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Heroes of the Squared Circle 62: You Deserve It
Title: You Deserve It
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Heat Wave, Captain Cold
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 3900
Summary: Superman and Batman face Captain Cold and Heat Wave for the tag team titles.
Some fights, among the most successful kind, are crowned by a final charivari, a sort of unrestrained fantasia where the rules, the laws of the genre, the referee's censuring and the limits of the ring are abolished, swept away by a triumphant disorder which overflows into the hall and carries off pell-mell wrestlers, seconds, referee and spectators. --Roland Barthes
“Explain yourselves.”
Lex Luthor’s voice was icy-cold, and Clark blinked at him across the desk. “What?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Kent!” Luthor gestured sharply at his phone on the desk. “I hate the dirt sheets, but that doesn’t mean I don’t read them.”
Bruce cleared his throat. “Do you mean that rumor that we’re going to lose the title match, be ‘fired,’ and then use that as an excuse to jump ship to go work for Max Lord’s Titans promotion?” He sounded both baffled and annoyed. “You know perfectly well that’s not true, Lex--you’re the one who’s booked us to win, for God’s sake.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t start the rumor,” snapped Lex. “I know you and Lord go way back, I know a lot of Grayson’s friends are working there now, and I don’t like the idea that the DCW might be used to give PR to another promotion.”
Clark managed not to roll his eyes, but it was a challenge. “Lex, we’re in a career-threatening match, it isn’t a huge leap to make some guesses about what we’ll do if we lose. The dirt sheets are just playing the game.”
“This isn’t some game, Kent. This is business. And if I find out you, or Grayson, or anyone has been trying to make a tool of the DCW…” He let the sentence hang in the air unfinished, and gestured toward the door. The conversation was clearly at an end.
“He’s really rattled by the Titans, isn’t he?” Clark asked once the office was safely far behind them.
“They’ve chewed a chunk out of his midcard,” Bruce said. “First Donna and Wally, now Garth and Roy…”
“The midcard he never used properly anyway,” Clark pointed out. “They deserve a chance to get out from under the shadows of the older wrestlers if they want.”
“Of course they do,” Bruce said a bit sharply. “It’s just understandable that, from Lex’s point of view, the Titans are a threat.”
Clark studied his face for a moment. “You’re still worried about Dick, aren’t you? You’re afraid he’ll leave.”
Bruce frowned. “He’s been talking about it a lot. If I thought it would be good for his career, I’d encourage it. But not now. Not this way.”
“You’re not spreading those rumors about us maybe leaving.”
“Of course not.”
Clark ignored Bruce’s indignation. “I believed you before, but now I know--you don’t want to boost Lord’s promotion because you’re afraid Dick will jump ship and hurt his career.”
Bruce sighed. “I understand wanting to be where the people you care about are, believe me. But escaping a stagnant midcard is one thing. Leaving when you’re at the very top--that’s a lot more serious.” He shook his head as if dismissing the topic. “Let’s focus on our own careers for a bit,” he said. “Are you ready to become half of the tag team champions?”
Clark laughed. “Oh boy, am I,” he said.
“Your first championship,” said Bruce. “You should have had a belt around your waist long before now, you know.”
Clark shrugged, embarrassed as he always was when the topic came up. “I didn’t really want to hold a title as the Kryptonian anyway,” he said. “I would have hated playing a heel champion. And then you were hurt and out and I didn’t want…I didn’t really want to wrestle at all. Now’s the right time. Really. I’m ready now.”
“I know you are. But in another way, you aren’t. No one ever is. It’s a big deal, winning a title,” said Bruce. “It’s...amazing.”
Clark chuckled. “You’ve been the heavyweight champion,” he said. “The tag belts can’t really compare with that.”
“Ah,” said Bruce, “But this time I’ll be the champion with you.” He rumpled Clark’s hair in a gesture that could have been friendly fun, but his fingers lingered on Clark’s nape a fraction longer than “friendly.” “And that makes all the difference.”
“It’s just the two of you against the whole Injustice League,” sneered Captain Cold, adjusting the belt on his shoulder as he faced off against Superman and Batman backstage. “And now that you know who our leader is, I’m surprised you’re sticking around long enough to even lose. The deck’s stacked against you, suckers. You should just admit defeat and scurry off right now, because you’re going to lose your jobs.”
“Go on,” said Heat Wave as Snart made shooing gestures. “Move along, go west young men and all that.”
There was a long silence as Batman and Superman looked at the champions, who started to look uncomfortable. Finally, Batman reached out and slapped the belt on Captain Cold’s shoulder. Snart flinched, then looked annoyed at himself.
“We’re not going anywhere,” said Batman. “And we’re gunning for you.”
“I’m surprised you said that,” said Clark to Mick Rory later, as the four of them ran over the match one last time in the gym. He picked Mick up and dropped him across his knee stomach-first.
“Said what?” said Mick as he bounced up from taking Clark’s gutbuster, a move that would render Heat Wave almost unconscious during the match.
“That thing about going west. You’re deliberately tweaking the smarks about those rumors about us bailing for Lord’s promotion.”
“So what if I am?” Mick grinned in between a couple of clotheslines. “Lex may be my boss, but he’s only my dark lord and master in kayfabe. Plus it’s fun to get the assholes on the Internet riled up about silly bullshit.”
“I don’t know why Lex is so upset about the Titans,” said Clark, ducking under the last clothesline and dropping a running bulldog on Mick, slamming him into the mat. Mick rolled over onto his back and did a quick kip-up as Clark went on: “They look like a fun little promotion, but they’re staying put in California, not touring. They’re unlikely to be any kind of threat to the DCW.”
“That bulldog was sloppy,” said Bruce from the apron. “I suggest you focus more on your moves and less on the gossip.”
Clark rolled his eyes and gestured at Bruce: Bring it on. Bruce vaulted into the ring and came at Clark, his smile immediately vanishing into an intent scowl. As he lunged forward, Clark stepped out of the way and dropped Bruce into a textbook-pretty running bulldog. Bruce came up smiling and delivered a dropkick at Clark, both his feet kissing Clark’s chest with the gentlest of shoves.
Freed from the need to sell any impact, the two of them went around the ring for ten minutes, tossing and punching and dancing around each other, light-footed and cat-agile, weaving kicks and blows into a tapestry of false combat. Bruce was smiling--It’s been a long time since we’ve fought each other in the ring at any length, Clark realized. We’ve been on the same team recently, not facing each other.
I miss it, he realized next, The flawless trust that makes it possible to create a perfect illusion, the wordless understanding, the creation of a story together.
Bruce delivered a last standing enzuigiri kick, then rolled back to the turnbuckle and rested against it, calling a halt with his body language. His hair was damp with sweat, his face flushed and eyes shining.
“I miss it too,” he said as if Clark had said it out loud. “But tagging together’s fun in a totally different way.”
“It should be an Olympic sport,” said Leonard Snart, tossing them bottles of water. “If they’ve got synchronized swimming, why not synchronized fighting, huh?”
“Eh, these two bastards would always win the gold anyway,” said Mick, disgusted.
“Nervous?” Clark said as Bruce pulled the cowl up over his head.
“As all hell,” Bruce laughed. “Did you expect me to be all macho and lie?”
“Let’s give them a show,” Clark said, touching his fist to Bruce’s.
“Just don’t make us look like chumps,” Leonard Snart said as their music hit and they rounded the corner to walk out in front of the crowd.
The sound hit Clark like a bludgeon, a guttural roar of anticipation that drowned out their entrance music entirely. He stopped cold, feeling the sound pushing at him in waves, a hungry tide. He felt Bruce put an arm around him, and annoyance glinted through him--did he really look so shaky?--before he turned his head and realized that it was Bruce who was pale under the cowl, a gleam of cold sweat glinting in the hollow of his collarbones.
Clark slung an arm around his back and together they walked down the ramp and into the ring.
Once they were there, silence fell for a moment, and then Luthor’s mocking laughter filled the arena. The Jumbotron flickered into life, revealing Luthor wearing his purple robes with the hood pulled back (“I rather like it, actually,” he had said backstage). “Hello, ‘World’s Finest,’” he said, making ironic air quotes. “You know, I admire your tenacity, actually coming out to the ring to face my champions rather than running away with your tails tucked between your legs. You’ll go down swinging, good for you!” He chuckled. “So I thought I’d make this even more interesting. Instead of your basic tag match, I thought I’d make this a tornado tag match. That means--”
“--We know what it means, Luthor,” said Superman. “No tags, both team members can be in the ring at the same time, a pin on either one counts as a victory. You think that scares us? Instead of one on one, it’s two on two--and that’s still no problem for us.”
Luthor smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Then good luck keeping your jobs,” he said, and his image was replaced by the entrance display for Cold and Heat as they came around the corner, holding aloft their bronze belts.
Superman and Batman glared at them as they swaggered toward the ring, grinning as if they had an ace up their sleeve--and indeed, as they climbed the stairs to the ring the Jumbotron came back to life.
“Hello again,” said Luthor, waving a purple-draped hand, “I thought I’d add another little stipulation--since it doesn’t sound like you’re challenged enough.” He grinned toothily, and the camera zoomed closer to catch the sadistic gleam in his eye as he said “This match will be a Falls Count Anywhere match.”
Superman and Batman glanced at each other and shrugged. “So we can fight outside the ring,” said Batman. “Trust me, I can have fun with that.”
“Oh, is this still too easy for the dauntless heroes?” said Luthor. “Very well, then.” The arena fell quiet as he went on, his smile stretching impressively: “Let’s just go all the way and add a No Disqualification stipulation.”
Clark could hear the announcers squawking into their headsets as they explained the implications of this, but the audience was way ahead of them and their groans and boos filled the arena. “This means anything goes!” Gorilla Grodd was yelling. “Foreign objects, dirty tricks, and--”
The audience shrieked with anger as Black Manta, Golden Glider, Deathstroke, and Joker appeared at the top of the ramp.
“--outside interference is allowed,” Grodd finished.
“They’ll be massacred!” Glorious Godfrey screamed in rapture. “They’ll be obliterated! They’ll be exterminated! And then they’ll be fired!”
The Injustice League stepped forward, the crowd roared outrage--
And Batman started to laugh.
“Oh, come on, Luthor,” he said as the arena hushed to hear him, “Did you really think we didn’t expect something like this? Did you really think we didn’t prepare? And did you really think we’re the only people determined to bring a halt to your reign of terror?” he finished, as four figures appeared behind the Injustice League: Green Lantern, Flash, Aquaman, and Wonder Woman, all grinning.
“Six against six,” said Superman as the crowd’s horror turned to delight and Luthor’s jaw dropped. “Injustice against Justice. I think we’re ready to start.”
The bell rang.
It was a brawl from the beginning, as the Injustice League whirled to confront the heroes and Captain Cold and Heat Wave both jumped Superman and Batman simultaneously. Heat Wave and Superman tumbled out over the ropes and began to trade blows around the ring, almost tripping over cables as the cameras struggled to keep up with them.
Clark had lost track of Bruce almost instantly in the scrum--the twelve wrestlers had basically broken off into pairs, each of them improvising their part in the brawl, moving around the arena. Glancing around quickly as he prepared to throw Mick into a barricade, Clark could see knots of agitated fans cheering, each of them most likely marking where a pair of wrestlers was doing a spot. With a situation like this, there was no playing to the stationary cameras; you just had to keep performing and hoping that the cameras were there to catch a good moment. It was annoying to watch the footage later and realize the camera hadn’t been live when you got thrown dramatically through a table--but fortunately Superman and Batman were the focus of this match and Clark could count on the cameras on them being live more often than not.
And of course, they would be ready to catch the big spots when they happened.
Mick reversed the throw and tossed Clark into the barricade, and he crumpled to the floor, grimacing in agony. Like flashes of light, he caught a glimpse of a small child hanging over the barricade, hands over his mouth in agonized worry; a man in a Joker t-shirt cheering Heat Wave on; a woman looking frankly bored, her arms crossed. We’ll just see what we can do about that, Jaded Lady, thought Clark as he surged up and slammed his shoulder into Heat Wave’s stomach.
It was amazing, the thought flitted through his mind as he pinned Heat Wave and the crowd nearby leaped to its feet, only to fall again as Heat Wave got his shoulder up, how there was always a cool, abstract part of his mind running a mental stopwatch. As he growled and lunged at Rory once more, he knew that it was almost time for--
There it was. He heard the people near him gasp, saw someone point, and looked up to see the Dark Knight standing on the turnbuckle, pointing toward the Spanish announce table. Clark couldn’t see it from this angle, but he knew that Captain Cold was sprawled across that table. The announcers would be going crazy now, he thought, babbling about how it was too far, how they were both going to die, how--
Batman leaped from the turnbuckle, and both Clark and Mick stopped brawling to turn and stare openly--it wasn’t like anyone would be watching them anyway. He dropped out of sight behind the ring, and the gasp of the crowd drowned out the sound of the impact. Clark turned back to Mick, hitting him with a couple of forearms, trying not to look worried--it was Bruce’s first really high-impact spot since his injury, but he’d be fine, of course he’d be fine.
Mick grabbed him in a headlock and murmured in his ear, “You can look worried, dummy. He’s your partner. Dropkick me. Try to get to him, I’ll stop you.”
Superman broke free and dropkicked Heat Wave, then scrambled to his feet and tried to get around the corner, but Heat Wave grabbed him and dragged him back. Clark took that little seed of worry in his heart and let it blossom into a full-grown look of panic on Superman’s face as he kicked as his opponent, trying to save his partner.
The ref came around the corner at a run and Clark’s heart turned over, but he stopped just long enough to mutter “He’s fine, you’re up next.”
Heat Wave knocked him down and tried to pin him, but Superman kicked out in desperation, then came up swinging, on the offense once more.
“Here we go,” muttered Mick. “Ready?”
Clark just snorted and hoped that would be taken as an affirmative. It didn’t matter anyway, the spot was going to happen.
The two of them continued the brawl, Heat Wave turning tail and fleeing in a panic up into the stands, trying to shake his pursuer. Superman staggered up the stairs after him, heading up to the balcony level. Clark caught a quick glimpse of Wonder Woman punching Golden Glider--she shot him a quick thumbs-up--and then they were up in the cheap seats, scrambling around as people shrieked and dodged and reached out to touch them.
They made their way to where the Jumbotron was, where Superman delivered a stunning punch to Heat Wave that left him reeling. The audience’s attention wasn’t even on him; everyone was staring down and pointing, and Clark knew that meant Bruce and the others were in position. “Batman!” someone screamed. “Get ‘em, Batman!” There was a groan of dismay, and Clark knew that Batman would be laid out on the floor by now, with Black Manta, Joker, and Deathstroke standing over him, kicking and taunting, softening him up so Captain Cold, rushing up from the ring, could pin him.
Clark shoved his way through the crowd of people craning their necks to see what was going on below, and a ripple of excitement spread out around him as people realized who was pushing his way to the edge of the balcony. “Superman!” someone yelled. “Holy shit!”
Superman jumped to the edge of the balcony, just above the Jumbotron, and the crowd surged upward all around him, cheering him on. Clark looked down at where the three heels stood over a feebly struggling Batman.
It was a long way down, and for one sickening moment he wasn’t sure. But then Black Manta turned and saw him and pointed upward, and the entire arena blazed into noise as the cameras zoomed to catch him, and adrenaline seemed to ignite in his blood, and for just one minute Clark believed that he could fly, and he jumped.
Manta, Joker, and Deathstroke’s hands all grabbed at him as he fell, breaking his plunge with their bodies, and they all went down in a heap on the ground as the furor of the crowd crashed around them. Superman came up first, staring around wildly, and caught sight of Captain Cold coming up the ramp, on his way to make that easy pin.
Captain Cold’s eyes widened at whatever he saw in Superman’s face, and he turned to try and flee, but Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, Flash and Aquaman were all there, blocking his way and smiling. Superman charged forward and threw his shoulder against Captain Cold’s stomach, spearing him onto the ramp, then pinning him.
“Great jump,” panted Leonard in his ear as the ref pounded the ramp and counted. “Congratulations.”
The bell rang.
Superman stood up, staring down at Captain Cold. Everything seemed to be strangely crystal-clear and far away, Clark thought as he looked up at the screaming, cheering fans. Like it was happening in a movie, or a book, not to him. It couldn’t be real. The newly-minted Justice League was applauding him. Diana was crying. It wasn’t real.
Strong arms seized him from behind, and Clark found himself spun around to stare into Batman--into Bruce’s--smiling face. “We did it,” Bruce said--Batman said--and that made it real, Bruce’s arms around him made everything real once again. For one moment there was no disconnect between Clark and Superman, he was truly both of them as he threw his arms around his partner, exaltation lifting him.
He was flying.
The referee lifted their hands there on the ramp, handed them the titles. Clark’s belt was heavy in his hands, the bronze etched with curlicues and feathery designs, swooping and beautiful, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from it. Without thinking, he lifted it and touched his lips to the shining surface, then lifted it above his head with one hand, the other slung around Bruce’s shoulders.
The crowd was chanting something, and he couldn’t make it out at first, it was just a confused welter of sound. Then it coalesced, became clear: “You deserve it.” Chanted over and over again at top volume. He felt tears well up in his eyes and shook his head hard, blinking. Bruce’s hand on his shoulder tightened.
“They didn’t pay their hard-earned money to watch you be stoic,” he heard Bruce murmur. “Just go with it.”
Superman buried his head in Batman’s shoulder and wept, and the crowd roared its approval.
“Ow.” Superman stumbled as he rounded the corner to backstage and was suddenly Clark again. “Oh.”
“I wondered when you’d notice that,” said Bruce, and shifted his arm to go from around Clark’s shoulders to under his arms, supporting him.
“Did I hurt myself?” Clark said. He tried to put his weight on his left foot and winced, hopping away from the stab of pain. “When?”
“My bad,” said Black Manta, removing his mask. “You banged it when you came down out of the stands. Slipped through my hands a bit.”
“No problem,” said Clark reflexively.
“Let’s get that boot off,” said Bruce, steering him to a chair and kneeling down in front of him. “Yep, that’s at least a sprain.”
Clark looked down at the bruised and swollen ankle and bit his lip. “I didn’t even feel it.”
Bruce looked up from the hands cupping Clark’s foot as if it were infinitely precious. “Adrenaline’s an amazing drug, isn’t it?” A trainer hurried up with ice and bandages and shooed Bruce away, but not before he could stroke his fingers along Clark’s instep briefly.
Clark shivered and put his new title down across his lap.
It was a hectic night, full of congratulations and people admiring the new champions, but with the adrenaline drained away Clark felt bone-tired and his ankle hurt. It was a relief when he could finally make his excuses and hobble away, leaning heavily on Bruce, to their hotel room.
It was a boring beige box of a room, but that was fine with Clark. It only served to make their title belts laid out on the bed glow more brightly , like diamonds in a simple setting.
“World’s Finest,” Bruce said as he stripped off his shirt and tossed it across the room. “Undisputed.” He sat down on the bed and patted the gleaming metal. “You’ll be heavyweight champ someday.”
Clark resisted a superstitious impulse to knock on wood. “Let’s focus on the now,” he said. “Now is good.”
“Indeed,” Bruce said, and took his hand to gently tug him down onto the bed, pushing the belts aside to make room. “Now is very good.”
----------
Clark's dive is based heavily on one by Seth Rollins. You can see the official footage of it here and fan-shot footage of it that captures the crowd's reaction better here.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Heat Wave, Captain Cold
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 3900
Summary: Superman and Batman face Captain Cold and Heat Wave for the tag team titles.
Some fights, among the most successful kind, are crowned by a final charivari, a sort of unrestrained fantasia where the rules, the laws of the genre, the referee's censuring and the limits of the ring are abolished, swept away by a triumphant disorder which overflows into the hall and carries off pell-mell wrestlers, seconds, referee and spectators. --Roland Barthes
“Explain yourselves.”
Lex Luthor’s voice was icy-cold, and Clark blinked at him across the desk. “What?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Kent!” Luthor gestured sharply at his phone on the desk. “I hate the dirt sheets, but that doesn’t mean I don’t read them.”
Bruce cleared his throat. “Do you mean that rumor that we’re going to lose the title match, be ‘fired,’ and then use that as an excuse to jump ship to go work for Max Lord’s Titans promotion?” He sounded both baffled and annoyed. “You know perfectly well that’s not true, Lex--you’re the one who’s booked us to win, for God’s sake.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t start the rumor,” snapped Lex. “I know you and Lord go way back, I know a lot of Grayson’s friends are working there now, and I don’t like the idea that the DCW might be used to give PR to another promotion.”
Clark managed not to roll his eyes, but it was a challenge. “Lex, we’re in a career-threatening match, it isn’t a huge leap to make some guesses about what we’ll do if we lose. The dirt sheets are just playing the game.”
“This isn’t some game, Kent. This is business. And if I find out you, or Grayson, or anyone has been trying to make a tool of the DCW…” He let the sentence hang in the air unfinished, and gestured toward the door. The conversation was clearly at an end.
“He’s really rattled by the Titans, isn’t he?” Clark asked once the office was safely far behind them.
“They’ve chewed a chunk out of his midcard,” Bruce said. “First Donna and Wally, now Garth and Roy…”
“The midcard he never used properly anyway,” Clark pointed out. “They deserve a chance to get out from under the shadows of the older wrestlers if they want.”
“Of course they do,” Bruce said a bit sharply. “It’s just understandable that, from Lex’s point of view, the Titans are a threat.”
Clark studied his face for a moment. “You’re still worried about Dick, aren’t you? You’re afraid he’ll leave.”
Bruce frowned. “He’s been talking about it a lot. If I thought it would be good for his career, I’d encourage it. But not now. Not this way.”
“You’re not spreading those rumors about us maybe leaving.”
“Of course not.”
Clark ignored Bruce’s indignation. “I believed you before, but now I know--you don’t want to boost Lord’s promotion because you’re afraid Dick will jump ship and hurt his career.”
Bruce sighed. “I understand wanting to be where the people you care about are, believe me. But escaping a stagnant midcard is one thing. Leaving when you’re at the very top--that’s a lot more serious.” He shook his head as if dismissing the topic. “Let’s focus on our own careers for a bit,” he said. “Are you ready to become half of the tag team champions?”
Clark laughed. “Oh boy, am I,” he said.
“Your first championship,” said Bruce. “You should have had a belt around your waist long before now, you know.”
Clark shrugged, embarrassed as he always was when the topic came up. “I didn’t really want to hold a title as the Kryptonian anyway,” he said. “I would have hated playing a heel champion. And then you were hurt and out and I didn’t want…I didn’t really want to wrestle at all. Now’s the right time. Really. I’m ready now.”
“I know you are. But in another way, you aren’t. No one ever is. It’s a big deal, winning a title,” said Bruce. “It’s...amazing.”
Clark chuckled. “You’ve been the heavyweight champion,” he said. “The tag belts can’t really compare with that.”
“Ah,” said Bruce, “But this time I’ll be the champion with you.” He rumpled Clark’s hair in a gesture that could have been friendly fun, but his fingers lingered on Clark’s nape a fraction longer than “friendly.” “And that makes all the difference.”
“It’s just the two of you against the whole Injustice League,” sneered Captain Cold, adjusting the belt on his shoulder as he faced off against Superman and Batman backstage. “And now that you know who our leader is, I’m surprised you’re sticking around long enough to even lose. The deck’s stacked against you, suckers. You should just admit defeat and scurry off right now, because you’re going to lose your jobs.”
“Go on,” said Heat Wave as Snart made shooing gestures. “Move along, go west young men and all that.”
There was a long silence as Batman and Superman looked at the champions, who started to look uncomfortable. Finally, Batman reached out and slapped the belt on Captain Cold’s shoulder. Snart flinched, then looked annoyed at himself.
“We’re not going anywhere,” said Batman. “And we’re gunning for you.”
“I’m surprised you said that,” said Clark to Mick Rory later, as the four of them ran over the match one last time in the gym. He picked Mick up and dropped him across his knee stomach-first.
“Said what?” said Mick as he bounced up from taking Clark’s gutbuster, a move that would render Heat Wave almost unconscious during the match.
“That thing about going west. You’re deliberately tweaking the smarks about those rumors about us bailing for Lord’s promotion.”
“So what if I am?” Mick grinned in between a couple of clotheslines. “Lex may be my boss, but he’s only my dark lord and master in kayfabe. Plus it’s fun to get the assholes on the Internet riled up about silly bullshit.”
“I don’t know why Lex is so upset about the Titans,” said Clark, ducking under the last clothesline and dropping a running bulldog on Mick, slamming him into the mat. Mick rolled over onto his back and did a quick kip-up as Clark went on: “They look like a fun little promotion, but they’re staying put in California, not touring. They’re unlikely to be any kind of threat to the DCW.”
“That bulldog was sloppy,” said Bruce from the apron. “I suggest you focus more on your moves and less on the gossip.”
Clark rolled his eyes and gestured at Bruce: Bring it on. Bruce vaulted into the ring and came at Clark, his smile immediately vanishing into an intent scowl. As he lunged forward, Clark stepped out of the way and dropped Bruce into a textbook-pretty running bulldog. Bruce came up smiling and delivered a dropkick at Clark, both his feet kissing Clark’s chest with the gentlest of shoves.
Freed from the need to sell any impact, the two of them went around the ring for ten minutes, tossing and punching and dancing around each other, light-footed and cat-agile, weaving kicks and blows into a tapestry of false combat. Bruce was smiling--It’s been a long time since we’ve fought each other in the ring at any length, Clark realized. We’ve been on the same team recently, not facing each other.
I miss it, he realized next, The flawless trust that makes it possible to create a perfect illusion, the wordless understanding, the creation of a story together.
Bruce delivered a last standing enzuigiri kick, then rolled back to the turnbuckle and rested against it, calling a halt with his body language. His hair was damp with sweat, his face flushed and eyes shining.
“I miss it too,” he said as if Clark had said it out loud. “But tagging together’s fun in a totally different way.”
“It should be an Olympic sport,” said Leonard Snart, tossing them bottles of water. “If they’ve got synchronized swimming, why not synchronized fighting, huh?”
“Eh, these two bastards would always win the gold anyway,” said Mick, disgusted.
“Nervous?” Clark said as Bruce pulled the cowl up over his head.
“As all hell,” Bruce laughed. “Did you expect me to be all macho and lie?”
“Let’s give them a show,” Clark said, touching his fist to Bruce’s.
“Just don’t make us look like chumps,” Leonard Snart said as their music hit and they rounded the corner to walk out in front of the crowd.
The sound hit Clark like a bludgeon, a guttural roar of anticipation that drowned out their entrance music entirely. He stopped cold, feeling the sound pushing at him in waves, a hungry tide. He felt Bruce put an arm around him, and annoyance glinted through him--did he really look so shaky?--before he turned his head and realized that it was Bruce who was pale under the cowl, a gleam of cold sweat glinting in the hollow of his collarbones.
Clark slung an arm around his back and together they walked down the ramp and into the ring.
Once they were there, silence fell for a moment, and then Luthor’s mocking laughter filled the arena. The Jumbotron flickered into life, revealing Luthor wearing his purple robes with the hood pulled back (“I rather like it, actually,” he had said backstage). “Hello, ‘World’s Finest,’” he said, making ironic air quotes. “You know, I admire your tenacity, actually coming out to the ring to face my champions rather than running away with your tails tucked between your legs. You’ll go down swinging, good for you!” He chuckled. “So I thought I’d make this even more interesting. Instead of your basic tag match, I thought I’d make this a tornado tag match. That means--”
“--We know what it means, Luthor,” said Superman. “No tags, both team members can be in the ring at the same time, a pin on either one counts as a victory. You think that scares us? Instead of one on one, it’s two on two--and that’s still no problem for us.”
Luthor smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Then good luck keeping your jobs,” he said, and his image was replaced by the entrance display for Cold and Heat as they came around the corner, holding aloft their bronze belts.
Superman and Batman glared at them as they swaggered toward the ring, grinning as if they had an ace up their sleeve--and indeed, as they climbed the stairs to the ring the Jumbotron came back to life.
“Hello again,” said Luthor, waving a purple-draped hand, “I thought I’d add another little stipulation--since it doesn’t sound like you’re challenged enough.” He grinned toothily, and the camera zoomed closer to catch the sadistic gleam in his eye as he said “This match will be a Falls Count Anywhere match.”
Superman and Batman glanced at each other and shrugged. “So we can fight outside the ring,” said Batman. “Trust me, I can have fun with that.”
“Oh, is this still too easy for the dauntless heroes?” said Luthor. “Very well, then.” The arena fell quiet as he went on, his smile stretching impressively: “Let’s just go all the way and add a No Disqualification stipulation.”
Clark could hear the announcers squawking into their headsets as they explained the implications of this, but the audience was way ahead of them and their groans and boos filled the arena. “This means anything goes!” Gorilla Grodd was yelling. “Foreign objects, dirty tricks, and--”
The audience shrieked with anger as Black Manta, Golden Glider, Deathstroke, and Joker appeared at the top of the ramp.
“--outside interference is allowed,” Grodd finished.
“They’ll be massacred!” Glorious Godfrey screamed in rapture. “They’ll be obliterated! They’ll be exterminated! And then they’ll be fired!”
The Injustice League stepped forward, the crowd roared outrage--
And Batman started to laugh.
“Oh, come on, Luthor,” he said as the arena hushed to hear him, “Did you really think we didn’t expect something like this? Did you really think we didn’t prepare? And did you really think we’re the only people determined to bring a halt to your reign of terror?” he finished, as four figures appeared behind the Injustice League: Green Lantern, Flash, Aquaman, and Wonder Woman, all grinning.
“Six against six,” said Superman as the crowd’s horror turned to delight and Luthor’s jaw dropped. “Injustice against Justice. I think we’re ready to start.”
The bell rang.
It was a brawl from the beginning, as the Injustice League whirled to confront the heroes and Captain Cold and Heat Wave both jumped Superman and Batman simultaneously. Heat Wave and Superman tumbled out over the ropes and began to trade blows around the ring, almost tripping over cables as the cameras struggled to keep up with them.
Clark had lost track of Bruce almost instantly in the scrum--the twelve wrestlers had basically broken off into pairs, each of them improvising their part in the brawl, moving around the arena. Glancing around quickly as he prepared to throw Mick into a barricade, Clark could see knots of agitated fans cheering, each of them most likely marking where a pair of wrestlers was doing a spot. With a situation like this, there was no playing to the stationary cameras; you just had to keep performing and hoping that the cameras were there to catch a good moment. It was annoying to watch the footage later and realize the camera hadn’t been live when you got thrown dramatically through a table--but fortunately Superman and Batman were the focus of this match and Clark could count on the cameras on them being live more often than not.
And of course, they would be ready to catch the big spots when they happened.
Mick reversed the throw and tossed Clark into the barricade, and he crumpled to the floor, grimacing in agony. Like flashes of light, he caught a glimpse of a small child hanging over the barricade, hands over his mouth in agonized worry; a man in a Joker t-shirt cheering Heat Wave on; a woman looking frankly bored, her arms crossed. We’ll just see what we can do about that, Jaded Lady, thought Clark as he surged up and slammed his shoulder into Heat Wave’s stomach.
It was amazing, the thought flitted through his mind as he pinned Heat Wave and the crowd nearby leaped to its feet, only to fall again as Heat Wave got his shoulder up, how there was always a cool, abstract part of his mind running a mental stopwatch. As he growled and lunged at Rory once more, he knew that it was almost time for--
There it was. He heard the people near him gasp, saw someone point, and looked up to see the Dark Knight standing on the turnbuckle, pointing toward the Spanish announce table. Clark couldn’t see it from this angle, but he knew that Captain Cold was sprawled across that table. The announcers would be going crazy now, he thought, babbling about how it was too far, how they were both going to die, how--
Batman leaped from the turnbuckle, and both Clark and Mick stopped brawling to turn and stare openly--it wasn’t like anyone would be watching them anyway. He dropped out of sight behind the ring, and the gasp of the crowd drowned out the sound of the impact. Clark turned back to Mick, hitting him with a couple of forearms, trying not to look worried--it was Bruce’s first really high-impact spot since his injury, but he’d be fine, of course he’d be fine.
Mick grabbed him in a headlock and murmured in his ear, “You can look worried, dummy. He’s your partner. Dropkick me. Try to get to him, I’ll stop you.”
Superman broke free and dropkicked Heat Wave, then scrambled to his feet and tried to get around the corner, but Heat Wave grabbed him and dragged him back. Clark took that little seed of worry in his heart and let it blossom into a full-grown look of panic on Superman’s face as he kicked as his opponent, trying to save his partner.
The ref came around the corner at a run and Clark’s heart turned over, but he stopped just long enough to mutter “He’s fine, you’re up next.”
Heat Wave knocked him down and tried to pin him, but Superman kicked out in desperation, then came up swinging, on the offense once more.
“Here we go,” muttered Mick. “Ready?”
Clark just snorted and hoped that would be taken as an affirmative. It didn’t matter anyway, the spot was going to happen.
The two of them continued the brawl, Heat Wave turning tail and fleeing in a panic up into the stands, trying to shake his pursuer. Superman staggered up the stairs after him, heading up to the balcony level. Clark caught a quick glimpse of Wonder Woman punching Golden Glider--she shot him a quick thumbs-up--and then they were up in the cheap seats, scrambling around as people shrieked and dodged and reached out to touch them.
They made their way to where the Jumbotron was, where Superman delivered a stunning punch to Heat Wave that left him reeling. The audience’s attention wasn’t even on him; everyone was staring down and pointing, and Clark knew that meant Bruce and the others were in position. “Batman!” someone screamed. “Get ‘em, Batman!” There was a groan of dismay, and Clark knew that Batman would be laid out on the floor by now, with Black Manta, Joker, and Deathstroke standing over him, kicking and taunting, softening him up so Captain Cold, rushing up from the ring, could pin him.
Clark shoved his way through the crowd of people craning their necks to see what was going on below, and a ripple of excitement spread out around him as people realized who was pushing his way to the edge of the balcony. “Superman!” someone yelled. “Holy shit!”
Superman jumped to the edge of the balcony, just above the Jumbotron, and the crowd surged upward all around him, cheering him on. Clark looked down at where the three heels stood over a feebly struggling Batman.
It was a long way down, and for one sickening moment he wasn’t sure. But then Black Manta turned and saw him and pointed upward, and the entire arena blazed into noise as the cameras zoomed to catch him, and adrenaline seemed to ignite in his blood, and for just one minute Clark believed that he could fly, and he jumped.
Manta, Joker, and Deathstroke’s hands all grabbed at him as he fell, breaking his plunge with their bodies, and they all went down in a heap on the ground as the furor of the crowd crashed around them. Superman came up first, staring around wildly, and caught sight of Captain Cold coming up the ramp, on his way to make that easy pin.
Captain Cold’s eyes widened at whatever he saw in Superman’s face, and he turned to try and flee, but Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, Flash and Aquaman were all there, blocking his way and smiling. Superman charged forward and threw his shoulder against Captain Cold’s stomach, spearing him onto the ramp, then pinning him.
“Great jump,” panted Leonard in his ear as the ref pounded the ramp and counted. “Congratulations.”
The bell rang.
Superman stood up, staring down at Captain Cold. Everything seemed to be strangely crystal-clear and far away, Clark thought as he looked up at the screaming, cheering fans. Like it was happening in a movie, or a book, not to him. It couldn’t be real. The newly-minted Justice League was applauding him. Diana was crying. It wasn’t real.
Strong arms seized him from behind, and Clark found himself spun around to stare into Batman--into Bruce’s--smiling face. “We did it,” Bruce said--Batman said--and that made it real, Bruce’s arms around him made everything real once again. For one moment there was no disconnect between Clark and Superman, he was truly both of them as he threw his arms around his partner, exaltation lifting him.
He was flying.
The referee lifted their hands there on the ramp, handed them the titles. Clark’s belt was heavy in his hands, the bronze etched with curlicues and feathery designs, swooping and beautiful, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from it. Without thinking, he lifted it and touched his lips to the shining surface, then lifted it above his head with one hand, the other slung around Bruce’s shoulders.
The crowd was chanting something, and he couldn’t make it out at first, it was just a confused welter of sound. Then it coalesced, became clear: “You deserve it.” Chanted over and over again at top volume. He felt tears well up in his eyes and shook his head hard, blinking. Bruce’s hand on his shoulder tightened.
“They didn’t pay their hard-earned money to watch you be stoic,” he heard Bruce murmur. “Just go with it.”
Superman buried his head in Batman’s shoulder and wept, and the crowd roared its approval.
“Ow.” Superman stumbled as he rounded the corner to backstage and was suddenly Clark again. “Oh.”
“I wondered when you’d notice that,” said Bruce, and shifted his arm to go from around Clark’s shoulders to under his arms, supporting him.
“Did I hurt myself?” Clark said. He tried to put his weight on his left foot and winced, hopping away from the stab of pain. “When?”
“My bad,” said Black Manta, removing his mask. “You banged it when you came down out of the stands. Slipped through my hands a bit.”
“No problem,” said Clark reflexively.
“Let’s get that boot off,” said Bruce, steering him to a chair and kneeling down in front of him. “Yep, that’s at least a sprain.”
Clark looked down at the bruised and swollen ankle and bit his lip. “I didn’t even feel it.”
Bruce looked up from the hands cupping Clark’s foot as if it were infinitely precious. “Adrenaline’s an amazing drug, isn’t it?” A trainer hurried up with ice and bandages and shooed Bruce away, but not before he could stroke his fingers along Clark’s instep briefly.
Clark shivered and put his new title down across his lap.
It was a hectic night, full of congratulations and people admiring the new champions, but with the adrenaline drained away Clark felt bone-tired and his ankle hurt. It was a relief when he could finally make his excuses and hobble away, leaning heavily on Bruce, to their hotel room.
It was a boring beige box of a room, but that was fine with Clark. It only served to make their title belts laid out on the bed glow more brightly , like diamonds in a simple setting.
“World’s Finest,” Bruce said as he stripped off his shirt and tossed it across the room. “Undisputed.” He sat down on the bed and patted the gleaming metal. “You’ll be heavyweight champ someday.”
Clark resisted a superstitious impulse to knock on wood. “Let’s focus on the now,” he said. “Now is good.”
“Indeed,” Bruce said, and took his hand to gently tug him down onto the bed, pushing the belts aside to make room. “Now is very good.”
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Clark's dive is based heavily on one by Seth Rollins. You can see the official footage of it here and fan-shot footage of it that captures the crowd's reaction better here.