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#if arn was any different than he is he might be the one to carry of idiots

brixgadegaard · 2 years

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Bbc Life-style Highlights February 2022

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arnoldperlstein · 3 years

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what’s wrong with rides again?

this time around i’d like to talk about my issues with the reboot of the magic school bus, the magic school bus rides again!

don’t get me wrong, for the most part? there’s a lot i love about rides again: it really expands on characters like arnold, tim, janet, and ralphie, whose new characterizations are developed but still faithful to the original; likewise, i like fiona frizzle and jyoti as new additions to the class. many of the jokes land and the episodes tend to be pretty funny and inventive! (jokes in the 3 recent specials have been particularly great)

there are, though, rather noticeable flaws that especially bother me, someone who grew up with the original. now here we go, in order of importance!

1. wanda

okay, i’ll get this out of the way: rides again wanda is not wanda. the original 90s wanda was a force to be reckoned with, a headstrong and active character who acted first and thought later - she was a great foil for a character like arnold who, in contrast, is so cautious and reserved. 90s wanda had an immense chaotic energy which reflected that of the original ms. frizzle and that of the show as a whole, really making everything exciting.

rides again wanda is... none of those things. she’s... kinda active? more in a stubborn way. she’s more defensive than offensive now and seems way more... soft than before? rides again wanda now loves animals and often acts as a morality pet in terms of them. now, if you’ve ever seen the original 90s cartoon, you know there’s one person who this sounds exactly like. pheobe.

by the start of rides again, pheobe had apparently went back to her old school, with jyoti taking up the 8th spot in the class. you wouldn’t think that pheobe’s role needed to be filled now that she was gone, and yet almost all of her traits were superimposed onto a character who originally had none of them. if they were going to pheeb-ify anyone, doing it to someone as iconically un-pheobe-like as wanda was a terrible idea!

not like they needed to pheeb-ify anyone - you already have cautious and shy characters like arnold, quiet and observant characters like tim, and voices of reason like da. i love pheobe, but her role didn’t need to be filled; people don’t work like that in real life.

and what sucks the most about this for me is that wanda was one of my favorite characters growing up! i loved her spunk and her attitude and her bravery going into anything! and i loved her catchphrase of “c’mon, you weaselly wimps”, which i may add i don’t remember her saying at all in rides again. it just sucks, man!!

2. lack of chaotic energy of the original/lack of memorability

one thing that characterized the original 90s cartoon was how... well, chaotic it was. there was something so energized and wacky about the whole thing, and you never knew what was going to happen next! the jokes were hilarious and the characters played off of each other perfectly, giving it an interesting, pseudo-sitcom vibe in the background.

the fact that it came out in the 90s at all, with its animation style and the technology at the time made these fantastical field trips all the more fascinating and mysterious - oftentimes, the frizz would push a simple button or pull a simple lever and the bus would turn into a fish or a bee or a rocket ship! this combined with the fact that the bus itself was rather old and rudimentary made it all seem more relatable and nostalgic.

unfortunately, rides again has none of this. the new art style, character designs, futuristic tech, and voice acting not only further suspends your disbelief with how starkly different they are from the original, but also completely get rid of that nostalgic 90s chaos that made the original so memorable.

and speaking of memorability, i can remember the premise of just about every 90s cartoon episode - they all have some wacky twist that makes it all the more bonkers and memorable: gets ready, set, dough? the baker thinks he’s delusional and that a moth baked a cake. in a pickle? court scene and the ‘mike robe gang’. shows and tells? arnold is forced to do improv and doesn’t suck at it somehow. holiday special? wanda turns the recycling plant into a pile of garbage. it’s all over the place yet somehow plausible, which makes it all the better to remember.

but rides again? the only jokes i remember are from episodes i’ve specifically seen over and over and over again, such as frizzle of the future, monster power, or making magic. give me episodes like pigs in the wind, in the swim, hides and seeks, the tales glaciers tell, the land before tim, ghost farm, i spy with my animal eyes, or send in the clouds and i won’t remember a single joke, funny line, or wacky moment. it makes it all seem bland in retrospect, unfortunately.

3. catchphrases!

there isn’t a ton to talk about here, but there is an annoying lack of characters using their catchphrases in rides again: sure, arn does occasionally say ‘i knew i should’ve stayed home today’, and da does say ‘according to my research’ (albeit differently than she did before - i’ll touch on this in a second), but most other characters don’t use their catchphrases much at all now.

tim doesn’t say “we’ve been frizzled” and keesha doesn’t say “let me get the facts” and ralphie doesn’t say “is it just me” and carlos doesn’t say “you’re gonna love this” and wanda doesn’t say “c’mon you weaselly wimps” etc. or heck, if they did, i just don’t remember, which is honestly telling enough.

you’d think this’d be a good thing, as people in real life don’t tend to have catchphrases, but it only makes the characters’ personalities more distinguished and memorable, having the unique things they say when excited or scared or whatever.

4. pheobe leaving :(

don’t get me wrong, jyoti is super cool, but i can still miss pheeb!

while i always resonated with arnold more, i’ve also found a connection with pheobe, such as with her love of animals (especially butterflies). she’s also just a really sweet, kind character who has a very strong moral backbone and a passion for doing the right thing. i find that a really nice personality for a character to have!

i also have my personal ship of pheobe and keesha (just watch the 90s episode gets ants in its pants, you’ll thank me later), and i find the two of them really cute! sucks that my pheobe privileges had to be revoked by rides again, though... why don’t we at least see what she’s doing, or get a mention other than just that ‘she returned to her old school’? why would she do that, anyway?

5. da’s accent

i don’t know how to describe dorothy ann’s accent in the original 90s cartoon? it’s like an american accent with slight bits of an english accent to it. a tad old-timey. either way it’s a very distinguishing trait of hers, besides her gravity-defying pigtails and love for the color violet.

unfortunately, there seemed to be no effort to carry this over to rides again in any capacity - heck, even if the voice actress couldn’t replicate her voice, they could at least pronounce the word research the same way da does: ‘reh-search’ rather than the more common ‘ree-search’. but alas, no. also da in a ponytail is not a good look, at least to me.

also, please return to the books. i don’t want to keep hearing the word ‘frizzpad’.

6. please don’t let them ruin this with a bad live action movie

note: it doesn’t have to be bad! it could be good! but the reputation of live action movies lately has been abysmal and i’m just worried how much they might butcher it...

and that’s all i can think of! despite all of this complaining i still do rather enjoy rides again. there’s just a lot of room to improve!!

#tmsb #the magic school bus #i need me some chaotic energy!!!!#one day i want to do a ytp of a rides again episode to inject it with some of that chaos i enjoyed in the original

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ceridwenofwales · 5 years

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Random but remember the scene where Lagertha killed Aslaug she said that Aslaug bewitched Ragnar. Rewatching vikings & in S1 ep.9 Lagertha goes to the Seer to ask about the dreams she’s having. She fears for Ragnar’s life and the Seer tells her that the shadows are from Hel’s Hall, the shadows want to take something from her. He also tells her that Ragnar is in danger from the magical world. This is the episode where Gyda dies and Aslaug is introduced. She really did bewitch him. Thoughts?

I’m so sorry that took me this long to reply. I needed to watch two episodes of the first season and check it out some of my favorite sources to give you a more appropriate reply. I don’t think Aslaug bewitched Ragnar and I’ll explain why I think so.

I was writing a meta and Dumblr (how I lovingly refer to Tumblr when it sucks) erased my highly detailed post. ;(

Brace yourself, it’s a meta. Hahahahaha.

I think to answer this we have to go back to episode 8 from season one “Sacrifice”. Lagertha suffered a miscarriage and they are preparing to go to Uppsala to ask for the Gods’ favor.

Ragnar: “Of course I’m happy. Why should I not be happy? When we reach Uppsala, we shall ask the gods why they give with one hand, but take away with the other? Why they make me Earl, yet kill my son?”

Lagertha: “We can have more sons.”

Ragnar: “Have we not tried?”

When they reach Uppsala, Lagertha and Ragnar talk to the Gods:

Lagertha: “Freyr, lord, fill me with seed and give me a son. Do as you will with me, make me blind or deaf if you want to, but give me a son. Accept the sacrifices of blood we make to you, the honor we offer you. My lord, make me conceive again before it’s too late.”

Ragnar: “Lord of lords, father, hear my prayer. Let me understand your will. Is it true that I shall have more sons like the seer says? Accept the sacrifice I plan to offer you and then answer me. Who will bear me my son?”

Notice that Ragnar is already doubting Lagertha will bear him another child and searching for the fulfillment of his prophecy elsewhere. Aslaug was yet to be introduced at this point.

Seer: “Do you think your husband is in some kind of danger?”

Lagertha: “I’ve had strange and disturbing dreams.”

Seer: “What happens in your dreams?”

Lagertha: “Dark shapes come to me at night. Monstrous forms. When I wake, they skulk in the shadows, shapeless, but no sooner am I asleep than they creep forward again.”

Seer: “Ah, yes. The shadows come from hell’s hall. No one can ensnare them, not even the gods.”

Lagertha: “What is it that they want?”

Seer: “To take something from you.”

Lagertha: “My life?”

Seer: “No, something far more important to you than that.”

Lagertha: “My husband’s life? Tell me.”

Seer: “Why must you all force me up and unearth me to sorrows? Your husband is in danger, but not for his life. He is in danger from the magical world.”

Lagertha: “How? Answer me.”

Seer: “I was unwilling to speak and I will say no more now!”

The Seer is clearly disturbed by Lagertha’s insistence and dismisses her.

In the following scene, Arne and Torstein see Aslaug bathing and she seems curious at the mention of his name. I think, as a Völva, she knew her destiny was with Ragnar and told his men that Ragnar should apologize to her on their behalf.

Ragnar: “Who is she, anyway, to put such a high price on her nakedness?”

Arne: “We didn’t ask.”

Ragnar: “I’m intrigued.”

Bjorn: “What’s so intriguing?"

Ragnar: "Sometimes the gods put things like this in front of us as some kind of test.”

Ragnar then challenges Aslaug to join them neither dressed nor undressed.Neither hungry nor full, neither in company nor alone.

Siggy: “What did the Seer tell you?"

Lagertha: "He said that it’s true; That Ragnar is in danger.”

Siggy: “From whom?"

Lagertha: "I don’t know.”

Siggy: “Who do you think?"

Lagertha: "I think he is in danger from himself.”

Lagertha knows Ragnar is ambitious and this scene is symbolic because as we talk about free will and fate, Lagertha is working on a loom. The Norse people believed the fate was woven by the Norns and so the female’s role of weaving, spinning, etc was related not only to the Norns but also to the practitioners of seiðr.

Any kind of textile work, particularly weaving, was believed to be a way of exercising supernatural power. One enigmatic aspect of seiðr is that it was connected with ergi ‘unmanliness’. If seiðr was spinning, it would certainly be unmanly for men, because spinning was the most characteristic women’s work. The feminine character of spinning also fits with seiðr in other ways. Firstly, manipulation of other people’s lives was also done by other kinds of women’s work.

There’s another important scene that implies this symbolism: Floki and King Horik’s conversation happens as they see a spider’s web. Floki is saying that the wolf Fenrir couldn’t be constrained by any mean known to humans.

Floki: “I came to ask about Jarl Borg. He won’t sell. He wants to make a deal.”

King Horik: “I’m not interested in deals.”

Floki: “That would make it hard for Ragnar.”

King Horik: “Ragnar will come to the right conclusion, and make the right decision.”

Floki: “Don’t you care if the negotiations fail?

King Horik: “Mm Look!"

Horik shows Floki how the spider attacks the fly trapped in its web. The web here can represent more than fate. Horik sent Ragnar to a doomed mission in hope Borg and Ragnar would destroy themselves and he would be rid of two problems at once. Let’s remember Ragnar is getting more famous than the King himself. Jarl Borg tried to convince Ragnar to form an alliance against King Horik and then asked Rollo to join him against Ragnar. There are more threats to Ragnar than the arrival of Aslaug.

When Aslaug agrees to follow Ragnar and his companions to the Ash tree that is believed to be Yggdrasil, he asks her:

“Why did you come along with me?”

Aslaug: “Because I had no choice.”

Ragnar kisses her for the first time and later on when Aslaug gives him the news she is pregnant, she says:

"I’m carrying your child. Did the Seer not promise you more sons?”

We might interpreter her words as a sign she knew of her role in Ragnar’s fate and that’s why she mentioned she had no choice earlier. Ragnar is conflicted because while he seems pleased his prophecy is being fulfilled, he knows Lagertha won’t take it lightly.

Now we have to examine the reasons why Lagertha could be suspicious Aslaug bewitched Ragnar.

The vǫlur were referred to by many names. Old Norse völva means “wand carrier” or “carrier of a magic staff”, and it continues Proto-Germanic *walwōn, which is derived from a word for “wand”.

Historical and mythological depictions of vǫlur show that they were held in high esteem and believed to possess such powers that even Odin consulted a völva to learn what the future had in store for the gods. Such an account is preserved in the Völuspá, which roughly translates to “Prophecy of the Völva ”.

In addition to the unnamed seeress (possibly identical with Heiðr) in the Vǫluspá, other examples of vǫlur in Norse literature include Gróa in Svipdagsmál, Þórbjǫrgr in the Saga of Erik the Red and Huld in Ynglinga saga.

The vǫlur were not considered to be harmless. The goddess who was most skilled in magic was Freyja, and she was not only a goddess of love, but also a warlike divinity who caused screams of anguish, blood and death, and what Freyja performed in Asgard, the world of the gods, the vǫlur tried to perform in Midgard, the world of men. The weapon of the völva was not the spear, the axe or the sword, but instead, they were held to influence battles with different means, and one of them was the wand.

The vǫlur were known for their art of seduction, which was one of the reasons why they were considered dangerous. One of the stanzas in Hávamál warns against sexual intercourse with a woman who is skilled in magic, because the one who does so runs the risk of being caught in a magic bond and also risks getting ill. Freyja, who is the mistress of seiðr, has a free sexual life that gives her a bad reputation in certain myths.

One of the methods for seducing men may have been the use of drugs. In Fyrkat, the grave of a völva revealed the use of henbane, a drug which not only produces hallucinations but can also be a powerful aphrodisiac. If Freyja was the goddess of love in Asgard, the völva was her counterpart in Midgard.

There’s also an interesting post by @dyannehs that points out a new interpretation of the archaeological evidence of women being buried with weapons as being practitioners of seiðr and not female warriors/shieldmaidens.

This hypothesis doesn’t dismiss the shieldmaiden entirely. There’s room for a sword-wielding woman if we ever gather enough evidence to support it. But that would not have been the normal role for women in battle. This hypothesis states that if women went into battle (and if they did, then they would have been a very small minority on the field), then they were not warriors but sorceresses, who would literally be casting spells and reciting charms and curses left and right and practicing magic in an attempt to sway the outcome and protect their own men and homes.

These women would have been in commune with the Valkyries and the gods, urging the fate of the battle in a certain direction. And the weapons found in their graves were not meant to be used but were symbolic of prowess in battle as something removed from warriors.

After all, how else can you physically represent the power of magic in battle?

And we know that sorcery in battle was a legitimate thing. Practitioners of seiðr had a wide range of battle magic and could perform such feats as instilling fear into the enemy, hindering the enemy’s movements, strengthening armour and weapons, weakening armour and weapons, providing invulnerability, providing other protections from weapons and enemy sorcery, killing enemy soldiers, fighting and killing enemy seiðr practitioners, and breaking enemy curses.

While a Völva was highly respected, there was also a reverential fear for the power they held. I don’t believe Aslaug manipulated or bewitched Ragnar. I think she only knew her destiny was entwined with his. I talked about Aslaug’s fate here as well.

Sources:

Seiðr

Old Norse religion in long-term perspectives

Women and Magic in the Sagas

Völva: Sexual Rites and Drugs

Seiðr and Norse Shamanism

Spae-craft, Seiðr and Shamanism

Viking Women

Norns

#vikings meta #norse religion #norse paganism #ragnar x aslaug #lagertha x ragnar #aslaug meta #lagertha meta #ragnar meta #seidr #ragnar lothbrok #ragnar lodbrok #the tale of ragnarssons #the tale of ragnar's sons #the saga of ragnar lothbrok #the saga of ragnar lodbrok #norse sagas

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terresdebrumestories · 5 years

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Clark Kent, of Krypton - 4/4: Clark Kent

FANDOM: DC’s cinematic universe. RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 27 147 (Fic total: ~98k words) PAIRING(S): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne (main focus is on Clark, though). CHARACTER(S): Kal-El | Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Jor-El, Lara Lor-Van, Kara Zor-El, Zor-El, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Diana Prince, Barry Allen, Arthur Curry, Victor Stone, John Stewart, J’onn J’onn, plus a quick cameo by Lois Lane. GENRE: Alternate Universe (canon divergence), transition fic with romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): A great deal of anxiety and self loathing, especially in parts one and two. Some descriptions are heavily inspired by my experience of dysphoria-induced dissociation. SUMMARY: Batman crashes on Krypton a few days before the Turn of the Year celebrations and Kal-El's life takes a sharp turn to the left, on a path that will ultimately lead him to becoming Clark Kent.

OTHER CHAPTERS: [I. Kal-El] [II. Shadow] [III. Superman] ALSO AVAILABLE: [On AO3] [On Dreamwidth]

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Thank you, still, to @stuvyx for the wonderful illustrations and to @susiecarter for the beta :D

Wonder Woman—“Call me Diana”—retrieves a long wrap-up dress from a bag hidden on a nearby building, tucks her hair into a tight bun, and takes Kal to a nearby shop for what she introduces as one of humanity’s best inventions and the shop advertises as ninety-nine different flavors of ice cream.

“I should probably warn you I haven’t had ice cream before,” Kal says as they sit down after Diana paid for their order. “I have no idea what it might do to my—I don’t know how well I’ll digest it.”

“Well,” Diana says with a smile, “we’ll just have to keep an eye out for unfortunate symptoms.”

Kal chuckles as Diana dives into her five-flavored mountain of ice cream with gusto, and for a moment they are entirely focused on their respective desserts. Kal can’t help but let out an exclamation of pleased surprise at the deliciousness of it, and laughs at himself when a few heads turn his way. Across from him, Diana is chuckling into her chocolate chip mint, and she winks when she sees Kal blush.

“Ice cream was one of the first things I discovered when I joined the world of men,” she says with a fond smile, eyes going just a little distant with the memory. “Everything was so...gray. The ice cream was delicious, though. Plain vanilla. I remember telling the vendor he should be very proud.”

Kal follows her in an amused chuckle, and tries the cherry and chocolate flavor he took such a long time to settle on. It might, possibly, be his favorite so far.

“I don’t think I can fault you for that reaction, you know. This is delicious...though, to be fair, I haven’t had food I really disliked, so far.”

He’s not overly fond of seafood, but that honestly has more to do with the fact that he can’t keep it down more than fifteen minutes than with the taste or texture of it. Fortunately ice cream doesn’t seem to be having any adverse side effects so far. Kal gives himself a second to appreciate that, before he caves in and says:

“Please don’t think I’m not enjoying this but...why did you bring me here?”

He can’t possibly imagine Diana as the sort of woman who would have more than a passing interest in someone like him after all. An eye-catching costume is not enough to erase who he is in the slightest.

“Can’t I simply check on a new colleague after his first mission?” Diana asks with a smile that leans too far to the cheeky side to be entirely innocent.

Kal resists the urge to rub at his neck, but only just. He is, after all, acutely aware of the vast gap between Diana and him—doesn’t know the exact shape of it, of course, but the very way Diana carries herself is more than enough evidence for him to go on. She must see something of his feelings on his face, too, because in an instant her grin softens into something a tad less teasing.

“If I’m to be fully honest,” she says in a conspirational tone, “I have to admit I’m also very curious about you.”

“About me?”

Kal catches himself before he points at his forehead—not the ideal gesture to blend in—but he couldn’t restrain himself from blinking even if he wanted to. What is there even to be curious ab—oh.

“Oh,” he says once the avalanche settles. “I—I don’t know how...ready I am. To talk about...home,” he finishes, rather lamely.

He’s been—it’s easier, these days, to talk about it with Martha, sharing tidbits of the world he grew up in whenever he discovers something new with her, comparing their faiths while observing Martha’s customs...but that’s different. That’s just—they have things in common. It’s easy to share with Martha because she shares so much of herself already: all Kal has to do is answer in kind, and make sure he’s as much of a support for her as she is for him. It would be another thing entirely, to answer Diana’s questions—to dig into his memories for something vaguely academic, to try and order his thoughts into something...coherent and understandable. It is a work he’ll have to start on, eventually. There will be others with questions about where he came from, what he did, why he came to Earth. Right now, though, even the thought of it is too much to stomach.

Diana, however, doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“That’s all right,” Diana says with the kind of indulgent chuckle adults tend to reserve for silly children. “Like I said, I’m actually more curious about you.”

“Me?” Kal blinks, wrong-footed despite himself. “What could you possibly want to know about me?”

Diana gives an elegant shrug, settling back in her seat with studied nonchalance, but Kal doesn’t miss the sharpness of her gaze, the thoughtful pursing of her lips as she looks him up and down. The once-over makes him blush from the scrutiny—although, he is quite relieved to note, there is no sexual undertone to the gesture—and he has to remind himself that fiddling with his napkin is actually a possibility now that no one’s there to reprimand him.

“Anything you’d like to tell me,” Diana says, eyes still alert. “Bruce is the most tightly controlled man I’ve ever met—I’d like to know what it takes to impress him so much.”

Kal all but chokes on his chilled water, spluttering when he spills a good quarter of his glass on his lap as a result. Batman, impressed? By him ? Either this is a cruel joke, or Diana has Kal confused with someone else—anyone else, really. Kal is so far—he wouldn’t even be able to impress the public version of Bruce Wayne, he’s sure of it, so for Diana to think he’s impressed Batman ? Rao, the thought would make him laugh if it didn’t come attached to the certainty of failure where he and Diana being friends is concerned.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Diana, “but I think there’s some kind of misunderstanding here. I’m not—he’s not—”

“Oh, I daresay he is,” Diana cuts in with a brilliant grin, “but you don’t have to believe me—and we don’t have to keep talking about him either, unless you’d like to?” She pauses just long enough for Kal to shake his head. “Well then. Tell me about you. What do you do?”

“I’m sorry?” Kal says, stumped by the turn of phrase.

“As a job, I mean,” Diana clarifies. “What kind of civilian identity did you build for yourself?”

“Oh,” Kal says, wincing a little while his hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck. “I, uh—I don’t really have...one...anymore?”

He sinks into the booth bench with every word, red leather creaking under him while Diana’s face grows increasingly tight with something that might—just might—be like righteous anger. Not that Kal is very eager to stay and find out—she won’t harm him, he’s pretty sure, but he’s never dealt well with being scolded, and he’s got a feeling that coming from someone as eminently admirable as Wonder Woman, it’d be even worse.

“Sorry?” he offers, stumbling through the word as his brain waddles through his abrupt shame for even a scrap of competence. “I just don’t—”

“Kal,” Diana interrupts. She’s firm but not stern, and Kal wonders what it is, then, that makes his stomach sink like a stone when she says his name. “You have to have one. Even a flimsy one will do, but you can’t—no one can wear the uniform all the time. No one. You’ll go crazy, if you don’t have anything but the cape.”

Kal nods in silence, and doesn’t have the heart to tell her he already knows what that feels like. He stirs the conversation away from that particular topic instead, exchanging stories of his first few days on Earth—without sharing Martha’s name—for Diana’s first adventures in what she calls “the world of man” over a hundred years ago, and laughing in horror when she tells him about her first contact with the other members of the League.

“You can’t be serious,” he tells Diana, and this time her snort of laughter has absolutely no mirth in it.

“Oh, I am. It’s a good thing I’ve had time to learn how to think before I speak—had I been fifty, maybe even forty years younger, Lex Luthor’s scheme might actually have worked.”

“Well,” Kal says, “I’m glad it didn’t happen to me...I don’t know that I’d have handled it as well as you did.”

“Luckily, we won’t have to find out.” Diana shrugs, her mood brightening again. “Luthor is in prison, his creature dead underground, and we are all very, very grateful for John’s perfect timing.”

Kal sighs in belated relief, glad that he didn’t have to discover an Earth where Batman and Wonder Woman had been at war—or worse, still were. He cannot imagine the state of things if Diana hadn’t forcibly manhandled Bruce into a long conversation about everyone’s goals and principles, and while it’s a pity the two of them—three, with the Green Lantern’s timely intervention—had to kill what sounds like a perfectly innocent Mlrn to protect Earth, at least the planet remains safe; that’s all that matters.

“That we are,” he agrees. Then his suit vibrates with a time alert, and Kal winces. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I promised my host I’d be back for dinner, so….”

“Oh,” Diana says, “yes, of course.”

She insists on paying, which is objectively a good thing despite his unease at owing anything—even something as small as that—to someone he barely knows. Kal doesn’t exactly have money to his name, not even cash. He promises Diana that he will pay for their next ice cream—the width of her smile enough to soothe a wave of panic when he realizes he didn’t even ask her if she wanted there to be a next one—and then sets off toward Kansas.

He and Martha share a small celebratory dinner, Kal blushing his way through the recounting of his story and making an embarrassingly enthusiastic sound when Martha gets her apple and rhubarb pie out of the oven. The dessert is more than worth it, in Kal’s opinion, and Martha's fond laughter doesn’t hurt at all, either. In fact, Kal even finds himself expressing his delight more than he usually would, just so he can hear her chuckle again—it works like a charm, and Kal keeps the game up until he thinks, unexpectedly, of his parents’ faces the last time he attempted to make them smile and the mirth slides right out of him.

“Oh, by the way!” Martha says, either not realizing what’s going on in Kal’s head or offering him an out from it. “Batman called while you were away—don’t look so shocked, dear, he’s had my number longer than you’ve had his. And it isn’t like he can phone your suit, now, can he?”

“Right,” Kal says, surprised at his own reaction, “of course. Did he leave a message?”

“Only that he wanted to talk to you,” Martha says. “You ought to call him—and figure out a way for him to call you. I’m too busy keeping this farm afloat to take on a job as your secretary.”

Kal promises not to make a habit of it, taking the dishes off the table as he goes, and speeds through the washing up before he goes into his room, sits on the open windowsill, and has the suit patch him through to Bruce’s phone.

“We need to procure a phone for you,” Bruce says in Ellon, in lieu of greeting.

He still speaks in the slow, slightly too-well-articulated way Ellon nobles do—a sharp contrast to Kal’s definitely Shadow-inspired grammar. But he’s taken to using more familiar forms again these days. He’s willing to meet Kal as an equal—perhaps a friend, even, someday—and the deliberate increase in grammatical proximity is enough to turn the fond eyeroll threatening to overtake Kal into a grin, a feeling like warm water in the bottom of his stomach.

“Hello, Bruce,” he says, bringing his knees up to his stomach as if to trap the soft heat there. “Martha and I were just talking about this, actually. We agree, really, it’s just—I don’t really have money and—”

“And you are talking to a literal billionaire,” Bruce retorts with clear exasperation, “and worrying about pennies.”

A beat passes, during which Kal’s mouth gapes open and then closes again all on its own. It isn’t—money is not...well, it is the problem, but—it’s not Martha’s money that’s the problem. Sure, Bruce has more of it than he could even think of spending for the rest of his life, but….well. It still leaves Kal uncomfortable to take money from him, is all. He hasn’t quite figured out why, yet, but the feeling is there. He barely has time to wonder how to explain all of that, though, before Bruce concludes:

“As I thought. I’ll send it over tomorrow.”

“All right,” Kal says, because there really isn’t anything else to say when all has been decided. “Martha said you wanted to talk?”

Silence, brief but all the sharper for it, until Bruce breathes in like he’s gearing up to dive—not that Kal is meant to hear it, probably—and says:

“There’s video footage of this morning.”

“Oh.”

Possibly not the most intelligent reaction Kal could have had—in fact, he should maybe have anticipated that. Still, getting caught on camera is—there’s a reason Shadow’s suit was programmed to deal with nearby recording equipment whenever he got out. To be filmed, to give anyone the occasion to study him, could have spelled his death back on Krypton. He isn’t as fragile now as he was then, that’s for sure, and the likelihood of anyone linking what that Daily Planet reporter has dubbed The Superman to Martha Kent is too low to be of concern just yet, but old habits die hard.

“I, uh—” Kal attempts when Bruce doesn’t seem interested in using any more words, “I thought that—um. It went...well. I mean, I suppose there’s room for improvement—”

“You don’t say.”

The words knock Kal right out of himself, into the small space that never quite ceased to exist between himself and Shadow, the brand new emptiness between Kal and the Superman. It’s—it’s a familiar space, but it was never particularly comfortable, and finding it here when he’d hoped to be rid of it forever leaves Kal almost breathless with the pain of it. He blinks, throat tighter than it should be, and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he should not—should not —be surprised when Bruce says:

“Don’t be sorry. Be better.”

“Look,” Kal tries, eyes drifting to the endless sky as if there could be some comfort there, “I’m sorry. I realize it wasn’t perfect—”

“You were thoroughly unprepared,” Batman cuts in, “and it showed. You had no idea what the fire would do to you, did you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“It could have made you explode, for all we know,” Batman continues, without acknowledging Kal’s words, the calm of his tone one more reason for Kal to wince. “You put your life in danger—”

“The suit is fireproof, actually,” he points out, barely restraining a roll of his eyes in time. “I’m not entirely stupid, you know. I’m not convinced by your explosion theory either.”

“My point is,” Batman replies through what sounds like painfully gritted teeth, “that you went into this without preparation, putting not only your life but also those civilians’ lives in danger, and—”

“And if I hadn’t done anything,” Kal interrupts, finally finding his voice when a flash of anger rises inside him, “they could have died anyway—I heard some of the firefighters talk, you know, and even if—”

“Kal—”

“You forget I wore Shadow’s suit long before I came up with the Superman’s!”

There is a short pause while Kal gets his breathing back under a semblance of control, too incensed to even think of being embarrassed by his own outbursts. He can feel the heat high in his cheeks, the burn of anger in his armpits, and it feels like he’s trying to cough up glass when he continues:

“I couldn’t have allowed myself to stand by and do nothing any more than you could have remained inactive back in El! Now, I may be—inexperienced, and sloppy, reckless and a simpleton and all those things you think I am, but I’m not—I’ll train more, if you want. I’ll do research and I’ll plan ahead better, but you can’t—don’t you ask me to stand by when I have the chance to really help people, because I won’t.”

The line remains silent for a long while after that, Kal’s mind swinging wildly between the wilting shreds of his anger and the absolute terror of thinking maybe this is it—maybe this is when both of Bruce decide they’ve had enough of the ridiculous stranded freak from El. Even with that, though, even thinking perhaps this is the last he’ll hear from the first true friend he’s ever had...Kal can’t make himself regret what he's said.

Oh, he’ll train all right. Bruce...he’s got a point—a sizable point, even, though just thinking it feels like pulling teeth at the moment—and more preparation would probably benefit everyone in the long run. Gods, does the thought chafe; not by itself, but because of the way it came about, and—the point is, Kal will train. He’ll...sulk about Bruce’s opinions for a few days, and maybe even grumble about it for a while but he—he will, if that’s what it takes. But he’ll still help in the meantime, prepared or no, and if Bruce has a problem with that—well, then they’ll have a real fight on their hands.

“Fine,” Batman says, with an explosive sigh that startles Kal badly enough that he almost cracks the phone receiver in his hand. “Fine. You keep helping. But I’m sending you some reading—and don’t think for a second I won’t be quizzing you on it.”

“Fine.”

There is the sound of flesh brushing against flesh on Bruce’s end of the receiver, and Kal pictures him rubbing the bridge of his nose—an impatient gesture he’s never seen Bruce indulge in outside of his Cave—before Bruce takes a deep breath and, in a voice that’s almost back to normal, asks, “What do you think of Diana?”

“I like her,” Kal says with a shrug, slipping into the new topic with no small amount of relief. “She’s nice.”

It isn’t simply that she was much more positive about Kal’s first performance as a helper than Batman—or Bruce, for that matter. It’s...well, she seemed to care, is all. She had pointers to offer, advice that, now Kal thinks of it, differed greatly from Batman’s in tone, but not so much in content, and she asked about Kal’s life outside of his new costume—didn’t quite tut at him about it, either, though Kal got the feeling she wanted to. And even then...somehow, he doesn’t think that would have been so terrible. Diana has—Gods, Kal would probably get in trouble with someone if he said it out loud, but there’s something old about her. Not just in the wealth of experience she seems to have, or in the yearning for long-gone happy times, but also in the...shamelessness of her. There were moments in that ice cream parlor when Diana reminded Kal of the elderly members of El’s court, who would laugh criticism of their oddities off and tell whoever the concerned party was that perhaps they’d live long enough to learn wrinkles came with a definite lessening of self-consciousness. Diana didn’t get the wrinkles, obviously, but there is an unrestrained part of her that makes it feel, just a little, like they’ve already settled on her soul.

Must be a stark contrast to Batman’s way of doing things, Kal muses. Of all the things to be said about the man, good and bad, ‘unrestrained’ doesn’t even come close to the list; quite the opposite. And it isn’t—it doesn’t make him a poor teacher, or mentor, or friend or—whatever it is he wants to be to Kal. He’s good at all these things—too good for Kal to follow, most of the time—it’s just. Sometimes, both Bruce and Batman are hard to keep up with, and now they’ve gone and finally found the button to press to get Kal angry enough to push back. It sounds like a recipe for disaster, really, and so Kal keeps this train of thought to himself, humming when Bruce tells him Diana would like to meet him again.

“In fact,” Bruce continues, like the words are being torn out of him, “they would all like to meet you.”

“...All?”

“The League.”

“The—oh.”

Martha, passing through the hall with a hefty bucket full of vegetables, pauses on the threshold and clears her throat, waiting long enough for Kal to meet her eyes—he must look more panicked than he meant to, judging by her light frown—and mouth ‘they want to meet me!’ in awestruck English. He has to clarify who he means, but then Martha breaks into a gigantic grin and pads toward him in socked feet to set a hand on his shoulder.

“Congratulations,” she mouths, and Kal is in the process of nodding when Bruce asks:

“Are you still there?”

“Oh—yes! Yes, I, uh—I’m here. And I’d be very honored to meet the Justice League .”

In front of him, Martha's grin grows even wider.

“Great. The Cave, next Friday. Three PM, New York time.”

“All right. What should I—”

A dull clicking sound. Kal pulls the receiver away from his ear and stares at it for a second, trying to slow-blink himself out of his stupor. To be invited to the League’s headquarters—of course, Kal was hoping to meet them. It’s just—he’d have thought he’d meet them individually first and then maybe, if things went well, be invited more officially later on. But no. It’s happening now.

There is a non-zero possibility that Kal will be sick at least once before the day comes.

Looking down reveals Martha still standing in front of him, close enough to hug—Kal half wants to, half fears overstepping some kind of boundary if he does—and still frowning at him. It isn’t the sort of frown that means disapproval, but it still makes Kal’s heart beat just a little faster. He swallows, ready to ask what’s going on and hopefully diffuse the situation, when Martha says, “Let’s go milk the cows, shall we? I’ll teach you how to do it by hand if you want.”

Nodding, Kal follows Martha to the door and, after slipping into a well-worn pair of boots, follows her to the barn. The Kent farm isn’t exactly a small one, but its main strength is crops, not dairy, and sixty head of cattle don’t call for a fully automated process, so the next two hours are spent letting eager cows into the milking stalls in batches of six, cleaning them up, hooking the milking machine to their udders, and waiting until they’re done to repeat the process with the next group. Both Kal and Martha remain silent during that time, focused on trying to deal with the cows’ insistence on trying to lick every inch of Kal’s face they can reach, even if it means they have to strain against the barriers holding them. By the end of it, though, they manage to get the animals back out in the field with minimal fuss—although Kal has to physically carry one of them out of the way—and are left with one unmilked cow standing in the stalls for Martha to demonstrate on.

“Wash your hands first,” Martha says as she pumps soap in her own palm, “then wash her up.”

She kicks a stool close to the cow while Kal complies with her instructions, careful not to get anything on his hands that would ruin the experience. He’s been here long enough to know the dangers of getting any germs into the milk, after all. He watches Martha get in position, wincing when she mutters imprecations directed against her lower back.

“Jon and I always used to talk about sinking a pit here,” she tells Kal over her shoulder, snorting along with him when he leans against the stall’s barrier and the cow gives him a big lick on the cheek. “Something to put the udders at arm level and reduce the backaches, but...well, he’s dead, and these things cost money.”

“I could do it,” Kal says, gently pulling the cow’s tongue away from his nose and letting it suck on his fingers instead. “I’d need to read up first, but between the speed and the muscles, I’m sure I could manage something.”

Shaking her head, Martha laughs and motions for Kal to pay attention before she bends down to the task, explaining how it works as she goes. Kal has to keep half of his attention on her and half on her patient, who, despite the terribly impractical configuration, is still trying to reach any piece of Kal’s exposed skin.

“I’d tell you to shed a sleeve and let her do her thing with your arm,” Martha says after a few minutes of that game, once she’s done with the first two udders, “but I’m afraid she’s already been more than spoiled enough for the day.”

Laughter bubbles out of Kal before he can even think of catching it, and he gives the cow’s ribs a fond pat while Martha gets up and pops her spine back into place.

“A smile, at last,” she says, stretching her arm. She’s smiling, too, just enough that Kal doesn’t blush too much as he looks down at the ground. “Now, are you going to tell me why you were wearing such a long face? I thought you wanted to meet the Justice League.”

“I do!” Kal says—promises, almost. “I do.”

It isn’t a lie. He’s been trying—he’s been wanting to make a real difference somewhere long before he came to Earth, and the Justice League does exactly that. Of course he’d want to meet them now he’s got what it takes to join. They help so many people already, the six of them, so helping them would be—but that’s the big question, isn’t it? Can Kal really help them? Sure, he’s strong, and he can see and hear a truly ridiculous amount of things nowadays; but if his time as Shadow has proven anything, it’s that material means are far from the only thing needed to be an efficient helper—let alone a hero.

Kal explains all of that while fumbling blindly with the cow’s udder, the way he has to almost press his cheeks into its flank to reach his goal a convenient excuse to avoid meeting Martha’s eyes. Not that he needs to, when he can still hear her snort, but it does make things...mildly less uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Martha says, sounding anything but. “Did you think Bruce told me nothing about you before you came here?”

A pause, while Kal gapes.

“That boy may be genetically compelled to make everything into a secret, but he knows when a little sharing is necessary. I know how you got that patch job.”

Kal’s hand flies to his side without thinking, the skin barely ever itching anymore now that the scar is fading. It was quite the sight when he first came to Martha’s farm, purple and raised, stippled in curving lines like worms trying to crawl into him—and then the sun happened, and now it’s on the verge of being indistinguishable from a rug burn. It...would be a lie, to say he’d thought Martha could know any more about it than what he’d told her—which is absolutely nothing—but then again it would also be a lie to say the revelation truly surprises him. Knowing Bruce, it was quite foolish of him to expect anything else.

“It isn’t the same,” he tells Martha, pushing his shoulders into a shrug. “It’s—”

“Well, you’re going to have to explain that one to me,” Martha retorts, leaning against the cow’s stall the same way Kal did earlier, “because from what I heard there wasn’t that much difference between that Shadow of yours and Batman.”

“Of course there was!” Kal protests, barely even noticing when he gets to his feet. “There was a huge difference!”

“Where?”

“Everywhere!” Kal exclaims, wincing when his outburst startles the cow and he has to rescue the milk bucket before it can spill over. “See? You know what he’s like, what he can do! I can’t even stand in a barn right!”

“Kal-El,” Martha scolds, and Kal doesn’t know what it is about the name that makes him want to shrink into himself, sink into the ground until he vanishes entirely.

“Please don’t call me that,” he manages through the knot in his throat.

With a blink, Martha pauses—just long enough to take Kal’s face in and nod. It’s a relief, really, because the absolute truth is that he has no idea what brought on the abrupt sensation of loneliness, inadequacy, the background noise of sheer misery that used to color every instant of his life on Krypton. Fear rushes forward at that thought, a bone-deep sort of horror at the idea that he could, somehow, be made to go back to the life he used to lead in El, even as he misses the place so much, and his heart rate doesn’t lower back to something reasonable until Martha says, “Don’t you think that means I’ll let you go on with this self-deprecating nonsense. Just because you mean it doesn’t mean it’s true, do you hear me?”

He does, the words piercing through his chest and crawling up his throat with a slow, agonizing heat that makes him close his hands into fists, clench his jaw. Blink, against the moisture of his eyes.

“So you’re not Batman; so what? No one else is, either! Even his kids—”

“He’s got children?”

Martha gasps, and actually slaps herself in the forehead with a low groan. Kal watches her face redden, her shoulders stiffening to a worrying degree until she sighs, releasing the pressure all at once.

“Two sons,” she explains with the sort of tone reserved for things one is unwilling to share. “One of them’s a police officer in one of Gotham’s neighboring cities. Blü-something. The other...he’s been in the Wayne mausoleum for a few years, now.”

Dead. Taken from his father before his time, leaving nothing but mementos behind—an empty room, Kal supposes. A few treasured objects and many more casually abandoned around the house on the fateful morning. A brother and a father, mourning together until Bruce got down to the cave and its damp air, its red lights...the echoing clang of feet on the spiraling...metal...staircase.

The suit in the glass case.

Oh, Rao—the suit.

There’s—Bruce must have buried all the proof. Destroyed it, maybe. Kara burned almost everything her mother had left her, except for a ring she’s never taken off since. Kal wouldn’t have—couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to—but they’re a different sort of person, Bruce and Kara. There’s no proof, but the theory makes sense, and Kal presses a hand against his mouth to make sure the words won’t spill out—to make sure he won’t take the conversation further than it should go.

Martha knows—must know, at least. If she’s known Bruce since before—she has to know. That doesn’t mean she is the one Kal should talk about this with.

“My point is,” Martha says after the long, heavy silence has settled around them, “that the fact that you can’t be Batman is no indication of a supposed lack of qualifications for this sort of job. Would you say Wonder Woman has no qualifications?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You want to help in the same way that they do, and you have the power to do it,” Martha cuts in, the firmness of her tone belied by the softness of the palm she settles over Kal’s cheek. “Those are the only qualifications you need. You can learn the rest with them.”

“I don’t know—”

“Son,” Martha cuts in again, and the word pushes a shiver down Kal’s spine, “you’ve learned the English language and the essentials of American culture in less than two months; you’ve learned to use hands that can lift a tractor to catch an egg without breaking it in less than that—of course you can learn what they need you to learn.”

“Martha,” Kal tries, mountain rocks in his throat and burning water in his eyes, but Martha’s grip on his cheek tightens, even as her other hand comes up to cup his face too.

“I don’t know who put it into your head that you’re not just as good as anyone else in this world—and better than some, believe you me—but they were wrong. I haven’t seen a single thing about you that wouldn’t make any parent proud. And—and I don’t know,” Martha says, voice catching on something wet just as Kal closes his eyes, feeling like he’s about to rip out of his own skin, “maybe your parents aren’t proud of you—some people are idiots like that. But I ’m proud of what you’ve accomplished before and since you came to Earth. I’m proud that I was there to help you through it, and I’m very proud to say I consider you family.”

The burn in Kal’s eyes spills over onto his cheeks, and he leans down until he can hide his face in Martha’s shoulder. With a great sigh, Martha reciprocates the gesture, looping her arms around him, and they remain locked into a teary hug for a long, long, long time.

Superman gains traction. Kal told Bruce he’d prepare and he meant it: he doesn’t wait for Bruce’s books to start reading up on the best ways to deal with a house fire, first aid techniques, and as many anatomy books as he can get his hands on. No world has ever waited for anyone to be done with their education to keep on turning, however, and in the following week Kal gets involved in a variety of car accidents, three forest fires, four hold-ups, and twenty-three cases of pets of various shapes and sizes stuck in increasingly unexpected places. He also helps many people with their groceries or everyday tasks, but that’s more being a good neighbor than anything else, so it doesn’t particularly count as, uh, ‘heroing’, as Martha jokingly puts it. On Thursday night, he even helps a doctor give birth to her own baby by the side of a dirt road in northern Vietnam—it consists mostly of doing what he’s told in labored English, but he does still come out of it with an undeniable sense of...poetry, almost.

Not that the actual affair was very glamorous—between the blood and gunk and other various bodily fluids, no one should be expected to look good while giving birth. But there is a sense of pride there, an awed accomplishment at the thought of having contributed, even just a little, in the making of a new life. He wonders, for a while, if that was what his parents felt when he was born—if they at least enjoyed that part of the whole ordeal, before they became entirely disenchanted with him. That is, of course, a question he’s unlikely to ever get an answer to—but even then the pride doesn’t leave him for the rest of the week.

On Friday, Kal wakes up with one of the worst cases of jitters he’s ever experienced, and he’s about to explode from it when Martha takes pity on him, drags him to the kitchen, and proceeds to teach him how to make apple crumble and gooey butter cake. He does have to leave eventually, though, and at one in the afternoon, local time, he walks through the door, runs out of Martha’s backyard until he’s at a comfortable distance, and jumps into the sky with as much force as he can manage.

He gets a little disoriented by the sonic boom at first—he’s never provoked one by jumping before—and figuring out how to fly on purpose proves tricky enough that Kal almost crashes down into a wheat field. He catches himself at the last second, though, rises until he’s just below the cloud cover, and heads toward Gotham.

He enters Bruce’s cave via a door installed under a lake, and touches down right next to the landing platform for Bruce's plane. There’s a motorbike there that Kal has never seen, parked next to a muddy blue four-by-four, but other than that, the cave remains as it was in Kal’s memories. He floats over the water in silence, popping up to get a closer look at the bats sleeping on the ceiling, and touches down again when he reaches the upper level of the cave.

Kal was right, before—this is a space that only pretends to be an armory. What weapons he can see haven’t been used in a while, and the suits on the back walls are all variations of Bruce’s Batman uniform—older versions, perhaps. And there, in the middle—Kal swallows. The build of the suit is slight, shorter than Batman’s. A younger person; he should have deduced that much from the get-go. A younger man. There are scratches in various spots on the red and green design, a bullet hole in the right shoulder...and the words in dulled yellow, mocking Batman—Bruce—every time he goes through that cave reminding him—Gods. No wonder the man tries so hard to make himself as engaging as a prison door.

Someone gasps to Kal’s left, and he turns to smile at the Flash—Barry—who is all but gaping at him through the glass. Kal exchanges a smile with Diana, too, who is standing by Bruce’s large office chair, and then he floats inside the room, multiple monitoring screens glowing as red as Krypton’s sun. Arthur and Cyborg have settled over a small console with a game of...checkers, and John the Green Lantern is apparently completing crosswords while sipping on a cup of tea. In his chair, Bruce—or, well, Batman, at the moment—doesn’t seem too pleased about the rest of the group’s nonchalance, but he must have decided it wasn’t important enough to point out, because he doesn’t protest when Barry zips from one end of the room to the other with a crackle and a strong gust of wind.

“Oh my Goooooooooood,” he says in a high-pitched voice, grin almost too big for his face. “You can fly!”

“I can fly too,” Cyborg points out, only for Barry to spin toward him.

“Are you ever going to fly me anywhere, Victor?”

“I’m not your personal jet, Barry.”

Barry makes a show of turning his nose up in the air before he turns back to Kal, “Victor is a bit of a killjoy sometimes,” he says in a stage whisper, “but I like him anyway, I don’t know why.”

“Lay off, Barry,” Victor protests—without heat, though he does duck his head to hide something that looks suspiciously like a smile.

“If you could all settle down.”

There is more than a hint of command in Batman’s voice and Kal, after a lifetime of conditioning, doesn’t even blink as he orders his suit back into civilian clothing and uses the excess material for a lightweight chair. (“Oh my god,” says Barry, and though he’s the only one who actually makes a sound about it, Kal still notices at least Arthur and John raising an eyebrow.)

“First item of business,” Batman announces, as soon as everyone is seated and mostly turned toward him, “everyone’s monthly—what, Barry?”

“I have new items I’d like to submit for consideration.”

“I’m sure we can all wait until after the meeting to ask about the pie,” John says, amusement lacing his tone, before anyone else has a chance to speak.

“Smells like apple crumble to me,” Diana says—Kal isn’t sure, but he thinks he sees her smirk, just a little, when Batman’s jaw twitches.

“Okay, well, about the crumble—”

“Later, Barry,” Victor says.

Kal sees him frown when Arthur catches his eyes with a ‘how do you deal with this’ sort of expression, but the topic does seem to be effectively dropped for the time being, which allows Flash to continue:

“Second proposed item: I’d like to officially challenge Superman here to a race. Employing the scientific method. For science.”

“Done,” Kal says before Bruce has time to speak, “if we can keep this meeting on track.”

Kal smiles at Batman, whose face immediately hardens into a scowl. Kal expected as much, but the sight still stings, and he has to bite down on a sigh. Clearly, they won’t be going back to being friends right away. He nods at Batman anyway, just a small tip of the head to confirm his support, and makes sure to keep his body language as professional as possible while Batman readjusts his notes. Good thing the physical attitudes communicating seriousness and attention are mostly the same in El and in the United States.

“Thank you, Superman,” Batman says like the words were stuck to his tooth and took it along for the ride when they exited his mouth. “First item of business: monthly reports.”

The groan that erupts from the table is at least as much attitudinal as it is audible, but Batman remains steadfastly undeterred, and Kal manages—though not without some trepidation—to keep his face mostly neutral. Reporting on anything, let alone anything of importance, is, after all, a first for him. He listens to everyone’s accounts of their months intently, sinking further into Superman’s solemn demeanor with every word that passes. By the time his turn comes, Kal’s nerves have left him entirely, and he’s able to give his own report without a hitch. Batman, of course, doesn’t exactly praise him, but he doesn’t ask too many follow-up questions or point out any flaws in Superman’s account, which definitely counts as a win.

Diana said, in the ice cream parlor, that the Justice League didn’t have an established hierarchy as such, and the truth of it is apparent in the comments of various degrees of utility made during reports, and the haphazard way they’ve all settled in Bruce’s space, without regard for who sits where except each of their preferences. There is, however, very clear leadership in place, and that’s why Superman is utterly unsurprised that no one even thinks of protesting once Batman suggests moving on to the second item.

“Which is the League’s headquarters.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to having more space,” Arthur says where he’s reclining against something that doesn’t look like it should be reclined on. “Hopefully somewhere a little less creepy.”

“You’ve got to admit the cave is a little...” John sweeps the space around them with his gaze, the satiny fabric of his uniform shimmering with the movement, before he purses his lips and concludes with: “Gloomy.”

“We’ve already agreed to change headquarters,” Batman says, causing a smirk to bloom on Diana’s face—there is mischief in her eyes when Superman catches her gaze, but she grows serious again as Batman continues. “The question now becomes where we want these headquarters to be.”

One of the screens behind Batman changes with a click, discarding what Superman thinks might have been old reports in favor of a set of blueprints and simulations. The projected building looks old-fashioned, from what Superman knows of Earth architecture, but also quite large and isolated from the rest of Gotham. Smaller windows and annotations hint at plans for private quarters, training facilities, and even something of a restaurant—who would have staffed it, Superman has no clue, but he knows Batman well enough by now to realize there are probably multiple possibilities built in the project.

“The original plan was to use the foundations of Wayne Manor to build the League’s headquarters for all of us, with room to grow—”

“Assuming anyone wants to join,” Arthur snorts, and while the others look at him with various levels of reproach, he clings to the provocation until Superman says:

“I’d like to.”

“That’s our third item,” Batman says, cutting the tangent off before it has a chance to get out of control. “The point is, we—that means you too, Aquaman—agreed it would be best for any headquarters of ours to leave room for several more additions. Building over Wayne Manor would allow for that, as well as future expansion, if needed. It does have a few downsides, however.”

“We’d be based on American soil,” Diana says, as if on cue. “That gives your government leverage against us, should they decide the Justice League needs to be leashed.”

“It’d make Gotham even more vulnerable,” Victor adds. “This city already has the highest concentration of megalomaniacs with weird gimmicks the world over—and that’s not poetic license. We settle in on Wayne property, the wrong kind of people are bound to hear about it someday, and then what? We got lucky with Steppenwolf, but I’m not too crazy about hoping the next guy will be that stupid.”

“Precisely,” Batman says with a terse nod. “Not to mention building headquarters on my private property makes the League legally and financially vulnerable should anything happen to me.”

“Enter: Superman.” John grins, winking in Superman’s direction. “Our good prince in primary-colored armor.”

Superman acknowledges the joke, but doesn’t respond to it one way or another, well aware that now is not the moment for it...and not entirely sure he finds it funny, besides. Behind Batman, the screen changes again to a picture of Kal’s ship, a staggering mass of dark greens on the black backdrop of space, sunlight barely reflecting off the material. It’s strange to see it from this angle. It’s inspired by wildlife, as are the vast majority of El’s—of Krypton’s—designs, and from what Superman has learned he suspects the Justice League members are also thinking of whales when they look at it. Still, from the outside—it never did feel that massive from the inside. Not even when he first stumbled upon it as a teen. Now, silhouetted against Earth’s golden sun, it has taken on an otherworldly sheen, a mysticism brimming with potential that makes Superman shiver.

“There are several points in favor of this project,” Batman begins. “First of all, it would address our concerns about the repercussions of the Justice League’s presence on geopolitical relationships—”

“Displace them, you mean?”

Superman is not the type of man to squirm under surprised gazes, but he does experience a very Kal-like shiver when the others turn to him. He does manage to keep his cool, though, and keep his voice in the lower register he picked for that persona as he explains:

“The ship is still well within Earth’s space territory, so that shouldn’t be a problem. But do you really think knowing the Justice League is hovering over them won’t catch the attention of some other governments? It doesn’t seem likely that China or North Korea will be very enthusiastic about this initiative.”

“He’s got a point,” Arthur says. “And that’s without even talking about other so-called local government.”

“Green Lantern archives corroborate J’onn’s story,” John interjects from his seat. “If there’s still life left on Mars, the Corps doesn’t know about it.”

“Regardless,” Batman says with a slight nod in John’s direction, “we’re going to have to start thinking about what to tell the press if and when they find out about the two literal aliens working with us. That’ll be a point for another meeting, however. Right now, we’re discussing our headquarters. Political problems aside—and I think we can all agree there will be plenty, regardless of where we settle down—that kind of vantage point would bring tremendous advantage to the League.”

“And how do we get people to and from your little watchtower?” Victor says, slapping Barry’s hand away from his pocket and what turns out to be a packet of sweets. “I might be able to go to space, assuming my circuits don’t freeze, but the rest of you are kind of stuck here.”

“I’m pretty sure J’onn mentioned something about teleportation,” John offers, pulling his phone out of Rao knows where, presumably to check on previous notes. “I could ask him about it during his next Settler’s appointment—it’s due next week, anyway. Speaking of,” he adds, turning to Kal, “you and I need to have a chat, and soon.”

Kal blushes. It doesn’t take as long as he’d feared to explain his situation to the League—they might never have moved from one planet to the other, but they’re all familiar with the concept of immigration, and since John Stewart is the only known Green Lantern of Earth, it’s obvious he’ll be the one to supervise Kal’s settlement project.

“You know,” John tells Barry when he asks about it, “keeping track of where he settles down, what name he uses in his day-to-day life. That sort of thing.”

Oh, Rao. The name thing. Kal had completely forgotten about that. And this isn’t like Superman, either—he can’t just toss it to the press and call it a day, if only because he has less than no desire for the press to know who he is out of costume...although of course, the whole thing would probably be much simpler if he had any idea what sort of name he’d like in the first place, but—

“That’s not the point,” Batman says. “What we’re here to discuss is—”

“It’s to know if we want the headquarters to be your house or this—what did Victor call it? The watchtower,” Arthur interrupts, voice booming with boredom loudly enough that the one glass wall of the room shakes with it. “Personally I’d rather sleep on a cactus than on your bed, so I’m in favor.”

“I mean, the idea of living in your manor’s cool and all,” Barry tells Batman with a slightly apologetic grimace, “but you can’t beat a space station. I’m in, too.”

“We’re not voting today,” Batman grits out—Superman hears the leather of his glove creak as his fist tightens on his lap. “We’re assessing—"

“I think you’ll have a better chance just sending a report over to the team,” Wonder Woman mutters while Barry tries to engage Victor in a debate over whether Superman’s ship has the potential to be as cool as the Enterprise.

“I’ll do that,” Batman replies, jaw still tight enough to chew glass. “In the meantime, our third item?”

“What is it?” John asks, clearly trying to maintain a minimum of professionalism while Superman attempts to stare Barry into behaving himself a little better.

“The Superman’s relationship with the Justice League.”

Superman really, really doesn’t blush—but the part of him that’s Kal does, and it takes him several seconds to get his face back under some semblance of control when both Barry and Diana pronounce themselves in favor of him joining. Arthur and Victor are mostly acting indifferent, and John says something about papers and regulations, but at least no one outright objects to the idea. No one, that is, until Batman says:

“You’re all assuming we’ll be offering him a position. We haven’t decided that yet.”

Superman stares, flabbergasted, while at least two of the other League members protest on his behalf. Someone says something about the advantages of having one more flying person on the team, but the rush of blood in Superman’s ears drowns the words out—and he’s fairly sure Batman is in the middle of a very, very rational explanation when he asks:

“Why?”

There must be more strain in his tone than he meant to leave there, because the assembly instantly falls silent, eyes turning to him with something that looks a lot like apprehension on his behalf hovering around the edges. Batman, if at all possible, straightens even further.

“You’re too green.”

“I’ve been in this sort of business for eight years,” Superman replies, and he’s entirely positive he doesn’t imagine the way Barry gasps at the rebuke.

“You don’t know anything about Earth—”

“You didn’t know anything about El when you decided to investigate the Melokariel Proposition,” Superman points out while Barry—or Flash, or both of him—makes a frighteningly high-pitched noise.

“I knew what I was doing,” Batman grits out, though it’s difficult to say whether the change in his voice is due to frustration or sheer disbelief that anyone—let alone Kal—would dare to dismiss two of his arguments in a row.

“Well, so do I,” Superman replies, turning toward Bruce as the world narrows down to their conversation. “You can quiz me if you’d like—I’ve spent the last week learning about first response efforts and human anatomy. I’ve learned Spanish—”

“In a week?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impo—” Batman grunts, quite obviously frustrated.

In the microsecond he takes to pinch at the bridge of his nose Superman hears Aquaman snort and recline further into his seat.

“Look, that’s not the point,” Batman says after a brief pause. “The point is, you’re rash, impulsive, and untrained—”

“You trained me yourself!”

“We have no idea how far your strength goes!” Batman counters, voice rising to match Superman’s volume. “You keep taking unnecessary risks—”

“We’ve talked about that robbery, Batman,” Superman all but groans, a small part of him proud that he didn’t resort to calling the man by his first name. “It was neither a risk—”

“They shot you in the face!” Batman shouts. “You could have died!”

“I accidentally wrecked a tractor by standing behind it!” Superman shouts back, rising to his feet as soon as Batman does, too incensed to worry about propriety, or strength, or anything that isn’t the sun-hot burn of irritation in his veins. “And even if it had really been a risk, which we both know it wasn’t—that man would have died! Putting myself in that bullet's path might have been many things, but it was not unnecessary!”

“No one would have blamed you for taking some time to assess the situation!”

“I would have!” Superman allows himself three harsh, heaving breaths, before he repeats: “I would have.”

The silence around him is absolute, as if even Bruce’s machines had felt the tension in the air and decided to make themselves even more discreet than they already were. Wonder Woman is looking at them in a way Superman can’t quantify as anything but skeptical, and the other four are mostly just gaping at the sight—but in all honesty, at this point both Superman and Kal are too incensed to care.

“Meeting adjourned,” Batman says at last, more tense than Kal has ever seen him. The rest of the League hesitates for just a second, until Batman barks: “Everyone out.”

Wonder Woman doesn’t look like she’s putting particular haste into leaving, but she’s the only one. Barry barely mumbles something about seeing the rest of them next time before leaving in a flash, Victor hot on his heels. John floats out with reasonably dignified haste, and Diana throws a Look at Bruce before she walks out of the room, the blue car’s engines roaring to life just as she reaches the threshold.

“That meant you, too,” Batman says, pushing Superman to snort, throat still tight with the fight.

“Yes, I gathered that. I just wanted to say—you’re the one who invited me here. If you didn’t want me around, you could just have said so.”

He should—it feels like he should be able to pursue the conversation in a calmer, more rational manner. Like he shouldn’t let the burn in his throat and in his cheeks get the better of him...but Batman doesn’t answer—Bruce doesn’t answer—and Kal deflates out of Superman’s persona, eyes burning as he turns on his heel and flies away like a coward.

He hides away in the settlement ship afterwards. The cold there is too intense for anyone on the team to bear—except maybe Diana but why would she come look for him here in the middle of the Arctic?—and even if it weren’t the security system won’t let them in until its commander, which is Superman, orders it to. It’s the perfect place to be left alone with his thoughts, to have time to think things through...and, Kal realizes, the perfect place to be miserable.

It doesn’t start out that way—the distance is a great idea at first, and the relative silence of the Arctic makes for a helpful dampener for the noises of the rest of the world. In time, Kal is sure, he’ll come to relish the opportunity for some quiet. Right now, though, on the heel of Batman’s not-so-subtle rejection, the mix of Federal and Ulian alphabets on the command consoles and walls turns from comforting to a painful reminder of Kal’s many, many inadequacies. In the end, he all but flees the ship and decides to run around the world for a while.

He goes from one country to another, plucking people out of disaster zones after natural catastrophes, hurricanes after floods after earthquakes, until his head buzzes with it. Eventually, though, the rush of purpose, the heady sense of accomplishment, fades away. There’s no room for Kal’s struggles when Superman is busy proving to the planet that he’s here to help and here to stay. There’s no room for Kal’s anger when Superman has to be mild, even-tempered, unthreatening in every possible way until everyone forgets he could blow them to bits with something as simple as a sneeze. To an extent, Superman’s calm demeanor, his self-assurance bleed into Kal enough that he can almost fool himself into thinking he’s over the whole thing until, three days in, he realizes Superman is on his way to turning just as rote and automatic as Shadow was, in his last few days.

The realization brings him up short—jerks him out of a feeling that’s as terrifying as it is familiar—and Kal has to spend a long time ranting about the whole ordeal to Martha before he’s calmed down enough to stop panicking. He’s destroyed a full tub of ice cream by then, something he tries to apologize for until Martha tells him not to sweat it.

“You know I’m happy to help, sweetheart,” she says with a shrug when Kal looks at her with intense puzzlement. “And besides, I’ve got to admit there’s something a little funny about someone with your build complaining about a stubborn coworker with his mouth full of French vanilla.”

Kal tries to resist glancing at Martha’s helping of black cherry ice cream, but she tuts at him with an exaggerated grin, clutching the carton closer to her chest before she warns:

“Don’t even think about it, young man. I have a spoon and I’ll smack you with it if I have to.”

Kal could steal the entire thing from her if he wanted to, of course. He could rob Martha blind and be out of reach within minutes, if he really put his mind to it. But the very thought makes him snort, and he concedes the point—and any claim on the black cherry—with raised hands and a rueful grin. The exchange does have the benefit of lightening his heart, though, and Kal’s next sigh is more contented than anything else as he lies back against the couch, careful not to press too hard against it. He’s not...it’d be a lie, to say that he’s forgotten all about Bruce’s attitude two days ago—or that he hasn’t noticed there’s been nothing but radio silence between them since—but it’s grown a little lighter all the same, and Kal is ready to appreciate that.

“It’s still bothering you, isn’t it?” Martha says, after a bit.

Kal groans and lets his head fall backward.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Martha, fully aware that he sounds more sulky than genuinely pained by his own attitude. “I just can’t get it out of my head—he was so—urgh. Sorry.”

“I’d tell you to stop apologizing,” Martha says, the hint of a chuckle in her voice, “but I doubt it’d do much good...What if I told you I’ve got the perfect distraction instead?”

Kal lifts his head back up at the words, looking at Martha with undisguised curiosity only to find her sporting a grin that wouldn’t be out of place on—what’s the phrase again? Oh, right. The canary that got the cat. No, wait—the cat that got the canary. That sounds more sensible. Either way, Martha looks a little proud of herself, like she’s about to pull the best prank the world has ever seen on Kal; and it’s only trust that she won’t do anything to hurt him that keeps him from making his excuses and retreating to his bedroom.

He obeys Martha’s gesture to follow her instead, tailing her outside and across the yard to the storehouse, inside, and then up an old wooden ladder to an empty hayloft. The walls of it are raw, bits of straw lying discarded on the floor among bird droppings and something that looks an awful lot like a dead mouse in the dim light of the evening. Kal follows the slant of the roof from a set of wide doors to the left-hand wall, and then down to a pile of brand-new cans of paint.

“I wanted to wait for a special occasion,” Martha says when Kal looks at her in incomprehension, “but I figure it’ll do the most good now.”

“Uh, Martha, I…I’m not sure I understand….”

Even in the fading light it’s easy for Kal to see how Martha’s face grows more serious, her smile just a little smaller, and yet...more important, somehow, at the same time.

“Look, I know this arrangement was supposed to be temporary,” she says after taking a deep breath in, “and I’ll understand completely if and when you want to move somewhere else, but I thought—I wanted to make it clear that I want you to have a place on this farm and in my life. Permanently.”

“What?” Kal asks, take aback. “But the hay—”

“Most of it is stored above the barn already,” Martha says with a dismissive shrug, “and a lot of the rest I just hand over to Mr. Abernathy because he helps with the harvest. I’ll figure something out for what’s left—or you can help me build a new shed, if you’d like. Either way...I figured this would be a better use of the space. If you’re interested, that is.”

Kal tries hard to keep the tears that well up in his eyes from falling onto Martha’s shoulder when he presses her into a shuddering hug. The fact that his own shoulder feels damp, however, means he doesn’t really mind too much when he fails.

Kal spends the next day in the hayloft, in between Superman’s interventions, one ear on the radio and Kryo’s alerts from the Ship as he scrubs the walls and floor squeaky clean, sanding them only slightly over human speed. He’s mostly done with the preparation work by dinnertime, and laughs himself silly as Martha recounts the work she and Jonathan had to put in on the farm after a particularly nasty storm.

“I’m very glad I was forced to sleep by an open oven door in my twenties rather than later in life, let me tell you,” she says, and Kal snorts at the mental image—a disheveled all-but-newlywed Jonathan with his clothes covered in paint and wood shavings, collapsing on the floor next to his exhausted veterinarian of a wife, huddled in front of a working oven in the last dregs of autumn.

The picture is as heartwarming as it could be distressing, the biting cold and fear of failing to finish the repairs before winter long since worn away from the memory—and Kal smiles at his hands, clutched around a mug on the table. Martha chuckles, too, emptying the last of her hot cocoa with a satisfied smile before she says:

“He’d have liked you as much as I do, you know. I’ve got absolutely no doubt about that.”

Kal looks down at his cup again, heat creeping up his neck and into his chest, sweeter than anything as it spreads into his limbs and makes him feel almost as invulnerable as he actually is. I’m proud to call you family, Martha said all those days back, and to hear—for her to think—Kal swallows. It isn’t—it won’t ever be the same as hearing this from his birth parents. To hear Jor-El or Lara Lor-Van say anything even close to that—he breathes in deep. Just the thought of it aches, the pain barely dulled by a lifetime of training; and not just because it’s impossible, either. There is too much pain there, too much unanswered need and longing for an about-face not to cut deeper than Kal cares to find out.

Martha’s words, her easy acceptance, the unconditional nature of her affection and of her care—of her love, even—won’t ever be the same as receiving such a sentiment from anyone in the El family, but it doesn’t hurt the way that would. It doesn’t—of course, it can’t exist without taking Kal’s entire history into account...but the pain there feels more like healing than an infection, a necessary step on the path of recovery. Kal sighs with it, one hand coming up to rest on his chest before he realizes it, and Martha frowns again.

“Are you all right?” she asks. “Should I not have—”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Kal hurries to reassure her. “It’s just—there’s something I’d like to discuss with you, I think. In the future. I just—I need to give it a little more thought before I can really...share it, so to speak.”

“Oh,” Martha answers, clearly trying to rein her wariness in, “of course. I understand.”

“Thank you, Martha.”

It takes a bit of time before they can go back to the easygoing mood of their early evening, but Martha’s yellow kitchen—with its pale chairs and the chips in the wooden cupboards and the homemade pottery dishes drying on the rack next to the sink—has become such a place of freedom to Kal, of safety, that he doesn’t even realize he could fear failing to recover the mood until they’ve already done it.

Four days after his disastrous first encounter with the Justice League, Kal decides to swallow his pride and be the bigger caped crusader in this ridiculous feud with Bruce. Well, technically he did sort of come by that decision on day three, calling Bruce in the middle of sanding the hayloft’s loading doors. He didn’t really commit to it, however, and after a few calls had gone to voicemail—to his immense relief—he gave up and decided to wait more.

This time, though, he’s truly decided to make things right; so, after Bruce has ignored four more phone calls and Kal has moved Martha’s old but serviceable pull-out couch out of the living room—“I’ve been looking for an excuse to change it for ages, and Bruce saved me the money for a replacement tractor, so just take the damn thing off my hands, please"—and into his new spot on the farm, he turns the suit back into Superman’s costume and flies towards Gotham City.

He makes a pass over Blüdhaven on his way in. It isn’t, strictly speaking, on the way, but night is falling over there, and spending the past four days thinking about little else but Batman gave Kal more than enough time and reason to wonder about the mysterious son who exiled himself here. He doesn’t intrude—wouldn’t know how to introduce himself even if he wanted to—but he does take a look at the city. It doesn’t seem that different from Gotham, similar signs of poverty and political neglect marring the streets despite what Kal has seen described as tremendous efforts on many people’s parts to help the citizens make better lives for themselves. It seems almost too on-the-nose a project to take up for Batman’s son, but then who’s Kal to judge? He certainly can’t claim to have only picked easy projects in the past.

He leaves the city behind, eventually, promising himself to come back, and heads to Batman’s cave. It’s a relief not to have to dodge any alarms that he can detect, especially when the more paranoid part of his brain had become convinced he might be facing lethally dissuasive measures upon his return. It is a surprise, however, to fly and in and run into Wonder Woman as she all but stalks out of Batman’s main operations room with an impressive scowl on her face.

It melts away when she sees Superman standing there, though, and the force of her smile is almost enough to stun as she says:

“There you are! I’ve been trying to reach you, but you’re very good at being elusive, Superman.”

“I apologize,” Superman tells her with a bow of his head. “I’m afraid I got sort of...caught up. In various matters.”

“’Various’ wouldn’t be my first choice of word to describe Batman,” Wonder Woman says with a wink, “but I suppose to each their own.”

“I suppose so,” Superman concedes. Then, reluctant to leave the truth unacknowledged: “he made some good points, you know. Mostly good points, in fact. I guess I just sort of...overreacted, a little bit.”

“Well,” Wonder Woman says with a small smile and a shrug, “as long as you’ve made your peace with it.”

Superman has a feeling the Cave may sound like he did the very opposite of that in the next few minutes, but he nods anyway, unwilling to drag things out. Diana replaces Wonder Woman, then, grin tipping further into mischief, a spark of almost childish glee blinking to life in her eyes as she says:

“Once you’re done, the others and I would like to meet you again—properly, this time. If you don’t mind.”

“You mean—as civilians?”

Kal flinches when his hesitation makes Diana blink, but he doesn’t let it push him into pretending he’s not feeling slightly off-kilter, even if it means Diana’s smile is slow to come back.

“Yes,” she says, “as civilians. Would that be all right with you?”

“Oh...sure,” Superman says, the role pushing some of Kal’s hesitation out of his posture. “That’d be great. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Well, then, do let us know when you're done here and I’ll send you my location.”

Smiling again, Wonder Woman offers Superman a small rectangle of thick, embossed paper introducing her as “Diana Prince, head curator,” with the British Museum’s logo in the upper right corner. Two phone numbers line up at the bottom, and Diana taps the second one, which, Superman guesses, must be a mobile phone. Nothing he’s seen so far makes him think this could be a personal number, but it still feels nice to have this tiny piece of connection to her, one that doesn’t go through Batman, or Bruce. It isn’t much, of course, and it isn’t like Superman—let alone Kal—resents Bruce’s presence or anything of the sort. It’s just—it’s nice to feel like he’s putting down roots, is all.

“I will,” Superman says, and waves goodbye as Diana floats out of the cave and into the early afternoon sun.

Then, breathing in, he makes his way through the cave and up the stairs. He walks there, unwilling to risk upsetting Bruce by flying, and can’t help but pause in front of the glass case where the suit looms over the rest of the room. It’s almost menacing in its emptiness, the gloves gripped tight around a discarded weapon—but Kal remembers who used to wear this, now. Tries to imagine what it would have been like, for him to lose Kara. What it would have felt like, looking at the clothes she died in—for that is exactly what these are, the yellow words leave no doubt about that—and the mere thought of it burns at the corners of his eyes. Not just the familiar salt-sting of tears, but the other heat, too, the one that pressed at the backs of his eyes after the tractor, and a handful of time since, after his argument with Bruce.

Kal swallows it down, turns to the main den and its Krypton-like red light, and sighs as he knocks on the glass door.

“I ate one of them,” Bruce says, clearly distracted by something under his microscope, “so spare me the lecture, please.”

“I’m fairly sure Alfred prepares two sandwiches because one isn’t enough,” Kal retorts with what he hopes is a passable effort at keeping his voice even. Ish.

Besides, even slightly wilted, the sandwich on the forgotten tray looks delicious, and not saying something in favor of eating it would feel almost as bad as snubbing the food a second time. It might be a bias, but it isn’t one Kal cares to correct—and if Bruce’s expression is anything to go by, not one Bruce cares to dispute, either.

“What are you doing here?” he asks instead, sounding more wary than actually sullen.

“I...I wanted to talk to you about the, uh—the meeting. The other day.”

Scowling again, Bruce turns back to his microscope, shoulders tightening with a shift of muscles that's actually audible to Kal. Kal blinks himself back inside his body, the surprise of the sound all the more unwelcome for how rare these things have become, and he closes his eyes against the abrupt burn in them. He hasn’t found out what that sensation is leading up to, yet, and he’s got no desire to get on with that part of his evolution, let alone within a small enclosed space where all he wants to look at is Bruce.

“I’d think you made your stance very clear,” Bruce says, tone flirting with the edge of a mutter, as if he were trying to make himself sound more...professional than he really feels like being. It brings a smile to Kal’s mouth as he answers:

“I did. So did you. But I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m wondering whether maybe we didn’t get it all wrong anyway.”

“I don’t get things wrong,” Bruce protests, head coming up and away from the microscope, the white lenses of the cowl retracted to make observation possible.

Other than that and his general demeanor, Bruce is in full Batman regalia—almost ready for a meeting. Part of Kal wants to rise to the same level—keep the suit and the solid voice and the straight shoulders on—but the last time he did that turned out to be...well, he doesn’t want to use the word ‘disaster’, but doesn’t quite find himself able to come up with an adequate alternative. So, ignoring the instinctive urge to make himself bigger than he is and let Superman handle things for a while, he turns the suit back into jeans and a plaid shirt, a white t-shirt peeking through the open lapels. He keeps his posture natural, without straightening his spine but without slipping into the excessive slouch he’s been practicing either. Nothing but Kal, wrapped in all his shortcomings and surprisingly irritable temper.

“Maybe you don’t,” he tells Bruce, “but you don’t always see everything either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying,” Kal replies with a shrug, struggling to keep his arms uncrossed and shoving his hands in his pockets instead. “You didn’t realize I was Shadow until I took the helmet off.”

Bruce snorts at that, which, considering the exact circumstances of Shadow’s unmasking, Kal can understand, however begrudgingly. The point, however, was to remind Bruce of his own potential for failure, and that’s been accomplished, so Kal doesn’t dwell on it. What he says instead is:

“I don’t always see everything, either.”

What gave him away, Kal will probably never find out. Possibly nothing. He can’t have been the first to notice the memorial in the middle of the cave, although now that he thinks of it he might well be the first to have actually hinted at it out loud. Alfred, after all, has been in Bruce’s service since Bruce was a boy, and would have no need to ask about what happened, let alone figure out a way to let Bruce know he knew. None of that, of course, tempers the glare Bruce fixes him with, and so there’s nothing for it but breathe in deep, and hope for Bruce’s mercy when he says:

“I know what the suit means. Some of it.”

It’s remarkable, really, what super senses allow you to pick up on. The Kal that lived on Krypton would never have realized just how deeply tense Bruce grows at the words.

“Get out,” he growls, but this time Kal forces himself to stand his ground.

“No.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but no. We’ve been putting off this conversation long enough.”

“I haven’t been putting anything off,” Bruce replies, slipping around Kal to get to his computer and busy himself with...something, presumably. “There’s nothing to say here. You’re not ready to join the League—”

“Actually,” Kal says, raising his eyes to the ceiling in the vain hope that Rao will find and help him even here, “I think you’re the one who’s not ready.”

Bruce reacts, perhaps a little predictably, like Kal just stabbed him in the back and then insulted his House, which is to say that he whips around and stares at him with what, on Bruce, is practically a slack jaw. Sticking to English for this conversation was definitely a good idea, then, because this has to be the most intense display of emotion Kal has seen on Bruce’s face since the night they left Krypton and—and then Bruce slams him into the wall.

It isn’t painful, of course—nothing really is, these days—and it only worked because Kal wasn’t actually expecting it, but the sheer rage on Bruce’s face stops him from saying as much. He did come here to make things better, after all, and if that requires gritting his teeth through a number of uncomfortable moments, then so be it.

“What,” and Batman’s growl is rumbling out with no small amount of threat in it, “is that supposed to mean?”

“You heard me,” Kal repeats, forcing himself to keep his voice as level as possible without dipping into Superman’s register. “I think you’re not ready for me to join the Justice League.”

“How dare you—”

“I’m not like him.”

Batman—Bruce—stops again, gaping, hands still caught in the collar of Kal’s shirt as his mouth opens and closes on empty air. Kal doesn’t need to actually listen to his heartbeat to guess it’s probably going for a speed prize right about now, and so he continues instead, softening his voice:

“I don’t know what happened to him, exactly. Only that he was your son, and what the armor tells me.”

“Stop,” Bruce manages, voice as rough as broken glass.

“I’m sure he was as well-trained as it was possible to be—”

“Shut up—”

“I’m not human, Bruce.”

“Shut up— ”

“I can’t be killed.”

“ Shut up! ” Bruce shouts, pushing himself away from Kal with enough force to send himself stumbling into his super computer. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! You don’t know what—he was—don’t you dare—”

“Bruce,” Kal tries raising his hands in appeasement, and freezes when Bruce physically recoils from him. “I wasn’t—I’m not trying to insult him, and I know it hurts—”

“You know nothing about J—you know nothing about him,” Bruce spits, somewhere on the edge of a scream, the beating of his heart a painful sound at the back of Kal’s hearing. “You don’t even know what it’s like to have a family!”

The last word explodes into the shout Bruce was clearly struggling against, clattering against the walls of the room like a gunshot. It leaves the same sort of silence behind it, too shocking to even remember there is a world outside of stillness, and Kal almost—almost—fails to notice the soft padding of Alfred’s footsteps on the other side of the door, the sharpness of his inhale.

What he couldn’t miss, even if he wanted to, is the way Bruce tenses and then crumbles under all his armors, sagging down against his desk and then onto the floor, breathing harsh and heavy, the tremors in his hands so fine it takes Kal’s super senses to see them. Kal stands there for a second, ignoring Alfred entirely, until he finally gathers the courage to take the few steps that separate him from Bruce, kneel, and allow a hand to hover close to Bruce's knee.

“You’re right, I barely know what it’s like to have a family,” he says—the sound Bruce makes then is...Kal can’t tell if it’s a protest, or pain, or some mixture of the two, but the rawness of it makes him wince in sympathy. His chest aches. “I don’t—you know what my life was like. I’ve only ever had Kara, and things with her were...complicated.”

Not for lack of love so much as lack of understanding. Caring about someone in a way that doesn’t suit them sometimes leaves scars just as deep as not caring would; that much, Kal knows.

“I’m learning, though. I’ve got Martha now,” he says, unexpectedly delighted by how much he means it. “Martha...and you.”

This time, the sound that rises from Bruce’s throat is definitely wounded. Kal’s hand crosses the gap towards Bruce’s knee and squeezes it, perhaps a shade too far on the strength scale. Bruce doesn’t protest, though. Doesn’t react at all, really, except for the way his head bows further, his hands retreating towards his chest.

“I don’t know—I have no idea how you feel about him. But I do know how I felt at the thought of Martha getting hurt because of me.”

“That,” Bruce manages from the confines of his knees, “that’s not—I don’t—”

“All right,” Kal concedes readily, unwilling to let this scene go on longer than absolutely necessary, “you don’t. But just in case you did—I’m invulnerable, Bruce. I can send over the data from the suit and the settlement ship if you want. I don’t think even a bomb could hurt me now, and my muscles aren’t anywhere close to being done mutating.”

“I’m not—”

“Fine, you’re not,” Kal cuts in, unable to restrain his irritation in the face of Bruce’s shaken stubbornness. “Well, in that case, you’re going to have to get over yourself, Batman. I want to help people, and that’s what I’m going to do, with or without your blessing...and you won’t be able to say I’m too green forever.”

Kal hesitates, but he does give Bruce’s knee a last squeeze before he straightens up. He’s not quite sure Bruce really does tell him to get out, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take a genius, after all, to realize this conversation—inasmuch as it can be called that—has been more than hard on Bruce’s nerves, and Kal has no desire to add to that. Bruce’s answer will come when he’s ready for it. In the meantime, leaving him in peace so he can lick his wounds and sort himself out is the least Kal can do.

He leaves the room with an apologetic grimace for Alfred, who is going to have to deal with this particular mess through no fault of his own, and flies out of the Cave before his suit is even done rearranging into Superman’s uniform. From there, it’s only the work of a moment to pick his phone up and send a text to Diana:

Do you think we could push the get-together back until tomorrow?

He’s expecting to get a text back, and startles when the suit alerts him to a phone call instead.

“Diana?” he asks, slowing down as he picks up. “Is something wrong? Does tomorrow not work for you?”

“Tomorrow is fine,” Diana replies, dismissive. “I’m just concerned about the reasons behind the rain check.”

Kal files the new expression away for later use, holds onto a sigh, and says, “It’s just...I realized something. When I talked to Bruce. And now—there’s just something I need to do, and I can’t—I don’t want to postpone it.”

“Fine,” Diana replies, a thin layer of puzzlement still in her voice. “I’ll let everyone know, then.”

Superman hums into the receiver, glad to have this sorted out, and flies on toward Kansas.

Kal comes down a few minutes later, wincing when he botches the landing and takes a large chunk of gravel out of Martha’s driveway. He’ll have to refill the pothole as soon as he’s done, but right now the problem is simply not important enough to stop him, and after a quick check, he strides into the house, half determined and three-quarters terrified this is going to go terribly wrong. Martha is in the middle of a phone call when he enters the kitchen, washing tomatoes while she arranges the next meeting with her D&D group—she’s tried to take Kal with her a couple of times, but they didn’t have any sort of cover story ready, let alone a name to give people, so after a couple of missed sessions, Kal just insisted he’d survive one night alone per week. So Kal busies himself by getting two mugs out and reheating some coffee in the microwave.

Martha doesn’t realize he’s there until he actually starts the machine, and when she does she takes one look at Kal’s face and says, “Mary-Beth, I’m going to have to call you back, I’ve got a call I don’t want to miss coming in.”

Kal tries to wave her away, signal that he can wait, but in less than a minute Mary-Beth has made her goodbyes and Martha is setting the phone down, taking a seat in front of Kal at the kitchen table, and saying:

“All right, what’s wrong? How did it go with Bruce?”

“It...went,” Kal says with a grimace. “I said what I had to say and he—I knew it was going to be a painful conversation—well, a painful moment—but that. Um. It, uh—it went. Okay. Ish. I think.”

“Oh, Kal,” Martha says in a sympathetic tone, one hand coming up to rest on his wrist, “I’m sure Bruce will come around. I know he’s stubborn, but—”

“Oh, I’m stubborn too,” Kal says with a barely restrained snort. “One of the many things I've learned about myself here. I’m sure we’ll work this out somehow. It’s—that’s not what I came here to talk about.”

Martha straightens in her chair with a little surprised ‘oh’, undoubtedly puzzled by the sudden formality in Kal’s voice, but doesn’t say anything further. She gives Kal an encouraging nod instead, and he takes a deep, bracing breath before he says:

“This is something—I’ve been...coming to this for a while, I think. But it didn’t quite—I hadn’t really put my finger on it until today. See, Bruce and I, we talked about...about family—well, he shouted, but it’s not like I don’t—”

“Kal,” Martha interrupts with a squeeze on his wrist, “big breath, then slow down, please.”

“Oh. Um. Sorry.”

Chuckling at himself, a bit, Kal gives himself time to blink, take another couple of deep breaths, and try again:

“So. Bruce and I talked about family and I—it, uh. Got me thinking. See, I...I haven’t had any contact with my parents since I left Krypton. Haven’t had a proper conversation with them since—wow. Sorry, I, uh—wow.” Wiping at his eyes, Kal manages a chuckle at himself anyway, eyes carefully kept on the tablecloth. “Sorry, I didn’t—it’s touchier than I thought it would be.”

At least, he thinks while Martha quietly passes him a tissue, his voice is still stable for the moment. Mostly stable, at any rate.

“Anyway,” he manages after a while, trying to keep his words...well, understandable, at least, “Kara—my cousin Kara, the one who writes—she’s, uh. I don’t really...have a real relationship to anyone beside her. Back on Krypton, I mean. But then...I had this talk with Bruce, and I—he said I didn’t know what family was, and—”

“He what?” Martha exclaims, shocked enough that her coffee cup almost topples to the ground. Kal catches it, and raises a placating hand:

“No, no, I—it’s fine. He was right, for the—please sit back down. He’s—he wasn’t wrong. But...he wasn’t entirely right, either. Because I realized—as we talked, he and I, I realized that...I’m learning. About family. Thanks to you. What I’m saying is—I consider you family, too.”

Kal chances a glance up when he hears Martha sniffle, and when their eyes meet she makes the kind of choked-off sound Kal has only ever heard from people too profoundly emotional for words. He’s far from done with what he wants to say—hasn’t reached the real crux of the matter, yet—but the sound gives him enough courage to keep looking at Martha as he continues:

“I haven’t—I don’t think I’ve told you this before but...I’m supposed to pick an Earth name. It’s intergalactic law for people who migrate to a planet that hasn’t got proper awareness of the rest of the universe yet. And so—because I consider you like a mother—I was wondering if you’d be willing to, uh...pick it.”

“Clark,” Martha blurts out immediately, the name all but bursting out of her through a sob. “It’s—with Jonathan, before—if we’d conceived a son, we’d have called him Clark.”

Something fierce overtakes him, too strong and too encompassing to be called joy—it rushes through his veins at the speed of light, makes him straighten up and grin and cry at the same time, fills his heart and lungs with warmth and light brighter than the sun. It flows through him like the best, most brilliant tsunami in the history of the universe, makes his palms and armpits tingle with it, and in an instant he’s got Martha gathered in as tight a hug as he can give her without hurting her, sniffing and laughing and sobbing all at once until, finally, he finds just enough breath to say:

“Hi, Ma. I’m Clark.”

“Oh, shoot,” Kal realizes, a few hours later. Or—Clark. He’s still not used to it, still goes giddy with the joy of it, but he’s sure it’ll only grow easier to think of himself that way as time goes by.

He and Ma—and that transition is so much easier than the other one—have cried their fill and had a celebratory dinner; and through all that, it hadn't even occurred to him, not until just now.

“I need to tell Bruce!”

He’s off so fast, after that, that he actually has to turn back around and give Martha a kiss on the cheek and a promise to do the dishes when he comes back, before he’s off again. Less than a few minutes later, he’s flying over Gotham, almost surprised to find the sun still up over the city, and making his way toward Bruce’s cave.

He finds it occupied, of course. Kal—Clark—might have only brushed shoulders with Bruce Wayne, but nothing in those few minutes, let alone the glimpses he’s caught on TV or in the occasional tabloid, has given him any reason to think Bruce would ever consider Bruce Wayne an acceptable person to be in times of crisis...and it isn’t like Clark hasn’t prompted a significant one. So, all in all, it isn’t much of a surprise to find Bruce hard at work under the hood of the Batmobile—“People keep calling it that—I should get it patented.”—despite the late hour. Or, well, late for regular people; it’s probably barely afternoon for Batman.

Batman, who, for better or for worse, doesn’t react when the main doors open to let Clark in, or when he lands next to the car. Or, in fact, when he clears his throat no less than three times, with increasing volume. Clark waits a bit longer, mindful of the very heavy, very solid piece of metal over Bruce’s very human head, before he reaches down, seizes the underside of the car—

“Don’t even think about it.”

Clark tries to bite down on his grin at the sound, but even he realizes he’s not very successful when he speaks next. There’s something heady about causing Batman to break his resolve, after all, and for all his newfound strength Clark is still, for the most part, just a guy.

“Sorry,” he says, not quite managing to sound as sorry as he should. “It seemed kind of necessary.”

Stony silence, only disturbed by the occasional click of tools—some he recognizes, some he doesn’t—answers him, and Clark reminds himself sternly that it’s his fault Bruce doesn’t want to talk to him right now. He does still have to count in his head a for a bit before he trusts himself to say:

“Look...I’m not here to reopen that conversation.” The silence from under the car becomes, if at all possible, gloomier. “I just...I don’t know if you’re aware—you probably are, being you—but I have to pick a human-sounding alias if I want to stay on Earth. Legally speaking.”

Not even a hum.

Clark closes his eyes, and doesn’t let himself feel frustrated or flustered at the result of his own actions. Instead, he tightens his fingers into fists once, twice, and makes himself say: “In my case I was—I think I’ll probably just change it altogether. My name I mean. On my intergalactic papers.”

Bruce’s...whatever a plank on wheels is supposed to be called. It squeaks, at any rate, when Bruce rolls from under the car and fixes Clark with a Look that is, in all honesty, far less somber than it could be.

“I wanted you to know. First.”

Nothing really...changes, in Bruce’s expression. His eyebrows don’t rise, his mouth doesn’t grow softer or tighter or—he doesn't show any of a dozen possible signs of modified attention or reaction to someone the human body is capable of giving without a word. Still, whether it's Clark’s imagination or something else entirely, it’s like the atmosphere of the Cave changes around him. He wouldn’t know how to quantify it exactly—it seems weightier, that much is sure, but other than that...well, other than that, there’s nothing that seems to matter much but the intense hazel of Bruce’s eyes on him.

It seems, eventually, like one of them is going to break the silence—they both open their mouths to do it, in any case—but they never get the chance.

“Ah, Mister El,” Alfred says from where he’s bringing in what must be Bruce’s evening meal. “What a pleasure it is to see you here—you should have called ahead, I would have had something ready for you.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Clark says with a polite smile, “I’m quite all right. And, uh...it’s no longer Kal-El, actually.”

Clark turns back toward Bruce for the next part—can’t fight against the overwhelming sense it makes to do so. Bruce—Bruce Wayne, Batman—of all people, knows the importance of a name. He’s known Kal-El, and Shadow, and Kal, and all three of those men have considered him a dear friend. Their dearest friend, in many respects...and it makes sense for him to be the first person to know, after Martha. It makes sense for Clark’s birth, of sorts, to be witnessed by the very man who made it possible in the first place.

“Hi,” he tells Bruce. “I’m Clark Kent.”

It is, perhaps, a little overdramatic to offer his hand in greeting, like they’ve never met before...but then they are both dedicated to parading around in form-fitting costumes to fight crime, so perhaps overdramatics can be a shared language of theirs, if they let it be. And besides, overdramatic or no—corny or no—Bruce does reach out, clasp Clark’s forearm with strong, greasy fingers and say:

“Bruce.”

Clark meets Diana in the Alps, in the sort of landscape that would almost look right at home in El if you could just paint it with a red overlay. The mountains here are shorter, of course: humans don’t have the same tools krytons do when it comes to digging into the earth, let alone setting a second major tectonic event in motion. What the region lacks in height, though, it more than makes up for in palette, and Clark takes a moment to drink in the view before he actually touches down on a wooden deck.

The restaurant, which Diana assures Clark would be much more populated if it were winter, oversees a series of long slopes, one or two with jagged rocks strewn in the middle: rivers of green rushing downwards, the thin blue ribbon of a river cutting through them in the distance. Pushing further, Clark spots many kinds of wildlife, from mammals to insects, and a variety of flowers just as wild and hardy-looking as the vegetation of El was.

“Looks great, right?” Flash—well, no, Barry: he’s in the plaid jacket again—says behind him.

“It does.”

Grinning, Barry motions for Clark to follow him, and they walk across the large deck to a picnic table close to the southern guardrail where John, Victor, Arthur and a man Clark has never met have joined Diana around...hot cocoas, going by the smell. They’re several minutes deep into a heated debate about whether or not certain places count as mountains—the unknown man is arguing, extremely soberly, that Earth can’t even pretend to play in the same category, and the table erupts in protests—Arthur, specifically, yells something about things depending on where you count from—just before Diana abandons her posture of distinguished remove only to say, “Perhaps we could ask Superman to referee. Being the only one of us from outside the solar system should make him an impartial enough observer.”

“Well,” Clark says with a shrug and what he hopes is a suitably apologetic grimace, “I don’t know about the mountains on Mars, but where I’m from, we call that a hill.”

“Don’t let the French hear you say that,” Victor all but snorts. “They’ll get upset.”

“The French get upset too easily, sometimes,” Diana says, but there’s no bite to it, and a moment later she tempers her words further: “But they do know how to cook, so there is that.”

Clark gives a polite nod along with the rest of the table, and peers at the drinks menu with more than a little curiosity. Barry has time to instruct him not to worry about price—“Diana usually pays when we enter her income bracket.”—before Clark settles on another hot cocoa despite the balmy weather, and a dessert consisting entirely of egg whites in custard.

“I imagine Bruce helps, when he comes along,” he half asks the table once the waiter has gone with his order.

He’s not prepared for Arthur’s explosive laughter, or for John to snort into his coffee. The stranger doesn’t smile, but he does tilt his head, just a little, and says, “It seems you have a rather different experience of him than we do.”

“That’s...quite likely, I guess,” Clark says. Can’t expect Batman to treat him the same way as people he’s been colleagues and friends with for years. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where I’ve left my manners, I’m K—I mean. Clark. I’m Clark. Sorry it’s—new. Haven’t done the paperwork yet.”

“Oh, that’s why it sounds so human,” Barry says while John pulls out his phone to make a note of it. “I was wondering if we’d get another J’onn.”

The stranger inclines his head towards Clark again, and a diffuse sense of ‘well met’ greets Clark's thoughts. On autopilot, Clark reaches for the pleasant sense of camaraderie he’s carried as emotional background noise since he set foot on the deck and draws it just a little tighter around his mind, mingled with his own desire to make the acquaintance a pleasant one, and almost doesn’t realize what he’s doing until J’onn’s eyebrows tighten, just a little.

“Sorry,” Clark says, causing eyebrows to draw up around them, “force of habit.”

“What’s force of habit?” John asks. Diana squints:

“Cutting J'onn out of his thoughts, I’d assume.”

“Sounds fishy,” Arthur remarks, and Clark decides that’s his cue to explain before someone—oddly enough, his bet would go to Victor rather than Barry—decides to pick up on the humor of that word in Aquaman’s mouth:

“I used to—uh. Operate outside the law, back on Krypton,” Clark explains. “My family didn’t receive off-planet guests all that often, but I encountered enough of them—and enough of them were—what’s the word for that?”

“Telepathic,” John supplies.

“Right. Enough of them were telepathic that concealing what I was thinking about became a reflex.”

Not, Clark confesses in the semi-privacy of his head, that I particularly intend to lose it. I highly doubt you’re the last telepath I'll encounter, and they can’t all have good intentions.

That does sound quite reasonable, J'onn answers. And if anything, you feel far less defensive about it than most of the others did.

No explicit thought or image passes between them, but for a short second a distinct Batness hovers in their connection, and Clark doesn’t really feel like struggling against the grin blooming on his face.

“Great,” Arthur sighs, sounding exceedingly—but not falsely—put upon. “I guess we’re going to have to get used to you talking over our heads, then.”

“Not at all!” Clark promises. “At least, it’s not my intention. I mean...it would be rude, for a start.”

“Yeah, not even Batman tries to do that,” John remarks as he stirs the remnants of his cocoa. “And besides, you’re assuming that J'onn would be okay with that kind of behavior, which is rude.”

“Aquaman doesn’t know me as well as you do,” J'onn points out, but John snorts and shakes his head.

“We’ve worked with you enough for him to realize that. Just because B—Bruce is being a stick in the mud about having new people join in—”

“Oh, don’t be a hypocrite,” Arthur says—Barry and Victor erupt into an eerily synchronized groan, and Clark hears Diana’s discreet sigh as easily as a tempest. “You haven’t exactly been fighting him about any of it.”

“Must we really have this conversation again?” Diana asks, mostly rhetorically, before she turns a vaguely fond but still exasperated expression in Clark’s direction. “They’re always bickering about which one of them comes the closest to being able to go toe-to-toe with Batman.”

“It’s not about that!” Arthur and John protest with identical looks of horror.

“Isn’t it?” J'onn asks, making Barry laugh at his quiet disbelief.

“It absolutely is about that, and I don’t know if you guys noticed yet, but Clark has got you beat by—what’s the Earth’s circumference again?”

“Just over forty thousand kilometers,” Victor deadpans.

“Yeah, that, at least.”

Blushing, Clark drops his gaze to his hands on the naked wood tabletop, cocoa still steaming in the half-full cup. The others are watching him, he knows. There’s a special kind of silence that happens when people who’d gotten quite comfortable forgetting—or ignoring—that you were there are forcibly reminded of your existence. Reactions after that vary, though not a lot around Ka—Clark—but the silence? That’s always the same.

This one doesn’t last long, however, thank Rao, because Diana lets it live for all of five seconds before she says in a vaguely wondering voice, “That was a surprise indeed.”

“I don’t know what came over me,” Clark mumbles, the tips of his ears heating up even more than they already have. “I’m not—I’m usually better at listening—”

“Oh, people listening to Bats isn’t the problem.”

Arthur pauses when the waiter comes back to clear their table and ask if they’d like something else—sodas and another hot cocoa are ordered—but as soon as the coast is clear it’s John who picks up the thread.

“Bruce is very good at making people listen when he puts his mind to it—”

“Because we’re terrified of him.”

“You’re terrified,” Victor says, bumping Barry with his shoulder hard enough to make him waver in his seat. “Some of us just don’t care enough to really fight him.”

“Let’s call it that,” J'onn murmurs.

Clark is fairly sure Diana heard him, though her poker face is too good for him to pierce it, and he’s left with the strong but unprovable feeling she’s currently doing a great deal of internal eye-rolling at everybody else’s expanse.

“The point I’m trying to make,” Barry insists as he rights himself, “is that even Diana’s never gotten that kind of reaction out of him, and she’s notoriously unafraid of basically everything. Even Bats.”

“Oh, well,” Clark says, forcing his shoulders into a small, dismissive shrug, “I must have caught him on a bad day.”

“He doesn’t have bad days,” the table replies with frightening unity.

“Officially,” Diana concludes. “We’re all well aware he’s only human—though he is quite skilled at making people forget it—but he is, without a doubt, the most stubborn person I’ve ever met in my entire life, and I’ve been in this world for over a hundred and fifty years.”

“So, what’s your secret?” Barry asks, and while more than one other person around the table chastises him, even J'onn gives the impression of paying closer attention.

Clark, keenly aware of their gazes on him, slouches under the pressure and focuses on keeping his fingers still, his hands flat on the table. What kind of question is that, anyway? ‘What’s your secret?’ Ha. As if Clark had somehow tamed a beast, when all he’s done is stumble into the path of a brilliant man who ended up leading him—quite by accident—to his salvation. There’s no secret there, nothing but nearly three decades of misery and then the most extraordinary stroke of good luck the universe has ever witnessed.

It isn’t—Clark has a life outside Batman, now. He meant what he said, about being Superman with or without Bruce’s blessing. He’s got Martha, and Alfred, and Earth-appropriate papers coming right up—might even get to tie himself legally to Martha as a cousin or some other kind of distant relative, if he’s lucky. Eventually, he’ll be able to actually go out, make friends. Oh, he’s...he might never turn out to be the kind of outgoing person Bruce Wayne is, but Clark is already miles and miles away from who Kal was, just by existing, and that’s only going to get better as time goes by. So yes, he does have a life outside of Batman—has not actually depended on the man for a while now—and it’s a pretty good life, so far. But he’s also not naive enough to think he owes that existence to his own effort.

“Well, whatever it is,” Arthur chimes in before Clark has time to figure out how to deflect the question, “I would love to be able to annoy the guy half as much as you do—that was magnificent!”

“It really wasn’t.”

Arthur doesn’t blink at him, or even show any outward sign of pausing, for that matter; but he doesn’t interrupt when Clark continues either.

“Just because things got...loud...that doesn’t mean he didn’t make good points.”

“Oh, come on!” Barry protests, Victor’s mouth twisting wryly in the background. “He acted like you were a regular human who ran into a burning building with nothing but a t-shirt and boxers on! That’s ridiculous!”

“And the lot of you acted like the very purpose of his existence was to annoy you,” Clark retorts before he can even think of stopping the words.

Silence shrouds the table, Diana carefully sipping her cocoa on his right—though Clark can tell her eyes aren’t leaving his face—and the atmosphere is more than a little awkward, especially for a second meeting. Still, as he’s heard Alfred say: in for a penny, in for a pound. So he refuses to allow himself to hesitate, sinking into the comforting certitude of Superman to keep himself going.

“Experience matters—being careful matters, if not for our own sakes then for the sake of the civilians we could fail to help or outright harm if we’re not serious enough about what we’re doing. The goal of an organization like the Justice League is to help everyone, isn’t it? Gather as many helpers as can be found to help as many people as can be reached. Isn’t that right?”

“It is,” Diana says, setting her cocoa cup back down on the table.

She doesn’t share the others’ look of contrition, but a glance at her confirms her expression has gone from surprised to speculative—Clark would falter at the sight, but Superman meets it head on, determined to get to the bottom of this, even if it hurts his relationship with the Justice League. It will, in the long run, bring more good than bad anyway, he’s sure.

“Well, there you have it, then. You don’t build something like that without discipline, and dedication—and paperwork. We are all adults here; we are all capable of recognizing that. So I may disagree—strongly disagree—with Bruce about a number of things, but I’ll still be taking him seriously, because he did make good points, and if I’m not going to listen to them, then what even is the point of being part of a team with him?”

Breathing in deep, Superman closes his eyes and forces his hands to unwind, his heartbeat to slow down. Superman is not supposed to get angry, not supposed to yell at teammates—or, if he’s going to be realistic, at anyone. A man who can destroy a tractor without even noticing could easily kill a person he’s annoyed with, no matter his intention, and while people may forget he has this ability as long as he keeps his temper under control, he has absolutely no doubt a little bit of shouting would do wonders to jog their memories.

Fortunately, once he does convince himself to look at his—possibly, one day, if he’s lucky—future teammates, they don’t look scared. Arthur, Barry, and Victor have sunk down in their seats, a little, and John seems very absorbed by his fingertips. J'onn’s face is impossible to decipher, and not just because he manages to make it feel totally blank despite having specifically chosen features for himself. Overall, this is a better reaction than Clark was anticipating, and he turns to Diana with a cautiously optimistic smile...only to find her looking at him with a disturbingly cryptical grin, something sparkling in her eyes as she says, “So, that’s your secret.”

“What? What’s his secret?”

“He likes Bruce.”

“Well, yes,” Clark says, Arthur’s smug grin making heat rise on the back of his neck, “of course I like him. He’s my friend.”

“Batman doesn’t usually do friends,” Victor remarks with a wry twist of his lips, “but I guess there’s a first time for everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go back. Dinner with the old man.”

Clark watches Victor get to his feet, mutters of encouragement and good wishes for the evening rising from the table, and waves goodbye just before he takes off, without even considering the nearby cable cars. Barry yawns, then, glancing toward the sun where it is already dipping down towards the mountains, and says:

“You know, I’d love to stay longer—I still have like, three million questions—but I’ve got a thing tonight and I think I’d like to nap a little before it's time for that. Also, laundry.”

“Anything we can help with?” Diana asks, but Barry shakes his head.

“Thanks, but it’s not really Flash-related. Haven’t forgotten about your analyses, though—they’re still processing. Should have the results for you tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Barry.”

Barry nods, makes his way off the deck, and, once he’s out of view from the inside of the restaurant, takes off at a run, the blur of him zipping through evergreens until Clark can’t see it anymore—not without a better idea of where he’s going. Then Arthur gets up too, making some noise about going home as well since everyone’s leaving, and pretending to be terribly inconvenienced when John offers to drop him on the coastline on his way back. Soon enough, it’s only Clark, J'onn, and Diana left to pay the bill and tell the waitstaff their friends decided to hike back down the mountain.

“For my part,” Diana tells them afterwards, “I was thinking of hurrying up to the top and catching the sunset there. There’s a great view of Mont Blanc and Geneva below, if you like that sort of thing.”

Clark does and, apparently, so does J'onn: less than a few minutes later, they’re up the mountain and looking down at the whole valley of Geneva. The city sprawls along a wide lake, lights on against the early night of mountain villages everywhere: it looks like a piece of night sky itself, from up there. Clark refuses to look closer, just so he doesn’t have to shatter the illusion. Higher up, Mont Blanc and its surrounding peaks are aflame with the sunset, wide streaks of light slashing across the darkening sky, and Clark absorbs it all—imagines he can see actual red in there, hear a m’ro moo in the distance. He’s growing used to the nostalgia, little by little. Has mostly managed the trick of not letting it cut him down, of acknowledging it and moving on...But even like this—even with training, and a growing number of sunsets and sunrises there to help...there may never cease to be a part of his heart, the part that will never forget having been Kal, that looks at all this beauty and misses another kind of wilderness all the more strongly because he never felt able to enjoy it while he could.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, well aware of the twist to his lips.

“It is indeed.”

J'onn’s voice sounds different, then, and when Clark turn he’s almost not surprised to find a green-skinned man in place of the neutral, purposefully forgettable features from earlier. He has no eyebrows, or any sort of hair Clark can see; and J'onn’s outfit doesn’t keep much from view. But his eyes glow with the same red as Krypton’s sun, and the color is enough to take Clark in completely. J'onn doesn’t quite smile—whether that’s a personal quirk or a Martian thing, Clark wouldn’t know—but he does say:

“The colors are very reminiscent of my home planet...though they are perhaps somewhat less orange here than they are there.”

“The sun was always golden on Themyscira,” Diana offers, a hint of sadness tinging her smile. “A divine gift, I assume. Greece is—the sunsets there come close, but they’re not the same. Nothing ever is.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is.”

“You mustn’t be too hard on the others,” J'onn says after a long silence, when all that remains of the light is a thin lining of orange over the snowy mountains. “They’re young, and impulsive.”

“They’re too set in their ways for them to get used to being part of the League quickly,” Diana says. “Especially Arthur.”

“Well, he’ll have to learn, won’t he?” Clark asks. “All of us will, if we’re serious about keeping the League afloat, and I am. Even if I’m not—this could change things. Really change things. But—”

“But there’s too much room for error if we’re allowed to run around on a whim,” Diana concludes. “And error with people like us would be...well. I imagine you’ve had more than enough time with Bruce to expose all the ways in which a rogue group of super-powered people could do far more harm than good.”

Clark didn’t have to wait for Batman’s arrival in his life to realize that unfettered power could be a dangerous thing. Krypton was more than enough of a master class in that; and hearing your aunt fall to hear death in the dead of night—dismissing it as a bad dream and not realizing that was what it was until entire months have gone by—has a way of driving a lesson home. Now is not the time for that conversation, however, and so Clark nods, holding a sigh in. The Justice League is a good idea, he’s convinced of that. But it will only be a good thing if everyone involved, including him—even if he doesn’t ever get to actually join—is willing to put effort towards that goal. Even if said effort results in paperwork.

“Don’t worry,” J'onn tells them when the lull in conversation becomes noticeable. “I’m confident we will all rise to the occasion...It doesn’t seem like any of us is the type to leave their home unprotected.”

“Home,” Clark murmurs. “I suppose that’s what it’ll be, eventually.”

It isn’t, just yet. He likes his life here, has no intention of leaving in the foreseeable future, but home? Home is still a place far off among the stars, with mountains so high they might as well be touching the sky, and a sun so red it changes all the colors of its world. Home is, still, a place too vast to name, where he was small and scared and all but invisible...and yet it is a place he misses still, part of him longing to go back, to see his parents again, to—but those are useless dreams, and Clark shuts them down with a deep, shaky inhale.

“It’s not so bad, you know, once you grow used to it. Plenty of this to experience, and the neighbors are fairly decent.”

“Oh, I know. So is my housemate, actually,” Clark tells Diana, unable not to mirror her smile, even if he tried. “Speaking of her...it’s my turn cooking tonight. I think I’d better get going.”

“Of course,” J'onn says with a solemn nod. “As for the future—I realize we share neither a culture, nor a membership in the League, but I know something of what it is to be an alien. So does Diana—”

“In a manner of speaking,” Diana interjects with a little smile, “but as J'onn was about to say—we’re here if you’d like to talk. Or drink.”

“Diana is very fond of wine.”

“And whiskey. And vodka. And I rarely say no to a good rum.”

Clark laughs at the way Diana winks, the faint sense of fondness floating around J'onn. He didn’t get to talk with the League as much as he wanted today, but they were good conversation, and so he’s still smiling when he floats upwards—Diana congratulates him on his progress with a teasing tone—turns towards Kansas, and heads for Smallville.

Clark comes back to Smallville just in time to put himself between Martha and the stove and bicker with her about not letting him skip out on chores, while she insists she won’t just sit around being hungry when she can just fix dinner and let him take care of something else later on. Which is fair and perfectly logical, but Clark makes sure to keep being contrary, just so he can see Martha’s grin widen as the conversation goes on. Later that evening, after Clark is done doing the dishes, Martha sits him down in front of the TV and announces it’s time to keep furthering his pop culture education.

“You have a choice: we can stick with Star Trek and watch the animated series, or we can go for something a little different and have ourselves a Star Wars marathon.”

Clark looks at the cover, and raises an eyebrow.

“It’s still set in space.”

“There was a fad, and I’m a nerd, sue me,” Martha replies. “We could skip ahead and watch Buffy or the X-Files, but you said you wanted to maybe take a break from long shows, so….”

“Let’s go with Star Wars , then.”

“Great. Could you get the lights?”

It would be a lie, so far, to say that Clark has been as enthusiastic as Martha is about the shows and movies she’s shown him. He doesn’t dislike them, far from that, but he has to admit that a good part of the fun in these is watching Martha mouth lines as they are said on screen, and listening to her impart a veritable encyclopedia's worth of obscure knowledge about fictional characters, the fictional universes they live in, and the people who dedicate an astonishing number of hours to loving those things. It isn’t the only part of pop culture he's discovered, of course: he enjoyed Clue immensely, especially the bit with doing the voices—“Oh, I’m definitely introducing you to my D&D group.”—raged at Chutes and Ladders, and got his butt properly handed to him in no time flat the one time Martha had him playing Risk. The shows and movies are definitely Martha’s favorite part, though, and watching her enjoy them is a delight in and of itself...Clark can’t wait to see what it’s like when she’s let loose in the middle of like-minded people.

Of course, they’ll have to wait until his new papers come through before they can think of actually letting anyone meet Clark. But it’s nice to make plans for the future, even if they’re frivolous ones about watching movies with new people. It’s the small things that keep you going, after all, like hoping Luke Skywalker will finally get some closure from the man who killed his father—

A sound prickles at the edge of Clark's hearing.

“I think Bruce is coming.”

“What?” Martha exclaims, looking between the front door and the screen, where Obi-Wan Kenobi is searching for Darth Vader in the Death Star. “Right now?”

“He’s in the plane,” Clark replies, getting up from the couch and trying to make sure he hasn’t left anything embarrassing lying around. “Shouldn’t be more than five minutes, I think.”

He’s not entirely sure why this urge to neaten up has even seized him. Rationally speaking, he could stay on the couch with Martha and keep watching; but the thought of Bruce looking at the place and thinking Clark is responsible for any sort of mess is far too distressing to be ignored, and so he doesn’t try to stop Martha when she pauses the DVD in the player and goes to put the kettle on.

Four minutes later, at the most, Bruce Wayne knocks on the front door.

It’s Clark who answers, far more flushed than he needs to be, and what is even going on with—

“Oh, hi, Bruce.”

“Hi. I, uh—I was wondering if we could. Talk. For a bit.”

“Uh,” Clark says, intelligently, looking at the TV first and Martha second—she looks more than a little perplexed, though whether by Bruce’s presence or Clark’s behavior, it’s difficult to say. But she gives a little shrug anyway, so Clark concludes: “Yes, sure. Let me just—”

Clark gestures down at his socked feet, and then almost topples when he bends to put shoes on, which would be embarrassing under any circumstances; here, now, combined with the way neither Bruce not Martha are saying anything while they wait, it has the potential to become thoroughly mortifying. Still, eventually Clark manages, and then he’s vaguely waving in Martha’s direction and stepping out through the front door and into the balmy air of an early August evening. He follows Bruce away from the house, toward the fields, and when the silence between them becomes too tense to bear, he makes himself blurt:

“I’ve got a room now. Of my own. I mean, it’s, uh—it’s above the storehouse. If you’d like to...I don’t know. Sit down or something.”

“Certainly,” Bruce says in Ellon, more formal than they’ve ever been with each other—then he winces, almost too quick for even Clark to see, and chooses much more casual, downright friendly grammar to add: “Lead the way.”

Nodding, Clark does as he’s told, and they finish the walk to the storehouse and up the ladder in silence, until Clark is sitting on the faded couch and Bruce is looking around like he’s trying to appraise the place. Tension grows between them again, threatening to push Clark into another bout of insanity, when Bruce apparently decides it’s his turn to try and produce some semblance of conversation, in English this time:

“I like it, Clark. It’s very midwest. Very you.”

“Thank you...I guess.”

Bruce nods, short and decisive, and then his shoulders straighten, and his hand lets go of the hem of his blazer. When he looks back at Clark next, there is no hesitation at all in his posture. Clark adjusts in response, slips into Superman’s demeanor without even having to think about it, and remains entirely neutral when Batman says:

“The League has voted in favor of accepting your offer of an off-planet base. They sent their responses along tonight, as well as a number of suggestions, questions and requests regarding the actual process of installation...John has volunteered to ask around for transportation devices—he mentioned something called Zeta beams?”

“That makes sense,” Superman replies with a slight nod. “They’re limited in range, but they’re cheaper and easier to maintain than other systems. Probably the best choice for a test run, and they’ll be safer for any civilian who may come in contact with them, too.”

“That’s settled, then. I’ll put the team’s feedback together and send you a summary so you can prepare your answers before we have another meeting.”

“A meeting?” Superman asks, puzzled. “I thought you didn’t want me joining the League?”

There’s a brief pause, Batman’s lips pinching together as he gives Superman a flinty look, but Superman doesn’t move from his place on the couch, afraid a single shiver of his muscles will bring whatever bridge they’re trying to build crumbling into dust between their fingers.

Eventually, Batman says, “The League will have no choice but to work with you on this. It makes more sense to sit us all around a table than to have me keep acting as a go-between.”

“Of course,” Superman agrees, finally getting to his feet so he can extend a hand for Batman to shake. “Well, I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to working with the lot of you.”

“The League could say the same,” Batman answers, stiffer than ever despite the steadiness of his gaze, the confidence present in every nuance of movement in his hand. Then, as if taking a plunge he adds: “Wonder Woman informed me I have you to thank for everyone’s speedy responses. I don’t know what you did, but I’ve never had Arthur take less than four business days to answer an email from me, so...thanks for that, Superman.”

“You’re...welcome.”

Batman nods again, either oblivious to or unconcerned by Superman’s slack jaw, and turns around to leave with such a flourish that it almost feels like he’s swung a cape over his shoulders. Deflating, Clark sits back down on Martha’s old couch, feeling vaguely disappointed with the proceedings. Sure, it makes sense for Batman to let him know about that sort of development, and if Clark had been opposed to working with him, he wouldn’t have offered his ship as the League’s headquarters, let alone fight fought to be considered an acceptable candidate to join. Still, he’d have hoped—that is to say, with how their last conversations have gone, he’d have thought—oh, but it probably doesn’t matter.

And then, a second later, it definitely doesn’t matter because when Clark tries to figure out where Bruce’s plane is, he realizes not only has the thing not moved, but there’s also a distinct crunch of graveled earth under expensive shoes. Well, he can’t really hear the expensive part, but it’s Bruce. Everything he wears is expensive. It’s also deeply, deeply irrelevant right now, at least compared to the question of why on Earth he hasn’t left yet. Frowning, Clark floats down from the loft, landing behind Bruce without a sound—and grinning when Bruce grunts but doesn’t seem startled at all.

“Is everything all right?”

“No,” Bruce retorts, almost a bark. Then, switching to Ellon after a long silence: “About—when you came to the Cave and— fuck .”

A deep breath as Bruce turns his back to Clark.

“His name was Jason,” he tells the sky, which is almost entirely pink with sunset. His son’s name sounds odd, next to Ellon words, but Clark has had more than enough time to realize some things in his life are easier to speak of in English, and he doesn’t begrudge Bruce the reverse. “I—I was not there. That—that—bastard took him, and t—”

Bruce cuts himself off with such force, Clark is almost afraid he’ll chip his teeth. He takes a tentative step forward, hand reaching out to touch, but stops himself at the last second. Who knows, after all, if touching Bruce right now would be at all helpful? Clark waits instead, tries to leave space for Bruce’s harsh breathing, for the sort of feeling that blocks the throat and traps the words inside. For the sort of sound that feels like if it starts, it’ll never stop again.

“I was not there,” Bruce repeats, deflating, hunching under the weight of it all. “My boy died, alone, because I was not there. Because I took a vow—because Batman exists to save people, to help them, but I—whatever exists between Batman and Bruce Wayne, it’s never brought anyone anything but pain. And that is the thing that trained you.”

This time Clark does reach up—touches the fingers of his right hand to the back of Bruce’s left elbow, and, with as much care as he can manage, positions himself just a little closer to Bruce: just close enough that he won’t have to speak above a whisper for Bruce to hear what he’s got to say. He clears his throat, fearing for a moment that the words really will stay stuck inside—or will cut through his throat like razors and leave him to bleed out here in the grass, in the first place where he’s ever felt like he could fit in.

“You know,” he says, with his hand still on Bruce’s elbow and his eyes firmly stuck to the ground, “I used to hate it. The—the thing in the middle. It just—it never managed to really be Kal, it was never strong enough to be Shadow...I thought...I thought it was—thought it would be better for everyone if it just...stopped existing. Disappeared, and left Shadow free to complete his mission. To be—well. Essentially: Batman.”

Clark forces a chuckle, and it scrapes at the inside of his chest, at his throat, until he almost decides to switch back to English and the—not quite the ease of it, but something like it, at least. He’s the one who forced this conversation on Bruce, though, without pausing to think about the circumstances in which he’d have preferred to have it—if at all—let alone the language. The least he can do is let Bruce decide what words to use for the rest of it.

“I don’t—I can’t express how much I hated it. I thought—it felt like it could never—be. Like I had to be something else, always, or I’d just be some sort of terrible—”

“You’re not—” Bruce starts in English, twisting around to look at Clark’s face. “There’s nothing hateable about you. You—”

“It’s okay,” Clark cuts in, sticking to Ellon even if Bruce won’t.

He’s still not sure he’ll manage to say what he needs to say properly with this specific language, but now that he’s started it seems...important, somehow, to say all of it in his mother tongue. Especially when he realizes, as he says it, that it really is okay—or, at least, far more okay than it’s ever been before.

“It wasn't, for a long time. I certainly wasn’t okay when I tried to become a second Batman. But then—then we came here. To Earth, I mean. And then—then I met you. Not Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. Just you. The guy in the middle.”

Clark smiles, just a little, when Bruce’s mouth all but falls open, color leaching from his face.

“You were the first person who saw me. Batman saw Kal, and then he saw Shadow, but it’s you who—you were the one who helped me when I had no option but to learn to be myself. You helped me learn what I needed to know, and then you introduced me to Martha and—look,” Clark adds, when Bruce’s face goes entirely white and his eyes widen in something far too close to horror for comfort, “I’m not saying—you didn’t turn me into Clark. Of course not. But you—you made it possible for me to...I don’t know. To become him. Become me. And I’m not—it doesn’t...erase anything, or cancel anything out. I know that. I’m not expecting it to. I’m just saying—it’s not pain. What you, Bruce, brought me. It isn’t pain, or anger, or sadness, or—it’s quite the opposite, in fact. Like...a sheltering rock in a storm. Maybe I’d have survived without you, but, Rao, I’m glad I found you.”

“You say that now,” Bruce mutters, blood rushing back into his cheeks, his neck, his ears.

Clark watches Bruce’s skin change color and wants to hug him, press him close until all the affection he feels, all the love and friendship and hope he’s found here, on Earth, flood from his chest into the man who made all of it possible. He wants to gather Bruce to him and keep him there until he realizes exactly how much he’s done. It wouldn’t erase the pain in Bruce's past—nothing would, Clark knows—but maybe, just maybe, it would help soothe it a little, and that would be worth it.

Clark ignores the urge, however—doesn’t listen to the part of him that wants to kiss Bruce’s forehead; as if it could solve anything—and reaches for Bruce’s elbow again instead, giving it a friendly squeeze. He settles for smiling down at Bruce in as sincere and reassuring a way as he can manage, leaning into him for comfort—his or Bruce’s, he’s not sure—until they both realize how close they’re standing and step apart at the same time, breathing like they’ve been underwater all this time.

“Thank you,” Bruce says in strained English, still flushed but more...stable, now, than he was when he first arrived. “That was—thanks. For...sharing.” Bruce clears his throat. “I should go back to Gotham. I’ve got things to do.”

“Yes, of course,” Clark replies, his whole skin buzzing with a sort of electricity he doesn’t remember ever feeling before. “Well, goodnight, then. Let me know when you’ve got a date for the meeting.”

“Will do,” Bruce replies, more softly than the words really require. Then, almost hesitant: “I’m going to need my arm back.”

Clark lets go with a sheepish chuckle, face blooming with summer sun-heat, and watches Bruce walk back toward the front yard, bypass the house entirely, and climb into the plane, taking off in the general direction of Gotham. Clark watches him go far longer than a human could—has to force himself to stop, after a while—and then he spends longer still just standing there next to the grazing field and grinning at the stars.

Martha has situated herself back on the couch when Clark comes inside, nibbling on popcorn with her giant book of crosswords, the screen still frozen on Ben Kenobi’s quest for Darth Vader. She waves Clark’s apologies away as he sits down, making room for the bowl of popcorn between them and grabbing the remote before she asks, “What did Bruce want, anyway? It must have been important, for him to come all the way here.”

“Oh, the League’s decided to use my ship as headquarters. He was just here to let me know.”

“He made a four-hour flight just so he could tell you something that would have fit into a text?”

Caught by surprise, Clark almost doesn’t catch the popcorn bowl in time to prevent a fatal fall to the ground. When he looks up from his near-blunder, Martha is still staring at him with a raised eyebrow. Clark flushes again, not quite as pleasantly as before—though not in a painful way, either—and manages a shrug that he hopes is convincing. Somehow, he hadn’t thought of that, and now the very knowledge is throwing a wrench in his thought process, making his mind sputter and...well, not die, but definitely not work as it should.

“I mean,” he manages after a while, “there was...something else we needed to talk about it’s just—that wasn’t the only thing, is all.”

“Yes,” Martha says like she thinks Clark hit his head somehow, “but he still flew for four hours—eight, with the trip back—just to have a, what, thirty-minute chat with you in the barn?”

“I think I should get a job,” Clark blurts out.

As diversions go, this one is absolutely disastrous—he doesn’t need to see Martha’s face go a stony sort of blank to realize that. She’s a kind woman, however, and so she pretends not to notice the fumbling—or the way Clark’s fingers are millimeters away from denting the metal bowl they’ve used for the popcorn. For a few seconds, silence floats between them while Clark tries to figure out where to go from there...but then, as it turns out, he must have been thinking about this a little, because his mouth starts working as if on its own:

“I can’t just rely on your generosity forever. And it’s not that I don’t like living on the farm, it’s just—I don’t think I want Superman to be the only one who helps, you know? Super strength can do a lot of things, but it won’t solve everything.”

“So...are you thinking about going into politics?” Martha asks, filching a fistful of popcorn even as she turns to face Clark more completely. “Because that might mean more scrutiny than you’re ready for.”

“Oh, no! No, my cousin is a politician, I’ve seen what that can be like—no, I don’t think leadership is the thing for me.” Clark shudders. “I do want to help, just...not that way.”

Martha hums, and makes a bunch of other suggestions—working for a non-profit, being a teacher, a social worker, a foster parent...none of these options really catch Clark’s interest, but the conversation does last long enough to prevent another go at discussing Bruce’s reason for flying all the way to Kansas, which Clark counts as a win.

He’s not sure he feels ready to share the delightful strangeness of the warmth in his stomach with anyone—not sure what to do but savor it, grinning at the ceiling of his loft until he falls asleep with a smile on his lips and a contented hum on his tongue.

Clark flies into Detroit later that week so he can meet with John and start filling out his paperwork. There’s a lot of it, predictably, and in a language Clark never learned, which makes the whole process even longer than it would normally be.

“I realize it’s stupid,” John says when they set aside the paperwork in favor of a coffee over his extremely shiny kitchen table, “but J'onn is the only other alien—well, non-Terran—I’ve met, and since he was able to read it without a problem, I kind of assumed—”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll learn it,” Clark reassures him cheerfully, almost surprised by his own persistent good mood. “I can recognize a couple of words already.”

John’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead, but Clark just smiles and keeps filling out his application for a Corps-territory passport, since his Kryptonian one has been revoked. (It hurt, somehow, to read about it in Kara’s latest letter. It isn’t like he hadn’t expected it, but it caught him by surprise anyway.) The good part is, once that’s done, the Green Lanterns will be the ones to take care of inserting Clark Kent into American databases—which is a blessing, because Clark doesn’t have the slightest idea how he’d manage that.

“We just do the legal bits, though,” John warns when Clark shares his thoughts. “If you want to convince people you’ve always lived...wherever you want to settle down...you’re going to have to ask for J'onn’s help.”

“I haven’t decided where to go yet,” Clark replies with a shrug, refusing a third cupcake with a polite smile. “I’m not even sure what I’ll do with myself—I don’t know how to do any Earth job. Well, aside from some farming, but that’s not a career path I’m interested in.”

Oh, he’ll do it, if he has to. If Martha needs the help, or if he can’t find another job, but...well. Part of it is that he genuinely does want to help more than one person, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to do that as a farmer. Another part—more selfish, more shameful—is that after a lifetime of only barely ever leaving his house for anything but crime-fighting, he has no desire to settle down in another place where he’d see the same hundred faces for the rest of his life.

“Well, what do you want to do then?” John asks. “Me, I’m an architect—I like it, but it’s not for everyone.”

“I want to help,” Clark replies, aware of the petulant note in his voice but strangely incapable of keeping it out. “I want to—Krypton’s government is quite...corrupt. On multiple levels. I’m used to helping people, smuggling information pamphlets out, and getting them off the planet when they become compromised...I think I’d like to do something like that. Not the smuggling-people-out part, necessarily but...making sure the public has access to information, even if it means annoying a few people in the process. It’s not like I can’t take it, after all.”

John looks at him for a long time, every line of his face speaking of someone focused on an idea—though what idea, Clark doesn’t really know. He sits there, trying not to fidget too much, until John, as deep in thought as he was before, asks:

“Have you ever heard the term ‘muckraker’?”

“Can’t say I have, no.”

John grins, and ends up sending Clark away with a lot of reading recommendations, the names of three different universities in various cities, and a promise that he’ll be welcome to stay with John if he ever needs to spend time in Detroit again.

Not exactly the afternoon Clark had anticipated, but not exactly a bad one, either.

On Saturday, five days after Bruce’s strange visit to the farm—and the loft, where his smell lingered the first night, caught in a closed space while Clark, for some reason, never quite got around to opening the back doors—Clark receives a text from him that only says ‘[email protected]’, followed by a string random numbers and letters, which, Clark reasons, must be a password. It takes a few minutes before he manages to access the mailbox, but once he does he’s not that surprised to find a single, tersely-worded message with a fifty-seven-page PDF attached.

He’s in the house’s living room, with the brand new couch all to himself while Martha is out in town for her weekly book club. He takes the time to sip from his coffee before he scrolls past the main title—“Project Watchtower”— takes a look at the table of contents, and promptly chokes on his coffee, laughter stinging at the corners of his eyes until he has to set his suit-made tablet aside and double over with it. It takes him a while, but eventually Clark does get himself back under control...just enough, at any rate, to send a quick text to Bruce’s number:

‘How much did part three hurt to write?’

‘My teeth may never recover,’ comes the near-immediate response.

Clark snorts again, scrolling down the file past ‘I. Technical Concerns’ and ‘II. Political Concerns’ to go straight to ‘III. Personal Concerns’ which he’s absolutely certain will turn out to mean ‘questions Batman deemed unprofessional but felt compelled to include anyway’. And, indeed, the first item on the explicitly unordered list doesn't do much to change his mind about that.

‘You can tell Barry replicators are not a real thing,’ he texts Bruce.

‘Not unless I want him to come up with another ridiculous science-fiction related questions. How do you even know what a replicator is?’

‘Martha describes herself as a veteran nerd.’

Clark chuckles to himself as Bruce’s side of the conversation turns into a ‘currently writing’ bubble, sipping on his coffee again while he gives the following questions a cursory look, dictating answers where he can and marking things to look up in other places. He’s on the cusp of sinking into complete focus—and moving back up to the more serious questions—when his phone vibrates with a new alert.

‘I still didn’t expect her to teach you about that first.’

‘If I recall correctly, she said I might as well turn to Wikipedia and scientific journals for ‘the high brow topics’ and let her take care of my cultural and hands-on education. What’s a TARDIS?’

‘Let me guess,’ Bruce replies, again without pause, ‘Barry?’

With a snort, Clark shuffles around on the couch until he’s no longer sitting but rather sprawled on his back, tablet resting on his belly and propped up against his bent leg. It feels a little bit like surrendering to some form of temptation—like waking from a luxurious nap and sinking back into bed with a beloved book in your hands—and his smile widens, warmth bubbling in his stomach with the delightful fizz of a soda bottle. He smiles down at his tablet as he types an answer, still technically working even though he’s looking for ways to appall Bruce more than he is actually trying to answer questions.

‘Arthur, actually. Should I be surprised? I have no idea what this is referencing.’

‘An alien,’ is Bruce’s instant reply. It makes Clark frown despite himself.

‘Far be it from me to complain,’ he writes, ‘but I don’t think you’ve ever replied to my messages this quickly. Is there a special occasion?’

He doesn't send it. He stares down at the tablet for a long time instead, the texting app that wouldn’t exist on a human-made item blinking at him in bright, textured colors, and hesitates. He’s not sure why he hesitates, exactly. It’s an innocent enough message—one he’d have no problem sending Kara, for example. But here, and now, he can’t help but think maybe he should try to sound less—less. Less something, surely, though he can’t quite put his finger on what or why. It’s enough to keep his fingers away from the ‘send’ button, at any rate, and he stares at the screen for a moment longer, hoping against hope that Bruce will send something else and spare him from having to make an actual decision.

He does want the conversation to keep going—has never had any objection to talking to Bruce in any capacity, or at any length—but, perhaps, not quite that way. Still, Bruce doesn’t seem in the mood to say more. So after a while, Clark erases the unsent message. And despite—or perhaps, a tiny voice whispers at the back of his mind, because of—his vague awareness of the implications, he decides to ask:

‘What are you doing?’

The next alert is for a picture of Bruce’s feet in very expensive shoes, propped up on what looks like a very expensive table surrounded by a bunch of people in very expensive suits. Clark may have grown up in ridiculous wealth—even more so, perhaps, than Bruce—but Krypton’s wealth is very different from Earth’s and he’s never been rich here. Besides, it isn’t like he ever felt like he belonged in El’s palace either. He certainly would never have dared to flaunt his disdain for it the way Bruce seems to be doing now, at any rate.

‘Playing stupid in a meeting,’ Bruce writes a few seconds later, the ‘currently writing’ dots hovering for a long time before he adds: ‘Intensely boring work.’

There’s another break while Clark tries to figure out how to respond to that, and then, to his utter bafflement, Bruce sends:

‘I’m not good with people.’

Clark stares down at his tablet, blinking just to make sure he hasn’t misread the message—it is, after all, not related to anything they’ve been saying so far, and hardly news besides. Bruce Wayne might be excellent at wrapping people around his little finger—as evidenced by the general tone of fond dismissal most tabloids seem to adopt when they discuss him—but neither Batman nor Bruce has ever struck Clark as particularly skilled in the art of interpersonal relationships. Or, well. Sincere interpersonal relationships. To point that out would be rude, though, and potentially misconstrued, and so Clark sighs in relief when the next message comes:

‘I was harsher than I should have been.’

Another pause.

‘During the meeting.’

Oh, Clark thinks. That meeting.

‘You apologized for that already.’

‘No,’ Bruce sends.

Then, after a pause:

‘I didn’t.’

Another blank.

‘I let you know you were right about’

‘about him’

‘but I didn’t say I was sorry’

‘so’

‘here it is’

‘it wasn’t fair of me’

‘to make it sound like you were bad at your job when i’

The suspension marks continue to hover at the top of the screen for a while, and then they vanish, leaving Bruce’s sentence unfinished and the air brimming with a certain sense of...finality, somehow. Or maybe a sense of opportunity. Like Bruce isn’t going to say anything further—he probably isn’t, Rao, this must have been like pulling teeth for him—but it’s up to Clark to decide whether he’s going to let it drop or not. Whether he’s going to make something of it or not.

And he’s nowhere close to knowing what he’d want to make of it, but he does know he is very much not okay with the conversation stopping here—wants to keep Bruce talking as long as he can, just to feel that sense of connection between them, the faint, pleasing tingle of knowing Bruce is thinking of him.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, after spending enough time deliberating he’s half afraid Bruce will be done with his meeting and too busy to answer. ‘I figured as much.’

Rao, how grateful can you be for the possibility of picking your words with care? (Quite a lot, as it turns out.)

It takes him a long time to find enough courage to add:

‘I care about you, too.’

Bruce doesn’t reply to Clark’s last message. It was, Clark reminds himself, always a possibility. A very predictable one, at that, and so he decides not to mind at all. He reads books instead—runs to and from Kansas City multiple times just so he can go through all their books on journalism and law and, when there’s really nothing left for it, politics. He hasn’t been able to let the idea of journalism go ever since John suggested it; and maybe he’ll regret it later, but for the moment it feels right, and he’s determined to follow his gut wherever it’ll lead him. It’ll do him good to let himself be led towards something as opposed to away from things, for a change.

The whole business takes about a week, and even then only because he’s alternating between that, Project Watchtower, and the related email chain where Barry piles food suggestions on him, Victor keeps making subtle references to things he claims to be too cool for, and Arthur routinely shoots down every single one of Diana’s suggestions to create a group chat.

That bit is, obviously, not really work, but it does lead to several lunches and outings, and it’s still good for Clark’s horizons to expand. It makes Martha chuckle when he tells her, just a touch of sadness in the sound. Having seven whole friends is a new thing, though, new enough he feels compelled to swear on Rao he’s not inventing them when he writes to Kara. He is damn well going to enjoy it as much as he can.

He’s sitting at a library table and trying to figure out how college application forms work—he hasn’t really discussed it with John, but he’s starting to figure Earth out well enough to realize he won’t be able to just fake a degree, especially when the programs he’d be most interested in, as a student, don’t come with online courses.And then his phone rings and nearly makes him jump through the roof. Grabbing at the table to prevent it from clanking back down and alerting the entire library, Clark manages to stop himself before the top of his head climbs past the tops of the bookshelves and, feeling redder than his cape, answers the phone.

“Bruce,” he manages, just a little more breathless than he’d like. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“Are you free?” Bruce asks in strangled, almost brittle English.

Clark frowns, spine straightening without even thinking about it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Bruce says, with the sort of haste that says something is definitely wrong. “I’m just—”

“Bruce, where are you?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Kent,” Bruce retorts, but there’s that brittleness in his voice again, and Clark almost forgets to exit the library like a normal person.

Flying to Gotham barely takes him more than a few minutes nowadays. Fifteen, tops, when he lets it—and he’s definitely not going to let it right now, so he’s fairly sure he’s the reason Bruce is running his fingers through his hair and muttering ‘shit shit shit shit shit shit shit’ to himself when he lands on the deck next to the lake house. It’s a bit of a surreal sight, in that Clark has definitely never seen any of Bruce’s personae this messy, not ever—and also in that the second Bruce realizes he’s not alone he physically stops in his tracks and cycles through at least three different colors before settling for a blank face with a very, very bright red overlay.

“What is it?” Clark asks in Superman’s voice, just in case the house is somehow compromised. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Bruce hisses through his teeth, taking three steps toward Clark before he doubles back, grabs a package off a glass table, and brandishes it like a shield. “Your papers came through—John had to leave for some kind of emergency with the Lanterns, so he left them with me.”

Clark, mouth opening on a quiet gasp, drops out of Superman’s posture and costume all at once—sinks down into the Kal-esque slouch he’s decided on for Clark Kent’s public persona instead, and proceeds to open the thick envelope with even more reverence than he’d anticipated. He takes them all out, one by one—driver's license, ID card, passport...and a birth certificate in appropriately faded paper. He brings it up to eye level with trembling fingers, the world dissolving into a blur when he sees Smallville listed as his birthplace, Jonathan and Martha Kent as his parents.

Wiping at his face doesn’t do anything to slow the tears, or the sobs that turn into chuckles—or maybe the other way around. After a moment Bruce must take pity on him because his hand settles on Clark’s shoulder, thumb squeezing in the dip above Clark’s clavicle as he clears his throat and, in a shaking voice, says, “See, nothing wrong.”

Clark manages a strangled noise that might have become a word with some practice, shaking his head for emphasis even as he tries to stop the helpless giggling that's taken him over. Bruce’s hand is warm on his shoulder, solid where Clark feels suddenly fragile, and he leans into it just a little harder than is entirely appropriate, glad that it’s Bruce here with him to receive the news.

“I’m sorry,” Clark manages at long last, “it’s just—you sounded so nervous….”

“I don’t sound nervous,” Bruce retorts, but there’s no heat in the words.

And even if there were: the Earth’s sun has given Clark an eidetic memory. He’d know Bruce was lying anyway. As it is, all he does is snort and wish he had some kind of handkerchief as he sniffles and wipes the last tears from his eyes, and then sighs like he’s been dragging a small moon behind him for years and has finally been allowed to set it down.

“Thank you,” he tells Bruce in Ellon, making sure to use the most respectful and affectionate forms he can think of. “For everything you’ve done...and for being here.”

“It was my pleasure and my honor,” Bruce replies, surprising Clark with his truly commendable use of an Ellon form he has to have learned after their return to Earth. “Actually...I was wondering if, perhaps, you would like for us to celebrate this together.”

For a moment—just the one, earth-shattering moment—Clark’s heart turns loud enough to drown the universe in its rhythm. The Earth, the Milky Way, Krypton itself all cease to exist, swallowed into a heartbeat like glorious bells, a warmth like the sun filling Clark’s veins and squeezing at his guts and his heart and every inch of him in between as he digests the way Bruce spoke the words—shy, almost reverential in tone as much as in form. This is—this would be how an Ellon would offer...lifelong commitments. The kind of arrangement of the heart that can’t, won’t be broken by anything except, perhaps, those who entered it. Clark feels his face grow redder and redder with it, his armpits and neck prickling with the emotion until even his sun-altered body is sweating.

“Bruce,” he manages, feeble and almost too low to be heard, “I don’t think you—”

Bruce makes a face like he’s about to jump from a roof to another one too far away, knowing the gap is too wide and there’s no way he’ll make it, but unable to allow himself to back down anyway. It’s remarkably close to the face Clark imagines he pulled the first time he jumped down from the Citadel’s dome, the first time he flew his own h’mori as a child. The same face he might be wearing, right now, as he allows himself to trust Bruce’s dedication—to believe the man really, truly knows what he is saying.

Bruce, after all, wouldn’t have become Batman—let alone survived this long in the uniform—if he’d been the kind of man content to be anything less than excellent at anything he decided to learn.

“I would love to celebrate with you,” Clark tells Bruce, offering just as much of himself as Bruce offered him.

The feeling is heady, terrifying and intoxicating, not unlike flying: the mad rush of a fall with the absolute certitude he will be caught at the bottom, and land, safe and unscathed, in a place where there will never be any doubt of his welcome. Or, well. Not enough to make him leave, at any rate.

He watches the realization bloom on Bruce’s face, far redder than any shade Bruce Wayne has ever sported, and all the lovelier for it.

“Well,” Bruce says, clearing his throat hard enough Clark can’t help but wince in remembered sympathy, “what do you say to ice cream?”

He’s switched back to English, but it doesn’t do anything to dispel the joyful, brimming tension between them, and Clark reaches for just a little bit of Superman’s strength and bravery. Just enough of it to take the second plunge—always the scariest, in his opinion, because by then you’ve had time to realize exactly what you’re risking—and says:

“Before that, though...can I—”

“I’m not a blushing princess, Kent,” Bruce cuts off, the attempt at irritation just enough to pull Clark from his stupor. “You don’t have to court me or anything.”

“Fine,” Clark sighs, glad for the way Bruce’s grumbling makes some of the nerves go away. “In that case...I’d like to kiss you, if that’s all right with you.”

Bruce’s features all but scream ‘duh’, and Clark snorts, giddy with it, before bending down to kiss Bruce's lips and forget, just for a while, that fear even exists at all.

#DCU Fanfiction #Superbat #Clark Kent #Bruce Wayne #Superbat Big Bang #SBB 2019 #Fanfiction #My Posts #fic: Clark Kent of Krypton

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theliberaltony · 6 years

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via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

On Thursday, the U.S. Senate race in Alabama became the latest avenue of American life to be rocked by a scandal involving improper sexual conduct. The Washington Post reported allegations that Republican Roy Moore pursued relationships with four teenage girls, one of whom was 14 at the time of a sexual encounter with Moore. Moore has unequivocally denied the report.

The Alabama special election was already getting national attention as one of the fronts upon which former Trump adviser Steve Bannon said he would be waging his war against the Republican establishment, so the race has several facets to be closely watched — social, cultural and, yes, political.

Although it’s difficult to predict what effect a scandal will have on an election, here’s what we’re looking at and considering as it unfolds.

Where did the race stand before the Post story?

The five most recent public pollsters to survey the race — all before Thursday’s allegations — found, on average, Moore ahead of his Democratic opponent, Doug Jones, 48 percent to 42 percent. That sounds like a pretty decent lead until you realize that President Trump won Alabama by 28 points in 2016.

Why was Moore underperforming?

Alabama is a ruby-red state, but Moore has a had a long and controversial record there — which might explain why he’s not doing as well as you might expect for a Republican.

Polls differ a bit on why Moore has been struggling, but they all agree that he’s having trouble with voters who don’t identify as evangelical. (Moore has been doing fine among Alabama’s heavily evangelical Republican base.) Hillary Clinton won non-evangelical voters in Alabama by 12 percentage points in 2016, according to the Cooperative Congressional Election Study. But Moore is doing much worse than Trump did among that group. Jones was leading Moore among non-evangelical voters by around 40 points, according to a JMC Analytics and Polling survey and an Opinion Savvy poll.

Another weakness for Moore? Alabama’s independent voters. Both a Fox News poll and the Opinion Savvy poll have Jones winning independents even though Trump carried them in Alabama by 49 percentage points according to the CCES.

It’s possible that Moore has already lost the Alabama voters who would have been most likely to abandon him in light of the Post story. That said, the Fox News poll found that 42 percent of Moore’s supporters had reservations about him, so either they’ve made their peace voting for a candidate they see as flawed or they already have one foot out the door and the Post story could send them the rest of the way.

What will Republican officials do?

How national Republicans react to the scandal could do quite a bit to tip the balance of the race, forcing talk of the scandal into the conservative media and increasing pressure on Moore and his campaign.

Senators from the establishment wing of the Republican Party who have already been at odds with the Bannon-esque contours of the Moore campaign were quick to speak out. Sen. Lisa Murkowsi of Alaska and Sen. Jeff Flake of Arizona were among the first to tell reporters that if the reports of sexual conduct with minors were true, Moore should resign from the race. Sen. Pat Toomey of Pennsylvania said much the same, and Majority Leader Mitch McConnell made a statement to the same effect.

Spot the common denominator. http://pic.twitter.com/1D9LdSOm16

— Christopher Ingraham (@_cingraham) November 9, 2017

Republican elected officials, perhaps aware that Moore was already problematic, seem to be in a holding pattern, loath to out-and-out call for him to drop out (and risk angering the base) but far from willing to vouch for Moore. Arizona Sen. John McCain went the furthest of his caucus, calling the allegations “disturbing” and “disqualifying.”

How will Trump react?

The president is, as always, a wild card. Trump didn’t endorse Moore in the primary, instead favoring McConnell’s choice of Luther Strange. But in the waning days of the race, Trump seemed to express some regret with his decision, and after Moore won, he deleted some tweets expressing support for Strange.

Trump, who has weathered his own sex scandals, seems to always take the line of fighting allegations, so he might stand by Moore. Or, ever eager for approval from the electorate, Trump might bide his time to see how conservative media reacts, gauging how he thinks his base might take the news — as “fake news” or troubling allegations involving teenage girls.

How will the conservative media react?

News of the Post story first made its way onto the internet by way of a Breitbart report headlined, “After Endorsing Democrat in Alabama, Bezos’s Washington Post Plans to hit Roy Moore With Allegations of Inappropriate Relations with Teenagers; Judge Claims Smear Campaign.” Breitbart is, of course, Bannon’s domain, and Moore is Bannon’s horse in the race — so the website’s sympathetic coverage makes sense. How Fox News and other conservative outlets cover the scandal could play a part in how the Republican base comes to view it.

Trump won the presidency despite allegations of sexual assault, but the allegations against Moore involve underage girls, which might change how Republican voters view the scandal. The allegations led the right-leaning Drudge Report and Washington Examiner on Thursday evening, as well as Fox News’s homepage.

Can Moore be replaced on the ballot? Could there be a write-in campaign?

No and yes.

Moore’s name will appear on the ballot — it’s too late to switch it out for the Dec. 12 election — but there’s certainly still a chance for Republicans to launch a write-in campaign. Who’s at the top of the list? Strange. Murkowski, who famously won a write-in victory of her own, has already said that she’s in touch with Strange about this very thing. Should Moore stay in the race — as he has said he will — and Strange jumps in, the Republican vote could split. That would be good news for Jones.

Does it matter that Moore ran as a “values” candidate?

How the GOP base in Alabama reacts to this story is certainly the big looming question in all of this. Moore has made his name in the state as a fierce champion of evangelical Christian values, often testing the limits of democratic governance along the way; he was removed from the Alabama Supreme Court in 2003 for refusing to take down a replica of the Ten Commandments that stood in front of the court.

Allegations of sexual contact with children are incredibly serious, but it remains an open question whether the state’s Republican voters will see the story as true or not. As the past year has shown, in a highly politicized and polarized national environment, every story seems to take on political shading, including the allegations of sexual assault against men in positions of power. Party loyalty overrode personal affront for many Republican voters in 2016. And Clinton and other Democratic politicians, for instance, were quickly linked to Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein — who has been accused of a litany of wrongdoings, from harassment to rape — given his donations to various Democratic campaigns.

In some ways, the allegations against Moore might test how much American society, in all corners, has absorbed the national conversation on sexual assault allegations. Emerging narratives around that conversation feature a hope that more credibility is being lent to victim allegations. But some also fear witch hunts of powerful men. The next few weeks will surely tell us more about how Alabama voters are grappling with this cultural sea change.

Are there precedents we can look to?

There are past political scandals that involved underage or teenage victims, though most came before the highly polarized political environment of the past 10 years and most candidates dropped out of the race before election day.

In 1990, Republican Jon Grunseth dropped out of the Minnesota gubernatorial race after allegations of sexual misconduct. Among these allegations were that he had encouraged two girls — one 13, the other 14 — to take a nude swim with him. Grunseth’s primary challenger, Arne Carlson eventually won the race as a write-in candidate.

In 1983, the U.S. House formally censured two members, Republican Dan Crane and Democrat Gerry Studds, for sexual relationships with 17-year-old pages. Both ran for re-election, with Crane losing and Studds winning.

In 2006, Republican Mark Foley resigned from office after he was accused of sending explicit text messages to an underage former page. Foley’s name was kept on the ballot, and Democrats won the seat.

Alabama itself is fresh off another sex scandal (though it didn’t involve anyone underage). Republican Gov. Robert Bentley resigned from office in April as he was facing impeachment for allegedly having used his office to cover up an extramarital affair. His approval rating dropped precipitously after the revelation of the affair, showing perhaps, that there are instances when moral outrage outweighs partisan interest.

Is there empirical research on how much “scandals” can change electoral outcomes?

One paper from researchers who looked at senators running for re-election from 1974 to 2008 estimated that scandals involving immoral behavior cost the scandal-plagued candidate 6.5 percentage points and raised his opponent’s vote share 6.5 points, for a net change of 13 points. We don’t know if the Alabama race will move that much, but any penalty approaching that size would be more than enough to significantly darken Moore’s prospects of winning this Senate seat.

#IFTTT #Politics – FiveThirtyEight #politics #538 #Clare Malone and Harry Enten

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thomaswarren · 7 years

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♢ ( @vivbarnes ) The drive had passed far too quickly for the driver’s preference. Strained white knuckles, dishevelled windblown hair, and a seat-belt wrinkled shirt may have said differently --- but inwardly, it felt as if barely a half hour had passed since Tom had breached NYC’s limits. Even after triple checking the GPS co-ordinates, the bright green destination sign marked with a (too close for comfort) 10 attached to Lanford’s name was still surreal to read. But what else could be expected when, since the moment the engine started, he’d been constantly pushing speed limits and allotted himself no unnecessary stops whatsoever? There was just one reason to be visiting Lanford. Technically two, but both existed within one person. Surprisingly, no one else had seemed eager to make the trip --- deemed unnecessarily time consuming and solvable over email. That is, until Tom intervened with evidence highlighting how crucial Viv’s role had been to the budding business’ current state of existence. Stepped out of the picture or not, she deserved to make the final call on her status. Legally, it was un-ignorable. To solve the matter via satellite was too impersonal. And so heads were convinced to turn; opinions reformed; and Tom elected the guy for the job. The trip had been set up to be just as any other professional venture. This was just a way to get loose ends tied; accomplishing three simple steps was all there was to it. Ask a question, get an answer, take an exit --- that was the proposed retrieval outline to uphold when Tom had volunteered himself for the task, and it was one he would attempt to follow as accurately as possible. Certainly, attempts would be made. Tom’s colleagues trusted in his efficiency with the blind faith that strangers often did, but these feelings towards Tom’s abilities were not unanimous on all fronts. There were a handful of exceptions in the close friends who’d long ago witnessed the origin story of the budding beer business; when brewery plans amounted to no more than a drunken idea between two heart eyed roommates. The same friends who’s witnessed the defining shift in motivation the leftovers underwent when one part of the equation vanished. They knew, better than perhaps even Tom, that reaching the desired outcome smoothly relied on the flawed assumption that everything laying between the lines would go off with out a hitch --- in that nothing unpredictable would go off at all. Suffice it to say, Tom had thought through every possible direction things could go with Viv about as well as he’d done so before any other plan he’d ever carried out. Not at all. Accompanying his pint-sized plan was an equally small bag of essentials that had been thrown into the back of the car last minute, much like his departure, which had technically been scheduled to happen a day later. To say it had been an impulsive decision to take an early leave was a colossal understatement. Rewind to just a fresh few hours ago; he had just arrived outside the office building where his usual weekend meeting took place when he’d received the call that something unexpected had come up and it would need to be rescheduled. A day off should have been a relief. A day off meant free time (a near extinct commodity in recent times) and relaxation --- alas, even the word was something he struggled to know what to do with nowadays, let alone the act of participating in it. The first thing he should have done was call home and let Jay know he would be relieved of bottling duty, to pass the good news on to roommate-turned-fiancée... Indeed, there was a plethora of things that should have been prioritized instead of the unlisted option he chose. If it had been wrong to do so then it shouldn’t have been so easy to conveniently skip taking his usual turn off for home and merge onto the highway instead. Evidence of his unpreparedness for travel was obvious in the uncharacteristic choice of casual attire he still wore. An expensive suit ensemble had more or less become his everyday dress code with how often he was summoned to lead the way into rooms where first impressions were everything. No matter how hippy dippy the independent brewery concept sounded on paper, a billionaire investor’s office naturally commanded a very particular type of presence. The only act of rebellion Tom had engaged in against the polished presentation guise was insisting on having the top buttons of dress shirt undone to his liking, sans tie, as well as the inch longer he’d let his hair grow. The stubble shadowing his jaw had less to do with a consciously made decision than it had to do with losing his razor earlier in the week and forgetting to make time to go out and get a new one. Prolonged self-employment had set his pacing and concept of time askew, to say the least. A job that could be done in an hour, but with the freedom of an entire day, would be needlessly drawn out. Such habits bled into the fibres of his personal life as well; everything done slowly purely because it could. Only one thing was reliably fixed in place. Appointments. However, thanks to technology even that was a non-issue now. ‘Take as long as you need,’ he’d been told inbetween firm handshakes with contractors and CEOs. ‘Get it over with. This has already taken too long,’ she had muttered afterwards, tucked close by Tom’s side and out of others’ earshot. She was one of the rare originals of the bunch who had veritable sway over what was going on, yet her word hadn’t been enough for him to sign on that expensive dotted line that suddenly loomed over every conversation. She was tactical in all the ways that he wasn’t, seeing no use in digging up old relations or tackling obstacles that weren’t already in their direct path. Business and pleasure were best served exclusive of the other, and that was that. Part of him wondered if the journey to Lanford would have been better suited to being assigned to her. Hadn’t they been best friends once? He'd been trying to forget that. You have reached your destination. Not long after passing the blink-and-you-miss it welcome sign, Tom’s foot stiffly shifted to hover over the brake pedal until the flow of traffic gave way to a more densely populated area. Parking in what he presumed was the central part of town, relieved to be liberated from spending a minute more crammed into a vehicle, he barely spared a moment to breathe easy before he headed determinedly onwards. Ducking in and out of businesses with one name on his lips, at first the request had sounded as robotic as the GPS that had been his sole company during the ride over. So unaccustomed to forming those three syllables, thankfully the extra focus it took to do it casually didn’t allow for him to pause and think about what asking around for Vivian meant. That sooner or later, he’d locate the vanisher herself and finally have to form a plan of action. Despite the timeline that had been extended to him, there was no sense of urgency or anxiety in his searching. Phone stored in his pocket as usual, he predicted he had at least another free hour or so before it would go off when it was officially discovered he wasn’t running late at the offices or sidetracked somewhere in between. A particular pet clinic became the common thread between the helpful few who had known who he was referencing to, always after corrective clarifications were made (‘Vivian? Do you mean Viv?’) then accompanied by fingers pointing to the aforementioned business, located --- of course --- just across the parking lot. Only after the fourth pet clinic recommendation did he feel convinced to no longer put off following the instruction. Weaving his way between moving and stationary cars alike, he approached the establishment with decidedly downcast eyes. Afternoon sunlight reflected off of the clinic’s storefront windows, making it impossible to catch a glimpse inside until he was nearly directly in front of it, having stepped into the shadow of the building. Oh, how inexplicably interesting the concrete underfoot seemed to stare down at all of a sudden. Grasping onto the clinic’s door handle, a lesser entertained thought dawned on him as he gave it a hesitant tug it toward him --- what if Viv wasn’t here? The thought was swiftly followed by an even more uncertain notion; would her absence be a relief, or a disappointment? Once upon a time, Tom might have mulled a little longer on such things; perhaps even stopped altogether and retraced his footsteps until he was tucked back inside his car. Unfortunately, neither was a feasible option so long as he had someone to report back to in a city many miles away. It was precisely for this reason that Tom’s soft sense of childlike curiosity and unconditional tenderness had been heavily under construction since left to his own devices. Esteemed distributors and business execs alike had slowly by surely chiseled a new shape out of the rambunctious figure he’d been his mid twenties. Forcibly trained to adapt beneath suffocating ounce after ounce of feedback, Tom soon learned to differentiate between the valuable and time-wasting unrealistic ideas before enthusiastically leaping forth to make a suggestion. He’d learned to stay quiet, to listen more, to be prepared have a lengthly mature explanations for every damn thing, and a back up plan no matter how certain he was plan A was bulletproof. Harnessing what action would yield the best reaction was all that could and would be considered in the long term, always. Time was money, after all. Making calls with less emotional investment wasn’t so impossible to do anymore. Without hardened edges to forge the way, no progress would be made at all. Bearing the thought in mind, he summoned a deep breath of resignation and brushed any uprising of sentimental non-necessities off into a pile at the back of his mind where they belonged. Heading purposefully forwards, he stepped over the threshold of the pet clinic where Viv supposedly worked, eyes adjusting to the differently lit interior after a brief disinterested sweep of the room. There were only three impersonal things he should feel motivated to accomplish here, and that was final.

#viv #[ closed ]#/ *takes deep breaths into a paper bag*#ignore the length just tryna set up some stuff #also im just a mess so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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dunmerofskyrim · 7 years

Text

There’s breathing when I wake and I fear that it’s my own. A labour-taken rask, groping thin air into lungs gone flat and ragged as a ship’s sails tattered by storm, battle, blaze. A helpless hopeless ruin of breath, braving the pain of keeping on for abject fear of stopping. I hold my breath til it hurts. The sound carries on, sucking parched at the air. Not my breath, I tell myself. Not my broken body.

But even when I breathe again, and breathe again, and allow myself time to breathe deep again, my lungs ache tight, half-starved. The air is hot and fuggy, close and humid near my lips, but my limbs all ache with cold. And when I open my eyes I see only a dark, almost as whole as the red-black inside of my skull. A grid of hazy gold hangs in my vision. Firelight through sackcloth. They have hooded me like a hawk.

I shuffle as best I can, trying blind with hands and legs and a writhing body to feel out my situation. A rope burns round my wrists. Another cord about my throat keeps the hood tight over my head. I’m on my side, a map of bruises and lacerations, too detailed by far. Wrists bound behind my back, my shoulders are an agony of gristle, gamy knots all through the muscle. A pleading warning in the joints of my arms. But my feet scuffle against dust, against grit, against boards and some thin layer of give. Rushes, rug, canvas, I think. My feet and legs are free.

“Sturn.”

“What?”

“Said he’s sturn. Starn to stir.”

“Oh. Looks it.”

“Looks that way an all.”

The voices native-coarse with smoke, and dust, and storms of ash. Not the subtle grit of my mother’s voice, half-faded with time. Not the mild-grained catch and drag of the mainland. The voices have Vvardenfell in them, harsher than I’ve heard on any but the oldest Dunmer of the Quarter. One’s sexless, mid-toned, with a clumsy sibilance to it: an awkwardness between teeth and tongue. Argonian maybe. The other’s female — the one whose accent runs like oil, too flat for half the syllables to hold.

“I’m questioning.”

“Yiz, is you?”

“Your reasons why. That’s what I’m questioning.”

“Got an ast, Tepa, you best ast it, aint you.”

“Him there. You left him live, Drosi. Why’s that? I wonder. I wonder…”

“Nchow. Best ast Guls than me.”

“He’s in no mood to talk.”

“Now see there you’ve catched it. Him there, he goes to kill Guls. Our Guls. And he aint do it quick. See?”

“He might live. Guls might yet live. A little fire? By my tail, Drosi, it takes more than a little fire to…” The sexless voice turns pleading, like someone telling a joke, begging anyone to laugh. “Drosi, he’s Dunmer!”

“Tccht! Stop that mouth. Stop that mouth an lissen.”

My breath is loud and thick inside the sack. The other breathing carries on, loud in the silence. A scab-dry sound, red raw.

“I know that sound, Tepa, an I’ll swear you: that’s the sound of a body dine. Slow, true, but Guls is killed all a same. Him there — if he’d of killed im quick an I’d of killed him quick as well, but things been how they is? I aint like to gie him there no more mercy’n he’s shown our Guls. Circumstances’re different. See?”

“You could’ve said. You could’ve just said it’s about revenge.”

“Proportion!” The female voice barks, hacking the words into hard flints of syllable to give them sense. A sound like her surging up to her feet. “Principle! Example… Yunstand, Tepa?”

“Yes. Guls dies slow, he does slow. Fair.”

“What else we got here? Tell me that. What else kine fairness we got but what we aint done with arn own hands?”

I’m trapped between their voices. I’m trapped between struggle and going slack. Like a landed fish can writhe and fight the air itself that drowns it, or else can wait limp for the blow to the head, the knife — feel fear, or just the hook. I tell myself: If I could see… If they would only let me see, I’d know what to do…

But footsteps come, rounding me, and a hand grips the rope that ties the sack in place. Picks me up by it, like the scruff on a cat’s thin neck. I fight, but only like a hooked fish does, useless as it tries in vain to swim the air around it. I hear the rope slither, spooling over some rafter above me. They draw me up with a heave and whetstone rasp of breath. My feet scrabble to find the floor and stand my weight before the rope chokes me. Even ground and an ache in my ankle, I stand for only a moment. And I think I know what’s coming.

“Really, Drosi? There are worse ways to go.”

“An kyner ways to wait the while it takes me to fine them.”

“Oh.”

“Juss hol the fuckin rope, Tepa.”

More footsteps over the boards, the reeds, the rug. A lighter tread. Blind, but I can smell them. A dry and dust-road smell, and something rancid, cloth gone half to rot, grease smeared over sour weeks of sweat. All that, but it’s fear that makes me gag. The brushfire boundless roaring of my mind as it speeds and smokes in vain.

“Up?”

“Uh-huh.”

They raise me. Heave by hand by heave they jerk me peristaltic upward. My feet scrabble at the ground again, hoping to somehow cling on. All that’s left is the tips of my toes, a stricken dance against the floor. They support a sliver of me in their scrabbling. The rest of my weight ropes round my neck, impending tight. If not for the sackcloth, the ropegrain would by now be stamped on my skin. A livid red cord; memory made visible, as scars are.

“No meat on him. Wouldn’t think he’d be so heavy.”

“That’d be his strugglin. Now see…”

A fist bulls into my gut. Again, I retch. Convulse. Feet slipping, I slump. A narrow pressure as my throat takes the weight of my fall. And already the air is gone from me, knocked by the punch, and my flat lungs strain for breath. The world’s turned half purple and stars show like bruises through the hot and heavy sackcloth.

The rope heaves, pulling on my head til the bones all down my back begin to grind. They are hanging me, I think. This is all, I think. Another punch, this time sharp against my ribs and jarring bone to bone.

“Blight..!”

“Carry on that way, Drosi, you’ll break your hand before you break him.”

A snarl. Drosi strikes me again. A knee. The blow cracks wet over my face and my throat convulses round the taste of blood. Then the rope goes slack and caves me down to kneel like someone at prayer. I rasp in breath as deep and heavy as the crush of my neck will let me. Breath like crying, and wrought with the tang of iron.

“Gain.”

They dredge me up til I’m dancing again. They must hit me again but it’s hard to say in surety. Afraid, my fear recoils from itself and wraps me in its warmth. I remember the temple-ruin, the nix-hounds. Fire, watching Balambal, watching the knife that emptied him. In the darkness that came then, I called fire once more. But I was hollow, quenched and cold. The fire didn’t answer. It left me to them and to this.

Pleading in the blue-black blindness, I ask it back while I still have breath. There have been stars out tonight. I’ve seen none, but they saw me; gave light out and over me, like a haze-thin fall of rain. Time has passed. A sliver skinny as a parched man’s spit, but I have back a little of my power, and a blazing will to live.

Between my bound hands a new pain begins to bloom. It’s nothing compared with the rest. A blistering burnt-hair heat. I bear it as the ropes begin to smoke.

But a singing whistling cry sounds through the night. The rope round my neck goes full slack and I collapse baggage-heavy and limp to the ground. I let the fire go from my mind, ecstatic again with air. So cold it aches on my teeth. So sweet it tastes like good water through the clotting mask of my bleeding nose.

“The nix.”

“Spooked.”

The sound of fear in their voices is sweet to me as well.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Got a mine to go see what’s spooked em you best go see, aint you?”

“Be alright with him?”

“Nchow…”

“Fine, fine… But I swear, Drosi, if I go down there and it turns out to be shamblers again…”

The sigh of stairs, ladder-rungs, some scaffold of wood taking weight. The sound rises and fades into the distance, off towards the crying nix.

The rope round my wrists is cheap, ill-made and singed now. I feel it fray open against my heat-blistered hands. But the hood still has me blind.

Drosi’s footsteps on the floorboards. My ears ring sharp for listening, trying to place her between the nightsounds, the upset of nix outside, Guls’ death-deep breathing.

“You an me now. No help for neither one of us.” She croons, stepping closer. “Reckon I’ll have to just keep things simple.”

With a loose groan I try to rise. Make a show of it, hoping to coax some new kick from her. The nix are all but wailing now in whistling chorus, seething bright as steam. I keep my hands behind my back. Try to elbow halfway to upright. Some last spark of fight for her to stamp from me.

The kick comes. A searing blue knot of pain, sudden in my gut. No warning but that I asked for it. Clenched jaw and grit teeth, I bite to pieces the grinding whimper that tries to leave my mouth. That sound’s the last of my breath, making to bolt from my belly in terror. Like a browsing buck hears the woodbreak boot of a hunter give themself away, and runs the thicket, the danger, fast as only thoughtlessness can be. But I’m less a fleeing buck, and more a wounded stag now. And I wrench free my hands, and I pounce to cling round the kick as it comes, listing hard into the pain.

If ever you’ve feared for your life and been shown some last glimmering chance at escape you’ll know it’s a strength that comes over you, almost from outside yourself. When all’s lost and some small voice says through the towering silence about to fall, ‘no, not all’. Then it comes, willing and perhaps even able to pay any cost if only it’ll carry you on. Kill what wants to kill you, and leave you still alive, howevermuch you might be broken by the attempt. As the wounded stag, so too the army surrounded. So too your storyteller, coiled blind round a leg and crawling, clawing, groping the body attached down to his own animal level.

We share the floor now, both writhing against the other like two flags in a gale. An elbow rains blows on my back. I trap an arm with a knee. Feel fingers scrabble at my face as I fight to get on top. Only the sackcloth saves my eyes from the scraping nails. Only the pain that covers me and soaks through all my flesh saves each new blow from registering as anything more than more of the same. I bear it.

I’m snarling through the hood, nose bleeding again, throat hot with blood. And under me I begin to feel it: of us two, she’s the one more afraid now. Knows she opened herself to this. Knows she had too much faith that the scales were weighed in her favour, and that now that faith has failed her. She fights for breath to scream with.

Pawing til my left hand finds jawline, collarbones, and the soft convulse of throat between them, I let one hand see for the other. I bring the heel of my right palm down crushing-hard towards it, against her throat to choke out the sound as it comes. Then like a blind man I feel up for her face, her features. Feel her muted mouth open, gnawing, trying to bite at me. Feel the rage of all her limbs as the same fear and force comes over her as has me in its hold now.

But I don��t need strength in my limbs any longer. Only focus. And to place my hands. The blade of a hard cheek under my palm. The hollow of a temple, a hairline, beneath my fingers. One last agony bursts in on my left side. I gasp the calling and feel it froth past my lips. A blaze beneath my fingertips; hot fat against my palms. I killed her quicker than she would have done for me. Still, it doesn’t feel like mercy.

In a surge almost of disgust, I push clumsy to my feet, off the body as it stops jerking. Shake and scrabble, my hands search around my neck, seeking out some knot. Still in the grips of my battle-blood, they make slow and awkward work of it. And then the hood tears from my head, and the night opens out all round me like some new dark dawn.

The room is a round attic and its roof the tall-ribbed taper of a spire, cross-raftered. Slipshod, the caulking fails here and there, and scraps of night-blue sky show through the missing tiles of it. The topmost storey of some old towerhouse, I think, boarded and with dry kreshweave dustcloths for a floor. A stone-lined hearth sits cold against one grey-plastered wall. Across from it, a wide window from floor almost to ceiling, glazed from dozens of circles and diamonds: a fit of mismatched shapes, afloat in a seamwork of black lead. The glass is murky and so old that the panes have run, distorting the world beyond them. One section of glass is hinged and open but draped over with a coarse cloth curtain, worried at the corners by a cold and seldom breeze.

Drosi lies twisted against the floorcloths. A Dunmer woman, face blistered anonymous, head scorched and smoking. The whole room reeks with burnt hair and searing fat. Poor boots on her motionless feet; just leather, loose, strapped in with strips of hide. But in a flash of jealousy, I see what else she’s wearing.

“That’s my jacket!” My voice is a choked out rasp. I crouch down by her to tug her arms from its sleeves before she starts to stiffen. “My sister’s fucking jacket!”

But as I bend that same pain bursts through me again. A wet loose wrongness of feeling, lending a hiss up out from my snarling mouth. I clap a hand to the feeling and see it come away wet and paint-bright with blood. My stomach sinks as I see the little use-knife in Drosi’s limp hand. I look down before I can stop myself.

Through both my shirts – Riftfolk, embroidered, and simple Grey Quarter kurta – a patch of blood has grown, like rust on the blade of an ill-kept sword. A tiny nick beneath my fingertips leads through the cloth and shows where the knife went in. Another hiss, almost dismay this time.

“Fuck… Fuck…”

She’s stabbed me. A shallow dip against my flank, not deep but deep enough. It aches empty, like a bruise driven straight into my side. A weak-headed feeling comes over me and I blink hard, bite the inside of my cheek so as not to swoon into it.

The night is cold, and I’m cold, and the battle-blood ebbs from out of me, like the wound itself has let it off. Emptying me out.

“It’s nothing,” I hiss with all the plea and fervour of prayer, hoping it’ll prove true. “Ghosts and bones and all the fucking gods, it’s nothing…”

But I remember Tepa now, and find that I forgot them. The nix are silent outside. No way Tepa could have left, I think, except the wind-twitched curtain. I shamble over to the wide window and move the cloth. A nail and leather-lashed ladder clings to the towerside and climbs up to this room’s window. It spans down to a balcony below, narrow, skirting round the tower. In the night-black it’s hard to say how high this towerhouse climbs.

And yet I can tell I’m in no fit state to fight or fly now. Only to hole up and hope to see morning.

I finish stripping the jacket off Drosi’s back and the knife from her hand. Trying not to look at her face, I pat down the rags she wears beneath and yank an amulet from round her neck, and for good measure the leather and strapping from her feet and calves. Then I drag her to the window. Send the body sailing doll-like out, down, into the black. And I unlash the ladder from the window, then pull it up after me. Every movement is pain, and each flash of pain brings a newer more creeping fear.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon

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rogueonerenegades · 7 years

Photo

Title: The Cargo Pilot and the Rebel

Rating: PG

A/N: For Day Four: Modern AU, hosted by @bodhirookweek. Bodhi Rook’s life in NATO has a Groundhog’s Day repeat button stuck in the on position…until he meets a certain brown-haired someone.

Oookay, so I am still not sure if my first story for Day Four actually fit the criteria (I almost feel it didn’t), so this is my other Modern AU for him. This one is normal. I promise. Although it may get me booted off the RebelCaptain ship, don’t shoot! *ducks behind door* But hey, you only live once. And heck, I don't even know if I'm allowed to submit two for one prompt...hmm, but there it is.

The Cargo Pilot and the Rebel

Bodhi Rook leaned against the dusty hull of his plane soaking in the burning sunlight, arms crossed behind his head and dark eyes shut against the blowing grains of sand. Sure, he could pull on his goggles but why bother? Why not live in the moment? Besides, opening your eyes meant looking out over a vast sandy landscape populated by bushes and local tribes that spoke over two-dozen dialects. The same as yesterday and the same as it would be tomorrow.

The children would dash out and wave as his plane flew overhead, their joy and innocence not yet ripped away by the horrors of the war that inched closer and closer. Women in colorful shawls and headscarves ignored the sight; the men would always scrutinize his approach to make certain it wasn’t an enemy plane. It was meaningful in its monotony; but still had a level of boring that could make a saner person scream.

“Hey, Rook, you did a good run today!” He cracked open an eye to catch the back-sides of the U.S. Marines as they passed. One of them turned to give him a thumbs up. He nodded before resuming his position. His plane was refueled, even if he wasn't, and all that was on hold were orders as to whether he needed to take anything back to the NATO base he originated from. Possibly stuff, possibly a person, possibly nothing and all he was wasting was minutes. All around was the swirl of conversations in a myriad of languages. There were some French soldiers standing twenty feet away having a conversation with some French-Canadian troops, or trying to anyway from the laughs that would issue every so often as the subtle differences played out. He also caught German, Italian, Croatian, and Greek...and one Icelander known as “Little” Arn Magnusson who was challenging a British Marine to a contest of push-ups. It was not peaceful, per se, just the usual amount of tension that circulated in places where any peacekeeping forces were needed.

He heard the soft tread of someone passing by his spot. “You seem awfully relaxed for a man who flies over a warzone every few days to get here.” There was a pause before he answered. “Don’t let my cool persona fool you; inside I’m just a bundle of tense nerves.” The small laugh that came as answer brought a smile to his lips. He cocked his head and looked around for the owner of the lilting accent. She was leaning on the plane right beside him mimicking his position, a fatigues clad woman who probably “just” squeaked in under the height and weight requirement for military service. In an official list they would have given her hair color as brown, her eyes as green and her age as twenty-something. On his list she was as sharp as a kestrel, vibrant as the rainbow bridge night sky over Iceland and as ageless as stardust.

She stuck out a sandy hand to him, her eyes closed. “Erso. Sergeant Jyn Erso, NATO.” He shook it firmly. “Rook, Bodhi. Also NATO.” From somewhere further down the base an eruption in Spanish and English was flying, punctuated by curses as some unknown soul was being chewed out. Sergeant Erso cringed in response, “My Captain. Born in Mexico City and raised in Florida and 100% hot-blooded,” She caught his questioning eyebrow, “Not a stereotype, mind-you. Just the honest truth, I’ve never known a man more willing to charge into the fray than he, or drink someone under the table, dance the salsa and lose at poker, generally all in one night. If that isn’t hot-blooded than I don’t know what is.”

It was Bodhi’s turn to chuckle. “That’s why I’m a cargo pilot. A lot of hurry but no fuss, nobody getting in my face all the time. It’s just me and the sky and a manifest of what my wings are carrying. Oh, and a long MP3 list of music to pass the time.” She crinkled her nose into a smile. “Let me guess, it includes everything from Adele to Katy Perry to HOTEI to…” she cast her green eyes onto him intently, “…Jai Ho and probably some K-Pop.” He pressed a hand to his heart in an overdone gesture of admission. “Guilty of all except Jai Ho. But you forgot Guardians of the Galaxy Awesome Mix Vol. 1.” Oh, how her answering smile lit up the dusty surroundings. Lit him up. “I didn’t want to jump into that one ‘cause I know some people think it labels them as nerds. But we can all be nerds in our Marvel Fandom together.”

“ERSO!” That same voice now came surging down the base towards where the cargo plane was parked. She pulled a face that lingered between “oops”, “oh shit” and “who gives a fu-!”, running a hand over her brown hair that gathered into an almost-tidy bun at the base of her neck. “I guess we’ll have to talk other fandoms another day. Rook.” The salute she gave him was genuine, warm…just like she was. No pretense or attempt to be more than she appeared. He stood to attention and gave her his best in response. “Sergeant. I’ll find you again, on another day, in another life…” His words made her pause as she backed away, her arms held out in a widespread curious gesture. He continued, singing Katy Perry’s familiar lyrics, “…I would make you stay, so I don't have to say you were the one that got away...”

Her expression was far from “what the hell” as she added a few lines in her own quiet little sing-song voice, those snappy green eyes lighting fire into his soul, “In another life, I would be your girl. We keep all our promises, be us against the world...” She turned and began to run across the tarmac that shimmered in the heat, even as another “ERSO!” thundered out. He called after her shrinking figure, “Jyn Erso, who are you?!” He barely heard the response that she threw back. But it was there nonetheless. “A rebel!” He turned back to his plane and placed a brown hand against the hot metal, huge grin lighting up his face. The flight to the base might have seemed same-old, but now he had a reason to look forward to the sojourn. To some he might just seem like a cargo-pilot, but at that moment Jyn Erso made him feel like it could be “us against the world.”

#bodhirookweek #bodhirookweek2k17 #bodhiweek #bodhi rook #riz ahmed #jyn erso #felicity jones #fanfic #rogue one #star wars #what is the bodhi/jyn ship called?#katy perry #in another life #AU

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ultrasfcb-blog · 6 years

Text

Mohamed Salah: The evening the

Mohamed Salah didn’t rejoice both of his objectives towards his former membership

Mohamed Salah was named Skilled Footballers’ Affiliation Participant of the 12 months on Sunday. Two days later, he established himself as among the finest in Europe. Subsequent step: the world?

On a memorable European evening at Anfield, the Egyptian scored twice and made two extra objectives as Liverpool routed Roma 5-2 within the first leg of their Champions League semi-final.

He now has 43 objectives in 47 appearances this season – a document that doesn’t look misplaced subsequent to the elite attacking gamers within the recreation: Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo and Neymar.

And there have been requires him to be the following winner of essentially the most prestigious particular person accolade in world soccer.

“You have to give him the Ballon d’Or,” former Wales midfielder Robbie Savage informed BBC Radio 5 live following Salah’s second purpose on Tuesday. “He’s that good.

“By no means thoughts the PFA Participant of the 12 months, simply give him the Ballon d’Or.”

Former Liverpool striker Robbie Fowler, who was nominated for the award in 1996, described Salah as a “phenomenal participant”.

“The shape and confidence he is in on the minute, to have the category and elegance to attain these objectives simply speaks measures of the person,” Fowler informed BBC Radio 5 reside.

“The person all of us talked about earlier than the sport; the person for the massive event.”

And people massive events carry on coming. If Liverpool can end the job in Rome, a Champions League remaining in Kiev beckons.

Simply weeks later, Salah will take his skills to the worldwide stage, when he spearheads Egypt’s assault on the World Cup in Russia.

The stats which maintain getting higher

Salah is the primary African participant in historical past to attain a minimum of 9 objectives in a single European Cup/Champions League season.

He has scored in every of his previous 5 Champions League begins – the one Reds participant to attain in 5 consecutively earlier than the Roma tie was Steven Gerrard between October 2007 and February 2008

Salah’s haul of 43 objectives is essentially the most by any participant in all competitions in Europe’s prime 5 leagues this season.

He has surpassed England’s 1966 World Cup-winning hero Roger Hunt (42) by way of objectives in a single season for Liverpool. Solely Ian Rush has scored extra (47).

Salah has scored 10 objectives within the Champions League this season – essentially the most, together with Roberto Firmino, by a Liverpool participant in a single season in European competitors.

The Egyptian is simply the fifth participant in Premier League historical past to be concerned in additional than 40 objectives in a single season (31 objectives, 9 assists). Alan Shearer (47 in 1994-95), Andrew Cole (47 in 1993-94), Thierry Henry (44 in 2002-03) and Luis Suarez (43 in 2013-14) are the others.

How Salah compares to one of the best

Actual Madrid ahead Ronaldo, Barcelona frontman Messi and Paris St-Germain attacker Neymar are thought of by most to be one of the best three footballers on the earth, however how have they fared this season when in comparison with Salah?

Participant Video games performed Targets Assists Shot conversion price Probabilities created Pictures heading in the right direction Salah 47 43 13 23.89 87 90 Ronaldo 39 42 8 16.22 53 111 Messi 50 40 18 14.81 112 127 Neymar 30 28 16 20.59 98 63

‘He’s world class’ – Klopp

Talking after Tuesday’s recreation, Liverpool supervisor Jurgen Klopp mentioned Salah is “world class” however may not be one of the best on the earth simply but.

“To be one of the best on the earth perhaps it’s important to do it for an extended interval,” mentioned Klopp.

“His first purpose is a genius strike, he is scored a pair like that. The second purpose was additionally nice play.

“He’s in outstandingly fine condition. He’s a incredible participant that we’re actually completely satisfied to have. What a participant!”

Salah joined the Reds for £34m in the summertime from Roma, however Klopp wouldn’t acknowledge Tuesday’s outcome might have been completely different had the winger stayed put.

“If Neymar did not go to PSG, then Phil Coutinho remains to be right here. It is simply if, if, if,” mentioned Klopp.

Talking on BT Sport, former Liverpool captain Steven Gerrard mentioned Salah is the “greatest participant on the planet proper now”.

‘Magical’ – Pundits’ response to sensational evening

Commentator Alan Inexperienced on Radio 5 reside: “I ought to be ashamed to take cash for working tonight. Thanks.”

Former Liverpool midfielder Steve McManaman on BT Sport: “It is similar to a stroll within the park. I am amazed by this efficiency tonight. It is completely unbelievable! You simply cannot consider it!”

BBC chief soccer author Phil McNulty: “Sadio Mane could have let Roma escape however there was no probability of Mo Salah making the identical mistake – two bits of magical ending from the Egyptian.”

Match of the Day presenter Gary Lineker on Twitter: “Oh Mo. Oh My.”

BBC World Service reporter John Bennett: “If Mohamed Salah retains this up he is taking part in himself into Ballon d’Or competition. And Nobel prize competition. And Pulitzer Prize competition. And Turner Prize competition.”

Former Manchester United and Arsenal striker Robin van Persie was additionally in awe of Salah

Robbie Savage on Radio 5 reside: “Salah has been one of the best participant on the park. Two huge objectives, a few assists. A standing ovation towards his former facet, what a participant, what a person. Seems like he has put one foot within the remaining for Liverpool.”

BBC Sport pundit Jermaine Jenas on Twitter: “Wow, all you possibly can eat buffet at Anfield tonight – what an incredible efficiency by Liverpool!”

Radio 5 reside’s European Soccer Present host Mina Rzouki: “I by no means imagined Salah was able to this when he was at Roma. He has really developed right into a sensation at Liverpool and underneath Klopp. As for Firmino, wow!”

Former Liverpool and Roma defender John Arne Riise on Twitter: “The work-rate and depth of the Liverpool workforce is insane! They simply do not cease. The entrance three are destroying the Roma defence, who cannot address the tempo and actions.”

Former Liverpool ahead Dirk Kuyt was additionally celebrating on Twitter

‘The best match I’ve seen in 30 years at Anfield’ – Reds followers react

Chris Williams: I have been coming to this outdated stadium for 30 years, each for work and pleasure and that is doubtless the best match I’ve ever seen.

Gumbo: Just one phrase describes watching Mo Salah play soccer: pleasure.

Tom: What a purpose! Salah actually is soccer’s success story of the season.

Reece: Do not assume I’ve ever beloved a footballer as a lot as I like Mo Salah proper now. The man is a king. Not simply an Egyptian one. However a King of Liverpool.

Si: That’s the reason he’s participant of the yr.

Pepe: Salah! I simply hit my head on the ceiling and I’ve bought 12ft ceilings! I am solely 5ft 9in. Salah, what a strike!

Nii: Please might somebody examine… is Mo Salah human. Wow, what a purpose.

Curt: Mohammed Salah Soccer Membership. That’s all… Mohammed Salah Soccer Membership. That’s all.

Khanyile: Mo Salah is solely excellent, even when you do not help Liverpool you simply gotta love him, he’s pleasure to look at, and his humility makes him much more likeable.

Shebab Khan: NEW: Prince William and Kate Middleton have named their third baby Mo Salah.

BBC Sport – Football ultras_FC_Barcelona

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terresdebrumestories · 7 years

Text

Chapter 1/4: Epic Fail

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Digimon Adventure 01/02/Tri RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 10 032 PAIRING(S): Endgame Taito, though the fic is primarily Taichi-centric. Side pairings include Takeru/Hikari and discussion of past Sorato. CHARACTER(S): Taichi Kamiya, Yamato Ishida, Hikari Kamiya, Takeru Takashi, Daisuke Motomiya, Agumon, Veemon, Gabumon, Sora Takenoushi, and mention of the rest of the gang. GENRE: Misapplied matchmaking. Also future!fic. TRIGGER WARNING(S): Depression and discussion thereof, including one briefly mentioned suicide attempt in chapter two. SUMMARY: In which Taichi has questionable ways to handle his issues, everyone tries to be nice, and Yamato yells at him a lot. Same old, same old, except for the part where they end up kissing.

[II. Rock Bottom] [III. Get up] [IV. Start over]

“You,” Yamato hisses into the phone before Taichi is even done greeting him, “are the worst meddler in the history of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Taichi replies without missing a beat, but all it gets him is a snort that ends on a jaw-cracking yawn.

There’s a sigh then, carrying the mental image of Yamato pinching at the bridge of his nose over the phone while Taichi tries to pull his socks on one-handed without falling on his face.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me you have nothing to do with Daisuke’s break up?”

“Okay, first of all,” Taichi corrects, eyebrows knitting in a frown of his own, “it’s not a break up when the people involved aren’t even dating. Second—come on, at least listen to me before you start groaning!”

Yamato mutters something about a headache, which Taichi hears as the jab it is even as the sound of a chair scrapping on floorboard rises and falls in the background, followed by the dull slap of a thick book falling shut. Taichi glances at the clock, and almost groans in turn when he realizes it’s past midnight in Paris, which means either Yamato forgot about calling him until it was time for him to go to sleep, or he stayed up just so he could yell at Taichi as fast as possible.

Freaking typical.

“Look,” he says instead of starting another argument—which, given his history and levels of irritation, he’s kind of grimly proud about—“he asked me if he should date that girl! All I said was that if he had to ask me then it might not be the best of ideas.”

“Which you knew was going to drive them apart,” Yamato says, but doesn’t ask. “But you still said it because she’s not one of us and you don’t like that.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it!” Taichi yelps, hating the way it makes him sound guiltier than he truly is or feels.

All he did was answer his roommate’s question and give a sincere piece of advice—Yamato may not like it, but that doesn’t make it wrong, thank you very much! Besides, it’s not like he’s telling Daisuke he should stop all kind of dating—or any dating at all really. If he’d tried to convince the guy to stay single, now that would have been egoistical and downright cruel, but Taichi has no motive of that kind, and he crosses his arms over his chest in annoyance, shoulders tightening when Yamato insists:

“Right. I assume it has nothing to do with wanting to keep him as a roommate either?”

“Of course not!” Taichi retorts, and he almost hangs up when Yamato sighs his ‘why are we even friends’ sigh. Instead, he insists: “It doesn’t, Yamato! I’m trying to spare him useless pain, why would you even think—”

“Because you’re still grumbling about Hikari and Takeru dating even after seven years—”

“I don’t mind them dating,” Taichi starts, but this time it’s Yamato’s turn to interrupt with:

“You tried to convince her their flat was too big,” he says, voice rising in volume and decreasing sharply, probably when he remembers the time it is at his place.

“Well it is a little—”

“It’s twenty square meters!” Yamato hisses, pitch climbing up as he makes obvious efforts to stay quiet, “And it’s not like it’s a new problem either—you’ve never really been okay with any of us dating.”

“I congratulated Mimi and Koush—wait, has she picked her new name yet?”

She only came out as a transgender woman a couple months ago, and she’s been hesitating on a new name ever since—it makes sense she’d want to take her time about it, but sometimes Taichi can’t help feeling like it’s a bit of an awkward situation.

“Not yet,” Yamato says after a moment of reflexion, tone calmer for the interruption. “But even if we overlook the fact that you also congratulated them on their breakup after only three months, your main source of happiness back then was, and I quote, that they ‘kept it in the family’.”

Taichi has to wince at that, because this was really not his shiniest moment. Still, he thinks as he locks his flat behind him and bypasses the elevator in favor of the stairs, more conductive to an argument, Yamato is definitely giving the incident more weight than it deserves.

“Alright,” he admits with a sigh even as he switches the staircase lights on, “the phrasing was a bit creepy but—”

“It was downright gross,” Yamato interrupts, apparently determined not to let anything slide, “and not just because of the wording—you can’t just act like there’s no one else we can date than other chosen children!”

“Well it’s not like anyone else is going to get what it’s like!”

It’s been fourteen years since their first trip to the Digiworld, and Yamato may dislike it but the fact remains that, as experience has proved numerous times, even the other groups of chosen children can’t quite share the experience. Turns out US-comics were wrong: when the strange monsters tried to destroy the earth, it’s Japan that got the worst of it.

It’s nobody’s fault, really, and Taichi hasn’t resented the fate he got saddled with in years now, but the other teams, they had it easy. And even if they hadn’t—even with the non-negligible amount of crap that fell on their noses—they didn’t go through it the same way Taichi and his friends have, they don’t carry the scars the same way they do. They have different cultures and different roles and different expectations and that’s okay...it just means not even them understand what the experience was like for the Odaiba kids.

“Daisuke doesn’t care,” Yamato says, voice muffled by a rustle of fabric against the phone receiver.

He must be getting ready for the night.

“How would you know that,” Taichi asks even though it is, admittedly, not the kindest argument to pick, “you barely even talk to him!”

“His sister does,” Yamato replies without a pause, but his voice sounds tighter around the words, “and so does yours, and they both agree he didn’t even seem to realize there was a difference to be felt until you shoved it in his head.”

Taichi didn’t think people could really splutter indignantly, but what he’s doing right now really does sound like it. It’s entirely Yamato’s fault, though, because the nerve—the willful misinterpretation is just—how dare he! Yes, sure, most of them are dealing with it okay—they’ve got mostly normal lives if you except the occasional star-struck Digimon and a recent offer for a documentary about their adventures from a very reputable history channel...and yes, sure, they’ve all got twelve other Chosen children—plus their Digimon partners—to confide in and rely on, and that plays a lot.

It doesn’t erase everything though—Taichi has yet to hear about a group of friends who’s faced as many cases of depression, of nightmares, of random outbursts and awkward moments as theirs has, and Yamato of all people should know how hard it can be to go through this.

To mention that would be a low blow, though, and Taichi steers away from the argument, bringing up his other concern instead:

“You haven’t met the girl,” he says, “there’s something off about her!”

“Akiko’s biggest flaw is that she’s not one of the people we’ve been exclusively hanging out with since fifth grade,” Yamato snaps, “and you know it. Maybe I haven’t seen her, but I know she’s as much of a scatterbrained dork as Daisuke, which—”

“Now you’re making it sound like he’s stupid!” Taichi protests.

He hears Yamato stutter a bit—there’s echo in the background, almost drowned out by the sound of traffic on Taichi’s end of the line, but it does still sound like Yamato has retreated to the bathroom—before he recovers and hisses:

“He dropped out of school to open a noodle cart for fuck’s sake!”

“Which he’s paying his part of the rent with,” Taichi points out, “and it’ll cover the rest of his expenses too, so if you think he doesn’t deserve better than a simple waitress just because—”

Yamato swears on the other end of the phone, and Taichi does groan at that, temples beating with a headache even as he reaches his bus stop and glares at the street. Stupid Yamato, shoving his stupid face on the other side of the stupid world, like there aren’t any decent universities in Japan offering the stupid biology degree he decided to go for.

At least if he’d stayed, they could have this stupid argument face to face and settle it over a cup of tea or whatever.

“Do you even hear yourself talking?” Yamato asks when he’s done hissing invectives into the phone, “’he deserves better than a simple waitress’, seriously? Did we take a jump back to the eighteenth century I wasn’t aware of?”

“All I’m saying,” Taichi ties to say, only to be interrupted right away, real anger cracking through Yamato’s voice this time:

“All you’re saying is you’ll literally grasp at any reason Daisuke shouldn’t date Akiko, all because you can’t stand the idea of him leaving you behind like your sister did!”

“Hikari didn’t leave me behind,” Taichi protests, hand closing tighter against his phone, “she texts me almost as much as you do!”

“And yet,” Yamato retorts, sarcasm dripping from his voice thick enough Taichi can hear it over the bustle of commuters climbing on and exiting the bus, “you still act like she did, including with this.”

Yamato sighs, like he’s had this conversation far too often already—he hasn’t, Taichi would know—and insists:

“I know you don’t mean to hurt anyone, Taichi, but that’s what you’re going to do if you keep going that way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Taichi says, annoyed enough by now that he barely notices the streets his bus is driving by, and nearly misses the stop for his university, “I’m not going to hurt him.”

On the other end of the line, Yamato’s snort—wrapped in the sound of running water, possibly because he’s run out of patience and decided to brush his teeth in the middle of a conversation like some kind of animal—is quite explicit as to how much he believes that. Taichi takes a deep breath and counts the steps from his bus stop to the university gates before he has a chance to explode.

There’s a bit of scratching, the sound of someone spitting, and Yamato sighs again:

“There’s only thirteen of us in Japan, remember? And none of the girls are available. That’s a pretty limited dating pool you’re building him.”

“Mimi and Miyako are into dudes,” Taichi points out, but even he can’t argue when Yamato scoffs.

“Mimi is even farther away from Japan than I am and she’s not the long-distance relationship type. And the very idea of Daisuke and Miyako in any kind of romantic relationship is just begging for disaster.”

“Okay,” Taichi admits, because he may be as stubborn as Yamato, but even he knows a losing battle when he sees one, “no girl available. But Daisuke is bisexual.”

“And who do you think is going to date him? You, Iori, or me?”

“I don’t want to date Daisuke!” Taichi protests, ears warming up a tad too fast.

He’s not the last to call Daisuke easy on the eyes—to the guy’s face, even!—and he may or may not have toyed with the idea a little on one of the rare occasions he drank too much, but the truth of it is, aside from the rather obvious lack of romantic attraction there, that would make things even more awkward when well-meaning strangers mistake them for brothers.

Really, they’re better off as friends.

“Well,” Yamato deadpans, “then considering I’m not interested in dating him—”

“You’re not interested in dating, period,” Taichi replies, unable to hide the hint of triumph in his voice.

“It’s not about my issues, Taichi,” Yamato half-sighs, half-yawns as a door clicks shut in the background, “I’m not interested in anything remotely close to romantic with Daisuke, which leaves him with Iori, and I’m pretty sure his partners would murder Daisuke in less than a day.”

“Ken isn’t dating anyone.”

“I don’t think you’ll get our second token straight to date a guy.”

“We don’t know that he is,” Taichi protests, lowering his voice as he nears his classroom, fifteen minutes early, “he could still be in the closet.”

“We’ve hit every stripe on the rainbow-meter,” Yamato deadpans in a rustle of sheets, “either he’s straight or he’s clearly not ready for dating.” A yawn. “And even if I’m wrong, you can’t just play pair the spares with our friends.”

“They’re barely even your friends,” Taichi snaps.

It’s a low blow and he knows it—Yamato may not speak with Daisuke on a regular basis, but he’s already demonstrated he was willing to go the extra mile for the guy’s sake anyway. Out of all the chosen children Taichi knows of, Yamato is probably the one whose bond to the rest of their little community are the strongest—there’s a reason why the rallying point shifted from Taichi to him in later years, after all.

Yamato’s relationship to Daisuke is still nowhere close to what he and Taichi have, though, or even to what exists between Yamato and Jyou, or Koushiro, whatever name she might end up picking. Yamato is a devoted friend, and so is Daisuke—it’s just easy to see their circles aren’t exactly perfect matches.

“Fuck you,” Yamato replies, the gritting of his teeth almost audible even through the phone, “you don’t get to tell me I’m a bad friend when you’re the one about to send him head first into the fucking wall!”

“He and Ken like each other,” Taichi replies, ears burning at him without it being enough to stop him.

“So did Sora and I,” Yamato spits—this time Taichi forgets to keep an indoor voice when he protests:

“That was different!”

He wasn’t privy to the whole disaster—there are things about those five years of dating (and one year of post-breakup chilly awkwardness) not even Takeru knows about, both the former couple and their Digimons incredibly tight-lipped about the whole affair. Taichi stood by the two of them throughout it all though, left them in peace when they needed him to, yelled at them when they needed him to, and collected the freaking pieces when they needed him to.

He may not have seen the car crash, but he was there for the clean up and oh, boy, is he glad he had help with that, because he’d have ended up in the gutter right alongside them if the others hadn’t picked up the slack.

At some point it almost seemed like their group wouldn’t survive the shift.

“We liked each other,” Yamato repeats. “See how ridiculous you sound now?”

“Look, it sucked—big time,” Taichi agrees, because there was never any way to beat around that particular bush, “but Ken and Daisuke are older—they know what their sexualities are by now.”

“I didn’t at their age.”

Taichi swallows back another, more pointed low blow—he can still hear Yamato’s anger simmering under the thin layer of ice in his voice, and putting a spark to it now would really be asking for an explosion. Instead, he says:

“Hikari and Takeru are happy.”

“Exception that confirms the rule,” Yamato replies with a hint of dark humor, “the rest of our intra-dating attempts only ever ended up bitting us in the ass. I’m pretty sure we’ve all had enough of dating other Digisaviors for a lifetime, thank you very much.”

“Digisaviors?” Taichi repeats with a blink, “where the hell did you pick that?”

“That’s what they call us in France,” Yamato brushes off, “don’t try to drop the topic. I’m your friend, okay? And as a friend I’m telling you you’re about to fuck up big time and you need to stop.”

“And I am telling you, you’re wrong.”

There’s a break in the conversation while Gabumon’s sleepy voice whines in the distance—poor guy must have had a hard time staying asleep with Yamato talking almost nonstop for the last, what? Half hour? How is he even still awake anyway? Last Taichi checked, Yamato went out like a light at eight PM like the old man he’s always secretly been.

Taichi listens to his friend apologize to his partner in a more subdued voice—frowning when they switch to French for a couple of sentences before Yamato sighs-yawns again:

“You’re a brilliant politician,” he says, and Taichi’s chest warms at the words, even though he can’t quite manage a smile for it after such a long-winded argument, “but sometimes when it comes to our friends you’re so oblivious you make me want to slap you across the phone.”

“Well screw you too,” Taichi replies as the door opens up to let the previous class out, “I’ve got class. Bye.”

He hangs up before Yamato can say anything else, and spends the rest of the morning ignoring the weird mix of satisfaction and nausea hanging at the edge of his stomach.

{ooo}

Hikari and Takeru, when Taichi visits them for the first time, look nauseatingly domestic. It hasn’t even been three months since they moved in together—a fact which, Taichi might add, none of their parents were ecstatic about—but their cupboard of a studio looks homely and lived-in already. It’s tiny, sure, and the fold-up couch at the back looks enormous, cramped as it is between the tiniest of bathroom and a cooking area that barely deserves the name, but the kids move through it like they wouldn’t give up the occasional bump for all the space in the world.

Taichi kind of wants to gag, but that would be pushing it.

“I still think you’re too young,” he mutters around his cup of tea, and while Takeru stays silent—although close as he is, it’s impossible to mistake the way he stiffens at the words—Hikari doesn’t share the same restraints:

“If you start this conversation again,” she says with a daring look in her eyes, “I will kick you out.”

Taichi manages half of a placating gesture with his right hand while the left keeps his mug close to his mouth, hiding his face from view. The words press at the edge of his lips, lemon-sour against his tongue, but even he can only have the same conversation so many times before he gives up, and he’s had the this one with Hikari often enough that he knows her arguments by heart now.

‘We haven’t been kids since 1999, haven’t been at peace for that long ever, haven’t got any reason to breakup, haven’t got any reason to wait’—Taichi has heard it all.

If he’s being very honest with himself—he doesn’t like to, where this topic is concerned—Taichi is also capable of admitting that all these ‘we haven’t’s come shadowed in a lot of ‘we have’s. ‘We’ve been supporting and helping and understanding each other since before we were ten,’ Hikari probably thinks, but never quite says, ‘we’ve been sent to war younger than anyone else, we have a right to enter peace early, too’.

Maybe they do.

It doesn’t mean Taichi has to approve.

“Fine,” he says anyway, because there’s a difference between disapproving his sister’s choice and actively antagonizing her over it, “so how do you guys keep this place clean? Did my sister move in with a neat freak?”

“Of all the possible subjects,” Hikari starts with a long-suffering sigh, but Takeru beats her to it:

“Sorry, wrong brother.”

“It’s a dual effort,” Hikari approves, tone still stiff, while her boyfriend throws Taichi a worried look.

Taichi’s lips lift at that, thin and short-lived. He hasn’t forgotten the way he argued with Yamato last week—hasn’t missed the absence of texts other than the automated ‘go eat something’ Yamato sends so Taichi won’t forget one too many meals in profit of his political sciences textbooks and drop dead in a pool of his own sweat.

(Yamato’s words, not Taichi’s.)

Despite it all though, it’s impossible not to remember how insanely ordered Yamato’s bedroom always seemed whenever Taichi visited the Ishida’s, before Yamato decided a year in Moscow to learn Russian wasn’t long or far enough away and picked a French university for his higher education.

“How do you keep things clean?” Hikari asks after a pause—Taichi may have gotten a little sidetracked there, because she’s gone from irritated to almost worried in record time.

“Dual effort,” Taichi replies, deliberately paraphrasing her, although it sounds more flat than teasing, even to his own ears. “We clean up after ourselves in the common areas and we deal with our own rooms. Why, how many centimeters of filth did you think I lived in?”

Hikari’s fingers twitch, same as they do whenever their parents get a little too overbearing during their weekly phone calls, and Taichi almost takes offense at that—he’s ready to admit he didn’t start his visit in the best way, but there’s nothing to be annoyed about in what he just said, honestly!

“We’re just a little worried,” Takeru says in a soothing tone, one hand landing on Hikari’s shoulder all casual like, as if Taichi weren’t going to notice the way his thumb rubs circles over her jumper, “you’ve seemed a little down since we moved in here and—”

“It’s the end of November,” Taichi points out with a roll of his eyes before Takeru can finish his sentence, “I’ve got a ton of exams coming up. Of course I’m tired.”

He doesn’t miss the glance floating between Takeru and Hikari—doesn’t miss the little twist of Takeru’s lips like he’s seeing something he was bracing himself for—and he’s a little more forceful than he should be when he sets his cup down on the tiny coffee table:

“You know I can take care of myself, right? I’ve got the rent covered—”

“It’s not the rent I’m wo—”

“I know how to operate a washing machine and a vacuum cleaner, I can even cook, contrary to what your brother likes to pretend!”

“Hey, let’s not get Yamato involved,” Takeru says, raising his hands in defense, but Taichi’s annoyance is loose now, and he doesn’t really try to restrain himself when he says:

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t need me to involve him in pretty much every aspects of my life, he does that perfectly well on his own!”

Both Hikari and Takeru’s eyes widen at his words, and Taichi has to make a conscious effort to stay seated, breathe in deep and swallow some of his anger down. They’re trying to look out for him, he reminds himself. Sure, they’re insulting him—and possibly Daisuke, a little—when they act like he��s going to crash and burn now his little sister has left him behind, despite the presence of a roommate who proved a perfectly sensible leader and friend in difficult time.

Still, their hearts are in the right place, and Taichi clings to that for as long as it takes to calm himself down—at least until he’s reasonably sure he won’t let his words say imply things he doesn’t really mean.

“Look,” he manages after a while—the others, he notes, have waited him out, like defusing a bomb, and the thought makes him clench his fists together—“Daisuke and I may not be in the same state of domestic bliss as you, but that doesn’t mean we’re headed for disaster either, thank you very much.”

They share a look again—full of things they’ve already discussed to hell and back, Taichi bets, full of things they don’t want him to hear although, judging by the way they look at him afterwards, he might be concerned anyway.

“Okay,” Hikari says at last, articulation as careful as the hand she extends to touch Taichi’s knuckles with, “it’s just that I’ve—I’m a little concerned about that thing with the waitress—”

“Oh my—” Taichi cuts himself off to brush a hand over his face, “let me guess, Yamato called you?”

“I learned it from Daisuke,” Hikari replies, eyebrows drawing together, “I didn’t know Yamato knew you were involved.”

“When does he not know a thing about me?” Taichi scoffs, “Whatever I don’t tell him he can learn from any of us—even my own sister, apparently!”

“First of all,” Hikari counters, visibly refusing to back down, “I’ve already said I didn’t tell him about what you did. And secondly, can you really blame us? He’s the one who gets the best results when it comes to getting through to you!”

“He’s on the other side of the freaking world,” Taichi snaps at her, getting on his feet, “you guys need to stop pretending like he can control my life from there.”

“Nobody thinks that!” Takeru yelps, indignation written all over his features,but Taichi doesn’t believe him.

People running to Yamato as soon as they have a problem with Taichi—or what he’s doing, or how he’s living, apparently—is nothing new, of course, but for the love of everything, the guy left Japan over eight years ago, it’s time everyone started getting with the program!

“Look,” Taichi says, kind of proud of how he manages to keep his voice level despite the abrupt urge to yell until everyone leaves him alone, “I’ve got Agumon and Daisuke, I’m doing fine, and I don’t need Yamato to chaperon me, thank you very much.”

He gets to his feet after that, gathers his things and leaves before Hikari or Takeru can protest—before one of them can say something that will be blown out of proportion and they have a real argument.

Then he goes home, settles into some old comedy reruns with Agumon by his side and some leftover pizza in his plate, and waits until Daisuke comes home so he can investigates the guy’s feeling for Ken a little more thoroughly and finally clear the day’s frustrations and contrarieties out of his mind.

{ooo}

For a few days, Taichi worries Hikari’s intervention—and the text-based mutual apology they engage in the day after—means she’ll try to get more involved in his life again. Part of him wouldn’t mind, but she is his little sister: he’s the one that should take care of her, not the reverse. Much like the rest of their group, though, Hikari is simply too busy to make time for anything that isn’t her immediate life.

Taichi himself barely even leaves his flat unless he’s got classes or he needs to attend a work meeting in person which, given most of his meetings involve Digimon—and therefore a webcam or two—is getting fairly rare. The end result is that he shares his time between studying, trying to convince his country’s government to officially condemn the USA’s decision to maintain Digimons’ legal status as pets, and the blissful, mind-numbing relief of bad comedy and not wearing that isn’t at least at pajamas-levels of comfort.

He gets a couple of texts from Sora inviting him over to Kyoto—refuses, too tired to bother with the effort after so much mental exhaustion—and a long email from Kou’ he has yet to answer—he wants to, he does, but it’s kind of hard writing something long when the only thing you have time for in your life is work, work, work, and some bits of university crammed in there. Taichi can barely make time for Agumon these days, he can’t be blamed for not joining the others on their outings, collective or not!

The only positive effect of this, really, is that studying until the small hours of night means more chances of catching Yamato in the middle of his day, which means they end up texting even more than they did before their fight, saving Taichi’s social life from being entirely limited to his own flat.

Ken’s visit are a good thing, too, but for different reasons.

He’s constantly around these days. He pretends he’s there to see Taichi, which is a little ridiculous—then again, maybe Yamato’s theory has merit and the kid isn’t quite ready to put himself out there—but he’s always willing to talk about Daisuke—or Veemon, or the things he and Wormon do with the other two—whenever Taichi steers the conversation in that direction.

It’s adorable in how oblivious Ken thinks Taichi is, and kind of refreshing in the innocence of the scheme, although Taichi sometimes wants to tell Ken being more forward, or at least talking to Daisuke, would be more efficient.

Either way, though, his matchmaking projects are looking quite auspicious, and while he tries to keep them to himself so he can avoid Yamato’s disbelieving sarcasm and reproaches, Taichi can’t help but feel very satisfied by his good work.

{ooo}

“I will never understand,” Yamato sighs into the phone in the middle of a Saturday night in early-December, “how you can be such a brilliant politician and fail so completely at understanding people at the same time.”

“I’m going to pretend I only heard the nice part of this,” Taichi says, stretching his legs under his parents’ kotatsu, “but only because I feel magnanimous.”

His parents treated him to the best home-made meal ever for lunch—or at least the endless chain of instant ramen and leftover junk food he survives on when Daisuke doesn’t bring noodles back from work made it feel that way—there’s a heater roasting at his feet, and so far he’s spent his afternoon doing exactly nothing but watch Agumon snore the time away between two micro-naps of his own. Throw in his mother’s solicitude—her constant concern over his well being just short of overbearing—and the satisfaction of being positively toasty when it’s only six or seven degrees out, and you’d be hard pressed to find more mollifying conditions.

“I’ll repeat myself then,” Yamato replies, something sizzling on his end of the line.

Taichi glances at the kitchen clock, and raises an eyebrow when he realizes it must be around eight AM in France...by Yamato’s standard, it’s a positively indecent time to be having breakfast.

“You suck at figuring out what the rest of us want.”

“I don’t!” Taichi protests, patience shrinking faster than snow on a Meramon as he straightens up, “I told you, Ken just keeps talking about Daisuke—”

“Do you even let him talk about anything else?” Yamato interrupts with far too much sarcasm, “Maybe he’d be happy to talk about your job, too.”

“My job is boring,” Taichi replies with a shrug, nodding at his mom when she comes to sit beside him with her crosswords, “why would he want to ask about it?”

“He’s polite,” Yamato replies without missing a beat—the sizzling stops, replaced by the sound of a pan scrapping against something hard, and a persistent buzzing coming to an abrupt halt before Yamato continues: “he genuinely cares about you—oh and also you’re one of the people who has the most influence on whether or not Digimon will be allowed in the police force.”

“I’m not that influent, Yamato.”

“Fine,” Yamato deadpans, “maybe he’s just doing this because Hikari and I asked him to check in on you since he’s the one that lives closest to you with the most free time.”

“Right,” Taichi snorts, opening and closing his free hand into a fist near his head for his mother’s benefit, “like I’m going to believe that.”

“Then we’re back to the ‘your work is not boring’ part of that conversation,” Yamato concludes, so matter of fact Taichi can almost see him shrug.

“Please,” Taichi protests with a grunt loud enough to make his mother turn away from her crosswords and back at him, “last week I had to talk a bunch of Numemons not to attack the prime—”

“There was an attack?”

Taichi turns to look at his mother—the worried lines around her mouth and under her eyes, the frown crinkling at her eyebrows as her knuckles whiten around her pencil—and almost wants to slap himself in the face for being so careless. He’s usually better at controlling his vocabulary—but then it’s harder to remember when he’s talking to one of the others.

Now his mother looks pale and tense, bracing herself for the worse before Taichi can even blink, and he can’t blame her for it—he knows he can’t, not with everything he already put her through—but that doesn’t prevent the spark of irritation blooming in his chest, tightening the fingers of his free hand around his thigh as he reassures her:

“With stink bombs, mom. It’s gross, but it’s not dangerous.”

“Really?” His mother insists, and Taichi clamps down hard on the wave of annoyance roiling against his stomach.

“Yes,” he promises, hating the way it’s not enough to placate his mother’s worrying.

“Would you tell me if it was?” She insists, and Taichi sort of wants to answer ‘no’.

He never has, after all—not when he was a kid and it could have meant getting out of things entirely, not when he was a preteen he wasn’t even directly involved, not when he was a teenager and he and his sister cried into her shoulder for almost an hour. What else was he supposed to do, anyway? It’s not like she could have done anything but sit and wait, none of the people actually involved having time to stop and explain the situation to her—Taichi has done a lot of that when he was a kid, watching doctors and nurses busy themselves with his little sister without realizing there was another child there. He wasn’t about to put her through that as well.

He started counting the weeks until he could move out of the family flat when he peed his bed a few days after Yamato left for his semester in Moscow, and hasn’t even dreamed of coming back ever since.

“You know what,” he tells his mother, face aching with a stiff smile, “I think I’m going to take this call outside.”

“Sweetie,” his mother tries, easily sensing the distance, “you don’t have to—”

“No, it’s okay,” Taichi tells her, getting to his feet before she can touch him, “I’m feeling stuffy anyway. I can use the fresh air.”

He gives his mother one last would-be reassuring grimace, and tries not to look too obvious in his flight as he steps out on the balcony with nothing but slippers and a thick pullover to protect him from the cold. He sighs as soon as the glass door slides shut behind him, and purposefully keeps his gaze fixed on the skyline so he doesn’t have to watch his mother instead.

“Outsider freak out?” Yamato asks after a while, voice softer than before.

“It’s my fault,” Taichi says with a shrug—his voice is a little thick, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to catch a cold out there, so he doesn’t let it bother him too much—“I slipped.”

Yamato hums in response, and Taichi almost asks if Yamato thinks he should have known better, too, but his stomach constricts at the thought, and the question leaves a bitter taste of bile in his mouth when he swallows it down. Instead, what he asks is:

“Does it ever happen to you?”

“Like I talk to my parents enough for them to freak out.”

“Takeru could,” Taichi says, but Yamato scoffs.

“To my mother, maybe. Not the old man, though.”

Taichi nods at that, and then Yamato tells him to wait before he starts saying something in French—Taichi has no idea what. He’s not surprised by Yamato’s dismissal—has spent enough nights at the Ishida residence before Yamato left the country to take an educated guess as to why his friend is so close-lipped around his family—but that doesn’t prevent his heart from sinking as he listens to Yamato exchanges what must be goodbyes with his grandfather.

It’s hard to understand that kind of situation when you haven’t lived it, after all, and Taichi doesn’t need someone who doesn’t get it right now.

“Pappy flipped out once,” Yamato says after silence has stretched between them for several seconds with no ending in sight, “it was definitely my fault. We...talk more. Since then.”

“Do you tell him about the nightmares?”

Yamato makes a garbled noise around his breakfast that could mean anything from ‘I don’t have nightmares’--Taichi has countless middle-of-the-night texts and conversations that say otherwise—to ‘we sit at the kitchen table and swap war stories: I talk about Digimons and he talks about killing Nazis’ —or whatever Yamato’s grandfather did back in the French Resistance. Something in Taichi’s stomach twists at the sound, somewhere between envy and sadness, and since he can’t quite figure out which is which he decides to go back to safer grounds:

“Well, we can’t prevent them from worrying,” he says, trying to sound more cheerful than he really is, “but at least we can rejoice in the future success of operation Kensuke—and shut up, it’s a great portmanteau.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Yamato deadpans, and it’s easy to reply:

“You were about to.”

“You never know,” Yamato says with a rattle of cutlery jostling around in a plate, “if reason doesn’t work maybe aesthetics will.”

Taichi blows a raspberry into the phone out of principles more than anything else and, unsurprisingly enough, the only thing they exchange from then on is childish bickering, until Yamato has to beg out of the conversation so he can go attend his latest bootcamp. Taichi pretends to think Yamato is just admitting defeat, but the truth is he can’t feel his toes anymore and it’s a relief to come inside. He rubs some warmth back into his arms, wincing as returning blood prickles along his veins, and then startles when he realizes his mother is still there, looking at him like he just did something adorable.

Taichi hasn’t seen that kind of smile on her—or on his father, for that matter—since he was a child trying to act older than he was for his sister’s sake. The Digiworld and its host of complications erased that smile right off Taichi’s parents’ face when it turned out he really had to make decisions that should have been far beyond his years, and seeing it back because of something as simple as a conversation with his best friend makes Taichi pause.

“What?”

“I was just thinking how much you’ve grown,” his mother says, a touch of nostalgia gracing the edges of her smile, “not so long ago a disagreement with Yamato would have ended in a shouting match.”

Taichi’s face floods with heat, and he looks to the ground as he remembers a week of near complete silence in the aftermath of what should have been a fairly innocent argument. ‘I’m twenty five, ‘ma,’ he mutters instead of telling her about that.

She’s still smiling when he leaves, and that’s worth more than the exact truth.

{ooo}

He manages to phone Sora a few days before 2013 turns into 2014, and catching up with her somehow manages to shave something like ten years off his shoulders. It’s early in life, maybe, to think like that, but that doesn’t prevent Taichi from feeling the difference when the weight vanishes.

He’s not sure how they get around to discussing Daisuke and his growing crush on Ken, but he does know how flabbergasted he feels when she says:

“I just hope it’s not going to go too far.”

Taichi blinks at her through the video chat window, face owlish enough that Biyomon giggles at him from behind Sora’s shoulder. He’s a little too caught off guard to care though, because what on Earth?

“What do you mean, ‘too far?’”

“Well Ken is clearly not interested,” Sora explains with a wide shrugs—she pauses to answer a presumably important text before she finishes: “if Daisuke falls in love with him it’s going to make things really awkward. And painful.”

“Or not,” Taichi manages after chasing his own voice for a few seconds, “might be you’re wrong and they’re going to be perfectly happy together.”

Sora’s shoulders move like she’s putting their hands together—picking at the skin around her nails, maybe—and then she mumbles:

“Maybe.”

She sounds skeptical, at best, and changes the topic fast after that, grilling Taichi on his work and home life. He lies a little—makes up a couple of solitary outings just to spare himself the shame of admitting his social life has pretty much vanished, and does his best to sound like Digital World diplomacy is as fascinating a topic as it was when he started out—but mostly sticks to things that would be true if he wasn’t so busy and tired.

He brushes her off—gently—when she tries to warn him again, though. She may have the crest of love but she’s too far to have real clarity on the situation, and Taichi isn’t that brainless thank you very much.

{ooo}

It takes some effort not to gloat when Ken’s visits increase after their group’s New Year reunion—Taichi didn’t miss the effort Ken put in preparing the whole event and while simple kindness was definitely involved in the process, it certainly doesn’t explain the kid’s enthusiasm about it, or how much discussion of Daisuke’s qualities, life and project he can endure. Even Taichi is getting a little tired of the topic, and he’s the one who usually starts with it!

He’s had to slow down a bit in the past few days, because Wormon asked if Taichi was interested in Daisuke which wouldn’t be a problem if not for the fact that it isn’t what Taichi is going for at all. Besides, knowing Ken’s tendency to close up when he’s upset—second only to Yamato in that regard—if Taichi doesn’t set him straight, pun completely unintended, he might end up giving up on what might turn out to be the best thing of his life.

That would honestly be unacceptable.

So, Taichi makes it clear he’s not interested in Daisuke that way, keeps encouraging both Ken and Daisuke’s attention to the other, and celebrates with a much deserved sake shot one night—or maybe more like two or three.

(Agumon and Daisuke freak out when they find the bottle—not even half empty—so Taichi decides not to have a long-distance toast with Yamato about it, but that doesn’t prevent him from cheering a little every time he spots even the smallest sign of progress in his project.)

{ooo}

Taichi spends most of the weekend after New Year’s sitting on his TV with leftover cereals, watching reruns of Takeshi’s Castle while the others are either out or, in Agumon’s case, visiting a Tokomon village on File Continent. It’s not a bad program: it keeps complicated thoughts at bay and lets him idle the day away without guilt, which is all he’s asking for these days.

He spends an unusually bright Sunday morning like that, ignoring the world around him until someone runs up to his door—the footsteps echo through the corridor for a long moment before there’s banging on the door, and Ken’s voice calls out Taichi’s name through the wood. Taichi blinks and sighs at the sounds, peeling himself from the couch with the ache of too little movement in his joints before he makes his way to the door.

“Oh my—are you alright?” Ken manages, out of breath, when Taichi opens the door and nearly brains him in the process, “You weren’t answering your phone!”

“...I was sleeping?” Taichi replies, shaping the words with more care than entirely necessary, “what’s the matter?”

“Yamato tried to call you six time,” Ken replies, breathing slowly getting back to a normal rhythm, “you didn’t answer!”

“No,” Taichi repeats, more slowly, “because I was sleeping.”

It’s far too early for Yamato to be calling though—it must be around three AM in Paris right now, which is closer to late yesterday than it is to early this morning, and Taichi frowns when he realizes there’s only one possible explanation for the disruption.

“What happened?” He asks Ken even as he rushes back to his bedroom to retrieve his laptop, “Is Mr. Takashi going to be alright?”

“What?”

“Mr. Takashi!” Taichi repeats, opening his laptop in the same breath, “If it were a Digimon thing you’d have led with that so Yamato called for something else, and unless something happened to him or Gabumon, then it’s got to be his grandfather, so how is he?”

“I don’t know,” Ken replies, crossing his arms over his shoulders, “Yamato didn’t mention.”

Taichi pauses, confused.

“Then why on earth is he calling that early?”

“Taichi, it’s not early,” Ken says with the same careful enunciation Taichi used earlier, “it’s almost five PM.”

Taichi stares at Ken over the edge of his laptop, the orange glow of his screen almost painfully bright between them while he scrambles to gather his thoughts, and yet only manages a feeble:

“What?”

“It’s almost five PM,” Ken repeats like Taichi might break if the news is delivered too abruptly, “Yamato asked me to check in on you because you missed your phone call.”

“I—ju—what?” Taichi stutters, still unable to make full use of his braincells, “what do you mean he asked you to check in on me?”

“Well,” Ken answers with a heavy blush, “we’ve all been sort of worried about you lately, and you didn’t seem ready to listen, so I agreed to keep an eye on you...then when you didn’t answer on Skype or on your phone, Yamato asked me to pop by and I just...trusted his instincts, I guess.”

“...what?”

Ken’s face goes from flushed to beet red in record time, and Taichi almost feels his own eyes turn into panicked spirals as one realization follows another and he all but yells:

“What do you mean, you were keeping an eye on me?”

“Like said,” Ken says, shoving his hands behind his back, “we were all worried...I’m the one who lives closest, and your place is on my way from the academy, that’s all. Why did you think I spent so much time here?”

“To see Daisuke?” Taichi replies, hoping the high-pitch of his voice doesn’t erase the ‘duh’ from it.

“I see him every day while he works,” Ken points out, puzzlement pushing at the edge of his obvious discomfort, “I can talk to him there. Besides, if I were visiting him, I’d at least talk to him.”

“Okay,” Taichi answers, bringing his hands up to rub at the slowly-forming migraine between his temples, “so you’re...not interested in him?”

Ken blinks and looks down at his crossed arms as if expecting Wormon to be there—as if looking for comfort in the shared confusion—before he shakes his head with a helpless little shrug and says:

“You know I’m straight, don’t you? I mean. I’m actually demiromantic, but I’m still not interested in men.”

Taichi’s eyes widen, heart hammering louder and louder in his ears and against his ribcage as he absorbs the enormity of his mistake.

Months—he’s spent months encouraging Daisuke’s crush, shedding as much of a positive light on the prospective match as he could manage, plotting and congratulating himself on a project well-managed, and all that for what, exactly?

He shies away from the answer like stepping back from the edge of a cliff you were about to fall off of, clenches his fingers into fists, and tries to breathe deeply through his nose. What does his reasons matter? The result is exactly the same: he was warned against this. Extensively so, even, but it wasn’t enough to stop him, and now Daisuke’s the one who’s going to pay the price.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, “what have I—”

“It’s okay,” Ken interrupts, clearly misreading his intent, “what matters is you’re safe.”

Taichi looks back at Ken’s face then—stares at the concern in his dark eyes—and tries to listen to his friend’s word while his brain slowly turns into some bland cotton-candy thing.

“It’s just—you’ve lost a lot of weight in the past few months,” Ken says like he’s reciting a list, “you haven’t been playing soccer—Hikari said you didn’t even eat much even when your mom was cooking. And then Yamato told us you sounded bored about your work and you’d started texting him at odd hours—it wasn’t that hard to put two and two together.”

Taichi frowns at that, going over Ken’s speech in his head—abrupt weight loss, lack of appetite, loss of enthusiasm...and okay, he woke up at five today, but that’s just because work and university left him positively exhausted for heaven’s sake!

“You think I’m depressed?” He asks anyway, just to confirm—he manages to be disappointed at the way Ken’s face softens no matter what, and squashes the feeling as hard and fast as he can manage. “I’m not depressed,” he promises.

“Taichi,” Ken starts, but Taichi cuts him off:

“I’m really not. I’m just super tired—I see how it can look that way, but just because it looks like it doesn’t mean I am.”

“In my experience,” Ken starts, but Taichi cuts him off with a raised hand:

“Ken, I’m not depressed. Stop worrying, and tell the others too—I’m fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have something important to take care of.”

He all but pushes Ken out of the apartment after that, deploying considerable amounts of energy on convincing the guy not to worry—it doesn’t look like it works but, at last, Taichi is alone again, and he can finally catch a breath.

After all, if he’s going to have to break a friend’s heart—all through his own usual, pathological, bullheaded stupidity—he might as well take some time to figure out the least bad way of doing that.

If it even exists, that is.

{ooo}

Daisuke looks down at his hands while Taichi’s face catches fire, sweat boiling under his armpits while the burning heat of shame licks at his neck and ears.

It’s only been a couple of hours since Ken left the flat, and maybe Taichi could have given himself more time before he had to face this conversation, but what would have been the point? Delaying things protects no one but himself, and if anything he deserves the discomfort after what he did. He’s the bearer of Courage, dammit! He’s supposed to be a leader—to keep his team safe—and all he’s done lately is set one of them up for heartbreak while he made all the others worry!

Suffering for it won’t change anything to the situation, but at least it should ease his mind.

“I really am sorry,” he promises for what must be the third time in as many minutes, “I don’t—I shouldn’t have encouraged you without knowing...I shouldn’t even have gotten involved at all, actually. I never meant for you to get hurt—I’m so sorry.”

“Well,” Daisuke starts, almost—but not quite—managing to hide the shiver in his voice, “you were trying to help. That happens.”

Taichi opens his mouth to answer—tries to nod in assent and accept the forgiveness he’s so readily presented with—but the words stick at the back of his throat and he looks at the ground instead, fingers digging so hard in the flesh of his thighs even his knuckles ache. He stays silent, and lets the weight of his shame drag his shoulders down, down, down, until he’s almost kissing his own knees.

He barely resists the urge to bang his head against the bones when, after a long, painful silence, Daisuke leaves the living room and slams the door to his bedroom shut behind him.

{ooo}

“I can’t even believe anyone thought I’d make a good ambassador,” Taichi tells Yamato when he catches him on the phone a several hours later, “I’m so—so—stupid and selfish!”

Yamato half-yawns, half-grunts into the phone, and Taichi listens to the rustle of fabric on his friend’s end of the line, followed with another soft grunt when—Taichi assumes—Yamato realizes what time it is.

It strikes him, now, that there is quite a lot of irony in waking someone late at night so he can complain about being too selfish, but then the damage is already done by now—and Yamato will just call back if Taichi hangs up anyway.

“Sorry,” he says nonetheless, glad, for once, that Agumon isn’t here to witness the interaction, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“Calm down, it’s barely past nine here,” Yamato tells him in a whisper—Gabumon must be sleeping in the same room, meaning Taichi could end up indirectly waking the Digimon up as well.

Things just get better and better.

“The real question is why are you up at five AM?”

“You were right about Daisuke,” Taichi admits in lieu of an answer, ears still burning, “about Ken—about everything.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line—Taichi imagines he can hear Yamato frown, impossible though he knows it to be.

“I assume,” Yamato says in a careful tone, “that you apologized already and he didn’t take it too well?”

“He took it very well, actually,” Taichi admits in a tight voice, “better than I had any right to hope for. He thought I was just trying to be nice.”

“So you set him straight.”

Taichi swallows around the thick lump in his throat—refuses to let the burn of his eyelids become anything more, even if it takes some loud, deep breathing Yamato is sure to identify. At least the living room is dark now, and neither Daisuke nor Veemon have given any indication they wanted to come out so far.

“I didn’t even have enough guts for that,” Taichi admits, shame rushing back to life with the words, “I just sat there and let him figure it out for himself.”

“At least you didn’t lie,” Yamato points out, tone more gentle than it has any right to be—it stiffens Taichi’s back, claws at his throat until he hisses:

“You sound like you don’t even mind!”

“Fine. You were stupid, pigheaded and selfish, and you got Daisuke hurt, just like I said you would,” Yamato says, each words sharp as a knife, “does it make you feel better?”

“No,” Taichi admits.

In Yamato’s defense, it’s not like anything has a chance of succeeding at that just now.

“Then saying it was pointless,” Yamato says, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re a decent human being. You feel bad enough about this without me adding to it.”

“For all the good it does to Daisuke,” Taichi mutters, and Yamato snorts.

“I don’t think you can do anything about that just now,” he says, “you’ve said your piece, now give him space so he can think things through. Then we’ll see how it goes.”

Taichi sighs and nods, even though he knows Yamato can’t possibly hear that, much less see it.

Yamato’s right, though: there isn’t much to be done about Daisuke’s predicament right now, and it’s not Taichi’s place to do it. Excruciating as it is, the only thing he can do is wait.

“What if he doesn’t want anything to do with me afterwards?”

The question left Taichi’s lips almost of its own accord, cold dread flooding his lungs at the though. What if Daisuke decides to leave for good—what if the others feel like they have to make a choice, what if Taichi’s stupidity just damaged their group beyond repair?

“I don’t think he’ll do that,” Yamato starts, but Taichi snorts before he can finish his sentence:

“How would you even know that?”

“Because I wouldn’t,” Yamato says, matter-of-fact tone blurring into a yawn. “We’re not close friends, but we share a crest, remember? He’ll need time, sure, but I don’t think he’ll leave entirely.”

Taichi nods again, the motion just as useless as it was before, and wipes at the edge of his eyes with his palms. Really, he’s being pathetic—Yamato’s right. There’s nothing he can do to help right now, and sitting in the dark like an idiot won’t change anything to his situation.

With a sigh, he gets to his feet—winces when his knees crack as he straightens up—and then he says:

“He’d have a right to leave though. I basically broke his heart because I was afraid he’d leave the flat.”

“I know,” Yamato replies, “you messed up, there’s no hiding that. I just don’t think it’s entirely your fault.”

“I’m not depressed,” Taichi replies automatically, before he amends: “well, obviously I am feeling depressed, but I’m not actually sick or anything.”

“Then you’re doing a good job of pretending,” Yamato says, and Taichi pauses at the edge of his bedroom, one hand on the threshold to hold himself steady:

“I’m not,” he insists. Then, tiredness stretching his voice into some sort of half-whine he barely recognizes: “can we just leave it at that? I’m not up for a debate about it. I’m fine. Overall.”

“Okay,” Yamato says in that way that means he still disagrees but doesn’t want to fight about it—in a way, it’s almost worst than having to argue the point. “You should go to sleep now, though. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“I don’t feel like sleeping.”

Taichi would say he’s not tired—if anything, it would salvage the sad remnants of his dignity, if only to his own eyes, even if not much of it is left to spare where Yamato is concerned—but the truth is he hasn’t been that exhausted since the weeks following the Reboot. It’s a bone-deep ache, something thick enough to coat his entire being and spirit, and right now he doesn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.

It’s not like Yamato hasn’t already seen him at his worst, anyway. What’s one more instance in the grand scheme of things?

“At least go to bed,” Yamato insists, and Taichi honestly only agrees because putting up a fight is too much of an effort just now.

He makes his way to his bedroom on autopilot, free hand in front of him to avoid bumping nose-first into the wall as he feels his way to his bed. He collapses on it without bothering to take his clothes off—he only even put them on out of respect for Daisuke anyway—and keeps his phone against his ear when he pushes his head into the pillow.

It takes him a second to register the sounds of movement on Yamato’s end of the line, and then he’s yawning into the phone:

“What are you doing?”

“Getting my guitar out,” Yamato replies after a brief pause—he must have gotten earphones to free his hands, then.

“You think a lullaby’s going to put me to sleep?”

“I know I’ve put you to sleep that way before,” Yamato replies without missing a beat, “shut up and enjoy.”

Taichi chuckles, surprising himself with it, but he does manage to shimmy out of his dress pants and slip under the covers while Yamato tunes his instrument.

It barely takes half a measure of a tune from Spirited away before he falls asleep.

#Digimon #Taiyama #Yamato Ishida #Taichi Kamiya #Digimon Fic #Digimon Adventure Tri #Digimon Adventure 02 #Digimon Adventure 01 #Fanfiction #OMWK #Okay but I actually love the banner because it reminds me of a scene from ch 4 #which I personally find hilarious but then we'll see what you guys think #10n #20n #30n #40n

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