For Alax on her birthday; I wish you a wonderful year, and the best of things to come. Nobody deserves it more, baby! {{hugs}}

Also for the Highlander Title Challenge: http://obsession.nodestination.net/celli/hlchallenge.html

Thanks to the absolute best trio of beta's a gal could ask for-- moss, Jed, and Dana. Any lingering errors fall solely on my head.

He woke up that tired and aching that morning, as he had on so many others recently. The "migraine" his parents had offered as an excuse for his hasty departure from the rehearsal dinner last week was threatening to become all too real. Moaning softly, he closed his eyes and wished the sun away.

Rolling to his side, he braced his hand against the mattress, shoving himself upright with an arm that quivered slightly beneath the strain. He sat motionless for long moments, staring blankly out the window. The fear was gone now, dimmed beneath the weight of resignation. Something was wrong, had been wrong for a long while. He wondered how much longer he could hide this... sickness. Rising to his feet, he staggered down the hall.

Time to take a shower, put on the mask for another day. Clark could feel the mask beginning to crack.

Another day finally over. Clark sighed to himself in weary relief. He could make his escape, head home and get an early start on the chores that seemed to take longer and longer each day. Maybe his parents wouldn't notice if he went to bed early tonight. Maybe he could pretend he was going to study in the barn. He was willing to try anything to gain just a few more hours of sleep. He started to walk, thoughts and movement halted by a sudden blare of noise.

"Hey, Clark!" The voice battered against his ears, sending shockwaves through his brain.

He pivoted slowly, fighting an unsettling rush of vertigo as his head turned faster than his body. His vision blurred for a moment, and he blinked rapidly as Pete's face swam back into focus.

"Pete," a wince, face blanching beneath his tan, "don't yell."

"OK, whatever," Pete snorted, a mocking grin stretching across his face. "What's the matter, Kent? Party all night?"

"Very funny." He muttered, squinting against the glare from the sun. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes, wincing at the added pressure against his throbbing temples.

"So, are we still on for basketball tonight?" Pete bobbed from side to side as he spoke, hands dribbling an invisible ball. Clark closed his eyes, swallowing a swell of nausea as Pete's dancing form jerked across his line of vision. The swirling in his head eased, and Clark forced his eyes open.

"I don't think I can tonight. Another time?"

"Man, what's up with you? This is the third time you've wimped out on me. What gives?" Irritation and hurt filtered through Pete's voice, his motion stilled as he stared intently at Clark.

"I'm just not up to it tonight, okay?"

"Not up to it?" Pete asked incredulously. "Clark, what are you talking about? If this is some lame excuse to spend more time with Lana--"

"This has nothing to do with Lana!" Clark bit out, teeth clenching as another wave of sickness washed through him.

"Well, what is it then? You've been blowing me off for the last three months, and now you want to skip out on me for the third time in a row? Man, this is wrong!"

"Pete, please, I just..."

"Just what?"

"I'm tired," he whispered, eyes skittering away to focus on everything, anything but Pete.

"You're... tired?" The blank look on his face would have been hilarious in any other situation. "Clark, that's...how is that possible?"

"I don't know, I just am. I have been, and it's getting w-worse." He cleared his throat, blinking away the unwanted surge of fear. It was one thing to know something was wrong, quite another to admit it to someone else. He shivered, the sudden chill defying the warm summer sun.

"How long has this been going on?" Pete's face and voice were filled with concern, the anger washed away in the wake of Clark's statement.

Clark shrugged, dropping his eyes to the ground.

"A couple of months, maybe longer. I didn't really notice it until three weeks ago, but when I thought about it, I realized..."

"What?"

"It started after I was exposed to those spores. The ones that made Mom sick."

"The ones that made you sick." Pete corrected, giving voice to the fear that had been growing steadily since Clark first realized that tiredness and weakness were apparently things to which he was no longer immune.

"Yeah."

They stood silently, Clark staring fixedly at his feet, both lost in thought. Pete took a half step toward him, hand raised toward his shoulder, then stopped, stepped back, shaking his head slowly.

"Clark, man, this is... this is bad."

"I know," he whispered, eyes squinting shut. "I know. I just don't know what to do about it."

"Well, what do your parents say? What do they--"

"They don't know," Clark interrupted, eyes flying to Pete's face. "And, they're not going to."

"They don't know?" Pete exploded, leaning closer and fixing Clark with an accusing glare. "Jesus, Clark! Why didn't you let them know what was going on!? They might have some ideas about what's going on, about how to help, and--"

"They can't help."

"How do you know?" Pete all but sputtered.

"They couldn't before. No one could." The blankness in his voice scared Pete, the tone as remote as his eyes.

"But Dr. Bryce helped your mom! And you got better, too."

"Dr. Bryce had nothing to do with it, Pete, it was..." Quick glance around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear, "the ship."

"The ship? You mean--"

"Yeah. My ship. It...healed us. Mom was dead, I was close, and then it just--began to glow, and hovered in the air. There was a wave of light, and then Mom was better and so was I."

"Well, that's it then. You just have to turn on the ship, and--"

"It won't work."

"What do you mean? Why won't it work? Just turn the thing on, and then--"

"I can't." Silence fell between them, Pete staring at him, confusion wrinkling his brow.

"I don't understand, Clark. Why not?"

"Because the ship... the ship doesn't work anymore. I've tried everything. With the key, without the key, talking to it. It just doesn't work anymore. I think it's broken."

"I'm sorry, man." Pete swallowed, laying a hand on Clark's shoulder and squeezing. "Don't you think your folks might have some ideas about--"

"No." Clark shrugged his hand away, jaw clenching as he stared into the distance. "There's nothing they can do, and I'm not going to worry them about this until..."

"Until what?"

"Until it's too late."

Turning around, Clark headed for home once more. He was tired, and his strength was fading, but at least he still had his speed. It was hard enough to hide the weakness and fatigue from his parents; he could only imagine trying to explain why it took over an hour to get home from school.

"I think you should tell them!" A final plea from Pete, voice fading in the distance. Clark just shook his head and kept walking. That was a concession for another day.

A day when he could hide no longer.

Two more weeks passed, and Clark began to relax. He was still tired, still operating at a fraction of his strength, still feeling that strength wane day by day, but no major problems had arisen. The exhaustion had given way to a dull, nagging fatigue that was much less incapacitating than before.

At least he didn't have to contend with school today, and with Pete hovering over him like an anxious hen. There were some things to be grateful for.

He hummed to himself as walked down the stairs that Saturday morning, greeting his mother with a smile and a kiss. She laughed as he hugged her, hands landing atop his as they rested on the gentle curve of her stomach momentarily before he drew away.

He closed his eyes and sniffed the air appreciatively, a broad smile tracing across his face.

"Mmm, something smells delicious. Pecan swirls?" Opening his eyes, he grinned as she sighed in exasperation, her lips pursed chidingly.

"Yes, but they're for The Talon, not for us."

"Well, I'm sure Lana won't mind if we have one or two..." he wheedled, brows lifting and lowering in comic exaggeration.

"I'll mind," she retorted tartly, shooing him from the kitchen with a wave of her hands. "Go out and help your father in the barn, and I'll have breakfast ready in a few minutes."

He made one last pass at the pastries, laughing as she flapped a hand towel in warning. He was still smiling as he jogged down the front porch steps and into the early morning sun. He slowed to a walk, closing his eyes in pleasure as the warm rays blanketed his face. He was almost to the barn when it happened.

The dizziness spiked, quick and intense, and he staggered the last few steps, slumping against the edge of the building. The sudden glare in his eyes was blinding and he winced, slamming his lids shut and bringing his hands to his face in a futile attempt to dim the angry blaze burning across his retinas. He gasped aloud as pain seared through his eyes and into his brain, sending shafts of agony all the way to his neck. Shuddering, he pressed his fists tightly against his temples, biting his lower lip between his teeth to keep from screaming.

It ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving him weak and bathed in a cold sweat. Warily opening his eyes, he was relieved to find his vision intact, if a bit blurry.

He stood still, blinking a few times, and his sight swam back into focus. Straightening, he wiped the sweat from his face and continued into the barn. Except for the gritty, swollen feeling in his eyes, and the intermittent waves of heat that flowed over his scalp, he felt fine. Well, as fine as he had felt in the last few months. He was hopeful there would be no other episodes like that today, though he had the sickening feeling that his heat vision was no longer on-line.

That, however, was a theory for a later time. Right now, he needed to find out what his dad needed help with, and--oh no.

Jonathan was working on the tractor, a wrench in his hand as he grunted with the effort of maneuvering beneath the vehicle.

Clark came to a stop beside the left wheel, shifting from one foot to the other as he waited nervously. He briefly entertained the notion of speeding away, hiding, avoiding the question he knew with sick certainty his father would ask. How could he explain? Better to avoid the issue entirely. Lost in his own thoughts, he was startled by the sudden tap of the wrench against the top of his foot.

"-ark! Hello?" Jonathan's voice was laced with exasperation and humor.

"Sorry, Dad, I was thinking about something else." A nervous chuckle followed the words, a thin attempt at normalcy.

"Well, son, how about shifting your attention to helping me out here? I need you to lift this side up so I can get a better angle on the fuel line."

Clark paled, mind casting desperately about for a reason to deny the request. He couldn't try and fail, he could NOT explain why he wasn't able to lift the tractor.

"Dad..." He trailed off helplessly.

"Yeah, Clark?"

"It's nothing," he mumbled, bracing himself for the task at hand. Maybe he could lift the machine, and there would be no need for explanation or diversion.

Clark braced his legs and placed his hands around the tire, trying to gain enough leverage to lift the tractor. He grunted with the effort, arms trembling as muscles tried, and failed, to perform a task that had once been so simple. Sweat beaded on his brow, strain and apprehension tightening his features. Just. A little. More...

His back chose that moment to spasm, nearly sending him to his knees. He slumped against the side of the tractor, forehead resting against the mud-caked metal as tears of frustration and defeat filled his eyes. He blinked sharply, damping down the fear as he gathered himself to try again. He had to lift the tractor. There was no other choice.

"Clark?" Jonathan's voice was decidedly irritated now. "Are you going to lift the tractor so I can finish up here?"

"Yeah, Dad, I just--" The welcome sound of an approaching engine caught his attention, saving him from the need for explanations and buying him a little more time. "Someone's coming."

An exasperated sigh met his announcement, Jonathan scooting himself out from under the tractor and wiping greasy hands on a dingy rag before rising to his feet. The muffled thud of a car door closing filtered into the barn, followed by the soft crunch of leaves beneath a steady stride.

"Hello? Clark? Mr. Kent?" Lex's voice preceded his arrival, wrapping around the corner and filled Clark's ears before his figure appeared silhouetted in the barn door.

"Figures," his father mumbled, slapping the cloth against the tire in disgust before turning to face the door once more. "Lex, what brings you here?"

"I needed to borrow Clark for a few minutes, if that's okay, Mr. Kent."

"Sure. I was just going to head into the house for breakfast anyway. We'll finish up here later, Clark." A brief nod in Lex's direction, and Jonathan was gone, a softly whistled tune following him as he strode out of the barn.

"So, what can I do for you?" Clark asked, grinning in response to the quickly suppressed grimace that flashed across Lex's face as a horsefly buzzed past his ear.

"I was going over the last of the reports Dr. Walden filed before his...accident in the caves, and I was wondering if you could come over to the castle and go over them with me."

"Lex, I really don't think--"

"Look, Clark, you've spent as much time down there as anyone, and I think it's possible that you may know more than you think you do. Maybe something Kyla told you will help put the puzzle together. I think you have the answers... even if you don't realize it."

The gaze, as always, was unnerving. Straight, direct regard, quiet watchfulness, and always--always--the sense that Lex knew more than he said, felt more than he said. Was it Clark's own guilt that made him squirm under that look? His own sense of deception that made him feel as if Lex was subtly accusing him? Saying one thing and meaning another? Or was this game of cat-and-mouse as real as it seemed?

"I'd like to help you, you know that, I just don't see how I can."

"Just give it a try. For me." And there it was, the one request he could never refuse, even if it went against all better judgment.

"Sure. I'll come by and take a look. I just have to finish up a few things here before I..."

He staggered, nearly falling as the dizziness spiked once more. He flung out his hands, desperately seeking something to grab hold of, something to right himself, and felt his forearms firmly gripped. He planted his feet apart, swaying, fighting to stay on his feet. His legs buckled, and with a sickening rush he crashed to his knees, Lex's steadying hands the only thing that kept him from sprawling face-first into the dirt and straw.

"--ark! Can you--me? What's go--on? Clark!"

The words faded in and out, muffled beneath the steady buzz that had taken up residence in his ears. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, force his hearing back on-line, and moaned at the sudden swell of nausea the movement induced. Slumping to his side, he retched, the dry heaves sending shards of pain through his skull. He felt himself lowered gently to lie on his side, the quick press of Lex's hand against his forehead before the touch was withdrawn.

There was the sound of running feet, voices raised in alarm and dismay. Dimly, he heard his mother's voice crooning in his ear, felt the brush of her lips across his cheek. The world swung on its axis as strong hands gripped each of his arms and hoisted him to his feet, each arm draped over a pair of strong shoulders, others' arms twining at the small of his back. There was forward motion, a symphony of voices, and then there was nothing.

He dreamed, but the images were strange, discordant. He saw an endless array of stars, speeding past faster than his eyes could track, a seamless stream of light and color in the inky black. The stones traveled with him, their green otherness apparent even to him, strange and comforting all at once. They were of the Place. They were Home. And yet...

The dream shifted, the white stars fading beneath a brilliant orange glow. He felt the strength flooding his bones, soaking in deeply and taking root there. There were loud sounds, and jumbled colors, and the rush of green, and red, and dusty brown all about.

He stepped from his case, the smooth metal shell cracking and releasing him into this new world. He walked without purpose, knowing only that he must move. And then he found Them.

They were meant for him, and he for them. This strange feeling, face stretching into a...smile? So welcome to be pressed close, to feel another after so long. The rush and the jumble did not distress him; it was as it should be. And then...

Another joined them, pale and quiet. Something more than Them, someone meant to be his. His Other. He reached out, stroked softly down the Other's cheek. Smooth, supple, the faint rasp of dirt texturing the skin. Eyes opened briefly, smiling into his own. It was good.

The dreams were hazy, years passing unmarked and unbroken, represented in the gossamer swirls of faces and things, of people and places. Growing, and learning, and the clearing away of what had been before.

So many cycles passed, and the Other did not return. He was sad--the sorrow deep, nameless. In time, he forgot, and the face slipped from his mind. Words were learned, sensations displaced with verbal record, and he lost track of even the memory. The Other was no longer in his thoughts, was buried away with remembrances of the Shell, and the Stars, and the Place-rocks. Until, one day...

The Other returned, and collided with Him. It was all so clear in his dream, the sameness of the Other from his youth. The eyes still closed, opening at his touch. The soft rasp of river mud beneath his fingers and lips. How had he forgotten? How had he not remembered?

The Shell was brought forth, named Ship and painted with the brush of deception and fear. The Place-rocks rose up to smite him, bringing low the strength gained from the yellow sun. Whispers of Fate and Destiny, and courses of action he did not want to pursue. Ruler. Last Son. And now he was Kal-el, summoned to fill a role in which he wanted no part. Hope, and Fear, and Uncertainty, and through it all... the Other.

Strange, twisting dreams. Comfort mixing with terror, swirling around a vortex of confusion. There were sounds, murmurs in his ears. Cool touches on his over-heated skin. Sometimes the hands tried to hold him down, tried to restrain him. The sense of helplessness frightened him, unnerving to find himself held so easily. He thrashed within their confines, seeking to be free from the heavy, choking cloth. There was a cry, high and filled with pain, and other hands settled on him. These were stronger, firmer, but never too harsh. They held him securely, gentled him, brought the soothing touch of the Coolness, and the soft swaddling cloth that did not abrade his skin. The voice was lower, the cadence slower, but the message was the same. Rest. Heal. Return.

Clark blinked slowly, eyes weighted with grit and fatigue. A hand lay atop his, clasping the fingers loosely. He turned his head slowly, taking in the familiar confines of his room. The murmur of voices drifted up the stairs, his father and mother locked in desperate conversation. Who then...?

Tilting his head further to the side, he saw Lex's slumped form in the old rocker, head tipped back and eyes closed. He tried to clear his throat, intending to speak, to ask what had happened, but there was no need.

Lex's eyes snapped open, focusing with unwavering accuracy on his own as his fingers tightened on Clark's hand.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine, I guess."

A snort met that pronouncement, Lex's fingers tightening in warning before he shifted closer, his other hand raised and placed against Clark's forehead.

"I find that hard to believe, Clark. First you collapse in the barn, then you spend the next four hours delirious, burning up with fever...no, I'd say 'fine' is definitely not the word to describe your condition." A quick rub of his thumb against Clark's temple, and both hands were withdrawn, Lex leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers together beneath his chin. "At least your fever seems to be down."

"Yeah, I really do feel better."

"Good. Then perhaps you feel well enough to tell me why your parents were so determined that you not go to the hospital. Why they insisted that Helen, and only Helen, come to the house to examine you. Why your father did everything short of physically throwing me out of the house to get me to leave. Why your mother and father adamantly refused to allow me into your room until your mother was injured. Why your parents and my fiance are keeping secrets. From. Me."

"Mom got hurt? How?" The one thing that caught his attention, blocking out the rest.

Lex sat quietly for a moment, seeming to consider carefully how to answer that question.

"You were trying to get out of bed. She was trying to keep you there. You were out of your mind with fever, and..."

"Oh, my God." Stricken whisper, eyes widening in horror. "What did I do? Is she...okay?"

"She'll be fine Clark. It's just a dislocated shoulder, but she couldn't keep taking care of you, not with that injury. Your father agreed to let me stay up here with you while he took care of her."

Clark closed his eyes, swallowing harshly at the thought of what could have happened. If he had been at full strength, if he had struck her full-force... Broken bones, concussion, internal injuries, the list went on and on, each possibility more horrifying than the last.

He shook his head in denial, trying to force the gruesome images from his mind, and moaned as the movement sparked a surge of nausea. He rolled to his side, trying to at least clear the bed, as the muscles of his abdomen began to spasm. Dimly aware of the hand supporting his forehead and the waste basket shoved beneath his face, he vomited weakly, nothing but an acidic froth left in his stomach. Once started, the spasms wouldn't stop, and he found himself gasping for breath between heaves, tears streaming down his face and mingling with the cold sweat trailing from his hairline. At last his stomach stilled, and he collapsed wearily onto the bed.

Careful hands eased him onto his back, moving the waste basket far enough away that the smell didn't reach him, and smoothed the bedcovers over his form with deft efficiency. There was the muted tread of feet across the floor and into the hallway, the soft rush of water from the bathroom sink, and then the footsteps returned. Clark jumped slightly at the feel of the damp, warm washcloth placed against his cheek, but relaxed into the touch as it slid slowly up to his forehead.

"Shhh. Just relax." An edict that was impossible to ignore, even if he had wanted to, heavy languor seeping into his pores with each sweep of the cloth.

The sensation moved to cover his eyes, the delicate rasp of the pebbled weave clearing brine and matter from his lashes. Down, over the curve of his nose, steady sweeps across each cheek erasing the stain of tears. Long fingers combed through his hair, smoothing it away from his face and ears, as the rag brushed the tension from his forehead. Down the sides of his neck, soaking up the sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat, leaving only clean, moist skin that dried in the air. A wash of cool air signaled the movement of the comforter to his waist, and he peered through barely opened lids as first one arm, and then the other, was drawn out to lay atop the covers pulled back to his chest.

His hand was cradled in Lex's palm, and the rag brushed softly over the back of it and up his forearm, wiping gently but firmly in the sensitive fold of his elbow. Back down and underneath, and his wrist was treated to the same, thorough cleansing. He swiveled his arm, hand resting palm-up within Lex's in mute appeal. His plea was granted, and the cooling fabric wiped across his palm, tracing lines and valleys, swiping between each finger. The ritual was repeated with his other arm, and he felt himself drifting to sleep once more.

Something brushed across his forehead, too soft to be the rag, too light to be fingers, almost like... He opened his eyes, staring into Lex's face scant millimeters from his own.

"Lex?" Voice hoarse, filled with so many questions and uncertainties.

A tiny shake of his head, blue eyes unwavering on Clark's, and Lex leaned forward infinitesimally to brush another whisper-soft kiss on his forehead.

"Shhh. You need to rest."

"I'm afraid." A hard admission, fear swelling within as it was acknowledged.

"Don't be." Fingers clasping his own, returning his urgent grasp with solid strength.

"I d-don't...I don't want to die."

"You won't."

"I almost did, before, and now the ship..." Caution thrown to the wind, desperation and fear the harshest of bedmates, and all other concerns crushed beneath the prevailing wind of mortality. He could see the answering blaze in Lex's eyes. Satisfaction? Anger? Righteous indignation? Or, something...more?

"You. Won't. Die." No room for argument or refusal, the more right there for him to see. Another press of lips against his face, closing his lids with a kiss. A final brush of those lips, against his mouth this time; a hard, brief promise sealed and unbroken.

"I won't let you. Now rest."

Time to wonder about what it all meant later. Time to ponder the meaning behind the kiss, and why it was given now. So many things to sort out. Lex. Helen. Clark. The truth. Friendship, and love, and the tantalizing promise of more.

So many things to consider, but not now, when the weight of illness and fatigue clouded his mind with a thick haze. For now, there was just the rhythmic brush of fingers in his hair, the soothing cadence of wordless murmuring in his ears, and the heavy veil of fever dreams. And always, always, his Other.

The sickness still raged within him. The days passed, blurring into one another in a haze of never-ending illness. Fever spiked, and waned. Sickness rolled through him, bouts of vomiting subsiding to weak, stagnant nausea when there was nothing left to expel. He grew weaker and weaker, moments of cognition shorter and farther between.

Sometimes there was the sound of raised voices below. His mind was too weary to name them, but they were so familiar. His parents, and another, and the Other, all creating a dissonant symphony of anger, frustration, and fear. Sometimes he cried out, his voice hoarse and ruined, and then the voices would stop. The soothing fingers would return, the slow, easy sweep of the rag over his face and throat, and he could rest once more. The part of himself that still thought, still observed, slipped from fear to resignation. And then finally...

A warm rush of light, soothing his aching body and filling his blood with buoyant energy. The strength flowed back into his limbs, and awareness flooded his mind. The voices were clearer now, their hushed conversation filled with hope.

He opened his eyes and saw them, a vigil of four gathered about his bed. His mom and dad stood at the foot of his bed, wrapped in each other, tears streaming down both their faces, blinding smiles lighting their features. Helen, Dr. Bryce, was at his left, wearing the look of weary relief reserved for miracle patients. Lex--his Other--stood on his right ...quiet, watchful, a slight quirk of his lips and sparkling eyes the only clues to his joy.

There was a rush of conversation, talk of solar poisoning, and solar-powered ships weakened from long storage in the dark. A hum of pride entered the fray, a scientist's relentless need to know having yielded a stronger antidote than that provided by the ship's programming. Wry humor filtered in, a doctor acknowledging her own less than altruistic motivations, offering and accepting a graceful apology. Laughter, hand shakes, hugs--all passed through his group of guardians and transferred to him.

They filtered out of the room one by one. His mother pressed a tearful kiss to his cheek, whispering her love in a trembling voice. His father followed next, clasping his shoulder tightly and clearing his throat, leaving before emotion overwhelmed him. A quick check of his heart rate and temperature, and Dr. Bryce was gone, her passing comment about "packing her things" and the absent nod she received in return bringing a puzzled frown to his face. Then, they were alone.

"Lex?" A world of questions in that one word. How am I alive? How did you save me? What did she mean? Why are you still here?*

There was no reply, just the fierce, focused gaze that seemed to devour him, seeking to memorize each feature. He opened his mouth to speak again, and found his lips consumed, wrapped in a moist embrace.

Time enough to ask and answer; for now, there was just this.