"You're weak."

That was the first thing Bruce said to him when he woke. His raging concussion had gotten slightly better. Clark looked around. Drawn curtains, dimmed lights, a half-open book on the desktop. A soft mattress against his back, a pillow supporting his neck. It was still his bedroom.

"What happened to your superpowers?" Bruce demanded, his voice as monotonous as a Watchtower computer. He looked almost disappointed. There was an underlying streak of emotions that Clark couldn't immediately tell. It was either worry or pain. Or both.

"Antidepressants."

If Bruce was surprised, he didn't show it. "Explain." He demanded again.

Clark looked uneasily at his fingers. There was dirt trapped in his fingernails. "In order for human drugs to work on alien physiology, I need to expose myself to large amounts of Kryptonite consistently."

Bruce stood up from his chair and stared down at him, his expression unreadable. "I want to know why you are taking antidepressants."

Clark snorted. "Let's not pretend it's not obvious."

"It's not." Bruce insisted unrelentingly.

"Anti means against. A depressant is a drug to treat the illness of the same name." Clark rubbed his eyes gingerly, prying away the pressure that was building behind them. His headache was returning at a surprising rate.

"You know that isn't what I asked."

Clark shrugged. He pointed at the bookshelf on his right. "Check the dictionary if you don't believe me."

"Clark." Bruce sat down again and massaged his temples wearily. "Last I saw you, you weren't depressed. You also didn't look so..." He gestured vaguely at the air. "Worn."

"Damn straight." Clark snickered. "Now I'm explaining my mental illness to my own homemade chocolate chip hallucination. I've officially hit rock bottom."

Bruce regarded him silently for a moment. It was the closest of Batman's reactions to being utterly stunned speechless. He leaned forward in his seat and pulled Clark's chin to his direction. Looking straight into Clark's eyes, he stated word by word, "I am not a hallucination."

Clark pulled away once Bruce's grip loosened. "Then what are you?" He grunted. His hands were gripping tightly on his sheets like a young boy caught in a fright.

Bruce hesitated briefly. "I'm your best friend." He said firmly. "And I'm here for you."

To his surprise, Clark burst into laughter instantly. He rocked back, shaking with intensity, his hands clutching his stomach. Suddenly he was choking on laughter, coughing and wheezing. Bruce stood up to pat his back, but Clark shoved him away. He straightened his back and swallowed cautiously until he could breathe normally. Then his shoulders slumped again.

"You're kidding me." Clark said coldly, once he recovered his speech.

"If you can push me away, it means I'm real." Bruce countered easily. He crossed his arms and stepped back, keeping his distance.

Clark clenched and unclenched his hands, testing the sensations of touching Bruce's body. The feeling belonged in a distant past. It was surreal. "You and I both know hallucinations feel as convincing to the hallucinator as they need to be."

"Frankly, Superman, I don't think you have enough imagination to dream me up as convincingly as you now perceive."

Clark winced. "Don't call me Superman."

"Early retirement?" Bruce returned mockingly. "Financially crippling, that is. The remaining years of your immortality dependent on a Daily Planet reporter's salary."

The mention of his immortality seemed to hit home, for Clark's control broke a little. Red seeped into his eyes like a ghost of his heat vision. "I don't work there anymore." He grumbled.

That did hit Bruce as news. The sarcasm on his face cleared and gave way to, for once, poorly disguised astonishment. "You quit your job?"

"I had to."

Bruce scowled. "Why wasn't I notified of this? I own your company."

Clark shook his head. He was feeling dizzy, and he needed more sleep. His daily dose of Kryptonite was more effective than Doctor Mid-Nite's predictions.

"Is Charles on his way? I need new prescriptions."

Bruce threw an object onto his lap. It took all of three seconds for Clark to recognize that the clamped metal was his phone. "You didn't make the call. It doesn't take superpowers to destroy a phone. Serves you right for not using WayneTech merchandise."

Clark drew a long breath and clutched his phone tightly in his hand. Then he placed it on his bedside table and started to climb out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Bruce asked quietly. He made no attempt to physically stop Clark from leaving his bed.

"Getting my medicine. Because you're not going to get them for me."

Bruce stared at Clark's shivering back skeptically. "Evidence?"

"Because you're a figment of my imagination. Demons themselves wouldn't volunteer to shut down their portal to hell, would they?" Clark drew the sliding door open and began scrambling in the mirror cabinet. A few bottles fell into the sink, making a series of nonresonant noises.

It was Bruce's hand that picked up the familiar white bottle. "Here."

Clark took it from him absentmindedly. He popped five tablets into his mouth.

"Don't you think that's a bit much?" Bruce grimaced. That was forty-five milligrams each of Mirtazapine.

"Alien physiology." Clark took a gulp of cold tap water. He threw the second cup of water on his face, relishing the refreshing sensation. Water dripped off the lock of hair that once was Superman's signature spit curl. "I'm feeling better already."

"Really." Bruce retorted. "I'm still listening."

"You won't be in the morning." Clark spoke resolutely into the mirror.

"Is that why you can't even bring yourself to address me by name?"

Clark twisted the tap so violently he almost broke it off. "You're not real." He said again, staring at his own reflection. Haunted eyes with deep, dark circles stared back at him. He looked nothing remotely like Metropolis's most worshipped superhero.

"Please keep trying, I can almost see it working."

Clark pushed Bruce out of the way. He managed to make the man stagger one step away from him. It was an accomplishment of sorts, considering his currently depowered and sleep-deprived state.

"What are you so afraid of, Clark?" Bruce snickered coldly.

"Fuck off."

"You should thank your best friend for teaching you that crude language, Boy Scout." Bruce followed him back into the bedroom. He almost bumped into Clark when the latter spun around abruptly.

"First of all, you're not my best friend." Clark growled. The threat in his voice would have made the Dark Knight proud. "You're my husband. Second, don't pretend for one fucking second that you'd be here for me, because you aren't. You're gone. And you forever will be."

Bruce hardly had time to digest the notion of marrying Clark, any more than the impossible idea of leaving him. His eyes narrowed at the phrase. "Gone. How?"

"Gone! Dead!" Clark shouted, raising his hands angrily. His face was red with frustration. "A decaying corpse lying six feet underground! You're mortal, Bruce Wayne, your cells deteriorate, they mutate, and they die. I can expose myself daily to thirty kilos of Kryptonite, and still I won't catch up to you."

The confusion on Bruce's face cleared. In replacement a mixture of intense disappointment and anger filled his expression. "You're intentionally killing yourself with Kryptonite." He ground out.

"Why do you care? You're no better than a hologram." Clark stripped the sheets down and climbed onto his bed. He ought to stop arguing with a visual manifestation of his nightmare. "I'm going to sleep. You better be gone in the morning."

The retort Bruce had on his lips never made it to fruition. He silently walked around Clark's bed and sat himself down in his cushioned chair. Clark maintained his hunched, semi-foetus position as he slept. As his breathing finally smoothed down to softer snores, Bruce found himself watching. Eventually Clark turned in his sleep. The face he had known so well in his past came to meet his gaze, lines of worry erased and brows unfurrowed. He came closer to the man in Bruce's memory.

Bruce cleared the desktop and crossed his arms, leaning forward to rest his head on his makeshift pillow.

Clark was going to see him in the morning. He would make sure of that.