What You Are -- One (SPOILERS FOR SEASON TEN)
Slight spoilers for seasons 8 and 10. I blame supercaptain182 for this.
Disclaimer: 'Smallville' and certain characters belong to Miller-Gough et al. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.
" . . . the mirror box," he finished, but Clark had kind of zoned out for a bit up to that point, so when he looked up and made eye contact he was pretty lost.
"Uh, 'mirror box,' huh?" was all he could come up with.
The other frowned, glared really, and his body language shifted noticeably -- shoulders hunching in, stance widening, head dropping down so he now stared out from under his eyelashes and brows.
It all would have been really intimidating, if not for the fact that Clark knew without a doubt that he could take this guy, or at least give as good as he got.
So, really, in the end, the show of anger and temper just made Clark want to laugh, not cower in fear. But he settled for smiling.
"What of it?" the other barked, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and Clark didn't think that particular move was intentional. At least, it never was when he did it. Often, he found himself unconsciously clenching his hands at his sides like that when he was just frustrated beyond belief -- waiting in line with crying kids and stupid customers, dealing with politicians as he tried to get a sound bite for an interview.
"Well," Clark said, dropping the smile but still keeping his voice upbeat, "seems like kind of a stupid name, is all." He raised his eyebrows at the end, seeing if he could get a different reaction out of the other, trying to lighten the mood a little.
Things were heavy enough as it was, and one thing Clark had learned over the years was that if he couldn't laugh about something it wouldn't get better. It'd just fester inside until it burst forth in a tirade of hate, hurt, and despair.
It was always better to make light of things that could be made light of, and full-on revel in the trivialities. So much in his life was, well, life and death, so the little things had to be bumped up in importance too, just to even everything out. Going out to dinner in a restaurant was like a national holiday in Clark's mind. Staying in for a movie night, or having a cup of hot chocolate, or buying groceries, these things were the real deal.
Joking about terminology? Clark had learned to do that practically first thing, way back in high school when the first of his powers had just started cropping up. It wasn't even habit now. It was just him.
And, looking at this other. . . him, he thought a lot might have been helped if the guy would just lighten up a little. Usually, Clark was the buzzkill, but this other Clark made him look like the life of the party. It was surreal.
God, this was the very definition of surreal.
"What?" the other suddenly snapped, his voice echoing over and over around the barn. Clark winced, and guiltily dropped his head.
He had been kind of staring, and he knew how much he himself hated that. Figured this other. . . him. . . wouldn't care too much for that, either.
"Sorry," Clark offered, quietly, trying to calm the guy down by example. It usually worked for him anyway. That instantly made him think of his parents, his mom all the way in D.C., who would be ten times better at dealing with all this than Clark was, and his dad. . .
"It's what the thing's called," the other tersely responded, and Clark mentally yanked his focus back onto. . . himself. "I didn't come up with it," the other added defensively, "so yuck it up all you like, but it won't change the fact that-- "
"Yeah, yeah," Clark interrupted, lifting his head and holding his hands out to show he hadn't truly meant anything by it. "Look, I know that. I'm just-- " He met the other's eyes again, relieved to see that the anger seemed to have somewhat drained away from that body. The face was still contorted, though, but that actually seemed more for show than anything.
At least, for Clark it usually was. Sometimes he had to consciously think about his facial expressions. He wondered if, and kind of hoped that, it was the same for this Clark, too.
Clark took a deep breath and stood up, but he didn't move any closer to the other, just kept to his spot at the couch. He didn't want to seem like he was pushing him or anything, just trying to get on an even footing, sort of.
"Look," Clark said, still keeping his voice calm and low, "I wasn't trying to. . . piss you off or anything, okay? I just found it funny. This huge, life-altering device, and it's called the 'mirror box'? Like it's where some little girl puts her jewelry, with one of those dancing ballerina figurines inside, you know?" He lifted his eyebrows and tried a small smile. "How is that not funny? The great Kryptonians and all they can come up with is 'mirror box.'"
Clark kept it up for a few seconds more, just keeping his eyes and expression steady, and just as he was about to give up he got a reaction.
The other suddenly grinned, and it was only maybe half cynical-looking. He threw his shoulders back in a sign of casualness and said, "Wonder if it originally played music, too."
Clark snorted, adding, "It's not even really a box." To which, the other nodded.
The good moment kind of died there, though, as they both were seemingly at a loss for something to say to fill in the resulting silence. Clark took a few cautious steps forward, coming up on the other side of the open loft doors. He almost chuckled again when he realized the two of them were now really. . . mirroring each other -- Clark leaning against the wood with his arms crossed and the other in the exact same position over on the other side of the open space.
A minute went by and then maybe another before the other Clark broke the stillness.
"Your Lex," the other started, and without thinking about it Clark found himself standing up straight and avoiding eye contact at all costs, "was he. . . ?" The other trailed off, and everything in Clark demanded he change the subject, ignore and refuse to answer whatever the question actually was, but. . .
"Was he, what?" Clark's mouth said, and he snapped it closed after saying that so quickly that his teeth in fact made a loud clicking noise.
Another moment, a few seconds during which the other turned his head and Clark could see him staring back at him from the corner of his eye.
Then, "Was he a good man?" the other asked, and it was the way he asked it that caused Clark to hesitate. So much was involved in not only asking, but also answering that question, and Clark didn't. . . well, he wanted to get it right, even as he struggled to simply think about it.
God, Lex.
This time, it was at least a few minutes of almost utter silence, at least between the two of them. Lois was inside the house, humming as she typed at something, and the farm itself was always loud with the sounds of trees blowing in the wind and various animals doing animal things, and they weren't that far from town, or even the highway. The farm was never silent, not really -- no place was, not for. . . them.
During that time, Clark thought he should have been phrasing his answer. He should have used those few minutes to come up with some illuminating anecdote, some tale that would serve as moral, and motivation to change, and that wouldn't set him back with this other Clark -- something his dad would say, something that would make everything look better.
But he drew a blank. All Clark could think, on a loop, over and over and over again, was, God, Lex.
This Clark, this other him, had somehow killed the other Lex.
And Clark himself had as good as done so here, too.
Finally, as the sun just began setting, and streaks of blue and purple and pink raced across the sky, Clark took a deep breath and just said the first thing that came to him.
Was Lex a good man?
"He tried to be," Clark answered. Then, turning to meet his doppelganger's eyes, he added, "He wanted to be."
The other just stared back, but Clark knew he was thinking hard, could see it in his eyes, in his mouth which he always pursed, and in the slow wrinkling of his forehead and that spot between his eyebrows.
"I think mine was like that, too," the other finally whispered, lifting his chin up high at the end, daring Clark to. . . do something, say something to contradict him.
Or waiting for him to condemn him.
But sometimes Clark even surprised himself.
He reached out, slowly, and set his right hand firmly down on the other's left shoulder, and then Clark told him something he knew he needed to hear.
"We all are," he said, quirking his lips. "And you know what I've come to realize?" The other frowned in confusion, and Clark squeezed his shoulder. "There's always hope that someday we'll get it right.
"We just have to keep trying."
What You Are -- Two
Disclaimer: 'Smallville' and certain characters belong to Miller-Gough et al. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.
" . . . the mirror box," he finished, but Clark had kind of zoned out for a bit up to that point, so when he looked up and made eye contact he was pretty lost.
"Uh, 'mirror box,' huh?" was all he could come up with.
The other frowned, glared really, and his body language shifted noticeably -- shoulders hunching in, stance widening, head dropping down so he now stared out from under his eyelashes and brows.
It all would have been really intimidating, if not for the fact that Clark knew without a doubt that he could take this guy, or at least give as good as he got.
So, really, in the end, the show of anger and temper just made Clark want to laugh, not cower in fear. But he settled for smiling.
"What of it?" the other barked, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and Clark didn't think that particular move was intentional. At least, it never was when he did it. Often, he found himself unconsciously clenching his hands at his sides like that when he was just frustrated beyond belief -- waiting in line with crying kids and stupid customers, dealing with politicians as he tried to get a sound bite for an interview.
"Well," Clark said, dropping the smile but still keeping his voice upbeat, "seems like kind of a stupid name, is all." He raised his eyebrows at the end, seeing if he could get a different reaction out of the other, trying to lighten the mood a little.
Things were heavy enough as it was, and one thing Clark had learned over the years was that if he couldn't laugh about something it wouldn't get better. It'd just fester inside until it burst forth in a tirade of hate, hurt, and despair.
It was always better to make light of things that could be made light of, and full-on revel in the trivialities. So much in his life was, well, life and death, so the little things had to be bumped up in importance too, just to even everything out. Going out to dinner in a restaurant was like a national holiday in Clark's mind. Staying in for a movie night, or having a cup of hot chocolate, or buying groceries, these things were the real deal.
Joking about terminology? Clark had learned to do that practically first thing, way back in high school when the first of his powers had just started cropping up. It wasn't even habit now. It was just him.
And, looking at this other. . . him, he thought a lot might have been helped if the guy would just lighten up a little. Usually, Clark was the buzzkill, but this other Clark made him look like the life of the party. It was surreal.
God, this was the very definition of surreal.
"What?" the other suddenly snapped, his voice echoing over and over around the barn. Clark winced, and guiltily dropped his head.
He had been kind of staring, and he knew how much he himself hated that. Figured this other. . . him. . . wouldn't care too much for that, either.
"Sorry," Clark offered, quietly, trying to calm the guy down by example. It usually worked for him anyway. That instantly made him think of his parents, his mom all the way in D.C., who would be ten times better at dealing with all this than Clark was, and his dad. . .
"It's what the thing's called," the other tersely responded, and Clark mentally yanked his focus back onto. . . himself. "I didn't come up with it," the other added defensively, "so yuck it up all you like, but it won't change the fact that-- "
"Yeah, yeah," Clark interrupted, lifting his head and holding his hands out to show he hadn't truly meant anything by it. "Look, I know that. I'm just-- " He met the other's eyes again, relieved to see that the anger seemed to have somewhat drained away from that body. The face was still contorted, though, but that actually seemed more for show than anything.
At least, for Clark it usually was. Sometimes he had to consciously think about his facial expressions. He wondered if, and kind of hoped that, it was the same for this Clark, too.
Clark took a deep breath and stood up, but he didn't move any closer to the other, just kept to his spot at the couch. He didn't want to seem like he was pushing him or anything, just trying to get on an even footing, sort of.
"Look," Clark said, still keeping his voice calm and low, "I wasn't trying to. . . piss you off or anything, okay? I just found it funny. This huge, life-altering device, and it's called the 'mirror box'? Like it's where some little girl puts her jewelry, with one of those dancing ballerina figurines inside, you know?" He lifted his eyebrows and tried a small smile. "How is that not funny? The great Kryptonians and all they can come up with is 'mirror box.'"
Clark kept it up for a few seconds more, just keeping his eyes and expression steady, and just as he was about to give up he got a reaction.
The other suddenly grinned, and it was only maybe half cynical-looking. He threw his shoulders back in a sign of casualness and said, "Wonder if it originally played music, too."
Clark snorted, adding, "It's not even really a box." To which, the other nodded.
The good moment kind of died there, though, as they both were seemingly at a loss for something to say to fill in the resulting silence. Clark took a few cautious steps forward, coming up on the other side of the open loft doors. He almost chuckled again when he realized the two of them were now really. . . mirroring each other -- Clark leaning against the wood with his arms crossed and the other in the exact same position over on the other side of the open space.
A minute went by and then maybe another before the other Clark broke the stillness.
"Your Lex," the other started, and without thinking about it Clark found himself standing up straight and avoiding eye contact at all costs, "was he. . . ?" The other trailed off, and everything in Clark demanded he change the subject, ignore and refuse to answer whatever the question actually was, but. . .
"Was he, what?" Clark's mouth said, and he snapped it closed after saying that so quickly that his teeth in fact made a loud clicking noise.
Another moment, a few seconds during which the other turned his head and Clark could see him staring back at him from the corner of his eye.
Then, "Was he a good man?" the other asked, and it was the way he asked it that caused Clark to hesitate. So much was involved in not only asking, but also answering that question, and Clark didn't. . . well, he wanted to get it right, even as he struggled to simply think about it.
God, Lex.
This time, it was at least a few minutes of almost utter silence, at least between the two of them. Lois was inside the house, humming as she typed at something, and the farm itself was always loud with the sounds of trees blowing in the wind and various animals doing animal things, and they weren't that far from town, or even the highway. The farm was never silent, not really -- no place was, not for. . . them.
During that time, Clark thought he should have been phrasing his answer. He should have used those few minutes to come up with some illuminating anecdote, some tale that would serve as moral, and motivation to change, and that wouldn't set him back with this other Clark -- something his dad would say, something that would make everything look better.
But he drew a blank. All Clark could think, on a loop, over and over and over again, was, God, Lex.
This Clark, this other him, had somehow killed the other Lex.
And Clark himself had as good as done so here, too.
Finally, as the sun just began setting, and streaks of blue and purple and pink raced across the sky, Clark took a deep breath and just said the first thing that came to him.
Was Lex a good man?
"He tried to be," Clark answered. Then, turning to meet his doppelganger's eyes, he added, "He wanted to be."
The other just stared back, but Clark knew he was thinking hard, could see it in his eyes, in his mouth which he always pursed, and in the slow wrinkling of his forehead and that spot between his eyebrows.
"I think mine was like that, too," the other finally whispered, lifting his chin up high at the end, daring Clark to. . . do something, say something to contradict him.
Or waiting for him to condemn him.
But sometimes Clark even surprised himself.
He reached out, slowly, and set his right hand firmly down on the other's left shoulder, and then Clark told him something he knew he needed to hear.
"We all are," he said, quirking his lips. "And you know what I've come to realize?" The other frowned in confusion, and Clark squeezed his shoulder. "There's always hope that someday we'll get it right.
"We just have to keep trying."
What You Are -- Two