Heroes of the Squared Circle 20: Scattered Fragments
Title: Scattered Fragments
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Waylon Jones, Jack Napier, Dick Grayson, Lex Luthor
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death
Rating: PG
Word Count 2800
Summary: Tragedy strikes the DCW.
For me, the emotion was always real, especially the heartbreak. --Bret Hart
"See, there, Dick?" Clark looked up from his sudoku to see Bruce tap the remote, pausing the video on the screen: Dick Grayson frozen as he came out of a handstand to bodyslam Two-Face. "That's the problem."
"I thought it looked pretty good," mumbled Dick from where he was sprawled on the torn and stained backstage couches.
"It looked beautiful," said Bruce. "Fluid. Graceful. Effortless. And that's exactly the problem." He rewound the video to where Two-Face had pinned Dick in the Double Trouble armlock, wrenching his arm behind his back. "Your arm's supposed to be injured. The smarks will notice that you're not being consistent--and more importantly, the marks will too, just at a subconscious level. The performance won't convince them."
Dick eyed the video glumly. "Gosh, Bruce, I guess you're right," he said. "But I can't help it, it's just so much fun to finally be out there, I can't hide it to be all grim and gloomy."
Bruce sighed. "The audience wants to see someone overcoming great odds to defeat evil," he said. "As long as you don't seem to be struggling, people aren't going to believe that you're truly triumphing. Luthor thinks that it's impossible for guys with lighter builds to convince the audience they can beat a big wrestler. I think it's possible--but only if you can sell how much it's costing you to win."
Dick sank deeper in his chair, and Clark shot Bruce a quick look: Lighten up a little, you're discouraging him. Bruce glared back at him, annoyed, then took a deep breath and smiled at Dick. "I wouldn't be harping on this if I didn't think you had it in you, Dick," he said. "Don't worry, there'll be plenty of time to work on your ring skills. And there's lots of places for joy in wrestling, too. You'll get all the pieces together eventually."
Dick snickered, his dark mood vanishing without transition. "I'll have lots of chances to work on selling losing, the way Luthor's got me booked. Maybe he'll forget and book me to win a match someday by accident."
"Ready to call it a night, son?" John Grayson appeared in the doorway. "You still need to get that history homework done tonight, and your mother's waiting."
"Gosh, that's right." Dick jumped to his feet. "Thanks Bruce, thanks Clark."
"I'd like to thank you as well," said John as Dick scampered from the room. "For taking him under your wing. He's needed some extra guidance, and--well, no son has ever completely enjoyed taking advice from their father."
"He's a good kid," said Bruce, standing and shaking John's hand. "It's my pleasure."
"I'll see you in Gotham tomorrow," said John. "We Gotham kids have to give our hometown the best show we can, right?" He cuffed Bruce lightly on the shoulder and left.
"He's good for you," said Clark as they finished cleaning up the common room and headed for the exit. "You've been--I don't know--more relaxed since you started those informal lessons." Happier, he almost said, but didn't.
"Really?" Bruce looked thoughtful.
They stopped at the T where Clark would go left to one exit and Bruce right to another: no leaving together now that they were in an angle. "Really," he said, smiling at Bruce's contemplative expression. "You just seem to be enjoying yourself more lately."
"Hm," said Bruce. "That might be true. Of course, there's another potential reason," he said as he turned away.
"Yes?" Clark called to his retreating back. "Care to elaborate?"
Bruce didn't turn back around. "Well, I'm finally back in an angle with you," his voice drifted back as he lifted his hand in a casual gesture: Elementary.
: : :
Gotham. Home of some of the most rabid wrestling fans in the world. The Grayson's home town. A packed auditorium looking up into the rafters in anticipation of their sparkling descent.
Throughout his career, interviewers would sometimes ask Clark Kent what his feelings had been on that horrible night. Usually Clark would just stare at them and they learned to not ask the question. In part he stared because it was no one's damn business and he wasn't going to reward ghoulish questions. But in part it was because his memories of the night were scattered at best: broken fragments, still sharp and bright, that he couldn't seem to assemble without pain.
: : :
It started like any other show: a swirl of preparations for the live cameras, the usual combination of tedium and chaos. The sound crew checking the mics. The fresh smells of oil and wood overlaid across the deeper scent of spilled beer and sweat that seemed to be ground into the bones of wrestling venues.
It started with fireworks, and music, and the sharp joyous growl of the crowd as Sinistro entered to a whirl of yellow lasers and space opera chords.
Just like any other night.
People were chattering in the common room as the show progressed: Harvey was playing solitaire, Selina was cautiously stretching in her new patent-leather outfit, and Clark and Bruce were half-heartedly arm-wrestling, neither of them trying very hard to win.
The Flying Grayson music hit and spotlights swirled to the rafters, where John and Mary Grayson stood together on the platform, the golden wings on their red leotards glinting as they waved at the screaming crowd. Glorious Godfrey's voice was an excited yammer as he talked about the Graysons' return to Gotham and their feud with Killer Croc.
Croc's growling music cut across his voice and the cheers of the crowd, and sullen green fireworks marked the arrival of the King of the Sewers. The camera and the crowd swiveled to catch his strutting entrance, the happy jubilation muting to a mutter of dislike for the monster heel.
And over the noise, there was a distinct crack, as clear and cold as ice.
The crowd murmur shifted abruptly into something Clark had never heard before, a buzz of confusion, and Clark heard Godfrey gasp "Merciful God!" There was horror and shock in his voice that the cynical manipulator of human reaction would never allow, and Clark knew immediately that he was breaking kayfabe, that something truly horrible had happened.
Everyone in the common room was on their feet now, staring at the jumble of images on the screen as frantic directors in the control room switched from camera to camera, unsure what to show. Clark caught a glimpse of Godfrey's twisted face, a wild sweep of the suddenly-silent crowd, a flash of Waylon Jones running toward the ring--and then the camera settled on the ring and the two forms lying within it.
"What happened?" someone asked blankly. "What--"
The camera caught a glimpse of Mary Grayson's face as Waylon bent over her and then flinched away, swinging back to look at the audience. The room went very still.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your patience, please," Godfrey was stammering into his mic as referees and medics streamed down the aisles. The camera did not return to the ring. "This is--this is not part of the show, I'm afraid. This is real and you need to stay calm, please."
"Dick," said a voice at Clark's elbow. He turned to see Bruce, his face white, his eyes still fixed on the screen. "Where's Dick?"
He whirled and ran from the room and Clark followed him. Behind them, the stunned silence was giving way to sobs and curses, and Bruce was running like a madman through the halls, shoving people aside and yelling for Dick.
They caught up to him just as he ran out onto the ramp and slammed directly into Waylon, his green makeup blurred and streaked with tears. In a nightmare detail he could never forget later, Clark saw a spattering of blood on one of his shoes. "No, Dick," said Waylon, trying to hold him back. "No, you don't want--there's nothing you can--"
Dick punched him in the jaw, a real punch with the weight of anguish behind it, and ran toward the ring, his short yellow cape gleaming like a banner in the darkness.
"He needed to be there, Jones," said Bruce. He started striding toward the ring.
Waylon was rubbing his jaw as Clark helped him to his feet. "I know," he said. "I just didn't want him to--ah, damn it all," he said hopelessly.
In the ring, Dick was holding his parents' hands as they were lifted gently onto stretchers. Their fingers lay in his grip, lax and motionless. As the stretchers started to be wheeled away, Bruce put an arm around his shoulders; Dick struck it away angrily. Then he turned with a broken jerk and leaned against Bruce, burying his head in his shoulder, his body shaking.
"The poor kid," said Waylon. "Damn it all to hell."
: : :
"I've just gotten confirmation from Dr. Thompkins that Mary Grayson died in the ring and John Grayson died on the way to the hospital without ever regaining consciousness." Lex Luthor's face was pale and his eyes were like chips of jade as he spoke to the assembled wrestlers. Selina made a choked sound and Harvey put his arm around her. "We have not released this information to the audience yet. And thus we have a decision to make. Do we cancel the rest of the show, or do we hold that information back and complete the program?" He took a breath. "I want to finish the show. I think John and Mary would have wanted it." Someone muttered something under their breath and his eyes glinted. "But if consensus is against it, I will cancel the show. And no one is required to perform if we go on, of course."
"Always thinking about what's good for business," Barda sneered. "You cold-hearted--"
"--What would you have me do?" Luthor said, icy and precise. "Will tears erase the last half hour? If they would, believe me, I would shed them. But as they will not, we need to control that which we can."
"I'm willing to go out there and wrestle," said Clark. Everyone turned to look at him. "For the kids in the audience, to give them something to take home other than nightmares. But I don't have an opponent." For Bruce had simply announced that he was going to the hospital with Dick and had disappeared into the night.
"I'll wrestle you," said Waylon. "I gotta hit something."
"I'll wrestle too," said Napier.
"No jokes," said Luthor, pointing at him, and Jack deflated somewhat but still agreed to wrestle.
After putting together a patchwork and random schedule, Luthor sent the first pair out to the ring. "No banter, no posturing," he said to Flash and Captain Boomerang. "Just give them a show, do some moves. I don't care who wins and who loses, you work it out among yourselves." He turned to the rest of the room as the wrestlers left. "The rest of you--I need you online."
Everyone gaped at him. "What?" said Crane.
"Laptops, phones, I don't care," said Luthor. "I need everyone not wrestling to get to work getting every single video of the accident pulled."
"Oh God," said Selina. "They'll be everywhere."
"It's not so bad," said Jimmy Olsen from the corner where he'd been typing on a laptop. "The official cameras weren't on them, and most of the audience was looking at Croc's entrance when--when it happened. But there's still a lot to deal with."
"Crane, Kyle, Jordan, Queen--you four focus on Youtube." He waved a hand in the air. "Jimmy, where else do kids today do the uploading thing?"
"We'll need some people in 4chan and Reddit," said Jimmy.
"Mercy, you organize them," said Luthor. "Make sure everyone's got a copy of the standard C&D to work from. And make sure someone's checking the goddamn Planet, those ghouls are sure to have links. Shut them down hard. The rest of you, put on a good show." He paused and cleared his throat. "Not for me, but for John and Mary."
: : :
It was a strange match. The crowd was nearly silent, and as Killer Croc and Country Clark had no angle together there was no energy in the fight. But they went through the motions, though Clark nearly had to stop when he realized he was standing on the exact spot where--he dodged to the left and Waylon gave him a knowing, sympathetic look.
They avoided that corner for the rest of the match.
He went backstage after and joined the effort to keep the videos off the Internet as much as possible. People announced with grim satisfaction how quickly they'd gotten a video pulled: "Only three minutes on that one," Harvey gloated, his mouth a set line.
"Take a break," a voice said at some point, and Clark blinked up from the computer as a sandwich materialized in front of him, The sandwich was connected to Selina Kyle, who waved it at him. "You haven't eaten a thing tonight."
Clark took the sandwich without a word and wandered out into the auditorium. The show had ended a little while ago, and it was mostly-empty now, dark and sepulchral. Nibbling on tasteless bread, he roamed the aisles, trying to imagine smiles there rather than ashen faces.
His foot turned on something.
Bending down, he picked it up: a bolt, oddly short. The bottom looked raw, as if it had been sheared off.
"I got another, Tony!" someone hissed off in a different section, and Clark straightened, frowning.
"Good, good." The second voice was strained. "That's almost all of 'em. Thank God."
"Can I help you with something?" Clark called, and the owner of the second voice stood up abruptly from between two aisles. The name stitched on his coveralls said "Zucco Construction." He was sweating.
"No sir," he said. He looked around the nearly-empty arena. "Look, you shouldn't be here. Um...union rules."
"No problem," said Clark, and went back to work at his computer, frowning.
After another long, blurry time scouring 4chan, Clark slowly became aware someone was standing at his shoulder. "Let's go," said Bruce at the exact moment it fully registered he was there.
Rubbing his eyes, Clark stood up and followed Bruce through the corridors of the auditorium and out into a muggy Gotham night.
Bruce walked without speaking, and Clark fell into step beside him until they came to a small park with a bench. Together they sat for a while, gazing at the bed of florid tiger lilies in front of them.
"Dick's staying with Scott and Barda tonight," said Bruce without preamble. "He needed to be with someone who was...better at normal than I am."
"But you were there for him," Clark said to the bleak undertone in Bruce's voice. "In the ambulance and the hospital, when he needed you."
"I couldn't let him face that alone," Bruce said.
Clark looked at his profile, how his eyes seemed to swallow the darkness of the city and give back no light at all. "You've been through something like this," he said on a sudden impulse. "You've seen people you care about--" He couldn't finish the sentence, because Bruce was looking at him now, his face eerily still, perfect as a marble carving and as devoid of feeling. But Clark knew him too well for that by now.
"Something like this, yes," Bruce said. His eyes seemed slowly to focus on Clark's face, and some of the lost look went out of them. He took a breath. "Clark, I--"
"--That's why you're so good at this 'Billionaire Brucie' gimmick," Clark said, realization hitting him. "You never forget that he's not just some spoiled rich guy, that underneath it all there's a kid who saw his parents die in front of him: a scared kid who doesn't believe that love can come without a price to be paid."
Bruce blinked. Then he smiled, and there was a bitter edge to it, turned inward. "Maybe he and I aren't so different, in some ways."
"Well, you're working for a living and he's probably in the lap of luxury in a marble mansion on a fantasy island somewhere, but besides that I'm sure you've got a lot in common." Clark chuckled, but Bruce didn't join in, and the strained look was still in his eyes. "Hey, if you ever want to talk about it, about your--"
Bruce shook his head sharply. "I should be focusing on Dick instead of dwelling on my own issues," he said.
"Speaking of which…" Clark reached into his pocket. "Do you think this is anything important?"
The broken bolt gleamed in the palm of his hand, inert and ominous as a bullet.
---
( Chapter 21: A Little Investigation)
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Waylon Jones, Jack Napier, Dick Grayson, Lex Luthor
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death
Rating: PG
Word Count 2800
Summary: Tragedy strikes the DCW.
For me, the emotion was always real, especially the heartbreak. --Bret Hart
"See, there, Dick?" Clark looked up from his sudoku to see Bruce tap the remote, pausing the video on the screen: Dick Grayson frozen as he came out of a handstand to bodyslam Two-Face. "That's the problem."
"I thought it looked pretty good," mumbled Dick from where he was sprawled on the torn and stained backstage couches.
"It looked beautiful," said Bruce. "Fluid. Graceful. Effortless. And that's exactly the problem." He rewound the video to where Two-Face had pinned Dick in the Double Trouble armlock, wrenching his arm behind his back. "Your arm's supposed to be injured. The smarks will notice that you're not being consistent--and more importantly, the marks will too, just at a subconscious level. The performance won't convince them."
Dick eyed the video glumly. "Gosh, Bruce, I guess you're right," he said. "But I can't help it, it's just so much fun to finally be out there, I can't hide it to be all grim and gloomy."
Bruce sighed. "The audience wants to see someone overcoming great odds to defeat evil," he said. "As long as you don't seem to be struggling, people aren't going to believe that you're truly triumphing. Luthor thinks that it's impossible for guys with lighter builds to convince the audience they can beat a big wrestler. I think it's possible--but only if you can sell how much it's costing you to win."
Dick sank deeper in his chair, and Clark shot Bruce a quick look: Lighten up a little, you're discouraging him. Bruce glared back at him, annoyed, then took a deep breath and smiled at Dick. "I wouldn't be harping on this if I didn't think you had it in you, Dick," he said. "Don't worry, there'll be plenty of time to work on your ring skills. And there's lots of places for joy in wrestling, too. You'll get all the pieces together eventually."
Dick snickered, his dark mood vanishing without transition. "I'll have lots of chances to work on selling losing, the way Luthor's got me booked. Maybe he'll forget and book me to win a match someday by accident."
"Ready to call it a night, son?" John Grayson appeared in the doorway. "You still need to get that history homework done tonight, and your mother's waiting."
"Gosh, that's right." Dick jumped to his feet. "Thanks Bruce, thanks Clark."
"I'd like to thank you as well," said John as Dick scampered from the room. "For taking him under your wing. He's needed some extra guidance, and--well, no son has ever completely enjoyed taking advice from their father."
"He's a good kid," said Bruce, standing and shaking John's hand. "It's my pleasure."
"I'll see you in Gotham tomorrow," said John. "We Gotham kids have to give our hometown the best show we can, right?" He cuffed Bruce lightly on the shoulder and left.
"He's good for you," said Clark as they finished cleaning up the common room and headed for the exit. "You've been--I don't know--more relaxed since you started those informal lessons." Happier, he almost said, but didn't.
"Really?" Bruce looked thoughtful.
They stopped at the T where Clark would go left to one exit and Bruce right to another: no leaving together now that they were in an angle. "Really," he said, smiling at Bruce's contemplative expression. "You just seem to be enjoying yourself more lately."
"Hm," said Bruce. "That might be true. Of course, there's another potential reason," he said as he turned away.
"Yes?" Clark called to his retreating back. "Care to elaborate?"
Bruce didn't turn back around. "Well, I'm finally back in an angle with you," his voice drifted back as he lifted his hand in a casual gesture: Elementary.
: : :
Gotham. Home of some of the most rabid wrestling fans in the world. The Grayson's home town. A packed auditorium looking up into the rafters in anticipation of their sparkling descent.
Throughout his career, interviewers would sometimes ask Clark Kent what his feelings had been on that horrible night. Usually Clark would just stare at them and they learned to not ask the question. In part he stared because it was no one's damn business and he wasn't going to reward ghoulish questions. But in part it was because his memories of the night were scattered at best: broken fragments, still sharp and bright, that he couldn't seem to assemble without pain.
: : :
It started like any other show: a swirl of preparations for the live cameras, the usual combination of tedium and chaos. The sound crew checking the mics. The fresh smells of oil and wood overlaid across the deeper scent of spilled beer and sweat that seemed to be ground into the bones of wrestling venues.
It started with fireworks, and music, and the sharp joyous growl of the crowd as Sinistro entered to a whirl of yellow lasers and space opera chords.
Just like any other night.
People were chattering in the common room as the show progressed: Harvey was playing solitaire, Selina was cautiously stretching in her new patent-leather outfit, and Clark and Bruce were half-heartedly arm-wrestling, neither of them trying very hard to win.
The Flying Grayson music hit and spotlights swirled to the rafters, where John and Mary Grayson stood together on the platform, the golden wings on their red leotards glinting as they waved at the screaming crowd. Glorious Godfrey's voice was an excited yammer as he talked about the Graysons' return to Gotham and their feud with Killer Croc.
Croc's growling music cut across his voice and the cheers of the crowd, and sullen green fireworks marked the arrival of the King of the Sewers. The camera and the crowd swiveled to catch his strutting entrance, the happy jubilation muting to a mutter of dislike for the monster heel.
And over the noise, there was a distinct crack, as clear and cold as ice.
The crowd murmur shifted abruptly into something Clark had never heard before, a buzz of confusion, and Clark heard Godfrey gasp "Merciful God!" There was horror and shock in his voice that the cynical manipulator of human reaction would never allow, and Clark knew immediately that he was breaking kayfabe, that something truly horrible had happened.
Everyone in the common room was on their feet now, staring at the jumble of images on the screen as frantic directors in the control room switched from camera to camera, unsure what to show. Clark caught a glimpse of Godfrey's twisted face, a wild sweep of the suddenly-silent crowd, a flash of Waylon Jones running toward the ring--and then the camera settled on the ring and the two forms lying within it.
"What happened?" someone asked blankly. "What--"
The camera caught a glimpse of Mary Grayson's face as Waylon bent over her and then flinched away, swinging back to look at the audience. The room went very still.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your patience, please," Godfrey was stammering into his mic as referees and medics streamed down the aisles. The camera did not return to the ring. "This is--this is not part of the show, I'm afraid. This is real and you need to stay calm, please."
"Dick," said a voice at Clark's elbow. He turned to see Bruce, his face white, his eyes still fixed on the screen. "Where's Dick?"
He whirled and ran from the room and Clark followed him. Behind them, the stunned silence was giving way to sobs and curses, and Bruce was running like a madman through the halls, shoving people aside and yelling for Dick.
They caught up to him just as he ran out onto the ramp and slammed directly into Waylon, his green makeup blurred and streaked with tears. In a nightmare detail he could never forget later, Clark saw a spattering of blood on one of his shoes. "No, Dick," said Waylon, trying to hold him back. "No, you don't want--there's nothing you can--"
Dick punched him in the jaw, a real punch with the weight of anguish behind it, and ran toward the ring, his short yellow cape gleaming like a banner in the darkness.
"He needed to be there, Jones," said Bruce. He started striding toward the ring.
Waylon was rubbing his jaw as Clark helped him to his feet. "I know," he said. "I just didn't want him to--ah, damn it all," he said hopelessly.
In the ring, Dick was holding his parents' hands as they were lifted gently onto stretchers. Their fingers lay in his grip, lax and motionless. As the stretchers started to be wheeled away, Bruce put an arm around his shoulders; Dick struck it away angrily. Then he turned with a broken jerk and leaned against Bruce, burying his head in his shoulder, his body shaking.
"The poor kid," said Waylon. "Damn it all to hell."
: : :
"I've just gotten confirmation from Dr. Thompkins that Mary Grayson died in the ring and John Grayson died on the way to the hospital without ever regaining consciousness." Lex Luthor's face was pale and his eyes were like chips of jade as he spoke to the assembled wrestlers. Selina made a choked sound and Harvey put his arm around her. "We have not released this information to the audience yet. And thus we have a decision to make. Do we cancel the rest of the show, or do we hold that information back and complete the program?" He took a breath. "I want to finish the show. I think John and Mary would have wanted it." Someone muttered something under their breath and his eyes glinted. "But if consensus is against it, I will cancel the show. And no one is required to perform if we go on, of course."
"Always thinking about what's good for business," Barda sneered. "You cold-hearted--"
"--What would you have me do?" Luthor said, icy and precise. "Will tears erase the last half hour? If they would, believe me, I would shed them. But as they will not, we need to control that which we can."
"I'm willing to go out there and wrestle," said Clark. Everyone turned to look at him. "For the kids in the audience, to give them something to take home other than nightmares. But I don't have an opponent." For Bruce had simply announced that he was going to the hospital with Dick and had disappeared into the night.
"I'll wrestle you," said Waylon. "I gotta hit something."
"I'll wrestle too," said Napier.
"No jokes," said Luthor, pointing at him, and Jack deflated somewhat but still agreed to wrestle.
After putting together a patchwork and random schedule, Luthor sent the first pair out to the ring. "No banter, no posturing," he said to Flash and Captain Boomerang. "Just give them a show, do some moves. I don't care who wins and who loses, you work it out among yourselves." He turned to the rest of the room as the wrestlers left. "The rest of you--I need you online."
Everyone gaped at him. "What?" said Crane.
"Laptops, phones, I don't care," said Luthor. "I need everyone not wrestling to get to work getting every single video of the accident pulled."
"Oh God," said Selina. "They'll be everywhere."
"It's not so bad," said Jimmy Olsen from the corner where he'd been typing on a laptop. "The official cameras weren't on them, and most of the audience was looking at Croc's entrance when--when it happened. But there's still a lot to deal with."
"Crane, Kyle, Jordan, Queen--you four focus on Youtube." He waved a hand in the air. "Jimmy, where else do kids today do the uploading thing?"
"We'll need some people in 4chan and Reddit," said Jimmy.
"Mercy, you organize them," said Luthor. "Make sure everyone's got a copy of the standard C&D to work from. And make sure someone's checking the goddamn Planet, those ghouls are sure to have links. Shut them down hard. The rest of you, put on a good show." He paused and cleared his throat. "Not for me, but for John and Mary."
: : :
It was a strange match. The crowd was nearly silent, and as Killer Croc and Country Clark had no angle together there was no energy in the fight. But they went through the motions, though Clark nearly had to stop when he realized he was standing on the exact spot where--he dodged to the left and Waylon gave him a knowing, sympathetic look.
They avoided that corner for the rest of the match.
He went backstage after and joined the effort to keep the videos off the Internet as much as possible. People announced with grim satisfaction how quickly they'd gotten a video pulled: "Only three minutes on that one," Harvey gloated, his mouth a set line.
"Take a break," a voice said at some point, and Clark blinked up from the computer as a sandwich materialized in front of him, The sandwich was connected to Selina Kyle, who waved it at him. "You haven't eaten a thing tonight."
Clark took the sandwich without a word and wandered out into the auditorium. The show had ended a little while ago, and it was mostly-empty now, dark and sepulchral. Nibbling on tasteless bread, he roamed the aisles, trying to imagine smiles there rather than ashen faces.
His foot turned on something.
Bending down, he picked it up: a bolt, oddly short. The bottom looked raw, as if it had been sheared off.
"I got another, Tony!" someone hissed off in a different section, and Clark straightened, frowning.
"Good, good." The second voice was strained. "That's almost all of 'em. Thank God."
"Can I help you with something?" Clark called, and the owner of the second voice stood up abruptly from between two aisles. The name stitched on his coveralls said "Zucco Construction." He was sweating.
"No sir," he said. He looked around the nearly-empty arena. "Look, you shouldn't be here. Um...union rules."
"No problem," said Clark, and went back to work at his computer, frowning.
After another long, blurry time scouring 4chan, Clark slowly became aware someone was standing at his shoulder. "Let's go," said Bruce at the exact moment it fully registered he was there.
Rubbing his eyes, Clark stood up and followed Bruce through the corridors of the auditorium and out into a muggy Gotham night.
Bruce walked without speaking, and Clark fell into step beside him until they came to a small park with a bench. Together they sat for a while, gazing at the bed of florid tiger lilies in front of them.
"Dick's staying with Scott and Barda tonight," said Bruce without preamble. "He needed to be with someone who was...better at normal than I am."
"But you were there for him," Clark said to the bleak undertone in Bruce's voice. "In the ambulance and the hospital, when he needed you."
"I couldn't let him face that alone," Bruce said.
Clark looked at his profile, how his eyes seemed to swallow the darkness of the city and give back no light at all. "You've been through something like this," he said on a sudden impulse. "You've seen people you care about--" He couldn't finish the sentence, because Bruce was looking at him now, his face eerily still, perfect as a marble carving and as devoid of feeling. But Clark knew him too well for that by now.
"Something like this, yes," Bruce said. His eyes seemed slowly to focus on Clark's face, and some of the lost look went out of them. He took a breath. "Clark, I--"
"--That's why you're so good at this 'Billionaire Brucie' gimmick," Clark said, realization hitting him. "You never forget that he's not just some spoiled rich guy, that underneath it all there's a kid who saw his parents die in front of him: a scared kid who doesn't believe that love can come without a price to be paid."
Bruce blinked. Then he smiled, and there was a bitter edge to it, turned inward. "Maybe he and I aren't so different, in some ways."
"Well, you're working for a living and he's probably in the lap of luxury in a marble mansion on a fantasy island somewhere, but besides that I'm sure you've got a lot in common." Clark chuckled, but Bruce didn't join in, and the strained look was still in his eyes. "Hey, if you ever want to talk about it, about your--"
Bruce shook his head sharply. "I should be focusing on Dick instead of dwelling on my own issues," he said.
"Speaking of which…" Clark reached into his pocket. "Do you think this is anything important?"
The broken bolt gleamed in the palm of his hand, inert and ominous as a bullet.
---
( Chapter 21: A Little Investigation)