one of the most admittedly superficial disappointments clark kent has ever suffered through in his less-than-roller coaster of a personal life has been the recognition and gradual acceptance of the fact that as a kryptonian, certain celebrated inebriates across the planet hold less of a desired effect on his physicality than he ( or others ) might have wished for; his eyes never become glassy enough, his speech never moss-covered enough, the shining, unalterable steadiness of his towering figure indomitable. he canât get drunk-- at least not by normal means, nothing short of dianaâs dionysus-inspired brew has been able to even so much as render him dizzy, and itâs a tragedy really, a calamity, especially in moments like these, in bars like this, around so much noise and giddiness, the levity and spirits filtering through the air enough to bring even the most stoic of faces to a laugh.
his inability to lose himself inside the bottom of a mug isnât usually what keeps him from the bar scene anyway however, that being plenty accomplished by his natural-born awkwardness and introversion ( the chagrin of one of the worldâs mightiest heroes being socially inept something heâs often lightly teased over, with very little hope of recovery ), but occasionally there are brief nights he holds in wooden booths, ordering whatever has the highest alcohol content available, laughing at all the truly terrible karaoke-- but only when heâs around the right sort of person, only when heâs mingled his own personal glow with that boyish green hue.
he doesnât do it for himself though, obviously, doesnât surround himself with petulant, disorderly chaos for his own amusement, as though sticky floors and beer guts is something he wants to come home to his apartment smelling like in three hours from now, but heâs here because his friend sometimes needs to unload and for someone like hal, unloading is a sin, a sacrilege, a profanity, a leakage. hal thinks himself a locked box, buried emotions and ideas deep within the ocean of his whirlwind personality, and perhaps sometimes heâs correct, but then other times clark can bring him here and coax that twisted, knotted ball of twine in his gut to uncoil and relax, fade back into the relative harmony they attempt to establish here in battleworld.
itâs not much and itâs not flawless, but superman could take out a whole garrison of demons in a single afternoon and still feel useless if he canât help save his friends from their own personal issues.
he watches hal down another shot and chuckles, fingers making tiny little designs in the precipitation on his own glass. âi donât think you quite understand the rules of this game, buddy, youâre supposed to only drink when youâve actually done the thing, not just thought about it a lot. itâs called ânever have i ever,â not ânever yet but maybe somedayâ. you canât honestly tell me youâve been to the rings of saturn.â