Superman Returns belongs to Red Sun Productions, Bryan Singer, Michael Dougherty, Dan Harris, etc. Copyright 2006.

The Sickness

Superman retched. He wondered, idly, if he could be allowed to swear if he was in private. He looked around the empty bathroom, through the stall walls, through the porcelain sinks and pipes, into the empty offices and elevators.

There was no one in the entire building.

"Fuck," he muttered. If he wasn't facing imminent death, he might have noted how good the expletive felt in his mouth. He cursed again; cursed his superhuman gag reflex and his super strong stomach acid and his inability to turn his back on any living person in need.

"Fuck," he repeated.

Earlier that night, he'd been floating through a tropical cloud over a large body of water when he'd zeroed in on the sound of sobbing. He recognized the sobs—he'd saved this woman before.

Listening closer, he'd heard Lex Luthor. He was yelling at the woman. Almost as loud as the yells, he heard a stomach growling. They were starving.

Moments later he was hovering above the tiny island that they'd made their home. It was high tide; a helicopter was almost completely submerged in water; two ragged, dirty people crouched weakly on opposite sides of the mound of dirt, one of which was his arch nemesis, Lex.

He wanted to poke fun at the ravenous man, but knew that Superman had to be all noble and self-sacrificing, so he sacrificed the chance to mock the man who'd tried to kill him, and now looked tragically like a billiard ball on a stick.

He'd lifted the two of them, felt slightly repulsed at the dried blood on Lex's face, and flown them directly into a state penitentiary, much in the same form that he'd done more than five years ago. Just as he landed, Lex had reached into his bag and pulled out a box—it was made of lead.

Superman had been busy greeting the prison guards and hadn't noticed when Lex opened the box and pulled out a shard of the island that he'd created, Kryptonite spiked, and shoved it, without ceremony, into Superman's chest.

Superman swore again and shoved his finger further into his throat. He wondered if it was any easier for humans to make themselves vomit. He had read about bulimia nervosa; he thought perhaps it must be.

As he'd lied on the ground, squirming and moaning in pain, the prison guards had reacted, but only with their painfully slow human reflexes. Lex moved faster. He'd reached into the box again pulled out a small, pill shaped piece of metal. Moments later it was down Superman's throat, and he was gagging desperately, trying to expel it, or swallow it, anything so that he could breathe again.

The guards had pulled Lex off him. They'd removed the shard of Kryptonite from Superman's body; Superman's skin had healed, and there appeared to be no harm caused from the little scuffle.

Except for that thing that had been forced down his throat.

Laughing, Lex had explained, only too proudly, what had just occurred.

"It's a pill of powdered Kryptonite," he'd said, "coated in a very thin layer of lead. Given your alien physiology, I'm betting than your digestive system will process the lead very quickly."

Still homeless and desperate for a place to find refuge, Superman had flown to the Daily Planet. He crouched next to the toilet now, his cape puddle around him like a pool of blood; wondering why he couldn't be one of weak stomach and crappy gag control.

Slouching back, he sighed.

"Shit."

Q

He had started to get dizzy. Standing up, he'd toppled into the stall wall and it promptly fell over. He bounced the other way and managed to right himself. He couldn't be found here, like this. He had to be… his thought process derailed and he stumbled from the bathroom. He knew though, he had to be… he had to be Clark.

There was a storage room where he'd been keeping his luggage since he'd returned. No one had really noticed it. When he found time to sleep, he slept in that storage room, head propped up on his suitcase, thankful that his sleep-floating would spare him discomfort. He went to that room now, knocking over a plastic tree on the way.

Clumsily, he forced his legs into a pair of pants. He slid on a shirt and buttoned it all the way up. He had to go somewhere… somewhere where someone would find him.

He wondered, idly, if he would die.

He didn't hurt, not yet, but the effects of the Kryptonite were already starting to grip him. He couldn't see straight; he felt weak and strangest of all, he felt grounded. Whatever it was that allowed him to toss the laws of gravity out the window, it had left him now. What he was left with was discomforting; he felt lost.

The sun had risen while he'd been in the bathroom. He thought that people would be coming into work soon. He hoped that maintenance would be in soon; the room he was in was getting colder by the minute.

Q

Lois Lane sighed. She glanced over at Richard, whose eyes stayed firmly on the road ahead of them, so she sighed again; louder this time.

"What is it?" Richard asked, not unkindly.

"My career has hit a plateau," she said, glad to be able to unload. She hoped this traffic kept up—this rant was going to take a while.

"I won the Pulitzer for my article on Superman. Superman is all I was ever known for; I wrote about him five years ago, when he first surfaces, I coin his name for him. He disappears and I write about him; I win the Pulitzer Prize for that one, and then for four years, nothing. Perry doesn't let me write any exclusives, doesn't let me do any investigative reporting, it's all the boring news for me—"

"You covered a lot of interesting things," Richard pointed out. "You did that article on the pandas at the zoo, and the one about traffic law regulations and the—"

"Yeah, because everyone loves teddy bears and speeding tickets," Lois shot back. "The point is, that now, all your uncle will let me do is Superman. The Superman Returns article, and the one about when he was in the hospital, and that damned epic about his best saves, including the little tidbit about the piggyback launch gone bad."

"You refer to him as my uncle when you want me to intervene," Richard pointed out.

The car parked safely in the underground parking garage attached to the Daily Planet building, the two of them simultaneously opened their doors, slammed them with a touch too much vigour, and then proceeded to the elevator.

They traveled six floors in silence before Lois started up again.

"When people remember me," Lois continued, shifting her bag onto her shoulder, "they're going to think of Superman. And everyone already does enough thinking about Superman, so I think that I should get a chance to tie my name to a more original legacy. Superman's already got all the press he needs. There are other stories, and sure, yeah, so maybe they won't sell as well. Perry says what sells is tragedy, sex and Superman. So, I should at least get a chance to cover the tragedy. Right? I mean, don't you think I deserve—Clark?"

The two of them halted just outside the conference room. Clark was crumpled, in the fetal position, near the windows, the morning sun shining down on his pained face.

Lois rushed to his side. "Call an ambulance," she said to Richard. Richard reached into his pocket and drew out his cell phone.

Clark's hand shot out and grabbed Lois' wrist.

"No hospital," he gasped.

"Oh my God, he's running a fever," Lois said. "We have to get him to an ER."

Clark pushed himself up off the ground and propped himself against the wall. He used a shaking hand to push his glasses back up his face and then said again, with more conviction, "No hospitals."

Their editor-in-chief, Perry White, poked his head in the door.

"Perry," Lois said, turning towards him. "Do you have Clark's records? His emergency contacts? His family doctor?"

"He left that part blank," Perry replied. "He always does. What's wrong with him?"

With a moan, Clark slumped sideways again. "No… hospitals," he groaned.

"Better take him home," Perry said. "I don't want that virus to hit the rest of us."

"Does he even have a home address?" Lois asked. "I thought he was still looking for a place to live."

Perry shrugged. "Take him to your place. You have a few sick days built up. Take the day off, get this kid better, and I'll use one of your sick days for him too."

"Chief," she exclaimed. She pushed off the ground, as though being next to her pale, sweaty colleague suddenly repulsed her. "I have work."

"Yeah right," he barked. "I want the goods on Superman. You keep bringing me public interest pieces, which everyone knows hold none of the public's interest. The public wants Superman. Until you can bring me Superman, don't bother coming back to work."

"Perry," Richard protested. Lois didn't say anything. She pursed her lips.

"Fine," she growled. Kneeling down, she put her arm around Clark and, with a little of his help, dragged him to his feet.

"I'll drive," Richard offered.

Clark moaned.

Q

Lois let Richard drag Clark into the house. He dropped him casually onto the couch and then turned to his fiancé.

"I'll give you a hand with him quickly, but then I have to get back to work."

Lois placed a hand across Clark's forehead, but quickly drew it away.

"My God," she muttered. "He burned me."

"I'll bring some ice," Richard offered, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Lois stared at Clark. She'd never seen him sick before. Even though he was just an annoying kid to her most of the time, she'd been partners with him and she was worried. Feeling useless, she started to pull open his buttons, her reasoning being that, without the extra clothing, maybe his body would cool down a bit.

She froze. Letting out a yelp, she pushed herself backward as though she'd been burned again. "Richard," she called. "Richard," she said again.

She retreated into the kitchen. "He needs, um, medicine," she said. Hands quivering, she took the icepack from his hands. "Can you go to the pharmacy and get him medicine? Or um, I mean, just," she paused, closed her eyes. "Just go back to work. I can handle him, um, it. He'll be fine."

Richard cocked his head at her. "Are you alright?" he asked.

She forced a smile. "It's just seeing him this way… it's upsetting. I'm fine though; I'm fine."

Q

Lois approached him, slowly. Reaching forward, she drew off his glasses. She placed them firmly on her nose. They were clear lenses.

She stared at his face. He was an unearthly pale colour, even a little green; he was Clark though, she was sure of it, and she put the glasses back on his face.

He was definitely Clark, though.

She took the glasses off him again and closed her eyes. She waited a full minute before opening them again, and this time, she wasn't looking at Clark.

With a trembling hand, she undid another button. The suit was there, and when she pressed her hands onto his chest, she could feel the heat pulsating from him, and knew the feel of the fabric, the thick, alien spandex.

"No," she muttered.

She did up the buttons and placed the glasses back onto his nose. A bead of green sweat trickled down his face a pooled in the corner of his lip.

"Oh God," she whispered.

He was dying.

The sweat was more pronounced, gathering on his neck, on his palms, and she thought that probably; probably he was drowning in that green sweat inside of his skin tight suit.

"Clark?" she said softly. His eyes opened, just a little bit.

"Lois," he said. "I think I'm going to throw up." The way he said it, so matter of fact, she almost thought he was joking.

He was up, a minute later, though, and stumbling towards the bathroom—how he knew where it was, she had no idea—but he was tripping on everything and she ran after him, wanting to help him, to support him, but even incapacitated as he was, he could still outrun a human.

He vomited loudly into the toilet.

She kneeled by his side. His glasses had fallen; they were shattered under his knee. His hand crept to his face.

The colours swarmed in front of his eyes. He saw Lois, and knew that he wasn't at the Daily Planet any more, but didn't know how he'd gotten here; he didn't know who he'd been when they moved him. He didn't have glasses. He was wearing a button up shirt. He couldn't think. His insides were chewing contentedly on each other.

"Who am I?" he asked slowly. He pushed back from her; retreated into the corner of the bathroom. His face contorted into a distressed grimace. He could feel his own sweat poisoning him.

Lois stared. He was terrifying her; his helplessness; his confusion. Clark might be less than confident, he might sometimes seem nervous, twitchy, and clumsy, the way that this man was. But Superman—she couldn't fathom how it could even be possible.

But she saw the suit, had touched it, and looking at his face now, she wasn't sure how she could have missed it before.

"I'm dying," he whispered.

"No," Lois snapped. She was angry, suddenly; angry at how Clark could have deceived her, angry that Superman could act like such a pathetic, shy little man; angry that she had found out like this, when he seemed about to die.

"You're not going to die," she said firmly.

With a grunt of frustration, she realized that her courageous reassurances had been lost on his unconscious form.

"Wake up, Clark," she said. Again, she stared at the sweat. It was green—the conclusion formed quickly in her mind: the only thing that could hurt Superman was Kryptonite, and now, somehow, it was inside him.

His eyes fluttered open.

"We have to get it out of you," she said. "Can you throw up again?"

He shook his head. "It's past my stomach now," he slurred. "I can feel my blood boiling."

"The sweat," she said. "The fever is sweating it out of you."

Huddled in his corner, he shivered.

Lois moved quickly, deciding what she needed to do. She reached over to the shower and turned it on. She let it flow until it was warm, and then, without shame, turned to Clark.

"Help me," she muttered. She pulled his shirt open, and wiggled his arms out of it. "We have to get you out of this suit."

Quivering, Clark pushed himself up the wall until he was almost standing, and together they got him out of the skin tight suit.

Eyes pressed shut, Clark let himself slip away from the pain, and remembered the last time that he'd squirmed out of the suit for her.

"Last time was more fun," he muttered. Her arms wrapped around his torso, she guided him into the shower. They tripped on the raised tiles and she fell on top of him, the water soaking through her clothes.

The water circling the drain flowed green. He slipped sideways, and she put her hands on his shoulders, and then rested his head on her lap. Gradually, his temperature returned to the comforting warm that it usually was. Lois reached up and turned off the water, and watched him sleep.

They stayed that way for a long time.