Chapter Text
When reflecting on his childhood, Clark couldn’t recall any horrible dreams. Sure, he had experienced a few daunting visions, ones of spindly spiders, harrowing heights, and appearing at school naked, as any kid his age could relate to. Certainly they had seemed horrific in his youth, but now they seemed like nothing but a speck in the vast chamber that were his childhood memories. After relaying this discovery to Lois, her response (a laugh and a pat on his shoulder as she walked by, “it’s not shocking that you never had nightmares, Kent. With a mindset as optimistic as yours, it would be shocking if you had”) left Clark with a rather unusual sensation of isolation and loneliness. Why, of all people, had he never experienced a nightmare? It seemed to Clark like another way that he was so different from everyone else.
Now, as Clark stood outside the entrance to the Goldberg Museum, he regretted this desire for assimilation with society deeply, as he seemed to be living in a nightmare where he stood. If he were asked to describe the sensation he was experiencing, he would be left bumbling and stuttering, hands clasped at his sides, struggling to get noise out. It was how survivors of lightning strikes described the moment before the bolt struck, the churn of the stomach, shake of the legs, climbing nausea, hairs rising on the back of his neck, standing in anxiety.
“Superman, there are more people inside! God help! God help us!”
Clark turned to face the voice. The man was around middle aged, face wrinkled slightly with workplace stress, linoleum floors, polyester cubicles (“Yes, the exchange paper won’t be in till Monday”). In his focus upon the man’s face, Clark couldn’t remember his outfit until looking back on the moment weeks later, for he was wearing a bland tweet suit, wool jumping in stringy bunches at the elbows. However his face and most of his hands for that matter were rather noticeable , as they were drenched in crimson red blood. Much like the vital fluid drying on his flesh, the whites of his eyes- that were in fact, white no longer- were a dark shade of pink, giving the blue of his eyes a stark contrast against the hue.
Rather suddenly, the man reached out a hand, his grip on Clark’s arm bunching the fabric. Despite his perpetual invulnerability, Clark would experience the phantom hold of that hand for weeks to come, pinching through the material of his suit, straight to the skin.
“People! There are people in there, save them, they’re going to die!”
Something about the man’s expression was uncanny to Clark, the way his eyes bulged past the limit, the pupils watering intently, just the way he gaped manically at him, the rest of his expression neutral against the hysteric twitch of his eyelids. More from the desire to get away than the need to research the building, Clark nodded and dashed away, towards the direction the man in the tweed coat had pointed.
He had been at the museum for at least two hours prior, lifting pillars and searching the crevices of the building that had been bombed by a terrorist group, one specifically from Gotham City. Rescue for such an event always held a certain grim air to it, the dirt squelched behind his fingernails, soot left on his skin, lungs heavy with chemicals despite his unerring physical health. Just the sight of frantic civilians and many dead held an anchoring feeling with it that festered in Clark’s chest like growing mold.
Time and time again, he would leave such a mission in something of a daze, swiftly returning to his apartment to mindlessly flush the residue from his skin and sit gazing at the tv, the news channel on, watching how the event unfolded without his presence (“This just in, thirty injured, twelve dead, officers and ambulances are still on the scene”). With this said, it wasn’t particularly foreign for Clark to feel somewhat doleful during major attacks such as the museum bombing. However, as he traversed through the building's marred interior, searching for survivors, the sensation from earlier, that of being stalked, clung to him fiercely – not specifically fearful, but uneasy. Nevertheless he continued through the wreckage.
Because the museum was a short but wide building -only one floor and a basement- the ceiling and roof had been blown open, letting in light here and there within the facility. Clark flashed through spots of illumination on the floor, passing through the building, using his x-ray vision to peer for heat signatures. He startled and then focused when he detected a life force under a hut of rubble, close to one of the roof openings. The light but dust silaged air gave the room an eerie impression, adding to Clark’s tense nature. He persisted nonetheless, more worried about the survivor than himself, as always.
“Hello?” He said, kneeling next to the debris and leaning in close, a habit of his that was futile due to his super hearing. “Is someone in there?”
“Yes! Yes! I’m here, help!” A small, youthful voice replied, the cadence slowed and raspy, indicating to Clark that they may have taken some damage to the head. Reactivating his X-ray vision, he peered through the fallen concrete and saw a young boy crouched in the small space, his hands over his head, a fierce scrape down his forearm. He shook violently, his eyelids squeezed shut as he hyperventilated slightly. Returning his vision to normal, Clark sighed and said, “Okay, hold still and I’ll be able to get you out, okay buddy?”
“Superman? Is that you?” The boy said. Clark could hear the rustle of fabric as he lifted his head and as if to gander at him through the rubble.
“Yes it’s me, Superman. What’s your name?” His voice was gentle as he tried to ease the child’s anxiety.
“My name is John Corkwire, I live at number fifty-four on Glenn and Suester Street!”
Clark nodded, instantly understanding that the boy- John- was reciting those lines children were hardwired with for a situation in which they were astray from parents. He had grown used to such a mantra after a few years of being Superman, though he hadn’t been at first, strictly out of unfamiliarity. Back in Smallville, everyone knew everyone, so a precautionary audible nametag wasn’t necessary in his part of Kansas. In the bustling city of Metropolis, however, it was.
“Alright, John, just stay still while I move this rubble out of the way so I can get you free. Can you do that for me?”
“Mhm.”
Clark nodded despite John’s lack of sight and braced his legs on the floor for balance. Around John, the concrete entombed him on all sides, some parts overhead and some on the sides. After sizing up the logistics for a moment, Clark decided to start from the side, knowing that the rubble overhead was sturdily leaned against the wall.
With ease, he began to clear pieces of debris. Each move of cement brought plumes of dust powdering after it, congesting the air with more chemicals.
“Are you still with me John?”
“Yes, Superman!”
“Alright, good job. The air out here is sort of stinky, do you think you can use the fabric of your shirt to cover your mouth and nose?”
“Mhm!” John said cheerily, and a few seconds later, Clark heard the rustle of his shirt once more as John lifted it to protect his mouth.
“Good.” Clark said, and continued to clear the rubble. Though he could feel no physical pain, his grip on a large concrete slab caused his fingertips to whiten with the motion, causing an annoying discomfort to his hands.
Finally, he moved the slab out of the way, and was startled to see nothing but the white of one eye, stark against the surrounding darkness, glaring hollowly at him, unerring in its gaze. Clark paused, staring for a moment, thinking it a trick of the light, blinking to rid the sight from his vision, only for the white of the eye to persist in its severe watch.
“Uh- John? Everything alright in there?”
“Yes, Superman.”
“Ok,” Clark stared at the eye for a moment more. He thought to himself that it wasn't odd for a child to look at him unwaveringly, especially in a rescue situation, except, where was John’s other eye? “I’m almost done, hang in there pal.”
For a moment more, Clark stared at the eye, still frozen in the same stance as minutes before. Shaking himself from his stupor, he reverted to clearing the last bits of rubble, slowly but surely clearing a big enough path for John to exit.
“Okay, John, I cleared a little path I think you can get out from. Can you try to get through?”
“Yes Superman!”
With a sigh of great relief, Clark watched as the eye finally blinked and moved around, growing closer to the opening. As John moved, Clark began to see more of him, slowly creeping into the light. The boy was short and blonde and unusually thin for the age he appeared to be- around eight years. He wore a pair of suspenders- which Clark hadn’t seen since living in Kansas- and when he lumbered across the last piece of debris and stepped fully into the illumination of day, Clark sighed once more.
In the daylight, he was just a boy, not an omnipresent eye in the pitch darkness. Clark was relieved- yet worried- to find that the cause of the sole eye was an injury just above John’s eye that swelled his eyelid shut, blood seeping over the flesh.
As soon as John was fully free of the enclosure, he leapt unto Clark, wrapping his small arms around Clark’s knees.
“Superman! Superman!” He cheered through gentle sobs. At this, Clark felt silly for thinking the small boy eerie. He was nothing but a kid, trapped in a horrible situation, and Clark was Superman. He wasn’t supposed to get scared by odd actions after everything he’d seen, and usually he didn’t, but something about that day had left a weird notch in his brain, one that set things off kilter, everything a little not right.
Nevertheless, Clark leaned down to swoop the boy into his arms, the boy's hands around Clark’s neck. “Let’s get you to your mom or dad okay? Do you know where they might be?”
John refrained from responding, instead clasping his hand- his right hand, Clark remembered it vividly- around the Superman cloak, his grip far stronger than any eight year olds should be. Clark assumed that John must be feeling frightened and attempted to gain his attention once more, this time rocking John gently in his arms in an attempt to soothe his nerves.
“John? Do you know where your parents might b-”
“He’s watching us.”
Clark stopped swaying at once, instead freezing where he was. That feeling from earlier, the one that made the hairs on his nape draw upwards, returned fiercely.
He brushed off the sensation and tried to get through to John once more. “No one’s here but us John, they got everyone out of the museum so that they could be safe. Can you tell me where your parents are so you can go with-”
“He’s watching us, Superman. He’s watching you.”
For a brief moment, Clark closed his eyes tight, struggling to compose himself. Suddenly, he felt like he did during Kryptonite poisoning, the pit in his stomach, the rise in temperature that made him sweat uncomfortably against the suit, the nausea that rolled just beyond his mouth.
“John, no one is here.”
“Look.”
Clark opened his eyes and slowly slipped John’s head from his shoulder. That look, the one that haunted John’s face, was not of a child. He looked like the soldiers Clark had seen photographs of, freshly returned from war, shell shocked and traumatized, as if the feeling of being hunted had followed them off the battlefield. John looked as if he had already given up, as if resistance was futile against the discordant knock of the Grim Reaper at his door. He appeared as though he was looking Death in the eye.
Following his gaze, Clark realized he was not looking at the room, but the opening in the roof that hovered just above him to the right. Clark tilted his head up to see. Just next to the museum, another building loomed a few feet over it. From his view, Clark could see the ledge of said building, and behind it, the gray sky beyond. There was nothing there, but it seemed as if there had been, the way you can tell where furniture had been in a room from the outline made by the sunlight's rays. Someone had been there, up on the roof.
Clark turned back to John to find his countenance had returned to that of an eight year old. He looked almost bored, playing with his own hands as his head leaned against the hope symbol on Clark’s chest.
“Can we go now? I want to see my mom an’ dad.” John murmured poutily.
“Who was there, John?”
“I want to go.”
“John?”
Turning up to look at him, John peered at Clark solemnly, until a slow, easy smile spread across his face. “A shadow. It was on the roof.”
Clark stared at him for a moment, his thoughts blank. “Let’s . . . let’s just get you to your ma and pa okay?”
John nodded, the smile still on his face as he fixed his head back down.
Even after sleepless nights spent dwelling on that day, even after he had uncovered exactly what was on the roof, Clark couldn’t recall exiting the building with John and finding his parents. Up until John had turned his head back down, Clark could remember the day vividly, could recount every word said at the museum rescue verbatim. But the time spent leaving the building and scouring the crowd was lost to him, an empty square in the world's easiest puzzle piece.
“Okay, bye John!” He had said, watching as the boy's parents embraced him and whispered “I’m so glad you're okay”s and “how do you feel”s. Just as Clark was going to walk away in search of the police chief, he was stopped by a noise behind him. He turned back to look at John.
“I know what it was.”
Clark peered at John, skeptically, swallowing around his unusually dry throat. “Wah- what?”
“On the roof. I know what it was.”
Clark glanced back up at John’s parents to see they were faced the other way, pointing in another direction, focused on something else entirely. He looked back down at John. Took a small step closer. “What was it? What did you see?”
John looked away for a moment, and then laughed softly as if he was lost in thought, reminiscing an old joke. He looked back at Clark, his expression suddenly solemn. “It was Death I think?”
Clark leaned closer. He felt beads of sweat itching skin within the suit, slipping down from his hairline. “Death? What does that mean?”
“Death was watching,” John began matter of factly, raising a hand to point behind Clark, “Death was watching and he was looking at you.”
Quickly, Clark whipped his head to look in the direction John was pointing. He turned just quickly enough to see a wisp of black disappear behind a building. Slowly, he turned back to John.
“Death was watching.” John said, and then laughed softly. He then twisted to pull on his mothers dress. “Can we go now, mom?”
Clark tried not to let out a terrified cry, as John and his parents walked off, for he could still feel the piercing cold gaze of Death, lurking from the arcane beyond.