Clark groggily woke to someone shaking his shoulder and saying his name, and when he opened his eyes, he noted the barely present, pale light of morning, and that the sound of rain had ceased. He did not rise up, he remained laying down, under covers at the sight of Bruce, the one who had woken him, standing alongside the bed, completely dressed and freshly shaven, slicked back hair and a black business suit to match.

The juxtaposition was eerie, as was the silence, as was Bruce's manner: it was unsettling, how quickly and completely he could change his appearance, shuffling his expressions and guarding his thoughts; he looked like a different man, an entirely different person, than the one Clark had spent the previous evening with, for even though he was near, Clark could tell he did not want to be, by the distance he kept between them, and by the way his expression did not change, upon seeing Clark awake.

That was only confirmed by his voice, the flatness of it and the conciseness of what he said:

"Get dressed and meet me in the library. We need to talk."

Then, Bruce, mechanical and methodical, walked out out of the room, without waiting for a response or confirmation. Clark looked to the clock, and was not surprised to see just how early it was. Bruce had allotted plenty of time for this conversation, before he would need to be in the office, or wherever his business led him today, the business he had already dressed for, and Clark rose, mechanically and methodically from the bed, noting that despite being woken up, he felt perfectly fine, for the first time since that unfortunate meeting between he and Lex's artillery, and in the bathroom, after having thoughtlessly grabbed some clothing to change into, he removed that bandage, the one Bruce had placed on him last night, only to find perfectly smooth skin. There would be no need for another.

He stood there a moment, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with cold, before covering himself with sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He had nothing to match the formality of Bruce's clothing, and he suspected the longer he made him wait, the worse this conversation would be.

He walked down the hallway, glancing mindlessly at the now somewhat familiar artworks, before turning into the now somewhat familiar library, its doors left open, to reveal Bruce standing by the window, the same window Clark had walked to last night, before Bruce had followed him, as though this was Bruce's signal of defiance, that the events of last night would hold no power over him and with gray light shining on him, he turned to Clark to reiterate.

"Last night cannot happen again."

Clark nodded slowly, but it was more in understanding, that this was Bruce's decision, than in actual agreement. He had the brief urge to fight, to ask Bruce to reconsider, but hadn't he already done that last night? Couldn't it even be argued that Bruce had already given him his answer, in the library, when he did not respond to the kiss, and then even after he had, he walked away? Only to repeat the sequence out in the hallway? That Clark was the one who continually pursued this, just as he had continually pursued Lois, and look how well that had turned out. That despite some mutual attraction, those initial reactions of reticence foretold the future.

Clark also knew well Bruce's attitudes, his discouragement towards members of the Justice League seeing each other outside of work, the crossed loyalties and inherent dangers that could bring. That they had each sworn an oath to protect the citizens of Earth, first and foremost, and each other second, and how difficult to near impossible that could be to uphold, if personal emotions were involved.

That the stakes were much too high for them to attempt the volatile mix of business and pleasure, and now Clark was starting to wonder, was even friendship too much to truly expect? That he had only been fooling himself? That just because the nature of their work was more intense, that their bonds to each other were equally intense? That maybe he could truly not face the reality of his life, his dual, or rather, triple existence. That he had wanted the companionship, and created a relationship that did not truly exist? That co-workers, and even comrades, were not the same as true friends. That in fact, his co-workers were much wiser than he, having established their own lives and families outside of their superhero ones. That he had attempted to do so and failed was not their fault. He could ponder that more later, in the solitude he so often craved, but for now, he could set aside the personal to take care of business as well.

"I assume you stored the kryptonite?" Clark had noted it gone upon waking, gone without a trace, like Bruce's bruises and scars, like the remains of Clark's own wound, and seemingly likely the fate the whole evening would share. Gone and forgotten, and though Clark had been caught in the whirlwind last night, he should have remembered how quickly the storm could come and go, scattering everything aside as quickly as it dropped it there in the first place.

Bruce's brow furrowed briefly at the question. Seemingly not what he was expecting, but he answered, "I did. Do you want it?"

"Yes." Clark's own answer surprised him, but after he said it, he felt assured of its rightness. The only piece the storm hadn't scattered. He would keep it for himself.

"...That can be arranged." Bruce conceded.

"I am feeling better without it. I will return to Metropolis."

"I am willing to explain my actions." If you want me to, was left unsaid, but understood by Clark, and Clark was once again surprised, but assured of his answer's rightness, as he shook his head.

"Some things are better left unsaid."

This was somewhat true, but somewhat not. For Bruce had spoken plenty clearly to Clark, only without words. He could read it in Bruce's stern body language and the harshness of his face. That he clearly acknowledged last night happened, but, as he succinctly said, he equally and clearly commanded it to never happen again, and Clark did not want to let Bruce know how much pain that pronouncement would cause him, that he would rather forgo it with the understanding it was true.

Bruce had even given Clark an explanation for why it had happened, albeit last night, and it was adequate. A mixture of adrenaline and injuries. A moment of weakness. Clark would only add on his own part: a misinterpretation of feelings. He should have taken Bruce's advice, after all. Alas.

"Was there anything else you wanted to say?" Clark asked instead.

Bruce looked at him, stony-eyed, but shook his head no.

"I'll be off then. Would you say goodbye to Alfred for me?"

Bruce paused, looked as though he wanted to argue, to tell Clark to say goodbye to Alfred himself, but what was the alternative? The three of them around the morning breakfast table? Even Bruce had to agree this was for the best.

Or perhaps, Bruce wasn't disagreeing at all. Perhaps Clark was writing a script to Bruce's thoughts that was not at all in line with his actual ones. Perhaps, this is what Bruce had always looked like, and speaking of Alfred:

"Alfred patched your costume for you. It's in your room. You should make an appearance. The Daily Planet's been wondering where Superman is."

Clark was vaguely surprised Bruce was continuing this conversation, but it was a bland topic of discussion, and he decided he would follow along. Perhaps, for old times' sake.

"Oh? I suppose I could save a cat stuck up in a tree. Shouldn't be too taxing."

"Is that what constitutes front page news in Metropolis?"

"It works well for me on many levels."

"Regardless of your obvious conflict of interest, Catwoman approves."

"Really?" Clark wasn't sure if this was a joke or not, only to have Bruce lightly confirm it was true.

"She told me so herself… You've made allies in strange quarters. Dick would ask me to save articles about you too, when he was younger."

"Not yours?"

"Unlike you, I wasn't trying to get my photo taken. But by all means, go back, get yours taken, and then write something actually worthy of being on the front page."

In the past, that comment Clark would have been able to brush off with a smile, but today, and in this conversation, it threatened to break the relative calm they had established. It also seemed to confirm his earlier thoughts. That perhaps he had been so desperate for companionship, he had mistaken comments like these as friendly.

What a fool he was. Apparently, the same cat-saving fool Bruce did not want to read about on the cover of the Daily Planet. At least it made parting easier.

"Goodbye, Bruce. Thank Alfred for fixing my costume for me, would you?" Clark attempted to leave once again, in a similar echo of his first attempt. He refrained from asking Bruce to thank Alfred for his care once again, and refrained from thanking Bruce as well, for Bruce had already told him his thoughts on that. One expression of gratitude was enough. This time, fortunately, the attempt worked and Bruce gave the appropriate response.

"Goodbye, Clark."

And Clark felt relieved, almost ecstatically so, to turn and walk away, out of the library, the library he would never see again, down the hall and past the artworks he would never see again, into the bedroom he would never see again, to pack his scant things, and he took his time with it. Combed his hair, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and he could admit, the prospect of being back in uniform warmed him. While in comparison to Bruce's colors his were terribly showy – though the Flash took the prize on that front – he liked the red and blue, preferred them to his harsh business suits, and the neutral and off-white of his bed clothes, and also in this case, his sick clothes.

And he found said uniform, carefully folded, and was grateful, albeit embarrassed at the knowledge that someone must have carefully removed it from him.

He searched for Alfred's handiwork, the two small holes that were on the chest no longer, and a rush of affection came over him, and he was once again reminded of Ma, repairing his clothes as a child through all his adventures and bumps and scrapes. He did feel guilty, to leave without saying goodbye, but he was not lying when he thought his immediate departure for the best, so with one last glance in the mirror – after all, he was getting his photo taken – he bid farewell to the room that had housed him so well, and that would also house his brief memories of he and Bruce occupying it together, its forest green walls and its oil paintings of wooded paths. He took his bag in hand, and, opening the window, he left the shade of the trees for the bright of morning, and he soared, higher and higher, into the clouds, his cape rustling comfortingly and familiarly behind him, dazzlingly, vibrantly red, as was his crest when he rose above the clouds and the full rays of the sun hit it, lighting up the yellow shading, proclaiming his origins in an alien alphabet for all to see.

He had lived to fly again.