"Can you stand?" Batman crouched beside him, sliding an arm through the snow, under him, supporting his shoulders, and hefted Superman up to a sitting position.

Clark's head spun with pain and a thrumming insectoid buzz that worsened as he stood, but he clenched his fists, forced his legs to cooperate, and with Batman's muscle behind his own, managed to stand, then stumble forward. One more step and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out when his leg folded under him and his body slid toward the cold surface of the abyss, wrenching his arm and shoulder.

Batman caught him before he hit the ground. His mouth was a grim line as he studied the man slumped against him. "That's it," he said, tone final. "We're staying here for the night."

Clark couldn't respond, not even with a nod. His head swam and he tried to stop the world from rolling and turning in his brain. Tried to focus on what Batman was saying, on what they needed to do.

"Rest," Bruce said, lowering him to the ground.

"I can help," he started to say, but his words were slow and clumsy, and Batman ignored him anyway. Superman allowed himself—just for a moment—to close his eyes, and darkness overtook him.

The sun made its way across the alien sky as Superman drifted in and out of consciousness, numb from the cold, grateful for the moments when the pain was not so terrible, the moments when his body didn't fight him like something out of his own control. He wanted to do something—do anything—but all he could manage was to hang on and wait for his strength to return; pray that it did. Far away, he could hear digging, the scrape of Bruce's boots and the occasional howl of an animal— before slipping back into oblivion.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was because the shadow of the cliff had spilled across his lower torso and he was shaking with the cold, each tremble sending spikes of pain through ripped, tortured muscles. Then Bruce was there—Batman, his cowl pulled up, standing over him, saying something. He wasn't sure what, but Bruce leaned down and an arm passed behind his back, under his shoulder blades, a gauntlet slipping under his right armpit to help pull him up. "Shelter's finished. Can you take a few steps?"

Superman nodded, ignoring the pain that one single, stupid movement sent flaring through his worst wound and his aching head. He tried to clamber to his feet. They crumpled under him, a thousand pounds each—but with Bruce's help, he finally made it upright, leaning heavily on Batman, who must have been working for hours while he sank in and out of consciousness, because ahead was a cave, hollowed into a snowdrift at the base of the crevasse. Clark took one staggering step forward and felt his entire body give, falling beneath his own weight, his shoulder shrieking as Bruce tried to steady him. If Batman hadn't been there he'd have gone down hard, face first, and as it was, they both tripped and fell anyway.

Clark's vision blurred and everything went hazy—eyes watering and equilibrium upside-down. Beside him, Bruce put his hands on his own thighs and pushed himself up to stand, then bent, breathing heavily, and scooped Clark up in a dead lift. He put him across his shoulder, Superman's hands hanging down uselessly to drag against the silken remnants of Batman's ragged, shredded cape. His body screamed at him but he ignored the pull of his torn shoulder, steeling himself against the pain. The cave Batman had dug couldn't be far. He'd hang on for this—he could. But it was too much, and he must have blacked out again because the next thing he knew he was seated on the ground, being dragged backwards across the snow. Bruce was behind him, trying to steady Clark's injured arm and shoulder by bracing his chest against him, pulling him by the waist through an archway carved in the snowdrift. Batman's cowled head tipped forward until his chin was on Clark's good shoulder. "Duck now, Superman."

He couldn't do it fast enough and it hurt—hurt even more when Bruce's hand—Batman's leather-clad gauntlet—clamped down on the back of his head, fingers splayed through his hair, pushing, firmly pressing his head down so that Superman could fit through the arch he'd chiseled in the ice.

The pain at the juncture of Clark's left shoulder and his neck surged into something livid and angry—searing through his neck and arm like an agonizing ribbon of fire.

"Just a little lower, Clark. That's right. Lean back. Thirty-five degree angle." Batman's boot heels dug into the snow that slanted upwards from the cave's opening as he scooted backwards, pulling Clark up the rest of the way through the small door he'd hewed and on into the interior of the snow cave.

It was tiny. They could both sit up, but not stand, and the circumference wasn't too much larger than the two of them. A raised platform of packed snow took up two-thirds of the space, covered with a layer of matted brown grass.

"Home sweet home," Bruce said, his hands behind himself to lever his elbows and lift himself up onto to the raised bed, grunting as he hauled Clark up after him, the movement sending bolts of burning, aching torment through the gash in his throat and shoulder, his thigh, his arm. He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.

Behind him, Batman leaned back against the packed snow that formed the wall of the cave and one-handed, lit a small fuel unit from his utility belt, placing it on the cave's floor beside the platform. "I think we can get it up above freezing in here. Forty if we're lucky."

Clark mumbled something—he wasn't even sure what—as he forced back the agony throbbing through his body, the pain that raged, screaming at him with every stuttering heartbeat, every shaking inhalation. He closed his eyes to will it further away, quiet it to something manageable. Behind him, Bruce sat up until his chest was flush against Clark's back and Superman let Batman's breathing, deep from exertion but calmer than his own, coach him through it. Trained his own inhalations and exhalations to match Bruce's as he felt the man's chest expand and release against his back.

Batman waited—he must have known what Clark was doing, how hard he was working to push past the pain. "Better?" He finally asked, breath unexpectedly warm on Clark's still-icy ear.

"Yes," he lied. Then winced, as Batman moved behind him, rising to his knees.

"Sorry." He moved slower, jostling Clark less, and a moment later a small mound of dried, only slightly damp grass next to the raised platform was lit. Gray smoke billowed past them to exit out a vent carved high on the wall. The tiny fire warmed Clark's left thigh, and Bruce was melting something—ice and snow in a collapsible cup over the small flame.

He was thirsty, he suddenly realized, mouth watering, and he must have shown it somehow because behind him, he felt Bruce shift with an, "I know." He dumped a vial of something in the cup with the chunks of slushy ice, melting the mixture further into liquid.

It was bitter and metallic but felt so good sliding down his throat, bits of ice and all. Bruce took the cup from him and refilled it with more broken icicles from a pile he must have gathered outside, then put the cup back where the ice would melt.

His hands held Clark's shoulders steady, tried to keep Superman's tortured muscles from moving any more than necessary as he slid off the platform to pull a rectangular block of ice into place, closing the doorway to the cave. Then he was back, beside Clark's half-prone body. "How bad is it?"

Clark's voice came out harsh and raspy, despite the water he'd just gulped. "I've felt better."

Bruce still had the cowl on but Superman knew he was being studied. Scrutinized, and he didn't like that look. It was the one Batman wore in battle when a fighter went down and he knew they were out for the count. It was way too close to pity, and nobody wanted to fall in front of Batman.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that." He flinched as Bruce reached for his calf to bring his injured leg to its full extension and pull off a boot.

"Like what?" Bruce said, pulling off the other one.

"I don't like—"

"What?"

Clark tried again. Anything to distract himself. Anything to get that look off Bruce's face. "Being the one—"

"The one down? Who does?" Batman pulled a knife out of his utility belt. "Superman just has less practice." He cut at the binding around the knot he'd made from a torn strip of his cape. "I asked about the pain. It will dull—"

"No."

"Clark—"

"Morphine?"

"Have that," Bruce said, sitting beside him on the platform of snow and grass to unwrap the bloody tourniquet of half-frozen gauze from his left quadricep. "That and—"

"Save it."

"Clark—"

He winced as Bruce peeled the final layer of bandage from the fabric that covered his thigh, peeling gauze away from the wound. The coppery smell of his blood filled the cave as the cat's jagged claw slash reopened and blood began to flow through what Lois always called his tights. He missed her, suddenly and deeply, and she was so very far away.

"Put your hand on the wound and press."

Clark did it, staring down at the blood seeping between his fingers and pooling around his thigh. "I can stand it without drugs. You would."

"I'd expect," Batman said, hooking his fingers under the waistband of Superman's uniform and yanking down on his tights, "isomeone/i to talk me out of being stupid."

"When has anybody ever talked you out of—"

"It's been known to happen." He worked the uniform down over Clark's jock to get it past his hips. "Lift up."

"When?" Clark said, shivering as cold air met the naked skin of his stomach and pelvis, but he wasn't as cold as he… should have been. His brain seemed a little confused, but somehow the cold felt… distant.

"Move your hand." Batman peeled the tights down over his thighs, finally revealing the wound—only to immediately slap his own palm over it and press hard. "When what?"

"When did…" Clark searched his mind to remember what he'd been trying to say. It took a minute. "When did anybody ever make iyou/i change iyour/i mind?"

"Put your hand back. And search your memory. You were there some of the times."

Clark rolled his eyes, sliding his fingers down his thigh past Bruce's, through his own blood.

"I'm going to let go now."

"Ready." His voice sounded slurred to him. "Bruce, did you drug me?"

"Press, Superman!" Bruce dragged the bottom of his uniform down his legs and all the way off, tossing it aside on the grassy platform. "And yes." He reached for his medical kit, threading a needle. "Just something mild, mixed in with the electrolytes. You've lost so much blood that it's hitting you a little harder than it normally—"

"Batman, I'm very disappointed in you." It came out 'dishapointed'.

"Clark, you're sweating. Your clothes are already wet and you're sweating more because of the pain. Sweat is very much the enemy in sub-zero temperatures."

"It's warmer in here."

Batman looked up at the vent in the cave, where the sky was darkening with nightfall. "It's going to get to minus fifty out there tonight. In here, just with this shelter, we'll be at minus ten. Add two men's body heat and we can raise it another twenty degrees, more or less. Burning sterno gets another twenty eight." He pulled his cowl back, running a hand through his own sweaty hair as he met Clark's gaze. "But tomorrow we go out there again. Wet clothes will freeze on you, Clark—and it's going to be hard enough as it is. For you and for me."

"Great. Play the guilt card."

"Fine. Be the martyr." Bruce peeled off his gauntlets and unhooked his tattered cape. "Lean up." He wadded the torn black silk into a bundle, cramming it behind Clark, between his shoulder blades and the wall of the snow cave. "Now lean back," he said, his voice sharp and irritable. "Ever had stitches before, Superman?"

Clark exhaled, sagging against the cool, sleek fabric that cushioned the wall of snow behind him, feeling the cold creeping through the cape into his torso, the ice behind the back of his head—soothing its pounding throb, the soft grass under his legs. The pain coursing through his veins was slipping into something calmer, even though he was too mad at Bruce right now to be grateful. "What do you think?"

"I think tiger attacks make you a pain in the ass."

"Saber-toothed tiger." He only slurred the 's' a little. "Regular tiger's a piece of cake."

"Move your hand." Clark did, and knew he had to credit the drug with the fact that he could look at the bloody mess that was now his left leg with almost total detachment.

Bruce's eyes flicked to his, then back to the wound. "I've seen worse. You're going to be fine, Clark."

The first prick of the needle stung like a mosquito bite. The only thing that hurt was the movement of Bruce's fingers, pulling ragged skin together, reattaching something, maybe. He felt further and further from his body, but it was still disconcerting to see Bruce's hand reaching into the tissue of his leg. Superman closed his eyes.

"Stay awake long enough to drink more water, Clark." Bruce stopped stitching for a moment to swirl the melting cup of ice and move it a little closer to the flame. "Just a few minutes more."

"Not that tired." He opened his eyes and decided to focus on the top of Bruce's head, bent over his work. "Just resting."

Bruce nodded, fingers gliding with a smooth rhythm. "Talk to me. How are things on Earth, Clark?"

"They miss you."

The needle continued in and out. "Who have you seen lately?"

"Dick," Clark said, his tongue thick and lazy in his mouth. "Saw Dick."

"How is Dick?"

"Worried. Tim and Alfred, too."

"Well..." Bruce tied off the end of the suture line. "Lois is worried about you."

"Yeah." Clark shrugged and his shoulder protested. Nothing like it had been, but still quite unhappy. "Ow," he said, his mouth making a slow 'o'.

Bruce looked up, and Superman might be drugged, but he still knew the Bat-stare. The one where Bruce was figuring you out. "Leg's done," he said, handing Clark the cup. When he drank it, some of the water slipped down his chin, past his numb and uncooperative lips. "There better not be more drugs in here." He stared down at his S-shield and tried to brush off the errant drop.

Bruce swiped it away with his thumb. "No more." He almost smiled. "I don't want you comatose. Let's see that forearm." He rolled up the right sleeve of Superman's uniform. "Big bite span."

"Told you it was a saber-tooth." Clark's eyelids were heavy.

"Mostly puncture wounds. Bad ones. Never do anything halfway, do you Superman?"

Clark opened one eye. "Look who's talking."

"Not stitching puncture wounds." Bruce reached for the clasp on Superman's cape, tugging it from behind him to drape across his bare legs.

"Not that cold," Clark said. And he wasn't, body warm on one side—the side by the fire and—well, his other side was cold, now that he thought about it. It just felt like if he didn't concentrate, he was floating. Not the kind of floating he was used to, either. Although his butt did feel numb from the cold. His butt never felt numb when he flew...

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Thought you said something." Bruce moved to crouch beside him. "We need to take your shirt off, Superman. Need to work on your shoulder."

Clark nodded, feeling the pull of his terrible bite but not the pain. Nothing at least, like the raging, fiery ache of what… an hour ago? He had no idea.

Bruce slid his hands under the top of his uniform and pulled, rolling the shirt up to his armpits. "Raise your arms."

Clark complied. His arms were heavy, and he knew the painkillers were only masking how bad this should hurt, but he complied, tensing his muscles just in case. He couldn't get his left arm up very high—not high at all. This, he knew, would worry him more after the drugs wore off. Even now, it— "Can't go any—" Clark let his right arm drop to his side, ham-handed and heavy, and his left arm fall back the few inches he'd managed to raise it. It hurt.

"Lean up, Superman." He felt Bruce climb up on the platform behind him, felt Batman's Kevlar-covered armor behind his back, one large, warm hand splayed on his chest. "Let's try this one arm at a time. Raise your right."

Clark did, and Bruce skimmed the top of his uniform from that arm and over his head, then peeled the shirt from his bad shoulder and down his left arm.

The sound of Bruce's breathing came from very far away, even though he was just behind him, pulling away field dressing to study the bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. This one, at least, wasn't bleeding like the other. Still, Bruce was silent.

"What is it?"

"Gauging how many stitches. Going to leave a scar."

"Trust you," Clark said without opening his eyes. "Lots of practice."

"Yeah." There was the faintest touch of amusement in Bruce's voice. "Guilty as charged. Move your arm just an inch—"

He must not have done it right, because Bruce gently did it for him, then placed it by his side. The brown grass was scratchy under his fingers. "Where'd you get it?" Clark said, picturing the icy white abyss outside their shelter.

"What?"

"The grass."

Bruce's needle began its work. "Under the snow."

"When you buried the tiger." Clark hoped his words were intelligible, but he wasn't completely sure. "So the wolves won't come. How do you think of everything…"

"I don't." Bruce's voice was soft, but as steady as the needle piercing and repiercing his shoulder. "Not how to get us out of this hellhole."

"Yet." He heard his own words slow down, slur a little bit more. "You'll figure it out. What I don't know…" Clark felt his brows crease across his numb forehead. "I don't know how I'm going to get up that crevasse. Not like this."

"You will, and then you'll climb down the mountain, Clark. You're Superman."