Clark’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. What was Bruce doing out this time of day? Must be a case, though Bruce hadn’t mentioned anything when Clark dropped by the cave last night. Not unusual though, Bruce kept his cards close to his chest, and he preferred to deal with Gotham business on his own.

The fact that he’d not used the emergency line must surely be a good sign, and Clark tries his best not to fret as he pulls on his suit.

Without a biosignature for Clark to lock onto, he has to look up the coordinates on the map before slipping out the window and shooting through the air. Bruce has no heartbeat for Clark to listen to, no breathing unless he needs the air to talk, no peristalsis or working organs unless he was freshly off feeding and the blood was making its way throughout his system.

Bruce is just as silent as the night, a shadow in physical form. The only sounds he made came from the movement of his armor, plates and Kevlar shifting and creaking, but even then Clark has to know to listen for it, and it is not always easy for him to do.

He keeps an ear out for those quiet sounds as he closes in on the remains of an abandoned factory, the facade worn and unkempt from years of neglect. There’s a plume of smoke rising into the sky from a hole near the entrance, a pile of rubble and debris strewn across the courtyard. Clark can smell the remains of nitroglycerin and burnt plastic in the air.

A quick scan of the building reveals half a dozen armed men, unconscious. Clark doesn’t immediately spot his target, even as he lands just inside the blown up entrance.

“B?” he calls out after a moment. Clark sifts through every sound in the building, sweeping his vision from floor to floor.

A soft whisper of fabric is what catches his attention finally. Clark’s gaze is drawn to a dark shape lurking behind one of the pillars in the far corner.

“Hey,” Clark says in greeting as he floats closer. Bruce doesn’t step out, so Clark turns the corner to meet him face to face. “What’s—”

Oh. He stares in shocked silence for a long moment, taking in the sight of the tattered remains of Batman’s suit. There’s enough of it left to protect his modesty, but most of his chest and legs are bare to the open air, armor and fabric torn clean away, probably by the explosion. There’s only a scrap left of his cape, and though most of the cowl is still whole, the clenched line of his jaw is exposed.

Bruce doesn’t bleed like a human, but there’s several gashes and scrapes in his skin, gouges that go almost all the way down to the bone.

Clark knows, intellectually, that Bruce is near immortal. His physical body can withstand untold amounts of damage (unless sunlight or a wooden stake through the heart is involved). But seeing him like this—hurt, wounded.

Clark has to swallow hard to rid himself of the lump in his throat before he's able to speak. His chest flutters, like anxious wing beats.

“Rao," Clark mutters. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Bruce says. The voice modulator is shattered, allowing Clark to hear the unfiltered edge of his words, the smooth vocal sound emerging from his relatively unharmed throat. "Car's wrecked. I need immediate extraction to the Cave."

"Well," Clark says, and adds dryly, "since you asked so nicely."

He raises an expectant eyebrow, and waits. Bruce stares unblinkingly for a long moment before giving a weary sigh. "I would appreciate if you could take me to the cave."

Clark gives a beaming smile. "Of course."

Clark steps up close, hands reaching up to his own shoulders to unlatch his cape. The dense, Kryptonian fabric flows like silk in his hands, whispering against his fingers as he swaddles Bruce tightly like an irate burrito, making sure it covers every inch of exposed skin.

Once fully bundled up, Clark gathers Bruce into his arms, smothering a smile he knows Bruce wouldn't see anyway. He looks ridiculous, and by the stiffness in Bruce's limbs he knows that Bruce knows and that he's loathing every second of this presumably humiliating experience. Well, it's not the first time, and it certainly won't be the last as long as Bruce insists on putting himself into these kinds of situations.

A couple seconds later, Clark touches down in the cave, only slowed down by the security system and the door opening mechanism. Bruce wastes no time trying to wiggle out of Clark's grasp, and Clark huffs out a quiet laugh as he helps unravel Bruce from his cape.

"Do you want a blood bag or can I offer you a drink?" Clark asks as he fastens the cape over his shoulders again.

Bruce grunts in a non-answer, busy tearing off strips of ruined armor. Clark lets his eyes roam over the pale stretch of bare skin over Bruce's back.

"I fed yesterday," Bruce says once he's free from the remains of his suit. He pulls on a robe, tugging the belt around his waist.

"You need more blood if you're going to heal," Clark counters. The robe hides the worst of the damage, but the edge of a long gash peeks out across his sternum.

Bruce watches him with sharp, gray eyes. When he's not affecting human mannerisms, he's so still, unbreathing and unblinking like a photograph Clark can't stop staring at. When he moves, it's with the fluid grace of something otherworldly, inhuman, something dark and dangerous.

"Some blood would suffice," Bruce eventually says, before turning to the computer. Clark hovers for a second before going to the refrigerator where he keeps the whole blood. Fresh blood would be better, but convincing Bruce to feed on him is an uphill battle most days.

Bruce inclines his head in gratitude when Clark sets down the bag on the desk.

"Hey," Clark says, letting his hand settle on Bruce's shoulder, drawing his attention. "I'm glad you're okay. Thank you for asking for help."

A slow blink and the twitch of his mouth is Bruce's silent answer. His gaze lingers on Clark's face, dipping downwards, towards his throat. Clark lets the smile tug his lips wide, and he leans in for a kiss. Maybe he can convince Bruce after all.

Cold, but soft. Clark savors the sensation for a long, drawn-out moment, caressing the side of Bruce's face, listening to lifeless lungs contracting in forced movement as Bruce draws in a little breath.

Bruce makes a harsh sound with the air he's pulled in, and Clark finds himself pushed back by a strong hand on his chest. Bruce's expression is not pained, but a grimace twists across his face, and a low hiss rises from his chest. It's not an expression he's often seen on Bruce, and it sets Clark instantly on edge, concern slipping like ice into his stomach. Did he miss something? Is Bruce worse off than Clark thought? Isn't he as invulnerable as Clark believed him to be—

"If you want to kiss me again," Bruce says slowly, glaring towards Clark whilst carefully breathing just enough for his words, "go brush your teeth. Twice."

Clark blinks in confusion. Then the realization washes over him. "Oh. I'm so sorry, I had a sandwich just before I left to get you, and, uh." The aioli. There was garlic in the aioli.

"It's fine, just—" Bruce wrinkles his nose. "You should get some mints as well."

"Of course, I'll go back to my apartment and clean up. Is there anything I can help with before I go?"

Bruce has already turned back to the computer, the frown still firmly in place on his face.

"Go fetch the car as well."

Clark tilts his head, and waits. Bruce types for a moment before he catches the hint.

"May you bring the car to me," he says, quietly. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Clark would lean in for a goodbye kiss, but, well. He'll have to brush his teeth first, and use the extra strength mouth wash, and grab some mints before Bruce will let him get within a ten feet radius of him again.