Clark schooled his features as J'onn wheeled him through the halls. He waved, smiled, accepted more wishes for a speedy recovery, and couldn't help but feel that Bruce had been right once again, after seeing time and time again the thinly veiled concern and worry, the creasing of brows, the widening of eyes, the unnatural cheerfulness or the unnatural quiet, depending on whom he was speaking with.
All stemming from the disturbing vision of seeing Superman in a wheelchair.
Yes, Bruce was right.
It would be better for the League if he was not here. And, surprisingly, it would be better for Clark not to be here, either, as he struggled to keep his composure, and struggled to mask how poorly he was actually feeling, as to not exacerbate the already uncomfortable situation.
Not exactly out of sight, out of mind – he could see their relief, when they heard where Clark would be staying, who would be watching over him – yet Clark wanted to be out of their sights, out of their minds, felt some deep instinct, to hide away, until he was well, and it was funny.
He his whole life had hidden away his strength, and had in many ways made himself invisible to do it, let the rumors about Superman circulate, that no one would believe he had a day job, another life, hiding in plain sight, or hidden behind Clark Kent, where he had perfected blending into the background, being yet another face in the endless crowd, had not realized how entirely much he preferred it that way, as that was still his instinct now. To hide.
And he realized that his current destination was perfect, for truly, Wayne Manor was a perfect place to hide away. It was a place that already hid so, so many secrets.
Eventually J'onn wheeled him into the docking bay, and seized by a moment of ego, or anger at his helplessness, he stood on his own, after J'onn had wheeled him up the gangway to the jet, entered through the hatch himself, even strapped himself in, only to pay the price for his pride, just as he had paid the price for his pride earlier, of sitting up in his bed after noticing Bruce beside him, when he could have remained prone, just as he had paid the price for attempting to assuage everyone he met on the way here, that he was alright.
He had not conserved his resources well, his energy in this case, but he so rarely had to. He had not made it to the hideaway, almost had, was so close, before the mask came down, as the jet's door came down, and Bruce already seated in the pilot's chair turned on the engines.
And it wasn't because he felt he could let the mask down, now that it was just the two of them, in the dimmed cockpit, as Bruce started moving the jet out of the hangar, towards the runway.
It was that the mask crumpled, crumbled, collapsed.
Clark could no longer sustain it.
Bruce looked at him briefly, yet said nothing.
Only retrained his focus, on the control panel, as the jet picked up speed, as they were pushed back into their seats from the force, until they achieved take off, banked steeply upwards as they gained altitude.
And then, after reaching cruising altitude, on the open sky laid out before them.
The flight was more strange than Clark would have liked. His nerves did not settle out, about going to the Manor, only seemed to grow, in the confined space of the cockpit, no where else to go, and nothing else to distract himself with. The engines that he had sought out a few days prior, their familiar rumble, at this distance, and with Clark in this state, now were blasting explosions of sound that he could not tune out, and were only added to by the howling barrage of the wind buffeting against the hull.
An altogether different flight than the one he took with Shayera, in broad daylight, held aloft by her white feathered wings that to many evoked an angel, to Shayera's utmost annoyance. She considered herself no angel.
Though to many, Bruce was a devil, with the black, leathery wings of the bat, who Bruce very much, and very intentionally evoked, and tonight they were held aloft by the black metal wings of the jet.
A deal with the devil. His ma had used that saying every now and then. And with long country roads with many a deserted crossroads, there were plenty of stories floating around town. Tall tales, whispers, rumors.
And just as the engines of the jet were no longer familiar, sitting beside Bruce like this, just as waking up to Bruce by his bedside, did not inspire feelings of ease.
Had he made a bad deal? A deal with the devil? By agreeing to coming here?
Then he shook his head.
Quit the theatrics.
His ma would say that every now and then too.
It wasn't every day that Bruce's facade fooled, or affected Clark. But it had today. And even though the noise from the flight was oppressive, so was the silence between the two of them.
"Is this how you feel?" Clark managed, to Bruce's visible surprise, again, only a minuscule movement of his shoulders, a quiver in his hands on the joystick, as Clark looked over to him, and at the lights from the control panel blurring together, coming in and out of focus, expanding and forming halos that should otherwise not be there - yet to Clark, it spoke volumes. This time, Bruce did not ask for clarification, only waited for Clark to continue, and he did after collecting himself, from the effort of breaking their silence, of engaging.
"When I carry you?" Clark knew Bruce hated that, when Clark took hold of his hands in mid-air, preventing the need for Bruce to have to implement any of his devised methods of flight.
He was rewarded with a rare grin, as Bruce replied. "This is more dignified, so no. This is not how I feel when you carry me."
Clark smiled too, and only added.
"...I see."
And the crushing silence retook them.
Alfred had another wheelchair waiting for him Clark saw, as the hatch door opened. At the base of the staircase on wheels, that no doubt Alfred had rolled over here for him, and Clark slowly made his way down it, only to fall with what he hoped appeared more grace than it felt to him, into the chair.
He had also unbuckled himself and stood on his own, under Bruce's masqueraded watchful eye, feigning disinterest.
As though this was just another day. Another night.
Clark appreciated it.
He took a moment to look around the docking bay and the underground lair. His senses despite the cut engines, were still overwhelmingly sharp. The mineral smell of stone, the fluttering of bats wings; the dampness in the air, the occasional drip dropping of water occupying his focus in ways they would not normally.
The three of them did not linger here long, though. Only to exchange pleasantries, and Alfred spoke first.
"Welcome home, Master Bruce. And welcome to you as well, Mister Clark. Did you both happen to see the message from the Commissioner on your way in?"
"Yes." Bruce answered for the both of them. The sickly yellow signal hanging heavy in Gotham's night sky; the only time Bruce had taken it upon himself to break the silence in the jet to announce,"Looks like I won't be joining you this evening."
"And you will be on your way?" Alfred asked in the present.
Bruce only nodded, and Alfred, more used to this than anyone, continued, "I will see to Mister Kent's accommodations, then."
"Thank you, Alfred."
Then, Bruce, in a movement almost balletic in its precision, it wasted nothing, turned, black cape billowing out behind him, and walked away. Blending into, and eventually becoming the darkness of the lair, as he went deeper into it and out of sight, while Alfred, more gently, turned the wheelchair around to leave it, heading towards an elevator.
As they entered it, its walls gleaming steel, Clark made an attempt at light conversation. He had higher hopes for his success with Alfred, and was feeling momentarily invigorated, having arrived at his destination.
"Between you and me, I think I'm getting the better deal."
"How so, sir?" Was Alfred's reply, gentile as always. And Clark could almost laugh. It was an odd state to be in. He was so tired he almost seemed to forget he was so, until he attempted to communicate with others and they could not understand him. He elaborated.
"Being left in your care."
"We all have our strengths and talents." Alfred replied, but Clark could hear the amusement in his tone, and he was grateful someone finally appreciated his humor, enough to add some of his own, as Alfred continued.
"Though to be frank, whether Master Bruce had business or not, I was always going to be handling your accommodations."
"Then, as Ma Kent would say, I should be thanking my lucky stars." Clark replied, as the elevator rose, and it did not balk under their combined weight, only smoothly and seamlessly lifted them out of the lair, up into the Manor itself, specifically into what served as Bruce's facade of an office, a terrible facsimile for his true office below.
Though, it had all the trappings of an office, maybe Bruce even used it, for all Clark knew: an imposing desk, heavy leather chairs, a cavernous fire place, and family portraits hanging high on the walls.
Alfred maintained his pace, did not pause, simply wheeled them out of there and into a dimly lit hallway, one of the many hallways that made up the Manor's maze of corridors, a maze Alfred long ago had mapped out thoroughly and completely, and to yet another elevator – this one less industrial, more welcoming, warm wood instead of cold metal – to the third floor.
"Keeping me well out of the way, are you?" Clark asked, though in truth he was taking all this in, as best he could. He had never been on this floor. His visits had been limited to the basement lair and the first, and though Alfred had taken him higher, not lower, Clark had the sense of being deeper in the Manor than he had ever been previously.
"I will always be a call away, sir. And here we are. Your room for however long you should need it."
The door was already open, the only one in this hallway that was. Alfred had, as usual, been immaculate in his preparations.
It was a grand room, closed up for the night, its floor length windows hidden by drapes, table lamps on, illuminating the deep green color gracing its walls, along with the corresponding decor, ornately framed oil paintings of forests and fields.
The bed, with a rich mahogany colored bedspread, to match the gleaming wood floor, had a metal bar along side, to assist getting into and getting up from it, a bar that Clark was thankful was there, as he transitioned himself from the wheelchair to bed.
"There are additional support bars in the adjoining bathroom, both by the facilities and the shower stall, if you should need them. As you can imagine, I have needed to care for Master Bruce in similar conditions. Too many times, I am afraid.
"I will leave the wheelchair with you and let you rest for now, Mister Kent, but in the morning, I am sorry to say, I must insist that you eat."
"If it's your cooking, Alfred, I don't foresee there being any problems."
"...I must say, you are a far easier patient than I'm used to dealing with."
"Bruce can be a bear?"
"Indeed, he has a difficult time assessing his limits… and though Master Dick kids him about this, he is no better."
"Thank you for doing all this for me, Alfred. I appreciate it." And Clark did. He was even wondering what he had been so nervous about. Everything was fine.
"The honor is mine. It is not everyday one is able to assist the Man of Steel."
"You do more than you know, Alfred." For though the citizens of Gotham City did not know it, they owed a great debt to this man. Batman took care of them; while Alfred took care Bruce Wayne, and Alfred smiled gently in recognition, before adding.
"So do you, sir. So do you."
Alfred and Ma Kent would have had a field day together, for though they came from two different schools, they both shared impeccable manners.