the horrified crowd (the camera closed in on a woman with tears in her eyes, her mouth a circle of anguish). “That was comedy gold! See, he won the match, but--ahh, it’s not funny if I have to explain it,” he said in disgust.
And he strutted up the ramp as the medical staff rushed to the ring to give the dazed and groggy Dark Knight first aid and then help him out.
El Dragόn paused on the turnbuckle, his arms raised above his head; even from that height he seemed barely taller than his towering opponent. Killer Croc stood in the middle of the ring, apparently staggered by a kick to the chest, vulnerable. The crowd was on their feet, delirious with hope that the diminutive wrestler could take down the green-skinned monster.
When El Dragόn leaped from the turnbuckle in his signature diving crossbody, his body limned by a thousand flashbulbs going off, soaring in defiance of gravity--
And then Killer Croc caught him out of the air as if he were a doll, slinging him across his shoulders with a careless shrug. For a moment he stood there, El Dragόn kicking futilely against his grip, and then tossed him into the air. As he came down, Croc hit him with an uppercut that seemed to resonate through the arena, and El Dragόn flipped over in midair and hit the mat like a dead weight. Leaning over him, Croc pinned the unmoving El Dragόn until the bell rang and the match was called.
Killer Croc straightened up, grinning as the referee lifted his hand above his head. Then he yanked his hand away, glaring out at the booing audience. “Oh, come on,” he yelled, annoyed, “Did you really think he had a chance? What are you people, idiots? I’m six foot ten and four hundred pounds, people! This squirt’s lucky I didn’t turn him to jelly!” He whirled, pointing at the back stage. “And the same goes for that pipsqueak who calls himself the Dark Knight!” He raised his voice to a bellow. “Are you listening, Little Knight? Come next week, your delusions of being a champion are going to be stopped by the cold, hard reality of a Killer. Nothing can save you when I come crashing down on you, Little Knight.”
“This is gonna be great,” Waylon Jones was chortling as he and Dick Grayson came into the locker room together. “Oh man, kid, this is gonna be great, we are gonna tear it up next week. Did you see the way Dragόn sold that uppercut? Bam!” He punched the air gleefully, re-enacting it. “We set it up great tonight, now you and me just gotta take it home next week and the crowd’ll eat it up.”
“So what did Luthor say?” said Harvey, looking up from wiping off his makeup from his promo of the week. “Which of you is going over? Or are you going to be a prick like Batson and not tell us?”
“You kidding?” Waylon clapped Dick on the back. “Nothing’s getting in Grayson’s way. My money’s on him to win it all.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Harvey said with just a touch of ice in his voice. He stood up and gave Dick a long, measuring look. “Luthor’s told me I’m going over Copperhead next week too. So it looks like it’s come down to you and me, kid.”
“Looks it,” said Dick.
“Luthor’s going to decide the belt goes to me, you know. So don’t get your hopes up.”
Dick didn’t look away. “We’ll see,” he said.
“How’d the conversation with Luthor go?” asked Clark as Harvey headed for the showers and Dick sat down hard on a bench.
Dick rubbed the back of his head and looked rueful. “The Dark Knight’s going to beat Croc next week, but Luthor isn’t convinced I should win it all, not by a long shot. He says--” He broke off and grimaced. “He says the crowd loves the Dark Knight, but that doesn’t mean they love Dick Grayson. It’s the gimmick they’re cheering, not the person.”
“That’s not true,” said Bruce’s voice, flat and factual. He had appeared behind Clark at some point and was loosening the “Billionaire Brucie” tie he had worn for their promo together tonight. Clark watched his fingers tugging at the silken knot and remembered with a sudden pang how Bruce had so often joked about “his butler” picking out his clothes, how they had all rolled their eyes at him.
“That’s pretty much what I said--well, maybe not so politely,” Dick said with a grin. “And I’ve got a plan to prove it. It needs your help, though--I’ll run it by you later. For now,” he said, jumping to his feet, “It’s time you gave me a straight answer: are you going to be training the kids, yes or no?”
“I--” Bruce cast Clark a look, ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it in disarray. He looked back at Dick. “I’ll teach one session. If nobody comes, or if nobody wants a second class--” He broke off and leveled a finger at him, “--or if they treat it like a joke--then that’s the end of it.”
“Yes, sensei,” said Dick, bowing. He straightened up with a glint of laughter in his eye. “Or is that treating it like a joke?”
Bruce waved a hand. “I gave up on you taking anything seriously a long time ago,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing. Clark trains with me.”
“What?” said Clark.
“Duh,” said Dick.
“Wait, what?”
“I need someone I can demonstrate moves with, and you’re the person I trust most to do them with me,” said Bruce. “Deal?”
Clark made a grumbling noise to hide the fact that he wanted to grin. “I guess I can probably find time in my schedule,” he said.
“We’ll be in Bludhaven tomorrow,” said Bruce. “First session is at eight in the morning, at the local branch of Grant’s Gym.”
“I’ll get the word out,” said Dick.
Clark was brushing his teeth when he heard murmuring from the other room. Turning off the water, he tilted his head, focusing.
...long history...great names of the past...pain and sacrifice…
Clark poked his head around the door. “Bruce?”
The murmur stopped.
“Are you…” Clark went into the main hotel room, where Bruce was standing with one arm in mid-gesture, looking sheepish. “Are you practicing a speech for the training session tomorrow?”
“So what if I am?”
“You’re nervous. That’s adorable,” said Clark. Then he yelped as he found himself locked in a half-nelson on the floor.
“The Dark Knight is not adorable,” breathed Bruce in his ear, dark and menacing.
“So you don’t deny that you’re nervous?”
His head thumped face-first onto the ratty carpet as Bruce released the hold and stood up. “What do you think of ‘You have chosen to enter a profession full of heartbreak and glory’ as a first line?”
“It’s not bad,” said Clark.
“It’s true,” snapped Bruce.
“Of course it is.” Clark stood up, brushing off his knees. “You’ll do great and those kids will learn a lot. Just...relax and be yourself.”
Bruce cast him an ironic, opaque look as Clark kissed him and headed back to take his shower.
Under the running water, he could faintly hear Bruce saying once more: “You have chosen to enter a profession…”
“Probably no one will even show up,” said Bruce as he grabbed his gym bag out of the back seat and threw it over his shoulder. He managed to sound worried and hopeful about this possibility at the same time.
Clark made a vague, uncommitted noise, rubbing at his eyes in the early morning light. But he made sure to stay close enough to Bruce’s side so that he could hear the small sound Bruce made, like taking a hit to the solar plexus, when he opened the gym doors and saw how many people were sitting in folding chairs in front of the practice ring. For just a moment Bruce froze in place, then they stepped forward together into the light of the gym.
The murmurs of conversation died as they headed to the ring. Bruce ducked under the ropes, then turned to look out at the people gathered there, scanning their faces. They looked back at him, waiting. He put his hands behind his back, and Clark was reminded of a general about to address his troops. He took a deep breath, threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin, clearly preparing to launch into his opening speech.
Then he stopped.
He looked down at the assembled young wrestlers and his expression softened, his shoulders dropping out of their military rigidness. Stepping forward, he put his forearms on the top rope and grinned at them. “God, isn’t wrestling the best?” he said.
A ripple of agreement from the kids listening to him.
“It’s the stupidest, craziest, best thing in the world. I mean, we put our bodies on the line day in, day out, without even the simple joy of victory through physical dominance that ‘real’ athletes--” His fingers carved irony into the air, “--get. No, the only reward we get is the satisfaction of telling a story with our bodies. The only fame we get is based on the illusion of combat we create with our comrades. And yet here we all are, longing to get into the ring, to put on a show that leaves people breathless, to weave the eternal tale of triumph and loss one more time.”
He shrugged with a wry smile, and Clark felt a strange blossoming under his breastbone, a nearly painful expansion, pure and luminous. The listening wrestlers were entirely still.
“I can’t teach you how to tell that story,” said Bruce. “Each of you will have a different take on it. But if you’re patient, and stubborn, and brave, I can give you the tools to find that story within yourself, and the means to tell it.” Another small smile. “I already know you’re patient, because you sat through my spiel without complaining.”
Laughter sparkled through the gym.
“Now let’s see how stubborn and brave you are.” Bruce gestured. “Row. Bluebird. Get up here and show me how you take a bump.”
A young woman with blue streaks in her short hair and a silver nose-ring stood up and scrambled into the ring. “You know my name,” she said, half-question and half surprised statement. “I don’t even wrestle with DCW, I’m with Sora.”
Without responding, quick as lightning, Bruce threw a punch at her and the girl’s back hit the mat as she dropped.
“Good reflexes,” said Bruce, putting out a hand to help her up. “But you need sharper movements. Crisper. Watch,” he said, and fell with a snap that resounded through the gym, as if he’d been punched by an invisible giant. “Try it again.”
She tried it again. The students watched avidly as Bruce Wayne walked her through each step: critiquing, arguing, praising. He called up another student, traded blows with him. “No, no!” he said in disgust. “If you no-sell another wrestler like that they’ll start hitting you for real, and you’ll probably deserve it, Osamu. Your job isn’t to be stoic in the ring. Your job is to suffer. How will anyone care about you if you don’t suffer!” He pointed at Clark. “Kent. Come up here,” he snapped.
Clark hoisted himself into the ring, doing a backflip over the ropes that made a smattering of applause break out. The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched but his face remained stern.
“All right, Kent. Let’s show them how to suffer beautifully,” Bruce said.
Clark nodded, bowed slightly, then lunged forward into the fight, into the dance, into Bruce’s beautiful vicious embrace.