Rescued (SuperBat fic)

1

I crawl out from underneath an arm wrapped in tight blue lycra and look at the crowd around us, then up at the dizzying skyscrapers. I sit up as Superman pushes off the road. He offers me his hand and pulls me up. I put a hand to my temple and feel it bleed. My ears are ringing. I'm swaying on my feet. I can't remember why I was here, or why I'm hurt. My cape catches the wind and a shiver grips me.
"What was that?" I ask, my eyes on the smoke billowing out of the bank in front of us.
"One of our friends, busy blowing shit up again."
"Right," I give it a beat. "Count me out next time."
"I've got it covered," he murmurs, winking.
He puts a hand on my back and pushes me towards the incoming ambulances. I wander over, putting a hand to my head again. My fingertips come away bloodied. A paramedic rushes out and I step to the side to let them through, towards the cloud of dust, rubble and flames. I take a seat on the curb and watch the fire crews and paramedics rushing to and fro. Superman comes and joins me, one hand to his ear as he mutters into his comms.
"Where are the others?" I ask him as he lowers his ass to the concrete.
"In pursuit, apprehending our bad guy."
"You should be with them. I'm fine, really."
"You need to get yourself checked out. The last thing the city needs is a superhero with a concussion."
I roll my eyes.
"Walk me to the hospital then."
He pushes up off the pavement, offering his hand.
I hear myself scoff.
"I'm not going to the emergency room like this."
"Well there'd be no point going if you didn't have a bloody great big gash on your head."
"I mean dressed like this. I'll have to give my name and they'll know who Batman is."
He sighs. I push up and start walking past the cordon, heading downtown. He rushes to catch up with me, telling me he'll keep an eye on me until I'm checked out at the ER. He's quiet otherwise, listening to his comms. I reach up to my left ear for mine, but find it's fallen out. No matter, it'll be easy to replace. He tells me they've caught our guy, turned him into a precinct in midtown and gone their separate ways. I tell him to go back to his life, that I'm fine. And he gives me a long look before he turns and springs up off the sidewalk, flying away between the rooftops.
Alfred is in the kitchen when I step off the elevator. He's humming along to some obscure classical music. I go straight to my room and strip off my suit, noting the blood drying and caking in the fabric. My head starts to pound as the adrenaline wears off. When I look in the mirror, I see the bruising over my temple and the size and depth of the cut. I step into sweats and a t-shirt, then pull on slip-on Vans, leaving my feet bare. I grab my wallet and my phone, lift my suit and head to the kitchen. Alfred drops the knife he's holding when he looks up and sees the state I'm in.
"Sir, why aren't you at the hospital?"
"I'm going now, Alfred. The suit needs cleaned. Can you get on it right away?"
"Absolutely," he replies, eyes on my face. "That'll need stitches."
"Hold off on dinner, I'll text you as I leave the hospital, you can start it then."
He nods and watches me leave.
The ER is quiet as I get there, walking in with my head hanging low and a hand on my temple. I head over to the desk and they tell me to take a seat. A nurse's head turns as she walks by; her eyes sweep up and down as she takes in the tight fit of my clothes and the labels on them. They get to me inside the hour and lead me to a curtained bay. I take a seat on the bed, lie about how I got the injury and answer the concussion questions quickly. Once they're satisfied I'm not concussed, they get going with the stitches. I chit-chat with the young doctor sewing up my face and she tells me how she saw about that explosion in midtown and how she thinks they'll have shut her subway stop because it's on the corner of the block. She gives me five stitches and tapes a bandage over my forehead, where it sits uncomfortably rubbing on my eyebrow at one corner. I fill out the forms for insurance, sign my name and hop up, half-listening to the speech about checking in with my regular doctor. I refuse a prescription of painkillers and leave as quickly as they will let me. I hail a cab, step into the backseat and lean my head back. My phone buzzes.
Clark: How's the head?
Me: No concussion. I have five stitches. I'm fine.
Clark: Good. No crime-fighting until the stitches are healed, you know the deal.
Me: Yup, injury protocol, suit gets retired, I know. See you in two weeks.
Clark: We'll save you a nice big juicy villain.
Me: Thanks.
The house smells divine as the elevator doors slide open to let me in. Alfred pokes his head out of the kitchen and tells me dinner is ready, then asks if I want an aspirin. I tell him I'm fine. This isn't even the worst injury I've had in the last year. It won't even be my biggest scar. Still, to reassure him, I sit with Alfred in the kitchen to eat dinner, telling him how it happened and how Clark is being really attentive and how I'm suspended until I'm healed. His only response is to tell me that there's plenty to focus on at the office. After dinner, I take myself off to my bedroom and get comfortable. I pass the evening watching reruns with a straight face.