Fic: On the Green-Tinged Horizon | SR | Clark/Richard | PG-13 | 1/1
Title: On the Green-Tinged Horizon
Fandom: Superman Returns
Pairing: Clark Kent/Richard White
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,312
Prompt: For the June Fic Grab at EyesSkyward: Broken; For hc_bingo and au_bingo: Post-Apocalypse
Summary: Four years later, Clark still walks with a limp.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything. I own nothing. Darnit!
Author's Notes: Post-apocalyptic AU!! I swore I'd never write one of these, and yet, here we are. :p This has been expanded a little and slashed up from the EyesSkyward version. And yes, there will probably be more for au & hc_bingo!
On the Green-Tinged Horizon
Finding real shade under a broad maple-a rarity in what's left of North America-and relief from the summer sun, Clark swipes the sweat from his brow and surveys the camp spread out over the hillside and small valley before him. It's taken months to get the sprawling settlement built up, with supplies coming in only sporadically from the one remaining operational port on the west coast and the rare aid drop from Europe, and few people willing to stay this close to the slowly crumbling coast that used to be eastern South Dakota, but there's finally a three-room medical center and a two-room school that'll replace the large enclosed tent for the thirty-odd kids living here. It's a major accomplishment, really.
Even if it feels like a drop in the bucket compared to the ruins of cities, towns, and suburbs destroyed in the New Krypton Quakes, that need to be salvaged and either rebuilt or bulldozed.
Rubbing his tired eyes briefly against the glare of the sun off the camp, he wishes he could forget that horrific day. Hell, he wishes Richard had made it back for him fifteen minutes sooner. Wishes Lois had survived the sinking of the Gertrude. Wishes he'd never left Earth in the first place, so none of it would've happened at all.
But he can't think like that. No amount of wishing he could change the past will put up more community buildings, feed more people, or bring supplies in any faster. All he can do now is keep moving along the way his parents taught him to: work the earth, provide a good example, and never give up hope, even after days like today, when his pronounced limp and the relentless ache in his right leg slows him down. The ethic that Martha and Jonathan Kent instilled in him served him well when he was Su-well, before, and it helps keep him going now, despite the effects of the shattered femur Luthor left him with after stabbing him in the back and dropping him off a sheer cliff. Not to mention the frequent sickness brought on by the green haze in the air that hasn't dissipated in four long years.
Permanent injuries aside, things could be worse, and he more than knows it. A lot of people died during Luthor's not-totally-successful attempt to resurface the planet to his own advantage, all but one of Clark's colleagues and friends, everyone in Smallville, his Ma and Ben included, but the maniac miscalculated somehow and ran out of crystals after a few days of world-building. Or so everyone figures; no one was brave enough to do more than a fly-by of the landmass to discover and confirm that there was no one still alive on New Krypton after a week had passed with no new land growth.
“There you are!”
Drawn out of his reverie, Clark turns his attention to the man striding up the hill to the sparse copse of trees. Richard looks pretty good considering the six hours they just spent finishing the medical center; in many ways, he's been more upbeat and energized than Clark has felt in a long time, and that's helped keep him on his toes. His friendship-partnership away from prying eyes-have buoyed him up when he was so down, so hurting that he just wanted to throw in the towel, and for that, Clark's grateful beyond measure.
“Hey,” he nods as his friend reaches the shade and pulls up next to him.
Richard turns to look out over the camp with him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lunch is almost on,” he offers. “Jason's worried you'll miss it.”
Ducking his head, Clark can't help the small frown that pulls on the corners of his mouth. Not even ten yet, and his son is already so grown. He shouldn't have to be, but he is, and carrying the burden of slowly-developing inherited powers, that thankfully haven't been affected by New Krypton, hasn't been helping.
“Okay,” he says after a long moment, straightening and scrubbing a hand over his face to ward off the melancholy train of thought and fight the urge to push non-existent glasses back in place; since New Krypton stole his abilities and the need for an alter ego, he hasn't bothered with any of the trappings of that other life, that seems so long ago now. Everybody more-or-less knows who he used to be, anyway, and no one's called him on it since the first time he and Richard hit the west coast, almost three years ago. No one here even cares, beyond the pitying looks they think he doesn't see when his leg gets the better of him.
“Whoa,” Richard warns with a gentle hand on Clark's bicep when he almost trips over a rock on the hillside as they set off.
“Yeah,” he murmurs back, accepting the support and gripping his friend's arm in return as he negotiates the uneven terrain. “Thanks.”
They seem to be down to monosyllabic conversation after the long morning, but it's a pattern they often fall into after hard days, so Clark focuses on his unsure footing instead of worrying over it. And even if Richard's concerned that he's come up here alone, neither of them will acknowledge it; they both know darn well he shouldn't have come up here, but it's the only secluded spot in the whole camp, and damn if he's gonna let something so ridiculous as a bum leg stop him from snagging a few minutes to himself, even if the ache is bone-deep.
“Painkillers?” he asks once they hit a flat patch of grass and he isn't gritting his teeth against the jarring shock of each step anymore, able to maneuver without that support at last. He hates to have to take them at all, but days like today tend to wear him down till he just can't stand it anymore.
Richard shakes his head slightly, and Clark knows he must not be hiding the pain very well, at the frown he gets in return. “We're rationing until the next supply run, remember?”
“Right.” Well, they don't work that well, anyhow.
“Clark,” the other man says lightly, stopping short before they reach the first line of motor-homes and tents at the edge of the camp, touching his arm again and stepping just in front of him.
“Yeah?”
Catching Clark's eyes with a softer look, he murmurs close, “I have some muscle rub stashed in my tent. Can you wait till this evening?”
Clark ignores the voice inside him that wants to bust Richard for hoarding medical supplies-and himself for even asking for a painkiller-when the camp doesn't even have enough to stock the new building; he knows his friend likely saved the muscle rub for him. Times like these, it's hard to believe there was a time when he was wholly unimpressed by this man, the way things have settled between them, their relationship blooming out of shared grief and mutual support in the darkest days after the destruction of the east coast and mid-west.
A deep breath, and he nods, “Thank you.”
Richard mirrors the gesture and kisses him quickly, a hand wrapped around the back of Clark's neck, then steps away and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, smirking mischievously. “I might have some herbal tea, too. And a little bourbon to spike it with, if you're lucky.”
Clark can only smile at that, the ache in his soul eased marginally, regardless of his leg or their losses or the long road ahead of them. There's a future over the green-tinged horizon, and it's starting here.
“I'll be there,” he promises, looking forward to it already.
~*~*~*~
Fandom: Superman Returns
Pairing: Clark Kent/Richard White
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,312
Prompt: For the June Fic Grab at EyesSkyward: Broken; For hc_bingo and au_bingo: Post-Apocalypse
Summary: Four years later, Clark still walks with a limp.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything. I own nothing. Darnit!
Author's Notes: Post-apocalyptic AU!! I swore I'd never write one of these, and yet, here we are. :p This has been expanded a little and slashed up from the EyesSkyward version. And yes, there will probably be more for au & hc_bingo!
On the Green-Tinged Horizon
Finding real shade under a broad maple-a rarity in what's left of North America-and relief from the summer sun, Clark swipes the sweat from his brow and surveys the camp spread out over the hillside and small valley before him. It's taken months to get the sprawling settlement built up, with supplies coming in only sporadically from the one remaining operational port on the west coast and the rare aid drop from Europe, and few people willing to stay this close to the slowly crumbling coast that used to be eastern South Dakota, but there's finally a three-room medical center and a two-room school that'll replace the large enclosed tent for the thirty-odd kids living here. It's a major accomplishment, really.
Even if it feels like a drop in the bucket compared to the ruins of cities, towns, and suburbs destroyed in the New Krypton Quakes, that need to be salvaged and either rebuilt or bulldozed.
Rubbing his tired eyes briefly against the glare of the sun off the camp, he wishes he could forget that horrific day. Hell, he wishes Richard had made it back for him fifteen minutes sooner. Wishes Lois had survived the sinking of the Gertrude. Wishes he'd never left Earth in the first place, so none of it would've happened at all.
But he can't think like that. No amount of wishing he could change the past will put up more community buildings, feed more people, or bring supplies in any faster. All he can do now is keep moving along the way his parents taught him to: work the earth, provide a good example, and never give up hope, even after days like today, when his pronounced limp and the relentless ache in his right leg slows him down. The ethic that Martha and Jonathan Kent instilled in him served him well when he was Su-well, before, and it helps keep him going now, despite the effects of the shattered femur Luthor left him with after stabbing him in the back and dropping him off a sheer cliff. Not to mention the frequent sickness brought on by the green haze in the air that hasn't dissipated in four long years.
Permanent injuries aside, things could be worse, and he more than knows it. A lot of people died during Luthor's not-totally-successful attempt to resurface the planet to his own advantage, all but one of Clark's colleagues and friends, everyone in Smallville, his Ma and Ben included, but the maniac miscalculated somehow and ran out of crystals after a few days of world-building. Or so everyone figures; no one was brave enough to do more than a fly-by of the landmass to discover and confirm that there was no one still alive on New Krypton after a week had passed with no new land growth.
“There you are!”
Drawn out of his reverie, Clark turns his attention to the man striding up the hill to the sparse copse of trees. Richard looks pretty good considering the six hours they just spent finishing the medical center; in many ways, he's been more upbeat and energized than Clark has felt in a long time, and that's helped keep him on his toes. His friendship-partnership away from prying eyes-have buoyed him up when he was so down, so hurting that he just wanted to throw in the towel, and for that, Clark's grateful beyond measure.
“Hey,” he nods as his friend reaches the shade and pulls up next to him.
Richard turns to look out over the camp with him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lunch is almost on,” he offers. “Jason's worried you'll miss it.”
Ducking his head, Clark can't help the small frown that pulls on the corners of his mouth. Not even ten yet, and his son is already so grown. He shouldn't have to be, but he is, and carrying the burden of slowly-developing inherited powers, that thankfully haven't been affected by New Krypton, hasn't been helping.
“Okay,” he says after a long moment, straightening and scrubbing a hand over his face to ward off the melancholy train of thought and fight the urge to push non-existent glasses back in place; since New Krypton stole his abilities and the need for an alter ego, he hasn't bothered with any of the trappings of that other life, that seems so long ago now. Everybody more-or-less knows who he used to be, anyway, and no one's called him on it since the first time he and Richard hit the west coast, almost three years ago. No one here even cares, beyond the pitying looks they think he doesn't see when his leg gets the better of him.
“Whoa,” Richard warns with a gentle hand on Clark's bicep when he almost trips over a rock on the hillside as they set off.
“Yeah,” he murmurs back, accepting the support and gripping his friend's arm in return as he negotiates the uneven terrain. “Thanks.”
They seem to be down to monosyllabic conversation after the long morning, but it's a pattern they often fall into after hard days, so Clark focuses on his unsure footing instead of worrying over it. And even if Richard's concerned that he's come up here alone, neither of them will acknowledge it; they both know darn well he shouldn't have come up here, but it's the only secluded spot in the whole camp, and damn if he's gonna let something so ridiculous as a bum leg stop him from snagging a few minutes to himself, even if the ache is bone-deep.
“Painkillers?” he asks once they hit a flat patch of grass and he isn't gritting his teeth against the jarring shock of each step anymore, able to maneuver without that support at last. He hates to have to take them at all, but days like today tend to wear him down till he just can't stand it anymore.
Richard shakes his head slightly, and Clark knows he must not be hiding the pain very well, at the frown he gets in return. “We're rationing until the next supply run, remember?”
“Right.” Well, they don't work that well, anyhow.
“Clark,” the other man says lightly, stopping short before they reach the first line of motor-homes and tents at the edge of the camp, touching his arm again and stepping just in front of him.
“Yeah?”
Catching Clark's eyes with a softer look, he murmurs close, “I have some muscle rub stashed in my tent. Can you wait till this evening?”
Clark ignores the voice inside him that wants to bust Richard for hoarding medical supplies-and himself for even asking for a painkiller-when the camp doesn't even have enough to stock the new building; he knows his friend likely saved the muscle rub for him. Times like these, it's hard to believe there was a time when he was wholly unimpressed by this man, the way things have settled between them, their relationship blooming out of shared grief and mutual support in the darkest days after the destruction of the east coast and mid-west.
A deep breath, and he nods, “Thank you.”
Richard mirrors the gesture and kisses him quickly, a hand wrapped around the back of Clark's neck, then steps away and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, smirking mischievously. “I might have some herbal tea, too. And a little bourbon to spike it with, if you're lucky.”
Clark can only smile at that, the ache in his soul eased marginally, regardless of his leg or their losses or the long road ahead of them. There's a future over the green-tinged horizon, and it's starting here.
“I'll be there,” he promises, looking forward to it already.
~*~*~*~