Who Hugs Superman?

Dust particles swirl, glowing a scintillating gold in the stray beam of sun that slices through the wooden slats of the old barn. A pair of strong blue eyes examine the spectacle, able to see the soot dancing in slow motion. He doesn’t know why, but the scene calms him; comforts him even.

He’s sat in this dirty barn more times than he can remember, contemplating all manner of things. Like if he even liked living on a farm. Or, whether he should play football his senior year, given his superior strength and speed. Or, if his brain processed things faster than the ordinary person, why couldn’t he formulate the words to even speak to his first crush, let alone ask her over for ice cream after school? The barn always seemed to help him laugh at his high school predicaments, but it also helped settle his racing mind when his ‘predicaments’ turned into real, grown up problems.

Like when he first started noticing that he wasn’t like the other kids at school. Or when he realized that these superhuman powers contained within them a responsibility to use them, and not just to lift heavy things around the farm, or dominate on the football field, but to really use them in a way that mattered. To help people. To save them. To protect them. And, how could he forget the way the barn had sat with him as he pondered, up to the point in his life, the greatest question of his life: should he don the cape and put that ’S’ on his chest for the whole world to see?

His mother liked to tease that this barn was the real Fortress of Solitude and, like usual, she was right. Clark looks around the dusty room from his familiar perch on the old tractor seat. The old pile of tools, broken or rusted through, that were still waiting to be fixed all these years later lay in the same spot, covered in cobwebs; the newer tools, which one could easily mistake for ones in the junk pile due to their excessive use, hung neatly on their corresponding hooks; tarps that serve as part cover for the tractor wheels, part house for he field mice; and countless more items found on a Kansas farm.

But, none of that is what draw’s Clark’s attention in this moment. The display of dust he’d been watching lingers over the old work bench, littered with hand tools, runaway nails, the stray piece of straw, and a single framed photograph. His parents smile at him from the past. His mom, Martha, is perched atop the same tractor he is sitting on now, his dad, Jonathan, stands next to one of the large wheels and a seventeen-year-old Clark leans against the other. Clark thinks back to that day.

- - - -

“Congratulations sweetie.” Martha says as she slides off the tractor. She reaches for her son and pulls him into a warm hug. “I’m just so proud of my little valedictorian.”

“Co-valedictorian.” Clark says, correcting her with a smirk.

“Lana was never going to let you beat her, you know that.” Martha says, a mischievous smile in her eyes.

“And if you hadn’t blown off history, you wouldn’t have had to share.”

“I know, Mom.”

“I know you know, which is why I can’t let you forget it.”

Martha gathers her camera from the tripod and carries it back to the house. Jonathan has disappeared behind the tractor, no doubt checking it for something no one else would have noticed. As Martha makes her way up the dirt path to the main house, Clark slips into the barn, and eases into the wooden chair at the work bench. He drops his head into his hands and lets out a heavy sigh.

Martha was only half-kidding about what transpired with his history class this year. She knew full well the danger looming over Smallville during that month, and what Clark had done to stop it. After all, she was the one that gave him the suit to protect his identity after it was all said and done. The irony was not lost on him; that suit was the reason for his silent deliberation.

Was he given these powers to protect people? If he was, how was he supposed to do that in Smallville? It wasn’t exactly the epicenter of the universe. There was only so much good he could do in such a tiny community. Should he move to one of the bigger, crime-ridden cities? Did he even want to? If he did, what would happen to the farm if he were to head to one the cities?

At the beginning of his senior year, he thought he’d stay in Smallville and use his strength and speed to make the farm twice as profitable, build a small place next to his parents and settle even more into small-town life. Maybe even marry Lana one day. But that was before he had fought off a small army of LexCorp goons in their attempt to ‘acquire’ the majority of the farmland in town. It wasn’t just his life that changed that day, it was his desires. He wanted to help people. To save them. He enjoyed it.

The problem, at least the way he saw it, was two-fold: what if his powers had limits that he hadn’t discovered yet and he came up against a foe that had? And, more important, what would happen to his parents if he left? Jonathan was getting older and couldn’t keep up with the daily chores as easily, which would cut into profits. Clark wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if they lost the family farm because of him.

Clark throws his head back and exhales so deeply that it actually shakes the rafters, as if the barn is saying, ‘easy there, buddy.’

“Easy there, buddy.”

The voice startles Clark and for a brief second he wonders if he had literally breathed life into the barn. He was uncovering new powers almost daily, so it wasn’t out of the question. Then he feels the rugged hand rest on his shoulder.

“What’s troubling ya?” Jonathan’s half-grin betrays the fact that he already knows.

“I just don’t know what to do, Dad.” Clark fights back tears. “I want to help people, really help them, the way I did against LexCorp. But, I just don’t know—“

“If you’re strong enough? If you’re fast enough?” Jonathan takes the words right out of Clark’s mouth. “Or, are you worried about your old man? ‘Cause, I am getting up there.”

Clark sighs his answer.

“Clark, I think you already know this, but I’m gonna say it anyway: you are the strongest person, maybe in the world.”

“I know.”

“Well, the thing is, I’m not talking about physical strength.” Clark looks up at his father, his brow wrinkled. “Sure, you can lift a school bus and throw it to the moon, but what makes you special, what makes you strong, is in here.” Jonathan pokes a finger, gnarled from a lifetime of manual labor, into Clark’s chest. “And it’s what’s in there that tells me that you’ve already made up your mind.”

Clark feels his eyes welling up with hot tears.

“We’ll be just fine, bud. But if you stay here and hide that strength from the world, you won’t be.”

The tears sting Clark’s eyes, pooling so much that they make his supernatural vision blur, until one breaks loose and slides down his cheek. At this, Jonathan pulls Clark into his arms. Clark may be the strongest man in the world, but in these arms, he feels like only a child.

“Thanks, Dad.”

- - - -

A fresh wave of tears pool in the Man of Steel’s eyes. He blinks them away and walks to the desk, picking up the framed photo. Part of him wants to steal the picture out of the frame, tuck it into his wallet, and never speak of it to anyone. It’s not like anyone would know; Martha had the same picture blown up to about twice the size where it was currently hanging over the mantle in the main house. He flips the frame over, ready to perform his first act of thievery, but thinks better of it. Taking anything from this barn would be akin to taking a piece of its soul; he couldn’t do that. He’d come back anyway, and it would still be in the same, comfortable place; right where it should be.

Clark sets the picture back where he found it and sits down on the rickety chair. It groans under his weight. He stares at the picture for a few more minutes and then realizes that he’d never looked inside the desk. It had only one sliding drawer right in the center, just above his knees. He’s to sure why he never checked it out, other than Jonathan never asked him to. But, then again, Johnathan never asked him not to. He checks over his shoulder, not using his X-ray vision or super hearing, feeling like he is five years old again sneaking a glance at the Christmas presents Martha always stashed in the crawlspace.

The shelf slides open with some difficulty. He’s not sure what he expected to find, maybe some more tools or a few old work orders. Staring up at him is a single, faded red binder. He lifts it out, careful not to bump it against anything as if it were a ticking time bomb. The cover is blank, save for a very small, crudely drawn ’S’ in the bottom corner. He feels a smile tug at his lips and peels it open.

A newspaper clipping from the local Smallville Tribune greets him. The headline says, “Strange Light Show Has Locals Marveling”. Always the reporter, he looks next at the date. As he recognizes it, he is glad he’s already seated because if not, he would have most certainly dropped to his knees. It was from the date his parents found him in his ship. Clark runs a hand across his chiseled chin. He turns the next page, then the next, and the next.

Each page another clip with a story about one of Clark’s accomplishments. Be it the time he won the third grade spelling bee, or the more frequent sports articles recalling his skill on the gridiron. He continues flipping through the pages, wondering how many of the countless Superman articles this small binder might contain. But, there is only one, a familiar one; the very first one. When he rescued Lois from some low-level gangster. The famous picture, with Clark hosting a car over his head like it was a pillow, elicits a laugh.

The next two pages contain his and Lois’ wedding invitation, along with a short article covering the renowned Lois Lane’s nuptials to the lesser known, Clark Kent. After that, it is only a scarp of newspaper, about the size of a postage stamp, announcing the birth of one Jonathan Samuel Kent to father Clark Kent and mother Lois (Lane) Kent.

Clark’s laugh ends as fast as it came. He leans back in the chair and stares at the page.

- - - -

“Whatcha doing out here?” Jonathan says.

“Oh, Mom mentioned that there was a flat on the tractor. Thought I’d swing out here and switch it out real quick.” Clark says, hoping that the quick leap to his feet would be enough to convince his dad.

“Kind of hard to change a tire on the tractor, while sitting on the tractor.” There is a sparkle in Jonathan’s eyes. “Even for Superman.”

“Yeah…” Clark chuckles, fumbling for an excuse.

“That was some pretty big news you just dropped on us, ya know? Not that your mom was surprised. She’s been suspecting it for months.”

“Months? How?”

“Don’t ask me, pal. I’ve stopped questioning your mother’s intuition long ago.” Jonathan reaches into a small cooler under his desk and pulls out two Budweiser cans. He tosses one to Clark and plops down next to him on the tractor’s hood. “If she says she thinks Lois is pregnant, then by golly, I’ll believe Lois is pregnant.”

A smile forms on one side of Clarks face. He cracks open his beer and throws it to his lips, taking a long pull. His alien anatomy kept him from getting drunk, or even buzzed, but he would never turn down a beer from his dad. Jonathan drank for special occasions and not much else. Even then it was one and only one. Clark saw him have one in the house right after the announcement, so to have another on the same night, must mean this was a very special occasion.

“Whoa, take it easy.” Jonathan teases. “I don’t want to be the guy that got Superman drunk. What if that Mongul guy comes back?”

“Then I guess Superman’s dad will have to step up.” Clark teases right back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

They sit there, side-by-side on the tractor’s hood for what seems like hours, but Clark knows it is only minutes. He knows what he wants to say, that even facing ‘that Mongul guy’ or Doomsday, or Darkseid doesn’t scare him as much as being a father; that he’s afraid he’ll fail, or worse, that he won’t be strong enough for Lois and the baby. Only, he can’t bring himself to say anything.

Jonathan finishes his beer, squeezes the empty can with one hand, and chucks it into a large metal barrel in the corner with all the other trash. Nothing but net, or trash.

“Did I ever tell you how terrified that night we found you in the field?” Jonathan says, still admiring his perfect shot.

“What?”

“Oh yeah, I was so scared when we pulled you out of that little spaceship. And not because you were an ugly little alien baby.” Jonathan nudges Clark in the shoulder. “No, I didn’t know how I was going to feed another mouth. How I was going to pay for your school supplies, or your shoes, or your first car. Or college! Don’t even get me started on college.”

Clark starts to take another sip, but stops short and listens.

“But, the thing that scared me more than anything, was if I’d be good enough for you. That somehow, I’d take all my worst qualities and put them into you. Thank God for Martha, ‘cause without her, that definitely would have happened.”

Clark looks at his father, fighting hard to hold back the tears begging to break through his laser eyes.

“Dad, I’m just…scared.”

“I know. I wish I could tell you that it gets better, but the truth is, it doesn’t. Before we knew you had powers, I didn’t even want you going outside ‘cause I was convinced that you’d fall off the swing and break something, or get lost in the cornfield and I wouldn’t be able to find you before you died of thirst. After you discovered your powers, I still didn’t want you going outside because I thought some faceless government agents would swoop in and take you to a black site somewhere in the middle east and I wouldn’t be there to protect you from them. And when you put that damn ’S’ on your chest and lifted the car for the whole world to see, I just about…”

Jonathan looks away, choking back emotion. Clark had seen his father cry once in his whole life and that was the day they had to put down their golden retriever, Shelby. Before Clark can fully comprehend the heaviness of the moment, Jonathan continues.

“There’s only two things I know about being a Dad, and both of them I learned from you. The first is, as long as you love that precious little life, I mean really love, which sometimes requires discipline, then things will most likely turn out just fine. Oh, they may get mad, throw their temper tantrums,” at this Jonathan casts a mocking glance at Clark, “they may even say ‘I hate you’ a few times. But, if you love them and they know you love them, they’ll be back in your barn drinking your beer every chance they get.”

Jonathan reaches an arm around Clark and pulls him into a deep embrace and once again, Clark turns to putty in the strongest arms he’s ever felt. Jonathan hands Clark a handkerchief so he can wipe away the tears, and they head inside.

As they make the short walk from the barn to the house, Clark remembers something.

“Hey Dad, you said you knew two things about being a dad, but only told me one. What was the other?”

Jonathan throws an arm around his boy and says, “When in doubt, send them to their Mom.”

They laugh all the way into the house.

- - - -

The laugh echoes through the years and picks up in Clark’s throat. He examines the binder for a few more minutes, thinking that he should check the time but not wanting to surrender the moment.

A long, wooden moan startles him out of the warm memory. He cranes his neck over his broad shoulder to see the barn door swing open. The early afternoon sun crashes into the room, obscuring the intruder’s face, leaving only a silhouette. Clark doesn’t need his super sight or hearing to know who this is, the shadowed profile as distinct as they come.

“Hello, Bruce.” Clark says, closing the binder. He stands, grips the extended hand before him, and gives it a polite shake.

Bruce Wayne. The Batman. Clark’s greatest ally and truest friend. The type of friend that is not afraid to challenge you when you are wrong. And Bruce sure did not shy away from challenging Clark on, just about everything. The type that expected the very best of you and would push you, sometimes forcefully, to become that version of yourself. But, he was also the type of friend that would drop everything and rush to your aid without even being asked. Like right now.

“Martha said you’d probably be in here.” Bruce says, his voice resonant as always.

“Does she need something?” Clark starts toward the door.

“No, Clark.” Bruce places a firm hand on Clark’s shoulder. “I wanted to…check in on you. I know this cannot be easy for you.”

For the first time since they’d met, Clark hears Bruce’s heartbeat speed up. Clark knows this usually means someone is scared, which he knows is not possible for Bruce, or sad. Which, again, is an emotion Clark didn’t know Bruce was capable of.

The formidable Batman had fought alongside Superman against countless foes, many of whom could have crushed Batman without breaking a sweat. Never, in any of those encounters, had Bruce’s heartbeat even skipped a beat. He possessed no superhuman powers, but Bruce Wayne, the Batman, was the only human Clark ever feared. Not because he was untrustworthy. No, Clark trusted Bruce with his most important treasures; the lives of Martha, Lois, and his son Jon. It was because Bruce was fearless.

Nothing seemed to faze him, and that scared the living hell out of Clark. How could this mere mortal be so undaunted? He truly was the hero’s hero.

“Thanks Bruce, but I’m doing alright.” Clark says.

“I don’t think you are, Clark.” There it was, Bruce’s unerring intuition. “How could you be?”

“I’m holding in there.”

“And that is what worries me. You’ve experienced a terrible loss. The kind that leaves a mark if you don’t process it. Trust me, I’d know.”

“Wait, was that a joke? Did Bruce Wayne just try to crack a joke? And at my dad’s funeral?” Clark isn’t mad, just shocked. Bruce was the most strait-laced person he’d come across in this world, or any other for that matter.

“There’s a first time for everything.” Bruce’s face almost cracks as he forces a smile. “In all seriousness, I’ve spent my entire life dealing with the loss of my parents and it almost turned me into…the type of people we have to fight. I do not want to see that happen to —“

“To Superman?”

“To my friend.”

Bruce stares into Clark’s eyes, letting the statement do its work.

“Friend?” Clark finally asks.

“Friend.”

“I didn’t know Batman had friends.”

“Batman doesn’t. Bruce Wayne does, and he can count them on one hand.” Clark feels like he’s just been blindsided by a streaking asteroid. Bruce had never been this transparent. “I know you know this, Clark, but you can talk to me whenever you need. Jonathan was a great man. One of the few I admired. Losing him, so suddenly…there are just no words.”

“There are, though.” Clark doesn’t even try to stop the tears that streak down his face. “Without him, this world just feels so much bigger. So much emptier. And, worst of all, a whole hell of a lot scarier.”

“Yeah, it really does.”

Without warning, Bruce pulls Clark into a hug. For a second, Clark is baffled by the tenderness Bruce is displaying, but he surrenders to it and squeezes his friend right back. He’d been hugged by several people since the news of Jonathan’s car accident. Diana Prince, Wonder Woman, the only person on this planet that could match his strength and someone he regarded almost as a sister; her embrace felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. Lois, his beautiful wife, whose hug he normally craved for some reason just felt different. Still warm and loving, just off. And of course, his mother, Martha. She hugged him the longest and squeezed the tightest, but it just felt feeble to him. Like he was holding her up, which he was happy to do, only he wanted to be held up too.

And now, Bruce Wayne. The strangest of all the hugs, yet probably the kindest because it came from a place of knowing instead of pity. Even still, this hug like all the others, was lacking. He hated himself for feeling this way about the kindness his family and friends offered up, but at the very same time, he didn’t. He wanted to be selfish. To crave the only hug that ever made him feel home. Made him feel safe. Made him feel like he could truly do anything. Like he could be Superman.

Bruce holds on until Clark’s sobs stop and when the pull away, Clark notices Bruce wipe some tears away.

“It is going to be a beautiful ceremony, Clark.”

“Thanks, Bruce. And, thanks again for putting all this on. I want to pay you back.”

“Never going to happen.” Bruce slaps Clark on the back. “You know, I’ve funded more events than I can remember, and every time someone thanks me, I have the same answer. ‘It was my pleasure.’ Only this time, it’s not a pleasure. Not even close.”

Clark casts a confused glance Bruce’s way.

“This time, it is my greatest honor.”

Clark smiles, grabs his black suit jacket, which he had hung on the coat hook by the door and slips into it. As they turn to leave, Bruce notices the red binder on the desk.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, Dad kept newspaper clippings of my life. Not as Superman, but as Clark. Never knew he had that.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He was crazy about you. He told me in the letters he sent.” Bruce grins and reaches for the door handle but Clark pulls back. His face must expose the confusion coursing through his brain because Bruce’s brow furrows, the way it does when he is figuring out a problem.

“What’s wrong? Do you hear something? Most of the Justice League is in attendance, I’ll inform them of the threat and we’ll handle it so you can be here.”

“Dad wrote you letters? Like, to Batman?”

Bruce’s shoulders relax and he pockets the phone Clark hadn’t even noticed he had.

“He sent three, and they were all addressed to Bruce.”

“Did he know you were…?”

“He did.”

“Bruce, I swear, I didn’t say a word. I never even spoke about the League —“

“I know, Clark.” Bruce’s eyes are calm. “He figured it out himself.”

“What did he say?”

“He sent the last one after Joker abducted Barbara Gordon and paralyzed her. It was a short letter, but he said a lot. He helped me see that it wasn’t my fault, and that the Joker would only win if we let him win. That the world needed…”

Bruce’s words and the barn fade to a blur as once again, Clark is transported back into another memory.

- - - -

“The Justice League is on site. Batman and Wonder Woman have dispatched the remaining foot soldiers and are now coordinating with the National Guard, while Green Lantern, the Flash, and Cyborg lead the rescue efforts. There is no word on Superman’s whereabouts at this time. We cannot be certain, but it appeared he sustained serious injuries in his bout with the alien-monster calling itself Darkseid. While reports are still coming in, we have confirmed the death toll currently stands at over a thousand, and there is fear that number could climb even higher.”

“Thank you Lois. Viewers, in moments like this we are all at a loss for words. However, I would like to say one thing before we head to commercial break. Superman, wherever you are, I sure hope you can hear this. Without you, none of us would be here right now, so from all of us here in Metropolis, thank you. Stay with us as we continue our coverage of the alien invasion throughout the night. We’ll be right back.”

The television clicks off and the family begins to discuss the horrific events, so Clark tunes out. He has no idea whose television he was listening to, or how far away they were, but he didn’t want to hear anymore.

He lifts a bloodied hand to his ribs and rubs at the pain; he thinks he may have broken a few ribs. His tattered cape gets caught on a loose nail sticking out of one of the beams. It tugs at Clark’s neck and he spins, bringing a furious fist into the beam. It evaporates in an instant. Clark’s nightmarish scream splinters the wall in front of him and he brings a trembling hand to his eyes.

“Clark?” It’s all that he needs to hear.

“Dad, I…I couldn’t…I wasn’t…they all died…and it’s my…I should have…” Clark blubbers. Jonathan walks up next to him, taking care to step over the remnants of Clark’s cape. He runs a calloused hand across his mouth before resting it on his son’s shoulder.

Clark collapses to his knees, tears pouring from his eyes. His sobs shake the rafters and Jonathan can feel them rattle his bones.

“Clark?” Jonathan says. “Son?”

“Dad, all those people died because I wasn’t strong enough to save them. Darkseid was too powerful. I failed…”

Jonathan lowers himself to his weary knees and grabs his broken son in both arms. Clark rests his head against Jonathan’s strong shoulder and weeps.

- - - -

The haze clears and Clark finds himself staring back at an expressionless Bruce. Only, he’s not expressionless. He isn’t saying anything, and Clark can tell he stopped speaking several seconds ago, but his eyes carry the understanding stare of one who has also lost a father. Bruce holds the stare for until he is certain that Clark’s flashback has concluded.

“I think it’s about time.” Bruce says. He raises a hand, holds it in the air for a moment, uncertain what to do with it before finally resting it on Clark’s shoulder.

“Yeah.” Clark sniffs. “Give me just one more minute, will ya?”

“Take as many as you need.”

Bruce turns to exit the same way he came, but the door swings open before his hand reaches the handle. Sunlight bursts into the barn again, outlining another, much smaller frame.

“Daddy,” the tiny voice says, “are you in here?”

“I’m here, Jon.” Clark answers. Bruce smiles at the boy and gives Clark one more nod before he leaves.

Jon waits as patiently as a five-year-old can for Bruce to leave and as soon as the door smacks shut, rushes to his father. Tears breaking down his little face.

“Whoa, buddy.” Clark catches his son’s face with his stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“No one could find you and I just thought that, maybe, you…” Jon’s words giving way to sobs.

“That I what?” Clark is knelling now, not caring that the knee of his dress pants landed in a small patch of mud on the dirt floor.

“That you…” Jon sucks at the air, trying to catch his breath between whimpers, “…went to where Poppa Kent is.”

Clark’s confusion is short lived. Jon’s tiny arms grip his waist all the harder and his sobs turn into wails.

“You thought something had happened to me?”

“Yeah.” The boy bawls.

“Jon,” Clark cradles his son’s face, “look at me.”

Jon looks up, tears and snot smeared everywhere.

“We’re safe. I promise.”

“How do you know? We thought Poppa Kent was safe too.”

The question catches Clark off guard. How did he know? He searches the barn as if it will provide an answer.

“I…uh…I just…” Clark stammers, feeling the tears welling up again. And then he sees it. The photograph of his family on the desk. Martha brimming with pride, teenage Clark smiling for his mom, and Jonathan. A knowing smirk on his face.

It dawns on Clark in that moment that he’d never met Jonathan’s dad. Not because there was bad blood, but because Jonathan had never really met him either. Grandpa Kent had passed when Jonathan was about Jon’s age. A realization settles into Clark’s grief-stricken mind: Jonathan had always been the one to hug Clark when he was struggling, to make him feel safe. But, who hugged Jonathan in those moments?

He leaned on Martha, just as Clark had leaned on Lois, sure. And Martha, as well as Lois, were more than up to the task. But, who’s arms made Jonathan feel like he was safe? Like he didn’t have to fight?

Jon squeezes Clark as tight as he can, and that’s when it hits him, almost as hard as Darkseid’s fists. Loving Clark, and Martha, was Jonathan’s safe place. That is where he felt strongest; where he renewed his own wavering strength. Where he could stop fighting whatever personal battles he was facing and impart his immense internal strength into the people he loved more than himself.

Suddenly, Jonathan’s words from that perfect day ring in Clark’s ears, taking on a whole new meaning.

“What makes you special, what makes you strong, is in here.” Clark can feel his father’s finger pressing against his chest. He looks down at Jon, still sobbing into Clark’s belly. He feels his strength…no, the strength of someone much stronger than he…swell in his lungs. Though the tears remain, he feels the might surge through his entire body.

He peels Jon away from his stomach, holding his tender face in gentle hands.

“I know we’re safe because of how much I love you.” Clark says, laughing as tears streak down both of their cheeks. “Love that strong, like Poppa Kent’s, leaves a mark. Love like that never leaves us, not really. And everyone who is loved like that is never the same.”

Clark stands to his feet, and heaves Jon into his arms.

“I love you, Jon. I always will.”

Clark embraces his son, in the very same spot that Jonathan had embraced him more times than he can remember, the barn harboring their soft cries. Clark doesn’t know how long they stay like that, all he knows is that he will be ok.

“Ok, buddy. Let’s go.”

He carries Jon to the door, stops with his hand on the handle, glancing around one more time. The memories flash across his eyes like they are being played on a movie screen. And Superman smiles.