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“You don’t like him because he makes you feel helpless” Dick says.
Bruce glares at him, at Robin, all bright colours and bright eyes. Like him. Too bright, too vital. It’s alright for Robin, alright for a child. But a grown man should know better.
“I neither like nor dislike him” is the only reply Batman can give.
Robin scoffs. “Right….”
“That’s how it works with grown-ups, Robin. You don’t have to like or dislike everyone. You are allowed to be neutral.”
“B, you’ve like, a dozen plans on how to kill him. That’s kinda…beyond ‘neither like nor dislike’ point, don’t you think?”
Bruce sighs. He should have known it would come to this, when he allowed the boy to catch a glimpse of the contingency plans – just in case Bruce fell first, just in case Robin found himself alone in the battle.
But of course, Robin is a child. Despite all the training, despite all he has seen, he is still a child.
He knows, technically, that heroes don’t always stay heroes. He knows of Harvey Dent. He knows, technically. But he hasn’t fully believed it. Not yet.
And, childlike, he has fallen under the spell of the bright colours and bright smiles of the alien. Like so much of the world.
Bruce doesn’t try to talk him out of it. He may not be the best suited for parenting, but he knows doing that with a boy his age will only have the opposite effect.
“These are just precautions, Robin. You always need to have precautions.”
“Pfff. Like any of this is actually gonna work if Supes really went rogue” Dick chuckles. “One moment you’ll be standing, kryptonite in hand, all Dark Knight ready to do battle mode, the next moment you’ll be standing empty handed in the Times Square in a pink ballerina costume. Guy’s got super speed, B.”
Bruce refuses to dignify that with a response – or, to be honest, cannot think up a real response.
Robin is right, of course. Super speed. Even with kryptonite, there’s no true defence against that.
Superman can just turn him into a smear of grease on the floor simply by flying at him fast enough – the kryptonite wouldn’t matter.
Sheer momentum could keep him going long enough and fast enough even once he enters the influence range of the radiation.
He isn’t sure why Superman hasn’t done that already, on the few occasions someone confronted him with the crystal.
But then again, those instances were in the public eye. Would not have been a good PR move for the big blue boy scout to go ahead and kill on live TV… Not even if it counted as self-defence.
And collateral damage. He is careful in limiting that, careful in maintaining his public persona.
No, even an information campaign against him as Bruce Wayne or from the shadows is not going to work.
Not well enough, and not without the risk of tarnishing the image of heroes in general. Not now that he has become the default face of the superhero community.
Yes. Superman makes him feel helpless.
……………………………………………..
“Obviously, refusing is the prudent option” Batman states, looking around the gathered League.
The call for aid came a day ago, from beings none of them, not even Hal Jordan, has ever seen.
A risky mission. The chance of success is too low. Chance of disaster too high.
It is an ego boost, in a way, for a lot of them. The League’s legend has reached past the solar system, into the corners of the galaxy.
Or maybe, far more likely, this is a trap laid for them by one or the other of their too familiar nemeses.
“They are in peril” Wonder Woman points out needlessly “A Starro invasion… They are not equipped to handle it”
“Or so it seems, from the information they sent” Batman comments “Which is all we have.”
“It kinda fits what the Lantern computer says about the sector” Hal claims “Yeah, we don’t have specific info on the planet, it’s a bit of a backwater and they don’t like Lanterns, but we do have sector specific info. It’s easy enough to get a look at the tech level. They won’t make it.”
“It is in the jurisdiction of Green Lanterns, is it not?” Bruce asks “The call for aid should have been sent to Oa, not earth.”
“They don’t like us” Hal shrugs “Long history. Apparently a couple of centuries back the Lantern for the sector screwed up spectacularly. They don’t want us around anymore.”
“However, they are apparently willing to call for aid from a team including a Lantern.”
Hal shrugs, not bothered “It’s more Oa they’re pissed at than individual lanterns. I guess they’ll be okay with it as long as a non-Lantern is in command.”
“Too suspicious” Bruce continues, calmly, logically.
He lists all the reasons the call for help could be – is probably – a trap.
He also lists the reasons why, on the off chance it is not a trap, there are other groups far more suited than the League to offer aid, their own encounters with Starro notwithstanding.
He is quite clear. He has given enough reasons why the League should refuse the call. It should be enough to convince anyone.
It is almost enough to convince them. He can see it in their eyes.
And then Kal El stands up.
“I agree with Batman” he begins, but Bruce has no illusions what he is about to say “The prudent option is to refuse, to leave them to take care of themselves the best they can. But, if we were given to choosing the prudent option… None of us would be here in the first place, would we?”
He glances around the table. The gathered group. The heroes.
“This is what we do. We answer calls for help. Even if the callers do not strictly deserve help. Even if any call could be a trap. That is the risk we take on when we put on our suits. That is the promise we make – that if they call out for us, we will be there.”
Bruce can feel the atmosphere in the room change, the balance tilting.
Superman offers no logical arguments, no statistics, no facts. He doesn’t need to. He just speaks of what they do, what they have chosen.
Bruce tries one last time. “We made that promise to earth.”
“We made that promise to the world, B” Superman counters without a pause. “Yes, you are right, we made that promise to earth, first. Or rather, we made that promise first to the part of earth we know and love the best. You made that promise to Gotham, first. But that doesn’t stop you from being here, does it? That doesn’t stop you from being a guardian of earth as well as of Gotham.”
The rhetoric is perfect. The tone is perfect. Just enough of passion in it to sweep them up, just enough logic in it to prevent anyone from arguing he is being irrational.
Cut the steam from Batman’s arguments by acknowledging their truth, but immediately undermining their importance.
Perfect debating strategy. And the worst thing is, Kal El is not doing this on purpose. He hasn’t planned this debate out.
He’s just…being himself. The words aren’t calculated. They are real, earnest. He means every word he is saying. And that makes it all the worse.
Superman finishes his argument. “So. The basic question here is, there are people – people we don’t know, yes, but people all the same – calling for help. Yes, we have sufficient reasons not to answer. There is more than enough justification to refuse. Do we? Or do we answer the call?”
The statistics don’t matter anymore. The reasons don’t matter anymore. Bruce watches helplessly as the situation slips rapidly out of his control.
The vote is called, and there is absolutely no surprise for anyone, especially not for him, when the vote is overwhelmingly in favour.
Superman doesn’t really look at him when he says “We need a team left here, of course, to defend earth. In case this is a deliberate distraction or a trap. Any volunteers for the home team?”
Bruce can tell what he is doing. Giving an out, for anyone who doesn’t want to be in on the mission.
Anyone who disagreed and got outvoted, a chance to stay out of it without any loss of face.
Damn him. Bruce, very pointedly, does not volunteer.
It will always be this way, he knows instinctively.
He leaves you helpless.
None of the facts, numbers, reasons, none of the things Batman arms himself with, can stand against the sheer charisma and earnestness.
It is always a mistake to go up against him in public debate. Bruce knows he will not win.
The League trusts Batman’s intellect, lets him plan, strategize. But he knows where their true loyalty lies.
No matter how much they trust his mind, if he and Superman stood against each other, there is no question whose side the League will take.
……………………………………………………
The battle rages in the skies.
Bruce can see what is happening. He has no telescopic vision, but the cowl’s lenses can compensate.
He can see what is happening.
He can see the claws of that creature tear into Clark.
He can see scarlet ribbons of blood flow from flesh that should be invulnerable.
He can see Clark’s face paling, he can see his eyes narrowed in focus.
He can see Clark straining to hold on, pulling upon every bit of power he has left, driving the creature towards the portal – no, no portal, too primitive and wild to be dignified by that name, a rift, a tear, in reality – it emerged from.
Driving the maddened god or demon or whatever the thing is back into its own world, back from this world too fragile for it, before the rift can close and seal their doom.
He can see the fire from the creature’s eyes clash against Clark’s heat vision, barely cancelled out.
He can see Clark’s skin begin to blister from holding onto the thing’s blazing, form.
He can see. He can watch. There is nothing else he can do. There is nothing else any of them can do.
They can’t approach. Not even Diana can. The flames automatically prevent J’onn from approaching, even if he could physically withstand the fury.
The rest of them are too mortal, too fragile, to even get close to the battling titans. Bruce most of all.
There’s nothing he can do. No preparation. No plan. He can only watch.
It is up to Clark. It is up to Clark, all too often.
It is always Clark who answers the call for help, Clark who throws himself in front of the bullet, the curse, the demon.
And when Clark needs help… When Superman calls for help…
Odds are that there will be no one who can answer that call. No one who can be there for him the way he is there for them.
Bruce, certainly, cannot count himself along that number. So he just stands. Just stands on the ground, watching.
Refusing to let his expression change. Refusing to let out the scream building within him.
Refusing to yell at the skies, at whoever is listening, that this isn’t fair, that this isn’t supposed to happen.
That he is not supposed to stand helpless again as someone he lo- As someone he cares about gets hurt, as more blood is shed around him.
He is supposed to stop this. He is supposed to be the protector.
That was what he pledged, that was all the training, all the sacrifices, that was what everything he gave supposed to accomplish.
They were all supposed to make sure he will never have to watch helplessly again. And they have all, once again, proven worthless.
Now even the cowl’s lenses cannot keep up with the speed at which the combatants move. They are merely brightly coloured blurs in his vision.
The rift is beginning to close. He hears Zatanna yell that warning. He knows Clark must have heard it too.
He sees the blurred figure of the pair, the gods locked in battle, move. Too fast once again, for mortal senses – even his well augmented mortal senses – to track.
Then the thing is through the rift, the rift is closing…
And Clark is falling from the sky.
Bruce barks out an unnecessary order, an order that takes his human throat too long to pronounce.
Diana moves faster than words. She is already in the air, breaking his fall. The rest of the team converges on them as they land, Diana with Clark’s motionless, bleeding form cradled in her arms.
Bruce is the last to join the group clustered around them, too slow at human speed. Clark is deathly pale, the crimson of blood the only colour on his face. He is still breathing, but too unsteady…
J’onn and Diana kneel beside him, staunching the bleeding even as sunlight does its part, talking to him, assuring him that it is alright, that the battle is over, everyone is alright, that he will be alright.
Bruce wants to join them, but there is nothing he can do that they cannot do better. Nothing that will excuse his being in the way.
J’onn is the medic, the healer, he is the one who can actually help, the one who has the training to do it.
Diana is the one who can hold Clark’s hand, the one he can hold onto without fear of crushing her bones in his grip if pain or delirium makes his perfect control slip for a moment.
Bruce is helpless here, a mortal when the god bleeds.
……………………………………..
They are alone in the med bay.
The others, clustered around once J’onn came out to tell them Clark is awake, have been herded out.
This is normal, by now.
Whenever either of them is hurt – though it’s usually Bruce, not Clark, and hence there is very good reason to avoid being in the vicinity of an already cranky Bat – once the crisis has passed it has become the practice for the team to leave them alone together.
“B, it’s alright” Clark smiles, sitting up in bed. The solar lamps placed around him bathe them both in golden light. “I’m fine.”
Bruce glares at him, challenging the obvious falsehood.
Clark shrugs “I mean, I’ll be fine. Just an hour or so more, maybe less. Good as new.”
He is right, of course. Less than a couple of hours ago, he was broken, bleeding, torn apart. Dying before their eyes.
Now he is awake and talking, smiling calmly as if nothing has happened. And as far as he is concerned, nothing really has.
This is just what he does, to be fair this is just what all of them do, throw themselves in the way of things that can take them apart because someone has to do it.
And in this case, he was the only one who could do it.
Bruce wants to punch something. He wants to be back in Gotham, back in the hunt. He wants – needs – something he can hurt or help.
Either will do. Anything other than the sheer powerlessness, helplessness, of staying here, just watching, hoping, that it will be alright, unable to influence the outcome either way.
You hate him because he makes you feel helpless.
Hate, yes, but not him. Maybe himself, for never being enough. Maybe just the universe that apparently cannot stop itself from throwing curveballs
. Maybe the feeling that keeps growing in his chest, the one that he will not long be able to keep hidden, not when things like this happen, not when he has to watch, has to stand vigil…
“No lecture this time?” Clark’s tone is playful, his smile sincere.
Bruce tries to keep his own voice the way he wants it to be, tries to keep away the image of Clark’s still, pale body in Diana’s arms.
“It will keep till you are back on your feet.”
“Aw, that’s kind of the nicest thing you’ve said in a month”
Something of Bruce’s reaction must have shown in his face, despite his best attempts (Clark can see auras, can read micro expressions…), because Clark’s tone softens, even the slight mockery at both their expenses slips away.
“Bruce?”
He hates this. Hates how Clark can tear away all the armour he has built around himself.
Hates how he is helpless to do the smart thing whenever Clark wishes otherwise.
He makes you feel helpless.
He shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t give in. there are a thousand perfectly logical reasons against doing this. But once again, the reasons don’t matter so much.
Clark reaches out to take his hand. “Bruce? I…”
There is a wistfulness in Clark’s eyes, too clear to be misread. Bruce has seen it, of course.
Seen it for too long. And he has always had the strength to keep his own response hidden.
Because that was the smart thing to do, the logical thing to do. But that doesn’t matter, at this point.
As always, he is helpless where Clark is involved.
Bruce reaches out. Doesn’t just take Clark’s hand, because Batman does not do things by halves.
If he is to fall, let him fall all the way. He's tired of hanging on, unable to pull himself up, unwilling to let go.
So he lets go.
Lets his lips press against Clark’s.
For a moment Clark is too stunned to respond, then he is the one who deepens the kiss, once again taking control.
Bruce is okay with it this time. He has fought to be in control too long. It feels okay to be helpless for once.
“Don’t do that again” Bruce says as they finally break apart, so that he can draw breath.
Clark looks startled, too-blue eyes widening in alarm.
“Not this” Bruce clarifies “Never this. Don’t…. Don’t do that to me again. That fight. Back there. Don’t make me watch while you…”
Clark answers only with another kiss.
He doesn’t promise, because that is not a promise he can make. Bruce knows that. There will be other fights.
There will be fights where Bruce has to watch as he did, watch, helpless, no matter how much he prepares.
He will be helpless.
Clark will always make him feel helpless, one way or the other. But maybe he can live with that.