moonshadows

The first time was a surprise.

Clark had detected a heartbeat in his apartment where there should have been none almost as soon as his feet had come to rest on the balcony outside his living room, and fear – not so unfamiliar to him as people might think – had shot through him. A glance through the walls simultaneously put his fear to rest and woke new ones.

Batman was in his kitchen.

How had he gotten in? He was Batman, that’s how. Why was he there? That was a question not so easily answered on his own. Clark stepped inside his apartment, closing the balcony door behind him and drawing the curtains just in case. His cape, he left on the couch. That was the extent of undressing he bothered with before striding confidently into the kitchen and turning on the light. He had no doubts that Batman knew he was there, no fear of startling him. He even knew what he would see: the Dark Knight lurking in the corner with his cloak drawn around him like a living shadow, incongruous against pristine white tile. Sure enough, when the fluorescent lights flickered on, that’s exactly what greeted his eyes.

“Why…?” He didn’t bother actually finishing the question.

“I need your help,” Batman said shortly.

Alarm bells and red flags filled Clark’s mind. Batman needed his help? Needed it badly enough to wait in his kitch- wait, that didn’t make sense. If he needed Superman’s help so badly, he could have gotten in touch much faster. Whatever it was Batman needed help with, it was something he didn’t want anyone else to know about.

“What’s wrong?” Clark demanded, unconsciously widening his stance and holding his arms out as though bracing against a charge.

In response, Batman parted the dark waterfall of his cape, revealing bloody bandages around his abdomen and fingers of blackish-red that glistened wetly as they trailed from beneath the cloth to vanish into the tops of his boots.

The oath that left Clark’s lips would have earned him a mouthful of soap as a child. “You don’t need my help,” he protested, “you need a hospital.”

Behind his mask, Batman’s eyes narrowed. “No hospitals. No doctors. I can take care of this, but I need your help.”

He sounded ready to bite Clark’s head off. More so than usual, at least, and he found himself crossing his arms belligerently. “Don’t tell me you want me to cauterize the wounds.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Batman spat. “I have a medical gel that will accelerate healing by a factor of…” Irritably, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The gel will have the wounds closed within twelve hours, and the tissue damage completely repaired within thirty-two.”

“That sort of healing is going to put an incredible strain on your body,” Clark protested.

One hand emerged from beneath the cloak holding what looked like a two-liter bag of unappetizing gray paste with a nozzle on one end. “Glucose and protein.”

He’d thought of that. He should have known; this was Batman, after all. “Then what do you need my help for?”

“It’s going to hurt.” Batman’s eyes narrowed again. “It’s going to hurt a lot. Screaming in the Batcave wouldn’t be an issue, but Alfred’s not strong enough to hold me down or get the straps tight enough. Gagging me to muffle the sound isn’t going to be a problem; my cape will suffice.”

A sick feeling had curled up in Clark’s belly. “You want me to gag you with your cape and hold you down while you scream in pain for – how long?”

“Probably four hours. Not more than six.”

“And you don’t have any painkillers to go along with your miracle gel?”

The smile he got was sharp enough to cut, and Clark felt like it had. “None strong enough.”

“What about endorphins?”

“They’re the reason I’m still upright.”

Clark sighed. “What do I need to do?”

In the end, Clark found himself lying on his bed with Batman on top of him, his legs wrapped around the other man’s, his arms keeping the Dark Knight’s pinned while also holding him still. It would have been more awkward if they’d been face to face, but they’d agreed it was better for the wound to be exposed to the air. A thick roll of Batman’s cape was knotted around his head, muffling the hair-raising screams from the neighbor’s ears while doing nothing to hide them from Superman’s. Batman had grimly sucked down half the nutrient paste while Clark carefully peeled off bandages saturated in blood and cut his costume away from the still-bleeding wounds. Then he’d looked away as Batman had plunged gel-laden fingers into his own wounds, smearing the stuff around by touch. Clark may have earned the title “Man of Steel”, but his stomach felt more like soggy cardboard when he even thought about the potential damage his friend was stoically enduring.

They’d had just enough time to decide on their positioning before Batman had suddenly grunted, sounding as if he’d been kicked somewhere vital, and grimly tied his makeshift gag into place. Then he’d grunted again, half-doubling over before arching back, panting around the roll of cloth filling his mouth. Clark had grabbed him around the upper chest at that point and dragged him backwards until he’d fallen back onto the bed. So now he was cradling his wounded friend – gently, firmly, but gently – and listening to him scream in unthinkable torment while bodily preventing him from thrashing around.

He couldn’t imagine how much pain Bruce had to be in. The man’s self-control and pain tolerance made Clark feel like a five-year-old with a skinned knee, and here he was screaming himself hoarse. At first, he’d simply listened in silence as Bruce – he couldn’t think of the other man as Batman while he was screaming like that – cried out in growing agony. Then he’d murmured soothing phrases into the other man’s ear. It’s going to be alright. You’re going to be fine. Just hang in there. It was useless, he knew, but he couldn’t just lie there and not try to help his friend in some way. After the first hour, he gave up any hope that Bruce was aware of anything past the pain and found it more of a relief than anything else. He’d tried singing lullabies – horribly off-tune, he knew; ironic that the man with super-hearing had a tin ear – but they were more for his comfort than anything else and when he ran out of words, he just hummed.

It still didn’t cover the sound of Bruce in pain.

Sometime during the third hour, he wept. Nothing dramatic, just quiet tears for the man who’d chosen to come here and ask for help rather than risk revealing his identity. Clark could have refused, but it would have meant watching him die, having that blood on his hands. Not an option. He could have overpowered Bruce and flown him to a hospital. It wouldn’t have been hard. Well, probably wouldn’t have been hard. It depended on if Batman had the kryptonite on him, chose to pull it out, and which one of them was stronger in their respective weakened states. Still, assuming he’d won, he could have flown Batman to a hospital and made sure no one peeked under the mask. His secret would have been safe, and he’d have actual medical treatment instead of some experimental gel and a makeshift gag.

That would have meant violating Batman’s trust, though, and Clark was painfully aware of how precious a gift that was. He’d earned it slowly, in bits and pieces and lives saved and lives spared, but until tonight he hadn’t thought Batman trusted him quite this much. It was…humbling, in the unique way that Batman always made him feel. To be a superhero, to stand between the weak and the wicked and say “You shall not pass!” was hard enough for him, balancing the needs of the many against the fragile lie of a simple farmboy from Kansas. But he had powers. He was, literally, superhuman. Bruce…Bruce was an eight-year-old boy whose life had been shattered, and who’d built himself into a force that even Superman hesitated to challenge. When it came right down to it, there was power, and then there was strength, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that of the two of them, Batman was the stronger.

Going into the fourth hour, he realized Bruce had fallen silent. At first, he was elated. The storm had passed! His friend wasn’t in indescribable agony anymore! Then he listened closer and heard the unnerving hiss of a voiceless scream, felt the tension in Batman’s body. He was still in pain, he’d just lost his voice. Somehow, that was even more horrifying, and Clark held the other man a hair tighter as he wept for the second time in as many hours.

Five and a half hours since Clark came home to find Batman in his kitchen, the screaming stopped. For a moment, he was afraid Bruce was dead – but then he heard the other man’s heartbeat, and felt the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. Gingerly, he loosened his grip and pulled Bruce up onto the bed next to him. Then, cringing, he peered at the window that had been cut into Batman’s costume. The exposed flesh was covered in dried blood, but seemed solid enough under that. Clark stood up and immediately levitated because his legs were not ready to take his weight after being locked around Bruce’s for almost six hours.

He took a few minutes to shake out his stiff limbs before fetching a warm, wet washcloth and gently dabbing the dried blood away. The skin beneath was shiny and pink but whole and smooth, not even a scar to hint at what had happened. He wondered if he should try getting Batman out of his bloodstained costume, but sandy eyes and that too-perfect skin convinced him that he should just sleep.

…he called in sick first, though. It didn’t take much acting to sound wretched, and the excuse that he’d been “up half the night with something” was both true and sounded like he was being discreet. Once that was over with, he looked at the exhausted figure lying on his bed and quailed at the thought of trying to wrestle Batman underneath the covers. Changing into pajamas – because he’d be damned if he was sleeping in his costume – gave him enough distraction that he could gnaw on the problem and be ambushed from the side by a solution. Gently, he untied Batman’s rolled-up cape and spread it out, inspecting it for damage or wet spots, but Bruce had rolled it with the water-resistant side out. Between Batman’s cape and Superman’s, they made a fairly decent blanket.

Satisfied with his efforts and too tired to do anything else, Clark climbed into bed where uneasy sleep claimed him.

When he woke up, Batman was gone.

He wasn’t just gone, Clark discovered as he searched his apartment in a panic. He’d also taken his cape, the bag of gray nutrient paste, the empty tube of medical gel, everything that could be used to prove he’d ever been there. Even the scraps of his costume. The only reassurance Clark had that he hadn’t imagined the whole thing was his cape, folded and placed neatly on the kitchen table. All in all, it wasn’t very reassuring. Clark reached for the phone.

“Wayne Manor,” the elderly British gent said calmly after two rings.

“Alfred? This is Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Is Bruce…?”

“Ah, Mr. Kent.” The butler sounded pleased, which could be a good sign. “I’m afraid Master Bruce is indisposed; he seems to have, er, caught something. I’m sure he’ll be his usual self tomorrow. Shall I tell him you called?”

“No.” Clark sighed as relief flooded him. “I just wanted to make sure he got back okay.”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Mr. Kent, I do hope you appreciate the trust Master Bruce places in you.”

“I do, Alfred,” Clark said slowly, eyes on his folded cape. “I do. You know what? Let him know I called. Tell him…any time he needs help, I’ll be there for him.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said warmly.