SUPERMAN.

sir can you please put on some pants.

rereading some old titles so i can refresh my memory on some things and ah... i miss when he was treated like a menace to society

clark really shouldn't be surprised by any of this, honestly. superpowers and supervillains that tag along with them tend to lend more often to the intergalactic and interdimensional than he would like, so it's becoming more of a frequent occurrence than a strange one — but what surprises him now isn't being transported out of his apartment on a sunday morning with taglines to write, it's being caught in the intricacies of unconscious transportation while pointedly not, as he'd succinctly put it, on the clock. he feels the frame of his glasses slip a little down the bridge of his nose as he looks around, attempting to gain some bearings on his current predicament.

clark's smile is a beaming crown of ivory when he ducks under the doorway to the cafe, almost timid in the way his lips curl around it when his gaze lands on his companion. it's always a pleasure for him to see old friends, enough to settle his stomach; there are concerns bouncing around in his head due to the cryptic phone call that catalyzed this meeting, but clark shoves them down into the recesses of his consciousness to collect his bearings as he moves to sit across from tintin. ❛ hi. ❜ he greets, waving a hand before grabbing the back of the chair. it makes a grating sound as it scratches along the floor and he winces, depositing his messenger bag onto the empty space of the table as he plops unceremoniously into the seat.

the glitz and glamour of decadent ballrooms and bubbly affluence isn't something that disarms clark so much at this point, but he still makes it a regular habit of stuffing himself into a stifling corner away from the action; it's by design of course, in order to allow him to stay under the radar as he makes his observations, though the only ones who could ever bother to tell are the ones that are operating under the same practice. he finds himself in one of those corners, to the right of a barely-picked desert table. the champaign tower to his left, however, is almost non-existent with only half of the bottom tier still standing. he notes, with a particular pang of dissatisfaction, that he probably won't be gleaning any more information from listening in on the crowd tonight — that is until the large double-doors across the room swing open, revealing the apparent lavish host of tonight's festivities. clark makes quick work of the distance (if he cheated using his super speed, that's between him and the powers that may be), clearing his throat to effectively grab attention, which he aptly receives along with a smile. if anyone is going to give clark the information he's been looking for, it's probably going to be him. ❛ mister stark, ❜ he slips into the comfortability of pleasantry with the ease of a guy who must always be in his element, and he extends a hand before him, ❛ clark kent. pleasure to meet you. ❜

the kind of magic she sustains is the kind that could easily subdue him. her show is a brilliant reminder of that fact, not smoke and mirrors but actual spells and manipulation of reality to conjure whatever she desires; this, he knows, just because he's had the luxury to experience it as an ally and not have it be directed to him. his cape sways as he walks towards her in the cramped dressing room, the light blanketing the walls and the props coming from the string of lights that curve around her vanity. ❛ sorry, zee. i didn't bring any flowers. ❜ his smile is sheepish, as if the shyness will make up for that self-admitted transgression. he's here because she had the thought to send him tickets, after all. ❛ i did watch the whole thing, though ! from start to finish. you were incredible, but then again, you always are. ... is my flattery scoring any points ? ❜

she, a nebulous weaving of sensibility, takes up the space in front of him in a way he has only somewhat experienced once before — deep within the recesses of his consciousness where another sorceress has once made herself known. he doesn't have the nerve to compare the two beyond that though, but the recognition, the latching onto the feeling of profundity he had then weighs itself into his bones now as the vibrant blue of his stare meets her own. he has to focus his hearing on the sound of her breath as it puffs between them to drown out the rest of the dreadful noise that's suspended above the air around them, willing himself not to lurch at the overwhelming cacophony of it; it's in preparation for what's to come, surely.

his tongue is splitting in his mouth. his fingers close in on his palms, nails digging into the skin as he sharply exhales through his nose; she doesn't share the same concern it seems, doesn't have the same amount of alarm that he does, and this would give him significant pause if not for the urgency. there's something to be said about how precariously familiar this scenario is beginning to feel, the image of a black cowl and a complimentary scowl taking root in his thoughts as his gaze bores into hers; he doesn't want this to be another meaningless clash of creeds, another bought of disagreement on obligations and duties and other sanctimonious nonsense. he needs her out of the building, and he needs her out now.