Chapter Text
Sometimes he dreams of flying, only to wake with the hollow sensation of falling. Having renounced his super memory, he only recalls minute details about the whole scene: the flush of an orange-pink sky, the breeze threading through his uniform, and Earth’s sun in its munificent and solemn glory. It shines just above his shoulders, leaving an imprint of familiar, reassuring warmth between his shoulder blades. He can still feel it after snapping open his eyes, his breath hitching as he reaches out instinctively, desperate to grasp something, anything, because he believes he’s plunging into an abyss of absolute darkness. A phantom bliss from a life that no longer belongs to him.
Then all is quiet to his human ears, save for the low hum of the refrigerator. Clark scrubs a hand over his forehead before dragging himself out of bed and taking a quick, reluctant shower. It’s the final day of his paid leave—the official reason being that, like so many others, he is still recovering from the trauma of Brainiac’s ambush. In truth, he just needed distance after completing the report on Superman’s last public appearance.
While he reheats the three-day-old mozzarella sticks for breakfast, his phone buzzes against the fabric of his pajama pants. Lois is calling through Wayne Enterprise’s encrypted app. Maybe it’s out of habit, but more likely because she’s worried about the “aftermath”. Knowing Lois, and given how she’s been persistently checking in every day for the past six days, he doesn’t need to wonder. He really does appreciate that she tries to keep him from spiraling, from folding in on himself, hollowed out by emotions he can’t outrun.
But since he has decided Lois doesn’t need to know that guilt and grief are at the heart of it, there’s little she can do.
“Smallville,” she greets first, her voice warm and steady. “I’m cooking dinner tonight. Diana’s coming, too. Will you join us?”
He can’t help but let a small smile tug at his lips. “Finally taking some actions, huh?”
“Hey, stop mocking me!” she chides tenderly. “It’s just dinner, nothing special.”
“A dinner date, though," he teases. "You sure you want me tagging along?”
“Think of it as doing a friend a favor, so things won’t be quite so awkward," she says. “And in return, you’ll actually get to eat some decent food for once.”
That hits a nerve. His gaze shifts to the mozzarella sticks, steaming on the plate fresh from the microwave. He’s been living off takeout and cereal for the better part of a week. At this point, any real food is like a mercy.
“Tempting. But are you sure…”
“Clark.” She exhales, a touch of impatience softening into something gentler. “I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you there. I might not be the best strategist when it comes to courting a goddess...”
“You should tell her that…” he murmurs.
“But I figure I'll have plenty of chances for one-on-one time with her later. Now I just want to spend a good evening with my friends. Is that ok?”
He swallows, the warmth in his stomach buzzing with quiet pleasure. “Yeah, of course. I’ll bring the beer.”
“Thanks a lot. See you around 7.” She waits for a few more seconds and hangs up, leaving Clark alone with the hiss of white noise.
He slips the cell phone into his pocket and reaches for the plate on the counter. It’s still scalding. "Aw," he yelps, jerking his hand back. Absentmindedly, he wonders if the sharp sting feels anything like a sunburn.
——
He shows up at Lois’s apartment just before 6:50 pm, a six-pack in one hand and a box of strawberry and red velvet cupcakes in the other. The button-up shirt and dress pants aren’t an attempt to dress up. He has simply run out of clean, comfy clothes after spending the past week holed up in his room. He makes a mental note: do laundry tonight, no more excuses.
Lois lets him in merely one second after he presses the doorbell, quick enough to make Clark ask as she takes his stuff from his hands, “How long have you been standing here, waiting for me?” She looks momentarily baffled before the reminder of a depowered Clark sinks in, and she smiles. “Barely a minute. We do share one braincell, you know.”
Shoes off, he steps into the living room. His mouth waters at the rich, savory smell of Alfredo sauce wafting from the kitchen, where Lois carries the beer and cupcakes. He trails after her. At the counter, Diana is tossing a salad, draped in a simple blue dress that draws Lois’s gaze whenever she thinks the other woman isn’t looking.
“Kal,” she nods at him sideways but doesn’t stop her task at hand, mixing the salad—with avocado and raisin, his favorites—using both hands to maneuver the salad servers, her motions ever so effortlessly graceful. It isn’t until he waves at her that he registers it: she’s calling him by his birthname, a touching yet distant syllable ringing in his ears.
He snaps out of it almost immediately, when the genial expression on Diana’s face begins to falter and understanding settles in her wise eyes. “Can I help you with anything?” he asks.
“The plates,” Diana instructs him, her eyes cast downward at the salad bowl. “Lois will grab the utensils.”
“Umm?” upon hearing her name, his other friend, still staring at the Amazonian, gets startled and glances at him over her shoulder for help.
“Utensils,” he mouths.
“Oh, right, of course,” she answers quickly, flashing Clark a thumbs-up.
They set the table in amicable silence. As the basic chore keeps his hands busy, Clark’s mood noticeably lifts. He feels…useful.
Lois insists that he sits at the head of the table, the seat typically reserved for the host. He complies, if only because he has no excuse to pretend this evening isn’t implicitly centered around him. They forgo small talks and begin eating, ignoring formalities, while Lois heaps generous portions of chicken fettuccine Alfredo onto each guest’s plate and tops their small mountains of salad with grilled salmon filets.
The quiet stretches long, only broken by the sounds of chewing. After a few minutes, Clark sets down his fork and dabs his mouth with a napkin. He asks, acting naturally, “How’s the League these days?”
Diana parts her lips to speak, but Lois, wearing a mock frown, cuts her off, “No work talk at the dinner table!”
“You heard her,” Diana rises to fetch more salad, giving his shoulder a light pat on her way. Clark is not accustomed to the sensation of her fingers digging into his now-vulnerable skin, but he doesn’t mind it. Despite the bleak connotation concerning the loss of his power, this kind of fleeting touch, which he can feel, draws him closer to those he loves.
“Then you can't complain about Perry making a Pulitzer winner cover some celebrity’s divorce,” Clark almost pouts.
“Wasn’t planning to!” Lois shoots back.
Tranquility envelopes them once again, before Diana raises the corner of her mouth and sighs. “Work aside, our lives aren’t that boring.”
Lois opens her mouth. “I was about to gossip…”
“For someone who hates writing about gossip, you sure love to indulge in it,” Clark grins.
“Oh, be quiet! Or else you’ll replace the Flash and become my first target,” she declares. That promptly shuts Clark up.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Diana asks, a rare glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Maybe,” Lois says, a reporter’s resolution flares on her face. “If you’re referring to how he and Captain Cold defended Central City together against Brainiac’s robots rather tacitly…”
“And how, after we broke out of those terrariums, the first thing he asked—still dazed—was, ‘Where’s Len?’” Diana adds matter-of-factly.
Lois lifts her fork and waves it for emphasis. “They hugged, didn’t they?”
“They did,” Diana nods at her. “I didn’t miss the faint flush on Snart’s cheeks either. He was just as relieved to see the other safe and sound.”
“And you know what,” Lois smirks. “Iris told me Barry’s been grabbing drinks with the same ‘guy friend’ after work three days in a row. She knows it’s the same person since Barry’s terrible at lying. Yesterday, out of genuine concern and a little curiosity, she followed him... and found out the ‘friend’ was none other than Leonard Snart. He even had the audacity to salute her from behind the booth.”
“That…must have been embarrassing for Barry,” Clark points out, though he makes little effort to conceal the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Lois’s gaze sweeps past Diana’s chiseled jawline and lands in the empty space between them. “Apparently, Barry buried his face in Snart’s shoulder after getting caught. It’s kind of sweet, how far they’ve come.”
The other woman catches her eyes in midair with an encouraging smile. “Hard to believe the Flash’s debut had them as sworn enemies, and now Captain Cold has earned the anti-hero title and a place at Barry’s side.”
“I think…” Lois pauses, thoughtful. “The attraction’s always been there, though its meaning has shifted overtime. Snart has principles. He’s odd but funny. And Barry’s…Barry, with those doe eyes and a heart way too big for his own good.”
“Needless to say, both are handsome and solidly built.”
“Yeah, that certainly plays a part. But more than that, I’m just glad—out of all the paths their lives could’ve taken—they found this one. And if they choose to, they can surely build something lasting from it.”
“I agree,” Diana says firmly. “Ah, we should toast to that. Kal, can you grab the beer…Kal?”
“Sorry.” Clark shudders and gags, abruptly pushing back from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “I…I need the bathroom.” Without waiting for a response, he stumbles away, making it just in time to the toilet, where he collapses to his knees and empties his stomach, wracked by waves of nausea and dizziness.
“Oh, no,” someone mutters from the bathroom doorway as he slumps onto the cold tiles, struggling to catch his breath.
——
Consciousness drifts in and out of him with ease. He recalls the jostle of being maneuvered onto the ambulance, the hushed urgency in his friends’ voices, and the sterile panel light searing through his half-closed eyelids. Everything in between is swallowed by relentless, unforgiving darkness.
Then shapes begin to form. Shifting blocks of black and grey are pulled apart by some unseen force, split into two distinct halves. The darker tones sink into the soft sprawl of grass, while the lighter ones stretch upward, becoming a clear night sky. In the space between, where he now stands, scattered remnants of shadow gather, forming the rough, familiar texture of an old jacket draped over his shoulders.
“You could’ve taken better care of yourself,” Lex says from behind, his tone devoid of the usual tinge of sarcasm.
Clark turns around to look at him. The other man has suited up in a white-and-purple three-piece, the soft moonlight reflecting off his polished shoes. What’s more notable about him, though, is his jaw-length red hair. It’s almost long enough to brush his brows, stirring against the night breeze.
“Lex,” his voice cracks. “Am I dead?”
“What if you are?” Lex replies, his first word eerie and bell-like, but following that is unmistakably the intonation of the Lex he knows, smooth with an edge.
A laugh, surprisingly genuine to his ears, escapes Clark. Lex is unamused.
“Then I’m just glad I get to see you one last time,” Clark confesses quietly. “Will my parents—both of El and of Kent—be here too?”
The expression Lex wears is impossible to read. He sucks in a measured breath and lets it out slowly. “Damn it, Clark, I can’t even laugh at you. Why can’t you stop being so damn miserable?”
“I…” Stunned by his outburst, Clark exhales. “So I’m alive?”
“I honestly have no idea how you’ve reached this conclusion; it’s definitely not through logical deduction,” Lex says dryly. “But yes. You’ve got a long future ahead of you…assuming you’ve learned not to eat expired cheese.”
“Oh, that,” Clark rubs his forehead. He’s got a nasty fever, but his mind is clearer than ever. “Guess I’ll be extra careful with food from now on.”
“Do you have any survival instinct?” Lex snaps. “Those mozzarella sticks smelled wrong!”
“I thought it should taste like that to the human palate,” he answers sheepishly before realization hits him. “Wait. How did you know about the mozzarella sticks?”
Lex takes a step forward, still keeping his distance. “If that’s what you’re wondering, I’m not a fragment of your mind.”
Taking any of Lex’s words at their face value has been proven, time after time, a risky yet right decision. He follows his instinct and swallows hard. “Ok. Then…you’ve been with me this whole time?
Lex’s lips tremble. He starts to speak, but his words don’t reach Clark’s ears. The colors blur and swirl once more, obscuring Lex’s presence. Amid the deadly stillness, Clark cries out Lex’s name and bolts toward him like a madman.
He charges into a wash of fluorescent light. Blinking against the glow, he begins to make out familiar shapes gathered around his bed. His eyes are damp, the rims stinging with tears.
The next few minutes are hectic. A doctor comes in to check his vital signs, asks how he feels, and gives him the permission to sip some water. It tastes like nothing but his spit, though he doesn’t throw it up. Meanwhile, the IV fluid he’s on keeps dripping into his body steadily to sustain his hydration level, a sight he finds oddly soothing.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Lois says, squeezing his hand.
“Us,” Diana adds gently from the other side of the bed.
“Sorry…” His voice is so faint, even he can barely make out the word. “Won’t happen again. I promise.” He turns his gaze to Diana, his neck strained. “Did they see you?”
She frowns. “Of course they did. But that’s not something you need to worry about, Clark. You’ve always been a trusted ally and a good friend to the League. I have every right to be here.”
“Thank you…”
“Cut it out, Smallville,” Lois says behind a weary smile. “We’re just glad you’re ok.”
“Me too,” he mumbles.
“But, to ensure you’ll have a speedy recovery,” Lois tugs someone forward. Clark blinks. It’s Constantine.
The occultist shrugs, tone casual. “I was in town for a pro bono case. Lois rang me up and said you passed out in her bathroom after eating her pasta.”
“It wasn’t the pasta, I swear.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the occultist goes on. “I’m going to check your soul palace—your yuan chen gong*—just to make sure everything’s in order. Mostly your health.”
“Uh…what’s that?”
“Every living soul’s got one, Clarky. Think of it like a reflection of your fate, a place where your soul resides. Each chamber of the soul palace mirrors a piece of your life.” A pause. “You won’t feel a thing. Just a quick look and I’ll patch up whatever’s busted, if need be.”
Under Lois’s expectant eyes, Clark gives a brief nod.
“Good. I’ll need the ladies to step out so I can focus.” At that, Lois and Diana quietly move away from his bedside, heading toward the door of his private room—courtesy of the League, perhaps.
“Should I do anything?”
“No. Just sit tight. I only need to look at you and think of your real name. Won’t take a second.” Constantine settles into the chair beside his bed, his eyes fixed on the air in front of him, with only the edge of his vision brushing against Clark’s pale face.
Despite his burning curiosity, Clark reins himself in and resists the urge to ask which name Constantine’s referring to.
“All right, I’m in. Standing at the front gate of your soul palace. Loads of ivy creeping up the metal. Looks like you’ve been neglecting your mind and body lately,” the occultist remarks. To this, Clark doesn’t respond.
“Right then, straight to the point…I’m at the main shrine. The lamp, which is your life force, is running low. I’ll give it a bit of fuel. Will take a while to feel it. And don’t forget, this is just a supplement to the proper medicine you’re already on.”
“Noted,” Clark says. “The tang in my throat seems to already ease up.”
“Good. Now I…” The occultist’s eyes become distant, as if he’s in a trance.
Clark pushes him up on his elbows. “What is it?”
A sudden, uncharacteristically wistful look flickers in his eyes. “When I exited the shrine, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Kent. They’re worried about you.”
If he had any more spit to spare, Clark might’ve choked on it. “Oh. What do they look like?”
“Mr. Kent’s taller here than in that photo you showed me. Your mum’s in a dress, bright colour, hard to miss. They both look strong in this realm, more muscular than memory.” Constantine pauses, and then adds gently, “You should know… they’re angry. But mostly, they’re sad. Because you’re hurting yourself.” He offers a sorrowful smile.
A throaty sob slips from him.
“Anything you want me to tell them?” Constantine asks. “I’ll be sending them back to the light soon. They can’t linger here much longer. And no apologies—they made that clear.”
Quickly gathering himself, he asks, “Can you tell them I miss them…so much? And that I’ll start taking better care of myself.”
There’s a brief silence. Then Constantine says, “They said you’ll always be their baby. And it’s time you start living for yourself, not for anyone else.”
“I can try,” he mumbles through a teary smile.
“I’ve passed it on and sent them back.”
“Thank you,” his voice is thick with emotion. “It really means a lot.”
“No worries.” Another beat. “Hold on, someone else is here…but they’re deeper inside your soul palace. I sure hope it’s not some evil spirit taking advantage of your current state,” he says solemnly.
Before Clark can ask for clarification, the crease between Constantine’s brows deepens. “Alright, I see him now, just outside your bedroom, in the palace garden. Bloody hell. This place could use some trimming and a good soak, but we’ll get to that later. Let me approach him, see what he’s about.”
“Wait,” Clark says, heart thudding. “You…don’t recognize him?”
“Nope. Fancy suit, tousled red hair. That ring any bells for you?”
Clark shuts his eyes just in time to hear Constantine exclaim, “He’s gone.”
When he opens them again, Lex’s ghost stands at the foot of his bed, staring at him with the fierce intensity of a newborn sun.
“No,” Clark says quietly. “He’s not.”