A/N: I love Bruce all adorable and puppy-ish. Y'all should realize this by now ;)
~Chapter Three~
They ended up seeing each other much sooner than two weeks from then, but unfortunately it was because Gorilla Grodd, Star Sapphire, and Metallo decided they wanted to try and destroy Metropolis. Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Flash beamed down.
The villains seemed to have no goal other than wanton destruction. Another harebrained 'kill Superman' scheme, Bruce suspected. He was seriously getting tired of those.
The battle started out well. Star Sapphire had already knocked down a few buildings. Luckily, the firefighters had gotten everyone out. Diana took out Gorilla Grodd pretty quick (he hadn't been the same since Flash addled his brains). Clark went after Sapphire, while Wally and Diana took on Metallo.
Bruce was about to leap up a building to help Clark when he heard maniacal laughter (didn't supervillains know they were clichés?) coming from the blown-out main floor of an apartment complex. He pulled out a batarang and eased in through the back door. The laugher—giggling, really—was coming from the furnace room.
He turned the corner and saw the fourth villain, one they hadn't even suspected: Plastique. She was just the perfect mix of crazy, mean, and sneaky. Currently, she had two bricks of C4 by her feet and a mess of wires that led to a contraption he couldn't even begin to puzzle out.
"Plastique!" he leapt at her, but she was as smooth as an explosion and slipped sideways. They skittered across the floor of shattered glass. She lobbed a miniature stick of dynamite at him. He snatched it out of mid-air and tossed it behind the janitor's desk. It exploded and showered him with splinters, but it was better than losing a hand.
She laughed again. The belts slung around her waist and across her shoulders were packed with explosives. Long range, she had the advantage. He had to get closer, where she couldn't blow him up without it being a suicide bombing.
He flipped over a broken beam (not good—this complex was thirty stories tall and he didn't want it coming down on his head) and grabbed her by the wrist. She might be fast, but he was stronger by far and had her arm behind her back in seconds, putting all that pressure on the shoulder joint.
She yelled and tried to stab his foot with her two-inch stiletto heels, but there was a reason his boots had a layer of Kevlar. Some C-list villain with fancy purple shoes wasn't going to disable him by stomping.
"What is that?" He dragged her back towards the device.
She looked at her creation, mouth curling into a thin smile of either pride or sarcasm, he couldn't tell which. He was starting to pick out the separate elements—explosives packed at the heart, a coiled gut of rubber-coated wires, and two separate detonators—but not quickly enough to be able to disarm it. Her teeth glinted in the dusty light of the furnace room. "That? Oh, it's only got a little bit left."
"What?" And then he saw it—a silent time. Damn, he'd gotten too used to colorful crazies with big ticking bombs. Plastique was just smart enough and just suicidal enough to keep him here while the countdown ran. They had fifteen seconds.
Clark was right—he should have gotten more sleep.
Thirteen seconds. He grabbed Plastique by the shoulders, not caring to be gentle anymore and hauled her away from it. Not enough time to stop it. Not enough time to get out of the building.
He yanked a pair of handcuffs from his belt and snapped one cuff around Plastique's left wrist. Ten seconds.
There was an alcove up ahead. Room enough for one. He clapped the other cuff around a nice, thick pipe in the alcove and ran for the other side of the room where there was cover.
Four.
Three.
Two.
He was not nearly close enough. The blast hit him sideways and he smashed into the concrete floor. His shoulder popped. His mouth was full of dust and his ears were ringing and he couldn't move because a two-ton ceiling beam was pinning him to the ground. He opened his eyes and saw his own blood speckled in the grit. When his lungs finally decided to resume breathing the oxygen went pounding through his skull like it was trying to kill him. Everything was dark. Plastique was cursing violently somewhere in the distance. Thank god he'd remembered to cut her belts.
Maybe he blacked out, because when he opened his eyes again there was sunlight streaming through the dust and familiar red boots a few inches from his face. His vision blurred in and out. The weight of the beam lifted of him, but he still didn't feel like moving.
Clark touched his shoulder. "Batman?"
"Give me a minute." The room swam.
Clark slid his arms under him. "The building's going down. And you have a concussion."
He was about to say that it wasn't the worst he'd had, but then something metal groaned. Clark scooped him up and then they were airborne, hovering thirty stories up while the unfinished apartment complex collapsed in on itself.
Down below, Diana was hauling Plastique into a metahuman containment van. He put his head against Clark's shoulder, and could almost feel the x-ray vision running across him.
"Dislocated shoulder, too," Clark said, softly.
"Shut up. My head hurts." In reality, it was less of pain and more of the fact that he felt like if he looked down he was going to throw up on those red shoes. Ordinarily, he would growl and Clark would set him down, and he'd fight through it. But right now he'd rather stay warm and safe above the remains of the battle.
He let Clark fly them both back down to the Javelin.
****#****
And he found himself in the midst of lying down in his Watchtower room. Apparently he was concussed enough lose hours of time. His arm was in a sling, so he must've been to the medbay. They'd given him drugs, too, because his shoulder wasn't on fire.
Clark was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on Bruce's good arm. Bruce had woken up midsentence. "—so you're all right?"
"What?"
Clark's brow furrowed, just a little. He slowed down, like he was speaking to someone who wasn't all there, which Bruce supposed he wasn't. "I'm leaving—Lois and I are going out to dinner—are you going to be fine? I know transporters and concussions don't mix."
"I'll be okay." So long as he lay still and didn't think too much about where Clark was going after this. He closed his eyes because the light was starting to hurt and he felt Clark get up from the bed. "Clark. Wait."
Clark paused. Bruce squished the tiny Alfred-voice in his head that said Don't be emotionally manipulative and opened his eyes about as much as he could. "Can you get me a glass of water? Please?"
Clark's expression softened. He filled a glass and set it on the nightstand, before he reached down and tousled Bruce's hair, just gently. "I'll stop in after dinner, okay? Get some rest."
Bruce just nodded and closed his eyes and thanked whatever deity was listening that he appealed to Clark's maternal instincts. He faded out to the soft click of the door falling shut.
****#****
Whatever Dr. Mid-Nite had given him, it certainly hadn't been over-the-counter aspirin. He slept without dreaming, and woke up feeling cotton where his brain ought to be. And the pain was back.
"Did the drugs wear off?" Clark stepped through the door (damn superhearing). Bruce cared less about seduction right now and more about the fact that it was insanely difficult to keep a train of thought running in his head for more than a few seconds. He'd gone from the shock part of injury to the actual hurting part. Clark picked up a prescription bottle from the kitchen counter and tapped out two pills. Bruce sat up very slowly and sincerely hoped it was Vicodin.
He stood up—too quickly, it felt like a knife going through his skull. Clark caught his arm before he could crack his head again and eased him onto the couch before handing over the pills and water. Bruce took them without complaint and then pressed his temple against the arm of the couch because it felt better than sitting up.
Clark chuckled. "You're really docile when you're hurt, you know."
He leaned down and brushed the hair out of Bruce's eyes so he could see the bruises.
"'M fine," Bruce said, even though he was lying on his side in the Watchtower with his eyes almost shut. "How was your date?"
Clark sat down on the couch next to him, and Bruce shifted over to put his head next to Clark's knee. Clark reached down and stroked his hair. He let his eyes close—even if he was hurt, the affection felt good. He certainly wasn't going to pass it up.
"It was good. We went to this little Italian place and she had just finished a piece on a Venezuelan gun smuggling ring so she was happy and I was happy." Clark sighed a soft little breath. "I almost asked her then and there. But I don't think she'd be as pleased with a guy with half a meatball on his shirt."
"You really want to marry her, then?" It came out before Bruce could stop himself. Maybe he really was as concussed as Clark thought he was. Or maybe he was just an idiot.
"Of course." Clark sounded startled, but not angry at least. "Why would you ask that?"
Bruce paused, searching for a phrase that would end this before he was in over his head. He settled on "You just ought to be sure. Don't do something because you've got fairytale romances spinning in your head. I mean, you've only really dated two girls—Lana and her."
"Well your method of trying every dish Gotham has to offer doesn't seem to be producing results," Clark replied, though not unkindly. "Why the sudden assurances?"
"Concussion," Bruce muttered, now clinging to the dim hope that Clark would just let it go.
"Do you not want me to get married or something?" Clark asked. Bruce kept his eyes closed so he didn't have to look at Clark and risk giving something away. But he could almost feel Clark smirking. "You know, we'll still be friends after I get married. It's not like I'll suddenly be handcuffed to Lois."
"I'm not worried about that," Bruce said, which was still a truth.
"Uh-huh." Clark started rubbing the sore spot between his shoulders. Bruce bit his lip, hard. "You keep giving me these looks like you're counting down the days. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Damn. Apparently he wasn't as subtle as he thought. Luckily, Clark was about as naïve as he was good at hiding things. He just had to cut off the part of his brain that was telling him how good it felt to have Clark's hands working across his back.
"You're practically my brother." Bruce could feel the x-ray vision again. He decided not to snap about it. Sometimes he didn't mind Clark's overprotectiveness—and he had to admit that he was acting out-of-character. "I'm not going to stop being your friend because I've got a wife, too."
Bruce stayed silent, eyes closed. He wondered what Clark would think if he could see what was really inside his head. There probably wouldn't be much talk of friendship then. He tried to even out his heartbeat, keep still, make like he was asleep. Clark must have bought it, because he tugged a blanket over Bruce and very quietly left.
One last thought passed through his mind before he actually let himself sleep: Nobody screws their brother.
