Chapter Text
Bruce watched until Clark’s eyes closed then sagged against the glass, his limbs crumpling underneath him. The last several hours had been a long, hellish nightmare, and they still pressed heavily on him, like a pointed, unforgiving finger driving into his sternum. All of the pain and burdens that came with his dangerous tragedy of a life caught up to him, and for the first time, he felt old. He was already well aware that he had aged, but now he felt so tired, even defeated. Now that weariness weighed deeply in his soul, just as it did when Jason...
He shuddered. The screaming wouldn’t stop echoing in his ears. Harrowing, bone-chilling screams. Every time he shut his eyes, he could still see Clark’s body convulsing uncontrollably right in front of him. Then every time he opened his eyes for the last several hours, all he could see was Clark lying frighteningly still. A mere four feet away from him at most. His breathing had been so slow and so shallow, that Bruce had to watch closely just to make sure his chest was still moving.
And the moment it looked like it had stopped…
Bruce groaned as the crippling severity of his helplessness overcame him again. He flinched and rubbed his temples, longing to escape from his own thoughts since he was unable to escape his prison.
He thought of the stages of grief. How he had nearly made his way through all five of them while Clark was out. The first hours he had refused to let himself consider that Clark might not wake up again, even while he could do nothing but stare at his pale, motionless body. That surety was eaten as time passed, and fury boiled up in its stead. Even though he knew that the door would not give way, he still tried. When he came away with bruised ribs for his efforts, Bruce took his anger out on the glass, hoping it would somehow shatter before him. The bones in his hand had cracked on impact, but he had relished the pain. It fed into his anger as he turned and raged at the camera.
But then his raging turned from promising Luthor death if Clark did not wake up to offering him a trade or a deal. He had even pleaded at one point, but everything was met with silence and the slow blink of the red light on the top of the camera.
Eventually, Bruce collapsed to his knees by Clark, looking for any signs of change and losing more hope with each moment that ticked past. All he could do was keep watch and speak to Clark’s still form, just on the slight chance that Clark could hear him. But he had talked himself hoarse after a few hours and had fallen silent, staring in despondency and counting the seconds for two more hours until Clark finally stirred.
God, that first sound from Clark. It had been a small grunt, so quiet, but Bruce was immediately sure he hadn’t imagined it. The relief that washed over him briefly overpowered the hopelessness, but the abject fear was still present. He still could do nothing except watch. But now Bruce knew that he was a long way from acceptance. He would continue to hope and look for a way out as long as Clark stayed with him.
For now, he continued to keep a careful count of the time as it passed. The information could prove vital for finding a cure. It also gave him focus and prevented insanity from taking him. Or maybe the counting was slowly making him crazy. Bruce scoffed mirthlessly.
There was no sign of Luthor or his men. Bruce suspected they had cleared out. He hoped it was because the League was getting close, but he feared that they had realized their work was done because Clark was not likely to survive much longer, and they had taken the precaution to relocate to safety.
Even so, his stomach clenched at even the thought of hearing the door buzz again. He couldn’t be a useless witness to another injection. It would likely kill Clark instantly.
Clark was only unconscious for a half hour this time, but he took longer to respond when he woke, and his eyes never quite cleared. He talked about Thanksgiving again and rambled about meeting Dick for the first time. When he started telling Bruce about something that happened in high school, his gaze was far away, looking through Bruce. The fever boiled in his brain and disoriented him.
With a sinking heart, Bruce quickly abandoned the futility of trying to correct him. He just nodded along and commented where he could. Inwardly, he continued to count the seconds, not sure what he was counting down to this time. Or unwilling to acknowledge it.
Silence fell when Clark tired of babbling and closed his eyes. Bruce thought he had fallen asleep again, but then he turned his head towards Bruce.
“I miss your heartbeat,” Clark said quietly, eyes still shut and his voice weak.
“What’s that?” Bruce asked gently, unable to tell if Clark was having a moment of clarity.
“Your heartbeat,” Clark repeated, “I miss it.”
“You don’t need to check in on me right now, Clark,” Bruce assured him, “I’m fine.”
“It’s so quiet without it,” Clark’s eyebrows scrunched together unhappily, “I’m so used to it always being there, in the background. Something to focus on so it’s not all so...much.”
Bruce said nothing. He knew Clark had the tendency to monitor his heart rate whenever he worried about him or needed to find him quickly, but he had no idea that Clark was always listening. That his heartbeat was a constant for him. He swallowed hard. Anger and resolve surged in place of the resigned apathy that had taken hold of him.
“Clark, listen to me,” he said roughly, “You will hear it again. I promise you that.”
A sliver of blue appeared. “I believe you, Bruce.”
There was no clear way to keep his promise, but Bruce knew that he would. This was not how things were going to end.
For now, Clark drifted away again. Bruce still dreaded seeing unconsciousness claim him and tried to ignore the whispers that said this would be the time he wouldn’t come back. But Bruce vowed that he would make sure Clark opened his eyes again.
---------
Thirty-two minutes and eleven seconds later, Bruce heard a rumbling and braced himself. The doors to both of their cells burst open at the same time. Arthur and Diana stepped through.
“Bruce”, Diana reached for his arm, but he ducked by her into the narrow hallway joining the cells and rushed to the one that held his husband.
Arthur stood over Clark’s prone body looking alarmed, one hand outstretched, frozen, as if he was afraid to touch him.
“What happened here?” he asked when he saw Bruce in the doorway.
“Kryptonite poisoning,” Bruce rasped and shoved past Arthur’s hand to kneel by Clark.
“The fuck?”
He ignored Arthur’s quiet exclamation because he was finally touching Clark. The plane of Clark's chest felt so familiar under Bruce's hands, but the stillness did not. He settled one hand over Clark’s heart while the other reached up to smooth the unruly hairs from Clark’s forehead. He idly noted that he had seldom seen Clark’s curls this disheveled. They were damp from sweat as he carded through them while moving his other hand to Clark’s throat, searching out a pulse point.
Bruce waited.
The fever was gone, but Clark’s skin was unnaturally cold.
Bruce kept waiting.
Finally, there was a heartbeat. Slow and faint, but it was there.
Bruce let himself breathe again and took Clark’s gray face in his hands, carefully thumbing over the sharp curve of his cheekbones. This close, Bruce clearly saw the dark circles under Clark’s eyes, the cracked lips, the sallow pallor. It was all wrong. Even when Clark died from Doomsday, he still looked strong, peaceful; like he was merely resting. Now, an image flashed into Bruce’s mind of the deathly faces he had seen in hospital wards and on patrol when he was too late to a crime scene.
Pain clamped around his heart, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against Clark’s, his hands still cradling his husband’s face. He wanted to say something, maybe beg Clark to hang on, whisper that it was going to be fine, apologize for failing him. But he didn’t. He already made Clark a promise, even if the uneasy tightness that had gnawed away inside him for the last several hours refused to ease. For now, Bruce just breathed in the scent that was still distinctly Clark and willed some of his fight into the other man.
“Bruce?”
He looked up sharply. Arthur still stood a few steps back, hesitant to intrude, but Diana knelt down on the other side of Clark.
“Is he-”
“He’s alive,” Bruce cut her off before she could ask, “We need to get him out of here.”
He slid one arm under Clark’s back and the other under his knees, then tried to stand. His exhausted body groaned in protest, but Bruce was well-practiced at ignoring it. Even though he faltered slightly, he still made it to his feet before Diana and Arthur could even move to help. Clark’s head lolled against his shoulder as Bruce adjusted his hold. The muscle under Bruce’s jaw ticked.
Diana reached out to support them. “Bruce, let me help.” She tried to shift Clark’s dead weight into her arms, but Bruce yanked him back and tightened his hold. A low growl that was pure Batman instinctively rumbled in his throat.
“I have him.” His voice was steel.
A hand touched his shoulder. “It’ll be faster, Bats.” Arthur was unusually gentle. “No offense, man, but you look worse than shit.”
“I’ve got him,” Bruce repeated, his grip unyielding.
“Ok,” Diana nodded once, understanding in her eyes. “We have a clear way out. We can move freely.”
“Good,” Bruce swept out of the cell, smoothly angling so that Clark’s body easily cleared the doorway. Despite his initial unsteadiness, he moved with graceful certainty down the hallway.
“Just follow me,” Arthur muttered sarcastically from behind him. Bruce could sense the glare he got from Diana for that comment.
“To your right and take the stairs,” she said to Bruce.
He moved up the stairs quickly, but was careful not to jostle Clark. He saw that they were in what used to be a factory. The crumbling dusty machinery hadn’t been used in some time. It looked like most of Luthor’s money went into refitting the basement into the holding cells as well as the survelleillence desk set up by the stairs.
And the lab beyond that in the far corner.
Bruce’s eyes roved over the contents on the lab table. Nothing useful. Empty bottles, dirty equipment. No notes, no laptops. Luthor’s men knew rescue was coming and cleared out quickly and cleanly.
“Flash searched the place,” Diana offered. “They didn’t leave anything behind.”
Bruce kept walking, his lips set in a thin line. Their footsteps echoed in the large room. With Diana’s quiet guidance, they came to a door. Arthur moved to open it, but Bruce didn’t slow his stride and forced it open with a kick. Arthur swore as Bruce ignored him and stepped outside into the factory yard. The Flying Fox waited for them at the other end beyond the decrepit wall encircling the factory.
Barry was waiting for them on the plane. His eyes widened when he saw Bruce carrying Clark, but any questions he had died on his lips at the sight of Bruce’s face.
Bruce said nothing as he walked past him and straight to the medbay. He eased Clark down onto the gurney. Clark remained unresponsive and so still. Bruce gently touched one cheek then turned to Barry and Arthur who lingered in the doorway. “Get the sunlamps on him,” he ordered as he brushed past them to the cockpit.
The pilot seat groaned beneath him as he sat down heavily. His fingers sped across the buttons. Every inch of this place needed to be scanned. He had to see if there was anything that might be useful. The screens came to life, rapidly displaying data for Bruce to study. There had to be something.
Diana’s footsteps sounded behind him, but his eyes stayed on the screens as he attempted to activate the sensors in his missing suit. The bitterly familiar feeling of nausea and helplessness stole over him as he came up with nothing.
A strangled noise punched its way through the knot in his throat, and he slammed his mangled right hand down onto the armrest, not even flinching when it made contact.
The warmth of Diana’s palm settled on his shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do.” He heard the desperate words pour out of him, and like everything else, he was powerless to stop them. “Diana, there’s nothing here. Clark could- I don’t...I don’t know what to do.”
“We will help him, Bruce.” Diana was confident, just like always. “You are exhausted. Go sit with Clark. I will get us back.”
“I have research to do,” he said hoarsely, his voice strained with more than overuse.
“Bruce…”
He could hear the reproach coming. Rather than listen, he stood, making her hand fall from his shoulder. “Get us to Gotham,” he cut her off, already moving to the array of screens behind the cockpit.
Diana grabbed his wrist, easily pulling him up short. He stumbled slightly.
“You should stay with-”
“Don’t,” Bruce growled. He knew his body longed to rest, but it could be pushed much farther. All he had done for the past two days was sit and watch. Now that he could actually do something, he had the fire of determination raging through him. He would not be told to continue sitting and watching.
He looked Diana in the eye. Daring her to even try to force him. Demanding that she release him. Asking for her understanding.
Diana never wavered when faced with his anger or backed down from any challenge. But she seemed to read everything in his face. She softened and nodded before letting go of his wrist.
Bruce didn’t give her another thought as he quickly walked away. Within seconds, he had searches and analyses running on every monitor. Once the plane was in the air, he distantly heard Diana giving an update to Victor and Alfred. He had already sent information and research instructions to both of them.
“Let me see your hand.” Diana was by his side again. A medkit in her hand.
He shook his head. “I need the use of my hand, not a brace.”
The slightest pinch of frustration appeared on Diana’s forehead. Enough that Bruce could see it from the corner of his eye, not once looking away from the screen in front of him. He hadn’t noticed her turning on the autopilot, but it didn’t matter.
“Alright,” Diana acquiesced finally. “But you will at least let me clean it.”
Diana was patient, but her stubbornness could rival Bruce whenever she deemed it necessary. Grudgingly, he extended his hand in her direction, allowing her to work on it while he kept his attention on devising the most effective treatment for Clark.