Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clark had left Bruce for last.

Emotional conversations were not Bruce's strong suit.

He'd known Ollie would both use levity and solemnity; Diana, compassion and love; Hal, awkwardness and bravado; Barry, nostalgia and sadness; J'onn, wisdom and fondness; Ma, nobility and kindness; Lois, courage and love.

With Bruce?

Emotional conversations could quickly derail.

Usually, he would choose a clinically approved tone that would encompass the facts but not the emotions.

However, despite the appearances, Bruce was still the most emotional person Clark had ever met; he just hid behind the cold facade. He had been surprised more than once by the breath of his friend's emotional investments.

"Bruce, we need to talk."

Bruce continued to type his notes. "You're not dying."

Denial.

Clark sighed.

This wasn't a great start already. Clark needed to be patient with his best friend; death was always a volatile button to press around Batman.

"We've gone over this before, Bruce; my cells are deconstructing on a cellular level. It seems that Kryptonians' bodies were not meant to live under yellow suns for an extended period."

The cave was so cold, Clark idly wondered if Bruce ever caught the flu. He stepped forward to the lonely back and laid a hand on him.

"I'm dying, Bruce. We've run the possibilities through the Fortress of Solitude, the Watchtower and your computer. There are no treatments available."

Bruce's hands no longer typed anything. "You're not dying," Bruce stubbornly replied.

"Bruce, look at me," Kal tried.

Bruce whirled the chair around before Kal could remove the hand on his shoulder. He extended his hand and, it felt awkward retracting the hand.

His best friend's face showed no sign of compromise. He'd already settled on his arguments.

Kal tried to swallow his apprehension. He'd known Bruce would take this hard.

"Listen, Bruce. Maybe, we could have found a way to fight this off if we had years, not weeks. If I had listened to your questions on my powers, maybe, we wouldn't be at this impasse right now. If..."

Kal cut himself off when he realized what he was doing.

Bargaining.

Stupid... He'd already accepted the inevitability of his death; he'd already shouted in space until his throat was hoarse; Clark had already cried alone in his Fortress; he'd already prayed for a year more. He should have been done with all of this.

Bruce's eyes weighed more than Clark could admit. They'd dissect his every doubt and his insecurities, vulnerabilities he'd used to get his way.

"You're not dying," Bruce stated with his unyielding certainty.

Clark didn't want any false hope, yet he couldn't deny Bruce his irrationalities.

Clark squeezed Bruce's shoulder. "I'm dying and, it's not going to be pretty..."

Understatement of the year. Clark's skin and bones would melt into his vital organs, but the Kryptonian's strength under the yellow sun would help him regenerate faster. Conclusion: his body would force him to survive its torture long after a human body could last. The Fortress of Solitude was still working on pills to help him manage the pain he was starting to feel everywhere.

"As you are aware, I'm finally heading to the Solitary Fortress for my end of life program. This is goodbye, Bruce. I'll keep Skyping and Facetiming everyone until I can't. Would you give me a hug for the road?" Clark asked with a soft smile.

Bruce twisted his shoulders away from Clark's hand. He stood up, raising just in front of Clark's face. The former reporter could smell the unhappiness in his best friend's stance.

"No." The word had all the finality of a period.

Clark jerked back.

"You want to isolate yourself in your Fortress? Go. But you're not going with my blessing. The only one you want to protect by going to your Fortress of Solitude is yourself."

The rejection hurt more than Clark would have thought. He had thought Bruce would have, at least, given him a bit of comfort, not this.

Clark stumbled back and, he was sure the pain in his face was clear to see. "Then, I supposed this is goodbye, Bruce. I was blessed with your friendship. Thank you for always being there. Take care." His practiced speech fell flat after Bruce's rejection; he forgot more than half of his lines. This was a disaster in every way.

With the last of his courage, Clark offered a hand. Bruce glared at it and, without another word, stalked to the stairs and made his way up.

Clark had not felt this defeated since he had learned of his fatal physical issue.

Chapter Text

Clark typed the command and, the sequence started again. The hologram showed him the coming changes in his body and how it would affect his capacity of living.

It projected the loss of extended flight powers within twelve hours. Making the trip to the Arctic had been hard, that much was true. He had slept through most of the morning after, which was contrary to his habits.

Loss of superpowers was not so bad, Clark thought, the rest of his decline was the issue. He'd be unable to speak within two weeks. There would be generalized organ failure within three. Loss of life... depended on the life-support he was willing to use.

Now was the perfect time to set up all his preferences. Eventually, he wouldn't be able to order the Fortress to follow his wishes.

Bang. Bang.

Clark's head whipped around. Someone was here, at the Fortress. He looked through the wall to see a Batman wearing his cold-repellant suit armour.

"Open up!"

The Kryptonian remembered giving Diana his key, but never Bruce. Diana could give him space if he requested it; Bruce would bulldoze through if he thought it was warranted.

Irritation welled in Clark. Maybe he should ignore him.

"Clark, I'm not moving from here until you open the door."

Clark narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. True to his word, Batman stood in front of the door despite the frigid temperature.

The Kryptonian was tempted to see how long Bruce would last. Alas, he knew well enough his friend to know he would keep his word. He'd even die in the cold to prove he was stubborn (not that he needed to prove much in that regard).

After pettily letting the man freeze for a decent amount of time, Clark opened the door.

"Are you here to give me my hug?" Clark asked, anger tightening his throat.

Bruce moved past him. "No."

Clark closed the door with more strength than necessary.

"What are you doing here, Bruce?"

Bruce ignored him as he made his way in the Fortress. Clark had tried to be patient with his friend. That hadn't gone well. Clark had told Bruce his plans and, the other man had insulted him.

Bruce thought he could barge in Clark's space and not say anything?

"Bruce, I'm dragging you back home if you don't tell me what you're doing here."

Bruce snorted. "I'll just fly back."

Soon, Clark wouldn't be able to force him back. And Bruce would win either way.

Batman entered the computer room and sat at Clark's seat. "Computer, were any treatments found to cure Clark's condition since our last search?"

"Negative."

"Were any way to delay the symptoms found?"

"Yes. Freezing the organs affected would slow down the deterioration."

Bruce gritted. "What are the negative side-effects of that technique?"

"Frostbites."

"Are there any ways to limit the frostbites?"

"Not without damaging other vital organs."

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the machine. Clark clenched his jaw, patiently waiting for Bruce to face him again.

"Bring comparative graphs on the monitor so I can examine the different possibilities to lengthen Superman's life."

Lines appeared all over the monitor's screen. "Forgo all possibilities with unmanageable pain," Bruce ordered. More than three-quarters of the lines disappeared.

"Bruce," Clark insisted, "What are you doing here?"

The infuriating man started typing again. A vein in Clark's forehead almost popped as he placed his hands on Bruce's shoulder and forced the chair around. "Answer my question."

Bruce glared at him. "I'm here to make sure you don't die."

All the pent-up animosity leaked in Clark's voice as he gesticulated furiously. "You're a fucking hypocrite!"

He lifted one finger in front of Bruce to stop him from answering. "You spent years telling me I should respect your sovereignty over your body, even if it killed you! Now that I'm dying, you can't even let me die as I've asked!"

Bruce's eyes found him, mirroring Clark's explosive fury with a simmering one. "You're not dying."

Anger.

Clark wanted to yell at his best friend, to shake him until he accepted the inevitable. Instead, he pushed the chair with Bruce in it, hard against the table. "You're not welcome here."

He left the room before he could do something more regrettable.

Chapter Text

Day 1

"... He barged in just like that and made himself at home! He even brought his supplies of coffee. I threw them away out in the Arctic water and, he didn't even remark on it."

Lois shook her head, exasperated. "Clark, what exactly do you want?"

His hair pulled in his fingers, Clark answered, "Him gone!"

She raised one eyebrow. "We talked about that. I don't believe you told me the entire truth on why you have to die alone." He felt his chest tightened as his fiancee was too insightful to be fooled by half-explanations. "However," she continued, "Why don't we talk about your present options. One," she raised a finger, "you can throw him out, but he'll back like the most annoying pest imaginable. Or, you can ask Diana or someone else to come for him." She raised a second finger. "And he'll still be back. Or you can ask Diana to drag him away and take away all his toys. He'll STILL be back!" She raised a third finger as she took another sip of her indigestible coffee.

Clark looked at her as the implications set in. "I'm stuck with him, that's what you're saying."

"Vermin like that always come back. I know; my father once picked a fight with a raccoon and lost. Until we moved, our garbage was truthfully his," Lois wisely recounted.

Sighing, Clark passed a hand on his forehead. "What are you suggesting?"

She shrugged. "Do you really want to spend your last days on Earth fighting your best friend? It won't change the fact he's there; I don't see you being happy with being mean to him." Her eyes moved upwards for a second. "Now, if it were me in your position, it would be a different story... I would do legendary pranks on him to see what makes him lose his mind. Now, that's a good way to pass away."

Clark can't help smiling at the thought of Lois being a total nightmare to Bruce and relishing in it.

They went back to speaking about the Daily Planet, Perry and his bossiness and Jimmy's bizarre misadventures.

Nearing the end of the Skype session, Clark can't help asking: "What did you do with the raccoon?"

"We learned how to live in the same space without getting mauled by him," Lois answered. She candidly looked at Clark. "Look, I'm not saying you have to forgive him for ignoring your wishes; he is an asshole and, he shouldn't get a free pass. I only want you to be happy and comfortable with the way you're spending your last days. It's not time to get more regrets."

"Thanks, Lois. I'll see you tomorrow."

Clark looked at the blank monitor in front of him. Lois was right; he shouldn't lose his last remaining time fighting his best friend over a lost cause (even if said friend deserved it).

Chapter Text

Day 2

The second day in the Fortress of Solitude was horrible.

It started with liquid pain, almost as if someone had injected Clark with Kryptonite in his bloodstream and, his cells had continued to multiply, passing it around.

For the first time in a long time, Clark didn't want to face a new day. It hurt too much.

In retrospect, he should have prepared for the pain like he had for almost everything else.

He had composed most of the goodbye letters and videos on his first day; he had written his will leaving everything to his mother before coming; he had also prepared his funeral disposition with Lois beforehand. He wanted cremation before a simple Pentecost ceremony, some pleasing hymns he had chosen and, a healthy buffet served after the burial. Furthermore, Superman had recorded words of hope and optimism for the world when they would notice his absence.

But, the pain had been an afterthought. When they had been in the research part of their fight against his death, they had focused on remedies. The idea of managing his pain had come much later in the process, wedged somewhere between depression and anger.

Truthfully, managing pain had never been Clark's main preoccupation, now or before. No human pills could help him and, he didn't get ill except for Kryptonite poisoning or magic (on which pills didn't work). Now, however, he could understand persistent physical pain.

It made him hope for death, if only as a release of pain.

Hours after his usual waking time, Clark removed his clothes and dressed up. He had his Skyping session with his Ma in less than half an hour. Looking alright was required.

Clark went to the kitchen, poured himself some cereal and stared at it, lack of appetite so prominent he couldn't think of one thing he'd like to eat. Unable to force himself, Clark ended up pouring the cereal back in the box.

He brushed his teeth, his own tired eyes staring back at him. Even to himself, he looked bloated, pale and tired. How could he compensate for the issues with the lighting and camera arrangement?

He googled the info, but his eyes closed as he couldn't focus.

Pills. The Fortress must have finished producing them. Had to.

How had he not thought of that?

Not important. Focus.

"Fortress, are the pain management pills completed?"

"Negative," the AI responded.

Clark closed his eyes.

How would he even be able to talk to his Ma? Would she believe he's already dead?

"However, your companion has assured me he brought Kryptonian pain management liquid."

Liquid? "What?"

"Would you like me to advise him to bring it for testing?"

Clark was still furious at his friend, but he had other priorities, namely pain and his upcoming Skype meeting with his mother.

He wasn't about to let pride stand in the way of comforting Ma. She didn't deserve to bury her husband and her only son; the least he could do was make it as painless for her as possible.

"Yes," Clark bitterly answered.

A few moments later- or hours or minutes or seconds, Clark doesn't know-, he heard a knock on his bedroom door.

"Come in," the Kryptonian resigned himself.

His best friend came in, still dressed in his Batman armour but without the cowl. If Clark didn't know any better, he would have thought Bruce had just come back from his patrol.

Bruce bent his knees in front of Clark and lifted his chin to force him to look in his eyes. Clark hadn't even realized he had been looking at his lap.

"Clammy skin and dilated pupils. It's a similar reaction to Kryptonite poisoning. Where does it hurt?"

Clark mumbled, "everywhere."

Bruce opened a pouch of his belt and pulled out a flask with grey liquid. "I've asked your computer to make more of this. It should dull the pain, but the computer projection assumes the AI's pills to be more efficient. Take a deep swallow."

Clark did. "How long does it take to react?"

"Less than an hour. It's the Kryptonian equivalent of anti-inflammatory: helpful for short bouts of pain, not in the long run. It also helps reduce inflammation, which is more than useful to countering one symptom linked with your cells' degeneration."

"I was supposed to call Ma at 6:00."

Bruce gave him an exasperated look."Reschedule."

Clark glowered at him. "Ma will soon milk the cows, feed the chicken, look to hire someone, bake pies..."

"Clark," Bruce interrupted him as he straightened his legs, now towering over Clark. "Martha can rearrange her day to fit you in. Reschedule."

Clark gnashed his teeth. "Rich asshole, you don't understand how a farm operates. It waits for no human tragedies. We had to milk the cows and feed the chicken an hour after Pa's death! Do you know how heartbroken she was?!? How hard it is to follow the routine after everything's changed?"

Water was dripping all over his hands as he felt the pain mix in the profound sadness in his chest.

Depressive.

Bruce patted his back soothingly. "Someone's already hired to help her."

When Clark didn't move from his trance, Bruce told him in a softened tone: "I'll call her to reschedule, okay? You'll feel better after the medicine starts taking effect."

Clark cried harder. "Don't leave. It hurts."

Bruce tilted his head in his direction. "Do you want to talk to your Ma?"

The Kryptonian shook his head as he dried his tears. "I'm pathetic."

"You've barely built pain tolerance, Clark, and we don't have much-experiment-tested pain control for you. You'll feel more like yourself when the pain relievers' effects kick in."

Clark nodded mechanically.

Bruce left the room.

Clark overheard the conversation, Bruce's reassurance that it was an awful time for Clark to call, but that Clark would call at a later time.

Somewhere along the way, he stopped feeling most of his pain and fell back in his bed, overcome by slumber. He'd feel better after a nap.

Chapter Text

Day 3

"What did you do?" Clark asked, leaning forward.

Lois shrugged onscreen. "I bluffed my way inside by pretending I was a gang member's new hot girlfriend."

Clark shook his head, exasperatedly. "Lois..."

"It worked."

"I can't believe it did. I thought you told me that hideout's security system was top-notch."

"Yes, but dumbasses are the ones running it, so there are security flaws the size of my red dress's plunging neckline," Lois replied with a leer.

"That was always a nice dress," Clark fondly admitted as he reminisced more than a few hot nights involving the dress, some of which it came off, others were it stayed on.

"If you want a show, I'll give you an exclusive," Lois offered with a seductive wink.

As tempting as it was, Clark and Bruce had recently established a new pain relief regime together and, Clark had no idea how it would affect his sex drive. He wouldn't want to disappoint her with his lack of appreciation or make it awkward.

Lois seemed to read his hesitation and changed the subject. "How are you dealing with your raccoon infestation?"

Well, that was a whole other pandora box. "We made the first contact and survived the ordeal with minor bloodshed. We can now share the same territory, if not harmoniously at least cooperatively," Clark lightly answered.

She rolled her eyes. "So, you're not back on speaking term yet?"

"We're back on medical term, at least. We spent a big part of yesterday finding a pain control program that will help me function on a day-to-day basis. Bruce also gave me a diagnosis diagram to help me know if I need more pain relievers or stronger ones. We're playing it by ear. I feel better today than yesterday."

"I'm glad to hear that. I won't begrudge you any comfort you may receive."

A beat.

"I'm not sure I understand what you're saying," Clark said.

She gave him a knowing smile.

"Anyway, is your article on the Intergang developing well?"

Lois's lips curled in amusement at his very evident change of subject. "I'm only missing one source to confirm part of the information; then, I will publish it."

"I'm sure it'll make the first page," Clark genuinely advanced.

Lois's gaze weighted thoughtfully on him for a moment. "You can always change your mind, Clark and, I'll be there in a flash. I want to be with you to the end."

He knew that. That was what worried him the most.

"You're always here for me, Lois."

Of course, she was. Each day, he made sure to have sessions with a few friends (League or otherwise), Lois and his Ma. Lois was the easiest one to engage in a discussion. Contrary to most of the others, she still treated him like someone alive but didn't awkwardly dance around the subject of his upcoming death.

His mom, on the other hand, despite her best efforts, was emotional most of their discussions and, Clark felt guilty of leaving her alone. Comforting his Ma was emotionally draining on him.

If Clark had to name his chief reason why he wanted Bruce to find a miracle solution to his generalized cells' degeneration, it would be Ma.

"Lois, I know we spoke about it many times, but can you keep an eye on Ma? She's old. I'm scared this is too much for her."

"I'll keep an eye on her. Pinky swear. I even promised her I am making pies with her this weekend." She grimaced at the thought.

Clark tried to imagine the scenario; his brain crashed. Lois and baking did not belong in the same sentence except if a negative was separating them. "That's..."

"Catastrophic," Lois interrupted. "I know. She wouldn't take no for an answer. Apparently, she had to prepare pies for a fundraiser."

"The yearly farm accidents fundraiser," Clark added by rote. He had always made some contribution to the fundraiser, be it by helping his Ma or by volunteering. It was one of Smallville's major event, one where neighbours gathered and gossiped. In recent years, Clark found it reassuring to see that, despite the rural exode phenomenon, there were always new kids and babies present each year. "Are you going to go to the event?"

Clark wouldn't ever see the folks of Smallville, nor Smallville, again, he thought with a pang.

"If your Ma is overworking herself or needs company, I will. Otherwise, I won't."

It made sense. Smallville represented Clark's fond childhood memories, his roots. Without Clark, Ma was Lois's only connection to it. Maybe it was even painful for Lois to see Smallville without Clark.

"Lois, don't overwork yourself."

"Clark, I'm doing this for me too. I don't want to be alone, not now."

He opened his mouth to tell her to come to him, so neither would be alone. Then, he remembered why he couldn't let her come. His mouth shut tight.

"I'm sure you don't want to be alone either, especially not now," Lois continued relentlessly. "So, don't be. It's as simple as that."

It wasn't.

"I'm not alone," Clark answered in a teasing tone, "I've got Krypto and an extremely advanced alien technology program. Oh, and a recalcitrant raccoon."

"Moody sounds better for such an asshole," she bantered back.

"Maybe."

"What is he even drinking, now that you've gotten rid of his stash of addiction?"

"My coffee?"

Lois gave him a look.

"Hey, it's not that bad!"

She drummed her fingers to the melody of a well-known song about a man living in a fantasy world.

"Lois."

...

"My coffee does not taste like the bastard son of a dishwasher liquid and a garbage disposal's fluid."

"If you say so."

Chapter Text

Day 4

That morning, when Clark woke up from his recurrent nightmare, he decided to check up on Bruce.

Clark walked- floating was more difficult by the day- towards the main computer's room. Bruce always appeared engaged in a fight against his biggest enemy: time. Now, more than ever. Basic nutriment bars and water bottles laid on the computer's board.

To Clark's surprise, Bruce was talking to his oldest son and, before he could stop himself, he overheard their exchange.

"Bruce, have you spoken with him, at least?"

"He refuses to speak to me about anything but his physical health."

Clark's initial anger, almost forgotten since Bruce's arrival, resurfaced, compounded with Bruce's unwillingness to ask him his questions instead of assuming Clark's opinion.

"Have you ever tried?" Dick asked, with more than a soupcon of blame. At Bruce's prolonged silence, Dick pressed on, "Bruce, he's your best friend. I'm sorry to say this, but Clark doesn't exactly have the time for whatever this is."

"He's not dying," Bruce bit back, yet, this time, contrary to all the times he had spoken those words to Clark, it sounded more like an admission of defeat than a confident assertion.

Dick was quiet for a moment. "As much as I am sorry about the fact Clark is dying, I'm more worried about your health, B. When was the last time you ate something other than a nutrient bar? When was the last time you slept more than an hour at a time?"

Clark could not recall seeing or hearing Bruce do either of those things either.

"Dick." Clark could hear the crushing warning in the manner Bruce spoke the name. "You called me for advice about a case."

"That was a lie. I knew that was the only way to get you to speak with me."

Without further ado, Bruce disconnected the call. His monitor was split almost equally between experiments concerning cures and end of life pain management regimes.

"Clark, I know you heard that."

Startled, angry, sad and ashamed, Clark walked in the room as if his teacher had sent him to the principal's office for defending someone else.

"Do you need a stronger dose?"

Clark knew a fight was brewing, especially with how much Bruce had, in one sentence, reduce their relationship to a business transaction- almost as if Bruce was Clark's dealer.

Clark crossed his arms defensively around his chest. "Can't I want to see my best friend?"

Bruce pushed himself up and faced him, still arrayed for war, and not only in the literal sense.

"Don't act as if we're playing a friendship game. You barely tolerate my presence here, even when I limit our interactions to your medical needs."

Clark tilted his head to relax his clenching jaw. Don't let him get into your head. "Do you even want to know why I am upset with you?"

Bruce snorted darkly. "I went against your wishes. Your 'feelings' were hurt."

Anger was too mild a word to describe the raging thunder agitating Clark's unstable body. "Don't patronize my feelings! And, yes, it has everything to do with ignoring my wishes. That's called respect- you know a fundamental human right? Like privacy? Maybe you haven't heard of them before."

Bruce appeared unimpressed with Clark's recrimination. "Are you telling me that next time I see someone jumping from their thirty-four-storied apartment's balcony, I should ask them whether saving them impinges on their fundamental rights?" Were the Kryptonians not as deft at its manipulation, the sarcastic venom dripping from Bruce's tone might have been able to drill the Fortress's floor.

"That comparison is groundless!"

"Is it."

"Maybe, for once in your life, you should listen to me! I DON'T WANT TO DIE, BUT I AM!"

The room felt quiet as if something had sucked all the oxygen away.

"I'm not suicidal," Clark said in a hushed voice, a secret. "I want to live."

Bruce tiredly rubbed his fingers on his eyes. "I know."

It didn't fix anything of Clark's lingering hurt, yet, Clark didn't like the emptiness he was now feeling in his chest instead of anger. He was supposed to reconcile somewhat with Bruce's presence, not drive him further away. It wasn't even a question of who was wrong or right.

As much as he resented Bruce's presence here, against his wishes, he was relieved he could see someone other than onscreen. It felt more real, less lonely. So he told him that.

"Although I hate the circumstances of your presence here- and I'm still outraged that you're ignoring my wishes-, I want to see you in other capacities than as my health expert. You are my best friend."

Bruce did appear to relax minutely.

"That's why," Clark continued, "you are eating breakfast with me. Then, you'll go to sleep for a few hours. If you die before me, you'll get all the nice speeches and, I'll get all the scrambled and shoddy writing. That won't do."

Bruce grinned. "With such a persuasive argument, how can I say no."

Suddenly, everything appeared, even smelled brighter, about this new day.

They sat in the kitchen and talked as if the last three days hadn't existed. Clark had forgotten how eating a meal with someone was ten times more pleasant than eating alone.

Despite Clark's flagging powers, no meal at the Fortress had ever tasted better.

Chapter Text

Day 7

"Pastor Lucy, I won't ask the same question everyone in terminal condition asks. I won't ask why."

Onscreen, Ma's pastor, Lucy nodded, waiting for him to finish his thought.

Clark swallowed the pent-up frustration. "Some things are always out of our control."

"Is it reassuring?" the pastor had asked.

"What?"

"Isn't it reassuring not everything is up to us?"

Clark thought about it for a few seconds. "Yes. Otherwise, everyone's misfortune and my death would also be my fault."

She nodded in reply.

"It's not my fault; it's not God's fault. It's no one's fault. My death has no meaning; it simply is."

"And your life?"

Clark remembered everything he fought for, everything he was. "My life had meaning. I eloquently fought for justice; I even made a difference in the world. I loved. I am loved."

"That's certainly a testament of your passage on Earth," the pastor responded softly.

Clark stayed quiet for a beat. "But, I still apprehend death."

"That is a normal part of the process. Are you in pain?"

The million-dollar question.

"Numb, sure, but not in pain."

"Physically, mentally, emotionally or spiritually?" the older woman asked in what must have been a recurrent question.

To know that, as exceptional as Superman was supposed to be, Clark had the same preoccupation and limitations as everyone else on the precipice of death was reassuring.

Clark sighed, one hand in his hair. "Physically."

"I see someone is taking care of your physical wellbeing. Are you getting the appropriate support in the other areas?"

"I believe I have. I have a mental health counsellor that checks up on me every day. One of my friends is acting as my emotional support. I have a team of expert checking on my physical wellbeing each day, including my pain level. Spiritually, I've read up on my favourite Bible passages to reorient myself. Your presence today is to gain an outside perspective on my situation."

"If you want, would you read your favourite one for me?"

"Uh, sure. I only need to find it," Clark responded as he struggled to find it in the Bible he had placed beside himself before making that day's call. "Here it is. Make every effort to live in peace with all men and to be holy; without holiness, no one will see the Lord. Hebrews 12:14"

"Amen," Lucy solemnly replied. "That's a good choice. Why do you like it?"

"It puts the responsibility on us to be holy and peaceful, that, even if God could stop all the suffering, all the bad things from happening, we wouldn't be able to recognize his work if we aren't striving for good ourselves. We owe it to the world to be the changes we want to see because God acts through us."

"It seems you put a lot of thought behind that answer," Lucy said.

"Since I was a young boy, I've wanted to be happy and finding meaning; a purpose in my existence helped me find happiness and peace."

"Are you at peace?" she asked.

Clark hesitated and answered truthfully. "No."

"Why?" There was no judgment behind the question.

He exhaled and pressed his fingers in his hair. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Are there any activities that help you find your inner peace or that help you connect with God? Maybe it is time for you to try those activities. They may help you be at peace."

"I would like to pray more. Can we say a prayer together?"

"We can. Choose the one you prefer."

Not long after, Clark closed the computer, feeling better, despite the recent changes.

His life was passing him by too quickly.

People had often told Superman he was beautiful, a statuesque figure worthy of masterpieces. This assessment was no longer accurate.

He wasn't vain, yet, the deterioration of his features had been distressing. Huge lumps appeared on his skin; his face seemed more bloated each day, almost as if distorted by a computer program (one of those joke programs people used to get a smile out of their friends); his muscle appeared more and more deformed. Now, he looked like the parody version of a comic body, one of those classic muscle dumbheads in kid's cartoons, bulges in all the wrong places.

Soon, Clark would stop using the video function on his laptop. He knew it would upset his mom and Lois, yet, that was part of the reason why he had needed to die alone.

His physical capacities, measured each day by Bruce, were diminishing at an astonishing rate. He felt weaker, fragile as a cocooned caterpillar on an unprotected low-hanging branch. It would only get worse.

Clark's pain relievers' dose increased each day. Thankfully, the AI had finally completed the long-term pain relievers. Of course, they had nasty side-effects: nausea, headaches and loss of appetite.

It was strange that amid his physical deterioration, his attention had wandered back to former pleasures. At present, he didn't need to keep an ear open for others'misfortune; he could immerse himself in his favourite books or pray silently without incidents.

Clark felt more insightful than ever about his life, about his relationships, failings and his successes.

It was as if Clark was reconnecting to his innermost self, the one without the masks and preoccupations.

He wasn't there yet; he could sense the subtle change in not only his body but his soul.

Clark wasn't lost.

He was going on his last quest, his more introspective one, the one who could help him define himself, not for others but for himself. Not significant in action, but meaningful.

Would Clark be at peace when death comes knocking?

Will Clark find peace before his demise? See you next week, on Clark is dying for the answer, Clark mused, remembering all his childhood and teenaged shows.

Cliffhangers had invariably vexed him when he was young.

But what was more of a cliffhanger than dying?

Chapter Text

Day 8

Eyes closed, Clark focused wholly on the kneading touch on his back. Strong yet controlled, for the pressure never hurt him, the fingers' knuckles applied themselves to releasing his kinks. Lightly, then harder, then lightly again, they skimmed over his entire exposed back surface, virtuosos at their craft, innate knowledge of his body in their handling. Quick bursts lead the way to tender caresses, light fingers kissing his illness better. There were constant waves of affection, care and love.

Clark sunk further in his bed, letting his touch-starved skin soak in the tingles of pleasure, his mind shattered.

This was heaven.

The hands found his hair scalp and guaranteed their total dominance of his higher functions when they smoothed their way into his brain. Forget words; Clark had forgotten how vowels worked.

Eventually, the hands had to let Clark's scalp go. Clark grunted.

"Clark, time to take your pills."

Incoherently, Clark muttered something into his pillow.

"Clark. If you don't take them now, when the effects of the ones you last ingested disappear, you'll feel more in pain than before you started to take pills."

Clark groaned as the hands turned him on his side and sat him up.

"Take this." A hand shoved pills in Clark's hands. Blurrily, Clark swallowed them. Bitter.

"Stop grimacing," the voice ordered. "Take a sip."

Obediently, Clark sipped the water from the proffered glass, spilling some on his chin. The hands wiped it away.

The hands pushed him back to bed. "Go to sleep."

With such an intensively hypnotizing voice ordering him to, what could Clark do but fall asleep?

Maybe it shouldn't have surprised Clark as much as it did that he woke up, groggy, a few hours later, with morning wood and flashes of a fictitious massage that had veered to eroticism. Seemingly, he was still capable of getting aroused, Clark concluded. Damn Bruce and his divine hands. Maybe his best friends could demonstrate his stroking skills elsewhere.

How would he do that? Would he grip unyieldingly and make Clark cry mercy? Would he tease Clark with soft touches? Would Bruce alternate strong and weak strokes? If he could make Clark boneless with a massage, what could he do with an erotic massage?

Before Clark could grip himself and let his imagination go, he remembered Lois taking care of Ma. Guilt flourished, as his arousal diminished.

This terminal illness was truly messing up with his head. He still had a loyal fiancee, one who respected his wishes and took care of his mother and, he had wanted to cheat on her with Bruce?

Dying was not an acceptable excuse. Nothing was.

Clark looked at the wilting form in his pyjama pants.

He wasn't looking forward to thanking Bruce for the massage without making himself self-conscious about the non-intended satisfaction he'd perceived.

The alarm clock on the nightstand informed Clark it was almost 5:00 p.m.

"Krypto."

His white ball of energy ran to him. Clark petted him.

"Can you help me walk to the kitchen? Good boy."

Now that walking to the kitchen without help was hard, Clark relied on his dog's strength to get him to his destination. He was careful to instruct Krypto to stay clear of Bruce; his best friend disliked his dog with a passion. Krypto reciprocated the feeling.

Leaning heavily on a flying Krypto, Clark let the dog dragged him to the kitchen. Bruce wasn't there. Clark felt the relief and disappointment course through his veins.

He opened the fridge and closed it down. Apple pie. Bruce had brought Ma's famous apple pie to the Fortress of Solitude. The scent, lessened in intensity due to the refrigeration, found its way in Clark's memories, slithered into the nostalgia and guilt. If Clark found himself crying in the kitchen's floor, his back to the fridge, Krypto's wet tongue on his cheeks, it wasn't due to sadness as much as from shock.

He'd already said goodbye to Smallville and its amenities; here he was, being offered another taste of it.

In essence, the gesture was sublime and unwittingly cruel. Which, most days, painted its owner in the same hue.

Bruce supplied all manner of comfort, often food or objects, to Clark; by the same token, he also made it more troublesome for Clark to die.

Clark had never felt weaker and more prone to a breakdown. Someday, he could stare at the ceiling and ponder his existence with quiet sentimentality and acceptance. Then, Bruce would ruin it all with a thoughtful and well-intentioned gesture.

He shouldn't generalize. He should focus on the issue of food.

Clark scratched Krypto's neck.

Should he feed the pie to Krypto? If he did, Bruce might order more of his Ma's food. Clark would live in fear of opening his fridge, dreading the surprise gift (bomb) hidden in it. Clark felt nauseated at the thought.

Should he talk to Bruce about it?

Sorry, Bruce, but stop bringing anything for which I've already said my goodbyes.

Bruce would ask a list. Clark would forget to write a few items; the cycle of anxiety would intensify.

Maybe he should accept Bruce's kindness and ignore the shrapnel stuck in his heart in the aftermath. After all, soon, Clark would be dead. He should expect some minor discomfort along the way.

"What do you think I should do, Krypto?"

Krypto tilted his head and licked him again.

Sighing, Clark wiped his tears and let his faithful dog pull him up.

Was there anything about dying that wasn't a balancing act?

Chapter Text

Day 10

Despite the things Lois was telling him about, Clark couldn't help himself from overhearing part of Bruce's conversation with Alfred.

"Alfred, he's becoming weaker each day." There was a plea in Bruce's voice.

"Master Bruce, pardon me for saying so, but isn't it quite possible nobody can save Master Clark?"

Bruce made a strange coughy sound, almost as if he had attempted to swallow a rock. That may be what precisely he had tried to do.

"Clark, what's wrong?" Lois asked him. Did he miss one of her questions or forgotten to comment?

"I'm fine."

Onscreen, Lois raised one eyebrow. "Oh? So, you're ignoring what I'm saying purely by indifference?"

Nicely done, Lois, he couldn't help but think, you trapped me marvellously.

Clark looked at her, so beautiful in his lazy pullover five times her size used as a dress, her shoulder-length hair, her smooth skin and her sparkly eyes.

Sharp, healthy and attractive. Three things Clark no longer was.

With pills more potent, his mind was hazier at times and, his body was a creaking mess of disfigurement and contortion. The last time he looked in the mirror, he had recoiled at the unsymmetric figure staring back at him. His eyes unevenly situated, one of which was almost blind, had half-melted in his eye socket, his face distorted, inharmonious in its entirety.

Only the deactivation of the video function on his side could persuade him to speak by way of Skype to his loved ones. He made sure Bruce hadn't install other cameras. More than vanity, Clark feared to see a particular thought in their faces. Bruce, as expressionless as he was, wasn't much of a risky factor.

Clark's outward appearance was far from the only changes he had suffered. His thoughts wandered more and more during anyone else's speech. Disconnected, tired, distanced from everyone's issues, Clark felt he was slowing drifting away on a raft in the middle of the ocean, separated from everything he once knew or cared. Conversations often left him disoriented or overwhelmed. Bruce told him the loss of focus was normal.

It was one of the only times Bruce had referred obliquely to Clark dying.

"I'm not indifferent about your stories, Lois; I have difficulty focusing at times." It was only a half-truth.

Lois brought her knees to her chest, the giant pullover playing the part of a dress. "Is there anything you would rather discuss, then? Or do you want us to stop for today?"

"Please don't end the conversation. I don't know when I'll lose my ability to speak; I don't want to waste time."

Lois shook her head, hands pulling down the pullover to cover more of her legs. "Clark, if our conversation has gone too long, we can reschedule shorter sessions several times a day. That way, I'm not overwhelming you and, you can participate fully in our discussion. I would rather have you comfortable than trying to please me: you're the one dying. You get to set the pace of our meetings."

"I know." Clark glanced as he tried to clench his hand tightly. Instead of forming a fist, the hand twitched, some bone already partly fused in his skin.

A monster's hand.

The urge to throw up had never been that intense in Clark's life. He disgusted himself.

"I'm dying, Lois. Sometimes, it hurts, sometimes, I'm numb. Most days, I can't decide which I would rather be."

"Are you sure you don't want me by your side?" Lois gently asked.

"No," he snapped.

Again, she appeared to accept his secretiveness thoughtfully. Clark knew he had to ask: "Are you angry I don't want you here? How are you taking this?"

She sighed. "I'm more disappointed and saddened."

He stayed mute for some time, letting the statement roll over him. "Why?"

His pullover's long sleeves covered her hands as she clasped them together. "We are engaged, Clark."

"We are," he confirmed in a quiet voice, knowing full well they would never get married, never have children together and never grow old together. It was a life Clark tried not to imagine as it vanished from the realm of possibilities.

Lois pinched her lips. "And you don't want me at your sides at the hardest time in your life."

"It's..."

She stopped him with an unimpressed look. "I'm not blaming you; I'm explaining my point of view."

"Go ahead."

Her face turned to her window, outside where it was raining. Clark missed the weather in all its forms and types, all the snow, rain, drizzles, hail and various degrees of sunlight and cloudiness; he missed the wind, lazy and cold, harsh and unforgiving, temperamental and hot- he longed for it all. It felt strange grieving the weather, but somehow he did.

But he was grieving Lois even more. "We were looking forward to a future together," Lois admitted to her window. She paused and swallowed, eyes unblinking as if looking at a faraway object. "And you crashed and announced you were dying. Then, not long after, you declared you wanted to die alone." Emotions strained her voice until it was barely audible to Clark's enhanced hearing. She stared at the camera, not accusingly, before adding: "You didn't consult me. You didn't want to compromise or explore other options. It was a fait accompli and, I was but a bystander in your life's choices."

He had hurt her by not involving her in the decision making. That realization stung.

"I was angry, initially, to be forced to accept your wishes without any discussion. Until..."

"Until?"

She grimaced as she half-heartedly admitted, "Until Bruce came to visit me." Clark's mouth grew dry as his heart started beating in panic.

"He told me he wasn't about to let a people-loving idiot like you die alone even if it was your wish. He gave me the choice of going- of ignoring your wishes. He said he would take care of your Ma." Lois smiled, reminiscing the meeting.

"You turned it down."

"I did," Lois softly said, her eyes half fluttering close for a second. "I decided to stay here until you would ask me to come. If I were to marry you, I had to be able to respect your choices even if I disagreed with them."

"Lois... Is that why you were telling me to get along with Bruce? "

She nodded. "I believe you're both wrong, but your hearts are in the right place."

When it became clear he wouldn't comment, Lois continued.

"Are you glad Bruce is there with you?"

Again, the million-dollar question.

"I..."

Yes and no. Guilt, anger, sadness, grief and pleasure warred each other.

"You don't need to answer, Clark, if you don't want. I just want to make one thing clear; when I said I wouldn't begrudge any comfort you may get, I meant it; the last thing I want is for you to die miserable and alone." There was something vulnerable- a hint of a Lois Clark had never seen this wholly before- in her figure and eyes.

"Thank you," Clark answered affectionately, "that means the world to me."

"But you still don't want me to come," Lois said.

"No," Clark replied.

The silence stretched between them.

"Then, that's it. I'll stop asking."

Clark had a question. "Was your raccoon story true?"

"What?"

He repeated, "Your raccoon story, was it true?"

She shrugged. "I embellished the truth a bit... My father is a great shot. It took him a few weeks to find and kill our raccoon. We did have to cohabit with him for weeks beforehand, though."

"If you had explained the murder of the raccoon, you didn't think it was an appropriate analogy for my current situation?"

She appeared amused by his decrypting of her intent. "It didn't exactly fit with your Modus of Operations; coexisting with someone who believes they are doing the right thing is more your style than my father's. That's why you're the reporter and my father is in the army."

Clark couldn't deny how right she was.

Chapter Text

Day 12

Today, Clark felt okay, not great, not bad. Okay.

Again, Bruce had had to up the pills' doses. It dulled Clark's remaining capacities, yet, let him live without too much pain. In technical terms, Clark's functional and sensory pain was well managed. He could move without too much pain.

Clark's need to connect had decreased since he had started living at the Fortress of Solitude. In the beginning, he skyped with at least a dozen people per day; now, he could barely attempt to skype his Ma and Lois each day.

Krypto's presence was godsent. Petting him was an effortless action he could undertake whenever he felt like it.

Yesterday, Bruce had read Clark's favourite Bible passages. It was necessary; Clark's vision was practically nonexistent. Today, Bruce had recited a prayer with Clark in solidarity more than in actual belief.

Clark's mind wandered more and more each day, musing about his beliefs, his life and his death. Introspection and contemplation led him to higher understanding.

What had once bothered him had become a piece of the tapestry of his story.

He had somehow drained most of the pus of his anger, leaving a permanent scab, an imprint of the feeling on his metaphorical skin.

Clark wasn't angry anymore: not with himself, not with others. The awareness of that fact was liberating and saddening- as if he was already leaving humanity. Maybe enlightenment felt like this.

He could smell Bruce's natural lemongrass-alike musk, a scent he had grown to love; he had spent a lifetime ignoring their genetic and interpersonal compatibility.

"Bruce," he whispered, "We need to talk."

His best friend clasped his hand, a gesture he had done more and more in recent days. It was all the acknowledgement Clark needed.

With a throat rasping in pain, he said, "Why did you come here?"

He could feel Bruce think as if the electricity generated by his brain charged the air.

"Why did you want to die alone?"

Fair enough, Clark wryly thought.

His vision was blurry as he looked at the dark silhouette beside him. He felt no anxiety about telling the truth to Bruce.

"I was scared," Clark confessed. "I spent a lifetime fearing that people would see me as a monster instead of a human being."

Bruce grumbled, "And your Einstein idea was that if nobody saw you dying of cells' degeneration, nobody could label you as a monster. Nobody could see how the illness could twist your appearance."

Clark gave a lazy smile in his direction. "It was stupid, vain and selfish. I didn't want anyone to see me as a monster."

"You're not a monster. You're almost too kind to be human." Bruce squeezed his hand.

Clark let the words wash over him; he permitted himself to accept them at face value. A soft feeling inundated him, granting him something he once thought he had achieved.

Acceptance.

"My mind understands that," Clark chuckled. He touched his chest with his free hand. "My heart has difficulty perceiving it." Something pressed his other hand tightly in agreement.

He didn't push Bruce to answer his question; he knew the response would come when his friend was ready.

"I came because I'm selfish." Bruce's voice was tight, barely restrained. "I couldn't let you, inexperienced in pain, manage your health on your own; I couldn't let you, who like people too much for your own good, die alone." His voice rushed through the words, a torrent of repressed defence, a barrage of worries, tremors of Bruce's deep well of emotions.

Clark squeezed the calloused and warm hand back. He could feel Bruce touch his own face.

After a moment, Clark observed, "We're both selfish, aren't we?"

Silence.

"...Is that your prelude to force me to get along with your dog?"

"How did you know? Did you develop that telepathic technology you were talking about years ago?"

"That's secret and, you're a reporter. Those two don't mix well together," Bruce answered.

Clark smiled in his direction, unseeing his friend's reactions. "Off the record, give me a hint."

Bruce's silky lips touched his knuckles in a quick but tender peck. In reaction to such a modest gesture, Clark was surprised to be blushing.

"Is that enough clues?" Bruce hesitantly asked.

No, never. Tell me you love me, Clark wanted to say. But it wasn't his place to make demands; Bruce would feel obliged to say it since Clark was dying.

Instead, Clark's hand skimmed up the hand that held it until it reached Bruce's upper arm and, he pulled him down for a sloppy kiss.

Their mouths slothed together nicely. Although Clark's lips were deformed and rough, they could still feel the myriad of sensations that could come with a great kiss, all the taste buds that fired up, all the sticky saliva, the hard teeth and the malleable tongue and lips. He could still experience the thrill of adventure and romance.

Strangely, Clark felt no arousal, simply embers of satisfaction and contentment. As much as sex might have been enjoyable at another time, now, he rather liked slowly meeting each other, skin tingling with solace rather than pain.

Dying could wait another day; today, Clark was celebrating life.

Chapter Text

Day 15

Clark could hear Bruce speaking with Lois somewhere away.

"Be honest, Bruce, how is he?"

"Worsening. Clark's health's decline accelerates: his eyes and his left arm are entirely useless; his internal organs' cells are starting to deconstruct."

Silence.

"How long does he have to live?"

"Days, if that," Bruce mechanically responded.

"The A.I. program estimated it would take over three weeks," Lois accused.

"They miscalculated how quickly the organs would start to be affected."

Clark could hear the quiet tears falling from Lois's cheek, echoed by Bruce's unnaturally frustrated pacing.

"Is... is he in pain?"

Bruce answered, "According to our pre-established code and his general body language, I would say no."

"Can he still hear me?"

"He does," Bruce assured. "He responds well to audio or sense stimulus, but his larynx is too inflated to operate. Do you want me to put you beside his bed? If you want, I can even give you some time alone if you tell me how long it'll be."

"How long can he focus?"

"About fifteen minutes at a time."

"Give me fifteen minutes, then," Lois bravely requested. Clark could remember how she would look when she grew determined about an issue: how tears instantly seemed to dry up and how her eyes fixed a distance with attention. Unstoppable Lois, they called her behind her back at the Daily Planet.

Bruce walked beside Clark and placed the phone beside his ear. He touched Clark's arm and announced, "I'm leaving. I'll be back in fifteen minutes." He left.

Lois waited for a beat after the footsteps subsided, then she said, "When we first met, I underestimated you, Clark. I misunderstood your kindness as a sign of weakness in our cut-throat world of the news; I overlooked your principles as inflexibility; I mistook your patience as a lack of confidence. All in all, I was pretentious and dismissive."

"Then, gradually, you, not Superman, made me realize that I was the thing I hated the most about the world: I was the cold and superior elite who thought I was above everyone. It's a hard thing to admit, but you deserve honesty, Clark, you always did."

Lois gave a small laugh; Clark could almost taste the tears on the tip of his tongue. "You changed me, Clark, for the better. I became a better person, a better lover and a better friend by knowing you. I'm sure you've done the same with lots of people. The world is better with you in it; I am better with you in it. I don't know how I'll survive this, Clark, but I will."

Lois stopped. Clark wanted to answer her that she had made him a better person, lover and friend too; that she taught him a lot; that her presence had enriched his world and his life. He wanted to add this as an addendum to the video he had recorded for her.

Unfortunately, Bruce hadn't exaggerated his vocal capacity; Clark was incapable of uttering anything.

Lois went on, pensive. "I was never the romantic type, never really believed in those perfect man tall tales, before I fell for you. You were everything I could ever dream for a spouse. I'll continue to call you several times a day however, I wanted to make sure you received this message while you were still alert."

Lois paused again as if to gather the strength to say the last part, to conclude her heartfelt goodbye (because this was what it was).

"You were the poet, not me. I'm sure you'd find the words to say it more poetically, but here I go: I love you. I always will."

The rawness in her voice spoke of authenticity, a genuine vulnerability Lois usually hid behind her go-getter attitude.

When footsteps entered the room again, Clark almost jumped up. Bruce spoke: "Did you say all you wanted, Lois?"

"Yes, thanks, Bruce. Clark, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

After hanging up the phone, Bruce laid on Clark's bed. With his solid human arms, he hugged Clark as he would cradle a newborn.

"Let it out."

Clark's arm took hold of Bruce's arm; tears didn't fall from his eyes, but not from lack of trying.

He allowed it out, all his disappointment, plans, hopes and dreams. They shook through his body, ripping his last shred of faith of a tomorrow that would never be; he breathed it out. Again. And again. The cycle, repeating on a loop that felt endless.

He let Bruce hug him to sleep.

Chapter Text

Day ??

Clark lost track of days, hours and minutes. He sleeps, or dozes, almost all the time.

Sometimes, he hears Bruce reading Clark's favourite stories, prayers or playing Clark's favourite music or movies in the background. Sometimes, it's quiet- whether because Clark's hearing is failing him or whether there's no sound is unknown.

Despite everything, Bruce's soothing heartbeat is seemingly always located in Clark's room.

In retrospect, Clark should have allowed himself to read the signs long ago. He should have realized why he was happy that Bruce was here at the end with him; why it was okay for Bruce to see Clark's grotesque appearance while Lois wasn't permitted.

Bruce was imperturbable. He wouldn't flinch at Clark's monstrosity: hadn't Bruce already once imagined the worst of Superman, mistrusted him?

Yet, here they were, together, without illusions at the end of Clark's journey, as they were meant to be.

Clark let Bruce wipe his body, massaging his muscle-melded-skin. Organs decayed, he could feel the shift, the quiet gaining traction in his mind. He felt detached from his body, already on the verge of his separation.

He had grieved everyone (or almost), every place, every moment. It was nearly time to bid his farewell to his loyal body, the one that had carried him this far, this well through tribulations and pain, love and pleasure.

His body had been superb, a miracle at work. Healthy and responsive to his commands, his body had led him through his life. Together, they had achieved and endured much. 'Thanks,' Clark muttered in his mind and heart, 'for carrying me until now.'

Maybe he had carried him too well.

Even now, there wasn't any pain. It seemed almost unfair to depart like this, untouched by hurt, spiritual or otherwise, cheating to the finish line.

Bruce diligently finished cleaning him up, but his hands loitered on his arm, letting him know he was still present.

Clark smiled before softly falling back into his dozing breathing pattern.

Even now, Clark remained an inordinately blessed person.

Chapter Text

Day ??

It was strange, Clark thought, he had more energy now than he had had in days.

He felt... okay, despite not having eaten anything substantial in days, only what the tube fed him.

It didn't bother him that he couldn't talk or see. That, too, was all right.

He sat up in his bed. He could feel the heat from the presence coming closer. "Clark?"

Clark nodded. A hand touched his shoulder as Bruce asked, "Do you want something?"

Clark pondered the question with the seriousness of a philosopher deliberating about existential issues.

Initially, his mind couldn't conjure anything he wanted: he was strangely cheerful.

Then, he thought of something; he leaned into Bruce's touch and wrapped his arm- or tried- around Bruce's torso, dragging him closer.

Bruce froze for a moment, then relaxed on his side.

They didn't say anything for a long time. Clark didn't quite feel like napping despite it now being his preferred pastime.

He brought a hand to Bruce's throat and wrote a music note in the air, hoping Bruce would catch on.

He did.

With his gravelly voice, Bruce sang in many languages known to Clark (Kryptonian, English and Spanish) and, in many others, Clark didn't recognize.

Eventually, Bruce had to stop for loss of voice.

That was okay too.

Ultimately, every song had to end to lend place to another.

Every day had to finish so the sun may rise again.

And Clark had had a very fulfilling day. He didn't have to care about the details any longer, about its annoyances and minutiae. He could go to sleep without stress about his day.

His body had done his job admirably well; it had run up its mileages. The Kryptonian didn't need that broken down vehicle anymore.

So, Clark left this day, this car, behind with no regrets.