Tuesday, May 19th, 2009, 8:14 PM
Metropolis Harbor District
Clark stood over Lobo's unconscious body, his chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon. His knuckles were split and bloody, when was the last time he'd bled from a fight? The alien's face was a mess of broken bones and torn flesh, but he was still breathing. Still alive.
Clark had wanted to kill him. For those first few seconds after finding James's body, he'd wanted to tear Lobo apart with his bare hands and scatter the pieces across the solar system.
The thought terrified him.
He wiped the blood from his hands on his cape and turned away from Lobo's unconscious form. The authorities could deal with him now, STAR Labs had containment protocols for beings like this. Right now, Clark had something more important to worry about.
James.
He found him crumpled in the alley between two destroyed buildings, half-buried under chunks of concrete and twisted metal. So still that for one horrible moment, Clark thought he was too late.
Then he heard it.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
Weak, irregular, barely there. But James's heart was still beating.
Clark knelt beside his friend's broken body, careful not to move him in case his spine was damaged. James's face was a mess of blood and torn flesh where Lobo's claws had—
Clark couldn't think about that right now. He couldn't think about what James had sacrificed, what he'd lost. All that mattered was getting him to help.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the emergency number for STAR Labs. Dr. Hamilton picked up on the first ring.
"Superman? We saw the news reports—"
"I need a medical team at Metropolis Harbor, sector seven. Critical injuries. And I need you to prep trauma bay one for immediate surgery."
There was a pause. "How critical are we talking?"
Clark looked down at James, at the blood pooling beneath his head, at the unnatural angle of his left arm. "Critical enough that if you're not ready when I get there, he's going to die."
"We'll be ready."
Clark hung up and very gently lifted James from the rubble. His friend felt impossibly light, impossibly fragile. Like he might break apart completely if Clark wasn't careful.
The flight to STAR Labs should have taken three minutes. Clark made it in ninety seconds.
The medical team was waiting on the roof when he landed, and they took James away on a gurney before Clark could say anything. Dr. Hamilton stayed behind, clipboard in hand, asking questions about the extent of the injuries, possible toxin exposure, time of unconsciousness.
Clark answered automatically, but part of his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about the first time he'd met James, freshman year at Met U. Clark had been trying to figure out how to use his powers without anyone noticing, and James had been the guy who somehow always needed help with something. Moving furniture, reaching high shelves, opening stuck windows.
Looking back, Clark wondered if James had known even then. If he'd been giving Clark excuses to help people without drawing attention to himself.
"Superman?"
Clark blinked and realized Dr. Hamilton had been talking to him.
"I asked if you knew his blood type."
"O negative," Clark said automatically. He remembered because James always bragged about being a universal donor, how he could help anyone who needed it.
Of course he could.
"Good. We'll need to type and cross-match anyway, but that helps." Hamilton made a note on his clipboard. "The surgical team is prepping now. Dr. Charles is one of the best neurosurgeons on the East Coast."
Neurosurgeon. Because Lobo had gone after James's eyes, his brain. Because Clark hadn't been fast enough to stop it.
"How long?" Clark asked.
"Surgery? Could be anywhere from six to twelve hours, depending on what they find. Head trauma is... complicated."
Clark nodded and found himself staring at the bloodstains on his gloves. James's blood. His friend's blood, spilled because Clark hadn't been strong enough, fast enough, smart enough to end the fight before Lobo figured out how to hurt him.
"There's a waiting room on the third floor," Hamilton said gently. "I'll have someone bring you updates as they come in."
Clark wanted to say he didn't need updates, that he could hear James's heartbeat from anywhere in the building, could monitor his vital signs better than any machine. But that would mean explaining abilities he'd never told anyone about, and right now he couldn't handle questions about what he could or couldn't do.
Instead, he nodded and made his way to the waiting room. It was empty except for a few plastic chairs and a coffee machine that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Clinton administration. Clark sat down and put his head in his hands.
James had thrown his camera at Lobo. His three-thousand-dollar camera, the one he was always fussing over, cleaning the lens and adjusting the settings. He'd thrown it like it was a rock, just to get the alien's attention.
To save Clark's life.
Clark remembered the first time James had figured out he was Superman. They'd been roommates for two years, and James had never said anything about Clark's weird schedule or the way he'd disappear at odd hours. But then Clark had come back from a particularly brutal fight with Metallo, moving stiffly because he'd taken a chunk of kryptonite to the ribs.
James had been sitting at his desk, working on some photography assignment. He'd looked up when Clark walked in, taken one look at the way he was moving, and said, "Rough day at the office, Superman?"
Just like that. No big revelation, no dramatic confrontation. Just quiet acceptance and a pot of coffee that James had already started brewing.
"How long have you known?" Clark had asked.
"Since about six months after we moved in together," James had said, not looking up from his photos. "You're not as subtle as you think you are."
"Are you going to—"
"What, write a story about it?" James had finally looked at him then, and there had been something almost hurt in his expression. "Clark, you're my friend. I don't care if you're Superman or the Pope or the Easter Bunny. Your secret's safe with me."
And it had been. For four years, James had kept Clark's secret without asking for anything in return. He'd covered for his absences, provided alibis when necessary, and always had food waiting when Clark came back from particularly long missions.
He'd been the best friend Clark had ever had, and now he was dying because Clark hadn't been good enough to protect him.
A soft chime from the hospital's PA system interrupted his thoughts. "Dr. Hamilton to trauma bay one. Dr. Hamilton to trauma bay one."
Clark stood up and started pacing. James's heartbeat was steady but weak, his breathing assisted by machines that hissed and wheezed in rhythm. The surgery had been going on for three hours now, and Clark still didn't know if his friend was going to make it.
If James died, it would be Clark's fault. If he lived but never recovered, that would be Clark's fault too.
Either way, James Olsen, the photographer who saw truth in everything he looked at, who threw himself into helping people without a second thought, was gone. What came back from that operating table, if anything came back at all, would be someone different.
Clark sat back down and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of James's heart beating somewhere in the floors below. It was the only sound in the world that mattered right now.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
Still fighting. Still alive.
Still his friend, no matter what happened next.