Chapter Text
Clark sat down on his couch and relaxed back into the cushions his Ma insisted he had, with the TV remote in one hand, and a mug of freshly brewed and piping hot coffee in the other. It was 11 pm, and after a hectic day of deadlines and disasters, Clark was looking forward to spending some time with late-night TV reruns and the ridiculously expensive coffee Bruce had bought him on a whim last month. At the very moment Clark's TV came to life and his coffee mug touched his lips, he heard something.
"Superman. Help, please."
It wasn't unusual to hear people call for Superman's help. Barely a day went by without someone, somewhere, calling his name. But the cries were usually frantic and desperate, loud and wild, the result of some natural disaster or crime that caused panic. An emergency. This voice, however, was calm and controlled, no more than a whisper, and it chilled Clark's blood more than any panicked cry ever could.
The voice came from Gotham. The voice came from Robin.
Of all the Robins Clark had met since Dick Grayson first dressed like a brightly colored traffic light, Damian was the Robin that Clark had struggled to bond with the most. He didn't blame Damian for that—any child with his upbringing was bound to be a little distant and wary—and he did his best to try and meet Damian on his terms, instead of Clark's. Damian was both very capable and nowhere near as capable as he thought he was, so a cry for help from him was enough to have Clark in the air and halfway to Gotham before Robin had finished saying "please."
Clark focused his hearing as he approached Gotham and lost a couple of feet of altitude when he heard the heartbeat that was with Damian. It was Bruce, as he had expected—where you find Robin, you usually find Batman, after all—but the heartbeat was all wrong. Bruce's heartbeat was usually so sure, so slow, and so strong. This heartbeat was fast and erratic, and Clark was honest enough to admit that the sound of it was terrifying. Bruce's heart should never sound like that. It was one of the few constants Clark had in his world—the sun rose in the east, Lois couldn't spell for shit, and Bruce's heart was as steady and predictable as the second hand on a ticking clock.
He took a deep breath as he landed outside the abandoned warehouse that contained Batman and Robin. They were the only two people in there, and he could hear the low murmur of Damian talking and the occasional grunted response from Bruce. He was tempted to listen in so that he would know what to expect when he entered the warehouse, but decided against it. They were entitled to their privacy, and he would discover the situation soon enough. He could be scared about the unknown for another couple of seconds without it killing him.
The inside of the warehouse was dark, but there was no darkness that could stop Clark from seeing. He found Bruce and Damian in the far corner of the warehouse, positioned perfectly to have a clear view of the only entrance while also protecting their backs. Bruce sat propped against the wall while Damian knelt at his side, and the first thing Clark noticed was that although Bruce was still wearing the cowl, he had pushed back the white lenses to reveal his icy blue eyes.
The second thing Clark noticed was the blood. Not pools of it, thankfully. Clark was certain that nobody was in danger of bleeding out, but there was blood, and it was Bruce's.
That there was only a small amount of blood should have made Clark feel better, but it didn't. He'd seen Bruce walk away from injuries that should have kept him on his ass, and this didn't seem to be one of those. Minimal bleeding, a quick X-ray showed no broken bones, and Bruce was alert and talking. So why was he just sitting there? The Batmobile was outside—surely he could have made it to the car (with or without Damian's help) and used the autopilot function to get back to the Batcave? None of this seemed like a job for Superman.
When Bruce saw Clark approach, there was a slight twitch of his lips that nobody else would have noticed, but Clark knew it was an approximation of a smile. Although Bruce would deny it vehemently, he did actually smile occasionally in the Batsuit. Most people in the Justice League had received a proper Bat-smile at some point, but only Clark got this non-smile. It was Bruce's smile when he really didn't want to smile, but couldn't help himself. It was a smile that Bruce probably wasn't aware of himself, just an unconscious action whenever he saw Clark. Seeing Clark made him smile. That made Clark feel warm in ways that he fully understood but did his best to ignore.
One day, he would meet that head on.
Maybe.
Clark knelt next to Damian. It didn't escape his notice that Damian had not once taken his eyes away from Bruce. "You asked for help?"
"Father has been shot," Damian replied, before Bruce had a chance to.
Clark switched to X-ray vision again, and instead of checking over Bruce's bones as he had when he walked into the warehouse, he concentrated on the soft tissue instead. He quickly found what he was looking for, lodged in Bruce's side. The bullet looked a little strange, but Clark was the first to admit that he was no expert in the composition of bullets. He didn't need to be when they all bounced off him.
"It's shallow," Clark said, "and hasn't hit any organs. It should be easy to remove without causing any lasting damage." Clark paused. "But you wouldn't have called for my help if that's all it was."
"No," Bruce stated.
Clark X-rayed the bullet again. "There's something inside the bullet."
"It's a bomb," Bruce said flatly and with all the emotion of someone reading the daily weather forecast. "Once primed, any movement will donate it."
"Is it primed?"
"Yes."
"So we can't remove the bullet," Clark quickly surmised, "and we can't move you?"
"Correct."
Clark glanced between father and son. Bruce's heart rate still raced—a sign of the stress he was in and the bullet hole in his side—but he looked calm. There was no tightness to his jaw, his eyes were clear, and his hands lay relaxed and open by his side. Damian, however, looked like he was about ready to tear Gotham apart with his hands until he found an answer to the problem. Clark could understand how he felt.
Bruce always had a plan, though, and this time, his plan was to call Superman.
"I can remove the bullet with super speed," Clark said. He looked around the warehouse. "I can fly out of that skylight with it before it detonates. If I keep it cupped in my hands, I should be able to contain the blast if I don't make it out in time."
Bruce nodded. It seemed that he had also assessed the situation and decided on the same plan as Clark.
Damian, however, hadn't. "And if you're not fast enough and the bullet detonates while you're removing it from Father?"
"Robin," Bruce said firmly, "other than the Flashes, Superman is the fastest person on the planet. If he can't do it, nobody can."
"Then call one of the Flashes!"
Clark looked at the bullet again. "They're usually faster than me," he agreed, "but they won't be faster at doing this."
In a straight race, Clark knew he would always lose to any speedster. They had the speed force to help them, while Clark still had to deal with pesky things like wind resistance. But in this circumstance, he knew he would be faster. Barry might hesitate over removing a bullet from Bruce's wound, but Clark wouldn't. Wally might second-guess whether he could get the bullet away from Bruce quickly enough, but Clark wouldn't. None of the Flashes were explosion-proof, but Clark was.
Bruce needed Clark to save his life, and he would do it because he loved him.
Bruce looked at Clark like Damian wasn't there. "No, no speedster will be faster at this than you. That's why I asked Robin to call for you."
Damian tutted under his breath, but didn't argue the point further.
Bruce finally pulled his gaze away from Clark and turned to his youngest son. Clark didn't know Damian that well, but it was obvious even to him that the son was worried for his father. Clark was worried, too. He would be fast enough because he had to be, but what if he wasn't? What if that bullet-bomb embedded in Bruce's side was able to explode before he could— Clark looked up at the broken skylight in the roof of the warehouse again. It didn't bear thinking about.
Bruce, of course, thought about it. "Wait outside, Robin."
"What? No! I'm staying with you, where Robin should—"
"Go outside and lock yourself in the Batmobile," Bruce continued calmly. "We won't do this until you do."
Damian looked between the stern faces of Batman and Superman, two of the three rocks upon which the Justice League had been formed, and had to know he wouldn't win a battle of wills against them. Bruce wouldn't cave on this, and that meant Clark wouldn't either. The bullet wouldn't be removed until Damian left, and if he didn't leave, it would stay where it was. Robin knew that. But Damian, the young boy who feared for his father, didn't want to believe it. He wanted to stay.
"No, I should be here—"
"Damian," Bruce said softly. He wasn't Batman now, just Bruce. "I won't let Clark do this while you are here. Please, wait outside."
Damian looked between them one more time, jumped to his feet, and stormed out as quickly as he could. They both watched him leave and remained silent for a few moments after. "He's in the Batmobile and has locked the doors," Clark confirmed.
"Good. I didn't want him here just in case—"
Bruce didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to. He didn't want Damian here just in case Clark wasn't fast enough. Bruce was willing to risk his own life, but he wasn't willing to risk Damian's.
Back when Clark had first met Batman, before he knew the man behind the cowl and before Bruce knew who Clark Kent was, he might have been offended by Batman's insistence that Robin leave. He might have seen it as a sign that Batman didn't trust him or think he was capable, but Clark knew better now. Bruce had assessed every possible outcome and made plans for them all, no matter how unlikely he thought they might be.
Clark looked at the wound. It really wasn't that deep and should be relatively easy to pull the bullet out. "Do you have some tweezers or forceps I can use?"
"No. You'll have to use your fingers."
Clark frowned. "I can get some and be back in—"
"No time," Bruce said through gritted teeth. "I've seen these bullets before. They're not just sensitive to movement, they're also on timers, and time is about to run out."
"It'll only take a couple of seconds."
"And Damian is probably using every scanner in the Batmobile to see what we're doing in here, which means he will notice if you leave. That will bring him back in here. You might be back in a couple of seconds, but do you think Damian will leave as easily a second time?"
Clark sighed and briefly closed his eyes. "Probably not. Are you sure about this?"
Bruce reached out, his gloved left hand taking Clark's bare right hand in his. He knows I'm right-handed, Clark thought, he purposely grabbed the same hand I'll use to remove the bullet.
"I'm sure. I trust you, Clark."
Bruce squeezed his hand one more time before letting go.
Clark smiled weakly as he quickly assessed the situation one last time. Dig out the bullet, cup it in his hands, and fly out of the skylight before it could explode. He didn't know exactly how sensitive the bullet was to movement or how quick the exploding mechanism was, but he had to assume it would be almost instantaneous. He had only one chance to do this, and only a fraction of a second to accomplish it.
He was Superman. He could do this.
Bruce believed in him.
Clark carefully and delicately pulled away the Batsuit from the gunshot wound. Bruce made a slightly unhappy noise when Clark ripped the armor and undersuit a little to reveal more of his injury, and Clark chuckled despite the seriousness of the situation. Even with his life on the line, Bruce could still get irritated by Clark damaging his equipment. Never change, Bruce, Clark thought.
Clark looked at the revealed wound, at the reddened skin around it, and the channels of blood that slowly trickled from it. He had seen Bruce injured so many times since they had started working together, but it never became any easier to see. It never became any less amazing to Clark, either. Bruce went out there, night after night, year after year, despite being fully aware of his human fragility. It was easy to face down threats when your skin was made of steel, but to do so when one lucky shot could end it all—
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reached forward.
To Bruce, everything must have happened in the blink of an eye. To Clark, it felt like hours. The blood and unique composition of the bullet made it slippery to the touch, and when Clark first put his index finger and thumb inside the wound, the bullet slipped from his grasp. He didn't miss the second time, though.
He yanked the bullet out with more force than he probably should have and quickly wrapped his left hand around it. As soon as he was certain he had a tight grip on the bullet, he pushed off from the ground and blasted through the broken skylight with more force than he would usually use when he was so close to a human. By the time his feet left the floor, the bullet was securely wrapped in both hands.
The bullet began to explode just as the top of his head reached the skylight. His hands were able to contain the majority of the explosion, but enough of the blast was able to escape between his fingers to rattle the old and rusty iron sheets that made up the warehouse's roof.
But rattle was all they did. The roof didn't cave in, nothing was damaged, and Clark heard Bruce breathe a deep sigh of relief. Clark hung in the air above the warehouse for a few seconds and simply listened to Bruce breathe. He thought that maybe it was the most beautiful noise he had ever heard.
When Clark floated back through the skylight, Bruce was waiting for him. Bruce seemed completely unconcerned with his bullet wound, despite the blood flowing freer now that the bullet had been removed, and he simply watched as Clark touched down on the dirty floor of the warehouse. He had that non-smile on his face again, and Clark committed it to memory.
"Thank you," Bruce said.
Clark smiled, but he still couldn't quite manage his usually bright and reassuring Superman smile. That was fine, though. Bruce knew him well enough not to expect it. "I'm just glad I was fast enough."
"I never doubted you for a second."
"I wish I could say the same," Clark replied.
Clark suddenly realized that his hands were still clasped together with the remnants of the bullet-bomb inside them. He gestured toward Bruce with his hands. "Do you want the bullet? Well, what's left of it."
"I'd like to run some tests on it." Bruce unlatched one of the compartments on the right-hand side of his Batbelt, far away from the wound on his left-hand side. "This is a sterile compartment—you can put the pieces in there."
Clark knelt by Bruce's side, opened the compartment, and brushed the pieces of the bullet-bomb into it. The bomb had been more explosive than he'd expected, so the pieces were tiny. He didn't know what information Bruce could hope to pull from them, but he was certain Bruce would find something.
As he closed the compartment, he became aware of how close he was to Bruce. It would be so easy to lean forward those last few inches and kiss the lips that haunted him at night. He didn't think that Bruce would push him away either. There was something there, something that neither of them had found the courage to voice yet.
It was waiting for the right time, Clark thought. When he didn't still have Bruce's blood on his fingertips, and definitely not when Damian was quickly running across the warehouse to greet them.
For now, knowing that it would happen one day was enough.