For someone who doesn't remember me now. And anyone who ever needed a friend to help put you together again. Merry Christmas.

"Here," Superman states formally, holding out a garishly-packaged present so stiffly he might as well have been conferring some prized heirloom; here's a mystery — you know, another enigma you'll puzzle over, the same way you do with me. "Maybe Ma and Pa forgot you have X-ray vision. All of mine are lined with lead."

The words would have seemed childish but for his grave tone. As Superboy concentrates on the misshapen object, turning it this way and that, the elder superhero recalls Batman's stern lecture: Like it or not, Clark, you're bringing him home for the holidays. You can't let the kid spend his first Christmas alone in the Cave.

Meekly: He'd have Miss Martian with him.

A Bat-Glare, and a parting statement. Miss Martian has J'onn. Who does Superboy have?

"Nope," Superboy concludes finally, holding out the gift. He might as well have said nobody. "Lead."

Of course, he can't be sure. He doesn't have X-ray vision. He just sees through Superman's attempt to make conversation.

Making a vague sympathetic noise, Superman shakily accepts it back and pushes it deep into the space beneath the Kent's pine tree. With a dull thud it collides with the pot, and something falls and shatters. By the time he looks over, Superboy has gingerly laid the broken ceramic angel across both palms.

Conner's peripheral vision registers a tube that reads 'Superglue'. And he thinks 'cyanoacrylate', because that's about as much as he's been taught by Cadmus's G-Gnomes. He could draw you the molecular equation of its polymerization, but using it is another thing entirely.

He flinches back as Superman reaches forward, then relaxes when the man's callused hands gently accept the broken angel from his. They look surprisingly bulky cradling the tiny figure, unscrewing the still smaller glue cap.

It's not a clean break. The porcelain-white wing has shattered apart, rather than snapped off. In seconds he's concluded it's impossible.

"Stop," he requests bluntly. "It's broken. Forget it."

Superman's blue eyes meet his, and for the first time they're soft, and melting, rather than steely.

"It's okay, Super— Conner. I – I can fix it."

An invulnerable Kryptonian, stuttering like he'd just let slip to a six-year-old that Santa wasn't real. It's a side of the man he has never seen. Maybe he could fix it. He was Superman, after all. Still...

"It's okay," Conner paraphrases his previous statement. "Some angels aren't meant to fly."

As if in silent agreement, the little ornament is still smiling its painted-on, serene smile.

Superman — no, Clark, that's what they'd called him, here in this place called home — raises a questioning eyebrow.

"When you can't fly, you make sure to jump as high as you can. And if you never quite reach the sky, well," the clone shrugs, "at least you always come back down to Earth."

For a moment, Conner thinks he might laugh at his sentiment. But the worry passes as Clark begins nodding.

When Ma and Pa Kent peek around the corner, their adopted son is placing a one-winged angel atop the tree, and his son is crouched on the floor, slowly but surely picking up all the broken pieces.

Inspired by a personal experience, really good hot chocolate and Boyce Avenue's Broken Angel.

R&R? If you still feel the Christmas-y spirit of giving.

Props to Brock's Geodude for pointing out, Superboy doesn't have X-ray vision! My bad for writing a character I've never been well-acquainted with. I'm embarrassed now, but extremely grateful. I've changed it now.

m.e.