A/N: Wow, I can't believe I'm going to write 20 more one-shots. Does this fit Einstein's definition of insanity? Oh well, it can't be that bad for me. As always, more prompts and reviews are appreciated.

~Leg~

The fight was almost over. Clark had taken down the monster, and the Batman and Flash were evacuating the apartment building that was coming down.

"How you guys doing?" Clark asked. "I'm going to knock him down in a second.

"Everybody's out." Flash zipped down the street. "Bats is getting out the roof and then—"

The apartment building caved in on itself, falling straight down the middle. Clark paused mid-punch—the monster toppled over anyway and crashed through the ceiling.

"Batman!" he yelled into the comlink. "Bruce! Are you all right?"

There was a deadly silence at the other end of the line. Then it crackled.

"I'm okay," Batman said, though his voice sounded tight. "Tough I maybe be a bit trapped."

"On my way." Clark zoomed over to the building, searching with his x-ray vision until he found Bruce on the tenth floor. He went in through the window and saw him with his leg pinned under a steel girder. Clark lifted it off him.

"You okay?" he asked, when Bruce failed to leap to his feet.

Bruce tried to move his leg and winced. "I think I hurt myself," he said.

Clark tried to x-ray him. "Well it would be a lot easier to tell if you didn't wear a lead-lined suit."

Bruce shrugged as if this was a reasonable risk. Then he took a small breath and got up. His right leg crumpled under his weight. Clark grabbed him and picked him up before he could protest—the ceiling was coming down. They flew out just as the walls dissolved and the building collapsed.

Bruce was sitting in the med bay, on a bed, holding a bag of ice against his leg. By the time Clark finished filling out the mission reports he was already looking a little glassy-eyed from the painkillers.

"X-rays back yet?" Clark asked.

"No," Bruce said. "But I broke my tibia."

"There's no possible way you know that for sure," Clark said.

"After you've eaten a sandwich you know what it tastes like." Bruce rubbed his eyes tiredly and leaned back a little against the pillow. J'onn walked in then, holding the glossy black paper with Bruce's lower leg printed on it.

"Broken tibia," he pronounced. Clark blinked.

Bruce just sighed. "How long."

"About six weeks," J'onn said, and this time Bruce groaned.

Almost two weeks later, Clark was sitting at his desk working on a last-minute crime beat piece that Perry wanted done in forty-five minutes ("Or I'll have your head on a pike, Kent, so help me god!") when the telephone rang. He picked it up and got a very exasperated Alfred.

"He's driving me crazy," said Alfred, in his normal calm voice. The only way Clark could distinguish the exasperation was because he'd dropped the 'Master Bruce' from the sentence.

"Alfred, I'd love to help you out, but Perry's really on me about this story and—"

"Mister Kent, I do not believe I have made myself clear." Alfred took a deep breath. "If something is not done soon, sir, I fear either I or Master Bruce will no longer be occupying the premises."

"I'll be right there," Clark said.

Clark arrived at the manor to a lot of yelling. Mostly Alfred shouting (or saying loudly n a most exasperated voice), "Please, Master Bruce, do find something to occupy yourself that does not come with the possibility of injury."

And Bruce shouting (truly shouting) back, "What am I supposed to do, Alfred? Take a nice little jog?"

Clark winced and very cautiously rang the doorbell twice. Alfred answered the door, drying his hand on a dishtowel. He smiled wearily. "He is in the sunroom, sir, third door in the south wing. Please, do try your utmost."

"I'll give it my best shot," Clark promised, and went off in search of Bruce.

He found him exactly where Alfred had said, lying upside down on the couch with his legs over the back, his good one bent and the casted one straight out. There was what looked like piles of shredded newspaper all around him. He practically growled when Clark walked in. "What the hell are you doing here."

"Alfred thought you might need some cheering up," Clark said, with the distinct concern that the kryptonite was going to come out if he wasn't careful.

"You mean Alfred thinks I need a babysitter."

"No—company." Clark looked down at the piles by his feet. "What is all this stuff?"

"Sodoku books." Bruce sighed long-sufferingly. "I finished them all so I just started shredding them up."

"So this is what happens when you take one of the world's smartest men and give him nothing to do." Clark was quite amused by this, though he knew better than to show it. "Did you become Batman out of sheer boredom?"

Bruce gave him a look like this was a line that shouldn't be crossed. Clark didn't. Instead he swept the piles into the wastebasket with a small burst of superspeed. "You want to play chess?"

"I'd win."

"I know, but I'm asking if you want to play, you know, for fun."

"What's the fun in that?"

"Come on, Bruce, there has to be some normal-person thing you can think of to do."

Bruce rolled his eyes like everyone but him was an utter idiot. "Oracle has all of the computer stuff and evidence checking under control. Dick and Tim have practically locked me out of the cave. I would go upstairs to the attic and clean it out a little, but it's four flights of stairs and heavy boxes, and for fuck's sake broken legs hurt."

"Maybe you should actually take some aspirin," Clark suggested. "It might make you less grouchy."

Bruce glared at him. "I don't like painkillers. They make me drowsy."

Clark sighed. "Personally, Bruce, I don't know how you or anyone else is going to get through another four weeks without you taking at least a couple of naps. Now you have to be able to think of some activity you'd enjoy."

"I don't know." Bruce turned around so he was sitting right-side up. "God. How does Wally manage to waste so much of his time?"

Clark smiled. "Wonderful idea."

"What?"

Clark vanished and was back literally in the blink of an eye, holding a brown cardboard box. "Here we go. This should be good for at least a few hours."

Bruce raised an eyebrow in question, but Clark had his back turned and was hooking something into the television. "What the hell is that device, Clark, and why are you attaching it to my TV?"

"It's Wally's Xbox," Clark explained. "And I'm putting it here because we're going to play it."

Bruce's expression was on of utter, thorough disgust. "You want me to play video games?"

Clark plunked himself down on the couch, a controller in his hand, and started up the game. Something with zombies. Bruce wrinkled his nose. "Yes, I want you to play a video game. Unless you don't think you can beat me."

Bruce glared at him for a minute, but then his competitive side won out and he snatched the second controller from Clark's outstretched hand. "Fine. But no superspeed."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Clark said, and they started playing.

Sometime after—how long after, Bruce couldn't tell—Alfred came in and asked if they wanted pizza. Bruce just nodded and hit a zombie with a carefully aimed crossbow.

Alfred actually ordered pizza, quite the rarity. Of course, the sight of the boxes and the smell of pepperoni brought Dick and Tim running. They walked into the sunroom and stopped short at the sight of Clark—and more so Bruce—sitting on the couch with their feet on the ottoman, muttering at each other about killing the undead. It was, suffice to say, quite a shocking sight.

Tim recovered first, bounding in and plucking a piping hot piece of pizza from the box. "Can we play?"

Bruce and Clark shrugged, and ate pizza without looking at it. Tim and Dick took two more controllers from the box and sat on the floor with the pizza between them. A few minutes later Alfred peeked in, smiled at the sight of the four boys all trying to beat each other at their silly game, and went to make the most of this rare peace and quiet.

"Ha!" Bruce exclaimed. Clark groand as poorly rendered intestines splattered across the screen. Bruce set the controller down on the arm of the couch and stretched. "Where'd the boys go to?"

"Out on patrol." Clark tossed the empty pizza box into the trash.

"Patrol? But it's only—" Bruce grabbed the clock off the end table. "My god, how did it get to be eleven o'clock?"

"Time flies when you're having fun," Clark said. "Hey, Wally said that he'd loan us Halo tomorrow."

Bruce didn't seem that opposed to the idea, but he grabbed the pair of crutches leaning against the wall and got up. "Don't you have a job?"

"It's a weekend. Normal people don't work weekends." Clark saw him yawn and grinned. "And anyway, I didn't want you and Alfred killing each other. So—tomorrow?"

"Sure," Bruce said, with an apathetic shrug. "What else is there to do?"