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It wasn't at all the way Bruce imagined flying with Superman – with Clark – would be like. He had assumed that Clark, should the situation ever arise, would be the one holding on to him instead of the other way around. He'd also counted on Clark being conscious. And that they would be flying instead of plummeting.
"Come on, Kent, wake the hell up. I don't feel like dying today." Bruce's gloved hands gripped Clark's suit tightly, a finger catching the small hole in the material. They were chest-to-chest and falling rapidly, their legs tangled together, his arms wrapped tightly around Clark's chest. The wind was so loud he could hardly hear the sound of his own voice, but Clark had super hearing and Bruce was screaming right in his ear hoping to bring him around.
Clark's eyes fluttered for an instant and Bruce screamed his name, letting out a relieved bark of laughter when they finally opened and stayed that way. There was a sudden jerk as instinct took over and Clark gained control of their unplanned descent. His arms came up around Bruce and their legs straightened out as Clark guided them into a loose curve, to bring them parallel with the earth still a few hundred yards beneath their feet.
"The next time you decide to let Luthor play with bullets made of kryptonite," he said loudly, overemphasizing the words. "It would be great if you made sure he stayed on the ground."
"I'll put that on my to-do list," Clark replied dryly, fixing Bruce with an amused look.
"I can't understand why you don't put him in his place and be done with it."
"For the same reasons you won't kill the Joker."
"Because life wouldn't be quite as much fun if they weren't around to ruin our day?"
Clark squinted at him curiously. "You're being funny."
"And?"
"That worries me. I don't think I've heard you crack a single joke in the entire year we've worked together. Where's the 'I'm more intelligent than you and therefore have no time to be anything other than serious' Batman that I've come to know and tolerate?"
"I think he's feeling a little woozy from blood loss."
Clark jerked violently, jostling Bruce and reminding him about the gunshot wound above his clavicle. A round had pierced where suit met cowl at just the right angle to do damage. His groan was stifled by Clark's startled yelp and followed by a grunt when they came to a sudden halt mid-air.
"I thought that thing was bullet proof?"
"It is. Except when it's not, I suppose. The angle was a fluke. Can we land now?"
Wordlessly Clark pulled him closer and then they were moving so fast Bruce had to close his eyes against the motion. When he opened them again, Clark was setting him down on the couch in his apartment.
"I can do that," Bruce grumbled when Clark began to pull off his suit.
Clark answered with a frustrated glare aimed somewhere in the vicinity of Bruce's chest and continued to work quickly and carefully until he was free of its confines. He moved careful hands over the wound, and Bruce could tell by his expression that he was x-raying it.
"You need a hospital," Clark said as he braced himself for the inevitable reaction.
"Take me back to Gotham. Alfred can patch it up."
"The bullet hit bone on its way through. You'll need x-rays. By a professional," he added as Bruce opened his mouth to protest. "I'll get you some regular clothes."
"You're not carrying me into a hospital. The papers will have a field day with that. Hospitals are required to report bullet wounds, and I have no desire to explain this to Metropolis's finest."
"Half the city saw the attack, heard the shots. I know there are bullets embedded in the roof of the Daily Planet. You own the paper. It's not a stretch to say you were there on business and went up top when the commotion broke out."
"The angle is wrong."
"Do you really think the MPD is going to argue with you? You're a scary son-of-a-bitch when you want to be, Bruce Wayne."
Bruce was mid-retort when a small gust of wind lifted his tousled hair from his forehead. Clark was standing in front of him with a pair of dark wash jeans and a black, long-sleeved t-shirt.
"Bullet hole," he reminded sullenly.
Clark rolled his eyes and held the shirt up in front of him, burned two small holes in the material and ripped it apart a few inches. "Don't make me dress you on top of having to undress you."
Bruce's response was cut short as he stood and swayed dangerously to the left. He reached to press his hand against his collarbone, surprised to find that gauze had been placed over it without realizing. Clark sighed and began to help him into the clothes, grimacing when Bruce tried to push him away. Everything tilted once more as Bruce was swept up into Clark's hold and carried out the balcony doors and back into the sky.
True to his prediction, the media latched on to Bruce's injury. Interest peaked as the news broke that he'd been injured in the mysterious attack on downtown Metropolis and subsequently rescued by Superman. After the tenth "no comment" was followed by a discrete and well-placed elbow to a reporter's side as he tried to leave the hospital, Bruce was ready to break out the kryptonite himself. He glared at Clark, who stood smirking in the midst of the shouting crowd of media and slipped into the car waiting to take him to the airport.
Settling into the back and sighing at the restricting sling his right arm was encased in, Bruce let his head drop back against the seat and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until sunlight flooded the interior twenty minutes later.
"Are you alright?" Clark asked, reaching out to help Bruce from the vehicle.
Bruce ignored the offer and stepped onto the tarmac of the small, private airfield just outside the city's downtown business core. "I'll be fine once I get out of here."
"I can come with you if you like."
"Don't you and Lois have to find a way to prove Luthor was behind that mess earlier?"
"Lex is on a plane returning from Europe."
"Ah. Out of the country and free from liability."
"Something like that." Clark winced as he closed the car door, not quite able to hide the reaction from Bruce's keen eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I'm fine."
"You're a lousy liar. Get on the plane, Clark."
They were silent until after take off, but then Bruce was out of his seat and crouching before Clark as he tugged open the buttons of his navy, pinstripe dress shirt. Pushing the fabric aside, he ran his fingers over the spot on Clark's chest where the bullet had exited before pushing through his own flesh. The skin was smooth, the injury itself gone, but the area still held a faint trace of redness.
"Does it still hurt?" He tugged at Clark's shoulder until he obliged and leaned forward so Bruce could see the entry point.
"Not the actual wound, no. That's gone." Bruce eyed him in annoyance. "It went through a few inches from my heart, Bruce. It's bound to take a toll. Nothing to worry about."
Bruce frowned before humming thoughtfully to himself, pushing and up to his feet, moving back to his own seat. "You'll rest when we get to the manor," he said decisively.
o
A soft knock on the door prefaced Alfred's entrance. "Master Clark? Breakfast is ready. Master Wayne is waiting for you in the kitchen."
Clark blinked, surprised to find early morning sunlight streaming through the open curtains of the elegant guest suite. He turned his bleary gaze to Alfred and smiled. "Morning. How long has he been up?"
"I'm not certain he even went to bed." Alfred fixed him with a knowing look before leaving Clark to his own devices.
The clothes he'd arrived in yesterday were freshly washed and pressed, laid out on a settee at the foot of the huge bed while he'd slept. Throwing off the covers, Clark made his way into the bathroom for a shower before dressing and going in search of Bruce.
In the kitchen, Bruce was hunched over his fourth cup of coffee that morning, paper spread out before him while he sipped at the black liquid. Clark grinned gratefully when Alfred set a mug in front of him alongside a plate of eggs, bacon and toast.
"You've eaten already?" he asked Bruce, who still hadn't looked up, before he scooping a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
"An hour ago."
"I can't remember the last time I slept that long," Clark commented after a few minutes of silence. "If I didn't know better, I'd think someone drugged me." To anyone other than the two men in the room, the slight twitch of Bruce's jaw would have gone unnoticed. "Bruce?"
Blue eyes flickered up to meet Clark's before dropping back to the paper. "Fourteen hours isn't an unusual length of time to sleep after you've been injured."
Clark put his fork down as Alfred busied himself with starting a fresh pot of coffee. "It is for me. How?"
Bruce sighed, putting the paper down with a rustle a taking a drink before answering. "A regular sleeping pill crushed and mixed into your water after we got in yesterday."
"They don't affect me."
"I had a theory."
"Are you going to share with the class?" Clark asked, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.
"You were still feeling the effects of the kryptonite, so I hypothesized there may some residual traces in your system. If so, the pill might have functioned, allowing your body to rest while it healed. If not, no harm done."
"Creative," Clark murmured, regarding Bruce closely. "Next time, give a guy some warning." He picked up his fork and continued eating. Across the room, Alfred shook his head and went back to tidying up the counter before leaving the two alone.
"Did you mean what you said?" Bruce questioned once he was gone.
Clark looked up from the section of newspaper he'd picked up from the discarded pieces spread between them. "What did I say?"
"That you 'tolerate' me."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"How did you mean it?"
"You aren't the easiest person to get along with." Clark sighed at Bruce's unchanging expression. "It was the wrong choice of words, alright?"
"In your line of work, that sort of thing could get you fired."
"Planning to let me go, boss?" Clark tucked his chin down as one eyebrow arched playfully.
"I was curious to know if I had offended you somehow."
Clark laughed. "You've offended me at least once a day since the first time we met. I stopped taking it personally after the second week." When Bruce's only acknowledgement was to swallow more coffee, Clark turned back to the newspaper.
Bruce let the silence reign for a little while before speaking. "I respect you a great deal both professionally and personally. Don't hesitate in future to tell me if my behaviour offends you, whether you take it personally or not."
"But don't expect you to listen unless it suits you?"
"Of course." Clark caught a glimpse of the sly grin Bruce tried to hide behind the business section.
o o o o
"What's the status?"
"Superman was hit." Mercy leaned casually against the edge of Lex's desk, waiting as he quickly scanned and then signed the sheaf of papers she'd handed him.
"I gathered that from the news coverage," Lex said impatiently. "Did it work?"
"Your guys are still waiting to see results. Have you seen the news yet? Superman arrived at Metropolis General with Bruce Wayne, claiming he'd been on the roof of the Daily Planet and gotten hit with a stray bullet so Superman wasn't around for the clean up; the League handled that."
"Have Rikkard report in; I'll need the next event staged for tomorrow. I want to start seeing results." Lex handed the documents to Mercy and leaned back in his chair, the length of his index finger resting against his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the computer screen in front of him as it played news footage of Superman and Batman's aborted descent. Mercy took that as her signal to leave.
Once the door glass doors slid shut behind her, Lex allowed a grim smile to cross his lips. "Let's see how long it takes you to fall, Clark."