Heroes of the Squared Circle 46: Confrontation
Title: Confrontation
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jean Paul Valley, Superboy, Wonder Woman, Waylon Jones
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 3505
Summary: Things come to a head with Jean Paul Valley as the Dark Knight.
One of the most ironic things about this business in that while it looks like we're competing in the ring, the truth is, that's the only time wrestlers are working together. It's in the back, in the dressing room, where the competition goes down. --Eddie Guerrero
“I have missed this,” Diana said with a smile, raising her mug of coffee to Clark’s in a toast.
Clark lifted his mug to hers; the tiny clink was nearly lost in the sound of the crowds bustling by. It was early summer, and Metropolis was awash in fresh green leaves and happy dogs and teens in tank tops. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said it was easy without you and Bruce around, but I’ve done my best to keep the women from having the kinds of schisms that are forming in the men’s locker room. Barbara helps a lot. Anyone who doesn’t happen to respect me respects Barbara--except Harley and Ivy.” Her mouth twisted. “I think they’ll come to their senses eventually, but for now dealing with the sulking and back-biting is a trial.” She shook her head, took a sip of coffee. “But it’s nothing like the problems on the men’s roster.”
“Dick won’t talk to me much about it,” said Clark.
“Of course he won’t. He feels like he can’t say anything strong against Jean Paul because Bruce gave his blessing for the belt to pass to him, but that doesn’t change the fact that the younger generation in particular sees him as a leader. They turn to him for advice.”
“And Valley holds it against him.”
Diana nodded. “It’s a bad situation.” She smiled at him over her coffee mug. “But I’m glad to have you to talk to about it again.”
“It’s hardest on Dick.” Bruce’s room was dark. Clark was lying next to him in bed--Alfred quietly packed the cot away some time ago, as Bruce’s recovery commenced. He wasn’t sure Bruce was awake, and then he heard Bruce’s voice, lower than a whisper:
“I know.”
“He’s trying,” Clark said. “But you didn’t choose him, so he can’t--he doesn’t feel like he can stand up to Valley.”
He heard a long, slow exhalation. “Dick has it in him to be the total package,” Bruce said. “A star in the ring, a leader in the locker room. But he’s not going to get there because I lay some bat-mantle on his shoulders. He’s got to step up on his own, without my support, or the other wrestlers will never accept him.” His hand found Clark’s in the darkness. “He’ll be greater than either of us one day,” he said.
Clark rolled over carefully and pressed a kiss into Bruce’s bare collarbone. “For certain definitions of ‘greater,’ I suppose,” he said.
“The Metropolis Kid is a gift from Rao!” Milton Fine--Brainiac--enthused to Clark Kent in a backstage interview, projected onto the Jumbotron. He was dressed in his usual sideshow carny clothes: a cheap suit and a bowler. Clark tried to keep the smile off his face as Fine went on earnestly, “Rao’s the sun god of the Kryptonians, you know.”
“So I heard,” said Clark, who had come up with the name himself.
“Yes, this son of Krypton is here to guide us through these dark days!” Fine lifted his voice into the quavering register he used when really getting into a promo. “With his clarity and his wisdom, he will lead us when all our hope is gone, a strong and stern scion of his father, gazing upon us with pitiless--”
“‘Sup, Brainiac?” Conner wandered into the frame, wearing his sunglasses and a lei of flowers. “I just got back from Hawaii, hope I’m not late for my match!”
Brainiac took in the sight of the Kryptonian’s heir and deflated visibly, leaving the scene with his shoulders slumped.
“He looks really stressed out,” the Metropolis Kid said to Clark. “He should take a vacation, don’t you think?”
Clark nodded, and the camera zoomed in on Conner’s concerned expression as he gazed after Brainiac.
“Can you believe this guy?” Tim said to Clark, pointing a thumb at a chagrined Conner as he sat down on the locker room bench. “You didn’t honestly think you could get that move approved, did you?” he said to Conner. “A top rope bodyscissors backflip into a back-to-back kneeling piledriver? Even Dick couldn’t pull that off.”
Conner shrugged. “Never know until you try,” he said. “I would’ve only done it with people I could really trust. You know, like you, if you ever get in the ring.”
Tim exhaled sharply. “As if. Especially now with Valley’s influence so strong.”
Clark frowned. “Have you pitched something to Luthor lately?”
“Just a few days ago. He says I’m not ready.” Tim punched his knee with his balled-up fist. “But really it’s all Valley. He says he doesn’t want to have to work with me, I’m a troublemaker.”
“You?”
Tim gave Clark a sour look. “My tendency to agree with Dick is not winning me brownie points with the current belt holder.” He punched his knee again. “But that’s fine, I don’t want to be Valley’s Robin anyway. Talk about a nightmare job. I suggested I be a Robin that teams up with Nightwing, and Luthor said that Nightwing stopped being Robin to be on his own, so it was dumb to saddle him with a partner.”
“He does have a point,” Conner said. “Narratively, I mean,” he added quickly when Tim glared at him.
“Well, I’m ready,” said Tim. “I’ll never be a big, bulky wrestler, but I’m ready to be out there in the ring. I just need Luthor--and Valley--to realize it.”
Conner clapped him on the back. “Soon, buddy.”
As it turned out, it was sooner than even they had expected.
Clark had finished his spot for that evening (a backstage interview with Barbara Gordon featuring a friendly run-in by her “two biggest fans,” Steph and Cass) and was playing solitaire in the common room when he heard Harvey Dent say “You’ve got to be kidding me” and a rustle of shock went across the room.
Clark looked up quickly to see the Dark Knight on the screen in all his current spiked and bristling glory, standing on the turnbuckle. Killer Croc lay on his back outside the ring, ready for the flying double foot stomp--not a risky move, but going it from the turnbuckle to the floor instead of the mat was always a challenge.
Except that Jean Paul wasn’t going to do the foot stomp.
“He’s not going to--” Selina’s words broke off in a gasp as Jean Paul launched himself from the turnbuckle away from the ring into a shooting star press: jumping forward and throwing in a backflip and a corkscrew for good measure. Clark caught a glimpse of Croc’s face shifting from startled to legitimately terrified as he shifted his body a few inches to the left to be in the right place, catching Valley has he finished his final rotation just in time.
”Holy shit!” yelled Roy Harper as Valley rolled off of Croc and the referee scrambled to do a quick check. The common room was galvanized--people staring at the screen or chattering agitatedly with the person next to them: Can you believe that? Jesus, he could have-- Both wrestlers seemed okay, if breathless, and for a while they just lay there with their sides heaving as the fans cheered and screamed, waving at them. Valley staggered to his feet first and grabbed KIller Croc, dragging him to the ring for the pin. “One! Two! Three!” chanted the crowd as the bell rang and the match finished the way it was booked to end.
Croc jumped to his feet and shoved the Dark Knight angrily, and the crowd murmured.
“Whoa there, Waylon, just let it go,” murmured Harvey Dent as Killer Croc cocked a fist, seemingly ready to deck the Dark Knight. The referee got in between them, and Clark could see real concern on his face as he pushed Waylon away from Valley.
Croc whirled and stalked out of the arena, glaring daggers at the booing fans as he went. The Dark Knight stayed behind in the ring to accept the cheers of the crowd for a moment, stoic and silent.
“You could have gotten us both killed!” Jones was yelling at Jean Paul Valley. Dick had ahold of his arm, keeping him from taking a swing at Valley. “You had no right doing that without telling me before!”
Valley had pulled the cowl off, revealing his bright yellow hair and steely eyes once more. “You saw it coming.”
“A damn stupid move like that--if you had told me before, I never would have agreed.”
“And we would have missed out on a spot that will be on highlight reels forever.”
Jones swore angrily. “Don’t pull that kind of suicidal move on--”
Valley was across the locker room before anyone could even react, his arm across Jones’ chest, shoving him against the lockers. “Don’t you speak to me that way,” he said, his voice icy with anger.
“Hey!” Clark grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “That was a dangerous stunt, he has every right to be mad.”
“For once I agree with Kent,” came Lex Luthor’s voice as he walked into the locker room, his eyes fixed on Valley. “That kind of showboating isn’t impressive. It’s wasteful. The move looks as good delivered onto the mat. There’s no reason to make it stupidly dangerous.”
Valley whirled on him, the Dark Knight cloak swirling with the movement. “I’m the belt-holder,” he snarled, “And that means I have to do more, to be more. I can’t rest on my laurels, I can’t get complacent, I always have to keep trying harder, being better, pushing myself.” He glared at Luthor, his breath coming short. “You don’t think I can do it. You don’t think I’m up to it. I’m just a replacement to you, just another cog in the machine to be switched out when it wears out. Well, I’m a human being who’s doing my best!” He slammed a fist against his chest, over his heart. “I’m not a machine, father!”
The last word fell heavily into the silent room. Luthor looked at Valley with narrowed eyes and said, “While I appreciate filial piety, I don’t have any sons that I know of.”
“I don’t--” For a moment, Valley looked almost lost. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Luthor made a small sound, caught somewhere between annoyance and understanding. “I suggest you figure it out before you speak to me again, then,” he said, and left the locker room.
Valley stared around the locker room, and his eyes locked on Clark’s. “You want to talk about dangerous stunts--at least all of mine have a purpose. It’s not just some glitzy self-aggrandizing entrance that could get you killed and your life wasted for nothing.”
The locker room went silent, and into the silence Dick Grayson stood up. “What did you just say?” he said, and his voice was so calm it was unnerving. Clark started to step forward, to get in between them--and then he saw how everyone in the locker room was watching him. Waiting to see what he’d do.
With an effort, Clark took a step back.
Valley swung on Dick with a sneer: “Oh, the scion of the Sainted Flying Graysons is heard from at last! The Flying Graysons, with their circus gimmick, with their spangles and smiles and pretty trapeze acts. That’s where we’re different, Grayson--” he spat the name like it was an insult, and Clark watched Dick’s face go even more still, “--Your parents taught you that this life was all fun and games and applause. While my father taught me that it was hard work and sacrifice!”
“Sacrifice?” Dick took a breath. “I guess your brothers would know a lot about that.”
Valley’s face twisted. ”How dare you!” He swung at Dick, a haymaker powered by nothing but rage and pain, and Dick dodged it easily, grabbing his arm and shoving him into the locker face-first.
“Now you listen to me,” Dick said, punctuating his words by grinding Valley’s face into the locker. “And you listen good. I don’t care that you’ve got the belt. I don’t care that Bruce chose you to be the Dark Knight. And I especially don’t care that you’ve got three inches and seventy pounds on me. You’re hurting people I care about, and you’re hurting a business that I care about, and you will. Stop it. Now.”
Valley pivoted and slammed himself up against Dick, pinning him between his bulk and the lockers even as Dick wrenched at his arm. He roared in rage as Dick pulled his arm backwards, hanging on doggedly. Everyone in the locker room made way for the brawlers--and a brawl it was: simple and ugly and totally removed from the kind of stylized fighting they all did in the ring. Jean Paul punched Dick in the face, a quick brutal jab, and Clark heard Tim groan. Blood pouring from his nose, Dick threw a punch in return and connected with Jean Paul’s eye.
“Take back what you said about my father!” Jean Paul screamed, his fist cocked back to hit Dick again.
“I didn’t say a thing about your father,” Dick yelled at him. “Would you for the love of God listen to yourself!”
“That’s enough,” came a new voice from the door, and Clark sucked in a breath of shock as he turned to see Bruce standing in the doorway, looking at Jean Paul and Dick. “Jean Paul,” said Bruce, walking toward him carefully, eyes fixed on him. “It’s enough. Dick is right. Listen to yourself. Don’t listen to your father--listen to yourself.”
Jean Paul stared at him as if he were a ghost. “I can’t,” he said, and it was nearly a sob. “I have to keep fighting. All the time. You don’t understand--I’m the only one left who can.”
“But I do understand,” said Bruce. “And I’m telling you, you need to let it go. It’s time to take a breath and step away from it all for a little while. You need to find your own reason to be in the ring. Your own love for the art. Just--stop carrying that weight around all the time. Jean Paul,” he said, very gently. “Your brothers wouldn’t have wanted you to be in such pain.”
Valley’s eyes filled with tears, and he dragged a hand across his face. “God,” he said, a muffled word that was almost a prayer, and then he sat down hard on the locker room bench and buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
Bruce looked over him and met Dick’s eyes, and a long look passed between them. Then Bruce walked over--he was still limping slightly--and rested a hand on Dick’s shoulder for a moment. He leaned close and whispered something in Dick’s ear, too low to be heard, and Dick nodded shakily, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve.
Dick stepped away from Bruce, and Clark noticed how many of the young wrestlers’ eyes followed him instead of his mentor.
“Well,” said Bruce, “Isn’t anyone going to welcome me back?”
A nervous ripple of laughter--it didn’t break the tension, but something eased from the room.
“Welcome back, Bruce,” said Dick.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jean Paul Valley, Superboy, Wonder Woman, Waylon Jones
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 3505
Summary: Things come to a head with Jean Paul Valley as the Dark Knight.
One of the most ironic things about this business in that while it looks like we're competing in the ring, the truth is, that's the only time wrestlers are working together. It's in the back, in the dressing room, where the competition goes down. --Eddie Guerrero
“I have missed this,” Diana said with a smile, raising her mug of coffee to Clark’s in a toast.
Clark lifted his mug to hers; the tiny clink was nearly lost in the sound of the crowds bustling by. It was early summer, and Metropolis was awash in fresh green leaves and happy dogs and teens in tank tops. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said it was easy without you and Bruce around, but I’ve done my best to keep the women from having the kinds of schisms that are forming in the men’s locker room. Barbara helps a lot. Anyone who doesn’t happen to respect me respects Barbara--except Harley and Ivy.” Her mouth twisted. “I think they’ll come to their senses eventually, but for now dealing with the sulking and back-biting is a trial.” She shook her head, took a sip of coffee. “But it’s nothing like the problems on the men’s roster.”
“Dick won’t talk to me much about it,” said Clark.
“Of course he won’t. He feels like he can’t say anything strong against Jean Paul because Bruce gave his blessing for the belt to pass to him, but that doesn’t change the fact that the younger generation in particular sees him as a leader. They turn to him for advice.”
“And Valley holds it against him.”
Diana nodded. “It’s a bad situation.” She smiled at him over her coffee mug. “But I’m glad to have you to talk to about it again.”
“It’s hardest on Dick.” Bruce’s room was dark. Clark was lying next to him in bed--Alfred quietly packed the cot away some time ago, as Bruce’s recovery commenced. He wasn’t sure Bruce was awake, and then he heard Bruce’s voice, lower than a whisper:
“I know.”
“He’s trying,” Clark said. “But you didn’t choose him, so he can’t--he doesn’t feel like he can stand up to Valley.”
He heard a long, slow exhalation. “Dick has it in him to be the total package,” Bruce said. “A star in the ring, a leader in the locker room. But he’s not going to get there because I lay some bat-mantle on his shoulders. He’s got to step up on his own, without my support, or the other wrestlers will never accept him.” His hand found Clark’s in the darkness. “He’ll be greater than either of us one day,” he said.
Clark rolled over carefully and pressed a kiss into Bruce’s bare collarbone. “For certain definitions of ‘greater,’ I suppose,” he said.
“The Metropolis Kid is a gift from Rao!” Milton Fine--Brainiac--enthused to Clark Kent in a backstage interview, projected onto the Jumbotron. He was dressed in his usual sideshow carny clothes: a cheap suit and a bowler. Clark tried to keep the smile off his face as Fine went on earnestly, “Rao’s the sun god of the Kryptonians, you know.”
“So I heard,” said Clark, who had come up with the name himself.
“Yes, this son of Krypton is here to guide us through these dark days!” Fine lifted his voice into the quavering register he used when really getting into a promo. “With his clarity and his wisdom, he will lead us when all our hope is gone, a strong and stern scion of his father, gazing upon us with pitiless--”
“‘Sup, Brainiac?” Conner wandered into the frame, wearing his sunglasses and a lei of flowers. “I just got back from Hawaii, hope I’m not late for my match!”
Brainiac took in the sight of the Kryptonian’s heir and deflated visibly, leaving the scene with his shoulders slumped.
“He looks really stressed out,” the Metropolis Kid said to Clark. “He should take a vacation, don’t you think?”
Clark nodded, and the camera zoomed in on Conner’s concerned expression as he gazed after Brainiac.
“Can you believe this guy?” Tim said to Clark, pointing a thumb at a chagrined Conner as he sat down on the locker room bench. “You didn’t honestly think you could get that move approved, did you?” he said to Conner. “A top rope bodyscissors backflip into a back-to-back kneeling piledriver? Even Dick couldn’t pull that off.”
Conner shrugged. “Never know until you try,” he said. “I would’ve only done it with people I could really trust. You know, like you, if you ever get in the ring.”
Tim exhaled sharply. “As if. Especially now with Valley’s influence so strong.”
Clark frowned. “Have you pitched something to Luthor lately?”
“Just a few days ago. He says I’m not ready.” Tim punched his knee with his balled-up fist. “But really it’s all Valley. He says he doesn’t want to have to work with me, I’m a troublemaker.”
“You?”
Tim gave Clark a sour look. “My tendency to agree with Dick is not winning me brownie points with the current belt holder.” He punched his knee again. “But that’s fine, I don’t want to be Valley’s Robin anyway. Talk about a nightmare job. I suggested I be a Robin that teams up with Nightwing, and Luthor said that Nightwing stopped being Robin to be on his own, so it was dumb to saddle him with a partner.”
“He does have a point,” Conner said. “Narratively, I mean,” he added quickly when Tim glared at him.
“Well, I’m ready,” said Tim. “I’ll never be a big, bulky wrestler, but I’m ready to be out there in the ring. I just need Luthor--and Valley--to realize it.”
Conner clapped him on the back. “Soon, buddy.”
As it turned out, it was sooner than even they had expected.
Clark had finished his spot for that evening (a backstage interview with Barbara Gordon featuring a friendly run-in by her “two biggest fans,” Steph and Cass) and was playing solitaire in the common room when he heard Harvey Dent say “You’ve got to be kidding me” and a rustle of shock went across the room.
Clark looked up quickly to see the Dark Knight on the screen in all his current spiked and bristling glory, standing on the turnbuckle. Killer Croc lay on his back outside the ring, ready for the flying double foot stomp--not a risky move, but going it from the turnbuckle to the floor instead of the mat was always a challenge.
Except that Jean Paul wasn’t going to do the foot stomp.
“He’s not going to--” Selina’s words broke off in a gasp as Jean Paul launched himself from the turnbuckle away from the ring into a shooting star press: jumping forward and throwing in a backflip and a corkscrew for good measure. Clark caught a glimpse of Croc’s face shifting from startled to legitimately terrified as he shifted his body a few inches to the left to be in the right place, catching Valley has he finished his final rotation just in time.
”Holy shit!” yelled Roy Harper as Valley rolled off of Croc and the referee scrambled to do a quick check. The common room was galvanized--people staring at the screen or chattering agitatedly with the person next to them: Can you believe that? Jesus, he could have-- Both wrestlers seemed okay, if breathless, and for a while they just lay there with their sides heaving as the fans cheered and screamed, waving at them. Valley staggered to his feet first and grabbed KIller Croc, dragging him to the ring for the pin. “One! Two! Three!” chanted the crowd as the bell rang and the match finished the way it was booked to end.
Croc jumped to his feet and shoved the Dark Knight angrily, and the crowd murmured.
“Whoa there, Waylon, just let it go,” murmured Harvey Dent as Killer Croc cocked a fist, seemingly ready to deck the Dark Knight. The referee got in between them, and Clark could see real concern on his face as he pushed Waylon away from Valley.
Croc whirled and stalked out of the arena, glaring daggers at the booing fans as he went. The Dark Knight stayed behind in the ring to accept the cheers of the crowd for a moment, stoic and silent.
“You could have gotten us both killed!” Jones was yelling at Jean Paul Valley. Dick had ahold of his arm, keeping him from taking a swing at Valley. “You had no right doing that without telling me before!”
Valley had pulled the cowl off, revealing his bright yellow hair and steely eyes once more. “You saw it coming.”
“A damn stupid move like that--if you had told me before, I never would have agreed.”
“And we would have missed out on a spot that will be on highlight reels forever.”
Jones swore angrily. “Don’t pull that kind of suicidal move on--”
Valley was across the locker room before anyone could even react, his arm across Jones’ chest, shoving him against the lockers. “Don’t you speak to me that way,” he said, his voice icy with anger.
“Hey!” Clark grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “That was a dangerous stunt, he has every right to be mad.”
“For once I agree with Kent,” came Lex Luthor’s voice as he walked into the locker room, his eyes fixed on Valley. “That kind of showboating isn’t impressive. It’s wasteful. The move looks as good delivered onto the mat. There’s no reason to make it stupidly dangerous.”
Valley whirled on him, the Dark Knight cloak swirling with the movement. “I’m the belt-holder,” he snarled, “And that means I have to do more, to be more. I can’t rest on my laurels, I can’t get complacent, I always have to keep trying harder, being better, pushing myself.” He glared at Luthor, his breath coming short. “You don’t think I can do it. You don’t think I’m up to it. I’m just a replacement to you, just another cog in the machine to be switched out when it wears out. Well, I’m a human being who’s doing my best!” He slammed a fist against his chest, over his heart. “I’m not a machine, father!”
The last word fell heavily into the silent room. Luthor looked at Valley with narrowed eyes and said, “While I appreciate filial piety, I don’t have any sons that I know of.”
“I don’t--” For a moment, Valley looked almost lost. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Luthor made a small sound, caught somewhere between annoyance and understanding. “I suggest you figure it out before you speak to me again, then,” he said, and left the locker room.
Valley stared around the locker room, and his eyes locked on Clark’s. “You want to talk about dangerous stunts--at least all of mine have a purpose. It’s not just some glitzy self-aggrandizing entrance that could get you killed and your life wasted for nothing.”
The locker room went silent, and into the silence Dick Grayson stood up. “What did you just say?” he said, and his voice was so calm it was unnerving. Clark started to step forward, to get in between them--and then he saw how everyone in the locker room was watching him. Waiting to see what he’d do.
With an effort, Clark took a step back.
Valley swung on Dick with a sneer: “Oh, the scion of the Sainted Flying Graysons is heard from at last! The Flying Graysons, with their circus gimmick, with their spangles and smiles and pretty trapeze acts. That’s where we’re different, Grayson--” he spat the name like it was an insult, and Clark watched Dick’s face go even more still, “--Your parents taught you that this life was all fun and games and applause. While my father taught me that it was hard work and sacrifice!”
“Sacrifice?” Dick took a breath. “I guess your brothers would know a lot about that.”
Valley’s face twisted. ”How dare you!” He swung at Dick, a haymaker powered by nothing but rage and pain, and Dick dodged it easily, grabbing his arm and shoving him into the locker face-first.
“Now you listen to me,” Dick said, punctuating his words by grinding Valley’s face into the locker. “And you listen good. I don’t care that you’ve got the belt. I don’t care that Bruce chose you to be the Dark Knight. And I especially don’t care that you’ve got three inches and seventy pounds on me. You’re hurting people I care about, and you’re hurting a business that I care about, and you will. Stop it. Now.”
Valley pivoted and slammed himself up against Dick, pinning him between his bulk and the lockers even as Dick wrenched at his arm. He roared in rage as Dick pulled his arm backwards, hanging on doggedly. Everyone in the locker room made way for the brawlers--and a brawl it was: simple and ugly and totally removed from the kind of stylized fighting they all did in the ring. Jean Paul punched Dick in the face, a quick brutal jab, and Clark heard Tim groan. Blood pouring from his nose, Dick threw a punch in return and connected with Jean Paul’s eye.
“Take back what you said about my father!” Jean Paul screamed, his fist cocked back to hit Dick again.
“I didn’t say a thing about your father,” Dick yelled at him. “Would you for the love of God listen to yourself!”
“That’s enough,” came a new voice from the door, and Clark sucked in a breath of shock as he turned to see Bruce standing in the doorway, looking at Jean Paul and Dick. “Jean Paul,” said Bruce, walking toward him carefully, eyes fixed on him. “It’s enough. Dick is right. Listen to yourself. Don’t listen to your father--listen to yourself.”
Jean Paul stared at him as if he were a ghost. “I can’t,” he said, and it was nearly a sob. “I have to keep fighting. All the time. You don’t understand--I’m the only one left who can.”
“But I do understand,” said Bruce. “And I’m telling you, you need to let it go. It’s time to take a breath and step away from it all for a little while. You need to find your own reason to be in the ring. Your own love for the art. Just--stop carrying that weight around all the time. Jean Paul,” he said, very gently. “Your brothers wouldn’t have wanted you to be in such pain.”
Valley’s eyes filled with tears, and he dragged a hand across his face. “God,” he said, a muffled word that was almost a prayer, and then he sat down hard on the locker room bench and buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
Bruce looked over him and met Dick’s eyes, and a long look passed between them. Then Bruce walked over--he was still limping slightly--and rested a hand on Dick’s shoulder for a moment. He leaned close and whispered something in Dick’s ear, too low to be heard, and Dick nodded shakily, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve.
Dick stepped away from Bruce, and Clark noticed how many of the young wrestlers’ eyes followed him instead of his mentor.
“Well,” said Bruce, “Isn’t anyone going to welcome me back?”
A nervous ripple of laughter--it didn’t break the tension, but something eased from the room.
“Welcome back, Bruce,” said Dick.