It would be nice of Bruce could pick a gear, but his default response to everything is to be angry, and even though he's terrified and concerned, those things also inspire anger in him. Emotions are hard. Especially after he's spent most of the night out like this already; the mindset is sometimes overwhelming, difficult to break from cleanly.

Carefully, he gets Superman's weight against him, and half-herds, half-supports him forward.

"I can tell." The shell on the car peels back as they approach, hydraulic noises mingling with the sound of encroaching sirens. Batman leans into it and hits buttons, programming, before helping Clark into it. "I don't know how much neurotoxin you breathed in. Next time try not to dunk your face in it."

Because that's totally what he did.

"Don't touch anything."

Beep boop. The shell closes, leaving the drugged (possibly dying his brain supplies) alien in the batcar. Bruce steps back as the engines thunder back to live, and the vehicle peels out, heading away to its destination.

A voice in his ear, concern disguised in tense sarcasm. "Will you be taking a bus, then?"

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Look after him."

"Of course."

No wisecrack about having planned on leaving Superman to his own devices? Something in Bruce's stomach drops further. Alfred's worried, too.