#i did also disappear for a day except for a few arctic boys posts i queued earlier but my oh my

[widevibratobitch]

deep-cleaned the bathroom, changed the sheets, washed my hair - no need for therapy after all i am completely normal now <33

[regrettablewritings]

How differently do they think of each other now compared to when they first met?: You thought of Clark as anyone who’d ever met him before did: He was timid, and something about his demeanor seemed poorly suited for the frame that actually portrayed it. However, he seemed harmless enough; nothing worth digging into. That was what you had made sure to take note of during your period as a mole for one “Mr. Knight.” (You really wished Mr. Wayne would’ve thought up a less laughable alias, but he wasn’t paying you to criticize. Only to keep your finger on the pulse of Metropolis by infiltrating the ranks of the Daily Planet). However, as time went on, that initial response seemed to shift somewhat.

It didn’t take long for you to notice his frequent disappearances during the work day. When you inquired about it, an apparent friend of his, Lois, explained that it had something to do with some “health concerns” or whatever story he was supposedly working on that week. You raised a brow at the matter but took note for future reference. Part of you wanted to believe that your job (your real one as a mole) had been made a lot easier by potentially having a link to finding out who the caped Kryptonian was. But another part of you was suspicious of the possibility; after all, that would be far too good of luck for that to be the case, right? Probably.

You would’ve been happy to have left it like that, had it not been for the brief but relatively multiple occurrences where you’d witnessed Clark be able to perform acts that would have required excessive strength such as moving a full file cabinet with ease, or gripping the edge of his desk enough to snap the pulpy wood it was made out of. It was perhaps in your need to justify everything that wound up being your downfall. You were on a mission – a very important one at that – and it wouldn’t do to constantly pester your boss about every strange thing that occurred in the area. (If that were the case, you would’ve had the Bruce Wayne lurking around the nightclub scene, intimidating every other person who could do a vape trick through a gaged hole in their mouth.)

In this case, you looked to the small file of Daily Planet workers that Mr. Wayne had provided you with, pleased to use Clark’s farm boy heritage as an excuse for his freakish strength (never mind that he supposedly had health issues that may or may not have a supposed effect on it). But perhaps also you just needed a reason to not have to be suspicious of him: He was, from what few interactions the two of you had had, a very nice guy. Not a Nice Guy™, but a man who appeared to be nice by nature. You sure as heck never met one back in Gotham!

Clark admittedly didn’t have much of an opinion on you for the first chunk of your time undercover. It wasn’t necessarily that you didn’t appear in his awareness enough for him to form an idea of you, it was just that with his self-appointed position as a sort of guardian of the Earth (or at least Metropolis), learning about new coworkers wasn’t really on the top of his list. Especially with this Batman nonsense beginning to spill over from across the bay. But from what he did manage to take note of, however, you were polite and dedicated, always seeing your assigned tasks to the end – which was undeniably something that Clark couldn’t always say for himself.

He didn’t expect the latter to come back to bite him in his nigh-on invincible ass, though.

It didn’t matter to you that he’d insisted that all was forgiven: The amount of guilt you’d accumulated after being tied up into his near-defeat just wouldn’t quit.

“Please,” you said, almost seriously, “punch my body backwards. Fling me into the sun… Lois mentioned you got a place in the Arctic, right? Drop me off there and leave me to fend for myself.”

Once again, Clark found himself laughing (albeit in an attempt to alleviate the tension).

“It’s okay,” he swore. A beat before shrugging. “Well, not okay … But it’s all said and done. You didn’t mean any harm –”

“This entire UC mission was to figure out who Superman was so my boss could kick the shit out of him.”

“… Well, you didn’t mean the extent of the harm, anyway.”

Even after you placed your two-weeks notice at the Daily Planet, thus ending your time in Metropolis, the apologies wouldn’t quit. Nor did your efforts to attempt proportionate compensation via expensive fruit baskets.

(“Wow,” Lois breathed, observing the intricate designs carved into a large watermelon. The great fruit itself had been converted into a basket that now held grapes and honeydew and all sorts of other natural goodies. “Somebody must really like you, Clark.” She smirked as Clark’s ears burned red. He cast his eyes downward, but he knew she knew.)

But eventually he must have gotten sick of fruit or acquired a compost pile too large for the likes of the city, because eventually he contacted you and suggested the two of you settle this in a more agreeable way: Having a nice dinner and chatting. Even though Clark insisted it was something he’d managed to pull together, the fact that the restaurant was practically bare save for the staff gave you the creeping suspicion that he had called in a favor with Mr. Wayne. You intended on asking Clark if this had been the case (aside from his alter ego, the man was pretty honest about everything else), but first: You had to talk about the fight that happened so long ago.

It was by no intention (at least, not of your own) that the discussion would diverge into other topics, which then turned into conversations all a world of their own. Things like how different Metropolis was from Gotham. Or your respective personal lives when not saving the world or writing for a flimsy paper or being a billionaire’s second righthand. Or favorite dishes to cook. Or favorite past times. By the time the night was over, you’d forgotten what the two of you had come together for in the first place.

Fast forward to now, when the two of you are a couple. You still think he’s a dorkish sweetheart, but really only when he’s in civilian mode. This is because you’ve since come to know Clark as being far more multidimensional than the stereotypical, sheepish lad he sells himself as. You respect his sacrificing attitude, nerve-wrecking as it can often be. It’s interesting how a man can seem so ideal yet struggle so much with the weight of what his abilities carry, and he lets you know about that weight often enough. He wants to be the best hero he can, but that’s just plain impossible. Nevertheless, he tries and sometimes he pushes himself too far in the attempts. He needs a lot more comfort and validation than he lets in on, of which you are glad to provide.

Clark is quite glad to learn that being ambitious wasn’t just a trait you wore for your time undercover – it was something that you had arrived in Metropolis with, and one that you carried out in everything you did no matter how big or small. Let’s be real, Clark’s always admired a go-getter, so it’s no surprise that that is perhaps the trait he’s most excited about seeing in you. He admires your openness to carrying out tasks, something of which he can’t quite do as often as he’d like due to who and what he is. However, he’s more than happy to support you because you’re his biggest cheerleader and have faith in him. Going off of this, he also appreciates your loyalty. It’s an impassioned sort, assisted by the aforementioned sense of dedication you display. Once your mind is made up, it would take either a lot or your own self to actually sway you off the course you’d set. No wonder he was able to buy you as a genuine journalist for so long!

What do their friends/family think of their relationship?: Given that he’s far less hostile towards Clark post-fight, Bruce doesn’t feel nearly as threatened about the relationship as he probably could’ve been. Of course, he’s still put off by it: He hadn’t expected his spy to come back dating the very man he’d been afraid of all these years. However, given that he’s grown to trust Clark as a person, all Bruce can do is sigh heavily and just let things happen. The both of you are grown-ups, he trusts nothing weird is going to happen.

“Besides,” he resigns, “at least the guy can protect you if need be.” Damn right he could.

Neither of you get the chance to even tell Lois before she figures it out (the woman isn’t an award-winning investigative journalist for nothing). Honestly, she thought the two of you had been dating long before you actually began (“I thought that the fruit baskets were little tokens of affection after the fifth week of it happening,” she said). However, she is quick to regard the relationship as something straight out of a cheesy romance novel and she’s absolutely living for it.

“Enemies-turned-lovers – god, can Clark ever be a part of something not cliché?” she giggles into her morning coffee the day she figures out the situation. Suffice to say she’s at least glad that the man is actually interacting with more people on a regular basis than just her. On that note, the League also soon finds out (because let’s be real, Diana could either see it in Clark’s features, or Bruce blabbed about it). With the exception of Bruce (who is exasperated about it), the League is predominately neutral regarding the relationship. Actually, scratch that: Barry bluntly comments about how strange the union is because “didn’t [Clark] almost die because of the information [you] got on [him]?” He doesn’t mean to come off in any negative kind of way, it just perplexes him at first. However, given that he and Clark are “speed buddies” and therefore share kindred, sprinted spirits, he trusts Clark’s decision and is happy for him.

When you finally videochat your family so they can finally lay their eyes on your boyfriend, you have to pray to whatever god is out there that the camera feed is too grainy for them to make out Clark’s features too well. When your sibling commented on how Clark looks vaguely familiar, your stomach took a plunge into your bowls. Thankfully, Clark was able to play it off as a joke about how he just has “basic white guy face.” It manages to get a chuckle out of your family. All in all, they think you’ve found yourself a “fine young man.” It’s your friends, however, you struggle the most with. It’s not that they disapprove of the relationship – far from it, in fact – it’s just that with them being physically present and far more social media savvy, it’s harder to keep them from recognizing Clark as the controversial Kryptonian. As a result, Clark kept his almost sheepish workplace demeanor, adding fuel to the image by always opting to wear clothes that are just unflattering to his figure. Nothing godawful, but definitely nothing to indicate at the 6’1” mass of pure muscle that he really was.

No neither side’s surprise, they bought it. Mainly because Clark was naturally very likable. Your friends boldly praise Clark for being “a rare breed of man”, and you for managing to snag him. It’s when they ask you guys how you met, however, that things had to be fudged a bit. As far as they know, you two met while he was interviewing you for a piece that wound up getting cancelled. You’re pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to handle learning you’re involved with espionage, much less that it was the reason you are now dating Superman.

How do their personalities/skills complement or contrast with each other?: While both you and Clark are go-getters, it’s really only in your own respective rights. For example, it’s in his nature to present it as tamer. He works in ways that, at their core, are meant to minimize damages to the best of his ability. (Whether or not this actually plays out, of course, depends on the circumstances.) This isn’t to say that you’re necessarily rambunctious but being that you were trained under and employed by a man with an “any means necessary” point of view, it’s easy to sometimes let your ambitions get the better of you. You both are also skilled in the ways of being elusive, with it being in your job description by the nature of the job, and with it being a necessity for him to be able to be Superman and Clark separately.

What is their favorite aspect of each other?: Even from day one, with what little you knew or cared about Clark, you had to admit: You admired his kindly nature. Depressing as it was to say, it just wasn’t a common thing to find in people, much less the men hardened by urban living. And your job and all its accompaniments hadn’t necessarily convinced you otherwise – you were just so used to seeing and reporting horrible, dark things about seemingly nice people that you had lost quite a bit of hope by the time Clark had rolled around. In fact, you honestly didn’t really by his willingness to help or his politeness – at first. But once he proved that everything about his efforts was genuine, you couldn’t help but admire those traits. A little too much so, in your initial opinion.

Part of you even questioned your own reliability, that maybe you took small, normal instances of him being a decent human and exaggerated them to godlike status to make your eventual romantic relationship with him more justifiable. But ultimately you clung to it: The universe was offering you a walking piece of Heaven, who were you to truly deny yourself that? Of course, it sometimes exhausted you to see him try to fulfill expectations that weren’t even necessarily there (especially with his Clark Kent alias), but more on that later. In healthy doses, his unselfishness was his strongest point.

Having been raised in a farming community, Clark grew up appreciating the value of working hard to get results. This has since bled into the real world where go-getters tend to gain some bit of admiration within him, especially those who use their determination to see a job through to a greater good. Granted, the situations wherein you tended to use this trait of yours are a bit controversial: Espionage, for all intents and purposes, was a shady business to get into, especially since his first awareness of your involvement in it required you to be a mole and feed your employer information, of which subsequently got Clark’s ass kicked. But you win some brownie points when he gets to observe that same diligence in you outside of work. If you set your sights on a project or something you wish to acquire, you’re going to see it through, from getting a recipe for a stay-in date night down, to attempting to fix the dryer despite knowing very little about handyman-ship.

Suffice to say, godly being loves a trier.

Do either of them have pet peeves about each other?: It may seem cold, but you hate that Clark blames himself for not being able to stop anything and everything. It’s ridiculous. He may be “godlike” to the eyes of many, but that doesn’t make him God, much less suggest that even God helps everybody. He just needs to accept to the vest of is ability that there are some (and by some, you mean plenty) of things he can’t do. That’s what makes him human. He doesn’t … take this bluntness too well. Yes, he knows you’re right, but the delivery of this type of sensitive subject doesn’t always flow sweetly through your lips. And that’s what he doesn’t like.

Your concern for his self-validation doesn’t always translate as being from a place of good intentions, unfortunately. Sometimes you just come off as cold and cruel. And that is probably when he dislikes from you: That despite being a very caring person, you seem to be a little more detached compared to him. You’re more so about people rather than for people, whereas he has built himself up as a figure for people and about people. As a result, he sometimes feels beside himself, thinking that your aloof nature shouldn’t be excused by what you’ve experienced and that it only contributes to a bigger problem as a whole.

The truth of the matter is that while both sides have valid arguments, the delivery of such concerns – especially when in the heat of an argument – can result in ill delivery of either impression.

The words “martyr syndrome”, “ridiculous”, “cold”, and “selfish” are likely to be thrown about until you either storm off or he practically blasts out of the apartment before he accidentally lasers the kitchen counter out of rage.

How would each reconcile with each other after a fight?: Cool down time is especially important in a situation wherein one member of the couple is capable of accidentally setting off a very dangerous super power when enraged. Clark would never hurt you, mind you; even when frustrated with you, he would never wish you ill in spite of what he may imply when blinded by anger. However, you make him pretty vulnerable, mind you. And sometimes, that vulnerability may mess with his ability to focus on trying not to smash a balled fist against the coffee table and turning it into toothpicks upon impact. And while you may not be anywhere near that strong or gifted with abilities that would allow you to destroy things with the same capacity, you still have plenty of anger to simmer down from.

Screaming into a pillow usually only does so much (mostly just making your throat and head hurt), so more often than not you’ll try to nap away the pain. If you manage to wake up before Clark comes back, there’s a slight chance you’ll be in a better mood. Maybe not a perfect one, but you’ve at the very least calmed down a bit. Depending on the situation, you may have even accepted that you can’t stay mad forever, let alone with him, and you want to just end this silly dispute and make peace. You wait up for him to return which, in itself, is a feat considering that his abilities allow him to literally travel all over the world in record time – which he has done in some cases under the duress of an argument. If you stay up for hours, even into the blooming light of the rising sun, he won’t even try to talk with you when he returns – he’ll just usher you back to bed and quietly say you’ll talk when you’re both well-rested.

When that time eventually comes, the keyword here is “softer.” Speak what you mean in softer language. Don’t sugarcoat it, but there’s definitely a better way to state your claim than, “Shit happens everywhere in the world, it’s not your job or even your ability to clean it all up, nor should you kick your own ass about it.” Clark will be patient and let you tell your side, nodding or furrowing his brows at certain comments, before telling his own side of the situation regarding himself. Then, when you’re ready, he’ll confide in you (in softer terms) his worry that you’re being too indifferent about the current state of the world and his place in them. He understands you don’t mean to come off in such a way, but it just concerns him that you’ve really given up on everything.

Of course, you haven’t. You just felt it was easier to cope with everything this way. He understands. Just like deep down, you understand that your beloved boyfriend just wants to bring to the world more peace than there was before he came. Neither part may necessarily agree with the others’ methods or how it may impact them (making you cold, making him filled with anxiety), but the most that you can do is be there for one another. Offer each other support and love and keep as much of a balance as possible. Because in the end, you keep him grounded and Clark lifts you up.

What would be their ideal vacation getaway together?: It’s hard to place where or even what vacationing with Clark would look like to be honest. Given who Clark is, he can’t always just up and decide to take a break. At least, that’s what he convinces himself. And it drives you absolutely nuts! Once Lois and Diana catch wind of this, they’re on Clark’s back like college students on free food, scolding him for “neglecting his boyfriend duties.” He only really gives in after Diana’s fifty-fifth insistence that the League can handle things in his absence. However, it then becomes a matter of where to go.

Given his abilities, he can and has easily traveled to other countries in very little time with few to no difficulties. But since he more often than not is not there to take in the scenery or culture, this makes it only a bit easier. However, you insist that on vacation he ought to act a little more normal so that he can get the full experience. This means you have to choose a vacation destination wisely, otherwise y’all have wasted money. Generally speaking, Clark’s nervousness about being too far from Metropolis is likely going to affect how far the two of you go at first, never mind how easy it would be for him to just fly back if the League truly did need him. However, enough nudging can result in a trip a little further from Metropolis than Clark would have expected to be besides Smallville.

He finds that he likes Yosemite Park. Not so much the crowds it tends to draw, but definitely the hiking trails and the potential picnics that could be had further away from the screeches of children and bellowing of their frustrated parents. Plus, his abilities make going further inward and elsewhere all the more easy, with getting lost or having to escape potentially dangerous animals being a thing of the past when Clark can easily fly above the treetops and back toward civilization if need be. Of course, he still tries to avoid being cocky and to keep his wits about him, but for the most part, Clark finds himself enjoying the vacation. Once he’s gotten through his hesitancies and potential guilt about relaxing, he practically collapses into a puddle of released stresses, his head warming your lap as the two of you enjoy the gentle breeze of the little patch of forest you decided to spend your little picnic for two in.

He dreadfully misses it when it comes time for him to resume his jobs as both a reporter and as guardian of Metropolis (and, furthermore, the world).

Think of a new way (AU, different situation, etc.) they could have met for the first time

The world was strange, and Clark wasn’t sure how much right he had to conclude that for himself. Because, on one hand, he was a flying, laser-shooting alien with unparalleled strength. But on the other, he was involved with a team composed of two technical demigods (both whose people were thought to be myths), a cyborg revived from the brink of death by a box, and a man fast enough to phase through solid material with just the proper amount of focus. This went without mentioning the fact that his enemy-turned friend was a billionaire who’d been dressing like a bat for the last three decades but, all things considered, that was arguably normal by comparison.

But, with the exception of Victor, you never would’ve assumed such oddities about any of them. Not at first glance at least. But that was the point: The world could only handle so much strangeness before people became too opposed to it for it to carry on. Which was why it made Clark a little more than on edge when things around Metropolis started to seem a little … odd.

It started off with little things: Black marks appearing in alleyways, cracking and booming noises often occurring before or after. “Not unlike thunderclaps,” witnesses would later say. TVs and other electrical devices going wonky or even outright snapping out of life. Fuse boxes would be blackened, the areas around them sometimes scorched. But the electric companies couldn’t find anything about the equipment that would suggest sabotage; and inspectors on the case found little to nothing that could suffice as evidence that there was purposeful vandalism. And with all the more obvious surveillance cameras damaged before any footage could be captured, there was only so much to go on. There was little rhyme or reason indicating a pattern to which areas got struck besides the fact that they tended to be in wealthier areas, but considering much of Metropolis was inhabited by the upper-class, it was nearly a moot note so the likelihood of a successful stakeout was remarkably slim – if performed by the average cop.

Bruce wasn’t a cop. But he also wasn’t the average detective. It had taken some time and a lot of surveillance, coupled with Lois’ own findings done on her own time, but by the end of a month and a half, they were pretty certain they had found their culprit. All that was left was to have Clark find them and bring them in, hopefully to join the League.

Why Clark?

“Pretty sure that if you get electrocuted, you’ll just register it as a tickle,” Bruce admitted. Blunt, but fair.

Still, Clark couldn’t help but think as he scouted the skies one night, maybe the rich guy who has plenty of time the next day to rest might want to go searching in the middle of the night?

But there was no use in arguing, much less at this point. Though some small part of him wish he’d put up a bit more of a fight beforehand. Normally, Clark was glad to have found the city experiencing little to no issues, especially at night. However, considering the added weight of expectations placed on this particular outing, there he couldn’t help but hold a little bit of anticipation in him –

VwwmmmmmpapapapKRACK.

It was faint, being in the distance, but it was nothing his hearing couldn’t register: The sound of fuse tampering and popping out of life. There, some odd three miles away: There was a glow swelling and slightly throbbing with diminishing power, crawling out of an alleyway into the night air.

Well, Clark thought somewhat optimistically. At least I won’t have to track them down based on looks alone …

+++++++++

Moving to Metropolis was supposed to be the start of something new. Something good and new, specifically. Not getting into a freak accident involving a weird, unnatural-looking cloud appearing just as you were checking out your apartment’s fuse box and waking up months later from a comatose state. That alone should have been enough of a cue that things weren’t going to go your way.

But, oh, it didn’t stop there. It would’ve been fine to have stopped when a majority of your clothes would stick to you regardless of the fashion; that was bearable. But it went on: From your phone exploding in your touch to your electronics following suit. It didn’t stop when the electricity in your building flickered with your rage; nor did it stop when, on a fearful whim, you attempted to summon as much voltage from as many transformers in a three-block radius as possible – and succeeded. Well, that is, before your attempts to return the acquired energy resulted in their sources exploding. You weren’t trying that again.

Not until you had a better grasp of it all… . But god, why was it all so dam hard to grasp?

You’d though it be best to practice in the richer parts of town – the electric company would be in a far bigger hurry to bring them their power back, the absolute bastards. But with how many generators and the like you were destroying, you were running out of practice space.

You groaned as you watched the circuit box before you begin to putter out of use.

“Greeeeat, (Y/N),” you told yourself. “You finally begin to get the hang of putting shit back where it came, you get a little too excited, and blam-o.” The all too familiar feeling of disappointment developed a sigh in you; you had long since passed feeling anxious about the destruction of property, and you knew you could do no good by trying to fix it. All you could do now was leave the scene, pretend to sleep peacefully, and try to figure out where to go next.

It had been nearly two months since you started your high-voltage, highly dangerous practicing; surely by now the cops were on to you, what with most of your “victims” being people of note. Logic said to shake them off your trail by moving to a type of location they wouldn’t have seen comic. But … that meant going to lower-income neighborhoods. And as much as you wanted to figure out how to stop blowing up electronics by touch, you really weren’t comfortable with doing it at the expense of those who needed the help more.

“Good evening,” came a voice, yanking you out of your nervous thoughts. It had taken your brain a moment to register it, but you could’ve sworn it came come from the sky: A type of voice dashing heroes in old movies would use; heroes with big, strong chins.

Superman did, of course, have such a feature on him, you came to find. But as he descending from the sky, into the alley (thus blocking your way out), you were forced to consider that every feature he had appeared to be big and strong: His towering height, his bulging muscles that the suit made no effort to hide, his … hands that would most definitely kill you if he so much as poked you with one finger.

That last thought alone, even in a hypothetical sense, was all it took for your fight or flight senses to kick in, your hands suddenly flying up in defense with fizzles of what electricity you’d collected springing in your palms.

Superman, however, did not flinch. He barely even regarded your sparkling, trembling hands (which did nothing for your confidence, both in your abilities and in your chances of getting out of this unmaimed).

“You don’t want to do that,” Superman stated. Simple as that. And he was right: You really didn’t want to have to “fight” him. But what else could you do?

On Clark’s own end, he could just feel the anxiety radiating off of you. He didn’t even have to listen for your heartbeat thundering in your chest. Honestly, though he hated to admit it, looking at you reminded him of seeing small, scared animals back in Smallville. Rabbits and mice found scittering about on the farm to be more specific.

On one hand, he was just glad you weren’t some hyper-powered hooligan willing to throw a punch in a fight they weren’t ready for. But on the other, he felt a little bad scaring you like this. It was probably best if he didn’t near you. For now.

“It’s okay,” he offered. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You sighed and lowered your hands, your pitiful static fizzling to a halt. “Look,” you said quietly, “I promise I’ll go away. I’ll switch towns! I swear!”

At this, the man furrowed his brows. “I’m afraid that can’t happen …” Your heart plummeted before being slingshotted back into a revived desire to plea and flee.

“I swear, okay! Nobody was supposed to get hurt!” you insisted. “I don’t think anybody even really got hurt, per se … Just inconvenienced. But I promise, it won’t happen again – ” In the midst of your rambling, Superman took a step towards you. It was a simple movement, all things considered, but for you, in this moment of high stress, it might as well have been an outright threat. You couldn’t stop yourself from releasing a pathetic yelp, nearly stepping all over your own feet to take a few steps back.

Crap, Clark cursed. Okay, clearly acting serious and stern was helping nobody. At this point, you were probably going to run in the opposite direction and smack your skull against the dead end of the alleyway. To hell with this.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he suddenly said. He raised his hands in a weak attempt to show his change of demeanor. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.” You had to admit, even in your moment of fear, the sudden shift in tone was not lost on you.

He still had hints of old school hero in his voice, but now there was something … more? It was hard to place (especially in your current jumpy state), but you were just able enough to pick out nodes of what his voice now held: Sunshine; apples; the type of voice a sweet man running a humble little bookstore or fruit stand might have.

It had to have been a trap. You weren’t one to disapprove of Superman, given all that he’s done, but being on the other side of him just wasn’t doing much for your ability to think straight. And Clark could sense it.

“Hey,” he tried again. “I’m sorry if I scared you.” You blinked, a brow slowly beginning to raise. “We – I’ve been looking for you, per a friend’s request, and – ” No sooner had he said it, Clark regretted it. The look of resumed discomfort of your face made him really acknowledge that.

“ ‘Friend’?” you demanded. “Who the hell is your friend? What do you want?!”

Oh, geez.  

“Listen, please, remain calm!” Clark pleaded. To him, in that moment, he’d thought he’d been sounding gentle enough. But as the nearby streetlights began to flicker, he knew better.

Once again, regret: If there was anything he’d learned working with Lois and Bruce, it was that telling someone on the verge of panic or in the midst of complete frustration to “calm down” in any sense was a bad, bad, bad idea. Saying so to a person who had powers, controlled or not, however? Absolutely terrible idea.

While your previous attempt at intimidation by way of summoning electricity had done little to impress Clark, he had to admit: You were a bit better at it now. The more the streetlights blinked, the more streams of electronic light appeared to gather towards you, specifically in your palms and feet.

“Look, buddy,” you hissed. “I’ve been dealing with a lot of crap leading up to this. I moved to a new city. I got goddamn electrocuted into a coma – ” At this point, Clark couldn’t help but notice thin streaks of static begin to make a beeline towards your eyes. Not promising, if his experience had told him so.

You gritted your teeth, increasingly glowing eyes narrowing. “Then! I wake up to these – these stupid, stupid powers! Powers I don’t have the first fucking clue of how to control. But do you see me running around, actively trying to kill people like every other goddamn psycho in this ‘city of tomorrow’? No! I’ve had to figure all this crap out on. My. Own.” The brights of your eyes increased, simultaneously illuminating the growing rage of your expression while also blinding Clark to being able to make it out in the first place.

At your feet, small currents began to sizzle against the crackling pavement. You were no longer trying to back away: You took a step forward, and it definitely made Clark feel worry.

“Could I have done it differently? Sure. Maybe. But don’t forget, Flyboy: I could’ve been so. Much. Worse!” Clark could hear the tingling rattle of lightbulbs struggling within the streetlights, trying to retain whatever power they could.

“I – ” But Clark was cut off.

“And you,” you growled, “have the audacity … To tell me to calm DOWN?!” In that moment, three things happened in the following order:

The first had been that your eyes, filled with so much fury, could no longer remain squinted; they widened, revealing themselves to be entirely white with pure energy at this point. The second thing appeared to be connected with the sudden snapping, due to it being how any lightbulb in a streetlight or artsy lamp within a three-block radius became overwhelmed – too overwhelmed to maintain proper form, in fact. They popped and shattered, leaving bits of glass to tumble to the streets below.

The third instance, however, had nothing to do with your powers: It was just Clark, getting a word in.

“I get it,” he said. Had there been any lightbulbs left, they might have shattered as well in sync with the snarl you gave the man.

“Quit lying!” you demanded. The wave of volts began to ripple all the more erratically. But Clark held his ground.

“I’m not lying,” he swore. He even placed one hand to his heart, the other upright. “Scout’s honor.” Unfortunately for him, the sincerity of a Boy Scout appeared to mean little to you. He went on, “I didn’t always have control of my powers. I didn’t have anyone to help me figure them out; I had to wing it!” You raised a bemused brow in reaction.

Okay … Clark thought. It’s … better than the glare, I guess? He swallowed. Dare to try one last time before things potentially get yucky?

“That’s, uh, actually why I’ve … come to find you,” he stated. “The friend? I swear he’s a good man. A little rough around the edges, but – ”

“You’re not helping your case,” you snapped.

“I’m a part of a sort of group, there’s people like you and me, and we think it’d be best if you joined – er, if you wanted to.”

“Ah. So, you want to basically make me into a weapon?”

“Nonononono, not that at all. I swear. It’s just – Look, even if you don’t want to join,” Clark bit his lip, “we could at least potentially find a way to help you get those powers under control so that you won’t keep breaking stuff.” A beat passed. “Well,” he shrugged, “it’s more like my friend will. He’s good with science and can definitely provide the right materials.”

To his credit, Clark did begin to notice an apparent lapse in the energy you were emitting. It was hard for the average eye to properly compute it but for him, the change was definitely there.

On your own end, you had to admit: The temptation was definitely lingering through his words. But then, perhaps you were just desperate and overwhelmed and looking for an out in this entire situation. But something still very much bothered you.

“How can I know I can trust you?” you asked, brow completely scrunched with uncertainty. The entire situation considered, it was still a bit of a shocker for one to not entirely trust the great and beloved Superman’s words. And, judging by his stumbling, it wasn’t a scenario he had been prepared to answer right on the spot.

“Uh – Becaaauussseee …” Another thing Clark had learned working with Lois and Perry Mason: The longer you stammer and search for answers, the less legit your word comes cross. His mind scrambled for something, anything that would win your favor over. But, in the end, there was only one thing that stood out. And, for the first time completely since landing in that alley, Clark felt just as nervous as you had.

“My … name …” He inhaled deeply, trying his best not to exhale chill winds. “My name … is Clark Kent. I work with The Daily Planet.”

You blinked. “… Pardon?” The voltage at your feet dampened.

Clark continued, “I’m a Kryptonian refugee, but I was raised here on Earth. The friend who sent me here is – ” He stopped himself short before deciding that Bruce could kick his ass about this later. “It’s Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce Wayne?!” you interjected. Part of you wanted to call crap but the other part of you had to remember that the man in front of you was claiming to be a humanoid alien who worked at the local newspaper; who’s to say he really wasn’t acquainted with the rich guy across the bay? Judging by the hint of smile this Clark Kent guy let slip, you … honestly couldn’t bring yourself to really disbelieve him. The static at your fingertips dribbled into your palms before shrinking away.

“Yeah, uh … It’s a bit of a story,” Clark claimed, a bit of sheepishness in his voice.

The shift from mostly illuminated to just barely lit by the light of the moon was sudden and startling. But for Clark, it was a good thing. The ground immediately beneath you had been blackened by your doing, but you otherwise appeared perfectly fine, if a bit curious.

“Got proof?” you asked.

“I mean, I gave you my secret identity – that’s pretty trusting if I do say so myself,” Clark pointed out. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. And you were getting awfully tired. In fact …

In that moment, you had realized something: That was about the most power and damage you’d caused ever since getting these powers in one fell swoop. You were a little impressed. But you were also plenty concerned. Sure, you’d meant to be threatening in the moment, but the fact still remained: If the only other person around hadn’t been Superman, how easily could you have actually harmed another person in your moment of anger? The second you attempted to truly ponder it, a shudder threatened to ripple through your body; you did not enjoy considering those odds.

But how long until you got so pissed off that you pulled another one of those? How long until you actually did cause harm? That thought was even worse …

“Are you positive?” you mumbled, causing Clark to cock his head by an inch.

“I’m sorry?” he questioned.

You looked him dead in the eye and dared him to lie: “Are you positive you guys can, like, help me control my powers?” The smile he gave you alone would have been enough to convince you.

“We’ve trained with literal scientific anomalies and legends, Miss. I can assure you: You’re in good company with us.” The sweet, honey warmness of his voice did everything to calm the well of fear and guilt within you. It was more than enough.

“Okay,” you said with finality.

“Okay?”

“Mhm. Let’s do this.” Almost instantly, however, you raised your fingers to draw a point. “But I’m not fighting or anything. Just so we’re clear. I’m just coming along to get my groove in order, so tell your ‘friend’, Bruce Wayne, alright?”

The man didn’t even try to hide a chuckle at your stance. You were going to be just fine, he’d decided. And you? Well … the jury was still out on whether or not this was where your move to Metropolis would finally turn into a good, new thing.

[emperorsfoot]

This one is short enough that I can post it here.

Season 1, post episode “Failsafe”.

Canary's comforting hand on his knee and her words of understanding and support warmed the kryptonian-genomorph and he felt his shoulders relax. Admitting it had helped him to feel better –less guilty, less conflicted. During the failed simulation exercise he had watched innocent bystanders as well as his own teammates die around him and yet, rather than the heart-wrenching grief that the others experienced, he had felt at peace. He had been created to replace Superman and in the simulation he had finally gotten the chance to fulfill his purpose.

Though he had been quick to correct the dream constructs that addressed him as 'Superman', Conner hadn't been able to help feeling a something that felt suspiciously similar to pride swell up inside him and fill his chest. It gave him a grim confidence; he could do anything –anything that was needed of him. And so, when Robin had suggested he be the distraction for the others to sneak inside the alien mothership, he had been all to ready to agree.

And when the disintegration beam hit him, his last thoughts were not of the friends he had lost or the one he was leaving behind, or even of M'gann who's confession of love was still fresh in his mind. No. His final thoughts had been about the Man of Steel and what he must have thought or felt in his final moment when he made the final sacrifice in the protection home and freedom.

There had been a long empty blankness that seemed to stretch on for an infinity after that… and then, he awoke. He was alive, his team was alive, their mentors were alive. It had all been a training exercise. A 'no win' simulation to teach them to cope with failure –a 'Kobayashi Maru' Wally would later call it (though, Conner still hadn't figured out where that name had come from). It had failed, of course. After Artemis' death, none of them had been able to cope.

Except him.

He had done more than 'cope', he had thrived. Was that really how Superman felt when the weight of the world rested on his shoulders? With his home in danger, the people around him being threatened –dieing… was the Man of Steel at peace? Conner didn't think so. With all his friends dieing before his eyes, his home being threatened and his efforts to beat back the invading tide being blocked at every turn Superman would not be a peace, he would not thrive. He would strive, but not thrive. He would strive to do what he could, and possibly what he couldn't as well. But over all, he would do what was right –or at least what he deemed to be 'right'.

That was the fundamental difference between them. (Well… that was one of the fundamental differences between them.) Superman did what he thought was right because he perceived it to be the right thing to do. Conner did what was needed because he perceived it to be the heroic and 'Superman-like' thing to do. In that respect, he was nothing like his genetic-parent at all.

He had not grieved when Artemis and Aqualad had been disintegrated, he had only felt… needed. And when Robin told him to run decoy, to basically lay down his life, he had felt happy –honored even.

But now that the nightmare –the dream- was over, Conner found it difficult to look his teammates in the eyes. How could he face them now, knowing that their lives meant little more to him than a means of validating his own importance? Even M'gann…

When the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, he grinned and flexed to test its weight. But he was sure that that was not what Superman did when he was burdened with the weight of the world. And it would be a burden for him –for Superman, the ever-boy scout. For Conner the weight of the world had been a prize or maybe a reward, and something about that just didn't seem right now that he was back in the waking world.

Canary had said that these things took time. That admitting it was the first step.

Well, he'd taken the first step. Now he wanted to take one more. Whether or not it was the right step, Conner didn't have the foggiest. But it was the next step he wanted to take. It was a step that had been delayed far long enough already without the added prompting of the nightmarish simulation.

…

He had indulged in several doubts while riding Shpere in her Super-cycle form north towards the Arctic. What if the Fortress of Solitude didn't actually exist? What if it had just been a construct of the dream-simulation? What if there was nothing there but barren ice? These were the misgivings that ran through the young genomorph's mind as he sped through the air. He acknowledged the possibility of these doubts, but he refused to let himself give into them.

His stubbornness was rewarded when the Super-cycle touched down outside a sheer white structure bearing the S-shield that was exactly identical to the one in the dream-exercise.

Conner dismounted the cycle and strode up to the S-shield carved right into the cliff-face. It didn't look like a door. There was no hinge, no knob, keyhole or anything easily identifiable as a lock. Still, the Boy of Steel knocked. It didn't feel like ice either. Oh, sure it was plenty smooth, but not really very cold, and it seemed much denser than ice (or at least, denser than any ice Conner had come into contact with).

"Hello!" The kryptonian-genomorph called to the empty Artic landscape. "I need to talk to you."

There was no response from the Fortress. No peephole on the cliff-face opened up. No big booming voice demanded 'Who goes there!' There was nothing to indicate anything had heard him. The Boy of Steel had to glumly admit that this had been an exercise in futility. The Man of Steel wasn't home, possibly didn't even live in the Fortress at all. He would not meet his genetic-parent here. With a growl of frustration over his wasted time, Conner turned back to the Super-cycle to leave… and froze mid-turn.

Superman stood a good ways away, his feet planted, arms crossed over his broad chest, cape fluttering in the chill breeze. He stood out boldly against the stark whiteness of their surrounding landscape.

"You wanted to talk to me?" The man's voice was so much like his own, but a deeper octave. It was a premonition of what Conner's voice would sound like in a few more years, once he had completed his maturation 'the old fashioned way' outside of his Cadmus hibernation pod at the rate of a normal kryptonian.

Caught in the man's gaze, the Boy of Steel suddenly found himself at a loss as to what to say. He opened his mouth to speak but only a feeble croak came out. He had come here wanting to ask his genetic-parent about the weight of the world and how he coped with having it thrust upon his shoulders. But the few times that he had actually interacted him the Man of Steel, he had been evasive, aloof and anxious to get away –jumping at any opportunity to distance himself from the boy.

Conner suddenly felt uneasy about discussing anything with his genetic-parent.

As the awkward silence dragged on Superman raised an eyebrow. "Has your voice frozen?"

Conner shook his head.

The Man of Steel sighed, his shoulders slumping as if in defeat (though, what he'd been internally battling, Conner couldn't even begin to guess). "Well, if you're here and you're not going to go away, I might as well invite you inside." He turned from the boy and headed for a gap in the ice where the frigid water beneath was exposed. "Follow me."

The Boy of Steel hesitantly followed the Man of Steel to the water's edge. He wondered briefly if his genetic-parent intended to drown him like an unwanted cat and finally rid himself of the clone forever. He could probably do it too. He was stronger than Conner was and could overpower him easily, they were in the middle of nowhere, there would be no witnesses, Conner hadn't exactly told anyone where he was going for fear of being stopped. When asked if he might know the whereabouts of his clone, Superman could easily deny ever seeing the boy. It wasn't like they hung out allot (or at all).

But heroes didn't do that sort of thing.

Once Superboy had reached the water's edge, Superman dove beneath the surface with a splash so small, the Boy of Steel thought it might make Aquaman jealous. Conner turned back to Sphere, still in her Super-cycle form and said, "Stay."

The sentient alien machine obeyed, transforming back into her base ball-form to wait for him. Reluctantly, Conner dove into the chill Arctic water as Superman had done. He caught site of the tail end of a red cape as it disappeared behind and ice formation and followed. The ice seemed to close in around him to form a natural pathway, but the way the ice had been smoothed was most decidedly not natural, it had been planned by an architect of one sort or another. The underwaterway began to slope upwards and Conner saw the surface shimmering above him.

When his head came up gasping, the Boy of Steel found himself in a wide chamber with Superman standing on a solid crystal landing –already dry. Conner pulled himself out of the water and stood sopping before his genetic-parent.

"How did you…?"

"Spin dry." The Man of Steel supplied as if this should have been obvious.

Conner cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What, like, super-speed spin? I don't have super-speed."

Superman missed one… two… three beats before he sighed and turned around, grumbling a soft, "Wait there."

The Man of Steel blurred out of the chamber and returned less than a moment latter holding a clean dry towel out for the boy. Superboy accepted it and began padding himself down. When he was no longer dripping (but by no means 'dry') he looked back up at his genetic-parent wondering what to do next. This had, so far, been the most time he'd spent in the man's presence since first escaping Cadmus that faithful Independence Day night. (It was also approaching the most words they'd exchanged with each other, too.) It seemed neither of them quite knew what to do about the other.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Superman finally broke the awkward silence between them. He took the used towel from the boy's hands and draped it over his arm.

"I, uh… yeah." Conner suddenly found himself talking to the man's boots rather than his face, not waning to make eye contact. "Have you, uh, did anyone tell you about the training simulation not to long ago?"

There was another prolonged pause. Their conversation (if you could even call it that) seemed to be more of a prolonged silence occasionally broken by dialogue rather than an exchange of words occasionally broken by silent pauses. When the Man of Steel did not respond Conner raised his eyes to chance a glance at the man's face. He had expected to find something akin to polite blankness or perhaps even confusion. After all, he wasn't a mentor to anyone on the Young Justice team, what reason would there be to keep him up-to-date on YJ happenings? Instead, Superman's expression was thoughtful –considering- and ever so slightly sympathetic.

Finally, after the pregnant silence had dragged on long enough he stepped aside to let Conner enter the Fortress proper and said in a gentler tone than the Boy of Steel was used to, "I'll make you some tea."

…

After being led through an archway of white stone and crystal, then a corridor of yet more crystal, all of it illuminated by a soft light that seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves, Conner didn't quite know what to expect the Fortress' kitchen to look like. But the Boy of Steel was sure that he hadn't expected what he found.

While the rest of the Fortress of Solitude (that he had seen) was all crystal and white stone, the kitchen was paneled in wood. The counter had been tiled in a rustic shade of yellow that was not at all flattering (to anything) and the floor had been covered in linoleum. Overall, it looked more like an old country house's kitchen rather than something you'd expect to find in a secluded ice fortress built by an alien superhero.

Conner sat in the only chair at the small wooden kitchen table and watched Superman pull a single mug and a tea bag form the cabinets. He filled the mug with water, placed the bag in it then heated it with his vision. He placed the hot mug in front of Conner who took it hesitantly.

"You're not having any?"

"There's just the one mug."

The boy raised an eyebrow at that and cocked his head to the side.

"I call this place the Fortress of Solitude for a reason." The Man of Steel elaborated.

"Would you prefer it if I left?"

This time he took longer to respond. Then finally, because Superman never lies, he said, "Yes."

Conner stood to leave. He had expected the answer before the words had even left his genetic-parent's lips, but they still stung. If the man didn't want him here, why invite him inside in the first place?

"Wait." A strong hand was placed on his shoulder. "You came here for a reason."

The boy sank back into his seat, once again avoiding looking at the Man of Steel. He spoke to his mug when he said, "Since you're being nice to me all of a sudden, I assume you heard about the exercise."

There was only one chair at the table and Conner was already sitting in it, so the Man of Steel could not sit with the boy to offer comfort. Instead he knelt to be on eye-level with his clone when he said, "It must have been horrible for you."

The man's eyes, crystal blue eyes so much like his own, looked deep and full of ghosts and Conner suddenly remembered that the man had been hero'ing for over a decade and had saved the world countless times over. He had probably seen comrades, friends and loved ones die for real, right before his eyes. The world was (more or less) at peace for the moment, but the Boy of Steel saw the weight of the world still weighed heavily on Superman's shoulders. It was an almost permanent burden, not just something to be taken-up in times of need and then shucked off when the peril had passed. It was a way of life for the Man of Steel. That was probably why he came here, to his Fortress of Solitude, to rest form the burden.

"Has Canary told you about her talking sessions with me?" The boy ventured.

"No." Superman confessed. "All I know is that the Team had been trapped in a psychic-web that caused you to watch each other die at the hands of an invading enemy and that you were all convinced it was real." A pause. "Batman also made a point of telling me that you could have fallen into a permanent coma."

Conner didn't know what he had expected. Canary had promised that the things they talked about remained between the two of them and never left the room. Doctor-patient confidentiality. He was grateful to be able to trust her with his darkest secret. But at the same time, it would have been nice to have someone else tell Superman his reason for seeking him out. The Boy of Steel found himself at a loss as to how to explain himself to his genetic-parent. A mediator would have been nice.

The silence dragged on between them. Finally, Conner decided that he might as well ask what he came here to ask and not prolong this crappy melodrama of theirs.

"Superman…" He ventured meekly. "When… when the weight of the world rests on your shoulders… what do you do?"

He didn't know his genetic-parent very well; he didn't know what kind of response to expect. But he did not expect the man to offer a reassuring smile and place comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Plant your feet and try not to shrug."

…

END