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“I can see the bomb in the north side of the basement. Looks like it’s in a utility closet. I’ll head down there. I can see the timer. Just over 15 minutes left.”
“You defuse bombs?” The low, skeptical tone came through the comm.
“I don’t need to. It’ll take me less than 2 minutes; I can fly it out of here and throw it into the sun. Up, up and away—that kind of thing.” Clark’s smug voice and too obvious bragging was calibrated to annoy his friend.
Bruce grumbled under his breath; he was getting irritated even though the bait was blatant. “Better if I defuse it and—”
Clark cut him off with a smug, almost taunting reply, “But I’m already here, so . . .” Bruce could hear the smirk on Clark’s face through the comm. His irritation grew.
Bruce growled, “I can’t get forensic evidence from ‘the sun’.”
Clark gave a short laugh at Bruce’s reply and mused, “Why put an obvious timer on a bomb? Isn’t everything wireless now anyway? Would the bomber know you block all wireless from entering or exiting the building?” He sounded nonchalant—obviously not worried about the bomb right in front of him. Privilege of being invulnerable. Bruce wasn’t so much worried about the bomb, since his office building was empty, but what security lapse had allowed it to exist at all. Clark was right though—irritating as that was—Clark could have it out of there quicker than Bruce could blink. However, that would not help him solve the security problem. Even as he ran towards the impending explosion, his detective mind was already working out the problem. Why put a bomb in an empty building? Was this an attack on Wayne Enterprises? The Gotham Gazette had been reporting on the new solar-powered building for weeks. It was well publicized that Superman was coming today to survey the new building. The idea was to drum up some publicity for what could be a Gotham/Metropolis partnership into clean energy.
Clark was still talking, “Is this a lead-lined electrical panel on the wall? More proprietary Wayne tech that I shouldn’t know about?” The reporter in Clark just had to ask.
“Don’t touch it!” Bruce barked, “I’m just about— Lead?” The irritated commands abruptly paused as Bruce’s thoughts distilled into a grim conclusion. Bruce abruptly yelled in a staccato voice, “Get out! Go!”
Before Bruce had finished his warning yell, he had turned the corner and could see Clark acting on the command, jumping back from the room, and turning towards him. Clark had not gained any distance, when the electrical box erupted into lead shrapnel followed by shards of glowing green crystals. Clark cried out in pain and staggered when the shards of Kryptonite struck him. His momentum pushed him a few paces towards Bruce. Before Bruce had taken half a step towards his friend, the timer on the bomb beeped, went dark, and the whole room exploded. Superman attempted to outpace the blast radius. He grabbed Batman and flew just above the ground, his inertia keeping them moving even as his strength started to fail and the building started to burn and fall around them. His last thought before feeling himself fall was that he hoped he had gotten Bruce far enough away.
Bruce tried to reorient himself as the shaking stopped. He was flat on his back on the ground. He tentatively took a breath, coughed up some dust, and cautiously attempted to get up. No sharp pains, but he seemed to be pinned to the floor. He remembered the impact of Superman grabbing him and flying to the exit. That will leave a mark, was the thought that snapped Bruce to full awareness. Kryptonite in that first blast. Clark must be covered in it. He mentally started estimating how long Clark could withstand the mineral’s poisonous effect. An hour? 2? He needed to find Clark and assess the situation.
“B? You ‘kay?” Superman’s voice was too quiet and strained. Bruce didn’t answer, just reached for the flashlight in his utility belt and aimed the light towards Superman’s voice. Bruce was pinned by Superman, who was sprawled across his legs. Clark groaned through his clenched jaw as Batman carefully moved Clark off of his legs and evaluated his condition. As he feared, Clark’s back was pierced by dozens of Kryptonite shards. I’ll need more than the tweezers I keep in my utility belt for this mess, Bruce realized.
“Master Bruce, I got an alert about an explosion in the downtown office. Are you still on the premises? Master Bruce?” Alfred questioned through the comm.
“Alfred! Two bombs detonated. One small device containing Kryptonite, the other big enough to bring half the building down.” Bruce paused and looked around. “It’s going to take time to get out—time Clark doesn’t have. Send the Batcopter to the south side of the building. Then implement Protocol S-2b in Containment 1.”
“Understood. I’ll send in the emergency services as well,” Alfred replied.
As Bruce was updating Alfred, he was also pulling shards of Kryptonite out of Superman’s back and putting them in the lead-lined compartment of his utility belt. However, as he had first deduced, there were too many pieces that were too far embedded into Superman’s steely skin and muscle tissue. They wouldn’t budge. Clark’s breathing was ragged, and he was shaking.
Bruce stood and could see they were now on the other side of the building from where the bombs had detonated. He noticed the stairwell just ahead of them. It looked intact—maybe that would be the way out. It better not be blocked, Bruce thought. The heavy door should have kept the stairs clear. He looked down at his friend with worry in his eyes. “I’m going to find a way out.” Clark’s only response was a slight nod.
There was debris between them and the doorway to the stairwell. Bruce quickly went to clear a path. He pushed through broken pieces of concrete and building material; luckily, this side of the building had not totally come down. There was debris from the upper floors but the main structure was still intact. There were several steel beams between Bruce and the doorway. He worked his way around all but the last one. It was slanted across the doorway, blocking the door. Bruce put all his considerable strength into shoving it out of the way. It didn’t budge. He would have to find some way to maneuver the beam.
Clark was in agony. His whole body felt weak and his back was on fire. He heard Bruce move away from him. He tried to gather himself together, to work past the misery. A drawback to being practically invulnerable was that he hardly ever had to experience pain. The “practically” meant that the novelty of pain was overwhelming. Bruce would be able to push past this, Clark lectured to himself. Clark had seen him do it. He took a breath, centered himself, then pushed to his knees. He lurched to his feet and staggered along the path Bruce had made. He reached the first beam and collapsed on top of it as he tried to climb over. He paused to gather the strength to continue; he only felt it draining away.
Bruce heard a groan and turned to see Clark close behind him, hanging onto a steel beam—laying across it really. He quickly moved to his friend and did a scan of Clark’s condition. Not looking good—got to get out fast, was the silent verdict. “I need to find something to leverage the beam. Stay there,” Bruce commanded.
Clark reached out to Bruce. “I still have some strength left. Help me over there and I’ll lift it.” The fleeting look of doubt, quickly concealed by Bruce’s habitual stoicism, went unnoticed as Clark was already heading towards the door, on unsteady feet, but moving forward. Bruce guided Clark to the spot where he had tried unsuccessfully to move the beam blocking the exit and both men heaved. It moved a little. With a cry, Clark gave it one more hard shove. The beam flew away and Clark collapsed to the ground.
Bruce wasted no time and tore open the stairwell door. As he had hoped, the stairwell was clear. He scooped up Clark in a fireman's carry and climbed up the stairs. Clark was cold and still. Of course, the Batcopter was waiting for them—another proof of the steady reliance Bruce counted on in Alfred. Bruce gently placed Clark on the floor in the back, jumped into the pilot’s seat and took off to the Batcave. “Clark.” No response. Clark had not made a sound since he collapsed in the basement. The ride to the Batcave had never seemed longer. He finally arrived via the secret entrance, heaved Clark over his shoulder, and carried him through the Batcave to the room labeled C-1.
Alfred had it ready and was waiting inside.
There was a red glow coming from big lights in each corner of the room—the wavelength of a red sun. The walls were lined with hand to hand combat weapons and sparring mats were covering most of the floor. Off to the side, an area had been cleared for a table where Bruce laid Clark. Next to the table was a countertop containing a long lead box, and a smaller square lead box.
As soon as Bruce put Clark down, Alfred opened the long box and revealed the Kryptonite surgical tools. Without comment, working quickly, Alfred started removing the tattered red and blue suit. Batman grabbed the Kryptonite coated scalpel and forceps and started working the shards from Superman’s skin and placing them in the square lead box. The skin was resilient around the shards and had to be cut open to extract the Kryptonite crystals. After a few minutes, Bruce could tell that the red light was doing its job. The skin and muscle felt weaker, more fragile, making it easier to remove the shards. It was also easier for Alfred to hold each wound open so Bruce could probe it thoroughly, making sure there weren’t any small fragments left. The red light was making the process faster, but it was still slow work—too slow. Clark was breathing, but it was irregular. Bruce knew Superman didn’t actually need air, but knowing didn’t mean that the stuttered breathing didn’t disquiet him. Bruce and Alfred worked as quickly as they could. It had been an hour since the explosion.
As the next few minutes passed, Clark’s body went from too still and unresponsive to tense and shaking. His breathing got louder—raspy. As the Kryptonite was removed, he was waking up. Not a good time to wake up—still too much Kryptonite left—going to be hurting, was Bruce’s sympathetic thought.
The first awareness Clark experienced was the red misery of his back—unremitting stabbing pain. He opened his eyes and the room was spinning. He didn’t know where he was and couldn’t catch his breath. He started to panic; he had to get away from the sharp pain; he tried to push away from the table.
"Alfred, move back," Clark heard, as a warm hand was placed on the back of his neck, firmly holding him down, and another hand caught his arm. “Clark. Stay still. You almost hit Alfred. You could hurt him.”
“B?” His voice was ragged and seemed almost a sob. “Where—”
"Batcave. You have Kryptonite in your back. Stay still.” The voice was concerned and tense.
The panic ebbed away as the sound of Bruce’s familiar voice finally made sense in his muddled head. He fought to relax his body, willing it to stay still, drawing strength from Bruce’s presence. Every quick, ragged breath was torture. "S-orry, Al-fred." The words came out between gasps of pain.
“Do not concern yourself, Master Kent.”
Bruce bent down, now eye to eye with Clark. Weak as Clark was, if panicked, Clark could be, unintentionally, dangerous. Bruce left his hands solidly where they were, not sure if Clark could stay put. Clark’s eyes were tight, too bright, and unfocused. He clearly was having trouble staying aware of the situation. Bruce continued, “Alfred is fine. Slow down your breathing. Breathe in—and out. Breathe through it." He felt Clark relax a bit. His breathing became more regular, but there was no other sign that Clark was cognizant of what Bruce was saying.
Bruce’s voice was calm and controlled, as always. "Keep breathing—like that." Bruce stood back up and picked up the Kryptonite instruments again. Bruce shook his head at Alfred to stay back. He wasn’t ready to risk Alfred getting too close. Clark gasped and flinched when Bruce resumed cutting out the shards. Bruce didn’t stop and Clark started to tremble as the tension in his body mounted. Noticing this, Bruce again repeated in the same low voice, “Clark, breathe. Be still.” Again, Clark relaxed slightly at the sound of Bruce’s voice, complying without thought, an instinct born of trust, just like he had in the basement of the building when Bruce told him to run.
“Master Bruce, talking to him is allowing him to keep calm.” Bruce had deduced this as well, and raised an eyebrow in request. Alfred, as always, knew what the expression was communicating. “Master Bruce, it’s not my voice he trusts.” As Alfred moved back to the table to continue assisting, he added, “It hardly matters what you say.” Bruce leveled one skeptical look towards Alfred—and talked.
Clark couldn’t quite catch the meaning of the words, he just focused on the steady, familiar stream of sound and his own breathing.
"Awhile ago, when you got shot by that Kryptonite bullet, I realized that improvising surgery as you were laying in the street, making due with a piece of Kryptonite, Cyborg’s blaster, and Martian Manhunter's tentacles was not very— Well, I was not prepared for that situation. Having only one scalpel in Japan as the only tool to help you is just not practical. I could do better, so I commissioned S.T.A.R. labs to make Kryptonite infused steel surgical instruments. I was hoping no one would ever have to use these on you. But, it was inevitable—you get attacked with Kryptonite all too often.” Clark wasn’t sure through the haze of misery, but the calming voice seemed to have blurred from the expected stoic tone to a wry, fond frustration.
The voice turned clinical again as Bruce went on at length about how the tools were made and the trouble it was to work with Kryptonite—getting it to have properties it was never meant to have. “. . . trying to get such a minuscule amount of the crystal, so it wouldn’t do more harm than good . . . it would just shatter under the needed pressure . . .”
Focused on the voice, Clark let its quiet certainty of purpose wash over him. Let it help him focus outside himself, off the weakness he felt, and the constant, sharp torment of his back. He didn’t notice when Bruce changed topics and it took his brain a moment to catch up.
“There’s not much left now. We’ll get these last fragments out, and I can get you up to the manor and put you out by the pool to soak up the sun—like a plant.” There was that odd tone of voice again, suffused with warmth. “Damian told me about a theory he saw online. Evidently, there are xenobiologists that think you are a sentient plant. The theory makes sense. You get energy from the sun; you are affected by minerals. Also, your cell walls must be thicker and more rigid—like plant cells.”
Bruce paused and again bent down eye to eye to assess Clark's condition. “Clark?” He got no verbal response, but Clark’s gaze centered on Batman’s face. He was glassy eyed and covered in sweat; however, he seemed a little more aware than before. Bruce continued, “It would have been better if I could have extracted these last few pieces while you were unconscious, but when I tried earlier they wouldn’t budge. They are embedded deep, and I think at least one is lodged in your ribs. You’ve been under the red light for awhile now so I should be able to get them out without shattering the crystal into even smaller pieces.” Bruce grimaced and continued, “Sorry, Clark. I’ll be quick.” Clark nodded just a fraction and Bruce could see him tense up. Bruce stood up and started on the first shard.
Clark’s whole body felt weak and sick. His back was one big agony. He immediately felt when Bruce started cutting deeper into the wound. The sensation of a huge knife being plunged all the way through him. He cried out with jagged breath, and struggled to stay still. The room became spotty and dark. When Batman started pulling on the crystal he couldn’t help it; he cried out again and extended his hand, grabbing hold of the first thing it touched. He squeezed it as the last of the light left the room, and he faded away.
Bruce blocked Clark's flailing hand with his forearm and felt Clark latch on to him. Bruce was surprised how much strength Clark still had in his grip. He was resigned to adding another bruise to the day’s collection. He pulled the shard free just as Clark went still and released Bruce’s arm. Clark’s hand fell heavily. Worried, Bruce looked to Alfred.
“He’ll recover,” Alfred assured. “Let’s get this done quickly before he regains consciousness.”
Bruce and Alfred removed the last pieces. Both of them did a final scan over Clark to make sure they hadn’t missed any of the Kryptonite. Alfred turned the red lights off. Clark’s back was a mess, covered in lacerations and blood. Usually Clark started healing almost immediately, if he got injured at all, and seeing him this weak and vulnerable was unsettling. He looked too frail—too human. Bruce cleaned off the blood. Even though Clark was still bleeding from the deepest cuts, he needed to be moved outside. The exposure to the yellow rays should take care of them. There were yellow lights installed in the room, but the actual sun would be much more powerful.
Bruce hoisted Clark over his shoulder and walked quickly through the Batcave, out the secret entrance connecting it to Wayne Manor, and out to the deck by the pool. He carefully placed Clark on his side in one of the lounge chairs in the afternoon sun. Even while unconscious, Clark was stiff from pain and still too cold. Bruce pulled up a chair and sat by his friend, watching for a sign that Clark was recovering. It took a few slow minutes, but Bruce could see the wounds just starting to close. Clark’s body started to relax, his breathing became easy and more regular. Bruce took a deep breath and relaxed too. He felt like he could breathe easy for the first time in hours.
Clark felt himself waking up. His awareness again centered on the calm, competent voice in the background. As he listened, the voice resolved from white noise to one-sided conversation.
“Yes, he’s fine.”
“By the time you could get here, he will have flown home.”
“He’s out by the pool—recharging.”
“Heh, Damian told me the same thing.”
“And the thicker cell structure.”
“I’m sure Connor hates it.”
“That will just encourage Damian.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’ll have him call when he wakes up.”
“Yes, it’s been a while since I’ve come to see you.”
“Okay.”
“Bye, Martha.”
Clark felt warm and relaxed. He took an experimental deep breath. Nothing hurt anymore, but he felt exhausted all the way through to his bones. He heard Bruce moving towards him, but didn’t move, savoring the warm sun and that he was no longer suffering. Bruce put a hand on his shoulder and Clark felt a warm cloth on his back. He began to sit up, but Bruce stopped him with a steady pressure on his shoulder. “Let me make sure everything is closed and we didn’t miss anything.”
Clark’s voice was raw and quiet. “Thanks for calling my mom. Sure she was worried. Feel okay. Just tired.”
Bruce was done quickly and released Clark, who rolled onto his back and settled
into the chair. Bruce retook the chair pulled close by, stretched out and relaxed as well. “It looks fine. Not a scratch on you.”
Clark felt the yellow sun soaking strength into his bones. The comfortable silence stretched for long minutes. Finally, Clark questioned, “Containment 1, huh?” His voice was soft and tired. “I thought that was our sparring gym. Didn’t think of it as a way to ‘contain’ me.”
“I have similar facilities strategically located around the globe.” Before the day’s focus on that voice, Clark would have only heard the dry, matter of fact tone. He would have missed the whisper of defensiveness and just a trace of vulnerability.
“You are terrifying,” Clark responded with a low chuckle and a sigh. He then closed his eyes and became even more relaxed as his muscled form settled further into the lounge chair.
Bruce leaned forward with his elbows on his knees—relaxed pose disappearing in an instant. His lips compressed. His whole body seemed on edge, then he took a deep breath, gave a sharp exhale and started in a defensive tone, “I’m not going to apologize. I need to be prepared to contain every threat I can think of. Even if that threat is . . . ” He hesitated just a bit and he glanced over at Clark, whose face had a faint, exhausted smile.
“B, stop. You’ve talked more today than I thought possible. I didn’t know you could monologue.”
"It's usually internal."
Bruce’s irritated, uncertain expression just made the smile on Clark’s face more pronounced. Clark took a breath and braced himself a little. He was too tired for any serious conversation, but Bruce needed to hear what he had to say. “Bruce, I consider you to be a friend—a friend I trust completely.” Clark looked up and just caught Bruce’s eyes widened in surprise before the normal mask reasserted itself. “I trust you, not in spite of your tendency to over prepare, your acute paranoia, and your obsessive nature—but because of it.” He looked over beyond the pool, not meeting Bruce’s eyes, “To me, this world seems to be made of cardboard and I have to be in control all the time not to break it.” Clark continued with a small smile on his face, “It’s good to know that if I were to ever lose that control . . .” His voice tapered off, his smile faded and his eyes stayed focused on the far horizon. He shook himself out of the awful vision he had conjured up and continued, turning to look intently at Bruce, “You’d take care of it—of me. One way or another.” Clark, took a decisive breath and continued, “I gave you that Kryptonite bullet for a reason; that reason hasn’t gone away. It makes you the best friend I could have—the true friend I need.” Clark enjoyed the shocked look on Bruce’s face for just a moment before closing his eyes again, creating some needed distance between them—Bruce looked tense and ready to bolt.
Clark was surprised to hear Bruce settle back into his chair. Usually Batman would make a quick exit if things got too personal. As Clark started to fall back to sleep in the warm sun, his super hearing picked up the soft almost imperceptible grumble.
“So, I’m best friends with a plant.”
“Not a plant, B.”