If Clark had thought his previous day was restless, it was nothing in comparison to his attempts to relax this day. Not only had Bruce strained himself assisting him, but Clark had jostled his own still healing wounds with his impromptu flying and falling, and the more he thought about what happened at breakfast – because when one was laid up in bed, there was little else to do but think – the more bizarre it became.

He was interrupted by his thoughts when Alfred came up to redress his wounds. They had gone through this ritual before, Alfred walking in with a medical kit, one that Clark imagined was well utilized, by the familiar yet heavy way Alfred carried it.

Clark took a look at them himself, when Alfred was preparing the fresh bandage. They had closed, however just barely, and he chided himself once again for his unanticipated antics at the dining table.

"They are healing very nicely, sir." Alfred soothed, seeming to sense his frustration.

"Thank you." Clark hoped that Alfred would understand it was not only for this assurance, but for the fact that he had dressed and redressed these wounds so many times already, for all that he had done while Clark was staying here.

"Would you like to get out of your room?"

"Did you have something in mind?"

"I need to check on Master Bruce's injuries as well, and as I intimated earlier, Master Bruce is a difficult patient. I hoped you could distract him."

"I'm not sure my being there would make things any easier for you."

At this, Alfred gave a small smile, yet there was something disquieting about it. It gave the impression that one was no longer dealing with Alfred the inconspicuous butler, but someone else, someone who rarely made or felt the need to make his presence known, yet who had regardless, and it was dubious honor indeed, to witness, for Clark could admit privately that it reminded him very much of when Batman smiled.

A gesture that normally put people at ease yet when done in this manner had the exact opposite effect. Incredibly self-assured, it gave off the impression that he knew something you did not, along with an ominous feeling that despite all evidence to the contrary, everything was going according to plan, a plan that you would never know nor ever could begin to understand, and Alfred's response only furthered that impression.

"I beg to differ, sir."

Alfred wheeled Clark to the elevator, the one they had used many times now, and down they went to the first floor, except, this time, they were retracing in reverse the path Alfred had first taken Clark on in this wheelchair, as he wheeled him into Bruce's office, which Clark more and more strongly suspected was not a real office, only a fake, that the whole purpose of this room was to disguise where it led to and nothing more, and into the industrial steel elevator, and down again.

Clark heard the familiar chittering of bats, the drip dropping of water and was pleased it was not as overstimulating to him as his last visit here.

Bruce was seated in front of his many monitors, casually dressed. Without turning around, he addressed Alfred.

"I already told you, I'm fine."

"Be that as it may sir, I would feel better having taken a look at your injuries myself."

"I'm sitting upright. I'm walking, what more do you need?"

"That proves very little."

"I told you I'm staying in tonight. That should settle your mind."

"Yet somehow it does not."

At this, Bruce turned around, saw Clark, who gave a small wave of recognition, and then gave Alfred a fairly scathing look.

"So you decided to rope Clark into this charade of yours? My answer is still no."

"Actually, I was going to ask Mister Kent to use his x-ray vision on you, if you insist on being so evasive."

"Oh… Really? Well, about that…" Clark started nervously, recalling Bruce's disdain for that particular ability of his.

"He didn't tell you that when he picked you up for a little stroll, did he, Clark?" Bruce guessed correctly, voice tense with anger, as he then added, "And there's nothing broken, Alfred."

"I have learned not to take you at your word when it comes to things like this, Master Bruce. So, if you would be so kind, Mister Kent…"

"Alfred, if I were not so irritated, I would be impressed. This is conniving, even for you. Using Superman, of all people."

"If you would simply allow me to examine you, I would not have to."

"...Fine." Bruce ground out.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"You heard me. Let's get this over with."

Alfred patted Clark on the shoulder, before adding. "See Mister Kent, you were most helpful indeed, though I am most sorry for the inconvenience."

Only to be met with a quick rebuttal from Bruce. "No he isn't, Clark. While attempting to exploit one of his abilities, did you forget another, Alfred?"

"Oh, and which ability would that be, Master Bruce?"

"He knows when people are lying."

"Is that true, Mister Kent? I confess, I assumed that was an urban legend. Miss Price, on the other hand…"

"Actually, in this case, since Alfred does not care that he's lying, I doubt there would have been a change in his heartbeat."

"Then perhaps I have executed the perfect crime. Nevertheless, do stop stalling and come with me now to the infirmary. Or, if you would prefer, we can avoid the examination and I can simply have Mister Kent tell me if you're telling the truth."

"Ingenious, Alfred, yet it's showing such terrible hospitality to our guest. We can't have that; we have a reputation to uphold. But since I was not lying, this examination will not take long, so Clark, try not to break anything in the meantime. I know how difficult that is for you, with your superhuman strength and all..."

"You're pretty strong too, Bruce. Do you often find yourself breaking things?"

"Of course. Why do you think I spend most of my time down here?" Bruce replied, so deeply sarcastic it almost came across genuinely.

"I have banished him from the rest of the house for just that reason, actually." Alfred even concurred.

"See Clark? Now you know the truth. I really had no choice except to become Batman."

Clark smiled, uneasily however, before revealing, "That's a lie, Bruce."

And Bruce raised his eyebrows in return with a slight smile of his own. "So it is."

"We will be be back shortly, Mister Clark." Alfred said, with knowing or with wishful thinking, Clark couldn't say, only that it was an attempt to direct the course of events.

"No worries, Alfred. I can use my x-ray vision and superhuman hearing to follow along with how the examination is going myself." Clark added in jest, only to get a surprising response from Bruce.

"Just wheel him in after us, Alfred."

"I was only joking, Bruce, I wouldn't actually do that..."

In lieu of answering, Bruce stood up and started walking, not bothering to turn around as he responded.

"Well, this way will eliminate any doubts about what you know and don't know, won't it?"

Bruce led the way to the infirmary, a small, sterile room, lined with closed cupboards, a large sink, and a single examination table, doubling as a surgical table if need be. The gleaming stainless steel glittered coldly as the lights were turned on, harsh and glaring.

Alfred parked the wheelchair near the door, as he turned on the faucet, washing his hands before donning a pair of gloves, and Bruce got up on the table, removing his shirt once he was seated, flinging it rather carelessly onto the table next to him and Clark was astonished that once again he was rendered momentarily weightless upon seeing the bruise on Bruce's shoulder; it had darkened terribly, along with others, the largest being one solidly in the center of his chest, dangerously close to his heart, and Clark willed himself to remain seated, to not let that weightlessness take him, though he could not contain a sharp inhale of breath, that drew Bruce's immediate attention, sharp like a hawk upon him, and that feeling of weightlessness immediately retreated, for now he was pinned beneath a massive gravity, those eyes upon him, eyes that were fortunately diverted by Alfred's approach.

But beyond those bruises, his suit had kept him safe. There were no punctures nor cuts breaking the skin, only the blood vessels beneath, and Alfred's examination indeed determined there were no broken bones.

"Satisfied, Alfred?"

"Relieved, sir." Alfred amended, then turned away, removing his gloves and closing the examination, and Bruce followed suit, grabbing his shirt, stretching it back over his head and shoulders. Then, without another word Bruce stood, approached Clark, gripped the handlebars of his wheel chair and started pushing it onward, out of the infirmary, out of the lair itself to the elevator doors. More steel. He wasn't sure who had given him the nickname the Man of Steel, but he wondered if he came across as cold, as foreboding as that metal often did.

Bruce was more forceful pushing the chair, walking faster with his grip on the handlebars tighter and Clark had the oddest sensation of falling, as Bruce stopped momentarily to push the button that would open the elevator doors, then falling again, as he resumed motion. It was not at all like the smooth gliding ride and light touch that Alfred provided, or perhaps that weightlessness and intense gravity from before had not not fully dissipated, yet he actually felt somewhat ill.

Then he reasoned, it really couldn't be all that different, could it? Bruce versus Alfred pushing the wheelchair? Or feeling like this due to some lingering sensations stemming from Bruce's examination? Those explanations seemed rather far-fetched. Maybe it was none of these things. Maybe it was simply the kryptonite.

That explanation reassured him, made him feel better, he preferred that to his other theories, though it did not entirely reassure him. Still, he decided some bed rest was in order.

The doors opened up into the office, yet it went by in a blur; before he knew it they were already out in the hallway, and Clark broke their silence.

"You can just take me back to my room, Bruce."

"I assume Alfred promised you an actual stroll, didn't he?" Bruce returned, again to Clark's surprise. Bruce waited a moment, presumably to see if Clark would respond, and when he did not, he continued all the while steering, not to the elevator leading to the upper floors, but to the doors leading out to the courtyard, then further explaining.

"I'm sure this was all part of Alfred's plan. To have me do this. If I had not taken the initiative, he would have suggested this, and if I refused, he would have then intimated that I must not be feeling up to the task, and if so, then perhaps I should be resting in bed. This way, I can deny him the satisfaction of getting his way."

Clark took a moment to ponder that reasoning, before adding, "...In that case, doesn't he win anyway? You're still doing what he wants."

"Yet I am spared the additional lecturing of how the sun and fresh air would do us both good, and suffering the inevitable slights to my character. For example, what a poor host I am, and also, despite Alfred suggesting otherwise, sunlight does not actually burn me…"

They had arrived at the doors, and here Bruce paused. Clark knew he was planning on coming out from behind the wheelchair to open them, as Alfred had done, but felt strongly he didn't want him to, and tried to divert him by reaching for the door handle himself and saying, "It's alright, I can get it."

He had reached it too, had his hand on it, only to have Bruce cover it with his own, stilling his motion, yet not only that, Clark felt his whole body go still and unbearably uncertain, at the weight of Bruce's hand on his, however brief as Bruce then moved Clark's away, back to his lap. It was only an instant truly, of contact, and there was nothing else particularly noteworthy about it. It did not seem to effect Bruce, who kept on talking, in that silky smooth baritone Clark rarely heard from him, the one he used to charm the media and the masses in his public life, seemingly using it now sardonically, Clark could imagine the smile on his face, as he said it, the one he had seen in all the photographs.

"No, I insist. Also, did you know I am ostensibly the master of this estate? Welcome to my home."

Bruce then opened the door with a flourish, as Clark struggled to follow along with what he was saying and where they were going as they moved outside, with the sun shining down on them inspiring Bruce to further add, "And you would like sunny side up eggs, wouldn't you. So predictable, Clark."

"Well, when you put it like that…" Clark joked weakly, taken aback by the dark anger underlying that last sentence. He had already known Bruce to be in possession of a brutal wit and a razor edged tongue to dispense it out with; in fact there was often a thin line between that and what passed as Bruce's friendly speech. Many had a difficult time telling the difference. Clark thought he was one of the rare few, but he also noted he had rarely been on the receiving end of that brutal wit, as he now suspected he was.

He remembered his reticence in coming here, that in by doing so, he would cross that fine line between he and Bruce, that kept them friendly, but never truly friends, the distance that allowed them to maintain a cordial working relationship with each other, juxtaposed with J'onn's reassurance that Bruce did indeed care about him, as Bruce continued. "Would your favorite flower be a sunflower, perchance?"

"Why? Are you planning on sending me some?" Clark returned in a light tone, only to freeze in realization at what he had said, and he waited in dismay, for Bruce to tear that response apart, yet he did not. There was a slight pause, Clark could imagine Bruce had raised his eyebrow, as he did when something truly vexing occurred, and as it turned out, his response was actually more unnerving than if he had torn it apart.

"Maybe I'll surprise you." Bruce didn't say this lightly, but he didn't say it seriously either. It landed heavily regardless and Clark could swear he actually felt it, Bruce's anticipation of what Clark's next move would be. If he would carry on with this or drop it, and Clark attempted to do both at the same time.

"Guess you've got my number then…"

It seemed to work, when Bruce's only response was "Among other things," and Clark took the opportunity to change the subject. "It's nice of you to do this for me, Bruce. I appreciate it."

"Nice is not a word I am often associated with." was Bruce's reply, and to Clark's dismay. It was not escaping his notice this verbal jousting, that Bruce would not let a single one of his responses land without challenge. Yet, what else could he do, besides continue on, and he tried once more.

"Still. It's nice of you."

"I suppose…" Bruce allowed, however cryptically, only to add. "And at least one of us can enjoy themselves out here. Alfred wasn't entirely wrong. I don't particularly enjoy the sun."

"Are you joking?"

"What do you think?"

"Huh."

"Indeed."

A silence fell upon them after that, one that Clark appreciated, it gave him time to gather himself. Bruce was about to bring them back inside when Clark asked to stop for a moment. Bruce obliged him as Clark stood on shaky legs and walked towards a patch of sunlight. With soft grass under his feet and warmth on his skin, he could almost pretend that everything was peaceful: that he did not have kryptonite lingering in his veins, sapping his strength; that his hand did not feel hollowed out and empty, as though Bruce had pierced right through him when he had placed his hand on his; and that their conversation had not gone beyond good natured teasing.

He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, saw red against the back of his lids, and his imaginings went even further; that he did not have to be staying at Bruce's because there was no one else and nowhere else to go; a fast and fleeting dream that his relationship with Lois had not faded, and that he could be under her care, not Alfred's; or that he could be back in Kansas, at the house and land he had sold after his mother had passed, that he was standing at the bottom of the front steps, the wind blowing heavily against him, as it so often did there, that had prepared him well for the wind blowing against him in flight; yet that red against his eyelids took him even further back, to a more distant home, the red light of another star, and a sudden and fierce longing to be there, under that sun, on that planet, with people and fauna and flora he had only seen in video archives, though he belatedly realized that was not accurate. He had been on that planet briefly, briefly under that star. He had been conceived there, born there, had fleetingly felt that red light on his skin.

He truly wanted to be there, and in this dream-like trance, he imagined he could. He started to rise up, with faith that his God would guide him, and exhaled that name, only to be restrained, by a pair of hands, gripping tightly on his waist, and his name, spoken aloud in a voice rife with irritation.

"Dammit, Clark. Not this again."

Though Clark's eyes opened at this, his Earth name, he remained unseeing, uncomprehending. Noted Bruce, earthbound and reaching up for him, yet could not understand why he would be doing so.

So, he remained aloft, for a moment that stretched on and on, until he was ripped from his stupor by a sudden spell of the kryptonite, a terrible shudder that made him curl inward on himself, and then he was suddenly grateful for Bruce's assistance.

Bruce attempted to further assist, by grabbing hold of one of Clark's hands and placing it on his shoulder, and Clark let him, realizing Bruce wanted him to brace himself there and return to ground, yet Clark despite his own pain, had some resistance to doing so, some memory telling him not to, and then it came hazily back to him, the bruises hidden underneath Bruce's shirt, and Clark moved his hand away, only for Bruce to place it back, solidly, firmly, chiding him.

"It's fine. I'm fine. Just… get… down."

However now Clark was distracted, remembering and reliving at the same time the sensation he had had when Bruce last grabbed hold of his hand, that terrible uncertainty, the crushing hollowness, only further amplified by Bruce grabbing hold of Clark's other hand and placing it on his other shoulder; Clark belatedly realized Bruce was taking a gamble doing this, that Clark would remain airborne and not come crashing down on top of him, and even with all this, Clark was still suspended, disoriented and undecided, until another wave sent him unwillingly downwards, had him clutching Bruce's shoulders, with Bruce holding firm at his waist, then compensating, moving his hands upwards to his chest, then under his shoulders, as Clark descended.

His feet touched down on the grass, in what to Clark seemed like slow motion, yet he did not feel any more stable standing, actually he felt less so, and the longer he stood, the worse it got, he wanted to sit down but Bruce was already moving, half supporting, half dragging him, and Clark, at a remove, thought that if he'd been worried before about Bruce's shoulder, that was nothing in comparison to the strain this was putting on him.

He was only vaguely aware that Bruce had managed to get him to the wheelchair, what with the ringing in his ears, the edges of his vision turning to black, closing in on him, and how his weight was becoming less and less substantial.

The final thing he heard, before it all caved in on him.

"Guess I should have listened, when you said to take you back to your room."