He's carefully dismantling the bomb, though it could easily be the act of making lunch for all the concern Batman offers the situation. As always, there is a lot riding on the disengaging of the foreign object. Traffic putters twenty stories below and there are offices and a playschool in the surrounding buildings.
And the bomb cannot be thrown into space, disintegrated or contained. Upon discovering the origin of the weapon through a long-distance transmission with Ion, Superman had been wise to call Bruce.
The Dark Knight pulls back his visor, blinking twice to readjust his eyes to the daylight. "I'll have it in a second."
"So then we track where this..." starts the Man of Steel, before stopping. Batman can recognize the meaning of the silence and the tilted head. "Hold that thought."
Superman doesn't tell Batman to refrain from detonating the device accidently, either. He knows better. Batman follows the direction of the blur and marks the probability that their culprit may already be uncovered.
Then he's entertaining company once more. "Sorry. Balloon."
Batman returns to the offending object, flipping his visor down once more. "Malfunctioning hot air?"
His tools become one with his hands again, as Superman answers. "No, just a lost balloon."
Pausing, the Dark Knight tries to imagine what Kal could mean. Certainly the Man of Steel wouldn't have left his attendance at a bomb capable of anything to apprehend a renegade balloon for a child.
Batman sighs, keeping the action to himself. Of course the Man of Steel would do that.
"You need to set your priorities straight," he mutters.
"Sorry," comes the apology again. Batman can't spare the attention to look at the Kryptonian's face for honesty, bemusement or shame.
He just can't help it.
Much like a child who doesn't want to lose their precious, floating bauble. And yet, the question of whether it would ever truly leave them remains unignored.
He shouldn't have let go of his mother's hand, Kal shouldn't have abandoned Bruce and uncounted others to an uncertain bomb, just as a six-year-old shouldn't have given up the string.
"You can't help it," he states aloud, clipping the last wire of mysterious metal.
Superman relaxes, no longer needing to revert to impossible speed in the event of an error. "I should thank you for being here, then."
For letting go. For not needing Superman after all. For being here when Kal could be there, plucking balloons out of the sky.
Bruce doesn't smile back, but he notes that he himself cannot help it.
