Clark flew as fast as he dared, his cape wrapped around the broken body where Bruce's spirit still, miraculously remained. The thready heartbeat, the slow pained gasps of breath were louder than the roar of the wind in his ears, the rush of the world beneath him.

The world needs you.

He'd been at work when the whisper had reached his ears. Had scrambled for the door so fast that he'd almost tripped, had left the door slamming shut on his coworkers', on Lois', shocked faces. She would understand.

He arrived in small town in Indonesia to similarly shocked faces, that quickly straightened out and pointed, gesturing frantically at a recently collapsed building.

Bruce.

The faint sounds of his heartbeat came from the building, along with a few others. Clark identified them all, quickly, methodically. Frantically.

Bruce was under a pile of concrete, and was in the worst condition. But he'd never forgive Clark if he prioritized him over the others. Damn the man.

Clark flew to the building, shifted it ever so carefully, not wanting to destabilize it further, wanting to scream his frustration. Bruce was dying in a crumbling building, and he was the most powerful being on the planet and he was still here, bound to the laws of physics, bound to shifting rubble a bit at a time, slowly.

He tried to concentrate on Bruce's breathing, hoping it would center him.

In. Out.

Another part of the structure was cleared. The rescue workers were watching him work, but they were well trained, and just as he deemed it to be as safe as a recently collapsed building area could be, they were approaching, ready to give aid as he lifted pieces of rubble.

In. Out.

They pulled out a child first, who coughed and coughed but his heartbeat was steady. He'd been lucky, only have a few scrapes.

Miraculously, they found his mother soon after, who suffered some broken bones, but nothing life threatening.

In. Out.

They pulled out a man. Another child. A rescue worker with a concussion.

In. Out.

Superman listened for the heartbeats, scanned the rubble with his x-ray vision. Faltered when his eyes swept over Bruce, at the blood pooling underneath him.

In. Out.

He could go no faster than this. He could lift more, he could hear them, and save them, but only one at a time. Slowly.

Once, the breaths he'd been counting paused, and Clark had felt his heart drop out of his chest, felt like he couldn't breathe until he heard the next one, the next gasp that told him that Bruce was still fighting, alone in the rubble.

But it doesn't need you, his words echoed viciously in his head.

No.

In. Out.

He let out a sharp sigh of relief, ignoring the looks the rescue workers gave him. Still, they worked steadily, professionally, providing immediate first aid to those they saved.

In. Out.

And then the last one was out, a rescue worker, and she gestured weakly back at the building at him when she was carried away on a stretcher.

Just Bruce left. Clark been evaluating the structure, and by now enough pieces were removed that he could risk shifting the remaining pieces on top of him aside in one swift motion, and wrapping the terrifyingly still figure below in his cape as fast as he dared while still being mindful of his injuries.

He just had to get Bruce to the Fortress. It would be able to save him, he knew. It had to.

The snow puffed up in a burst when he landed, clumsy, and the doors swung open for him without him speaking. He barely felt the bitter chill though Bruce surely would have, if he'd been conscious and not dying in his arms.

He'd constructed the Fortress around the remains of the Kryptonian ship, which he'd removed from the possession of the American government as soon as he could. It formed the heart of the structure, and he quickly brought Bruce there. Medical robots appeared as he laid him gently on an examination table. He looked pale as death, a sheen of sweat over his forehead and blood trickling down his chin. More blood oozed from where a jagged piece of concrete pieced his side. Clark didn't look at the shattered bones again, didn't want to see them again.

The Batman was on the verge of death. The man who'd tried to orchestrate his death, and had ultimately succeeded. The man who'd protected his mother, and Lois.

The man who had brought him back to life.

The world needs you.

But it doesn't need you.

"Save him," he told the robots harshly, and walked away, not trusting himself to watch as they floated around Bruce, trying to turn his hearing down so he didn't have to hear the soft groans of pain, but not so far down that he could no longer hear the soft heartbeat.

He'd never thought of Bruce's heart as soft before.

Bruce had always been a defining figure to Clark. Invincible, powerful, unbreakable. It was shocking to see him like this, human.

It occurred to him then that he didn't really know the man at all. Oh sure, he had googled just like the rest of them - both sides of Bruce Wayne's life was splashed on the media, on the Internet, in magazines. And yes, he was one of the rare few who knew that the Dark Knight of Gotham was actually its Prince as well. But those were just individual pieces of information, Clark was beginning to realize, and far from the whole picture. He'd have to do a bit of digging, a bit of investigating, to find that.

He was a journalist after all. Putting the story together was what he did.

Not at his apartment though. He couldn't give away Bruce's identity accidentally just because he was careless. And he did live with one of the sharpest investigative journalists on the planet. He was afraid he'd already given away too much when he'd first seen the new nonprofit that Wayne Enterprises had founded, to clean up the "messes" that superheroes left behind, the ones that they "didn't have time" to clean up. He remembered the bland impassivity with which Bruce spoke that gave away as much as an outright declaration of opinion.

"He's just another wealthy elite," Lois had said, confused. "You've heard worse. Why do you care?" And after that he had not mentioned Bruce Wayne and his cold eyes again.

For nothing better to do while he waited for the medic bots to finish their work, and to stem the rising tide of helplessness within him, he went to the computer to do some research. Maybe he'd be able to glean some new insight to the man, and surprise him when he was better. He knew now that he hadn't given Bruce enough credit. Hadn't tried to understand him at all. Clark was nothing if not compassionate. He opened the first link and began to read.

Slowly.

Only about 10 minutes later, he heard a cry of pain from the medical center. The next second, he was in the room, taking in the scene of Bruce flailing on the table, face twisted in pain, medical droids hovering around him worriedly.

The heartbeat was erratic, fast with pain or fear or both.

And the scars, oh the scars. It was a map of a lifetime of suffering writ on skin, in defense of a city that had hated him as much as Superman had been beloved. How had he ever thought Bruce inhuman?

"Bruce!" Clark shouted. And Bruce, miraculously, went still.

"Clark?" He said, and Clark felt something twist in him at the way Bruce had tensed at his voice, eyes shuttering even though he was obviously in a lot of pain.

"We must sedate you in order to operate," the droid said, oblivious to the tension.

Clark stepped forward, placing an arm on Bruce's shoulder, feeling how he tried not to flinch at the touch. Bruce's eyes weren't completely lucid but Clark had fought him before and he could see the flicker of unease flitting almost into fear.

"Bruce, we need to operate immediately," he said, putting as much gentleness into his voice as he could.

"Don't - don't put me under," Bruce mumbled.

"It's going to hurt," Clark said.

"Don't," Bruce said, wildly.

"Okay," Clark said quietly.

He wanted to stroke the sweaty forehead, brush the hair that was uncharacteristically disheveled out of the way, wanted to comfort, to help.

Bruce relaxed slowly as the medical droids made their final preparations. Clark realized he was rubbing circles with his thumb into Bruce's shoulder.

He looked at the jagged piece of concrete still embedded in Bruce's side and felt a wave of nausea at the idea of Bruce being operated on without painkillers, at watching him suffer more.

"Bruce, look at me," and brown eyes drifted over to meet his.

Clark moved his hand where it was still rubbing soothing circles into Bruce's shoulder to his hand, felt the calloused toughness of the skin there. It was clammy and cold. "Bruce, please. Trust me," Clark said, pleading with his eyes.

I know I haven't earned it.

Bruce closed his eyes, defeated. "Okay," he whispered, exhaustion evident in his frame.

Clark didn't let go of his hand while the robots slid the needle into him and his breathing eased. He would have stayed - he doubted Bruce would remember anyway - but he was quickly shooed out of the medical center.

He stood for a second staring at the closed door, feeling that familiar rush of helplessness. And then a feeling of guilt.

Alfred.

The little communication device Bruce had given each of them was flashing red when Clark looked at it. He'd been so focused on Bruce that he hadn't even noticed the incessant buzzing. A quick glance at his phone told him he had a missed call and 3 texts from Lois, and a missed call from Alfred.

He dialed Alfred back.

The man picked up before the second ring. "Is Master Bruce alright?" came the stiff voice without preamble.

Clark reassured him that he had gotten Bruce to a medical center, top of the line, more advanced than any human hospital. He could tell that he hadn't completely put Alfred's mind at rest by the time the other man thanked him and bid him good bye, but he didn't know what else he could have said.

He thought about dialing Lois next, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to press the call button. He wasn't in the mood to talk about the situation again. In the end he just replied to her via text, telling her not to wait for him for dinner, and that everything was okay.

It was the first time he'd lied to her since she'd discovered his secret identity.

He went back to reading, trying not to think about Bruce's scars


A/N: Apologies for twisting canon a little and making Lois not know Bruce's identity. I really liked that bit and when I realized during editing I decided to leave it in. And if you didn't notice, then carry on!