Log Book, Day 61
0219 hours:
Returned to base camp 1 hour ago. S resting, still suffering the effects of exsanguination. Hypovolemia evident through elevated pulse, delayed capillary refill, etc. IV to begin as soon as saline formulation completed, target time: 3 hours. Have administered vasoconstrictors (dopamine) to constrict blood vessels/ increase internal blood pressure.
1100 hours:
Saline, electrolytes administered on schedule. S's condition continues to worsen. Shows classic signs of hypovelmic shock, including confusion, anxiety and agitation in addition to decreased systolic pressure and marked tachycardia. Assessing possible treatment options. It is not known whether my blood type is compatible.
Log Book, Day 62
0820 hours: S's condition has not improved. Only one possible blood donor available. I am O negative, and while a universal donor under normal conditions, these conditions are neither normal—nor optimal—in any way.
1000 hours: Crossmatch drawn, currently testing.
1430 hours: Crossmatch complete. Results attached. Based on the findings, I am considering drastic measures.
1515: Left with no other viable options, have administered test percentage to S. Subject under observation for fever, chills, hypotension, hypertension and hives, but as of yet, there are no observable or measurable ill effects. (Subject not conscious, it is not possible to ascertain pain along the IV infusion line, chest or back.)
1900 hours: It is regrettable that this situation cannot be discussed with S prior to full trial. S should be apprised of possible side effects of a blood transfusion reaction, but S has not regained consciousness. I am fighting the effects of sleep deprivation and cannot be counted on to monitor his condition much longer without losing some of my efficiency and accuracy. Briefly lost consciousness during withdrawal and took more than originally planned. If S. has not improved by the time my blood is ready, I am going to give him the transfusion, p. via central line protocol.
* * *
Bruce added more grass and moss to the small fire, along with a single precious piece of wood. The cave was ridiculously warm, compared to the snow shelter of two nights before—but still, Bruce was shaking as he hung the IV bag, heavy with his own blood. He willed his hands steady and fought the exhaustion trying to overtake him.
Superman was still now—deathly still, but apparently he'd been agitated earlier, probably thrashing and confused, alone and probably frightened while Bruce had prepped the blood—or maybe when he'd lost consciousness—and once again, he'd ripped out his catheter.
"Clark," Bruce said, kneeling beside the cot. "I won't leave you alone again." There was no response. Clark's face was pale and lifeless, too white and too cold. Bruce patted the man's cheek, then his arm. Superman didn't move, eyes closed, lashes extra dark against too-white skin.
Taking Clark's elbow, Bruce stroked down to find the vein, and Superman didn't flinch when Bruce drove the new needle in. "It's mine, Clark," Bruce said softly. "I tested it, tried a small transfusion—I think it'll work." He looked up at the bag of the blood he'd drained from his own veins, hanging from the makeshift hook rigged above them, and watched the line of dark red fluid snake downwards towards Clark's body.
Bruce forced his numb, treacherous fingers to tuck the fur more closely around Clark's body, cover the man's bared, damp skin. Then he dragged the other pelt around himself, edges scooting over the dirt so he could wrap it around his torso, huddled on the floor of the cave beside the cot.
He kept his eyes open as long as he could, and even when they closed against his will, Bruce kept his hand over Clark's heart, palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. Every so often his head would dip forward, and Bruce would realized he'd slipped into sleep, because the jerk of his head tipping forward would rouse him and he'd blink, waking himself with the movement.
Every time it happened, he'd search again for Clark's pulse, letting its steady, sluggish beat reassure him just a little. So far, so good. Superman was a fighter, and he'd made it this far. Then Bruce's eyes would drift closed again and the process would repeat itself, until it finally wasn't enough—just the jerk forward wasn't enough to wake him, but the feel of his head hitting Clark's body did. The tenth or twentieth or thirtieth time his nose hit Clark's chest, sending pain into the space between his eyes, Bruce turned his head, let it drop on bare skin and breath in the smell of Clark and his skin—and even though he'd done his best to keep things clean and hygienic, the scent of dirt and grime and sweat. Sometime much later, Bruce finally did slip into unconsciousness, slumped down on his knees on the cave floor, head resting on Superman's bare chest, ear to the man's heart.