Bruce woke to orange skies.

Endless stretches of orange, small patches of gold. He raised his hand and waved it in front of his eyes. Sunlight streamed between his fingers.

He remembered darkness, not light. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth, not the faint scent of daffodils filling his nostrils. Mud ponding at his boots, not the surrounding walls of tall, uncut grass. He remembered a dull ache as his head hit solid brick. He was falling down a dark, bottomless well. The picturesque landscape seemed unreal, distant.

A hummingbird landed on his finger, gently nibbled at his thumb. Bruce watched as the delicate ruby-throat flapped its wings determinedly and lifted off. He had a certain fondness for precision-flying creatures. Intelligence was beauty.

Then another hummingbird crashed beak-first onto his stomach. Bruce was instantly reminded of a deliberately clumsy reporter. The few shuffles the hummingbird managed for reorientation was hardly redeeming enough.

The hummingbird migration, he realized belatedly. He last remembered unforgiving numbness from the winter cold. It's spring.

He sat up slowly, putting his weight on his right side, only to find that his left forearm was as good as new. No bruises, no broken bones. He distinctly remembered Bane snapping his arm in half.

He braced himself for abstract boundaries. Meadows disappearing into big black voids. Odd indications of a dream world. He was, after all, donning his usual set of black silk pajamas. But the view that greeted him was none other than a familiar red farmhouse. Neighboring that was a yellow house blending harmoniously into the slowly saturating background.

The humble Kent farm.

Except it looks a lot older, Bruce noticed as he approached the building. The roof was evidently less maintained, as there was a corner lifting off with a breeze. Rain seemed to have washed off the brightest of hues. Why the Kents would allow their beautiful residence go to waste was a good question for Clark. The door creaked open at his push. There was no lock.

Water was still dripping out of the kitchen faucet. Each drop as slow as Bruce's heartbeat as he quietly investigated the interior. One look at the gas meter confirmed that someone was still a regular visitor, if not an occupant. Weariness was weighing heavily on his eyelids.

Where was Clark anyway?

Bruce was about to fill a glass with water when the front door creaked open. No footsteps. The man was hovering inches above the timber planks. He found the light switch with one hand. His face was haggard, his beard untrimmed. He flicked on the lights and looked up.

Then he froze, completely, from head to toe. The light switch broke off with a loud clank. The ceiling lights flickered twice before dimming into darkness. His breathing stilled into complete silence.

Bruce did a double take at the odd combination of his casual civilian clothes and the unique hovering. He frowned disapprovingly. "You shouldn't do that."

The man stared back blankly, his expression uncomprehending. His bloodshot eyes were trained on Bruce's face, his jaw slack, his hair standing on end. His glare was at an intensity that should make anyone extremely uncomfortable or worried for their own safety. Anyone except Batman.

Bruce took a step into the orange glint of the sunset. His crossed his arms and gestured casually at the fridge. "Can we go get something edible? There's nothing in there."

"Holy mother of God." The man's face contorted dramatically. He started to back away.

"Clark?" Something's wrong. Bruce held out a hand in his most non-threatening gesture and tried to close the distance between them. Possibilities flashed across his mind. Kryptonite. Mind control. "Clark. Listen to me," he said carefully. "Tell me where you were, who you fought." It could be Crane's fear toxin, or Ivy's poison. Either way, Clark was deeply affected.

Evidently Clark wasn't listening at all. The cautious movements Bruce made seemed to make him more distraught. He took a shaking step backward and stumbled down the front porch. Supposedly invulnerable skin was immediately torn by a protruding nail. The wound left a trail of blood as he scrambled away from Bruce, still panting and frantic.

"Clark." Bruce landed on him in an instant, pinning Clark's wrists to the ground. His Batman persona kicked in. "Superman, snap out of it!"

What followed was a strangled cry. A sound so unlike Clark that Bruce instinctively loosened his grip and allowed the man to flee. Clark stumbled back again, stomping at dirt with all his might to crawl away. He pulled out a phone from his jeans and dialed a number.

"Charles!" Clark immediately snarled into the phone, his eyes never leaving Bruce's face. "Hallucinations! Jesus fucking Christ I'm seeing the realest hallucination I've ever seen in my life. It fucking landed on me on my front porch. I need the drugs, I need them now!"

In a frantic bout Clark threw his phone at Bruce. It bounced off his thigh, landing in the heaps of dirt that Superman had dug up. He was going to start throwing dirt, when Bruce had had enough.

"I said snap the fuck out of it!" Bruce's flying kick went straight to Clark's temple, knocking the alien sideways. He was about to add another powerful blow to his head when Clark fell over. He fell face first onto a grassy patch of land like a defenseless human being.

He reminded Bruce of the clumsy hummingbird.