Clark Kent | Super boy Prime (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
antiparallel) wrote2026-03-16 06:34 pm
antiparallel) wrote2026-03-16 06:34 pm[ Open Post ]
OPEN POST
VOICE ✦ VIDEO ✦ TEXT ✦ ACTION
antiparallel) wrote2026-03-16 06:34 pm
no subject
It’s noonish, which is basically what counts as breakfast time for the night crowd, and it’s what passes for a nice enough day in Gotham. None of the thick moody fog or dramatic miserable rain it tends to be known for. Sunny, the crisp kind of cool that comes at the start of spring. Perfect kind of weather for going about your day to day like a productive member of society.
Instead, Jason’s slouched his way out of bed and toward the light of day in slightly more of a state than usual. Mussed hair and circles under the eyes, the whole nine yards. He’s in loose civvies—sweats and a faded hoodie that’s starting to get ratty at the sleeves, and he’s busy leaning out a fifth-floor window with his forearms braced against the frame and his head and shoulders on the outside. Phone in one hand, a lit cigarette perched between the unbroken fingers left on the other.
Which is kind of like breakfast, if you squint.
Since he’s, y’know, Superman, Prime gets there before Jason even has the chance to finagle his grip around his phone for another suitably cranky sounding response. Assuming Prime has made good on his promise to approach from the front this time instead of sneaking up: his head lifts at the first flash of color at the edge of his vision.
He mostly just looks…extremely unimpressed about it. The Gotham City ambiance hangs in the air for a solid handful of seconds. Honking horns and distant sirens. Until, bone dry—]
That wasn’t actually an invitation, y’know.
[And yet!]
no subject
and the goddamn pollas Jason would be if he knew the shit that went on back then. (Yeah, for once he's going to keep his mouth shut about that. Probably. That's more suited for a 3rd date conversation.Even Prime knows that sun-ish days are as rare in Gotham as spotting a unicorn. He's quite enjoying it because he always feels more comfortable during daylight hours, where he doesn't need to worry so much about his powers getting drained. Being locked up next to Red Suns or in total darkness has left him with a bit of PTSD, which he is often ignoring.
Not only is he floating in front of the window a few feet away from it so he's perfectly visible to Jason, but he's also grinning at Jason from ear to ear like the confident idiot he is. He's backlit by the sun and it's rays are bouncing off the metal of his pauldrons and that curl that falls over his forehead,. Prime's thinking just how nice and cinematic this probably looks, because that's the sort of thing that often goes through his head. He's also holding a steaming Styrofoam cup. ]
Ah, but I brought you some tea.
[ Don't ask him how he knows Jason likes tea more than coffee. But if the grumpy bat wants an espresso just to be contrary, Prime could also go and fetch one real quick. He floats closer until he's within reach, holding out the cup as some kind peace offering, eyes looking at Jason up and down with interest, then at the cigarette. ]
That can't be healthy, you know. [ Not like Prime really minds the other smoking; it suits Jason's style and the whole rebel vibe, to be honest. He just likes to tug on Jason's metaphorical pigtails. ]
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Oh, sure. [He taps ash off the tip of the cigarette, pointedly.] About as healthy as hopping around on rooftops and gunning down gangsters gets to be.
[Come on, now.
It’s not good for him, especially in his line of work. Sometimes that’s kind of the point. (That if he’s going to get hurt, if his life is going to get cut short, at least it’s him that’s choosing to do it.) Still, he only really falls back on it on bad days—a comfort thing, or a control thing, or both.
It’s also an outside thing, apparently, because he scowls back out at Prime and then stubs out the end of the cigarette on the brick outside the window before he does anything else. The offered cup is greeted mostly with narrowing of his eyes. (In annoyance, or suspicion, or the fact that Prime has decided to Very Cinematically backlight himself against the sun, and he’s still shaking off the dull ache behind his eyes that he woke up with.)
Rather than reach for the tea, he ducks his head and pushes himself up and away from the window, like he’s making space.]
Get in here before someone sees you. Christ.
[As much as there is kind of some ironic appeal to knowing it’ll get under Batman’s skin to have Prime swinging around in his city under his nose and having tea with the family black sheep, he doesn’t need the headache that’ll come with it, thanks. (At least save the suspicion for when he’s actually up to something, huh, Bruce.)]
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Fair enough. Cigars do smell better than some thugs as well.
[ Since the offer of tea gets brushed aside, he expects to be further ignored or told to leave again. That's how 99% of the superhero community reacts to him, with Lois Lane —bless her— being the exception.
But there goes Jason, surprising him again and allowing him in his space. No matter if it's because he doesn't want to attract unwanted attention to his apartment or he truly does not mind Prime's presence, the result is the same. Which is to have the Kryptonian beaming at him once more, and following him inside like a floating puppy. He makes sure to get in there carefully and not to break anything, his feet finally touching the floor. Prime snickers at the 'Christ' complaint. ]
Name's Clark, actually. Not like many people call me that. [ Both because the original Superman is the one 'Clark Kent' people know best and because calling him 'Prime', like the designation of his original world, is another way to recognize him as an outsider. It's still his name, though, and he sometimes misses hearing it. He misses feeling like a person. ]
You could, if you wanted. [ He places the cup on the nearest surface he sees but still nudges it towards Jason. ] How's your hand?
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Broken.
[Well, just the one. Part of the one. The last two fingers on his right hand are bruised and stiff, visibly colorful and clearly swollen, along with the knuckles. He’s been making a point not to move them, but he hasn't exactly gotten around to doing much about them. Probably should—it’s already been plenty annoying. (Less the pain—it’s not like the rest of him isn’t usually pretty banged up at any given time. There’s a baseline level of battered you get used to if you don’t have the benefit of invulnerability. But it does make fine motor control a lot less convenient.)
Getting them out of the range of the windows, he ducks deeper into the apartment. Hooks the leg of a chair out with a toe to drag it out from under the kitchen table so he can sprawl down into it and fix the steaming styrofoam with a suspicious glower when Prime sets it down. Eventually, he reaches to pry off the lid with his good hand. It takes about ten seconds and a whiff of bergamot before he seems to come to some kind of decision about it and take the first sip. (Drugging him or poisoning him or whatever would be a pretty convoluted angle of attack, at this point, so it’s pretty unlikely. Still. If he dies, he dies.)
He sets the cut down to prop himself up with a fist against his cheekbone, looking Prime—Clark—narrowly. Leading—]
What, not so fussed about the secret ID?
no subject
Yeah, that happens when you punch a Kryptonian in the face. It's incredible how many people don't realize that. [Look, I'm not going to feel bad about it; I just wanted to say hi, and you overreacted! Ok, perhaps I feel a tiny bit bad about it.
Prime looks over at Jason's hand, scanning it with his x-ray to check his fingers real quick, and then scrunches up his nose. Those are broken, alright. The fracture is clean, so they will probably heal fine in 3 weeks or so unless Jason jostles them while doing some vigilante activities like cutting mobsters' heads and the like.]
Putting some ice on it might help you with the inflammation.
[ He grabs a chair for himself, knowing better than to expect to be offered one, and then leans in to try and grab the wrist of Jason's injured hand because what is personal space or people's boundaries. He will let go if the other man fights him on this—he's expecting it too, if he's honest—, but if Jason doesn't react too badly, Prime's going to blow some of his ice breath towards the broken fingers. It's not enough to encase the hand in ice or anything of the sort, but it should work as well as putting an ice pack on it.
As for the tea, Prime knows many ways to kill someone that are quicker and less complicated than using poison. Why would he want Jason dead? Him coming back to life due to Prime altering reality is one of the few good things he's done in life; it set things right, even if it was a happy accident. ]
Nah, well, kinda... but only because I know I can't walk around Metropolis with that name and my handsome face before someone starts to wonder why I look like the other older Clark. At work, I told people to call me CK. [ Not the greatest alter ego, but he's working on it. He never had to hide himself before. ]
Do you have a medical kit, or should I make a quick trip to the nearest drugstore?
thanks for the lack of email for this, dw
Bottom left door.
[In the kitchen for easy cleanup when things get messy. Bottom row to keep in reach on a particularly bad day. The whole stash seems recently used but generously stocked. So maybe this is one of the places he crashes more often than not.
He’s also always been touchy about his personal space. And he’s very deeply aware, as Prime reaches for his wrist, that a Kryptonian could easily up and pulverize the little bones there just by twitching too hard. (Break it with a twist. Tear the whole arm out at the socket by way of a badly-timed sneeze. You know. The works.)
But since kneejerking is, in fact, kind of what got him into this situation, he makes the counterintuitive decision to keep obstinately still. Schools down the impulse to jerk back immediately, though he definitely tenses. Drops his good hand down to the table, sits up straight. Watching sharply, like he’s poised to react as soon as something seems fishy.
His reflexes still try to twitch away, a little, at the cold. Fingers curling protectively in on reflex and sending sparks of fresh hurt stabbing up his nerves as the bruising and the broken bones remember to assert themselves, and the simmering ache sparks back up into real pain. (Ow.)
His jaw shifts, teeth pressing tense, goosebumps crawling up his arms at the sudden cold, nausea creeping up his spine. Not wrong, though. Some ice will get the swelling down, and it’s this or the freezerburned peas in his temperamental fridge, and he’s not even actually all that sure his freezer is working, right now.]
Oh, yeah, great cover. No way they’ll ever figure that one out.
[Doesn’t take a genius to go from CK to Clark Kent if they’re already suspicious. But look, there’s plenty of people named Clark in the world. Whatever. He’s just being difficult.]