Heroes of the Squared Circle 15: Ambush in the Dark
Title: Ambush in the Dark
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Lois Lane, Lex Luthor, Dick Grayson, Jimmy Olsen, Darkseid
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2700
Summary: Clark arrives in Metropolis, dodges a nosy reporter, gets introduced to some of the DCW's roster, and gets offered a place to crash for the night.
A funny side note is that Hawk came up with the Legion of Doom name while we were all sitting around watching TV one afternoon. This cartoon, Challenge of the Super Friends, came on and as the intro played and showed all of the bad guys led by Lex Luthor, a voice announced them as the Legion of Doom.
“We’ve gotta use that,” Hawk said.
“Great idea, Hawk,” Paul said. “We’ll be the Legion of Doom and destroy everything." --Joe Laurinitis
"Mr. Kent? Mr. Kent! Excuse me, you are Clark Kent, aren't you?"
Clark swung his bag off the baggage carousel and tried to dodge the woman, but she stepped into his path again.
"Lois Lane. I work for the Wrestling Planet."
"I'm...familiar with your work," Clark said politely.
Her quick smile didn't reach her eyes. "Is it true that you've signed a contract to work for Lex Luthor?"
"I really have no comment on that," Clark said, lifting his bag and starting to walk away.
"Then why are you in a Metropolis airport?" Lane persisted, following him. "The DCW is the only game in town here."
"I'm visiting a friend," Clark said. "Now please, if you'll excuse me..." He moved past her and hurried outside to the street.
A familiar black Lexus pulled up and Clark tossed his bag in the back and jumped in. "Good timing," he said to the driver.
Bruce was wearing a cap pulled down low over his eyes and a ratty sweatshirt. "Always," he said as they pulled away from the curb. "So did you get grilled by Mad Dog Lane?"
"You saw her?" Bruce lifted an eyebrow at him, zipping in and out of traffic: Of course I saw her. "Yeah, she caught me in baggage claim."
"Good."
"I hate being dishonest," Clark said.
Bruce slugged him on the shoulder. "I bet you didn't tell a single lie."
"I said I was in town to visit a friend."
"Well," Bruce said, "Here I am. You're visiting me." He grinned at Clark. "It's all part of the game, Clark. Folks from the Planet try to guess what's going on in the industry, people like Luthor try to use that publicity to their own ends. When they publish that they spotted you in Metropolis, it'll get all the message boards buzzing." He glanced at his watch. "We've got some time before we're supposed to report to the arena; how about we grab some lunch and you tell me how your trip home went?"
They went through a Big Belly Burger drive-through and ate in a parking garage as Clark talked about his trip to Smallville. "It was good to have some time off, let the ribs heal. My parents were happy to see me, too." Clark started to unwrap a second hamburger. "They were sorry they didn't get a chance to meet you."
"I appreciated the invitation," Bruce said. "But I hadn't had much time at home for a while and I had some things I had to catch up on."
"Reports from the butler about the household expenses?" Clark asked with a smirk. "Or your gardener about the latest additions to the rose garden? Or--wait, I know--the chauffeur needed your approval for some upgrades to the Lamborghini."
Bruce laughed. "Not exactly. I mean, the rose garden is fine. The Zen rock garden, on the other hand..." He trailed off, chuckling. "Anyway, I don't get much time to spend with my--well, my foster-father, the man who raised me," he said. "It was good to see him again."
Clark didn't push, but filed that bit of information away. Bruce never spoke of his personal life. Foster-father. Does that mean he was a street kid? Ward of the state? A lot of wrestlers came from backgrounds where wrestling was a way to break a cycle of abuse and poverty. That would explain his intensity and devotion to the business, his love of his gimmick: a chance to live a dream life, impersonating the rich kid whose name you happened to share.
But Clark had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Bruce Wayne truly was a man of mystery.
"Okay," said Bruce, polishing off his french fries and fastidiously collapsing all the waste into a neat package. "Time to report to our new workplace."
They slipped in through the back door, hiding their faces in case any fans were looking. Mercy Graves met them at the door and wordlessly showed them to the common room, milling with people both familiar and unknown.
Clark looked around the room, swallowing hard and remembering how Guy had taken him under his wing and shown him around. No one seemed willing to do that here, and Guy was off in Japan, busting heads and making fans. As low man on the totem pole, it was Clark's responsibility to go up to each wrestler and introduce himself--as Bruce was doing now, shaking hands with a lanky man who Clark recognized as Jonathan Crane (AKA The Physician of Fear, the Scarecrow). Bruce shot Clark a quick look and raised an eyebrow, and Clark surreptitiously wiped his damp palms on his jeans and stepped up to the nearest person.
"Pleasure to meet you," he said. "I'm Clark Kent. You must be the Elongated Man."
The man turned with a smile. "The Man of Infinite Holds, or Ralph Dibny when I'm off-duty," he said, taking Clark's hand. "Nice to meet you."
After that it was easier. Clark shook hands with everyone there that evening, from the big stars like current title holder Hal Jordan and Oliver Queen down to the jobbers like Magpie and Ambush Bug, even the road crew. Only little flashes remained in his memory later: Diana Prince's strong handclasp and assessing look; commentator Jimmy Olsen stammering that he was a big fan; Billy Batson pretending they'd never met and trying to shake his hand hard enough to crush it; Pamela Isley tossing her red hair and feeling his biceps while mentioning how impressive his Youtube video was.
"Hey Kent!" Bruce's voice pulled him away from small talk with a sandy-haired man who called himself Milton Fine, "The Modern Svengali." "Allow me to introduce you to--"
"--The Flying Graysons!" Clark knew he was beaming like an idiot as he hurried over and shook their hands, but he couldn't help it. "I've been your fan all my life. You were at the first show I ever attended. It was your debut," he said to Mary Grayson.
She smiled with delight. "I remember that show! Topeka, right?"
"You put Per Degaton in a headlock," Clark said, and she threw back her head and laughed.
"You see, Dick," she said to the teenaged boy standing slightly behind her, "Your mother was more than just window dressing once."
"That's not fair," the boy protested, and she rumpled his hair.
"My son is saying his parents should be thinking about retirement," Mary said. "Mr. Kent, this is Dick Grayson, the latest of a long line of Flying Graysons."
Dick Grayson shook his hand, beaming. "I was just telling Mr. Wayne I love the work you two have been doing," he said. "Those aerial moves are just fantastic. And I didn't say you should retire," he added indignantly to his mother. "I just think you could cut back a little."
"And you'd like to step up more, I know," said his father.
"I'm ready to wrestle," Dick said. "I've been your valet my whole life, I was performing before I could walk, Wildcat himself taught me how to take a bump when I was twelve, you know I'm ready. I'm tired of always being outside the ring for other wrestlers to kidnap or brainwash or whatever crazy storyline is going on." He turned to Bruce, appealing. "Do you know what they call me in the locker room? The Boy Hostage."
"Well," said Mary as Clark and Bruce hid their smiles, "You'll always be the Boy Wonder to us."
"Are you done making your case?" said John Grayson. Dick nodded, hanging his head. "Because I talked to Mr. Luthor, and he agrees you're ready to step up and see some ring action."
"Whoo hoo!" yelled Dick, and did a sudden backflip as if he couldn't contain his delight. "Who do I get to be in an angle with--Killer Croc? Man-Bat? Scarecrow?"
His father laughed. "Dick, you're the youngest wrestler in the company. You'll be wrestling whoever needs a match that show, and you'll probably be losing all of them for a while."
"But losing with style," Dick crowed. "Oh man, I gotta get practicing. Mr. Wayne, can I show you my senton bomb sometime? Yours is gorgeous!"
Soon he and Bruce were deep in a conversation about rotation and lift as his parents watched fondly. "He's right," said his mother. "He's ready to step up." She gave her husband's arm a squeeze. "But I'm not ready to retire quite so soon," she said.
John kissed the top of her head. "The Flying Graysons aren't done yet," he said.
: : :
None of the JLI wrestlers were to appear on stage that night, so they all watched the monitor in the common room as a nervous Jimmy Olsen interviewed Lex Luthor and Darkseid in the center of the ring. "S--So, Mr. Luthor," he quavered, holding the mic up, "I hear you traveled to Philadelphia last week. How was your trip?"
Darkseid and Luthor laughed as though they were trying to outdo each other in some kind of malign-off. "Ah, Jimmy, my boy," said Luthor. "It was a great trip. Wasn't it, Darkseid?"
"Indeed," boomed Darkseid. "I also relished the opportunity to grind a pitiful promotion into dust beneath my heel, to hear their frantic mewling cries for mercy. But Darkseid knows no mercy!"
"Yes, it was a great success," said Luthor. "In fact, I think I can say--"
And then the lights went out and the arena was plunged into darkness.
Gasps rustled around the arena in the pitch-blackness, and there was a sound of muffled blows and thumps.
When the lights came back on, Darkseid and Luthor were lying sprawled in the ring, unconscious, while a baffled Jimmy Olsen looked around wildly.
Clark could hear confusion give way to delight as Luthor sat up groggily and a piece of cloth slid off his chest. Staggering to his feet, he clutched it in his hands, unfurling it to reveal--a JLI t-shirt.
Luthor glared out at the audience, pivoting on his heel to stare wildly at every corner of the arena. "Find who did this!" he howled, and Darkseid lumbered out of the ring to roam through the crowd, shoving and pushing gleeful fans.
"JLI!" cried a lone voice from the stands. Another joined in, and then another, and soon a ragged chant was echoing around the arena, taunting the wild-eyed Luthor. Wherever Darkseid roamed, the chanters always seemed to be just out of reach.
"Don't you get it, you losers? I won!" cried Luthor, and he seized the shirt and ripped it, tearing the logo in two. "I defeated them!" He threw the shirt out into the crowd and stalked back up the ramp, throwing looks of fury in every direction. He turned at the top of the ramp and gestured to the cameras. "That's it!" he yelled. "Cut the cameras! We're done!"
And the show came to an abrupt end.
"Nice touch," Bruce said to Luthor backstage as he polished off a bottle of Evian water, "Planting someone to start those JLI chants."
Luthor's eyes narrowed and he tossed the empty bottle to Mercy, who caught it out of the air without looking up from her phone. "I didn't plant anyone," he said. "I didn't need to. Totally predictable. Every smark desperately wants to mark out for someone."
Bruce's eyebrows rose.
"Your little promotion had its fans," Luthor said. "That's the point of all of this, after all. I don't care what they chant, as long as they're buying tickets to my show now." He picked up the ripped JLI shirt from a table and tossed it at Bruce. "I'm going to make more money off of JLI shirts than the JLI ever did."
Bruce folded the shirt, putting the torn edges together, and put it back down. "Let's hope so," he said.
Luthor gave him a long look, then turned to address the room. "That's the beginning of the counter-invasion, folks," he said. "Next show we take it to the next level."
"I'm looking forward to doing more than hanging around backstage," Clark grumbled to Bruce as the wrestlers trickled from the room.
They walked together back toward Bruce's car. "Luthor's right, though," Bruce said. "You have to pace it. Build tension. Get the crowd worked up."
"Speaking of which," Clark said, "Did you plant people in the crowd to start those JLI chants?"
Bruce stopped in the middle of opening his car door and gave Clark a wide-eyed look. "Clark Kent! Do you really think I'd do something that manipulative?"
"I'm beginning to suspect so," Clark said.
Bruce started the car and hummed a little under his breath, sounding pleased. Then he shook his head. "The truth is, I didn't," he said, a look of something like relief on his face. "I wasn't sure if maybe the JLI fans just wouldn't come, and nothing's lonelier than a single person chanting." He put the car into gear and moved out into the late-night Metropolis traffic. Lights flickered across the windshield and touched his face with color. "So where are you staying?"
Clark stretched and yawned. "God, I don't know. Just drop me off at a cheap hotel somewhere."
"Clark, you have to plan ahead. You can't just wing it all the time."
"Plans are overrated," Clark said. "I never planned on getting a permanent contract with the DCW, and here I am."
"Exactly," Bruce said with emphasis. "Look, I've got a place here in Metropolis."
"For nights you don't have the energy to drive back to stately Wayne Manor?"
"Exactly," said Bruce, deadpan. "You can crash there tonight if you like."
"Really? Sure, that'd be great." To be honest, Clark was more excited at the idea of seeing someplace Bruce called home than at not spending the night in a hotel. How would Bruce decorate an apartment? Would he have a place that matched his gimmick, some penthouse on the top floor? Would it be cluttered or elegant or cozy?
As it turned out, it was none of these things. It was instead an entirely bland set of beige boxes in a building of middling price, with no decorations on the walls, no photos, and only the most functional and Spartan of furniture. It revealed nothing about Bruce at all.
Which was, Clark reflected as he looked at the utterly utilitarian, impersonal surroundings, ironically revealing.
"How homey," he said, dropping his gym bag on the floor.
"There's no need to be snarky," Bruce said. "It keeps out the rain and gives me a place to sleep, I don't need it to be anything else. I prefer to spend my hard-earned cash on things that further the gimmick--cars, suits, public stuff." He tossed a blanket at Clark and peeled his sweatshirt off, heading toward the bedroom. "Get some sleep."
The door closed behind him.
Clark changed into his pajamas and washed his face--even the bathroom had no personality, it was stocked with soap and shampoo from hotel samples, with scratchy white towels hanging limply from the holders. The whole place felt temporary, transient, ephemeral: the living quarters of a man with no ties and no joy beyond wrestling. There was a certain purity to it, Clark thought, but somehow it made him sad.
The couch was hard, but long enough for his long frame, which was rare in a sofa. Clark drifted off to sleep thinking that if he ever found out when Bruce's birthday was, he'd have to give him some art to break up the monotony of those depressing blank walls.
---
(Chapter 16: Dirt Sheets)
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Lois Lane, Lex Luthor, Dick Grayson, Jimmy Olsen, Darkseid
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2700
Summary: Clark arrives in Metropolis, dodges a nosy reporter, gets introduced to some of the DCW's roster, and gets offered a place to crash for the night.
A funny side note is that Hawk came up with the Legion of Doom name while we were all sitting around watching TV one afternoon. This cartoon, Challenge of the Super Friends, came on and as the intro played and showed all of the bad guys led by Lex Luthor, a voice announced them as the Legion of Doom.
“We’ve gotta use that,” Hawk said.
“Great idea, Hawk,” Paul said. “We’ll be the Legion of Doom and destroy everything." --Joe Laurinitis
"Mr. Kent? Mr. Kent! Excuse me, you are Clark Kent, aren't you?"
Clark swung his bag off the baggage carousel and tried to dodge the woman, but she stepped into his path again.
"Lois Lane. I work for the Wrestling Planet."
"I'm...familiar with your work," Clark said politely.
Her quick smile didn't reach her eyes. "Is it true that you've signed a contract to work for Lex Luthor?"
"I really have no comment on that," Clark said, lifting his bag and starting to walk away.
"Then why are you in a Metropolis airport?" Lane persisted, following him. "The DCW is the only game in town here."
"I'm visiting a friend," Clark said. "Now please, if you'll excuse me..." He moved past her and hurried outside to the street.
A familiar black Lexus pulled up and Clark tossed his bag in the back and jumped in. "Good timing," he said to the driver.
Bruce was wearing a cap pulled down low over his eyes and a ratty sweatshirt. "Always," he said as they pulled away from the curb. "So did you get grilled by Mad Dog Lane?"
"You saw her?" Bruce lifted an eyebrow at him, zipping in and out of traffic: Of course I saw her. "Yeah, she caught me in baggage claim."
"Good."
"I hate being dishonest," Clark said.
Bruce slugged him on the shoulder. "I bet you didn't tell a single lie."
"I said I was in town to visit a friend."
"Well," Bruce said, "Here I am. You're visiting me." He grinned at Clark. "It's all part of the game, Clark. Folks from the Planet try to guess what's going on in the industry, people like Luthor try to use that publicity to their own ends. When they publish that they spotted you in Metropolis, it'll get all the message boards buzzing." He glanced at his watch. "We've got some time before we're supposed to report to the arena; how about we grab some lunch and you tell me how your trip home went?"
They went through a Big Belly Burger drive-through and ate in a parking garage as Clark talked about his trip to Smallville. "It was good to have some time off, let the ribs heal. My parents were happy to see me, too." Clark started to unwrap a second hamburger. "They were sorry they didn't get a chance to meet you."
"I appreciated the invitation," Bruce said. "But I hadn't had much time at home for a while and I had some things I had to catch up on."
"Reports from the butler about the household expenses?" Clark asked with a smirk. "Or your gardener about the latest additions to the rose garden? Or--wait, I know--the chauffeur needed your approval for some upgrades to the Lamborghini."
Bruce laughed. "Not exactly. I mean, the rose garden is fine. The Zen rock garden, on the other hand..." He trailed off, chuckling. "Anyway, I don't get much time to spend with my--well, my foster-father, the man who raised me," he said. "It was good to see him again."
Clark didn't push, but filed that bit of information away. Bruce never spoke of his personal life. Foster-father. Does that mean he was a street kid? Ward of the state? A lot of wrestlers came from backgrounds where wrestling was a way to break a cycle of abuse and poverty. That would explain his intensity and devotion to the business, his love of his gimmick: a chance to live a dream life, impersonating the rich kid whose name you happened to share.
But Clark had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Bruce Wayne truly was a man of mystery.
"Okay," said Bruce, polishing off his french fries and fastidiously collapsing all the waste into a neat package. "Time to report to our new workplace."
They slipped in through the back door, hiding their faces in case any fans were looking. Mercy Graves met them at the door and wordlessly showed them to the common room, milling with people both familiar and unknown.
Clark looked around the room, swallowing hard and remembering how Guy had taken him under his wing and shown him around. No one seemed willing to do that here, and Guy was off in Japan, busting heads and making fans. As low man on the totem pole, it was Clark's responsibility to go up to each wrestler and introduce himself--as Bruce was doing now, shaking hands with a lanky man who Clark recognized as Jonathan Crane (AKA The Physician of Fear, the Scarecrow). Bruce shot Clark a quick look and raised an eyebrow, and Clark surreptitiously wiped his damp palms on his jeans and stepped up to the nearest person.
"Pleasure to meet you," he said. "I'm Clark Kent. You must be the Elongated Man."
The man turned with a smile. "The Man of Infinite Holds, or Ralph Dibny when I'm off-duty," he said, taking Clark's hand. "Nice to meet you."
After that it was easier. Clark shook hands with everyone there that evening, from the big stars like current title holder Hal Jordan and Oliver Queen down to the jobbers like Magpie and Ambush Bug, even the road crew. Only little flashes remained in his memory later: Diana Prince's strong handclasp and assessing look; commentator Jimmy Olsen stammering that he was a big fan; Billy Batson pretending they'd never met and trying to shake his hand hard enough to crush it; Pamela Isley tossing her red hair and feeling his biceps while mentioning how impressive his Youtube video was.
"Hey Kent!" Bruce's voice pulled him away from small talk with a sandy-haired man who called himself Milton Fine, "The Modern Svengali." "Allow me to introduce you to--"
"--The Flying Graysons!" Clark knew he was beaming like an idiot as he hurried over and shook their hands, but he couldn't help it. "I've been your fan all my life. You were at the first show I ever attended. It was your debut," he said to Mary Grayson.
She smiled with delight. "I remember that show! Topeka, right?"
"You put Per Degaton in a headlock," Clark said, and she threw back her head and laughed.
"You see, Dick," she said to the teenaged boy standing slightly behind her, "Your mother was more than just window dressing once."
"That's not fair," the boy protested, and she rumpled his hair.
"My son is saying his parents should be thinking about retirement," Mary said. "Mr. Kent, this is Dick Grayson, the latest of a long line of Flying Graysons."
Dick Grayson shook his hand, beaming. "I was just telling Mr. Wayne I love the work you two have been doing," he said. "Those aerial moves are just fantastic. And I didn't say you should retire," he added indignantly to his mother. "I just think you could cut back a little."
"And you'd like to step up more, I know," said his father.
"I'm ready to wrestle," Dick said. "I've been your valet my whole life, I was performing before I could walk, Wildcat himself taught me how to take a bump when I was twelve, you know I'm ready. I'm tired of always being outside the ring for other wrestlers to kidnap or brainwash or whatever crazy storyline is going on." He turned to Bruce, appealing. "Do you know what they call me in the locker room? The Boy Hostage."
"Well," said Mary as Clark and Bruce hid their smiles, "You'll always be the Boy Wonder to us."
"Are you done making your case?" said John Grayson. Dick nodded, hanging his head. "Because I talked to Mr. Luthor, and he agrees you're ready to step up and see some ring action."
"Whoo hoo!" yelled Dick, and did a sudden backflip as if he couldn't contain his delight. "Who do I get to be in an angle with--Killer Croc? Man-Bat? Scarecrow?"
His father laughed. "Dick, you're the youngest wrestler in the company. You'll be wrestling whoever needs a match that show, and you'll probably be losing all of them for a while."
"But losing with style," Dick crowed. "Oh man, I gotta get practicing. Mr. Wayne, can I show you my senton bomb sometime? Yours is gorgeous!"
Soon he and Bruce were deep in a conversation about rotation and lift as his parents watched fondly. "He's right," said his mother. "He's ready to step up." She gave her husband's arm a squeeze. "But I'm not ready to retire quite so soon," she said.
John kissed the top of her head. "The Flying Graysons aren't done yet," he said.
: : :
None of the JLI wrestlers were to appear on stage that night, so they all watched the monitor in the common room as a nervous Jimmy Olsen interviewed Lex Luthor and Darkseid in the center of the ring. "S--So, Mr. Luthor," he quavered, holding the mic up, "I hear you traveled to Philadelphia last week. How was your trip?"
Darkseid and Luthor laughed as though they were trying to outdo each other in some kind of malign-off. "Ah, Jimmy, my boy," said Luthor. "It was a great trip. Wasn't it, Darkseid?"
"Indeed," boomed Darkseid. "I also relished the opportunity to grind a pitiful promotion into dust beneath my heel, to hear their frantic mewling cries for mercy. But Darkseid knows no mercy!"
"Yes, it was a great success," said Luthor. "In fact, I think I can say--"
And then the lights went out and the arena was plunged into darkness.
Gasps rustled around the arena in the pitch-blackness, and there was a sound of muffled blows and thumps.
When the lights came back on, Darkseid and Luthor were lying sprawled in the ring, unconscious, while a baffled Jimmy Olsen looked around wildly.
Clark could hear confusion give way to delight as Luthor sat up groggily and a piece of cloth slid off his chest. Staggering to his feet, he clutched it in his hands, unfurling it to reveal--a JLI t-shirt.
Luthor glared out at the audience, pivoting on his heel to stare wildly at every corner of the arena. "Find who did this!" he howled, and Darkseid lumbered out of the ring to roam through the crowd, shoving and pushing gleeful fans.
"JLI!" cried a lone voice from the stands. Another joined in, and then another, and soon a ragged chant was echoing around the arena, taunting the wild-eyed Luthor. Wherever Darkseid roamed, the chanters always seemed to be just out of reach.
"Don't you get it, you losers? I won!" cried Luthor, and he seized the shirt and ripped it, tearing the logo in two. "I defeated them!" He threw the shirt out into the crowd and stalked back up the ramp, throwing looks of fury in every direction. He turned at the top of the ramp and gestured to the cameras. "That's it!" he yelled. "Cut the cameras! We're done!"
And the show came to an abrupt end.
"Nice touch," Bruce said to Luthor backstage as he polished off a bottle of Evian water, "Planting someone to start those JLI chants."
Luthor's eyes narrowed and he tossed the empty bottle to Mercy, who caught it out of the air without looking up from her phone. "I didn't plant anyone," he said. "I didn't need to. Totally predictable. Every smark desperately wants to mark out for someone."
Bruce's eyebrows rose.
"Your little promotion had its fans," Luthor said. "That's the point of all of this, after all. I don't care what they chant, as long as they're buying tickets to my show now." He picked up the ripped JLI shirt from a table and tossed it at Bruce. "I'm going to make more money off of JLI shirts than the JLI ever did."
Bruce folded the shirt, putting the torn edges together, and put it back down. "Let's hope so," he said.
Luthor gave him a long look, then turned to address the room. "That's the beginning of the counter-invasion, folks," he said. "Next show we take it to the next level."
"I'm looking forward to doing more than hanging around backstage," Clark grumbled to Bruce as the wrestlers trickled from the room.
They walked together back toward Bruce's car. "Luthor's right, though," Bruce said. "You have to pace it. Build tension. Get the crowd worked up."
"Speaking of which," Clark said, "Did you plant people in the crowd to start those JLI chants?"
Bruce stopped in the middle of opening his car door and gave Clark a wide-eyed look. "Clark Kent! Do you really think I'd do something that manipulative?"
"I'm beginning to suspect so," Clark said.
Bruce started the car and hummed a little under his breath, sounding pleased. Then he shook his head. "The truth is, I didn't," he said, a look of something like relief on his face. "I wasn't sure if maybe the JLI fans just wouldn't come, and nothing's lonelier than a single person chanting." He put the car into gear and moved out into the late-night Metropolis traffic. Lights flickered across the windshield and touched his face with color. "So where are you staying?"
Clark stretched and yawned. "God, I don't know. Just drop me off at a cheap hotel somewhere."
"Clark, you have to plan ahead. You can't just wing it all the time."
"Plans are overrated," Clark said. "I never planned on getting a permanent contract with the DCW, and here I am."
"Exactly," Bruce said with emphasis. "Look, I've got a place here in Metropolis."
"For nights you don't have the energy to drive back to stately Wayne Manor?"
"Exactly," said Bruce, deadpan. "You can crash there tonight if you like."
"Really? Sure, that'd be great." To be honest, Clark was more excited at the idea of seeing someplace Bruce called home than at not spending the night in a hotel. How would Bruce decorate an apartment? Would he have a place that matched his gimmick, some penthouse on the top floor? Would it be cluttered or elegant or cozy?
As it turned out, it was none of these things. It was instead an entirely bland set of beige boxes in a building of middling price, with no decorations on the walls, no photos, and only the most functional and Spartan of furniture. It revealed nothing about Bruce at all.
Which was, Clark reflected as he looked at the utterly utilitarian, impersonal surroundings, ironically revealing.
"How homey," he said, dropping his gym bag on the floor.
"There's no need to be snarky," Bruce said. "It keeps out the rain and gives me a place to sleep, I don't need it to be anything else. I prefer to spend my hard-earned cash on things that further the gimmick--cars, suits, public stuff." He tossed a blanket at Clark and peeled his sweatshirt off, heading toward the bedroom. "Get some sleep."
The door closed behind him.
Clark changed into his pajamas and washed his face--even the bathroom had no personality, it was stocked with soap and shampoo from hotel samples, with scratchy white towels hanging limply from the holders. The whole place felt temporary, transient, ephemeral: the living quarters of a man with no ties and no joy beyond wrestling. There was a certain purity to it, Clark thought, but somehow it made him sad.
The couch was hard, but long enough for his long frame, which was rare in a sofa. Clark drifted off to sleep thinking that if he ever found out when Bruce's birthday was, he'd have to give him some art to break up the monotony of those depressing blank walls.
---
(Chapter 16: Dirt Sheets)