Monday 2:30 p.m. - 4:00 p.m. Psychotherapy

Clark flipped a page on his schedule. He had doodled a raven on the top right corner. Through the squiggly lines that represented eyes, the drawing glared at its creator. Its disproportionately skinny legs were perched on top of a half-drawn fountain. Somehow, the dark-feathered onlooker in all its haunting knowingness resembled Bruce.

Thursday 10:30 a.m. - 12:00 p.m. Psychotherapy

Bruce refused to visit the therapist since two weeks ago. He deemed it a waste of time. Clark didn't think Bruce was taking the prescribed drugs either. He still had to pay for the acetylcholinesterase inhibitors and the memantine tablets. There were also the Clozapine-Quetiapine combinative drugs, which he could hardly afford...

The first news that struck him with actual relief was when his Fortress computer gave him an answer.

"Memory transfer?" Clark's eyes lit up at the screen.

The computer responded in a monotonous voice. "The process extracts the donor's memories. The unique pattern inscribed in the connections between your neuronal cells is replicated. This data is then processed and translated into ingestible neurotransmitters."

"What will happen on the patient's end?" Clark asked cautiously.

Fleetingly his eyes travelled to a photo of Bruce smiling, framed and sitting on his desktop. At times like these, when the stakes were high, the little things haunted him. Bruce's rare smile haunted him. Some risks Clark dared not take.

"The neurotransmitters will update the activity pattern in the patient's hippocampus."

"Are there any other ingredients in the drug that I should be aware of?" Clark asked as he scrolled down the page. It was filled with lengthy biochemical jargons that even he was not coherent in. "What if the patient loses the ingested neural information again? He also suffers from repetitive amnesiac episodes. His brain cannot retain memories."

"Dopamine and acetylcholine can reinforce them until the activity pattern reaches pattern completion." An image of a peripheral intravenous cannula appeared on screen. "Dopamine hydrochloride and acetylcholine injections require a PIVC insertion."

"Are there any precautions that I should take?"

"A dermal anaesthetic with lidocaine and prilocaine can prevent pain associated with IV injections."

Clark closed the pop-up window and returned to the main page. Pain was a lesser concern, and Bruce wouldn't flinch at a needle. "What is the failure rate of this transfer?"

"Unknown. This process has not been tested." The computer responded blandly.

Clark crossed his arms and started pacing around the room. His attention swayed to the medical tablets sitting on the ridge of his console. None had shown any improvement.

A warning flashed on screen. "Do you wish to abort?"

His mind said yes, but his heart said no. There were so many things that could go wrong with this experiment, but…

Clark was sick of returning alone to his apartment in Metropolis. Always, always painfully alone. Mentally broken. Above all, unloved and unwanted. Not so long ago, he had in his hands the most wonderful relationship he could ever ask for. Now it was ripped out of his hands. For nights, his arms reached out to air on a mattress twice too wide. Two pillows lined against the headboard, only one was used. Knowing this situation was not improving squeezed his stomach tighter.

Kryptonian technology… This might give him a chance. It might give them a chance.

"Boot it up. Log the trial into database three-one-five." Clark unlocked his cabinet and picked up a wireless neuroheadset.

He brought a memory to the forefront of his mind, and trained it there. He should be more cautious, but he was undeniably enthusiastic. Clark wanted Bruce to remember an important memory of their relationship. To share that, and be impressed enough to want to bond with him. To open doors that were now shut, to send out an invitation to land that was now forbidden to Clark.

So full of hope for the better, he chose the memory of their first kiss. He logged his emotions into place, recounting every quickened heartbeat and every experimental touch. He remembered how they both startled each other with the kiss, but quickly eased into it, as if it was meant to be.

… It was. Between him and Bruce, it was meant to be.

Electricity streamed into the headset, warming the sensors on his scalp. He felt each tingling course of energy forcing their way into the complex realms of his mind. He focused all his attention on the way Bruce parted his lips and angled his head. How he gripped Clark's forearms nervously but with certainty. His grip became his final consent that allowed their relationship to bud and blossom. Clark remembered how much Bruce wanted him, just as much as he wanted Bruce.

It had better work.

To be honest, Clark felt as if the computer had fried his hippocampus and plucked matter out of his brain. Slowly he adjusted to the bright light in the room. Machinery whirred behind him, sending a dull humming noise into his hearing.

He remained curled up in his surgical chair, feeling weary beyond his years. His ears were trained to every sound his computer made. He listened carefully for the slightest mishap.

Eventually Clark fell asleep.

He was at a funeral. He didn't know whose funeral it was, but he was standing in front of the gravestone. The engraved name was obscured from his vision. His sight blurred slightly, and before he knew there were teardrops rolling off his face. He didn't feel sorrowful at the loss, for he still didn't know whose death it was. But the tears kept rolling, gathering at the drip of his chin, so he resisted the urge to wipe at them with his cuffs. He did anyway, and as he brushed away the moisture, his vision cleared. The name on the gravestone glared back at him, in startling, suffocating clarity-

At the mechanical beep, Clark woke with a start. His heart was pounding furiously, its frantic protests barely contained within his rib cage.

"Your manufacturing process is complete."

Clark leaped from his chair. A white capsule rolled off a conveyor belt onto a round transparent dish. He took the dish in hand and marvelled at the outcome.

Everything would be all right. All he had to do was to give this pill to Bruce. The moment Bruce takes the pill, one important, endearing memory would return to him. He could do this again and again. He would, no matter how many times it would take. Clark would just have to let Bruce remember the time when they fought hand in hand against…

White spots swam before his eyes. His legs felt weak. For a moment, he thought he had collapsed, then his senses slowly returned to him. Clark laid one hand on the console to steady himself.

What was that?

They fought against someone. Superman and Batman, they did. The fight was so close, so dangerous, that they were both moved beyond relief when it ended. They saw each other alive and well, and sparks burst between them. That was what led up to their first…

What did they do? Pat each other on the shoulder and laugh? Say their congratulations, and head off separate roads?

Clark shut his eyes. Frantically he clutched at the vague sensation of something drifting away, slowly but surely. Something that was once strong, concrete, and heartwarming, fleeting away from his mind.

Nothing. It was a world of emptiness. A void of neverending darkness.

Clark blinked, opened his palm, and watched the pill roll back and forth on the glass dish. Something was in there, he knew.

He just didn't know what.