Alfred
She gets in first. She doesn't look up at him, of course.
Instead, he watches as her trembling hands reach for him, her deep blue eyes filled with sadness, with distress, with pain – so much pain. She settles on the backseat, and immediately, the Bat and the Invincible Woman gently lay his body on her lap.
He didn't know him, not really, but the sight of him, the sight of them, the fallen hero and the shaterred heart he leaves behind, is enough to make his own ache.
Bruce closes the door, but once again, she doesn't care. She craddles his face, shaking fingers tenderly running on his now cold skin, so softly, with so much care. Tears roll down her darkened cheeks, but she doesn't wipe them away. She doesn't, and, her chest shaken by silent sobs, she simply leans down and kisses his forehead, one of her hands reaching for his unresponsive one.
Feeling like an intruder in such an intimate moment, Alfred pulls up the thick glass between the passenger and the driver's sides, and starts the car.
Right before it fully closes, he hears Lois Lane whisper her love to Superman one last time.
Diana
She goes to see her.
With what Bruce told her, they'll have to talk to her, eventually, but this time, it's not about that. She goes to see her, not as a soldier trying to prepare for war, not as a warrior trying to figure out what makes her the 'key' to the future of Metropolis – possibily of the world. None of that.
She goes to see her as a sister. As someone who's lived through what she's living, who suffered what she's suffering.
Diana can see she's surprised to find her at her door. Of course she is. She's mefiant at first, doesn't talk much. The Amazon guesses the woman is not one to open up easily, anyway. It comes as no surprise that she's not keen on doing so regarding that particular subject, either.
But eventually, she tells her.
She tells her about the bad dreams, which after weeks are still there, and about the times when she wakes up, and forgets he's not here anymore. She tells her about how when she reaches and his side of the bed is empty, she wants to die.
She tells her that for the first time in her life, she started thinking about having kids. Not because he wanted to, even though she knew he did, or because she felt obligated to or some bullshit like that – but just because she wanted that. She was the first to be surprised, but she really did - with him, she wanted a family, a lifetime and far more. "Talk about an ironic turn of events."
She tells her about the guilt. She should have figure it out faster, should have known about Lex's plans to create his abomination and stop it in time. She should have been there for him, she shoudn't have let him go and isolate himself. She should have stop him from going to his death, because he didn't deserve it. She hates herself.
Not just herself, though. Everything. Everyone.
She hates Luthor, his sidekicks, all the ones, from the politicians to the wealthy and the poor, who worshipped him. She hates the world, for making him think he was unfair and hated and a fraud. She hates them, Diana and Bruce, for surviving when he didn't. She hates him, for sacrificing himself like that and leaving her all alone.
(Then again, him, she can't never hate for long.)
She tells her about all those damn feelings and how they never, ever leave her alone and it's a constant hell, a living nightmare she can't wake up from. Diana wishes she could tell her it would eventually stop, that eventually, it would be alright. She doesn't.
Lois is far too clever to believe her lie, anyway.
Perry
It's been one year today.
It's hard to forget. He disappeared the same night Superman did, and the city – the whole damn world – is publically grieving, through social medias, in the streets, on the radio. The news won't shut up about it.
Part of him – the cynical one – can't help but think that some of them are just hypocrites, but then the other part of him knows that most of them mean it, most of them are sorry, most of them regret. He certainly does. He knows it won't change much - too little, too late - but he hopes that wherever he is, the poor guy can see it.
Of course, it's impossible to forget the date of his death because of Superman, but even if there hadn't been that, he wouldn't have forgotten.
How could he.
For all the hard time he gave him, he liked the boy. A good kid – a really good one, as annoying as he could get. Gone too young, far too soon. Even now, and particularly today, the thought still wears him down. Shitty life it was.
She hadn't been the same since that day. He didn't expect her to – nobody did. Nobody that knew her, least of all those that knew them. Between those two, it was as fast and unexpected as it was true, he knew.
She put up a good face, of course. She was tough, always had been. According to his wife, that even why she was his favorite ("The only person as butt-headed and thick skinned as you.") But this time, she took a hit, a real one.
The worst life could have dropped on her, and shit, how it did.
All the habits pre-Kent came back, only amplified by a million: the working all day long, sometimes all night long, the unhealthy amount of coffee – and sometimes, he knew, of alcool. Her damn tendency to not feed herself. He could have killed them for the number of stupid lovesick looks they used to throw at each other all day, not to mention the few times they arrived late – from lunch or in the morning - with equally happy stupid expressions, but at least, it put a smile on her face. Always did.
Now, he couldn't remember the last time he had seen one of those on her.
He looks up to see her exit the elevator, lips tighten and eyes betraying that her thoughts aren't here despite her confident walk towards her desk. She's pale. As she drops her bag, he sees her gaze catch with the diamand on her left hand, and he sighs, his old ticker tightening at the look that crosses her features.
She quickly turns and gets back to work.
That day, he can see her stopping herself from turning towards what used to be his desk. Taking the corruptions investigation as an excuse, he takes her to help him out on the field, cursing the sky that that's the only damn thing he can do.
Bruce
When he comes back, she's at their door before they even have the time to reach for her, an unreadable face and a firm and demanding 'What's the plan?' the only greeting they get.
(She barely spares him a glance, and won't do so unless she absolutely has to, in the days that follow. Not that he can blame her.)
She's here night and day, focus never wavering as they search for him, try to find a way to get to him, make him see sense. Deliver him from whatever hold Darkseid has on him, and that made him forget everything he stands for, everything he is.
Sometimes, they see a slight flutter, the pain crossing her blue eyes as she looks up at the screens and doesn't see the man she's fallen for, not yet, right before she averts her eyes and looks away, regaining her neutral expression as quickly as it disappeared.
It lasts for a few days, and seems like an eternity. It does, and at times, it almost seems impossible. But they continue, because they have too, and because they can't let the Kryptonian hero down – not again. Besides, there's hope.
After all, there's one thing he knows Clark didn't forget. Not really.
Looking up as her hurried steps come closer, her engaged in an intense conversation with Diana, Arthur and Alfred, the words come back to him again. She's the key.
As it turns out, she is.
Martha
She lights up again.
Whenever she used to come to the farm, during that terrible year, she'd always try and put up a good face. She did her best to be of enjoyable company, tried to put some enthusiasm in her stories as she told her about work and her on going investigations, fought to dig up some true and sincere smiles. And sometimes, they did manage genuine laughs.
Sometimes, for just a moment, the pain felt a little less, and it seemed that they were able to properly breath again. It never lasted very long, but at least being with each other granded them those few moments of temporary relief.
It did, and even when it didn't, Lois tried – she really tried to be strong. She was strong. But her smiles weren't as bright, and they rarely reached her eyes anymore. Martha would often find her glancing at the photographs of his own smile, at his old cap hanging near the door. More than once, she came out of his room on the mornings with eyes and cheeks redden by wiped tears Martha pretended not to notice.
(She'd just squeeze her hand, and she'd squeeze back, and they both would go on, because they both knew that was what he would have wanted.)
But when he comes back, she lights up again.
She's not like before, not really - never will be. Sometimes, Martha can still see the ghost of it all in her eyes when she looks at him, the inevitable fear that it might happen again never far. There's also the way that in the first days, she's constantly alert, always reaching for him. There's the mistrust mixed with the gratitude he sees and tells Martha about, when the League comes by their apartment that first week to fill him in on some important hero, saviors of the world stuff that can't really wait.
But despite all that, there's also the smiles that come back, the real ones. The vivacity, the witiness, the back and forths with him that leave her eyes sparkling. The bags under them start disappearing as sleep comes back, her cheeks regain their colors. She starts laughing again, and Martha realizes how long it's been since she's heard her done that.
That day, they're on the couch when she gets back in the house, her wrinckled hands dirty from her gardening. The TV is on, and they're watching some action movie. At least she's kind of watching, because Clark is just laying there, back to her chest, dozzing of as her fingers gently go back and forth in his dark curls. As the hero on the screen starts running towards his car, he catches one of her hands and brings their joined ones to his stomach, and, lips brushing his forehead, Lois tightens her hold.
Heading upstairs, Martha smiles as well.