Chapter Five: It gives me a headache
"Get us out of here," Bruce demanded.
Instead, Superman lowered them both back to earth, keeping hold of Bruce by the front of his uniform. The officers were getting out of their car. One of them was calling it in on a radio. "Sorry about the wreck," Clark projected over the wail of the siren. "I'll clean it up in a minute."
"We aren't here because of your vehicle, uh, accident, sir," the officer said. "We're going to have to ask you to come down to the station. You're both—" his voice dried up, and he barely managed to squeak out the rest of his statement: "--under arrest."
Superman's forehead creased in concern. "For what?" he asked.
Batman grit his teeth. "It doesn't matter for what, you idiot. Let's go."
Clark gave him an annoyed glance and then looked back at the approaching policeman. He was a young cop, clean-cut, with a recently ironed uniform and a pulse rate of about 140 beats per minute.
Terrified.
Clark's expression softened and his grip on Bruce tightened. "It's okay," he announced. "I've got him. He's not gonna hurt you."
Bruce muttered something derogatory under his breath that even super-hearing couldn't quite decipher.
Meanwhile, the kid gave a nervous grin and a shaky laugh. "With all due respect, sir, he ain't the one with lasers comin' out his eyes."
"Oh," Clark said, blinking. The change in his demeanor was instantaneous. Bruce marveled at the way that Clark chameleoned right before his eyes, changing from the imposing god he wasn't to little league coach he was (on Saturdays). That was how Clark got away with being himself; how he didn't need a mask. "Well," he said to the cop, "if you're really worried about that, then I have to say, you're being pretty brave right now and I respect that. You guys don't know me as well as the Metropolis PD, but I hope you've heard that I don't consider anyone to be above the law. You've got the authority to arrest us. But we've got the right to know what for."
As Clark was speaking, three more police vehicles rolled up, one of them a windowless black van. A quick x-raying glance confirmed that it contained a SWAT team, and Clark mentally congratulated them on their quick response. Not that a SWAT team would be necessary, of course, since he had every intention of complying and coming along quietly, and of ensuring that Bruce did as well. The important thing was to get down to the police station and sort everything out before—
But even as the thought formed in his mind, it was too late. The news van rolled up, the camera crew leapt out.
"Wonderful," Bruce muttered. "Nice going, Superman. This is exactly the sort of press we need right now: 'Superman on Rampage in Gotham.' Get off your model-citizen soapbox and fly us out of here now."
"No," Clark decided. "We're staying and we're going to do the right thing. People need to know that we don't just do whatever we want."
"Speak for yourself."
"Actually, I'm trying to speak for the League," Clark admitted, lowering his voice. "You know how nervous the government has gotten about us lately. I agree that it's bad press, but it's good politics."
The young cop cleared his throat.
"Um, like I said, sirs, you're going to have to come with us back to the station. We'll have you fill out some statements and--"
"I'm Batman. I don't fill out statements," Batman growled ferociously. The cop winced a tiny bit.
"Statements about what?" Superman asked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a small crowd was gathering, curious. The SWAT team had already formed a perimeter, and once again Clark was impressed by their expedience. They knew what they were doing.
He was less impressed by the prompt arrival of the paparazzi. Within seconds the cameras were flashing, and despite the cops' best efforts to keep them back, they kept pressing in. Suddenly everyone was talking: the cops, the spectators, the paps, the news crew:
"…wrecked the Batmobile…"
"…some kind of fight?..."
"…completely out of control…"
"…found dead in an office building…"
The word 'dead' hit Clark like an electric jolt and he spun to find out where it had come from. Who was dead? What had hap—
A flashbulb went off in his face. "Hey Supes!" the man was hanging over the arms of the cops who were trying to shove him back. He had his camera at the ready, a sneering grin on his face. "What'd you do? Had a little lover's quarrel with your Bat-fag?"
Clark reacted. He reached out, grabbed the camera, crunched it to bits in his hand. There was a collective gasp, and an almost unanimous 'thwick' as guns were whipped out of holsters and brought to bear on the subject that could now be considered hostile.
The chatter had ceased completely. Camera crumbs fell from Clark's hand. Everyone, it seemed, was holding their breath.
Superman sighed. "Don't shoot," he said, calm.
"He's in a dangerous mood," Bruce announced to the crowd, in an effort to capitalize on the tense situation. There was an edge to his tone, slightly proud, the way he sounded when he'd solved the case, when he had his quarry cornered.
But Clark knew what his act was about, and stopped him with a look.
It was both a warning and a plea: don't do it, Bruce. Don't make them scared of me.
Then he looked around at all the cops, trying to see the people past the weapons that they held, the weapons that were aimed at him. "I'm on your side," he told them, very clearly. "I'm here to help you do your job."
The SWAT team leader had his hand over his ear, listening to his earpiece. Suddenly he nodded, muttered "roger that," and stepped forward, signaling for his men to lower their weapons. "Get those people out of here," he ordered, indicating the crowd of assorted onlookers. His men snapped into action. There was something straightforward and soldierly about this man that Clark immediately liked. "Superman, I'm sorry about this," he said, his voice roughened by too many years of cigarettes and bad coffee. "I've just received notification that we're taking you both into custody. And we're gonna have to cuff you prior to transport, it's just the policy."
"That's all right," Clark said. "Do what you need to do."
The officer nodded, and then tossed his chin towards Batman. "Him first," he said, as another SWAT member approached with handcuffs.
"No," Batman said abruptly. Something didn't feel right. Superman was still holding him firmly in place, but he started to fight anyway. A couple more SWAT units closed in. "No!" he shouted through clenched teeth.
They managed (with a little help from Superman) to take him down. They pressed his face into the asphalt as they cuffed him hand and foot and confiscated his utility belt.
"Your turn," the team leader said to Superman, gruff but sympathetic. He nodded to his subordinate, who pulled a shiny silver pair of handcuffs out of a pouch on his tac vest. Clark put his hands behind his back.
The cuffs ratcheted shut, and immediately the SWAT leader put his hand on Clark's shoulder. "Look at me, son," he said, as if he were talking to one of his troops. Clark obeyed, meeting his eyes. And then he felt it.
A dull pain swept up his arms, and quickly spread through his whole body. He dropped his gaze, blinking through a wash of dizziness. He felt… sick.
The SWAT leader was still looking at him. "Do y'understand?" he asked, not unkindly.
There was only one thing that could cause the effects Superman was feeling. But even as the realization sunk in about what had been done to him, he found that he couldn't be angry. It was only fair, after all.
"Yes," he said after a minute. "I understand."
The man patted his shoulder, meaning well, but Clark could only think of a dog being petted as it was put to sleep.
There weren't any seats in the back of the windowless black van, so they sat on the floor. Or at least, Clark sat on the floor, while Bruce thrashed around on his side trying to get free of his restraints.
There also wasn't any light in the back of the van, so they sat/thrashed in complete darkness.
Suddenly Bruce stopped struggling. "They aren't taking us to the station," he realized, his voice belonging to the darkness itself. "We would have been there by now."
Unconcerned by the fact that Clark didn't respond, he went back to work. A few minutes later, with a move that would've amazed Houdini himself, Bruce managed to get the cuffs off his ankles and bring his hands in front of him. From there it should've been easy to get the cuffs off his wrists, or at least apply enough torsion to the links to get them to break, but everything he tried ended in failure.
It was especially frustrating because Superman was sitting right there, listening to him struggle and not even offering to help. Bruce hadn't even heard Clark snap the handcuffs off his own wrists yet, which meant that the man of steel was still happily playing along, content to be a prisoner, convinced that he was being a good little superhero, abiding by the law.
At last it bothered him that Clark hadn't said a word for the entire ride.
"Are they monitoring us?" he asked the corner of the van where he was reasonably sure that Clark was huddled.
"…I don't know."
It took near super-human strength for Bruce to quell his temper. "Can you see through the walls or not?" he seethed.
"I…can," Clark said hesitantly, as if he had just now figured that out. "But it gives me a headache."
Bruce had studied ventriloquism at one time; perhaps that was how he was able to speak so well through completely clenched teeth. "Well I will get you an aspirin when we get out of here," he growled, enunciating each word with razor-bladed sarcasm.
Clark sighed. "No cameras, no sensors, no bugs, no wires" he reported. "And we're heading west, out of the city. There are four men in the cab, all armed. One with a machine gun."
"Great," Bruce grunted. They lapsed into silence. The van, their prison, made a turn and accelerated.
"I can't believe you're still going along with this," Bruce hissed. "They never told us what we're suspected of."
"…they found some people dead," Clark replied, again with the hesitation in his voice, as if he had to muster up the strength to speak.
"What people?"
"I…didn't catch all of it. They said they found them in an office building… Bruce. That was an office building we broke into tonight."
"There are dozens of office buildings in Gotham," Bruce said. "And we didn't kill anybody."
"But we left them… helpless," Clark said. "Anybody could've come along and…finished them off. If they suspect us… we should cooperate. With the investigation."
Bruce was taken aback. "You still believe that letting them apprehend us was the right thing to do."
The silence said everything that Bruce didn't want to hear.
This whole mess was undeniably Clark's fault and Clark wasn't even sorry for it. If Superman wanted to take the fall for some impromptu Justice League political stunt or to make rookie cops feel better about themselves that was his business. But to drag Batman into it was seriously crossing the line. Bruce smoldered over the scene of their capture: Clark had held him down when they cuffed him. The anger that he felt, that had been brewing all day, couldn't be expressed in words.
But maybe a kick to the head would express it just fine. It seemed worth a try.
"rrrggh WHERE are you?" Bruce demanded, standing up.
"…right here," came the meek response.
He had to have known it was coming. Bruce half expected Clark to break his handcuffs and bring his hands around to catch Bruce's foot in midair. Or he could've dodged it, or just clenched his jaw and taken it square on the chin, letting Bruce hurt his foot.
But when the kick connected, Clark slumped to the floor.
"Stop playing," Bruce ordered. "Get up!"
No answer. Bruce stood there in the darkness, fuming. Clark still hadn't moved. "You're taking this martyr act way too far," Bruce warned him. "Someday, they're going to make it so it's not--"
an act. He froze. Something Clark had said just registered.
Can you see through the walls or not?
I…can, but it gives me a headache.
Since when did using his x-ray vision give Clark a headache? Bruce hurried forward, tripped over one of Clark's legs, and fell to his knees, blindly feeling in front of him.
"Clark!" He found an elbow, followed it to the handcuffed wrists. Bruce felt over the handcuffs, realized immediately that they were special-made. He found the slot for the key. It was shaped like an "L."
As in, LexCorp.
Like a man drowning, Bruce tugged at those handcuffs in a furious panic, cursing himself for not knowing, and Clark for not telling him. He had sensed that something was amiss, something hadn't felt right. The clues were there—the SWAT chief giving Clark that extra bit of sympathy. Clark's quietness. He should have figured it out!
Bruce stopped his futile efforts. Forced himself to calm down. It felt like he'd just wasted hours; in truth it had only been a couple seconds. Clark had landed on his stomach and his head was turned to the left, so Bruce took hold of his left shoulder and carefully rolled him up onto his side, and then eased him down onto his back.
He put his hands on Clark's chest, over his heart, and bent down to feel and listen for his breathing.
He was breathing. That was good. That was good.
"Clark. Can you hear me?"
"nnh."
Bruce took a sharp breath, refusing to give in to feelings of relief. "Are you all right?"
"…no," Clark muttered. "My head…hurts."
"Anything else?"
"…everything else," Clark declared.
"How bad is it?" Bruce asked, his cold tone making it clear that he needed full disclosure.
Clark groaned a little, rolled to his side. Bruce steadied him so he could sit back up. He leaned his head against the wall, and Bruce could tell from his breathing that he was in pain. "…not bad," Clark answered at last. "It'd take… weeks for me… to die from it, I think."
Weeks, not hours. Not minutes, thank God. Bruce surrendered at last, let all his emotions get washed under a deluge of relief. Clark was going to be okay. Bruce would make sure of it.
"I'll take care of you. We'll find a way out."
It was a promise and Clark knew it. He closed his eyes, whole-heartedly thankful that Bruce was there. He recalled something he'd said before, which seemed appropriate for the situation:
"You're…not going to let me… hug you for that, are you?"
Unseen, in the dark, under his mask, Bruce's eyes tightened. And not from a scowl.
"How about a deal. You get these handcuffs off of us and you can hug me all you want. I'll even hug you back."
Clark sighed. "Sorry…strength's gone."
It wasn't the end of the world, but it was still a pretty sobering revelation. Superman, vulnerable. Killable.
Bruce felt his heart rate quicken a little. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly.
For a minute, Clark said nothing. "…Would it have changed anything?"
"I wouldn't have kicked you."
"heh." Bruce could hear him smiling. "But… I kind of deserved that. It's …my fault we're in this mess."
"And you broke my car," Bruce pointed out.
Clark took a deep breath; it sounded painful. "So… are we even?"
Bruce pressed his lips together. "We're even," he rumbled. "For now."
"And we're… gonna work together… until we get out of this?"
"Every time," Bruce said.
And that was a promise too.
to be continued!
Author's note: This chapter gave me problems because it kept getting WAY too sweet and cuddly. I mean, even beyond MY tolerances, which are pretty high. I think I managed to get it under control though. Question: do Kryptonite handcuffs exist in canon? I kind of feel like they do… or maybe just that they should… but I actually can't recall any specific references. Oh well.
Anyway, I've been working on another of my Bruce/Clark non-slash one-shots, and of course there are a few more chapters of this story coming up, so I hope you'll stay tuned!
