My Rival Lost His Powers, And Now He's Wounded and Helpless In My Bed

The Batwing cut through the storm with a low, tearing sound, the roar of its engines a constant battle against the wind and rain that lashed against the cockpit’s armored glass. Bruce kept his hands steady on the controls, his knuckles white. Every flicker of lightning that illuminated the churning black clouds outside was answered by the frantic, rhythmic blinking of the medical monitors to his right. He refused to look at them. He already knew what they said.

A low groan came through the comm system, a sound of pure, human agony that sliced through Bruce’s composure. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his jaw tight. In the medical bay behind him, Clark was strapped to a gurney, no longer a god, but a man broken in every conceivable way. The attack had been precise, devastating. Not standard Kryptonite, but a weaponized radiation that had saturated Metropolis in a fine, green-tinged aerosol. It hadn't just weakened Clark; it had stripped him of his powers on a cellular level, leaving him with all the damage he had sustained in the fight.

Broken ribs. A punctured lung. Severe internal bleeding that Bruce’s state-of-the-art medical equipment was struggling to contain. The worst of it was a deep, jagged gash that ran from his collarbone down his sternum, a wound that should have been a minor inconvenience but now refused to close. It wept blood sluggishly, the skin around it tinged with a faint, sickly luminescence.

Bruce had seen Clark injured before, slowed by Kryptonite, but never like this. Never so completely and utterly vulnerable. He had carried him from the rubble, the weight of his body a dead, terrifying burden. The blue of his uniform was stained almost black with blood, his cape torn and useless. The man who could move mountains couldn't even regulate his own body temperature.

Another sound, this one a choked, wet cough, echoed in the cockpit. Bruce’s gaze finally snapped to the monitor display. Heart rate erratic. Blood pressure dangerously low. A flashing red warning that the internal stabilizer was failing. A cold, unfamiliar dread coiled in Bruce’s stomach. This was a fear he couldn't punch, couldn't outsmart. It was the primal terror of watching someone you… of watching an ally die, slowly and painfully, while you were helpless to stop it.

He pushed the Batwing harder, forcing more power to the engines, the aircraft groaning in protest. Below them, the jagged, tree-covered peaks of the Appalachian mountains were a dark, indifferent sea. The safe house was close. It had to be. Because for the first time since he had met the Man of Steel, Bruce was faced with the chilling reality that Superman could die. And he was watching it happen.

The Batwing landed with a soft hiss of hydraulics on a platform that emerged from the rocky mountainside, the illusion of a simple cabin dissolving to reveal the reinforced steel beneath. Bruce killed the engines, and the silence that fell was absolute, a heavy blanket that smothered the sound of the storm outside. For a moment, he just sat there, listening to the faint, unsteady beep of the heart monitor.

He moved to the medical bay, his boots echoing on the metal floor. Clark was unconscious, his face pale and slack, a stark contrast to the vibrant man he knew. His lips were tinged blue. Bruce unstrapped him from the gurney, his movements efficient and devoid of hesitation. He slid his arms under Clark’s back and knees, preparing himself for the impossible weight, but when he lifted him, a shock went through him. It was just… weight. The solid, dense mass of a well-built man, nothing more. He could feel the frailness of Clark’s bones through the torn uniform, the unnatural give of his body.

Carrying him inside, Bruce strode past the rustic deception of the main room—the stone fireplace, the worn leather chairs—and into the sterile white medical suite hidden behind a paneled wall. He laid Clark down on the examination table. The blue of his suit was nearly black with dried blood around the deep laceration on his chest.

With a pair of trauma shears, Bruce began to cut the uniform away. The tough Kryptonian fabric resisted, and he had to apply deliberate force, his jaw clenched. He worked carefully around the wounds, peeling the material from where it had adhered to Clark’s skin with drying blood. When he finally exposed Clark’s torso, Bruce had to force the air from his lungs in a slow, controlled exhale.

The damage was extensive. A constellation of deep purple bruises bloomed across his ribs and abdomen. But it was the gash over his sternum that held Bruce’s attention. It was a brutal, gaping wound, the edges raw and inflamed. Beneath the blood, the pale line of bone was visible.

Bruce’s hands moved with practiced precision, a clinical detachment he forced upon himself. He cleaned the wound with an antiseptic solution, dabbing gently with sterile gauze. His fingers brushed against Clark’s skin, which was hot and dry with fever. It was skin he had only ever seen repel bullets, and now it was broken and yielding beneath his touch. He could feel the faint, rapid pulse in Clark’s neck, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Every careful, methodical action was a dam holding back a flood of cold terror. He was not Batman here, not the strategist or the detective. He was just a man with a needle and thread, trying to stitch a god back together.

He finished the last stitch, his movements economical and sure, tying off the suture with a surgeon’s knot. He covered the wound with a sterile dressing, his fingers brushing against the fever-hot skin of Clark’s chest. For hours, he had worked, setting the fractured ribs with a portable ultrasonic device, administering IV fluids and broad-spectrum antibiotics, his focus absolute. Now, there was nothing left to do but wait. He pulled a thin blanket up to Clark’s chest, then sank into a chair beside the bed, the exhaustion hitting him like a physical blow.

Time blurred. The storm outside eventually quieted, replaced by an oppressive silence broken only by the soft hum of the medical equipment. Bruce didn't sleep. He watched the slow, shallow rise and fall of Clark’s chest, a fragile movement that felt like the only thing tethering them to hope.

It was the faintest flutter of eyelids that broke his vigil. Bruce leaned forward, his posture tense. Clark’s brows drew together in a confused, pained expression. His eyes opened, unfocused at first, hazy blue scanning the sterile white ceiling. They moved slowly, taking in the IV stand, the monitor beside the bed, and finally, they found Bruce.

For a long moment, there was only confusion in them. Then, a flicker of memory, of pain. Clark’s mouth opened, but only a dry, weak sound came out. He tried to push himself up onto his elbows, a reflexive action that was met with a sudden, sharp intake of breath. A wave of agony washed over his features, his face paling. He fell back against the pillows, his eyes squeezing shut as a tremor ran through his body. The world tilted violently, the sterile room spinning into a nauseating blur.

Helplessness. It was a foreign, suffocating sensation. He was trapped inside a body that refused to obey, a prison of broken bones and torn muscle.

“Bruce,” he managed, his voice a dry whisper. The effort of speaking sent a sharp protest through his ribs.

Bruce was on his feet in an instant, a glass of water in his hand. He didn't meet Clark’s gaze. Instead, he focused on sliding a hand behind Clark’s head, lifting him just enough to bring the rim of the glass to his lips. The water was cool, a small mercy against his raw throat. Clark drank greedily, the simple act exhausting him. When he was done, Bruce gently lowered his head back to the pillow.

“Where…?” Clark started, his voice still weak.

“A Wayne Enterprises safe house. Appalachian range,” Bruce answered, his tone flat and clipped. He turned away, busying himself with checking the IV drip, his back to Clark. He couldn’t look at him. Couldn't face the raw vulnerability in those blue eyes. “It’s secure.”

“The Fortress…”

“Compromised,” Bruce cut in, his voice sharp. He finally turned back, but his eyes were fixed on the wall just over Clark’s head. “The radiation signature from the weapon was traceable. They would have been waiting for you. For now, this is the only safe place on Earth.”

The words hung in the air, cold and absolute. Clark stared at the ceiling, the full weight of his situation settling over him. Not just injured. Powerless. Hunted. And completely, utterly dependent on the man who was refusing to look at him. The silence in the room was no longer just quiet; it was the sound of their world shrinking to the four walls of this room, with only the two of them inside it.