[ Clark doesn't miss the look of understanding that flashes over the young man's face at the name of the newspaper, and it makes his own eyes go wide. He might not have a lot of talents, but he knows what body language is, and he would ask for more but.
But he turns away.
And Clark, though not a mind reader in the least, feels his face fall.
He winces slightly when the gauze is pressed to his wound, but there's relief there when the tape touches his skin to keep it secure. They're done cleaning for now, then. Clark probably shouldn't be as relieved as he is, but that undercurrent of feeling all right is still overshadowed by the guilt he feels for bringing this young man's own past up. He makes a mental note not to ask about it again, but the damage is done; hopefully it won't be too difficult to backpedal, though.
Talk of his home only makes Clark's expression soften further. He really shouldn't have asked. ]
I see. [ It's not something Clark Kent understands, necessarily-- Metropolis had never been so dire-- but there is a weight to his words, a quietness to it that betrays empathy instead of sympathy. Everyone that stayed behind. Survival. It couldn't have been pretty, with words like that used to paint the situation. And someone as helpful as this person before him is, well...
Now he understands why he looked away. Somehow, he feels the words "no wonder you were so good at fixing me up" aren't going to be a comfort in the least. If Clark knows anything, it's easier to remember failures over successes, every time. ]
Thank you, [ he finally says, his tone still soft, but a little less dire ] for helping me. I... I know you said, uh, I might've made it on my own, but.
I've never met anyone like you. [ The corner of his mouth tugs up again, a dimple showing in his cheek. ] So. I'm glad you were there to, erm. To find me.
[ Clark moves to close his shirt, shivering lightly and letting out the softest 'whew'. Now that he knows he's going to be all right, the fear-adrenaline is fading and the cold is starting to sink in. This afterlife winter's no joke, is it? ]
My name's Clark. [ His shirt buttoned up properly (but still torn in the side, so really) now, Clark holds one hand out while the other pushes his glasses up. ] Clark Kent.
no subject
But he turns away.
And Clark, though not a mind reader in the least, feels his face fall.
He winces slightly when the gauze is pressed to his wound, but there's relief there when the tape touches his skin to keep it secure. They're done cleaning for now, then. Clark probably shouldn't be as relieved as he is, but that undercurrent of feeling all right is still overshadowed by the guilt he feels for bringing this young man's own past up. He makes a mental note not to ask about it again, but the damage is done; hopefully it won't be too difficult to backpedal, though.
Talk of his home only makes Clark's expression soften further. He really shouldn't have asked. ]
I see. [ It's not something Clark Kent understands, necessarily-- Metropolis had never been so dire-- but there is a weight to his words, a quietness to it that betrays empathy instead of sympathy. Everyone that stayed behind. Survival. It couldn't have been pretty, with words like that used to paint the situation. And someone as helpful as this person before him is, well...
Now he understands why he looked away. Somehow, he feels the words "no wonder you were so good at fixing me up" aren't going to be a comfort in the least. If Clark knows anything, it's easier to remember failures over successes, every time. ]
Thank you, [ he finally says, his tone still soft, but a little less dire ] for helping me. I... I know you said, uh, I might've made it on my own, but.
I've never met anyone like you. [ The corner of his mouth tugs up again, a dimple showing in his cheek. ] So. I'm glad you were there to, erm. To find me.
[ Clark moves to close his shirt, shivering lightly and letting out the softest 'whew'. Now that he knows he's going to be all right, the fear-adrenaline is fading and the cold is starting to sink in. This afterlife winter's no joke, is it? ]
My name's Clark. [ His shirt buttoned up properly (but still torn in the side, so really) now, Clark holds one hand out while the other pushes his glasses up. ] Clark Kent.
I owe you one, mister.