Post-apocalyptic wastelands sucked. Clark was glad that his happened to have a few cars that'd gotten zapped there along with him since he'd been able to scrounge for supplies and even, thank goodness, jimmy rig into reliable transportation as he tried to find the Watchtower outpost that his communicator was pinging on. Because he was alive. And that meant he had to get back.
That meant that when some strange pink beasts attacked him, he fought them off with a goddamn pipe because he wasn't going to leave Bruce alone if he could damn well help it. It meant that he used every bit of knowledge he could reach in his own brain, that he strapped parts of his cape to his feet. That he fought and drove and made his way across the wasteland with the kind of ferocity that most people wouldn't assume was inside of either Clark Kent or Superman.
When he discovered what had happened, when he finally got to the ruined Watchtower and met up with Vandal Savage, when they fought through giant mutant bugs and got the time machine working and he leaped through... the world seemed unfamiliar and strange, but the one thing that he focused on, focused on immediately, was Bruce's heartbeat.
And he could have sang with how happy he was that he could hear it. Hear it at all. That in the time that he'd been away, the weeks, that Bruce's heart was still beating. Later, when he was no longer amazed and overwhelmed and so happy that his heart was bursting with the fact that he was back, that Bruce was alive, that he'd made it there, he'd scold himself for even thinking that Bruce wouldn't be there, or that the rest of the League couldn't take care of itself.
As it was, he was almost in tears as he flew through the air (flight! being able to flight again!) towards that heartbeat... and towards the utter mess that was Metropolis. Thankfully, the hairtrigger reflexes that his time in the wasteland had given him didn't fail him then and when the missile came from a well-hidden Deadshot on one of the roofs aimed at Bruce of all people, it was simplicity itself to catch it.
...in another world, where Batman and Superman had not gotten their shit together and dealt with the elephant in the room, Clark had handled Deadshot with the calm of a Superman who, while still settling back to the world he knew, was still Superman. In this world, the missile was snatched out of the air, tossed up to explode harmlessly, and Deadshot was firmly backhanded out before getting lifted to the ground and wrapped in a fallen streetlamp.
Then, breathing only a little heavily, he made his way to the Justice League. To Bruce. He might have long hair, a bushy beard, dressed like a savage and wielding a questionably forged 'sword' with a wrapped cloth handle... but he was unmistakably Superman. Clark.
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That meant that when some strange pink beasts attacked him, he fought them off with a goddamn pipe because he wasn't going to leave Bruce alone if he could damn well help it. It meant that he used every bit of knowledge he could reach in his own brain, that he strapped parts of his cape to his feet. That he fought and drove and made his way across the wasteland with the kind of ferocity that most people wouldn't assume was inside of either Clark Kent or Superman.
When he discovered what had happened, when he finally got to the ruined Watchtower and met up with Vandal Savage, when they fought through giant mutant bugs and got the time machine working and he leaped through... the world seemed unfamiliar and strange, but the one thing that he focused on, focused on immediately, was Bruce's heartbeat.
And he could have sang with how happy he was that he could hear it. Hear it at all. That in the time that he'd been away, the weeks, that Bruce's heart was still beating. Later, when he was no longer amazed and overwhelmed and so happy that his heart was bursting with the fact that he was back, that Bruce was alive, that he'd made it there, he'd scold himself for even thinking that Bruce wouldn't be there, or that the rest of the League couldn't take care of itself.
As it was, he was almost in tears as he flew through the air (flight! being able to flight again!) towards that heartbeat... and towards the utter mess that was Metropolis. Thankfully, the hairtrigger reflexes that his time in the wasteland had given him didn't fail him then and when the missile came from a well-hidden Deadshot on one of the roofs aimed at Bruce of all people, it was simplicity itself to catch it.
...in another world, where Batman and Superman had not gotten their shit together and dealt with the elephant in the room, Clark had handled Deadshot with the calm of a Superman who, while still settling back to the world he knew, was still Superman. In this world, the missile was snatched out of the air, tossed up to explode harmlessly, and Deadshot was firmly backhanded out before getting lifted to the ground and wrapped in a fallen streetlamp.
Then, breathing only a little heavily, he made his way to the Justice League. To Bruce. He might have long hair, a bushy beard, dressed like a savage and wielding a questionably forged 'sword' with a wrapped cloth handle... but he was unmistakably Superman. Clark.
Even if he was shaking a little.