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The batplane is a feat of modern ingenuity, but it has its limits. Those limits, unfortunately, include earth's atmosphere. Batman chases the Kryptonian aircraft — and that's what it is, he knows, because Alfred has his comms tapped into the secure channel the command center is using — as close to the upper stratosphere as he can go, but he can't follow, and he can't shoot it down — not with Superman aboard.
What he can do, though, is tag it with a tracker and return to the command center.
Batman operates almost exclusively in the shadows, and he barely knows Superman. But he knows the good work the guy does, knows how he cares. Feels deep in his bones that Superman deserves to have someone trying to save him. Somewhat reluctantly, he sets the batplane down in the one clear area he spots — thankful that he and Lucius designed it with the capability to hover. He clambers out as gracefully as he can and waits — waits for the crowd of agents and officers around him to swallow their shock and part. As they do, he strides forward, meeting a man who has the air of being in charge about him.
"This is Goddamn unusual."
Bruce hesitates at that, because, well. It is. That was a fair descriptor. So he nods slightly, then moves on. "I tagged the aircraft. Do we know anything?"
"Seems like that alien was from Superman's home world, maybe had some type of beef with his parents. We caught their exchange. Listen, officially… this is out of our jurisdiction. Superman is an alien, and one of his own came for him. Almost like… extradition, I suppose. Even if we had the means to launch a rescue, I don't think it would be approved by the Pentagon. Unofficially, though. Well, I saw how hard Superman worked to contain this fight, how he lost momentum against the other guy because he was distracted with protecting my men. We see him out here, every day, helping just because he can. You let me know how I can help, Batman, whatever I can do. You've got it. And I hope you know, same goes for you, even if you're a bit spookier than Superman."
Bruce nods, baring his teeth for a moment, embracing the spookiness, but relaxes his face again quickly. This interaction sets him on edge — the only official Batman works with is Detective Gordon, who was only an officer when they met; having this man, who looks like he might be a local SAC or some other high-ranking agent, engage with Batman like this is disquieting. But it's useful, too.
"I should be able to track the ship, but I'm not currently equipped to reach it if it's in space. Is that something you could assist with?"
"Currently, he says," the agent mutters, under his breath. "Maybe, but not quickly. It would take pulling a lot of strings, and I don't know what that guy's plan is, but I'm not sure we have a lot of time here."
Bruce grunts, then taps his com device. "Agent A?"
"Yes sir, I'm listening. It appears the aircraft has descended and is hovering in the arctic circle."
"Midnight Sun time, right?"
"Indeed, sir. An advantage for Kryptonians."
Bruce turns back to the agent. "I have a plan. I probably won't need your help."
"Batman… I mean, come on, you're great. You're awesome, I mean, Gotham is lucky to have you. But this guy took out Superman single handed. I think you're going to need some help."
"I'm just going to adapt the plan I have to take down Superman if it ever becomes necessary. Big Blue will be back in your skies before you know it. I don't have time for chit chat. Good luck with your clean up."
Bruce turns and stalks back to the batplane, ignoring the incredulous looks around him. He's got a rescue mission to launch, after all.
Everything hurts, and Clark can't string together two words at a time, can't think about anything except the pain. Pain is all he knows — in his side, his ribs, his throbbing head, his bruised neck, every inch of him aches in some way. He breathes in slowly, carefully, blinking rapidly as he tries to bring the room around him back into focus. He's sagging into the restraints, he thinks, and Jax is at his side doing something, but he can't tell what. He feels a pinch, but it's lost in the crescendo of pain crashing against him like rough waves in stormy waters. Nothing sticks in his brain for longer than a moment, he is only and knows only pain. It is all he ever knew, surely, surely, because it is all encompassing and there can never have been something other than this.
Time passes, or doesn't, and Jax is still there.
He discovers new pain, at the center of his gut, he doesn't know what it is. He can't see it, not with his head strapped to the wall with the rest of him, but there's a glint of red along the bottom edge of his vision and there's warmth sliding, gliding, dripping down his abdomen, and a thought that says that means something flickers through his head, but he can't grab it, and it's gone, and there's only pain.
Jax might be gone for a while, but maybe not, because it seems like he's here now, and no time has passed, right? Or maybe a lot of time has passed? Clark doesn't know.
There's only pain.
It's been just more than a full day since the attack, during which Bruce has crafted half a dozen kryptonite weapons to use against the Kryptonian. He's putting the final touches on his plan when the Batsignal gets lit.
Frustration rises in him — of all times, Gordon, why now? Surely he knows, surely there was media coverage of Batman going after Superman.
But Gotham is important, enough that he can at least spare the time to suit up and go check in with Gordon.
The signal has been on for only 30 minutes when he lands on the roof, startling Gordon.
"Faster than usual, Batman."
"I have places to be, Gordon. What do you need?"
"Actually, it's not me who needs you."
Bruce cocks his head to the side, refusing to let any startle show as a man emerges from the shadows, his form shimmering into view from behind a wall of water that had blended seamlessly into the brick.
"Neat trick. Aquaman, I presume?" The trident kind of gave it away.
"Superman is being held in the arctic. Ready to go get him, Bats?"
And Bruce — Bruce grins. Bares his teeth is maybe a more apt description, but there's clear pleasure in the expression, he can feel it on his face. He's sure Gordon has never seen a smile of any sort on his face before, but he won't try to smother the excitement that spikes through him.
"Okay, are we good, can I turn this thing off now? You boys going to play nice?" Gordon's tone is just this edge of annoyed, his amusement bleeding through. "Go get the boy scout back. Heavens knows we need the bright, bubbly, friendly one sometimes, as much fun as you two mysterious weirdos are." He flicks off the light and makes his way to the roof access door, hesitating for a moment. "Good luck. Really. I hope this goes well."
Bruce turns back to Aquaman. "Do you know Superman?"
"Not well, but we've met. He helped me out of a pinch once, figured the least I could do is return the favor. What's the plan?"
"I was finishing prepping the plane when the light came on. We head north and attack. I've got weapons that will work."
Aquaman raises his eyebrow. "Weapons that will work against the boy scout?" Bruce nods. "Hmm. Does he know that?"
"He does. It's a precaution, that's all. And a good thing I had them, given the current situation."
"Right. I assume you won't take me back to your base of operations. Where should I meet you to hop a ride?"
They finalize the details quickly and Bruce goes to collect the plane, and within the hour they're on their way north.
Bruce turns on the autopilot once they clear the state line. He knows enough about Aquaman to have a guess at which weapons will be most useful for him, but there's something else he needs to do first.
"These weapons come back with me." His tone brokered no argument, and while Aquaman studied him carefully for several long moments, he nods his assent. Bruce sees the necessity of weapons that can take down beings like Superman, but he won't have them falling into the wrong hands.
That handled, they pass the weapons back and forth, getting a feel for them and establishing an attack plan.
The first thing they need to do is bring the aircraft down, to prevent it from escaping to space. The batplane, freshly equipped with kryptonite-loaded missiles, makes quick work of damaging a part of the craft that Bruce had determined would likely prevent any space-faring while not immediately endangering Superman directly. The attack has the intended effect, as the ship drops to the sheets of snow and ice below and a door opens. The Kryptonian exits, and Bruce sees his eyes shift to red as he prepares to blast the batplane out of the sky. Aquaman interrupts that plan of action by jumping out of the plane, trident in one hand and kryptonite-coated knife in another, slashing downward as he slams into the alien. Bruce rolls the plane away from the brief burst of heat vision and quickly sets it down, exiting the aircraft and advancing on the fight with weapons of his own.
It's brutal, and not as quick as he'd hoped, and Aquaman gets tossed a few hundred feet away in one particularly hard hit, but — but they bring him down. Aquaman is pinning him the the ice while Batman approaches with cuffs he's sure will hold him when it happens.
The alien snarls and slams a hand down on a device on his wrist. Horror dawns in Bruce as another aircraft drops into view, descending from the upper stratosphere where it had apparently been hovering off radar. An individual exits the craft and launches herself at Aquaman, tackling him off of the first alien. She recovers quickly, turning and rocketing back toward her companion, scooping him up, and launching back up toward the second ship, which ascends and disappears quickly.
The whole interaction is over in moments.
"Fuck."
Bruce grunts. "Come on, Superman is probably in this ship."
Aquaman follows as they enter, sticking to his six as they move through different compartments.
Bruce feels sick to his stomach when he finds what he was looking for.
Superman is pinned to a wall from his forehead down to his ankles, some sort of medical straps with large buckles holding him in place. There are several, around his upper arms, wrists, torso, hips, thighs, and ankles. Superman's eyes are half-lidded and feverish, and an IV is slotted into his elbow. He's wearing the tattered remains of his suit, covered in blood; bruises peak out in every area showing skin, and a ring of finger-shaped, purple splotches wrap around his neck. His breathing is shallow, and he doesn't seem aware of his surroundings at all.
"Batman." Bruce looks at Aquaman, finding, to his surprise, that he's surveying the room and not Superman. "I don't know how they got him in this state, but I think you need to bring a lot of this shit with you. I'll get Superman down and to the aircraft, you collect what you need from here. Work quickly, he needs medical attention. When you're done, I'll pull the ship under to the depths. If you need it later, I'll bring it back up, but we can't let just anyone get it."
The logic is sound, and Bruce is grateful that Aquaman stepped up — he's usually the one who would handle the planning, but seeing Superman in this state had stolen every thought from his brain. He sets to work, doing his best to ignore the whimpers seeping from Superman's throat as Aquaman pulls him down from the wall and carries him out of the room.
He works quickly, gathering as much as he can. He pulls what he determines to be a computer interface out of a terminal, hoping he's managed to get the part that stores the data, and then exits the aircraft carrying an armful of materials from the room where Superman had been held.
Despite the eternal sunshine, he finds that Superman hasn't healed at all during his venture outside in Aquaman's arms.
"That's going to be a problem, isn't it?"
"Probably, but it doesn't change anything for now. Let's get him settled so I can get him back to my base, I have a medical suite there. And… here. Keep this in its waterproof case when you're in the water. You don't need to go to Gordon next time. I'm sure you'll want to check in on Superman soon." He hands Aquaman a communication device in a case, and they get back to work.
Bruce doesn't waste time hooking Superman up to any monitoring equipment, and he comes to regret that later.
He's had the plane in the air and traveling back toward Gotham for nearly an hour when he finally feels sure enough that the second Kryptonian vessel isn't following him to step away from the controls. Clicking on the autopilot, he stands and moves to check on Superman.
His heart drops out of the plane entirely, because Superman definitely is not breathing.
He's not breathing, and Bruce doesn't know how long it's been. He doesn't know if it's been moments or minutes or nearly the full hour, and Superman isn't breathing, and not breathing means dead. Doesn't it?
Does it?
Even for Superman?
It's easy to shove the panic away when the mission demands it, and it demands that of Bruce tonight. He reaches for a pulse point, feeling, and — there. There's still a pulse. Slow, weak, but steady, so that's good.
His mind is flying, trying to draw conclusions and connect threads. All of the Kryptonite weapons have been stored in lead-lined cases, and Superman doesn't have any of the odd, greenish black color tracing his veins, so it's not that.
But Kryptonite is the only thing they know of that can hurt him, and he's obviously very hurt. Bruce latches onto the idea of Kryptonite, even though it doesn't fit, and starts running his hands over every inch of Superman's body. In another setting, he'd be blushing, but there is no time for thoughts like that, not when Superman is circling the grave.
Eventually, after two passes, he finds what he didn't realize he was looking for. A round disc, maybe the size of a silver dollar, is embedded in Superman's skin, just over his heart. The skin isn't healed over it, not exactly. It's like the skin was sliced open and the disc was shoved in and repositioned to span both sides of the slice. Bruce can find no purchase to pry it out, so, without a second thought, he pulls a knife out of his utility belt and slices the skin open further, making an X that he can peel open and pull the disc out.
It has the same crystalline appearance that Kryptonite does, but it's a cobalt blue rather than that eerie green. Bruce quickly shoves it into the lead-lined boxes that hold the weapons before returning his attention to Superman.
The wound is bleeding grievously, but it reassures Bruce that Superman isn't dead yet.
He fears he let the thought settle too soon, though, because he finds that Superman is cold and limp to the touch, and can't be roused. With hours to go until they reach Gotham, and a dying Superman on his hands, Bruce does the only thing he can think of.
He engages the stealth cloaking system, lands the plane in an open field, throws open the door, and hauls Superman out into the sun, laying him gently on the cold earth.
The effect is not instantaneous. The man before him is still gray from blood loss. Still sticky from the drying, brownish-red blood that coats his body. His limbs are still loose, his jaw still slack, his eyes still weird, unfocused, not-quite-closed. But, if Bruce looks closely enough, he can see the skin on his chest starting to slowly stitch itself back together. If Bruce listens closely enough, he can hear air rattling through Superman's lungs.
He takes a moment to feel thankful that Superman hasn't tumbled into the grave he'd been circling around, but another moment to worry that he wouldn't recover properly.
Bruce estimates that they've been in the field for nearly an hour when something changes, and he's thankful, because he was starting to get worried about being discovered.
Superman's head lifts fractionally, then lulls to the side. His eyes flutter, open ever-so-slightly more than they were before but still glazed over and feverish.
"Superman. You're okay. You're going to be okay." Bruce hopes he isn't lying.
"Ba'm'n… Knew you'd…" Superman drifts away again, but his recognition of Batman satisfies Bruce, convinces him that he's well on his way to recovery.
Now, though, he has to make a decision on what to do from here. Before, it had been a foregone conclusion that they'd be going back to the Bat cave. But Bruce can admit, if only to himself, that he isn't quite ready to reveal his identity to Superman. Not to mention, in the daylight, with all the media attention on Superman, it will be harder to slip back into the caves under Wayne Manor without attracting attention.
He's running through safe houses in his mind, trying to make a plan for where he should take Superman, when they're interrupted. Bruce is surprised, at first, that anyone got the slip on him. But then he sees who their guest is.
"Flash, I presume?"
"Uh, um, yeah, that's me, yes. I'm the Flash. And you're Batman. And he's Superman. Guess you already knew that. Anyway, can I help? I want to help."
Bruce blinks at him, processing the words that had emerged like machine gunfire from the kid's mouth.
"Do you know Superman, too?"
"Yeah, we're like, buddies. We raced once! I won! I think he let me win, though. Don't tell him I know. I want to help. I had a situation back in Central City that I couldn't leave or I would have been here sooner."
Bruce sighs. "Do you have a safe place he could recover?"
"Um… yes! The Speed Lab, it even has a roof where you can land this plane if you want! Superman trusts you, and you rescued him, so I'll trust you with its location. We heroes have to stick together."
Bruce does feel a twinge of guilt at the Flash's readiness to give up his headquarters so easily, but as far as he knows, the Flash isn't an immediately recognizable public figure. So he still feels justified in hiding his link to the Wayne Manor grounds.
"Okay, where is — wait. You can see the plane?"
"Yeah man — speed force. Your stealth tech is nifty, but I can see all the particles. I'll explain it some other time. Is, uh, is Superman… okay? I've… never seen him like this."
Bruce suddenly realizes that it might look a bit odd — he's kneeling, sitting on his heels, next to a prone Superman, talking across his body to a crouching Flash — if anyone were to happen upon them.
"Fine, I think. Starting to heal in the sun. Probably stable enough to move, now."
The flash nods, then gives Bruce the address to the lab. "Set down on the roof, I'll meet you there. I'd offer to carry him straight there, but I don't want to jostle him around like that. Can I help you get him back in the plane?"
Bruce waves him off, loads Superman back up, and takes off — after carefully attaching monitoring leads. Thankfully, they never become necessary.
Clark rises to the surface of his mind, finds himself engulfed in pain, and sinks back under.
Bruce stands stalwartly just off to the side of the medical cot holding Superman, which has been re-situated under skylights to keep him in the sun. The Flash's headquarters are impressive. Nothing on the Batcave, of course, but Bruce is admittedly impressed. They've got Superman hooked up to several monitoring devices, but he can't bring himself to leave.
Channeling his inner Alfred, Bruce had peeled off the Superman suit and wiped Superman down with warm, wet cloths, washing away the blood and sweat and grime and tucking a blanket tightly around his waist. He had left his dignity intact at the expense of not being fully clean; it's what he would have preferred if their roles were reversed.
The Flash reappears in his periphery holding a cup of coffee. "Didn't know what you like, but you seemed like a red-eye kinda guy. There's milk and sugar on the counter over there, if you want."
Bruce grunts and takes the cup, gratefully. He's not sure when he last slept — maybe a nap sometime after Superman was taken, but not a full sleep cycle. The Flash had offered him a place to sleep, but he declined. He couldn't explain it, but he couldn't leave. Superman had started shifting more, like he's asleep and not unconscious now. Bruce wants to be there when he wakes.
Clark slams into wakefulness, sitting up a fraction before the pain in his body catches up to his mind. He sucks in a breath as he falls back down on the — bed? — that he's laying on, choking on air. Sensory input crashes into him — beeping machines, coffee, heartbeats, the hum of electricity, cars honking, a baby crying another baby crying, kids squealing, adult activities, cars, honking, trains flying across tracks somewhere nearby, or maybe not nearby; he hears everything, and he can't filter it, can't control it, can't listen to it. His hands cover his ears and he whimpers and tries to turn on his side, but the motion ignites the pain that had been smoldering beneath the surface, and he cries out, and someone is shouting in his ear — no, they're whispering, but it's booming, everything is so loud so loud soloud soloudsoloudsoloud —
A cool, soft, damp rag brushes gently against his face, wiping tears he hadn't realized were there. A hand curls around the back of his head, and he turns into it, pressing his temple to the wrist, feeling the pulse point there. He focuses on that, feels it, listens for the heart that controls it, and lets it smother out all other sounds.
The wrist stays there, and he doesn't know who it belongs to, can't remember anything except pain, but it's soothing.
Soothing enough that he's slowly able to rein his senses back in. He hasn't felt like this since he was growing up, his powers freshly coming in.
A shuttering breath shakes out of him and he finally relaxes back into the bed, opening his eyes to find Batman standing next to him. He scrunches his eyes in confusion, wondering why Batman isn't wearing his gauntlets, but that question is soon buried under the mountain of new ones as he takes in his surroundings. A sound slips out of his throat, a question, almost, but no words go with it.
Batman eases his fingers out of his hair, brushing pieces out of his forehead.
"Superman."
"Batman. Where…?"
"Flash's headquarters in Central City. You've been sleeping while your body heals. We… couldn't do much, for the pain or anything."
"Got me out, though."
"Yeah, Aquaman and I got you out. You've got some good friends."
A smile brushes gently across Clark's face. "Sup'r friends." Speaking is still hard, but he can think through the pain easier than he could before. "How long?"
"The Kryptonian attacked you Friday night. It's Sunday night, now, the sun is just setting. Is there anyone we can call for you?"
"Mmm. Phone?"
Flash into his view for the first time, passing him a cell phone. "It's, uh, a burner. I won't look up who you call, man, promise."
Another small smile flits across Clark's face as he shakily dials Lois's number. She answers on the first ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Lo'."
"You idiot! You scared the shit out of me, are you okay? Where are you? What were you thinking?"
"Didn't know he wanted to fight. I'm in… Central City. With Flash and B'tm'n. Be back soon. Can you cover?"
"Yes, of course. I'll handle it. Don't worry. I… I wrote that piece for you. I know you wanted to do it. I tried to write it in your voice, so it's not obvious, but I just, I had to do something."
"Thanks, Lo'. Can you call Ma and Pa for me? Can' handle them righ' now."
"You got it, Big Blue. Get home soon, okay?"
"Mmm." The line clicks dead, and he hands the phone back to Flash. At some point during the call, Batman had removed his hand from Clark's face, and he missed the contact. He whined, slightly, leaning his head over. Batman complied with the unspoken request and resumed his comforting touch.
"'Nother sup'r friend. Normal one, though, not like you guys."
At that, Batman's thumb brushes gently across Clark's cheek. He lets himself float in the feeling, lets it shut out everything else, block all the pain receptors. He drifts off to sleep again.