Above the two men huddled in the icy abyss—one dying, one desperate, the alien sun still burned, a glowing ball veiled under thick layers of gray storm clouds that colored it a vile and noxious yellow. Slowly, however, its light was dying, lengthening the shadows and dropping the temperature in the ice-covered crevasse. Winds howled across the expanse twenty feet overhead, whipping and turning the rope still hanging from the ledge. The rope Bruce rappelled down to fight beside Superman, trying to save him from the arctic cat's savaging of his no-longer invincible body.
On his knees in the snow, tattered remains of his cape twisting and unfurling behind him, Batman tilted back the head of the fallen god in his arms. Swiping an almost imperceptibly shaking thumb over blood-caked eyelashes, he gently pulled up a lid. No change. Pupils dilated; unresponsive, Superman's face a deathly white—moribund, the part of his mind he wasn't going to listen to—not yet, not while Clark was alive—tried to scream at him. He pushed the word away. Wasn't that, couldn't be that bad yet. He still had a chance.
He was not going to let the world lose Superman.
Bruce skinned his gauntlet from Clark's left hand. He shouldn't have wasted time putting them on, even. He was a fool; it was an expected response to watching someone fall in front of you—to want to… He'd wanted to offer comfort. Comfort to a fallen comrade, a hero. It'd been… foolish to put them on him—he needed to check tissue reflex. Trust the process. Trust the process. It's all he had.
He held Clark's hand above his heart level, staring sightlessly at the S-shield on the man's chest, the rise and fall of his rib cage. His breathing—too shallow, too irregular. Pressing the soft pad of Clark's index finger, he counted off, waiting for the white spot to fill out with blood, peripheral profusion—capillary refill. "Damn it, Clark—I don't even know what your vitals are supposed to be here." Four and a half seconds. Outside the viable level for humans—far outside—but maybe—maybe the cold was slowing his reflexes. And how human iwas/i Clark, here, now? He shoved the man's hand into his armpit, pressing it between his arm and his chest in an effort to warm it, even though he knew he was lying to himself, lying while he watched Clark's life ebb away.
He talked, just to keep himself sane, keep procedure on track. "Checking your heart rate, Clark," he said, sliding his hand over Clark's chest, then under his shirt for a better read. "You're going to be fine." Marked tachycardia. He checked it again, at the clammy base of his noble, white throat, near the gnawed, ripped shoulder and blood-drenched bandage.
Hypovolemia. Cardiac distress. Clark's chest rose and fell, then his breath hitched, shallow and ragged. Blood pressure dropping, fast and frightening. Cardiovascular collapse. He'd had Clark's leg elevated, but now he let the man's knees drop, pushing him off his lap. Grabbed his chin and checked his airway for obstruction, even though he knew that there wouldn't be one. Superman's heart had nothing—not enough blood left to pump.
"Damn it, Clark, you're not dying today." And not here. Damn the superpowers that got him here and then left him for mere mortality. Damn him, for getting Clark here—bringing him, through his own mistake. He'd erred, grievously erred and Superman was paying for his mistake—a now mortal man, unresponsive and unconscious and going into cardiac arrest.
Crouching over the man, he leaned close, listening for the sound of breath, watching for chest motion. He brought his face to Clark's mouth, felt for air movement from Clark's lips on his cheek, on his ear. Nothing. "Damn it, Clark." Nothing but silence, nothing but his own voice and the howling wind. His cowl was too tight, strangling him. He yanked it back, let the cold slap his face. Cursing, he pinched Clark's nostrils closed and bent his mouth to Clark's, exhaling into his mouth, twice. Gulping in air to refill his own lungs, he continued, counting off seconds. One ragged, desperate breath every five seconds—twelve breaths each minute.
No response. Around them the snow blew and drifted, and more began to fall, sifting down. Above them, over the mouth of the crevasse, it billowed and spiraled, but here, in the depths of the mountain, it sifted down like plastic flakes in a snow globe.
If only he had saline. He could make it, back in the cave—but not out here. Out here they were both… they were both… dead. Sweat prickled his neck, trickled down his back until it froze in the artic air as he started chest compressions. Hands on the lowest part of Clark's breastbone, elbows straight, he positioned his shoulders directly above his hands to make the most of his weight. Pushing down, he started the cycle, pushing down and letting up, counting. "Clark, breathe," he said after one, five, fifteen, "breathe!" Bruce shifted gears back to his mouth, sealing his lips around Clark's, daring the man alive with the air from his own lungs—his breath and his will. His hands were numb. His arms and legs stupid and slow and clumsy as he forced his body to repeat the cycle, again and again.
No sign of life. Tears stung his face, but he didn't stop—couldn't stop. He was the only thing between life and death. Without Bruce's breath—without Bruce forcing Superman's heart to compress and release, to pump and send oxygen and what little blood remained—Clark was a dead man. As it was, he was alive as long as Bruce could keep this up. Could keep pouring himself, his own life into Clark's lifeless body. The lifeless body of the man he'd fought beside, battle after battle. The man who charged into every skirmish selflessly, ready to fight for the things that mattered, no matter the cost; the hero who cared more about others than himself. The soldier he'd fought beside, over and over. The man who'd saved his life more times than he could ever begin to count. He had to save him. Had to save Superman.
"Why the hell did you come here, Superman?" He knew the answer, and the answer washed over him, guilt like a tidal wave, drowning him, driving a racking sound of pain from deep within his throat. He barely heard it, barely registered the sound—just pushed on Clark's chest, then released. Pushed, then released.
Of all people he'd ever done this for, saved this way—he'd lost seven—no. He wasn't going to about the numbers, the ones he'd lost. Every case was different; every death took a different toll. They'd all had different specifics, different circumstances, different reasons. Different people, different—they weren't Clark. Weren't Superman.
He got through another cycle, then another. The crevasse grew darker, colder. Somewhere a wolf howled, probably smelling Clark's blood, maybe the dead cat who lay few feet away, its neck broken by Batman in the struggle. He prayed the wolf wouldn't breach the crevasse, because if he had to stop long enough to fight it off…
"Make it through this, Superman," Bruce said as he tried to push life into the man's chest. "Make it through and I'll build a snow cave—I'll drag your—" A sob broke his words. He pressed and released, harder and harder. "I'll build it around you and keep you warm inside and I'll kill anything that tries to come in but you have to start breathing, Clark!"
His vision blurred, he blinked it back, pushed back the anger, the fear. He had one hope. If Clark couldn't do this by himself, or with everything Bruce could give him—his strength and his breath and his muscle and his will—there was one slim chance. One that could save Clark or kill him. Save or kill Superman.
He kept himself sane, going through the futile motions that at least kept Clark alive until he stopped—kept himself sane by counting and by weighing his options. He blew into Clark's mouth, watched the man's lungs fill. Did it again. Moved to his chest and pumped his heart for him. Went back to breathing and then did it all over again. The option was really Clark's—not his. Not his at all. Clark's choice. But Clark was in no condition to make the decision. A decision that could kill him or could possibly—maybe, just maybe, prolong his life enough that they'd have a chance—
Unsealing his lips from Clark's mouth, he put his hands in position over his breastbone. "Clark?" he said, his own voice sounding foreign and far away. He was breathing hard, air in his own lungs burning like fire. He pushed, released. "Damn it, Clark, I don't know if you can hear me, but I have to say this." He pushed, released again. Pushed so hard his arms ached. Pushed so hard that one of Clark's ribs cracked under the pressure. He heard the snap, felt it give way under his hands. Cursing himself, he moved his hands slightly away from the spot and kept going.
"I have something, Clark. It could save you—or it might kill you." One-handed, the other still pushing and releasing, pumping Superman's heart—Bruce reached into a small compartment of his utility belt, pulling out a syringe. "Clark?" He pushed the damn perfect s-curl from Superman's forehead, fingers ghosting over cold, too-white skin. "This is… since you came to rescue me, you idiot, we've only got one choice—it's the only thing I know to do. Experimental drug. US Army." Trials were promising, though—promising enough for Batman to carry it. "Supposed to thicken the remaining blood volume." Flicking off the cap with his thumb, he tapped the syringe, sending a bubble through the pale violet liquid inside the tube. Didn't say that he'd only ever meant to use it on himself, if there was no other way and he was bleeding out. "Clark—it's for humans. It might not even help you." He peeled Clark's shirt up his chest, baring his deathly white skin, and poised the needle over the man's dead, silent heart. "It might not help you, Clark, and if it kills you, I don't know what I'll—" His voice broke on the words. Hauling back, he stabbed the needle into Clark's chest, drove it between ribs, shoved it through flesh and muscle, then depressed the plunger, shooting liquid straight into Superman's heart.
Clark gave a great, shuddering gasp. His eyes flew open, wild and sightless.
"Clark!"
And closed again, too fast.
Somewhere—not in the crevasse, but above, coming from the east, maybe… a wolf howled, then was joined by another mournful cry. The shadows grew longer.
Bruce swiped a hand through his sweaty hair and swiped the excess moisture from his eyes. Didn't need it—to be wet in subzero temperatures. Started compressions again. Never thought I'd have to do this for you, Clark. You of all people.
He breathed again, breathed for both of them, forced the air from his lungs into Clark's. Weighed his options—what he'd do if Clark came to, woke up, lived. If Clark died, neither would matter. Nothing would matter. He refused to accept that—not yet. As long as Clark was still breathing, even breathing the air Bruce made him take, the air he forced Clark's body to use, he had hope.
If Clark came to… if he'd just start breathing, damn it—mountain travel in the dark was out of the question. If he could rig some kind of cradle or truss—it didn't matter. Only a fool would attempt it in the dark.
"Checking your vitals, Clark." Capillary refill was still at four. Pupils unresponsive.
If they couldn't go back, that left his next task: a snow cave. He scoped out his site between breaths, between compressions. West side of the crevasse. Least wind, due to a natural snow break. To bivy here meant a lower temperature than base camp but once it was built it would be survivable for a night. Under normal conditions. True, Superman was… compromised. But if anybody could make it, it would be Clark. The snow cave would offer protection from predators—should any venture down here. He surveyed the seemingly vast quantities of blood spread across the snow—they might be tempted. He could defend a snow cave, with his knives and his 'rangs and he would be the one between the cave's mouth and Clark. The guard and defender. Protector. No predator was going to get by him. He'd do what he could about the animal carcass and the blood—Clark's blood—but first things first. Trust the process. He pressed and released. The snow cave was going to take a minimum of two point five hours—and that was under best conditions, not with a man down. He'd just have to keep Clark at his side while he worked. Keep him warm and alive until he built a shelter.
He checked Clark's pulse—feeling nothing—and squinted toward the site where he'd build the cave. In theory, he could get rid of the worst of the bloody snow afterwards. For now, hold Clark next to him as he dug. Try to use his own body heat to keep Clark warm enough until…
Bruce scanned the expanse of ice and snow around him, pressing and releasing Clark's chest, forcing Superman's heart.
The rope he'd used to rappel down still twisted and whipped in the breeze. It was late, but he had two hours of daylight left. Two hours. Plenty of time for them to reach base camp: fire, food, supplies. Saline to supplement the blood loss. Plenty of time, if Clark was whole, strong and capable, but this? Clark outweighed him by at least… forty pounds now, maybe more—and wasn't able to help. Getting him up the crevasse and down the mountain—unconscious—was more than—he'd need to build a sling of some kind.
Leave Clark in the snow? Come back with supplies? He'd come back to a dead man. Bruce closed his eyes to the image. They burned and stung.
Somewhere—it was difficult to know with the tricks of wind and mountain echoes, the wolf howled again. Wolves were easy for him, when it was just him. They were out early tonight.
Closer, another one answered. They smelled the blood, had to be it. Hell, he smelled the blood, thick and coppery, as strong as the taste of Clark's skin on his lips, as visceral as the feel of Clark's teeth clacking against his own as he breathed into him.
If he just had a few things, he could make saline. He computed how long it would take.
Another wolf howled. He checked Clark's pulse. Still... wait. Did he feel something, thready and weak? His fingers tightened on Clark's wrist. Lifting Clark's hand above his heart, he pressed the man's tender index pad. Counted off one, then two sec—yes, color was replacing white in less than two seconds. He searched Clark's face for any sign, but nothing. "Clark?" Patted as gently as he could with thick, frozen fingers. No response. Bent his ear to Clark's lips, listening, and felt the barest whisper of breath. It was the best thing he'd ever felt. He watched Clark's chest rise, his vision blurring, eyes wet—maybe, just maybe, he'd given Clark a little extra time. They had no saline, food, water or shelter, but maybe he'd given Clark a little extra time.
Another wolf's cry drifted across the snow.
Clark took another breath, then another. Bruce felt for his heart, and the hand skimming along Clark's chest, damp with sweat and tears, felt the faintest of beats. He pressed his ear to the man's icy, naked chest and then his forehead dropped forward, to rest against white, damp skin. He stayed like that for a long moment, eyes closed. Felt Clark's heart beat, his chest rise and fall.
"Come on, Clark. We're going to build a shelter." Bruce tried to stand, staggering. He crouched to lift Superman's heavy body, lurching forward under the man's weight.
"I'm going to build a snow cave, Superman." He took a clumsy step forward in the snow. "We're going to stay here for the night and I'll kill anything that comes near you. Just make it, Clark." Bruce took another step, then another. "Don't you dare die on me. Don't you dare show up to rescue me and then die on me." He'd keep him close, give him his body heat while he worked. Keep him safe and alive. Bruce stumbled, almost went over, almost dropped Superman and fell, but caught his balance.
"Damn you, Superman," he listened to his own voice growl. Trust the process. "Damn you and your rescue mission. I was going to get off of this damn planet and then you had to show up." He groaned as he fought to stand, fought to stand holding this fallen god , this fallen warrior, this fallen man. "You… idiot." Bruce slung one of Superman's arms over his neck and hooked a hand under the man's knees. Other arm around Clark's shoulder, he took another step.
Clark's head lolled against his neck, cold and heavy. Snow fell, straight down just like a perfect Christmas eve.
"Don't you dare die on me, Superman." Bruce's eyes burned with the frigid air. He should have pulled his cowl back up before he stood but now his hands were full. Clark's nose bumped his jaw—once, then again. It had to be his imagination, but… then a third time and he almost thought? Felt? "Bruce" breathed against his skin.
Stumbling, he dropped to his knees, Superman in his arms, snow powdering up with the falling weight of both men.
"Clark?" Bruce whispered, his voice husky and cracked. "Clark?"
He was rewarded with the best thing he'd seen on this planet, maybe the best thing he'd ever seen. Clark's eyes, looking up at him: blue and clear and perfect.
"Clark!" His arms tightened around Superman and he pressed his cheek to Clark's icy temple. He held him too tight—had to tell himself to let go, let the man breathe. So he did, reluctantly letting his hold go gentle. Clark smiled up at him—lips only barely curved, but eyes definitely smiling. His voice was like gravel, hoarse and beautiful and the best sound Bruce had ever heard. "How long was I out, Bruce?
"Too long, Clark." He pushed Superman's curl from his forehead. "Glad to have you back."
"I—" he hesitated, his words slow and slurred. "I hurt."
"Bet you do."
"Where are we?"
"I don't know, Clark."
"I'm so confused."
"You lost a lot of blood. That'll do that. You'll be okay—"
"I think I dreamed about the circus."
"You did?"
"In outer space."
"Ah." Bruce pressed his cheek to Clark's temple. Inhaled and exhaled. "Clark, I'm going to have to get to work now."
"Patrol?"
"No, not patrol." Flakes fell on the man's pale face, glittering on his pale skin. Bruce brushed them from his eyelashes. "To build us a shelter for the night."
"But… the sun's coming up, Bruce."
"No, Clark."
"It's snowing. And the sun's shining. Devil's beating his wife."
"What?"
"Yes it is, Bruce. Look."
"No, Cl—" Bruce glanced at the sun and sure enough it was—coming out again… Eclipse. Why hadn't he predicted an eclipse?
Bruce's body relaxed, shoulders slumping back a little to stare up at the sun. "You're right Clark. You're right."