Superman may be an order above human--swifter than lightning, as solid as a mountain and as strong as steel--but sometimes he forgets that he doesn't have eyes in the back of his head, nor can he be everywhere at once. It's in his nature to consider this a failing.

"Stop beating yourself up, Clark," Bruce mutters, voice so low it's rendered staticky by the modulator. He's limped his way into the cave, the inside leg of his suit dark and sticky when he peels it away. Definitely time to research an upgrade. "It was shrapnel. Difficult to predict."

"But--" Clark begins for what's probably the sixth time, but Bruce pulls him up short with a hand on his shoulder.

"But nothing," he says, pulling off the cowl. He can feel that his hair is plastered to his skull, soaked with sweat. Judging from the look on Clark's face, he doesn't look his best. A wedge of hot metal in your leg will do that. He hauls himself up onto a workbench. "Hn."

"Should I get Alfred?" Clark asks.

"No. To your left, that cabinet. Grab the box in there for me." Suture kit, bandages, antiseptic. Bruce cleans up the smeared blood so he can see what he's doing, then spreads his legs wide, takes a couple of quick breaths and pulls the wound together with a loop of suture, tongs and curved needle sure in his grip.

He glances up to find Clark watching him, undisguised awe on his face.