~”No light, no light in your bright blue eyes; I never knew daylight could be so violent.”~ - Florence + The Machine
This is Clark, learning how to take a hit and get back up.
In the vacancy of certitude, Clark makes his own calls.
There are Rules, and they are both a foundation and a moving field of battle.
The first Rule is that if Clark cannot control himself, then he needs to listen to Bruce.
Right now Bruce is telling Clark loudly that the moment has passed, which in the absence of an invitation, means that it’s time for Clark to go.
Objectively speaking, Clark doesn’t actually know any other Rules.
Clark can’t save the world, though God help him, he’s tried, and he can’t save Bruce, because it turns out that Clark was the one in need of saving after all. He can barely pay his rent, though he suspects that may change soon. He can barely figure out how to live in this disturbing world, where people want to pray to him, and he sees no end in sight for that, but he’s betting there are plans now. He’s not qualified to out-guess, second-guess or analyze Bruce’s actions, has only an incomplete portrait of a lonely, furious man broken into grim, jagged pieces that will never be smoothed, no matter how much of himself Clark sands them with.
Bruce, who’s been waging a war for half of his life and whose comforts are as perfect and empty as his home.
As if Clark is any better. Clark has been chasing his identity across the globe his entire life, and he always seems to come up empty-handed. Clark can’t judge him. The anger runs right out of him, and he dresses. He could be dressed and gone in under half a minute—instead, he lingers, paces, pleading silently. His apologies mean nothing, because Clark isn’t sorry.
Clark isn’t sorry, and Bruce wouldn’t want apologies, anyway—they’re worthless. Clark has the rest of his life to figure out where all those pieces fit.
He knows Bruce is watching. He knows. Eventually, Clark has dithered all that he can. Nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds. There are two wakeful hearts beating above him and he expects Alfred to come in at any moment to ask him if ‘Mister Kent’ would like a cup of tea before his commute and God, no—he can’t. Clark was hungry to belong somewhere again, but this wasn’t what he’d envisioned. Clark doesn’t want to endure. He wants to never fight again, he wants what Ma and Pa raised him to want, he wants peace and openness and never hiding and to be held and to be sure. Clark has done enough and given enough and Clark is tired.
He doesn’t want to be Bruce’s weapon.
Clark is not who he thought he was. He can’t be Clark anymore tonight.
Clark Kent died.
He can’t.
~”Love is not a battle; it’s a ticking time bomb.”~ -The Used
He pays no mind to the unpleasant slap of his cape when he lets himself drift upward, hovering. He’s flown with worse, and by the time he gets back to Metropolis, the mist and wind will have stripped all but lingering traces of wetness.
It’s imprudent and he knows it, but he’s making an exception; one of his final exceptions. He has no intention of showering tonight. Oh, the Suit will be cleaned properly, because he’s sullied the House of El’s name enough for a lifetime.
However.
He needs tangible evidence that this happened, tomorrow. He needs to know that this wasn’t a nightmare, that he doesn’t have to have nightmares about this anymore - that this, the worst, has already happened. Whatever fast-moving conclusion Bruce was coming to, for whatever reason Bruce keeps a kill-kit close to hand just for him, Kal walked into this with his eyes open, just as he was led to. Bruce has bent the world around him, like fine sharply folded paper, and underneath the world he knows, Kal can see the shadow of something better.
He forces himself to turn his head and look at that Coffin and he thinks about crumbling darkness and starvation, rebirth and absence of belonging. He thinks about being rash.
Kal needs to remember. He needs to—what would Bruce say—
Be vigilant.
He looks directly at the nearest camera—not the obvious one; the real one, the one that looks like just another bit of stone in the wall—and does his best to smile. He knows it isn’t his usual by a mile—he’s no great actor. Not like Bruce Wayne. He won’t lie, not even—especially not to Bruce. The part of him that he likes to think of as Clark is hurting deeply, but another part of him knows that Bruce was—not ungentle. Bruce brought him to a teachable moment, and it’s one that he should have reached a long time ago. He should be grateful. He is grateful.
Kal is grateful.
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~”No light, no light in your bright blue eyes; I never knew daylight could be so violent.”~ - Florence + The Machine
This is Clark, learning how to take a hit and get back up.
In the vacancy of certitude, Clark makes his own calls.
There are Rules, and they are both a foundation and a moving field of battle.
The first Rule is that if Clark cannot control himself, then he needs to listen to Bruce.
Right now Bruce is telling Clark loudly that the moment has passed, which in the absence of an invitation, means that it’s time for Clark to go.
Objectively speaking, Clark doesn’t actually know any other Rules.
Clark can’t save the world, though God help him, he’s tried, and he can’t save Bruce, because it turns out that Clark was the one in need of saving after all. He can barely pay his rent, though he suspects that may change soon. He can barely figure out how to live in this disturbing world, where people want to pray to him, and he sees no end in sight for that, but he’s betting there are plans now. He’s not qualified to out-guess, second-guess or analyze Bruce’s actions, has only an incomplete portrait of a lonely, furious man broken into grim, jagged pieces that will never be smoothed, no matter how much of himself Clark sands them with.
Bruce, who’s been waging a war for half of his life and whose comforts are as perfect and empty as his home.
As if Clark is any better. Clark has been chasing his identity across the globe his entire life, and he always seems to come up empty-handed. Clark can’t judge him. The anger runs right out of him, and he dresses. He could be dressed and gone in under half a minute—instead, he lingers, paces, pleading silently. His apologies mean nothing, because Clark isn’t sorry.
Clark isn’t sorry, and Bruce wouldn’t want apologies, anyway—they’re worthless. Clark has the rest of his life to figure out where all those pieces fit.
He knows Bruce is watching. He knows. Eventually, Clark has dithered all that he can. Nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds. There are two wakeful hearts beating above him and he expects Alfred to come in at any moment to ask him if ‘Mister Kent’ would like a cup of tea before his commute and God, no—he can’t. Clark was hungry to belong somewhere again, but this wasn’t what he’d envisioned. Clark doesn’t want to endure. He wants to never fight again, he wants what Ma and Pa raised him to want, he wants peace and openness and never hiding and to be held and to be sure. Clark has done enough and given enough and Clark is tired.
He doesn’t want to be Bruce’s weapon.
Clark is not who he thought he was. He can’t be Clark anymore tonight.
Clark Kent died.
He can’t.
~”Love is not a battle; it’s a ticking time bomb.”~ -The Used
He pays no mind to the unpleasant slap of his cape when he lets himself drift upward, hovering. He’s flown with worse, and by the time he gets back to Metropolis, the mist and wind will have stripped all but lingering traces of wetness.
It’s imprudent and he knows it, but he’s making an exception; one of his final exceptions. He has no intention of showering tonight. Oh, the Suit will be cleaned properly, because he’s sullied the House of El’s name enough for a lifetime.
However.
He needs tangible evidence that this happened, tomorrow. He needs to know that this wasn’t a nightmare, that he doesn’t have to have nightmares about this anymore - that this, the worst, has already happened. Whatever fast-moving conclusion Bruce was coming to, for whatever reason Bruce keeps a kill-kit close to hand just for him, Kal walked into this with his eyes open, just as he was led to. Bruce has bent the world around him, like fine sharply folded paper, and underneath the world he knows, Kal can see the shadow of something better.
He forces himself to turn his head and look at that Coffin and he thinks about crumbling darkness and starvation, rebirth and absence of belonging. He thinks about being rash.
Kal needs to remember. He needs to—what would Bruce say—
Be vigilant.
He looks directly at the nearest camera—not the obvious one; the real one, the one that looks like just another bit of stone in the wall—and does his best to smile. He knows it isn’t his usual by a mile—he’s no great actor. Not like Bruce Wayne. He won’t lie, not even—especially not to Bruce. The part of him that he likes to think of as Clark is hurting deeply, but another part of him knows that Bruce was—not ungentle. Bruce brought him to a teachable moment, and it’s one that he should have reached a long time ago. He should be grateful. He is grateful.
Kal is grateful.
<My regard is yours, Esteemed one. In whatever capacity you ask.>
There’s nothing else to say. Bruce is worth this.
It doesn’t make the hurt any less, but it lightens Kal’s heart to be free with this, as he should be. Anger is a poison. His regard is Bruce’s. What is given cannot be taken back. Reciprocation is not necessary. Validation is not necessary; not if he truly is who he’s meant to be.
And he can hear every time he ’s ever thanked Bruce, the thoughtful silence of Bruce weighing his words; Bruce’s briskly dismissive tone, “Not necessary.”
Bruce doesn’t do the unnecessary. There’s something to that.
There is a single red blink from a single camouflaged light in the wall.
There is the rustle and squeak and warmth of life in the cavern and hallways above.
Re: FILL: Position Awareness 9/?
This is Clark, learning how to take a hit and get back up.
In the vacancy of certitude, Clark makes his own calls.
There are Rules, and they are both a foundation and a moving field of battle.
The first Rule is that if Clark cannot control himself, then he needs to listen to Bruce.
Right now Bruce is telling Clark loudly that the moment has passed, which in the absence of an invitation, means that it’s time for Clark to go.
Objectively speaking, Clark doesn’t actually know any other Rules.
Clark can’t save the world, though God help him, he’s tried, and he can’t save Bruce, because it turns out that Clark was the one in need of saving after all. He can barely pay his rent, though he suspects that may change soon. He can barely figure out how to live in this disturbing world, where people want to pray to him, and he sees no end in sight for that, but he’s betting there are plans now. He’s not qualified to out-guess, second-guess or analyze Bruce’s actions, has only an incomplete portrait of a lonely, furious man broken into grim, jagged pieces that will never be smoothed, no matter how much of himself Clark sands them with.
Bruce, who’s been waging a war for half of his life and whose comforts are as perfect and empty as his home.
As if Clark is any better. Clark has been chasing his identity across the globe his entire life, and he always seems to come up empty-handed. Clark can’t judge him. The anger runs right out of him, and he dresses. He could be dressed and gone in under half a minute—instead, he lingers, paces, pleading silently. His apologies mean nothing, because Clark isn’t sorry.
Clark isn’t sorry, and Bruce wouldn’t want apologies, anyway—they’re worthless. Clark has the rest of his life to figure out where all those pieces fit.
He knows Bruce is watching. He knows. Eventually, Clark has dithered all that he can. Nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds. There are two wakeful hearts beating above him and he expects Alfred to come in at any moment to ask him if ‘Mister Kent’ would like a cup of tea before his commute and God, no—he can’t. Clark was hungry to belong somewhere again, but this wasn’t what he’d envisioned. Clark doesn’t want to endure. He wants to never fight again, he wants what Ma and Pa raised him to want, he wants peace and openness and never hiding and to be held and to be sure. Clark has done enough and given enough and Clark is tired.
He doesn’t want to be Bruce’s weapon.
Clark is not who he thought he was. He can’t be Clark anymore tonight.
Clark Kent died.
He can’t.
~”Love is not a battle; it’s a ticking time bomb.”~ -The Used
He pays no mind to the unpleasant slap of his cape when he lets himself drift upward, hovering. He’s flown with worse, and by the time he gets back to Metropolis, the mist and wind will have stripped all but lingering traces of wetness.
It’s imprudent and he knows it, but he’s making an exception; one of his final exceptions. He has no intention of showering tonight. Oh, the Suit will be cleaned properly, because he’s sullied the House of El’s name enough for a lifetime.
However.
He needs tangible evidence that this happened, tomorrow. He needs to know that this wasn’t a nightmare, that he doesn’t have to have nightmares about this anymore - that this, the worst, has already happened. Whatever fast-moving conclusion Bruce was coming to, for whatever reason Bruce keeps a kill-kit close to hand just for him, Kal walked into this with his eyes open, just as he was led to. Bruce has bent the world around him, like fine sharply folded paper, and underneath the world he knows, Kal can see the shadow of something better.
He forces himself to turn his head and look at that Coffin and he thinks about crumbling darkness and starvation, rebirth and absence of belonging. He thinks about being rash.
Kal needs to remember. He needs to—what would Bruce say—
Be vigilant.
He looks directly at the nearest camera—not the obvious one; the real one, the one that looks like just another bit of stone in the wall—and does his best to smile. He knows it isn’t his usual by a mile—he’s no great actor. Not like Bruce Wayne. He won’t lie, not even—especially not to Bruce. The part of him that he likes to think of as Clark is hurting deeply, but another part of him knows that Bruce was—not ungentle. Bruce brought him to a teachable moment, and it’s one that he should have reached a long time ago. He should be grateful. He is grateful.
Kal is grateful.
This is Clark, learning how to take a hit and get back up.
In the vacancy of certitude, Clark makes his own calls.
There are Rules, and they are both a foundation and a moving field of battle.
The first Rule is that if Clark cannot control himself, then he needs to listen to Bruce.
Right now Bruce is telling Clark loudly that the moment has passed, which in the absence of an invitation, means that it’s time for Clark to go.
Objectively speaking, Clark doesn’t actually know any other Rules.
Clark can’t save the world, though God help him, he’s tried, and he can’t save Bruce, because it turns out that Clark was the one in need of saving after all. He can barely pay his rent, though he suspects that may change soon. He can barely figure out how to live in this disturbing world, where people want to pray to him, and he sees no end in sight for that, but he’s betting there are plans now. He’s not qualified to out-guess, second-guess or analyze Bruce’s actions, has only an incomplete portrait of a lonely, furious man broken into grim, jagged pieces that will never be smoothed, no matter how much of himself Clark sands them with.
Bruce, who’s been waging a war for half of his life and whose comforts are as perfect and empty as his home.
As if Clark is any better. Clark has been chasing his identity across the globe his entire life, and he always seems to come up empty-handed. Clark can’t judge him. The anger runs right out of him, and he dresses. He could be dressed and gone in under half a minute—instead, he lingers, paces, pleading silently. His apologies mean nothing, because Clark isn’t sorry.
Clark isn’t sorry, and Bruce wouldn’t want apologies, anyway—they’re worthless. Clark has the rest of his life to figure out where all those pieces fit.
He knows Bruce is watching. He knows. Eventually, Clark has dithered all that he can. Nineteen minutes and forty-nine seconds. There are two wakeful hearts beating above him and he expects Alfred to come in at any moment to ask him if ‘Mister Kent’ would like a cup of tea before his commute and God, no—he can’t. Clark was hungry to belong somewhere again, but this wasn’t what he’d envisioned. Clark doesn’t want to endure. He wants to never fight again, he wants what Ma and Pa raised him to want, he wants peace and openness and never hiding and to be held and to be sure. Clark has done enough and given enough and Clark is tired.
He doesn’t want to be Bruce’s weapon.
Clark is not who he thought he was. He can’t be Clark anymore tonight.
Clark Kent died.
He can’t.
~”Love is not a battle; it’s a ticking time bomb.”~ -The Used
He pays no mind to the unpleasant slap of his cape when he lets himself drift upward, hovering. He’s flown with worse, and by the time he gets back to Metropolis, the mist and wind will have stripped all but lingering traces of wetness.
It’s imprudent and he knows it, but he’s making an exception; one of his final exceptions. He has no intention of showering tonight. Oh, the Suit will be cleaned properly, because he’s sullied the House of El’s name enough for a lifetime.
However.
He needs tangible evidence that this happened, tomorrow. He needs to know that this wasn’t a nightmare, that he doesn’t have to have nightmares about this anymore - that this, the worst, has already happened. Whatever fast-moving conclusion Bruce was coming to, for whatever reason Bruce keeps a kill-kit close to hand just for him, Kal walked into this with his eyes open, just as he was led to. Bruce has bent the world around him, like fine sharply folded paper, and underneath the world he knows, Kal can see the shadow of something better.
He forces himself to turn his head and look at that Coffin and he thinks about crumbling darkness and starvation, rebirth and absence of belonging. He thinks about being rash.
Kal needs to remember. He needs to—what would Bruce say—
Be vigilant.
He looks directly at the nearest camera—not the obvious one; the real one, the one that looks like just another bit of stone in the wall—and does his best to smile. He knows it isn’t his usual by a mile—he’s no great actor. Not like Bruce Wayne. He won’t lie, not even—especially not to Bruce. The part of him that he likes to think of as Clark is hurting deeply, but another part of him knows that Bruce was—not ungentle. Bruce brought him to a teachable moment, and it’s one that he should have reached a long time ago. He should be grateful. He is grateful.
Kal is grateful.
<My regard is yours, Esteemed one. In whatever capacity you ask.>
There’s nothing else to say. Bruce is worth this.
It doesn’t make the hurt any less, but it lightens Kal’s heart to be free with this, as he should be. Anger is a poison. His regard is Bruce’s. What is given cannot be taken back. Reciprocation is not necessary. Validation is not necessary; not if he truly is who he’s meant to be.
And he can hear every time he ’s ever thanked Bruce, the thoughtful silence of Bruce weighing his words; Bruce’s briskly dismissive tone, “Not necessary.”
Bruce doesn’t do the unnecessary. There’s something to that.
There is a single red blink from a single camouflaged light in the wall.
There is the rustle and squeak and warmth of life in the cavern and hallways above.
There is nothing else to say.
Enough.
He leaves.