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“Superman!” Wonder Woman exclaims, dropping out of the sky to land in front of the blue-clad hero. “Are you all right?”
“Y-yeah,” Clark says tiredly. “Got hit by one of those red sun beams. I’m all tapped out, as far as powers go. Batman’s going to going to be insufferable once we debrief. Bet he’s gonna hold this over my head for ages.”
Diana bites her lip. “Superman,” she whispers. “Batman—” She stops.
He lurches to his feet, eyes wide, face tense with fear. “What? What’s happened?”
“He took a hit for the Green Lantern. It… it doesn’t look good, Superman.”
Pasty white with terror, Superman grasps her arm with what strength he’s got left. “Take me to him.”
Diana shakes her head. “They had to transport him directly to the surgery. The doctors said they couldn’t afford to lose any time. J’onn is assisting them, which means we’re going to have to fly to the Watchtower the old-fashioned way.”
“I’ll fly us up,” a tight voice says from behind them. Clark turns to see Hal looking miserable. Flash is just a couple of steps behind him, as is Aquaman.
Unable to speak, Superman just nods. The world is washed in green as Hal uses his power ring to enclose them in a construct and fly them into space. Scant minutes later, they are sitting outside the surgery.
Part of Clark is glad he doesn’t have his powers, can’t look through the walls to see the doctors cutting Bruce open, working to save the Dark Knight’s life. But the other part of him—the bigger part of him—is frustrated by the lack of information filtering back to them. Is terrified by the fact that he can’t hear Bruce’s heartbeat.
“I didn’t even see the guy with the ray gun,” Hal is saying, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. “I just felt Spooky slam into me. I didn’t have time to extend my shield to him before half the building was on top of us.”
Bruce is forever telling you that you drop your guard too easily, that you need to improve your situational awareness. The words burn in Clark’s throat, taste bitter on his tongue. But he doesn’t open his mouth to spit them out, knowing that it wouldn’t be fair, that he wouldn’t be able to take them back once he does.
God, he thinks, groaning inwardly, Bruce tells me the same things half the time.
He vows silently that if Bruce pulls through this, the first thing he’ll do once the Dark Knight is cleared for active duty is schedule a training session with him, both in the red sun room and in the regular training room.
He refuses to let himself think that Bruce might not pull through this.
“He’s the goddamn Batman,” he whispers, more to remind himself than anything else.
“Yeah, he is,” Flash says, all forced smiles and false bravado. “Bats isn’t going to let a little building mess with his mission.”
Clark tries and fails to smile at the speedster, the youngest member of the team. Flash looks ready to cry. The truth is that Clark feels exactly the same way. But he is, nominally, the leader of the Justice League. He has to keep it together.
“God, I’m so sorry.” Hal’s voice is hoarse.
“It’s—” Clark has to swallow around a sob. “It’s not your fault, Hal. Batman is always doing this kind of thing.”
“Superman is right,” Diana says. “There is not one of us who has not owed their lives to him at some point of other.”
Hal lets out a watery chuckle. “And what does that say about us, that we’re always getting our asses pulled out of the fire by the Bat, and the one time he needs us to have his back, we’re asses over tits in the hero department?”
“I always seem to forget Bats is just human,” says Flash, and his voice is quivering. “He’s always so… you know… and he’s always the guy with the plan. I forget that he’s the one guy who won’t heal fast if he takes a hit.” He puts his face in his hands and presses his palms to his eyes as his breath hitches. “We need to do better.”
“We do,” Aquaman says quietly. “Batman is only human. We should do a better job protecting him.”
Diana jumps to her feet, all but quivering in fury. “I would never dishonor him by suggesting such a farce! Batman is the equal of any of us. He may be the finest warrior Man’s World has ever produced.”
“But he’s human,” Flash whispers. “He’s… fragile.”
Clark can’t help himself. He snorts. “I dare you to tell him that while he’s conscious,” he says. “I dare you to think that while he’s in the room to see it on your face.”
“Superman’s right,” Hal says. “Batman wouldn’t appreciate us coddling him. But so’s Flash. We need to do better, as his teammates. How many times has he told me to take more care to guard my flank? And I always just thought, the guy’s being paranoid as usual, shooting in the dark just so he can harsh everyone’s mellow. Until it was clear he wasn’t.”
Better late than never, Clark thinks uncharitably. He doesn’t even wince at himself. He just wishes Bruce could be here to hear the Green Lantern admitting Batman was right.
“Batman’s recommendations for improvement are never simply conjecture,” Wonder Woman says, frowning. “I was not aware that you were under the impression that they were. On Themyscira, my shield sisters and I trained daily and were ever grateful when a weakness was identified, the better to adjust our training to eliminate or compensate for it.”
Despite the anxiety that has his heart in a fist, Clark’s eyes burn from suppressing the need to roll.
“Look, I’m sorry, all right? And the moment he’s cleared for it, I’ll let him beat my ass in the training room,” Hal retorts. “Can we please just focus on seeing the guy through this for now?”
“I’ll get us all coffee,” Flash said, standing, then disappearing in a blur of red and yellow. Seconds later, everyone had a cup in hand. “You know I was thinking,” the speedster says, “it might be a while since Bats can train us. I’m pretty sure at least one of his legs was broken. Maybe we can ask Nightwing—”
Flash cuts off abruptly, his jaw gaping. And all the rest of the League members are staring at each other in dismay.
Oh shit. Clark clenches his teeth so hard, he’s pretty sure he could crush diamonds between them. “Has anyone contacted the family?”
Everyone unfreezes. “No,” Flash whispers. “We—no, we didn’t.”
Diana scowls. “We must do so immediately.”
“Too little, too late, Princess. Agent A was monitoring the camera in the cowl, and the rest of us saw your epic fuckup on network television. Thank you so much for getting in touch with us and keeping us updated as to whether or not our father is alive.”
Everyone turns to see the entire Bat Family in full regalia. Even Jason is present, one of the guns Bruce hates so much twirling in hand. Only Alfred is absent, and Clark knows the only reason is that their identities haven’t been outed to the League yet. Each of Bruce’s nearest and dearest is glaring at the Justice League.
Then Black Bat steps forward and wraps her arms around Clark. He tries his best not to clutch at the comfort she offers. Then realizes, what the hell? It’s not like he has his powers right now anyway. And hugs her back with all the desperation he’s been feeling since he opened his eyes and saw Wonder Woman leaning over him. “Thanks, Cass,” he murmurs, for her ears alone.
“Scared,” she whispers back. “Worried.”
“Me too, Cass. Me too.”
“What do we know?” Nightwing is in commander mode, and a part of Clark’s mind is thinking that Bruce would be so proud to see how his protégé has taken charge of the situation.
The aerialist’s body language reveals none of Dick Grayson’s usual bouncy energy; instead, authority lays heavily on his shoulders, in the timbre of his voice, in the way he keeps a hand—simultaneously restraining and supportive—on Robin’s shoulder. This is Nightwing, Batman’s second, leader of the Titans.
Everyone turns to Hal, who slumps down further. “The preliminary scan I did with my ring indicated several broken ribs, a punctured lung and spleen, internal bleeding, possible traumatic brain injury—a severe concussion at the least—and bruising to the spine, compound fractures to both tibias and his left ulna from the landing,” he says. “Third degree burns to the shoulder and back where he took the hit from the ray gun.”
Clark’s stomach seems to corrode at the litany of injuries. In his arms, Cassandra stiffens, and she curls herself onto his lap, burrowing in. He holds her, but he’s not sure if he’s comforting her or himself at this point.
“Fuck,” Jason breathes.
“Father ‘took the hit from the ray gun’ because you were careless,” Robin spits out. The utter disgust in his voice makes Hal all but fold in on himself in guilt.
“Hush, Robin.” Nightwing squeezes the boy’s shoulder.
“Indeed,” Wonder Woman says, but the slight tremor in her voice gives away the fact that she is as frayed at the edges as any of them. “There will be time enough for recriminations later. I suspect Batman would relish the opportunity to inform several members of the Justice League of the things they should have done once he is debriefed.”
Flash lets out a watery chuckle. “I’d be happy for Bats to rip me a new one, after this.”
Bonded by worry for the man being operated on in the next room, the Bat Family and the Justice League hold vigil, except when one of the League members must take up monitor duty. Diana, ever practical, takes the first shift.
“I’ll take Superman’s shift,” Red Robin says when they are five hours into the surgery, and Superman shifts Cass onto a chair so he can get up to do the work Batman would insist he do, were the Dark Knight in any position to insist on anything.
“I can—”
“Superman,” Nightwing says, and despite the use of call signs (another thing Batman would insist on), the expression on his face is 100 percent Dick Grayson at this point. “Kal-El. You should stay. The rest of us will split your shift up between us.”
Clark’s eyes shift to the other League members. He notices Aquaman frowning.
“While we understand that, among the League, Superman and Batman have known each other the longest, would it not make more sense for his children to stay?” the Atlantean king asks.
Robin scowls and crosses his arms. “Father and Superman have been partners for over a decade.”
“Yeah, the World’s Finest and all of that,” Flash says, waving a hand. “And I know Supes says Bats is his best friend.”
The speedster’s tone of voice conveys his skepticism on that point. Clark wonders what he’d say if Superman told him “best friend” was part of the truth, but it wasn’t all Batman was to him. Bruce was “lover” and “partner” in every way. Though Clark would personally use words like “soulmate” and “world” and “everything,” he knows Bruce would only accuse him of being melodramatic.
And he’d long ago decided that Batman was more than melodramatic enough for the both of them.
“Oh my god.” Jason is pinching the skin between his eyebrows like his head hurts him. His voice is incredulous. “You mean the Justice League has been in operation for, what? Eight years now? And you still don’t know that the two of them have been bumping uglies since the Golden Boy here was in pixie boots?”
With the exception of Clark, the members of the Justice League who are in the room gape at the young vigilante.
“You mean to say that Superman and Batman are—” Flash stops, stares at Clark. Apparently this bit of information has short-circuited the speedster’s brain.
“Partners,” Robin says, scowling.
“Lovers,” Nightwing says at the same time.
“Married,” Red Robin supplies.
The silence is staggering, because everyone except for Clark and Cass are staring at the third Robin as if he’s suddenly grown an extra head.
Then Jason snorts. “Married? Are you shitting us? Since when?”
Red Robin scowls. “Don’t you guys know anything about Kryptonian culture, after how long Superman’s been living with us? Or what did you think that ceremony they did last year while standing on the Jewel of Truth and Honor at the Fortress of Solitude was? The one they insisted on having almost immediately after B came back to us?”
“Sweet?” Dick says weakly. “I thought it was sweet.”
Red Robin smirks. “They’re married under Kryptonian law. And Batman gave Superman power of attorney years ago.”
“Why didn’t he tell us?” Dick asks plaintively.
“He thought you would realize,” Cass murmurs.
“In the end only Agent A, Black Bat, and I did,” Red Robin says with a smirk. “Batman was waiting for you guys to figure it out. Just like he was waiting for the League to figure out that he and Superman were an item.”
The League founders look at Superman, who shrugs, a smile ghosting his lips. “He called it a training exercise. We’ve spent the past month trying to be less discreet, hoping you’d catch on.”
“He was spoon-feeding the League hints, and they still were not able to extrapolate that you were together?” Damian smirks.
“Well, Batman and I figured if they really didn’t clue in to the whole thing before next month’s Founders’ meeting, we’d just start making out in the corridors or something.”
“Fucking Batman and his need to turn everything into a learning opportunity.” Jason starts to snicker, and then the rest of the Bat Family and the League join in. So does Clark. It feels strange to laugh, with Bruce fighting for his life just a few feet away, beyond the door to the surgery. But it also feels good.
When the laughter fades away, Aquaman rises. “I will take the next shift, and then Hal and Barry, then Diana again,” he says. “We will call in auxiliary members if need be. Family should be together at times like this.”
Far too many hours later, they are all on their feet as the doctor comes to speak with them. She doesn’t display the defeat typical of scenarios in which she has lost patients, which makes everyone breathe out a sigh of relief. But Clark can already tell by the set of the woman’s jaw that whatever news she has to share, it’s not that Bruce is out of the woods.
“What can you tell us, doctor?” Dick asks, anxiety in his voice and writ clear on his face.
She sighs. “We were able to stabilize him and patch up the most urgent injuries. He’ll be in full-body traction for at least two months, but our main concern is the head trauma, which is compounded by shock, systemic exhaustion, and the fact that he remains unresponsive. We will need to keep a close eye on him for the next several days.”
“What do you mean by unresponsive?” Clark asks, a tremor in his voice.
“Superman,” the doctor says, nodding politely. She also glances at Nightwing, as if asking permission to share information on the Batman with the Man of Steel.
“Go ahead,” Nightwing says. “Superman has medical power of attorney. If you need anything signed off on or approved, it’ll have to go through him.”
The doctor’s eyes widen. “Superman? Not you?”
Nightwing smiles gently and shakes his head, laying a hand on Superman’s shoulder. “Not me, and I’m very glad of it.”
“Okay,” Clark says. “What do you need from me?”
The doctor’s eyes are kind, but her words are terrible. “I need you to give me permission to keep Batman in a medically induced coma until his body has a chance to heal some of the damage.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes, Superman.” Her voice was weary, there was a hardness to her eyes. “You need to understand, we had to perform an emergency decompressive craniectomy in order to relieve the pressure on his brain and prevent further injury. I won’t compromise his health just because the League thinks they need their strategic leader back before he’s ready.”
Surprisingly, it’s Jason who gets in her face about her tone. “Back off, you—”
“Hood.” It almost shocks Clark how much Dick sounds like Bruce in that moment. “She’s just doing her job. She saved B’s life.”
“You’re damn right I did,” she snaps. “Now I would like to get back to my patient, if I can clear up the paperwork.”
This, Clark can do. “Where do I sign?”
Clark signs the paperwork. Of course he does; he’d sign away his soul if it helped Bruce make it through this with the minimum of permanent injury.
He takes an extended leave from his job at The Daily Planet, citing an illness in the family. His editor isn’t happy, but Lois, knowing what Bruce is to Clark, offers to cover for him, and Perry acquiesces, even going so far to pat Clark on the shoulder after hearing that the patient is Clark’s long-time partner.
Over the next few weeks, Clark and the Bat Family keep a constant vigil by Bruce’s bedside.
The founding members of the Justice League often come to visit, once it is safe to do so, once the swelling in Bruce’s brain has gone down enough to replace the part of his skull that was removed to relieve the pressure on it. Clark can’t help but feel resentful about the circumstances by which his relationship with Bruce were revealed to the founders and several senior members of the League.
Their surprise and support and sheepishness (“I mean, all the signs were right there,” the Green Arrow, who has known Bruce from childhood and is one of the few League members who knows Batman's secret identity, says one day with a heartfelt groan) only remind Clark of all the snarky, scathing comments Bruce would make—and has made, to Clark, in private. But there’s nothing like seeing the Bat unleash his particular brand of troll humor on the deserving. Clark won’t let himself think that he might never again hear Bruce deliver a particularly cutting remark after some Leaguer’s foul-up.
For weeks, Clark thinks the worst thing about the situation is how still Bruce is, practically his whole body in casts, his mind locked in whatever coma-scape the medication has taken him to.
He feels Bruce’s absence keenly in the silent hours he spends at his bedside. The man may be a master of stealth and shadows, but there’s something intrinsically kinetic about him. Clark has long suspected it’s because Bruce’s mind just never stops; even in sleep, he can almost hear the cogs turning. And awake, Bruce is always processing a million things at once.
In fact, Clark knows just about the only thing that shuts the Bat’s brain down is truly excellent sex or unexpected gestures of genuine love and affection. Clark has never felt like Superman more than when he finds a new way to show Bruce how much he loves him, only to watch the other man’s face blank out while his heartbeat pounds at a jackhammer pace. It’s almost as rewarding as prying a declaration of love from the man.
He's never felt less like Superman than he does right now. What good are superpowers, with Bruce so pale and still?
“Heal up, baby,” he whispers to the Gothamite each day, each hour. “I can’t wait to see those beautiful blue eyes of yours again.”
Clark and the boys fill the silence, telling the sleeping man about everything that’s been going on, both in their lives and in the world. Sometimes, Clark can close his eyes and imagine he and Bruce are sharing a drink in Bruce’s study at Wayne Manor, Bruce listening quietly but attentively as Clark chatters on about his day, about his interactions with the other members of the League, about what’s going on at the farm in Kansas.
As the weeks pass, Bruce starts to look better and better. Though he is still very pale, the man’s face no longer looks like someone pushed it halfway through a meat grinder. Thanks to magic-imbued bandages Diana brought over from Themyscira, the terrible burns on Bruce’s shoulder and torso have faded to pale scars. The hair that’s been shaved from the side of his head for the craniectomy starts to grow back, covering up the ugly scar this most recent battle for his life has written on his skin.
Were it not for the casts on Bruce’s arm and both his legs and the constant beeping and humming of the monitors and machines the Dark Knight is hooked up to, Clark could almost imagine Bruce is just sleeping, instead of kept unconscious by a cocktail of drugs in order to keep him in a life-saving coma.
As Bruce’s appearance improves, Clark and the Bat Family begin to feel more optimistic. But then he starts noticing the concerned looks the doctors start sharing with J’onn during their checkups.
Finally, his temper snaps one afternoon when the doctors and the Martian Manhunter come in while Clark and Tim are sitting with Bruce. “What is it?” he demands. “What aren’t you telling us?”
J’onn stares at him for a long moment, then sighs. “Superman,” he says formally. “It seems the doctors are concerned that Batman’s concussion may have resulted in injuries we have not been able to detect, with him unconscious. We are discussing the benefits of bringing him out of the coma in order to learn the extent of the damage.”
Everything inside Clark freezes. For a moment, the only thing he can feel is the pounding in his own head and heart and the way Tim’s hand slips into his and squeezes. “The extent of the brain damage,” he repeats, blankly.
“Yes.”
“What are the pros and cons if you bring him out of the coma at this point?” God bless Tim, is all Clark is able to think in that moment, thankful for Red Robin’s levelheadedness. Of all the Bat Family, Tim is the one whose brain follows the patterns of Bruce’s own, even if it’s Damian everyone thinks is most Brucelike in looks and disposition.
J’onn looks to Clark, who nods. “If we wake him now, he will be in a great deal of pain,” the Martian says. “Should this cause him to move, it may exacerbate his injuries and prolong his recovery time.”
One of the doctors scowls. “He’s underplaying it,” she says. “If we wake him up, the pain will be excruciating. Even our highest allowable dose of morphine won’t be able to give him real relief.”
“And if we do not wake him, we may leave a brain injury undetected and untreated for longer than we already have,” J’onn intones. “We run the risk that when we are comfortable waking him, he will no longer be able to wake.”
Clark squeezes his eyes shut. “Wake him up,” he says.
The doctor who spoke up earlier frowns. “But—”
“My stepfather is correct,” Tim says, and it is another small, shattering pain in Clark’s heart that the first time he hears one of the boys call him their stepfather, it’s under these circumstances, without Bruce to hear it and smirk at the way his heart pounds a little faster at the word.
“My father is no stranger to pain.” Tim holds up his hand when the doctor opens her mouth again. “Even excruciating pain.” Then his face darkens, his expression becomes fierce. “Or are you all forgetting he’s the goddamn Batman?”
Bruce, you’d be so proud of him. And Clark realizes he needs to step up now too. He straightens to his full height, something he rarely does in his civilian clothing, so much more comfortable as mild-mannered, slouching Clark Kent when he isn’t wearing the symbol of the House of El, the mantle of Superman.
But now his face takes on the stern lines and his voice bleeds with the authority of the Last Son of Krypton. “I agree with my stepson.” He has to pause to swallow around the lump in his throat at the first time he lets his mouth form the word. “Batman wouldn’t thank us for sparing him pain, if we increase the risk of not finding out if he has suffered an untreated injury that could compromise his—his Mission.”
“That’s just it, sir,” the doctor says a little desperately. “If the injury has not shown up on our scans and has gone untreated, there is every likelihood it will continue to be untreated anyway. I wouldn’t object to bringing him out of the coma if I thought it would benefit the patient in some significant way.”
“We need to know,” Tim says firmly. “If something is wrong that could result in Batman being inactive for an indefinite period, the Family needs to take the appropriate measures to make sure Gotham stays safe.”
Because of course the Bat Family have a series of countermeasures should Batman need to stay out of commission. When the criminals think the Bat is away, they all come out to play, and people die. Neither Bruce nor Clark nor the Bat Family would allow that to happen.
“Very well,” the doctor says, though her face shows she is still reluctant. “We switched him from propofol to benzodiazepenes after the first week so it should take up to a few days for him to wake fully.”
Clark signs another round of paperwork, and Bruce is taken off the drugs keeping him unconscious.
The Bat Family, once alerted to the potential issue, ramp up their vigil. Now at least three people are in the room with Bruce at any given time. The doctors aren’t happy about the small crowd, but every one of the family adopts some version of the Batglare whenever they are asked to leave.
They stay, of course. And they even manage to sneak Alfred in, occasionally. Clark has no clue how they managed that, but he’s grateful for the butler’s calm presence, the love and support from the man who is Bruce’s father in all but name.
It takes three days for the Gothamite to show signs of waking, and another thirty-six hours after that for him to come to full consciousness. Something that feels suspiciously like joy bursts in Clark’s chest when bleary, pain-dazed eyes sharpen on his face.
“Superman,” he rasps, and Clark smiles, his eyes filling with tears, throat choking on relief. Then Bruce’s gaze shifts to Dick’s face. His eyes widen and he gapes at Dick, and Clark feels something twist inside, the tears drying in his eyes—freezing in what feels almost like dread. But then Bruce raises an eyebrow at him, and he is back to grinning like an idiot.
“Sir, sir! Can you tell us your name?” the doctor asks, making those blue eyes slide their focus to her face.
“C-Clearance?” Bruce has to clear his throat, which is raw with disuse. His voice is so hoarse, he doesn’t even have to growl to sound like Gotham’s top vigilante. He is tense, scowling. His expression is so familiar and 100 percent Batman that Clark has to bite back a smile.
Dick doesn’t even bother. “The code phrase is ‘robin sings in the dawn,’ B.” Clark knows every member of the family has an all-clear code, but Bruce insisted they each keep theirs secret. Clark’s own code phrase is “mentally awake and morally straight”—Bruce’s idea of a joke, as it’s the last part of the Boy Scout Oath. “I’ll vouch for the doctor. Tell them your true name.”
Bruce huffs in annoyance. “Batman,” he growls. “I’m Batman.”
And for the first time in weeks, Clark feels like the sun is finally shining again. He chuckles. “Yes, you are.”