“Hi.”

Blinking, Clark slowly levered himself up onto his elbow. A little boy, no more than… five, maybe six, was perched precariously on the bed. “…Hi,” he finally replied.

The stare he met was unabashedly curious and peculiarly intent. The boy glanced up at the ceiling, then back at Clark’s eyes. “I changed the stars. Do you mind?”

Clark was surprised to note the sheer complexity in the boy’s emotions. He sounded absolutely, even unconcernedly confident—but his heart sped up, and he bit his lip. Despite his own confusion, Clark had always hated to see a child uncertain and reacted instinctively. “Of course not. It looks good.” He glanced back up, wondering. “I’m glad to see it in the right place.”

“I wouldn't do it /wrong/.” Clark stifled a laugh at the sheer indignation in that. “Mommy did when she first put it there. I had to fix it.”

“Really?” Very rarely had he ever felt so much at a loss for words.

“Yes.” The boy rolled his eyes expressively, snickering slightly. “She still says she doesn’t see a difference. Grandma says it’s not nice to say she’s lying.” Clark didn’t even think about the automatic, gently remonstrating look he gave his visitor. He’d used that one a lot with Lois, when she got crossed the line from sarcasm into something a little less pleasantly catty.

An answering impatient huff only reinforced that nostalgia. “I’m glad you like it. I wanted to be able to see it. It’s my room now, when I’m here,” the boy explained earnestly after a moment, “but Grandma says it was yours when you were little. I thought you'd feel better here. You looked kinda sick.”

I did? Clark thought with some concern. Maybe the Kryptonite exposure had been worse than he’d thought. “Thank you. I do feel better.”