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mithenTitle: Dramatic Returns
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Waylon Jones, Superboy
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 2700
Summary: It's all about heritage, trust, and love as both the tournament and Bruce's classes continue.
I was not there for rehearsal, I don’t need it any more
When I show up just in time to pop you can clear the goddamn floor
Empty out the locker room, let me find my space
Let him who thinks he knows no fear look well upon my face.
--The Mountain Goats, “Werewolf Gimmick”
“Wow,” said Conner, a trifle nervously. “I’ve never seen you with your contacts in. They make you look--a lot scarier.”
Clark, Conner, and Milton Fine were waiting in the Gorilla position, just around the corner from the entrance into the arena. No, Clark reminded himself--the Kryptonian, the Metropolis Kid, and Brainiac were waiting. One the monitor, Copperhead and Two-Face were squaring off, two big muscular guys, each the epitome of what Luthor admired in a wrestler. They were putting on a good, solid match--a little slow, Clark felt privately, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying it.
“We’ll have to come up with a Kryptonian name for you once I make my turn,” he said absently.
Conner almost fell over. “Do you mean it?” he blurted.
“Well, sure. You’re my clone-son, right?” Clark grinned at Conner. “Hey, that’s not bad. You could be Kon-El--it’s my character’s family name, and it’s close to your real name, plus it’s kind of an anagram for ‘clone.’ What do you think?”
“I--” Conner looked ridiculously pleased. “It would be an honor, sir!”
Clark laughed. “You can’t call me ‘sir,’” he said. “Clark will work just fine.”
“Okay, that’s fine, okay,” said Conner. “Sounds good--uh--Clark.”
Two-Face was gloating over Copperhead’s motionless body, and the crowd was booing him dutifully.
Milton Fine tugged on his lapels. “I hope you know better than to assume any of the other senior wrestlers would be okay with you calling them by their first names, kid.”
“Uh, I know better than to speak to any of them before being spoken to at all,” Conner said.
“The other ‘senior wrestlers’ maybe should get those sticks out of their butts,” Clark muttered, and Conner clapped his hand over his mouth to smother a giggle. “All right, get out there,” he said to Conner, slapping him on the back, and Conner scrambled out to the ramp to point an accusing finger at Two-Face as he celebrated.
“Two-Face!” The Metropolis Kid’s voice rang out through the arena. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did to me last week!”
Harvey sneered down at the kid in the leather jacket. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t know when to quit, you annoying brat,” he said. “But you see, I’ve got connections, and I came ready to deal with you.” He raised his voice. “Brainiac!”
Familiar ominous crystalline music rang out--not Brainiac’s theme, but the Kryptonian’s--and the arena caught its breath as Brainiac emerged in his shabby sideshow suit, with the hulking form of the Kryptonian at his side.
“Ha!” crowed the Metropolis Kid. “You brought my friend and my own father to defeat me? You idiot! There’s no way that--urk!”
His voice choked off as the Kryptonian grabbed him in the Psionic Claw, lifting him off the ground as he struggled wildly.
“Sorry, kid,” said Brainiac in his piercing voice. “But as it turns out, with the Kryptonian back, I don’t need you anymore--and Two-Face pays very well!”
The Kryptonian hurled the Metropolis Kid down the ramp, and he tumbled head over heels to slam into the ring and stare up in horror. “No!” he said. “No! I’m your son! Please!”
And the Kryptonian paused for a long, agonizing moment.
Clark could hear the crowd ripple in shock as they processed that the Kryptonian was wavering. Behind him, Brainiac screeched: “Attack him, my Kryptonian! You must!” Removing a red crystal rod from his jacket, he waved it wildly in the air, and Clark grabbed at his forehead as if in pain.
Then The Kryptonian lowered his hands, his face blank again, and advanced on the Metropolis Kid.
“Stop smiling,” he growled under his breath to Conner as he reached down and grabbed him.
“It’s just such an honor to work with you,” Conner blurted in his ear before being thrown into the barricade. “This is so cool!” he added as the Kryptonian lifted him in a crushing bear hug, and Clark could only hope that his grin might come off as a rictus of terror.
The Kryptonian smashed the Metropolis Kid to the ground, then hovered over his crumpled form a moment longer. The camera caught a flicker of a frown on his pale face as he glared down at the twitching boy. But then he turned and strode up the ramp to be at Brainiac’s side once more. The crowd shrieked in an ecstasy of hatred as Two-Face joined them, putting his hands above his head and shaking them in triumph. “Nothing can stop me!” he jeered. “Not the Metropolis Kid, not Killer Croc, not the Dark Knight!”
At that moment, it looked very true.
“Bruce isn’t claustrophobic, right?” Selina asked idly as they watched Waylon Jones and Dick Grayson battle around the ring.
“Not that I know of,” Clark said.
“I hope not,” said Selina.
Dick wasn’t exactly a small man, but the Dark Knight looked slender against the bulk of Killer Croc. They traded offense back and forth, simultaneously riding and building the audience’s energy, like surfers riding waves they themselves had summoned to do their bidding. The Dark Knight climbed the turnbuckle, ready to leap down onto Killer Croc--and Croc caught him out of the air exactly as he had El Dragon. But the Dark Knight countered, grabbing his arm and sliding down his back to yank him down onto the mat for the first pin of the night. The crowd went mad for an instant--then subsided again as Killer Croc kicked out even before the two-count, contempt on his face as he tossed the Dark Knight aside.
“Little worm!” he bellowed, lunging at the Dark Knight. But Dick locked up with him and--impossibly, unbelievably, thrillingly--forced him backwards. Croc broke away with a snarl of rage, but approached him more cautiously the next time, the contempt on his face giving way to a look of grudging respect.
They traded blows and kicks and counters, and although Killer Croc got in some amazing offense that left the Dark Knight reeling on the ropes time and time again, and the end it was clear that the Dark Knight simply had more resiliency, more cunning, more heart. Whatever Croc threw at him, he countered and came back again--and the crowd came back with him, pouring out their adoration in a vast wave.
The Dark Knight kicked Killer Croc in the face, and Croc fell onto his back. Dick jumped forward, seizing Croc’s legs and flipping him onto his stomach, standing over him as Croc struggled. Wrenching Croc’s legs up, the Dark Knight yanked his opponent’s body into a contorted arc.
In the breathless second before the crowd reacted, Clark remembered his very first DCW match. Remembered Mary Grayson, serene and smiling as she held Per Degaton in the same agonizing leglock until he tapped out. “The Flying Grayson,” he said under his breath. “His mother’s submission hold.”
The crowd went berserk.
Croc pleaded hoarsely, writhing within the submission hold, his face agonized. He tried to pull away, to get to the ropes and break the hold, but it was no good; Dick Grayson held on doggedly, not giving him an inch.
Finally, Killer Croc slapped the mat, over and over: submitting to the hold, giving the win to the Dark Knight. The bell rang.
Croc rolled out of the ring, limping away, defeated. The Dark Knight paid no heed to him, but stood in the middle of the ring as the referee raised his hand. He looked out at the crowd, at the children cheering, at the adults old enough to remember his parents weeping.
Slowly, he reached up and pulled off the cowl of the Dark Knight.
Beneath it, his hair was in wild and sweaty disarray, his suddenly-vulnerable eyes bright with tears. “This cowl,” he said, holding it aloft, and the arena hushed to catch his words. “This cowl represents the man who has been like a father to me. I have worn it in his place with pride. But in two weeks I will face Two-Face for the championship belt, and I will do so…” He stopped and his throat worked; in the crowd one person cried his name. “I will do so as myself. I will do so in the name of my family. I will do so as a Grayson!”
The audience roared. You’d better be listening to that, Luthor, thought Clark. Listen up and listen good.
Gently, with something like reverence, Dick knelt to put the cowl down in the center of the ring. He straightened, nodding to himself.
And then all the lights went out and the arena was plunged into total darkness.
The crowd gasped, the involuntary primal sound of terror at sudden darkness. For maybe ten seconds all was silent, all was dark. Then, like an exclamation point, a spotlight hit the center of the ring
Dick Grayson still stood there. And in front of him stood the Dark Knight.
”Nice,” said Selina, clapping her hands. All through the room smatterings of applause broke out at the stark tableau: Dick Grayson, teary-eyed and battle-worn, face to face with the Dark Knight in his classic suit. Clark wanted to applaud as well, but he found himself unable to move, unable to look away from the screen for fear the tears in his eyes would spill over: Bruce. Bruce, home at last.
The Dark Knight reached out and rested his hands on Dick’s shoulders, a blessing and a benediction. Dick nodded, head held high.
The spotlight went out again, and when the house lights came up, Dick Grayson was alone in the ring once more.
“That was my idea,” said Waylon Jones from the door of the common room. There were tear tracks down his greenish makeup. “Getting me in the Flying Grayson, in Mary’s move--that was my idea. We were damn good out there,” he said with satisfaction. “God damn good.”
Clark peeked out into the arena to make sure the last of the fans had gone. Then he made his way down the ramp to the ring. “All clear,” he said, flipping up the apron cloth.
A black-gloved hand emerged, beckoning him silently.
Clark shrugged and slid under the ring to lie down next to Bruce, looking up at the ring floor just above their heads. There was room to crawl, but that was about it.
“That was a good spot,” said Bruce, handing him a bottle of Gatorade.
“It was,” said Clark. “Luthor would be stupid not to give him the belt.” He opened the bottle and took a sip. “Of course, he’s done some stupid things before.”
“You know what I was thinking about, while I was lying down here for two hours waiting for that last match?”
Clark considered. “How proud you were of Dick? How happy you were to be getting back into the ring? Planning out your angle with the Kryptonian?”
Bruce turned his head to look at him. “I was thinking about how fantastic it would be to have sex under here during a show.”
Clark almost spit out his Gatorade. “What?”
“Think about it. Above you the wrestlers are hitting the ring like crashes of thunder, you’re surrounded by thousands of people, but it’s totally private, completely intimate. You could hear everyone screaming as you came, and you’d have to bite your lip to keep from joining in--” Bruce’s hand was making its way up Clark’s thigh, and Clark felt a case of inappropriate giggles making its way up his larynx.
“No,” he stammered, “No, no. Look, we’ll put on a recording of a match and have sex under your bed if you want.”
“I do have that practice ring in the basement,” said Bruce thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be the same, but I guess it’s a start.”
“You might be a little obsessive about this whole wrestling thing,” said Clark.
“You noticed,” said Bruce, sounding pleased. He turned over onto his side and pressed a kiss into Clark’s hair. “Think of all the other things I could be obsessive about, and consider yourself lucky.”
“Oh,” said Clark, pulling him close. “I do, and I am.”
Attendance was markedly lower at the second meeting of Bruce Wayne’s training lessons, but that was just as well, Clark thought as he pulled off his sweatshirt and got into the ring. From scanning the crowd, he could tell that the ones who remained were wrestlers who were pretty tough--both physically and emotionally.
There were no inspiring speeches this time; Bruce put them all to work taking basic bumps for about a half-hour, then moved on to delivering suplexes--over and over, picking apart their moves, finding the flaws, praising the strengths. During a break, the students sat and drank water as he talked to them a little more about the business. “Remember, your partner’s life is in your hands--it’s the most important thing.” He pointed at Clark. “Kent, get out of the ring. Show them how we do a suicide dive.”
Clark slid out of the ring, stood on the mat. Bruce grinned down at him, a brief flash. Then he ran backwards, used the elastic ropes to add speed on the rebound, and launched himself over the top rope at Clark without an instant of hesitation.
Clark had taken many suicide dives from Bruce by now, but it was always the same: at the apex of Bruce’s flight, their eyes locked in an instant of total trust, total synchronization. The world seemed to stand still for a moment, with nothing but the two of them, their trajectories colliding in a perfect balance. Clark stepped forward to place his body so it would break Bruce’s fall, and they went down together in a heap, Bruce’s arms around him.
The students broke into applause. Clark could feel Bruce’s body on top of him, the precious fragile breath heaving his rib cage. “See?” Bruce murmured in his ear. “You don’t need to worry. You’ll always catch me.”
Then he was standing up, giving Clark his hand, and Clark hadn’t realized until that exact moment that he had been afraid of wrestling with Bruce again.
He wasn’t anymore.
The applause died down, except for one set of handclaps, slow and sardonic, from the back of the gym. “Is this lesson just for the fakers, or can the real warriors sit in as well?” asked Jason Todd, strolling to the ring.
A chorus of good-natured boos met his words, and he grinned at the other wrestlers as he grabbed a folding chair, turned it around, and sat down on it backwards.
“Heard there was education being done here,” he drawled. “Thought it would be a laugh to sit in.”
“Uh-huh,” said Bruce. “I’ll get you up here soon enough and see if you’ve let your skills get rusty.” He lifted himself into the ring, ignoring Jason’s dismissive snort, and leaned on the ropes again, looking out at the little clump of young wrestlers. “Okay, listen up,” he said. “I’ve got a little announcement to make.”
He took a deep breath, and glanced over at Clark--a sidelong look, almost shy--before continuing.
“You’re a good group of kids, and I hope we’re going to have a good class together. I hope I’m going to be able to teach you a lot. But just like partners in the ring, you need to be able to trust me completely. You deserve that. So next week, the DCW’s going to be in Gotham, and--”
He bit his lip for a second, nodding, then went on with studied casualness:
“I’d like to invite you all to my house for Sunday dinner.”
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Waylon Jones, Superboy
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 2700
Summary: It's all about heritage, trust, and love as both the tournament and Bruce's classes continue.
I was not there for rehearsal, I don’t need it any more
When I show up just in time to pop you can clear the goddamn floor
Empty out the locker room, let me find my space
Let him who thinks he knows no fear look well upon my face.
--The Mountain Goats, “Werewolf Gimmick”
“Wow,” said Conner, a trifle nervously. “I’ve never seen you with your contacts in. They make you look--a lot scarier.”
Clark, Conner, and Milton Fine were waiting in the Gorilla position, just around the corner from the entrance into the arena. No, Clark reminded himself--the Kryptonian, the Metropolis Kid, and Brainiac were waiting. One the monitor, Copperhead and Two-Face were squaring off, two big muscular guys, each the epitome of what Luthor admired in a wrestler. They were putting on a good, solid match--a little slow, Clark felt privately, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying it.
“We’ll have to come up with a Kryptonian name for you once I make my turn,” he said absently.
Conner almost fell over. “Do you mean it?” he blurted.
“Well, sure. You’re my clone-son, right?” Clark grinned at Conner. “Hey, that’s not bad. You could be Kon-El--it’s my character’s family name, and it’s close to your real name, plus it’s kind of an anagram for ‘clone.’ What do you think?”
“I--” Conner looked ridiculously pleased. “It would be an honor, sir!”
Clark laughed. “You can’t call me ‘sir,’” he said. “Clark will work just fine.”
“Okay, that’s fine, okay,” said Conner. “Sounds good--uh--Clark.”
Two-Face was gloating over Copperhead’s motionless body, and the crowd was booing him dutifully.
Milton Fine tugged on his lapels. “I hope you know better than to assume any of the other senior wrestlers would be okay with you calling them by their first names, kid.”
“Uh, I know better than to speak to any of them before being spoken to at all,” Conner said.
“The other ‘senior wrestlers’ maybe should get those sticks out of their butts,” Clark muttered, and Conner clapped his hand over his mouth to smother a giggle. “All right, get out there,” he said to Conner, slapping him on the back, and Conner scrambled out to the ramp to point an accusing finger at Two-Face as he celebrated.
“Two-Face!” The Metropolis Kid’s voice rang out through the arena. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did to me last week!”
Harvey sneered down at the kid in the leather jacket. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t know when to quit, you annoying brat,” he said. “But you see, I’ve got connections, and I came ready to deal with you.” He raised his voice. “Brainiac!”
Familiar ominous crystalline music rang out--not Brainiac’s theme, but the Kryptonian’s--and the arena caught its breath as Brainiac emerged in his shabby sideshow suit, with the hulking form of the Kryptonian at his side.
“Ha!” crowed the Metropolis Kid. “You brought my friend and my own father to defeat me? You idiot! There’s no way that--urk!”
His voice choked off as the Kryptonian grabbed him in the Psionic Claw, lifting him off the ground as he struggled wildly.
“Sorry, kid,” said Brainiac in his piercing voice. “But as it turns out, with the Kryptonian back, I don’t need you anymore--and Two-Face pays very well!”
The Kryptonian hurled the Metropolis Kid down the ramp, and he tumbled head over heels to slam into the ring and stare up in horror. “No!” he said. “No! I’m your son! Please!”
And the Kryptonian paused for a long, agonizing moment.
Clark could hear the crowd ripple in shock as they processed that the Kryptonian was wavering. Behind him, Brainiac screeched: “Attack him, my Kryptonian! You must!” Removing a red crystal rod from his jacket, he waved it wildly in the air, and Clark grabbed at his forehead as if in pain.
Then The Kryptonian lowered his hands, his face blank again, and advanced on the Metropolis Kid.
“Stop smiling,” he growled under his breath to Conner as he reached down and grabbed him.
“It’s just such an honor to work with you,” Conner blurted in his ear before being thrown into the barricade. “This is so cool!” he added as the Kryptonian lifted him in a crushing bear hug, and Clark could only hope that his grin might come off as a rictus of terror.
The Kryptonian smashed the Metropolis Kid to the ground, then hovered over his crumpled form a moment longer. The camera caught a flicker of a frown on his pale face as he glared down at the twitching boy. But then he turned and strode up the ramp to be at Brainiac’s side once more. The crowd shrieked in an ecstasy of hatred as Two-Face joined them, putting his hands above his head and shaking them in triumph. “Nothing can stop me!” he jeered. “Not the Metropolis Kid, not Killer Croc, not the Dark Knight!”
At that moment, it looked very true.
“Bruce isn’t claustrophobic, right?” Selina asked idly as they watched Waylon Jones and Dick Grayson battle around the ring.
“Not that I know of,” Clark said.
“I hope not,” said Selina.
Dick wasn’t exactly a small man, but the Dark Knight looked slender against the bulk of Killer Croc. They traded offense back and forth, simultaneously riding and building the audience’s energy, like surfers riding waves they themselves had summoned to do their bidding. The Dark Knight climbed the turnbuckle, ready to leap down onto Killer Croc--and Croc caught him out of the air exactly as he had El Dragon. But the Dark Knight countered, grabbing his arm and sliding down his back to yank him down onto the mat for the first pin of the night. The crowd went mad for an instant--then subsided again as Killer Croc kicked out even before the two-count, contempt on his face as he tossed the Dark Knight aside.
“Little worm!” he bellowed, lunging at the Dark Knight. But Dick locked up with him and--impossibly, unbelievably, thrillingly--forced him backwards. Croc broke away with a snarl of rage, but approached him more cautiously the next time, the contempt on his face giving way to a look of grudging respect.
They traded blows and kicks and counters, and although Killer Croc got in some amazing offense that left the Dark Knight reeling on the ropes time and time again, and the end it was clear that the Dark Knight simply had more resiliency, more cunning, more heart. Whatever Croc threw at him, he countered and came back again--and the crowd came back with him, pouring out their adoration in a vast wave.
The Dark Knight kicked Killer Croc in the face, and Croc fell onto his back. Dick jumped forward, seizing Croc’s legs and flipping him onto his stomach, standing over him as Croc struggled. Wrenching Croc’s legs up, the Dark Knight yanked his opponent’s body into a contorted arc.
In the breathless second before the crowd reacted, Clark remembered his very first DCW match. Remembered Mary Grayson, serene and smiling as she held Per Degaton in the same agonizing leglock until he tapped out. “The Flying Grayson,” he said under his breath. “His mother’s submission hold.”
The crowd went berserk.
Croc pleaded hoarsely, writhing within the submission hold, his face agonized. He tried to pull away, to get to the ropes and break the hold, but it was no good; Dick Grayson held on doggedly, not giving him an inch.
Finally, Killer Croc slapped the mat, over and over: submitting to the hold, giving the win to the Dark Knight. The bell rang.
Croc rolled out of the ring, limping away, defeated. The Dark Knight paid no heed to him, but stood in the middle of the ring as the referee raised his hand. He looked out at the crowd, at the children cheering, at the adults old enough to remember his parents weeping.
Slowly, he reached up and pulled off the cowl of the Dark Knight.
Beneath it, his hair was in wild and sweaty disarray, his suddenly-vulnerable eyes bright with tears. “This cowl,” he said, holding it aloft, and the arena hushed to catch his words. “This cowl represents the man who has been like a father to me. I have worn it in his place with pride. But in two weeks I will face Two-Face for the championship belt, and I will do so…” He stopped and his throat worked; in the crowd one person cried his name. “I will do so as myself. I will do so in the name of my family. I will do so as a Grayson!”
The audience roared. You’d better be listening to that, Luthor, thought Clark. Listen up and listen good.
Gently, with something like reverence, Dick knelt to put the cowl down in the center of the ring. He straightened, nodding to himself.
And then all the lights went out and the arena was plunged into total darkness.
The crowd gasped, the involuntary primal sound of terror at sudden darkness. For maybe ten seconds all was silent, all was dark. Then, like an exclamation point, a spotlight hit the center of the ring
Dick Grayson still stood there. And in front of him stood the Dark Knight.
”Nice,” said Selina, clapping her hands. All through the room smatterings of applause broke out at the stark tableau: Dick Grayson, teary-eyed and battle-worn, face to face with the Dark Knight in his classic suit. Clark wanted to applaud as well, but he found himself unable to move, unable to look away from the screen for fear the tears in his eyes would spill over: Bruce. Bruce, home at last.
The Dark Knight reached out and rested his hands on Dick’s shoulders, a blessing and a benediction. Dick nodded, head held high.
The spotlight went out again, and when the house lights came up, Dick Grayson was alone in the ring once more.
“That was my idea,” said Waylon Jones from the door of the common room. There were tear tracks down his greenish makeup. “Getting me in the Flying Grayson, in Mary’s move--that was my idea. We were damn good out there,” he said with satisfaction. “God damn good.”
Clark peeked out into the arena to make sure the last of the fans had gone. Then he made his way down the ramp to the ring. “All clear,” he said, flipping up the apron cloth.
A black-gloved hand emerged, beckoning him silently.
Clark shrugged and slid under the ring to lie down next to Bruce, looking up at the ring floor just above their heads. There was room to crawl, but that was about it.
“That was a good spot,” said Bruce, handing him a bottle of Gatorade.
“It was,” said Clark. “Luthor would be stupid not to give him the belt.” He opened the bottle and took a sip. “Of course, he’s done some stupid things before.”
“You know what I was thinking about, while I was lying down here for two hours waiting for that last match?”
Clark considered. “How proud you were of Dick? How happy you were to be getting back into the ring? Planning out your angle with the Kryptonian?”
Bruce turned his head to look at him. “I was thinking about how fantastic it would be to have sex under here during a show.”
Clark almost spit out his Gatorade. “What?”
“Think about it. Above you the wrestlers are hitting the ring like crashes of thunder, you’re surrounded by thousands of people, but it’s totally private, completely intimate. You could hear everyone screaming as you came, and you’d have to bite your lip to keep from joining in--” Bruce’s hand was making its way up Clark’s thigh, and Clark felt a case of inappropriate giggles making its way up his larynx.
“No,” he stammered, “No, no. Look, we’ll put on a recording of a match and have sex under your bed if you want.”
“I do have that practice ring in the basement,” said Bruce thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be the same, but I guess it’s a start.”
“You might be a little obsessive about this whole wrestling thing,” said Clark.
“You noticed,” said Bruce, sounding pleased. He turned over onto his side and pressed a kiss into Clark’s hair. “Think of all the other things I could be obsessive about, and consider yourself lucky.”
“Oh,” said Clark, pulling him close. “I do, and I am.”
Attendance was markedly lower at the second meeting of Bruce Wayne’s training lessons, but that was just as well, Clark thought as he pulled off his sweatshirt and got into the ring. From scanning the crowd, he could tell that the ones who remained were wrestlers who were pretty tough--both physically and emotionally.
There were no inspiring speeches this time; Bruce put them all to work taking basic bumps for about a half-hour, then moved on to delivering suplexes--over and over, picking apart their moves, finding the flaws, praising the strengths. During a break, the students sat and drank water as he talked to them a little more about the business. “Remember, your partner’s life is in your hands--it’s the most important thing.” He pointed at Clark. “Kent, get out of the ring. Show them how we do a suicide dive.”
Clark slid out of the ring, stood on the mat. Bruce grinned down at him, a brief flash. Then he ran backwards, used the elastic ropes to add speed on the rebound, and launched himself over the top rope at Clark without an instant of hesitation.
Clark had taken many suicide dives from Bruce by now, but it was always the same: at the apex of Bruce’s flight, their eyes locked in an instant of total trust, total synchronization. The world seemed to stand still for a moment, with nothing but the two of them, their trajectories colliding in a perfect balance. Clark stepped forward to place his body so it would break Bruce’s fall, and they went down together in a heap, Bruce’s arms around him.
The students broke into applause. Clark could feel Bruce’s body on top of him, the precious fragile breath heaving his rib cage. “See?” Bruce murmured in his ear. “You don’t need to worry. You’ll always catch me.”
Then he was standing up, giving Clark his hand, and Clark hadn’t realized until that exact moment that he had been afraid of wrestling with Bruce again.
He wasn’t anymore.
The applause died down, except for one set of handclaps, slow and sardonic, from the back of the gym. “Is this lesson just for the fakers, or can the real warriors sit in as well?” asked Jason Todd, strolling to the ring.
A chorus of good-natured boos met his words, and he grinned at the other wrestlers as he grabbed a folding chair, turned it around, and sat down on it backwards.
“Heard there was education being done here,” he drawled. “Thought it would be a laugh to sit in.”
“Uh-huh,” said Bruce. “I’ll get you up here soon enough and see if you’ve let your skills get rusty.” He lifted himself into the ring, ignoring Jason’s dismissive snort, and leaned on the ropes again, looking out at the little clump of young wrestlers. “Okay, listen up,” he said. “I’ve got a little announcement to make.”
He took a deep breath, and glanced over at Clark--a sidelong look, almost shy--before continuing.
“You’re a good group of kids, and I hope we’re going to have a good class together. I hope I’m going to be able to teach you a lot. But just like partners in the ring, you need to be able to trust me completely. You deserve that. So next week, the DCW’s going to be in Gotham, and--”
He bit his lip for a second, nodding, then went on with studied casualness:
“I’d like to invite you all to my house for Sunday dinner.”
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-28 05:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-29 11:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-31 05:57 am (UTC)Oooh, the seeds planted for the Kryptonian's face turn! I always loved those moments in wrestling, a turn teased, whether a heel turn and it's a tag team partner tempted to hit his buddy but shaking his hand instead (for now...) or that moment of hesitation on the monster heel's face. I can't wait to see it play out, and Connor's excitement to work with Clark ruining his fear face was adorable!
JASON OMG I SQUEED SO HARD WHEN HE CAME IN.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-03-31 11:37 am (UTC)The turns are always the best, aren't they? I love whenever they hint at one and you get to go "Oooooh, does this mean--could it be that--?"
Jason! And he got an anonymous text tipping him off, by the way (it was from Bruce).