the cameras flash like gunfire, blinding and hollow.  in between the newly ruined skyline and the crowd’s cheers, homelander’s grin glints  —  too sharp and too perfect, as he leans toward another reporter.  he’s already rewritten the narrative: the seven save the day!  vought ensures safety, homelander leads his team through another victory.  and superman?  he stands off to the side, cape still dragging soot at the hemline, out of the picture completely.  he isn’t the headline, he’s the footnote of this particular story.  [and for tonight, he doesn’t mind it that way.  tomorrow, when clark writes his article about this, that’s when the dissent will pool inside his body.]  off in the distance, he hears someone call for him  —  smile, superman!  get in the shot with homelander!  most likely a vought public relations representative waving him over for a photo-op.  clark raises a hand instead; a small wave aimed as a polite dodge, before slipping behind the rubble and making his way to the nearby damaged building.  [or whatever was left after the battle that’d ensued.]  boots crunching through glass and brick, the faint buzzing from drones above in the sky still catching snapshots for the news and police feeds  —  he spots the blonde before even rounding the corner.  

half-lit by the spotlight of a dying streetlight, the remnants of her golden glow still catch in the dust.  just like an angel.  for just a second, from where clark’s standing, he doesn’t see starlight the supe.  not even as her flaxen hair has been messed up from the fight, or her costume scuffed and torn in ways that would never wind up online for anyone to see.  he just sees her.  annie.  the midwestern woman who still believes there’s something worth saving in a world that sells salvation by the pound, just like the midwestern man thinks.  when their eyes eventually meet, the noise within a mile radius dulls to a silence in his ears.  the air between twists into something fragile and suspended, like the moment before a storm.  just like it always does.  gravity pulling its weight, bringing two hearts together into a force of hope and love.  clark’s extra careful as he makes his way over to her  —  feet feeling like they’re descending upon water at the sight of her.  she has a way of turning his nerves of steel into nerves of jello.  only her.  once standing in front of her each other, his hands immediately finds hers.  and then, he leans in.  no fanfare echoing in the background, no flares from camera lights  —  just the gentle press of his lips against hers, soft and absolutely certain.  a heartbeat of peace carved out through the disaster and constant performance.

the way he says it, the tone of patrick’s voice; the words are supposed to mean something.  as if tashi’s meant to flinch / confess / or allow them to hit somewhere deep inside her cadaver.  but they don’t — she doesn’t allow them, not on the surface. 

she’s been looking at him for a long time now — perhaps since stanford if she really wanted to think about it.  for now, tashi chooses to blame it mentally on the fact she hasn’t seen patrick in years.  the longer she stares, the more it begins to feel like punishment.  for now, she remains there; elbow perched on the bar, chin resting in the palm of her hand.  she looks bored in that way she always does when she’s trying very, very hard not to feel something in her body.  the ice in her vodka soda has long melted, that when she goes to take a sip, that’s the real form of punishment. 

‘no,’    she finally says.  the word is light and airy, like a sigh that never entirely finishes.  vodka still lingering on the tip of her tongue, tashi bites back with her declaration.    ‘you couldn’t.’ and she means it with all the bone-deep certainty of someone who’s lived her entire life like a match — striking, burning, burning out, lighting another, watching the smoke curl, and eventually pour water on the remnants. 

patrick wants to believe he’s different.  that there’s something more human about him; something less ruthless, less hungry.  but that’s the thing about ruthlessness — it gets dressed up as a form of hunger when you’re young.   it gets called passion, drive, love, and everything in between.  nobody tells you it’s the same thing as cruelty until you’ve already built your whole life on it.