Comical: a swap from the dreaded Bat of Gotham to some guy in a spaceship crew jumpsuit, ducking away to avoid being recognized. Fortunately, Superman is always Superman. Whiplash lessened, at first, by the necessity of scrambling back to work. Back in time. And they did it, because they work well together. (Even when they didn't, it had been as if choreographed. A destructive, crippling ballet.)

Earthbound again. Investigations, bird videos, moving Alfred's teacups, Diana. Guarded again. More than once, more than a dozen times, he's almost said something.

But what he saw of her was a violation. She is not ready to show him her past, or let him see her smile so freely. Diana won't shove him into a pond and kiss him, she won't let him pull her hair back and see if something's burned her; the guilt burns edges of purposeful resilience in him and touches other things, too, like Clark's horrible sadness at being parted from Lois. Bruce feels contagious, like the hollow feeling and taste of ash in his mouth will spread. He knows better, mostly— he believes Clark (and Lois, for that matter), and he is beyond insisting that they shouldn't.

He's not beyond pain. Apparently. It's very annoying.

Human ears don't catch the Kryptonian sonic boom from all the way out there, but the cave's airspace monitors do, and isn't it sweet how the blip sounds just as familiar.

"Slow night in Metropolis?"

Everything is fine.