A/N: Wow! Thanks for the wonderful repeat of wonderful reviews, and for your patience while I was away. :)

I'd just like to mention one thing before I get too much further into the story. This story is not going to have a very deeply developed villain. There is a villain, but I was really far too caught-up in writing the heroes and heroines to care that much about him. LOL—this was actually only going to be one or two sections long (it is currently 6, and will probably be 7 or 8 total), but I got so interested in the characters, it took on a life of its own. So, as much as I usually like to have a solid, well-developed villain, this is really more about character studies (seeing them under the stress of the plot), than about a well-honed villain. ;)

Oh, and also, I guess I should mention that Batman begins (lovely pun, no?) in this chapter--and he ended up getting nearly as intertwined in the plot as Superman. Hope you enjoy!

Part 3

Floating in a half-restful state through the solitary limitlessness of space, Kal-El listened to the music that was Metropolis' night-life. Well, it was music to his ears, no matter how many babies blasted him with their wailing and tantrums—when all was well, and the people were safe. Which was rare.

He kept his eyes closed, and all senses, save hearing, unfocused. It felt good to be this far away from the Kryptonite infecting Metropolis. He felt more like Superman, and less like a truly human, and fully klutzy, Clark Kent with a hangover. With his headache diminishing somewhat, he realized just how alarmingly weak he'd been beginning feel.

Usually he rested up here, weightless, reassuringly close to the sun and stars, and felt renewed, ready to spring into action the moment he heard the first call of distress. He'd never anticipated people being in trouble, but he'd anticipated the opportunity to help them. Now, however, he realized guiltily that he was dreading hearing that call for his help. As he "dialed" through the noises below, sorting them in a systematic manner, much like turning the knob on a radio, he was all but cringing as he tested each sound.

Every once in a while, he would shift his hearing to focus on Martha or Lois, and after assuring himself they were alright, return doggedly to listening to the rest of the city. He berated himself for his unwillingness. He was staying here for these very people, not to selfishly sit by because he was feeling lazy. He couldn't waver when the next cry for help came, even if it meant plunging right back into the Kryptonite-polluted atmosphere below. His hesitancy could mean someone else's life.

He hadn't corrected his mind-set too soon. An elderly woman's voice, pitched in alarm and righteous indignation, grabbed his attention. He latched on to the sound, and shot off in its direction, fire igniting in the wake of his speed.

He found what he was looking for quickly: the kind of a scene that never failed to arouse his anger. A grey-haired woman, purse clutched under one arm, and a package under the other, was surrounded by three rough-looking men. From the way they were staggering, and their voices slurring, they were obviously more than a little inebriated. The woman was defending her possessions with glares and a generous amount of verbal abuse. Neither of which fazed any of them in the slightest. A valiant effort on her part, but one Superman would normally have discouraged—things were replaceable, life was not. However, in this case, he was here, and fully intended to ensure the woman retained both.

As the boldest of the three men lunged forward to grab for the woman's purse, laughing at her frightened reaction, Superman shot down, quickly inserting himself directly between them.

Over the years, Superman had come to rather enjoy the reaction that invariably followed his unexpected appearances. It could be a rewarding sight, especially when it came from cowards such as these. Then it was priceless. There was the initial surprise, followed by the life-preserving instinct to recoil, and often concluded with them futilely reacting in a desperate last attempt at defense. It was in the delay between the latter two, surprise and recoil, that Superman was so often tempted to make remarks to their degradation.

The abundance of alcohol in their bloodstreams made the delay in this case particularly long. He had plenty of time to comment. "Bored, gentlemen? Next time, I'd suggest you find someone more suited to your level of fighting ability." The men were regrouping, but still occupied mostly with gawking. "This lady was obviously about to teach you a lesson—but I'm sure if you just give up now, there won't be a need for any of that unpleasantness."

Aha. So they weren't so drunk that insults didn't penetrate.

One of them men—apparently not the brains of the outfit—was groping with one hand at his belt, muttering, "Where's the…the thing you were sayin' we had to have, 's not here…"

"I've got it," the man directly in front of Superman growled, menacing confidence layering the already enraged expression on his face.

Not again… Superman groaned inwardly, just before he was blasted with the hated presence of Kryptonite. As had been the true last time, it felt incredibly potent, but with a particular, sharp edge to it that seemed to slice right through his brain the second he was exposed. At least this time he had enough time to react, and avoid being stabbed again—and it was another dagger, not a gun with Kryptonite bullets. But there were three of them, and only one of him.

The pain in his shoulder from his previous wound seemed to have reawakened, throbbing intensely as he struggled for possession of the dagger. The weapon was pulled towards him, away from him, towards him again, the potency of its effect battering him every time it came closer. But potent it was at all times. Superman could feel its insidious clutches tightening around him like a vice, making it hard to breathe. Still, he struggled. In the back of his mind, he was hoping the old woman, for all her obvious tenacity, had the common sense to use this time to slip away.

Using every last piece of energy he possessed, Superman wrested the weapon from the other man, and let it fall to the pavement with clatter. He wasn't prepared for the blow from behind, as one of the other men slammed a knee into his lower back. He stumbled forward, but managed to duck the fist coming at his head.

Usually, for him, fights progressed in a fluid and easily controlled sequence of events. His "superhuman" strength allowed him to prevail in situations such as this, usually without harming his opponent, or opponents. That was, obviously, preferable. The situation he found himself in, however, was far from ideal. He was fighting for his life, and had the decided disadvantage of being unused to having to exert his entire strength in order to succeed. He was used to holding back, recognizing the sometimes frightening extent of his strength, and not wishing to waste lives unnecessarily, regardless of what kind of person the life belonged to.

The blows continued to rain down on him, and he knew now was one of those rare chances where it was necessary to use all his strength. What little he possessed was pathetic as it was. He focused primarily on hindering any of his attackers from reclaiming the Kryptonite blade at his feet. He made a move to kick it as far away as possible. If he could just get it far enough away from him, for just a moment… But one of the men lunged at him, and he was forced to focus on defending himself.

He was fending off the one, when the other two grabbed his arms simultaneously. Pained, exhausted, and worn down by the presence of the Kryptonite, he felt unusually susceptible to the almost claustrophobic fear of the moment. It wasn't easy to erase the panic and confusion he'd felt the last time he'd received such a beating, at the hands of Lex Luthor's men. It had nearly been his death. This situation felt terrifyingly similar.

It took effort, but he turned his mind away from those thoughts. The man in front of him was leaning over, reaching to pick up the dagger. He threw his weight abruptly backwards, sending the two men restraining him toppling over. Regaining his own balance as quickly as possible, he rose in time to kick the dagger out of reach of the man in front of him. With a curse, the drunken man took a poorly-aimed swing at him. Superman side-stepped, ducking again as the attempt was repeated, with equally bad aim. Only this time, instead of missing his intended target and hitting empty air, his opponent's fist connected with the unyielding solid brick wall Superman was backed up against.

The man yelped in pain, stumbling backwards—but was replaced quickly by one of his companions. Superman didn't have the time to check on the whereabouts of the third man. He felt as if he was going to be sick any moment, his muscles ached, and jolts of pain shot through his wounded shoulder with every movement. Even with all that weighting him down, and through the fog of Kryptonite-induced weariness, everything within him rebelled against the idea actually utilizing all his strength to take these men down. To go all out. To possibly kill them. And if you don't, this can only end in them killing you The inner-voice of reason that answered his brief hesitation sounded incredibly like his father's, calmly stating the obvious.

Just don't think about it… Superman gritted his teeth—partly against the pain, and partly against that side of him which would have continued to hesitate—and landed a solid punch to directly at the face of the man presently charging him. It turned out there was some strength left in him after all, if not quite enough to knock the man unconscious.

Superman took the brief respite he was given to draw himself up and take a couple of deep breaths. The man who'd lost the contest with the wall was glaring angrily at him from a short distance, rubbing his doubtless throbbing knuckles. The man he'd just punched was rubbing his jaw, anger edging its way back onto his face as well, although the better part of him still looked dazed, utterly drunk, and a little nervous too. The third man… Superman frowned, as he realized he all but forgotten about his third adversary. Even while trying to maintain his focus on the two men encircling him, he glanced around the darkened ally out of his peripheral vision.

He finally spotted the third man, blood-shot eyes filled with hate, and green dagger in hand, poised to throw. Then Superman received help in one of the most unexpected and unconventional ways imaginable. A purse, of all things, came swinging out of the dark to connect solidly with the man's head. The man toppled forward with an "ooph". Superman didn't have time acknowledge his elderly accomplice. There were still the two other men, who, although they looked increasingly panicky, also looked increasingly explosive with the third member of their party taken out by an old woman.

In the end, fear appeared to be the winning emotion with the man of the newly swollen jaw, as he began to back away instead of forward. His friend, the obvious ring-leader of the three, shot his more timid companion a wrathful looked that screamed "Coward!", but looked more apprehensive himself, without his two friends-in-crime supporting him. The Man of Steel didn't look up to par, but he could obviously still do some damage. Now that he thought about it, he didn't actually know where the Kryptonite dagger was, it might have been far enough away that it wasn't effecting Superman at all any longer…

Reading their doubts, and seeing victory close at hand, Superman leveled the leader with his steely gaze, and smiled. He might not have been as close to victory as he'd thought, but the smile—as full of knowing self-confidence as he could manage—was their undoing.

------------------

Bruce Wayne knocked on the door to Clark's apartment for a third time. He sighed when, once again, no answer met his knock.

"Come on, Clark…" he muttered, then, louder, he called out, " Clark, are you there? It's Bruce."

He hadn't come all this way just to go away and come back later. He was worried about his friend, had been ever since word of the Kryptonite influx had reached Gotham. In his experience, neither Clark nor Superman knew how to take proper care of themselves. Not that he was without understanding. Being a "superhero" took its toll, and you had to be intensely dedicated to "your" city. Batman wasn't above forgetting to eat or sleep on occasion. The problem was, Superman took responsibly for much of the world, in addition to Metropolis, and sometimes seemed to forget his own needs altogether.

Try being a little more self-centered, would you? Demand better work-hours, or something. You're making the rest of us look downright lazy, you overachieving boy scout… Bruce smiled wryly, shaking his head. Like that was going to happen.

It was obvious Metropolis was doing its best to watch out for its superhero. You had but to pick up a newspaper to see that. But when their superhero refused to stay out of danger, there was only so much anyone could do.

No. He wasn't giving up. Bruce had already decided that. If he had to, he'd wait inside until Clark decided to make an appearance. If he didn't make an appearance, then he'd have to go looking for him. Being slightly more gravitationally-bound—if scientifically and technologically aided—than his friend, he was hoping plan A would work out. But he couldn't count on everything going smoothly. Saturday morning it might be, but in either persona Clark was an acclaimed workaholic.

The only thing he foresaw going smoothly was his entrance into the apartment: Clark had given him a key, and thus he would be able to simply unlock the door, rather then break it down. So what if it wasn't exactly something to cheer over? It was somethingsimple, in a day that was probably going to prove anything but straightforward. Though, actually, considering his mood, breaking down a door might have been made a desirable outlet. Far preferable to breaking a few necks, as he was tempted to do—that had to wait until he knew which necks were in need of breaking.

One more knock. If Clark didn't answer, he was going in. He slipped one hand into his pocket to retrieve the key while he gave the door one last rap with his knuckles. " Clark, I'm coming in." Ready or not. There was no response, so he inserted the key in the lock, and turned the handle.

Inside, it was shadowy, with no lights turned on, and the shades drawn. While his eyes acclimated to the dark, Bruce groped along the wall for a switch. When he finally found one, and turned the main light on, he was in for a surprise.

First came the startling realization that he was not alone, as he'd expected to be after knocking so many times and receiving no answer. Secondly, and hardly less startling, was the realization that the haggard figure on the couch was, in fact, Clark.

" Clark…?" Instinctively, he spoke in a whisper—then rolled his eyes at his own obtuseness. If Clark hadn't responded to all the noise he'd been making a moment ago… The thought sent him hurrying towards the couch.

He felt to his knees and reached out to check for a pulse. It was strong and steady. Bruce closed his eyes briefly in gratitude, then reopened them, brow furrowed in concern. What on earth was Clark doing out in his living room, sprawled across the couch, deeply asleep—or possibly unconscious—and dressed in a suit?

Suit, as in of the nerdy news-reporter variety… Bruce mused wryly, scanning his friend's rumpled clothes with a small smile. Either he'd been to work, come back home, and not bothered to change out of them, or he'd fallen asleep in his clothes before he could get to wherever he had been heading. At least, those were two of the most plausible, Clark-like, and optimistic theories he could think of. No visible injuries being apparent, he decided to stick to his theories until proven otherwise. Optimism wasn't so bad, once you got used to it.

Time to rise and shine, Superman.

" Clark?" Bruce shook his shoulder. " Clark." He shook him harder, but to no avail. "Come on, farm boy, wake up and tell me about all the trouble you've been getting yourself into lately."

As if some silent alarm had gone off in his head, Clark sat up with a jolt. "What… Trouble?" Bleary, mildly alarmed blue eyes blinked tiredly at him. That, combined with the way his dark hair was falling over his forehead and into his eyes, at the moment Bruce could entirely understand why no one ever bothered to compare Clark Kent to Superman.

Bruce patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Easy there, Boy Scout. No trouble at present."

Clark was obviously having trouble putting things together. He narrowed his eyes at Bruce in confusion. "I heard…"

"Yeah, that would have been me."

Clark was gaining more awareness. Slowly. "Bruce…what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"Took the words right out of my mouth. I could ask you the same two questions."

Some of the awareness he'd gained eluded Clark once more. "What do you mean? You're the one making sudden appearances in my living room…"

Bruce's amusement was growing by leaps and bounds. You can drop the Clark-act Clark—no need to act so oblivious just for my sake. "Do you always make a habit of sleeping out here on the couch?" He examined the room they occupied with a sweeping glance. "It's kind of small, and I know sleeping isn't high on your list needs or wants, but tell me you got a bedroom with this place—just for a show of normality?"

Clark rubbed his forehead absently. "Oh…yes. It has a bedroom. And, no, I don't usually prefer the couch. I just kind of…dozed off, I guess." As if finally reaching full consciousness, and recognition of his surroundings—as well as of the fact that Bruce was still kneeling beside the couch— Clark shook his head and motioned to a chair. "Why don't you sit down, or, rather…up, in this instance. Why are you sitting on the floor, anyways?"

Bruce pushed himself up off the floor and fell into the indicated chair, contemplating Clark with lingering concern behind his ever-casual manner. "Because, my friend, you were all but dead to the world and refused to answer, for all the noise I created. I planned on waiting in here until you returned, only to find upon entering that you were here."

"I didn't…wake up?"

"No, you didn't." Bruce gave a lop-sided grin. "I'm not a timid knocker, either, you were really out of it."

"Must have been."

Clark looked like he wanted to shrug it all off, but Bruce wasn't about to let him. "Running yourself a bit ragged these days?"

"You could say that."

"Okay." Bruce nodded. "Let's make it a statement of fact then: you've been running yourself ragged these days."

"A bit ragged," Clark retorted with abnormal irritation. "Quote yourself correctly."

"Want to tell me what kind of stuff you're running yourself ragged doing? Any problems the reporters haven't latched onto yet?" Bruce added almost disinterestedly, "Any…hidden injuries you might want to tell your friend about?"

"No."

"Not even to your best, most dependable, and loyal friend? You wouldn't tell even him?"

"Yeah, I might tell him—if I had any injuries to speak of."

Bruce wasn't easily taken in. He lowered his voice to a more Batman-deep level, and pressed him solemnly, "Then you mind telling me exactly why you were all but unconscious a minute ago?"

"I wasn't unconscious."

To Bruce, Clark sounded very much like I child insisting he wasn't his bed-time yet. His friend didn't look well, not by a long shot. "Maybe not. But, for you, being so deeply asleep you couldn't hear me yelling out in the hall, is almost as abnormal." The way Clark winced as he leaned forward to rest his head in his hands was not lost on Bruce. "Come on, Clark."

"Alright, so a couple of drunks got the better of me last night. Temporarily. So what? I'm fine now."

"They had Kryptonite?"

"A knife, yes."

Bruce felt his anger surge to the top. He knew it was at the men who'd attacked his friend—anger in Clark's behalf—but right now Clark was the only one he had to yell at. "Good God, they didn't stab you, did they? You should be in the emergency room not sitting around here if—"

"No, they didn't stab me. Like I said, they just had the advantage temporarily." Clark shot him a sheepish half-smile. "You'd think Superman would know how to fight better than a couple of drunken louts, wouldn't you?"

"They beat you up?" Bruce asked in consternation.

"Not…exactly." Clark winced at the memories.

A though hit Bruce. Not a pleasant one. Superman was known for his rather idealistic morals—and Bruce knew from personal experience that reputation wasn't just a rumor. "Tell me you didn't just let them beat the…" He decided his friend probably wouldn't appreciate the choice of words, and switched to, "…knock you around."

"Of course not," Clark said indignantly—but there was a hesitancy in his voice that indicated the thought had occurred to him. He confessed as much a second later. "It was hard. I'm not used to having fight with the intention of killing, if necessary. Apparently, I'm a little dependent on my 'powers'." Another sheepish glance. "Maybe you could give me a few tips for next time."

"There isn't going to be a next time…" Bruce muttered, clenching and unclenching his jaw a couple of times. He was definitely in full Dark Knight mode now.

"What?" Clark laughed. "You came here to be my bodyguard?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow, authoritative and serious. "If that's what it takes to keep you alive until this situation is settled." He shrugged. "Sure."

Clark stopped laughing. "Seriously, Bruce, why are you here?"

Bruce stared blankly at him. "I'll give you three guesses."

Clark shook his head. "Bruce, I'm trying to be serious, here. Could you stop with the sarcasm and guessing games? Is something wrong in Gotham?"

"Um…no," Bruce replied in his best "duh" voice. "I came here, because something's wrong in Metropolis. I heard it was having a little problem with Kryptonite being rampant on the streets, becoming a common-place weapon in the arsenal of criminals, being handed out right and left… Don't tell me you haven't been reading the newspapers, Clark."

"You came here because of that?"

"Yeah. I came here because of that."

"Thanks, Bruce, but the police are doing everything they can. Short of personally interrogating criminals in order to trace possession back to the original distributors, I don't—"

"Sure, I could do that."

"I believe torture is rather looked down upon in this country," Clark said, raising both eyebrows.

Bruce smirked. "Hey, who said anything about torture? I look pretty impressive in black."

"You mean dressed like a bat," Clark corrected, matching his smirk.

"If you're going to start making fun of my outfit…"

"Never. Everyone knows better than to make fun of Batman." Clark paused. "You're really here to stay and help for a while? What about Gotham?"

Bruce sighed. " Gotham can wait for a small while. Right now, I think Metropolis could do with some extra help. Or, rather, you could."

Clark mouth curved into an ironic smile as he glanced down at his bedraggled outfit. "Oh, I look like I need help, do I?" His smile turned more genuine. "Thanks, Bruce. My mom's doing everything she can, and although I'm sure she'd give it a try, I think I'll feel better if you would be the one venturing into any dark alleys."

"Your mom?"

"Yes. She's been staying here with me for a couple of days, making sure I don't overexert myself. So you see, you don't have to worry too much about any hidden injuries. I have a hard enough time getting her to quit fussing over me. She's gone to get some groceries—left me a note—but you can be sure when she gets back I'll have no peace for the rest of the day. "

Bruce looked very satisfied at hearing the news. "Good. Then I can put all my efforts into interrogation."

Clark looked like he wasn't certain how seriously to take him. "Just don't overdo it."

Bruce grinned menacingly. "Oh believe me, Clark, there's no such thing as overdoing it when it comes to these…gentlemen."

To be continued…

You don't have to be around me long before you realize I live for reviews. –bg- I'd really like to know what Batman fans think of this. So please, drop me a review if you have the time—I'd appreciate it so much. :)