Chapter Text
Clark didn’t know he was going to feel like this. He didn’t expect that every breath he would take, would suddenly turn laboured. He didn’t even need to breath for another seventeen minutes. When he was little, he never paid attention to breathing. His abilities hadn’t yet formed. Yet he insisted there was something different, something wrong about him. It was clear from how the other kids at his school looked at him. The good ones would squint their eyes, furrow their brows, and look him up and down before promptly walking away. The bad ones, they cast him what could only be described as a look of utter disgust, their upper lips pulled up, their noses wrinkled and their faces tense. Although those first facial expressions thrown at him were annoying and painful. They always felt like a kiss on the cheek compared to the feelings of utter shame the others instilled in him.
On some nights, sitting before the kitchen counter, watching his mother cook he complained about it to her. She’d lay down whatever utensil she was using, walk towards him, her eyes narrowed, gaze intensive, cheeks reddening before grabbing hold of his hands. ‘Don’t you dare feel like that about yourself. You’re a beautiful and kind boy. Those kids are just jealous of how precious you are, of how genuine you are.’ Her words were always unwavering, every syllable spoken with conviction. Upon feeling the warmth his mom radiates, his lips would tremble, and his vision would turn glossy. She’d always sigh, pull him into a hug and whisper into his ear, ‘Clark darling, everything that makes you different, makes you special. You are my son, don’t be ashamed of who you are.’ Of course, at that time his mom hadn’t yet told him about the spaceship hidden under their barn. About the actual cause of the discoloured skin on her arms and hands.
The first time he woke up flying, he’d figured it was a dream that just felt real because he had fallen in his dreams before. It was then, and still is, a somewhat recurring manifestation of his nightmares. The red streaks burning a hole through his door, narrowly missing his father, who had followed him upstairs after Clark had slammed that very same door shut so hard that the entire house shuddered, had been his wake-up call. So, until that moment he’d never imagined actually being an alien. Regardless, not noticing never needing to breath as much as a regular human was uncharacteristic of him as he tended to notice everything and anything. One day however, when every soundwave shrieked into his skull, and light burned into his eyes, showing him images of houses and people miles away, while also scattering enlargements of insects and even bacteria, he had gone to the lake. He hadn’t bothered to undress. He simply let himself fall into the cold and somewhat filthy water. Clark had felt the pressure in his chest slowly fade as the force of the water came crashing down on him and encompassed his body.
It wasn’t until the feeling of something sharp, crawling through every surface of his skin, pulled him out of that peaceful state of mind, that he had discovered for the first time of his life, that he realised, it was above the water surface as dark as within. So, he’d started experimenting with just how long he could do without taking a breath. The results of his numerous tests indicated that he could go without oxygen for three hours and forty-seven minutes at resting heart rate.
The wailing of sirens forces him to gather his thoughts back to the present. The length of the acoustic waves indicate they are coming from an ambulance. He zooms in on the situation non the less. A cracking sound followed by grunting has him turn his chair around, as his ears guide his X-ray vision through buildings. A woman lays in the middle of a street in a pool of blood. One of her legs positioned in an awkward angle, bone sticking out. A paramedic pushing down on her chest again and again in a steady rhythm. He heard it before they did, a weak beat. The woman gasped, and the paramedics made quick work of getting her into the ambulance and racing towards the hospital.
He turns back towards his desk at the Daily Planet. His eyes moving across the computer screen as he recollects his string of arguments, before gently placing his fingers on his keyboard to resume writing. The article “Cleaning up never so Contaminating” describes how different sources have claimed becoming ill living next to the Gotham Bay. Non-residents would say that that is nothing out of the ordinary, only Superman had fallen in after getting a particularly hard blow to the head. Hours later he was still coughing and dizzy.
He wasn’t aware he could get sick, so he’d gone back, sniffed out the place and discovered the local complaints. The people insisted that these particular fumes where different and only had shown up a couple months back. He had followed the trail leading up to a Metropolis based chemical clean-up company.
Loading the pictures that he and Jimmy had taken after stalking the vehicles coming in and out of the building’s garage, Clark arranged them neatly in the lay-out. Thankful to Jimmy’s amazing photography skills the image showed three men dumping substances into the Gotham Bay.
For the last hour or so Clark had been writing sentence after sentence, before deleting the entire thing and starting anew. His mind had eventually drifted off to other Gotham related problems, such as the Gotham Bat. And so, the connection that shattered his entire worldview had been made. Okay, Clark admits, that’s a bit dramatic. His attention shifts to Lois, his ex-girlfriend turned best friend. Entirely locked in, and furiously slamming her fingers down onto the keyboard. She would absolutely love this information. He often wished he were more like her, unrelenting until she got the story.
He knows he must return to his assignment, but he couldn’t remember why this was all so important. He just had a breakthrough worthy of even Batman’s praise, or so he felt. He knows he can’t share this titbit with his falcon-like friend, so he vows to take a page out of her playbook. He’s going to hunt down his prey until he gets what he wants. After all a good reporter always verifies his story. This story however would not be one for the pages. He would keep it inside of him, under lock and key.
Before Clark was able to come up with a logical reason for him to leave the Daily Planet’s building, Perry yelled out his name, effectively summoning him to his office. He was sure this had something to do with him not having produced a single story for a solid two weeks. Really, he should be scared to lose his job, which is his only sense of normalcy in Metropolis. Clark staggered to the oak door with the bold golden letters declaring Chief on the glass frame. He made sure to trip over his feet and crash into a neighbouring wooden desk.
‘Yes, chief!’ ‘Clark, there was an accident up on Maple Street, a hit-and-run. Go find out what’s known, take Jimmy.’ Clark sighed before answering, his voice a little clipped in annoyance, ‘I’ll get right on it, Chief.’ Perry shot him a look, eyebrows raised as Clark stayed standing still. ‘Right, sorry, Chief.’ Walking out of Perry’s office, fetching his coat, and calling out for Jimmy, before stepping into the elevator and waving down a bright yellow cab.
‘Have you read Lois’s latest story?’ Before Clark could open his mouth to answer, his colleague and friend continued, ‘A man going by the name of John Constantine has been solving crimes and questions previously thought impossible to even occur. Though I suppose in these times, where a God flies among men, the idea of demons and ghosts existing is quite easy to grasp. Maybe he is a wizard. Do you think he has magic? Is he going to join the Justice League?’ Clark shrugs his shoulders, shaking his head slightly in uncertainty. And it wasn’t a lie. B hadn’t mentioned anything about a sorcerer. And well, Superman doesn’t tend to bother himself with people that have not been found to do harm. He trusts the Bat to keep an eye on upcoming complications or aid.
Clark has been in Metropolis for perhaps three years, but only recently had Batman seemed to take a personal interest in him. At first, he’d thought it may have been about their heads colliding in the League. They each had their preferred method of working and despite Clark’s high altruism accompanying him in every interaction, it seemed to disappear whenever confronted with Batman’s cowl. It may have something to do with Batman’s bite and attitude towards Superman but really Clark should know better. He has been raised with good manners. He was taught to be polite to everyone regardless of their behaviour. However, even when he was as polite as could be to the dark figure, the Bat still looked at him… weirdly. He didn’t know how else he could describe it. He couldn’t see anything but the man’s mouth and yet somehow, he knew.
Those feelings that had always laid dormant within him. The anger, fear, pain, and loneliness, they had a way of coming out whenever he and the Bat where in the same room. It was a reaction quite unfamiliar to him. He had always prised himself in his ability to compartmentalise. In his ability to represent hope while feeling none of it himself. His very being is a burden to so many people. They feel unsafe having someone like him walk this planet. It’s the very thing that spurs him on to always do good, always be better than the vile things people yell at him. It’s not like he thinks they are uncalled for. He has hurt so many people without ever meaning to. His every action must be controlled to the T, not only so that he wouldn’t hurt anybody but also so nobody would get an inkling to who he really is.
So, it was surprising when he couldn’t seem to manage his emotions when being acquainted to the Dark Knight. People never think he is very introspective or very aware of his surroundings. When people are presented with the being of Clark Kent, they often think him a bumbling idiot. Someone’s who is incredibly nice and sincere, but also very oblivious. Although that is surely a part of him. Clark doesn’t think he could act something out that is entirely unfamiliar to him. It has always been mostly a facade. Something to solidify that Clark could never be the Superman, even though they had similar features. People aren’t blind, but they don’t often go looking far beyond the surface.
He however pondered a multitude of reason as to why his inclination when coming face to face with Batman was to snarl, to counteract every passive aggressive thing thrown at him. One of such theories was that being confronted by an entity that seemed to exist mostly of his hidden inner turmoil made him reflect and face those feelings.
That made him also reason that he should probably be more empathic concerning the Bat. He after all knows well enough that those feelings weren’t something that one wanted, or something that came out of the blue. There is a reason. And though he thinks that he himself deserves them, he knows somewhere within him that it is quite irrational. Because the thing that spurs on his darkest feelings isn’t something that he has chosen.
However, and this is again a thought that he doesn’t like to spend too much time on, something that he would choose again if given the choice. He likes the power. No, he loves it. And not all for a very good reason. Yes, one of the reasons was that he could help so many people, many more than he could ever do so as Clark Kent.
Another reason, however, was a conflicting one. He didn’t necessarily think himself better than everyone, but he kind of did. He held so much physical power. It was hard not to let it go to his head. He loved flying above people or venturing into space. He never went far; afraid he’d go too far and be unable to return fast enough and thus lose consciousness. He stops his train of thoughts, not wanting to dig deeper.
He has to focus on the task at hand. Which is proving that the snarling, rude, too serious, and entirely unpleasant Batman is in fact none other than the playboy, always unserious and very enjoyable Bruce Wayne.