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“He’s just over there.”
The speedster points farther up the block, past abandoned shopping bags and shattered glass littering the street. Bruce nods at Barry, falling into step on Clark’s left side.
“Thanks,” Clark says, “Everyone else here?”
“Yeah,” Barry says, “You were the last two to show up.”
The epicenter of the fight is obvious. Bruce scans the half-destroyed buildings as they walk, noting the twisted rebar sticking out of the gaps.
“Here,” Barry says, waving them on.
Bruce freezes, something age-old and instinctual rearing up in the back of his mind. His entire body floods with adrenaline, nausea rising in his stomach.
Clark pushes past him, not noticing his hesitation. Diana waves, hovering proudly over a Lasso-bound man propped against the far wall.
“That’s him?”
As if on cue, Hal kneels down in front of the man, scanning him with his ring.
Bruce’s arm twitches of its own volition. He stares down at his armor in distant, dawning horror, saliva pooling in his mouth.
The arm twitches again, sending an agonizing jolt through his entire right side. He hisses, reaching out to dig at the cramping muscle, but it isn’t a cramp.
He takes a breath, stepping closer toward the small semi-circle the League had formed around the man. The pain in his arm increases exponentially, until he can feel the joint seizing under his armor plate.
“He was attacking citizens on the street indiscriminately,” Diana says, gesturing at the empty street behind her, “When I arrived, my sword was wrenched from my hands and my bracelets were impossibly heavy. I discarded both, subdued him with my Lasso, and commed for backup.”
“He’s a meta?” Barry asks, peering at the man over Diana’s shoulder.
“I believe so,” she replies, crossing her bracelet-less arms, “Though his powers remain unclear to me. He cannot seem to escape the Lasso, thankfully.”
It was a textbook-perfect implementation of their rules for encountering new or unknown metahumans. Bruce remains silent as the assembled League members glance at him, seeking out his approval.
“Well,” Clark says when Bruce doesn’t speak, slightly strained, “We’ll bring him back up to the Watchtower for questioning and start there.”
Next to Diana, Hal frowns. “Is that smart if we don’t know exactly what he can do?”
“Batman?”
Bruce grits his teeth. “Excuse me.”
He puts a good twenty feet between him and the man before the pain in his arm begins to lessen slightly. Clark follows after him, radiating uncertainty and curiosity in equal amounts.
“What do you think?”
“He can manipulate metal,” Bruce confirms, trying not to throw up. The pain of bones moving is something instinctually wrong, so much worse than any bullet wound or laceration.
Clark frowns, glancing back at the group. “Do you think it’s voluntary?”
Bruce bites down on a groan as the shrapnel from a warehouse explosion two years ago in the Narrows begins to shift up through his calf muscle. Despite the distance, the man’s powers seem to be growing, not decreasing.
“Hn.”
“Is there some kind of test we can perform without him noticing?” Clark asks, eyes lighting up, “Or I suppose we could just ask. He’s not very talkative though, even with the Lasso.”
Neither is Bruce, mostly because he can feel the way the screws in his elbow are beginning to untwist, slowly backing out of the bone and into the flesh around them.
He can’t lose the implant there, not if he wants to have a semi-functional right arm. By some small mercy, the plate itself doesn’t seem to be moving -- yet. But he can feel every single screw that Leslie had painstakingly implanted into the bone, vibrating deep in his arm.
“It seems,” he takes a breath as years-old bullet fragments in his shoulder begin to twinge, “that you have it handled.”
“You’re leaving?” Clark blinks, “But…the protocol…”
He doesn’t say it, but it’s clear as day on his face: Really? Already?
The disappointment in Superman’s eyes hurts, even on a good day. But today? It doesn’t hold a candle to the growing, twisting pain throughout his body.
“I’m vulnerable to metal manipulation,” Bruce says, keeping his voice steady through sheer will alone, “It’s not safe for me to be here.”
If he hadn’t lined the suit in lead -- if he hadn’t replaced the outer core with biometric mufflers, Clark would simply know. He’d be able to sense the elevated heart and respiration rates, would use that big reporter brain and put two and two together.
Somewhere in the back of his brain, Alfred bites out a crisp I told you so.
“If this is about your armor, Barry’s gear is doing the same thing,” Clark says, frowning, “It doesn’t seem like he’s trying to move it. It just… wants to move toward him, I guess.”
Fascinating. Bruce takes a deep breath so he doesn’t scream. He can feel every single piece of shrapnel, bullet fragment, and medical implant in his body trying to move toward the man, inching one millimeter at a time through his flesh.
Barry’s armor moving slightly doesn’t mean much, in comparison.
“Superman.”
Clark turns his frown on the other League members, distracted. “Do you think we should question him on what kind of metal he can manipulate? Your armor and Barry’s armor are alloys, but maybe he can tell the difference between--”
Wrongwrongwrong, something in Bruce’s brain cries, stop it, stop it, pleasepleaseplease--
The rods in his spine begin to shift, twitching millimeter by millimeter against his vertebrae. Fear -- true, animalistic fear -- courses through him, until his twitching hands are numb and his knees begin to weaken under his weight.
The rods and artificial ribs he’d had implanted after Bane -- they shouldn’t even be close to magnetically vulnerable. He’d insisted, on Leslie’s firm advice, unwilling to risk something that obvious. They were pure titanium, the best available on the market at the time.
“Clark,” he gasps, the sound wrenched from his throat. A cold sweat breaks across his skin, his stomach seizing.
Clark’s head snaps back toward him, eyes wide. He reaches out, grabbing for Bruce’s arm as the world begins to list.
The well-meaning grip tightens around his elbow. Bruce lets out a strangled scream, biting down on his own tongue.
“Batman. Bruce --”
The grip on his spine tightens like a closing fist. His vision greys out, the cold sweat he’d broken out into turning into something hot and awful.
He tries to move his arms -- to grab Clark, to pull himself away, to explain -- but the pain crests over him like a wave. It’s Bane, a lifetime of injuries, critical surgeries, ripping into him all at once.
There’s more yelling, then the sensation of someone picking him up and carrying him quickly. Agony up his spine, in his knees and shoulders, dug into almost every joint of his body.
Bruce closes his eyes, giving into the relief of unconsciousness.
He wakes up to Leslie hovering inches above his face, looking downright murderous.
“You,” she says, snapping at him and tracking the way he blinks, “Checklist. Now.”
It’s a tried and true routine, this many surgeries in. Bruce exhales, sluggishly taking inventory of his own body.
“Pain is a…three,” he says, frowning, “Mostly numb. Some nausea.”
Both are likely from the pain meds. He doesn’t move to sit up, too used to this song and dance to even try.
“Memory issues?” Leslie asks, flicking a light across his eyes.
Bruce swallows, thinking about the feeling of arms around him. Being carried. Flashes of agony and numbness, and the bitter chill of wind whipping across his face.
“I collapsed on a mission,” he says, glancing around the medbay, “Superman carried me here?”
The flight back to Gotham would’ve been torture, had he been conscious.
Leslie nods sharply. “No obvious cognitive deficits, then.”
Bruce blinks, silently cataloging the tight press of her lips together. Her hair is uncharacteristically disheveled, sticking up out of a half-hearted bun.
“Prognosis?” he asks, wary. Leslie’s eyes flash, drilling into the side of his face.
“One or two more millimeters, and your spinal cord would’ve been entirely compressed,” Leslie says, jaw tensing, “You were lucky. I was able to surgically return the protruding rods to their original placements. No complications.”
Bruce exhales, eyes closing briefly. He’s as grateful as he can be, drugged to the gills and exhausted. The surgery would've been long and difficult. “Thank you.”
“I also replaced the plate in your elbow,” Leslie says, expression tightening, “it was too warped to salvage, as were the screws. You’ll be lucky if I even let you look at it in six weeks.”
As if to make her point, Bruce glances down at his right elbow. The entire arm is encased in a thick cast, fresh and powdered.
“The shrapnel?” he asks, “and the bullets?”
“Located on x-ray,” Leslie says, clicking her tongue, “They didn’t migrate anywhere dangerous, so we’ll let them be.”
Bruce bites down on the sudden urge to ask her to remove them anyway. The potential complications from digging for fragments far outweighed the benefits. He knew that, and Leslie would repeat it until she was blue in the face.
“Thank you,” he repeats, slightly hoarse. Leslie nods again, the fury in her eyes dimming slightly.
“Recovery will be eight to twelve weeks,” she holds up a hand before he can protest, “minimum. I know you know what that word means.”
Bruce doesn’t nod. He’s not sure he could even manage it, now. “Leslie--”
“The only reason,” she says, leaning forward to shove a dry, cracked hand in his face, “that I’m not shoving your ass into the nearest long-term rehab center is because Superman told us you actually tried to leave.”
Clark. Bruce lets out a breath, a choked laugh building in his chest. “I did.”
“Self preservation has to kick in sometime,” Leslie says, shaking her head, “Even for you.”
“It was…awful,” Bruce admits. Maybe it’s the drugs, but the words seem to flow freely, “The worst pain I’ve ever felt. Like he had a grip on my bones and just kept twisting.”
Leslie makes a sympathetic noise. There’s professional curiosity simmering in her eyes, but she looks away without asking any follow up questions.
“You’re lucky to be alive, much less functional,” she says, brushing her hands together, “Remember that.”
Without waiting for his response, she heads for the door, stepping out into the Cave. A moment later, Alfred slips in, arms clasped behind his back.
Bruce tries to smile. It comes out more like a grimace. The watery, distant look in Alfred’s eyes speaks volumes.
“My boy,” he whispers, coming up to Bruce’s left side. A cool, chapped hand smooths his hair back from his brow, “Here again, hm?”
Bruce swallows, thinking about the last time he’d been healing like this. Immobile in bed, staring at the ceiling as his spine slowly healed, cell by cell.
“Leslie said eight to twelve weeks,” he says, trying for lighthearted and ending up somewhere near petulant, “Think you can talk her down to six?”
Alfred’s thumb strokes at his eyebrow. The butler doesn’t respond. When Bruce glances up at his face, his expression is stiff and closed off.
“What is it?” he asks.
“You have a visitor,” Alfred says, “if you’re up to it.”
Clark. Bruce bites down on the instinctive urge to hide his weakness from the other man -- from the League -- too tired to think through the ramifications.
“Should I be?” he asks. Alfred’s lips twitch, attempting a smile.
“If you don’t want to be pestered daily for the next eight weeks,” Alfred says, “I would suggest so, yes.”
Bruce closes his eyes, relaxing into the familiar press of Alfred’s hand. He nods ever so slightly, assenting.
It hurts to feel Alfred pull away, even if it is just to open the door. Bruce opens his eyes as the latch clicks, ignoring the ache in his throat.
“Bruce,” Clark says, stricken.
Bruce snorts weakly, unable to help himself. “I’m not dead, you idiot.”
“You were --” Clark visibly wrests control of himself, eyes dimming before they can fully shift, “My God, Bruce. I thought you were.”
He approaches the cot slowly, eyeing the cast on his arm. Bruce’s left hand twitches, fingers still numb.
“I’m sorry,” Clark chokes out, “You were trying to leave and I--”
“Shh,” Bruce says, closing his eyes, “Shh. It wasn’t your fault.”
It wasn’t Clark’s fault he had more metal than bones in his body. Or more metal than sense, as Leslie was likely to add.
It wasn’t Clark’s fault that he was human, as much as he tried to pretend otherwise.
“You never said anything,” Clark says, breaking the silence he hadn’t noticed, “I didn’t look.”
Two sentences, simultaneously related and unrelated. Bruce opens his eyes and grunts, acknowledging the point.
Why would I? he thinks, not daring to say it out loud. Why would you?
“The meta?” he asks, changing the subject. Clark’s expression darkens, eyes narrowing.
“Secured,” he says, more Superman than not, “Diana interrogated him with the Lasso. It was voluntary, after all, if you’re curious. His powers.”
Bruce isn’t surprised. “Hn.”
“I left him with Hal,” Clark says, “I wasn’t -- I couldn’t…”
Translation: I didn’t trust myself with him. Bruce blinks, trying to think around the haze of the opioids Leslie had pumped him full with.
“Thank you,” he says, before the words can slip from his grasp, “For getting me out of there.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Clark says, rearing back with a fierce expression, “I should still be apologizing to you. Jesus--”
This time, Bruce’s fingers twitch into a near fist. He wiggles them at Clark, ignoring the strange, numb feeling tingling up his arm. The other man grasps them after a moment of confusion, staring down at him in shock.
“You’re writing the mission report for this,” Bruce says, holding Clark’s hand, “and you’re going to dictate it to me so I can provide changes.”
His eyelids are growing heavy. Clark squeezes his fingers gently, making a mock-suffering noise.
“You can dictate it to me,” he offers. Bruce closes his eyes, grunting.
“When I wake up,” he says.
“When you wake up,” Clark agrees, sounding relieved.
“If I wake up,” Bruce adds, lips curving into a smile. Clark’s fingers twitch in his grasp.
“Bruce.”
“Clark,” he sing-songs, drifting on the warm feeling, “I’m...going to fall asleep now.”
A moment or two later, he does exactly that, Clark’s strained breath softening into something amused as his mind drifts.