Some Comas…

The doctors had never expected Bruce to come out of it. Time and time again, they'd urged his guardians to pull the plug. First Alfred, until he had a heart attack and died. Then Dick, until he and Tim died in the same battle. In the years following they'd focused their attentions on Clark. Clark was, however, an eternal optimist, and so he came and visited Bruce frequently. Besides, he knew Bruce's views on euthanasia.

"I wish you'd pulled the plug while you could!" Bruce shouted, and threw his tray of food. Tried to, anyway; it only made it over the edge of the bed because it slid off.

"You don't mean that," Clark said. He was so relieved to have his friend back that even Bruce's anger was comforting. "You don't approve of euthanasia."

"I've recently had reason to change my opinion." The only emotion on his face was around his eyes. Clark's never learned to read that tell on Bruce; his cowl had been lead-lined after their first encounter, and he'd never had much contact with Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy.

"Why, Bruce?" Clark asked, his voice hushed. "You've always been so determined."

"Just go, Clark." He turned his face away from Clark in a clear dismissal. After a while Clark left. Bruce would snap out of his funk soon; he always did. Clark went to Asia to give aid to the people who found themselves in the path of yet another hurricane.

It was hours later before he next listened for Bruce's heartbeat. The familiar action had comforted him over the years; Bruce's heartbeat had always been there, strong and steady.

This time, it wasn't.

Clark rushed back to the hospital. Bruce had just masked his heartbeat somehow, right? He'd done that before, when he was in costume (uniform, Bruce insisted. "We aren't kids going trick-or-treating."). But even the knowledge of that didn't stop his heart from clawing its way into his throat, didn't stop him from being as terrified as he'd been when Bruce had first slipped into the coma.

When he got to the hospital, there was a man hosing off the sidewalk. The runoff was red, fading to pink as he watched, and he knew.

***

"I wish you'd pulled the plug while you could!" Bruce shouted, and tried to throw the tray. It should have flown across the room to the wall beside Clark. The Jell-o and the drink and the unidentifiable main course should have run down the wall, making a mess for some hapless candy striper or janitor to clean up, but his muscles had atrophied while he was in the coma and it only slid off of the bed. He hoped it had at least gotten Clark's shoes dirty, but it probably hadn't. Clark was always lucky that way.

"You don't mean that," Clark said. He looked happy. He looked like he thought Bruce should be happy, like he should just forget about Alfred and Dick and Tim and the Mission he'd never be able to do anything about again because his muscles have atrophied and besides he's too old. "You don't approve of euthanasia."

When he thought about all the pain he could have been spared by just not waking up…"I've recently had reason to change my opinion."

"Why Bruce? You've always been so determined." Clark knew why he'd always been so determined. He knew it had always been the Mission. Why couldn't he see how little Bruce had without that? He didn't even have his family.

"Just go, Clark." Bruce turned blindly towards the window, hoping Clark would leave soon. The last thing he needed was somebody who didn't understand hanging around. Some interminable period of time later, Clark took the clue and finally left.

When the television started showing Superman helping out in Asia, Bruce made his move and stood up. He'd worked with Clark often enough to know that this was one of the few times he wouldn't be listening to him with at least half an ear; Clark could be downright stalkerish at times (Bruce knew it was the pot calling the kettle black, but that didn't change the truth of it). Even the few steps to the window were nearly impossible; his legs were trembling with exhaustion by the time he reached it. But he'd soldiered on in the past. Besides, this was the last time he'd have to.

With trembling hands he opened the window and stepped out onto the ledge. The wind whipped him familiarly, almost comfortingly. This is where you belong, a little voice in him whispered. He thought of Alfred, of Dick, of Tim, and jumped.

He'd never called this flying like the others sometimes had. It had some similarity, but he'd never allowed himself to forget that it was nothing more than falling, even with the grapples and de-cel cable. Always before he'd slowed his descent with a cable or by grabbing onto something, or had been caught. This time he didn't save himself. This time no arms caught him, no brightly garbed superhero swept him into the sky in a rush of adrenaline and a quasi-embrace.

The only embrace he found waiting for him at the lowest point of his fall was that of his parents.