A/N: This takes place a couple of months after Requiem.

Spoilers: Arctic, Requiem, possibly others leading up to mid season 8.

Reviews are divine. :)

Clark padded quietly onto the main deck of the small jet and came upon Oliver seated in his usual spot on the sofa next to the window, one leg pulled up underneath him as he typed furiously on his laptop.

"Where to?" Oliver asked nonchalantly, eyes glued to his screen.

The slightest trace of annoyance seemed to flash through Clark's brief hesitation. "Doesn't matter," he murmured.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of the aisle as if waiting for Oliver to give him further instructions.

The right half of Oliver's lip curled almost imperceptibly as he continued to stare into his glowing computer screen. "You always say that," he urged with an air of disinterest.

"It really doesn't matter to me," Clark insisted shyly, eyes darting across the floor.

"There isn't some famous city you've never been to that you're dying to see? Paris? Rome?"

Clark shrugged in reply. His right knee was bent, clearly wanting to come forward and take a seat, but his left knee remained firmly locked, determined to wait for an invitation.

But Oliver wasn't finished playing with him.

"Really, Clark?" he pressed, finally looking up to make eye contact and failing as Clark's focus maintained its downward slant. "You're on a world class private jet standing at the ready to take you absolutely anywhere you could possibly want to go. You're telling me you don't have any preference whatsoever."

Clark's posture became even more self-conscious, if that was possible, and he shrugged again. "I just like to fly," he nearly whispered.

"So I've gathered."

The reluctance in Clark's eyes, the guardedness in the slump of his shoulders was pitiful. Oliver was having a hard time processing this version of Clark. So often lately, he found himself oscillating between teasing and comforting, and neither with any visible results. And now he settled on the only other thing he could think to do, at least until Clark felt ready to open up to him, if ever, and that was to acquiesce.

"Well, have a seat then," Oliver said in a resigned tone.

Clark audibly exhaled and quickly closed the gap between himself and his usual seat by the westward window across the aisle from Oliver. He buckled his seatbelt and leaned his head back with a deep breath, closing his eyes. The vibration of the plane warming up caused his head to quiver against his seat slightly, but otherwise, he was perfectly still.

"I have some business in Chicago anyway," Oliver offered by way of conversation. "Unless you can think of anywhere else you'd like to go."

Clark remained still. Oliver shook his head with exasperation, then returned his attention to his computer. "Or you could just keep ignoring me," he said under his breath and resumed clacking his fingers against his keyboard.

The soft purr of the plane's engine began to rev up and rise in pitch as the captain came over the loudspeaker to let them know he was preparing for take off. The setting sun peeked in through Clark's window, momentarily blinding Oliver as it shined directly in his face. He took a breath to say something, but was interrupted by Clark's hand quickly reaching up and lowering the shade.

"Thanks," Oliver whispered.

Another silence was all he received in reply. Clark was as still as stone, and not another word was uttered from either one of them until they were high above the planet on their way to Chicago.

The sky bled orange through the remaining uncovered windows and the whole cabin was filled with the melancholy hue of another day coming to an end. This time of day always felt mournful to Oliver, always reminded him of the sweltering orange haze that had seemed to surround the island he was stranded on years ago, or of the passing of his parents, or the loneliness he always felt as he stood atop Metropolis skyscrapers scanning the city for wrongdoers in need of putting down.

Strange, though, how things felt different as he looked around himself now, at the orange light that saturated the leather seats, painted the cabin walls, and cast graceful shadows over Clark's sculptured face. The sadness of sunset wasn't quite so sharp.

But darker feelings lurked beneath his newfound peace, feelings that he certainly had no intention of poking around for, feelings that were heavily wrapped up in recent events he would very much like to stop mentally reliving. So he lay his head back and closed his eyes with a soothing breath as the orange sunlight turned red, then deep crimson, then disappeared altogether.

In the soft glow of the plane's overhead lights, Oliver set his laptop aside and slowly rose to his feet, stretching his arms with a yawn, and walked over to the bar where he poured a small glass of scotch. He didn't even bother to offer anything to Clark, as, after all the times they had done this, he knew he would be lucky to receive so much as a "no."

He took a miniscule sip from the glass, decided he liked the flavor, and poured just a little bit more.

"You always do that," Clark said quietly.

Oliver stopped with the glass about half an inch away from his lip. He glanced down at the extra finger of scotch and then back at Clark whose eyes were still closed.

"It's not that much," Oliver defended. "It's been a long week," he justified. "No, I don't," he denied.

Clark opened his eyes and turned back in his seat, eying the glass still hovering in front of Oliver's mouth.

"I didn't mean that," Clark said gesturing at the scotch.

"Oh." Oliver wanted to take his drink then, but Clark continued to stare at him intently. This was more than Clark had given him in several weeks, and he wasn't sure how to react.

Thankfully, Clark finally turned forward again. "You always ask me if there's anywhere I want to go," he said so softly that Oliver had to lean forward to hear him.

"I try to be a polite host," Oliver said.

"But then you always have somewhere you actually need to be," Clark continued.

"And?"

"So why do you offer to take me somewhere I want to go when you know full well we're going somewhere else?"

Oliver took a drink and then a breath. He sat back down across the aisle from his friend and tried to think of the most diplomatic way of putting things. He finally had Clark talking and he didn't want to ruin it.

"We've been taking these trips every weekend for two months, Clark. And in all of that time, you've never wanted to go anywhere specific. When we touch down, you just vanish until it's time to take off again. I guess I've begun assuming that it's safe to make my own plans."

"So then why do you even ask? If there's somewhere I'd like to go, I mean?" Clark asked, studying his hands in his lap.

Because I miss you, was the answer that nearly came out of Oliver's mouth, though he didn't know where it came from or how it was even related to Clark's question. He pursed his lips together before he could actually say it. Clark didn't seem to notice.

Another long stretch of silence ensued during which Clark became perfectly still again. Occasionally, he would turn one of his hands over and study the other side of it, but he didn't say a word. Oliver sipped his drink slowly. In all honesty, he didn't entirely mind the silence. On top of all of his activity as the Green Arrow, not to mention the daily battles he faced as the new head of LuthorCorp, Oliver never realized how little time he had allowed himself for quiet contemplation and stillness. Not until these weekend flights with Clark began two months earlier, exactly a week after Lana had run off to be a superhero and Lex had… after Lex had been…

A fierce turn of painful emotion gripped Oliver's stomach as he once more relived that memory he had been trying so diligently to push down. He impulsively stood up so he could help himself to another drink.

When he got to the bar, though, he put his empty glass down, and simply leaned over it, taking a moment to catch his breath. No wonder he hadn't left himself much time for silence. And no wonder he always seemed to be drunk by the time he and Clark reached their destination.

"I'm sorry," Clark stated.

"Huh?" Oliver jumped.

"I didn't mean to ignore you," he said.

Oliver shook his head. "Clark, what are you talking about?"

Clark turned around for the second time, and for maybe only the second time in two whole months, he actually made full eye contact with Oliver. The sadness… No. The brokenness that Oliver saw there was nearly too much to handle.

"When we were taking off earlier," Clark reminded him. "I didn't mean to ignore you. The vibration of the plane… it calms me down, helps me quiet my mind when…" He shook his head in search of better words. "The thoughts that I…" he stuttered. "The thoughts, Oliver…"

Instead of continuing, he turned around to his window and pulled up the shade, gazing out into the impenetrable blackness. "It's never quiet anymore," Clark breathed, pressing the palm of his hand against the window.

"Tell me about it," Oliver echoed, pushing his empty scotch glass away and returning to his seat.

"Sometimes… when we're up this high," Clark stammered on as though talking to himself. "And it's dark. I can imagine I'm in space."

Oliver leaned forward, shocked at how much Clark was suddenly sharing, no matter how difficult it seemed for him.

"In my ship," Clark went on, a slight tremor in his voice. "Sometimes I think I have memories of being in my ship. Light years of empty space. Quiet. Darkness."

Oliver felt a thrill of cold air rush up his spine as he imagined the loneliness of it, the feeling of being wrapped up in the vast and absolute nothingness of outer space. It terrified him.

"I'm safe in my ship," Clark went on. "Where it's quiet. And there is no Smallville and no Metropolis. And no…"

"And no Lana?" Oliver guessed nervously. He worried he'd said too much when Clark's hand tensed, but then it relaxed again.

"We all are where we are," Clark began again, only barely aloud, still looking into the darkness of the night that surrounded them. "Every person only is where they are. On that planet down there, where they are. Lana is where she is, wherever she is."

"Which can never be here. Where you are." Oliver thought he might understand what Clark was trying to say. His idea was confirmed when Clark nodded sadly.

"But Lex isn't…" Clark held his breath for a moment. "Lex isn't… anywhere. Lex… isn't."

That feeling of being clawed at from the inside arose within Oliver again at the mention of Lex, and he drummed his fingers on his thigh nervously, resisting another trip to the bar. He desperately wanted to be here for Clark now that Clark was finally expressing himself, but even on Oliver's best days, he could barely keep his feelings about what happened to Lex in check. His feelings, that if left to their own devices, could quite possibly drive him mad. A silly little overused word like "guilt" hardly seemed to sufficiently describe them.

"He loved me, you know?" Clark said. Oliver's eyebrows rose at that, but he didn't say anything. "The last time I saw him. At the Fortress. He told me that he loved me. And he did. I know he did. He was my best friend once."

"He had an interesting way of showing his friendship," Oliver blurted without thinking, his hatred of Lex wrapping itself around his guilt over Lex's death like a vicious, bloodsucking parasite.

"He got messed up," Clark agreed. "But our friendship was real. It was real," he repeated. "I mean we both lost sight of what was important, and we got distracted from ourselves and each other. And I know he did bad things, but…"

"I hope that 'but' isn't going to be followed by a justification of his actions, Clark," Oliver said firmly. "Because there isn't a whole lot you can say to me to make the things he did okay. Oh, sure, he had a bad childhood, he was raised by crazy people. He had a lot of pressure at work, his love life left something to be desired. I'll admit that Lex's existence wasn't exactly picture perfect, and maybe being good was a bit of an uphill battle for him, but none of those factors took away his choice. There is always choice, Clark. We all have a choice to hurt people or not to hurt people, and no one forced Lex to take any of the horrible actions that he did."

And no one forced you either, murderer, a hissing voice snarled through Oliver's head, causing him to nearly double over with bone-crushing remorse. He decided he would have that drink now.

He made a third trip to the bar and grabbed his glass, splashing scotch around as he poured with a shaking hand. Clark spoke as Oliver downed the drink in two burning swallows.

"I just miss the old…" Clark started. "I just wish…" He finally turned again to look at Oliver. "How did things get so bad?"

He asked with the innocence and confusion of a child, and his eyes filled up with tears as he mentally pleaded with Oliver to explain the unfairness of life or why bad things happen to good people, or even simply to repeat a tired old platitude like, "it'll be okay." But as it happened, Oliver stood with his empty glass in hand, quite unable to say anything at all. He, himself, would have appreciated those same questions answered by anyone who was up to the task.

Clark got to his feet, then, and cautiously came closer to Oliver. He stood directly in front of him, arms limp at his sides and one leg nervously bent like when he first boarded the plane. His gaze pierced Oliver's soul as his lips pressed against each other, fighting back his emotions.

"I wish I knew, Clark," Oliver said, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. "I really wish I knew what to say to you."

His own emotions were running rampant now, and much to his surprise, his greatest impulse was to toss his scotch glass aside and throw himself into Clark's arms. His body felt an irresistible urge to comfort this wounded child before him, and to take his own comfort in return. Like two orbiting celestial bodies they stood before each other, gravity willing them inexorably toward a full on collision.

Clark took a ragged breath. "I want you to help me find out who did it."

As his grip tightened in fright, Oliver nearly dropped his empty glass. Placing it back down on the bar, he steeled himself against taking a step away from Clark who was close enough that he could feel the heat of his breath.

"Did what?" Oliver asked. He congratulated himself on a steady voice.

"I can't get even with Lex for what he did to Lana," Clark said shakily.

"I'd say Lex already got his just reward," Oliver mumbled quickly, but Clark didn't hear.

"But I want to find Lex's killer and bring him to justice."

Oliver bowed his head in disbelief and exasperation. "You've got to be kidding me."

"He's a killer, Oliver," Clark said, his old familiar authoritative tone coming back to life.

"Well, if it isn't the old sanctimonious Clark Kent we all know and tolerate," Oliver spouted, pushing past Clark's shoulder to make a grandiose sweep of the plane. "You know, I was actually beginning to miss being told what to do."

"He's a killer, Oliver," Clark reiterated with more emphasis. "Are you saying he should just be allowed to go free?"

"And what makes you so sure he's a he, Clark?"

"You know what I meant."

"What I know is what you know, and that is nothing. You have nothing to go on here. It could be a man, it could be a woman. It could be Lana for all we know."

"Oliver, don't say that!"

"She had reason enough to want to see Lex dead, didn't she?"

Clark shook his head vehemently. "Lana would never."

"She's not the innocent girl next door anymore, Clark," Oliver goaded. "She's done a lot of shady things in the past couple of years."

"That was Lex's fault! He tried to corrupt her!"

"All the more reason for her to want to get even."

"Oliver, I told you to stop it," Clark said in a warning tone.

Oliver knew he was taking it too far, but he couldn't help himself. While the subdued version of Clark had not exactly been ideal, he had at least taken comfort from it. He felt that he and Clark had shared something together, even if only in their silence. He didn't want to give their new understanding up over a dead man and the girl who got away. To have the nicer, softer Clark suddenly ripped away from him and replaced by Clark Kent, Self-Righteous Boy Scout hurt Oliver in ways that shocked the hell out of him. And in retrospect, he could see that that was the reason he said what he said next.

"I guess it's a good thing she got all juiced up with kryptonite. If she did kill Lex, she couldn't very well make a getaway with you trailing behind her acting as Conscience Police."

Clark screamed something then, but his words were drowned out by a blurry wave of his arm as with one quick motion, he destroyed the entire bar sending splinters of wood and chips of broken glass flying in every direction. Oliver covered his face with his arms, his own frightened yelp drowned out in the crash. When he dared to look again, Clark was quaking in place, the muscles of his jaw standing out dramatically as he clenched his teeth together, clearly forcing himself not to come forward and pummel Oliver to death. Oliver did his best impression of "unruffled," but he was pretty sure his fear was wafting off of him like a bad odor.

"Free plane rides come with a 'no destroying the mini bar' clause," Oliver stuttered.

Long, aching silence.

Then Oliver tried not to flinch as Clark reached out and took the tumbler out of Oliver's unsteady hand and placed it back on what was left of the bar. And with a gentleness that shouldn't be possible from a man so large, he placed a hand on Oliver's back and led him over to the sofa where they sat next to each other, Oliver facing forward and Clark facing Oliver. It was as though he could see the pain Oliver was in, and he was trying to comfort him simply with the weight of his gaze. Despite Clark's violent outburst, it was working. He felt warmer under Clark's attention, less alone. They let another wordless few moments roll by. Oliver was the first to speak.

"It's just a conversation starter," he muttered.

"Sorry?"

He looked into Clark's eyes. "When I ask you if there's anywhere you want to go? I know you're not really looking to go anywhere in particular. That's just my way of trying to get you talking. These past weeks, Clark… I've never seen you so…"

Clark nodded in understanding.

"It's good to really see you again," Oliver concluded.

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to—"

Oliver held up a hand. "You've been through a lot."

"It's so noisy down there," Clark gestured to the window of the plane, referring to the cold and unfriendly planet below. "This was the only place I could get relief."

"I've told you before, Clark, the plane is available any time you want it. You don't have to wait until I'm here to jet off somewhere if that's what you—"

"No, Oliver, I mean this—" Clark placed his hand over Oliver's "—is the only place I could get relief."

Oliver searched Clark's eyes for the meaning of his words. He felt totally unable to come up with a reaction that felt appropriate, so he continued to stare.

"Everything is wrong," Clark said. "Nothing in my life makes sense. My thoughts are so loud and so ugly that sometimes I think I'm going crazy. But here on the plane… it's quiet. Just for an hour or two. It's quiet and it's safe."

"Here on the plane," Oliver repeated.

"Here on the plane with you," Clark added, now turning Oliver's hand over and gripping it firmly in his own. The warmth there, the strength, was more comforting than anything Oliver had experienced in a long time, and he suddenly realized that he, too, had felt better about recent events in Clark's presence. He realized that these quiet weekend trips were just as much of a relief for him as they had been for Clark. He squeezed Clark's hand in return, and he saw an expression in Clark's eyes that he had feared he would never see again.

Hope.

"I can't change anything for you, Clark" Oliver stated. "Lana is wherever she is, and Lex… I can't bring them back for you."

"I know," Clark nodded.

"And I can't make you feel better about it, either," Oliver persisted.

"But you do…"

"But I won't, Clark. I won't comfort you for the loss of Lex because I think he got what he deserved. You know that."

Clark flinched, but he continued to listen.

"And I won't comfort you over Lana either because we both know that nothing I could say will make a difference, and—"

"It's not your words that have made the difference, Ollie…"

"And—let me finish, okay?" Clark nodded and closed his mouth. "And I know you're grieving and I know how much you've lost, and I understand. But if you… if we…" Oliver held up their joined hands in place of the words that were currently eluding him. "You said it yourself, Lana and Lex are wherever they are, and that's not where you are."

Clark's eyes became redder but no tears fell. "You are where I am," he said simply.

The earnestness in his voice nearly broke Oliver into a million pieces, feelings of guilt, sadness, deep friendship, and pure devotion tearing him in so many different directions he thought he would scream.

"Yes, I am," he finally answered. "Yes, I am."

The pilot came over the speaker to announce that they were beginning their descent into Chicago.

Clark and Oliver remained wordlessly locked in each other's gazes, hands intertwined, held together in a bond of fear, regret, and a distant glimmer of redemption.

Without looking away, Oliver reached back with his free hand to grab at his seatbelt.

"Don't," Clark whispered.

Oliver looked at him questioningly.

"I've got you," Clark added.

He leaned in and wrapped his arms around Oliver's waist, resting his cheek on Oliver's shoulder.

Clark's soft, weightless breath cooled Oliver's ear, and the large arms around his waist felt just as light. But he knew the strength there, and he knew the protection that they could provide was far greater than anything this plane had to offer.

He also knew, as another chilling memory of Lex's explosion internally taunted him, that he didn't deserve to be protected.

But for now.

Just for now.

Oliver closed his eyes and imagined again that he was floating free in cold, dark space. He was surprised that it didn't seem so terrifying anymore.

With Clark's warmth surrounding him, oblivion seemed a pretty good option.