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A/N: The beginning overlaps slightly with the last scene in Part Three, so you might want to refresh your memory. Also, I had bits of this part written, and then inspiration left me, and once it showed up again, I’m not sure all the bits meshed together very well. The title pretty much reveals my feelings toward this particular part, but, at least I’m posting something, right? This fic is kicking my ass and taking much longer than I expected to write—probably because it started out as thoughts about how Season 7 should begin, and it originally wasn’t going to be anything but the first part, so nothing was planned out initially—but it will be finished. No abandoned WIP here.
Part Four: Dissatisfaction
Clark is flying over Metropolis in a routine patrol when he sees a distinctive flash of green on the roof of the Daily Planet building and narrowly avoids flying into the side of an apartment building. He stops so suddenly he turns an unintentional somersault in mid-air.
It’s not the most graceful he’s ever appeared, and a vain, petty part of Clark’s mind laments that he is once more making an idiot of himself and that this is the way Oliver sees him again for the first time in five years. Apparently, it’s become a tradition to humiliate himself in new and interesting ways whenever he’s in the same place as Oliver Queen. Clark has never really appreciated traditions, mostly because they always seem to leave aliens out of the equation, but it seems that he’s not even going to be that lucky today.
He’s not nearly ready for this. Not yet. After what happened the last time he and Oliver saw each other face to face, Clark isn’t sure he could ever be ready.
So Clark gives himself a few extra seconds while he flies over and lands next to Green Arrow, but he knows it isn’t enough; Clark and composure part company whenever Oliver Queen is present, and it seems as if adding Superman to the mix doesn’t make any difference that is statistically significant. Oliver, of course, is just as gorgeous and sure of himself as ever, and Clark would resent him if he weren’t trying so hard to resist peeking beneath the Green Arrow costume. Truth, justice, and all that are wonderful concepts in theory, but the man under the tights is rather more flawed and just a little too sex-starved to be obeying any higher principles at the moment.
Clark tries desperately not to think of the last time he saw Oliver and the way it felt to look at his face still riding the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’d ever had.
He’s not that successful.
There is silence between them, now, as there was then. Of course there’s silence. This is awkwardness personified, and Clark thinks there really should be something he can do or say to make everything less uncomfortable, but he’s just not sure what that might be, and Oliver seems to have forgotten everything he once knew about small talk.
In fact, Oliver seems content to stare at him with a dauntingly inscrutable look on his face, while Clark struggles not to let his own expression say anything about want or need or longing.
It’s even harder to control the rest of his body. Clark’s hands have reached out for Oliver thirteen times in the last forty-five seconds, and it’s only his faster-than-human reflexes that have stopped them each time before they can move more than a centimeter. Clark thinks he must appear to have developed some sort of twitch and winces inside at the kind of impression he is making. This is so much worse than playing the bumbling, nervous fool that is Clark Kent, because this is him, here, now, and this is Oliver, and if there were ever a time in his life when Clark wanted not to humiliate himself, it would be now.
So when Oliver says it’s good to see him, Clark is honestly stunned. His disbelief makes him stutter, and he hasn’t done that unintentionally in he doesn’t know how long, but he can’t believe Oliver could be happy to see him. That reaction seems so…wrong, somehow, possibly because Clark was counting on Oliver’s revulsion being a contributing factor in his ability to stay the hell away from Oliver’s ass. At the very least, Oliver should find it awkward, uncomfortable, humiliating, even disturbing to see Clark again after their alley-encounter five years ago, but he seems sincere in his appreciation for their reunion. That throws Clark enough off his game that he loses control of his hearing momentarily and catches a few seconds of someone lecturing his teenaged son on the importance of safe sex before he regains his focus.
It’s infinitely more difficult to maintain that focus when Oliver sighs and Clark can see the faint rise and fall of his chest and the slightly more discernible movement of his diaphragm. It’s a hypnotic sight, and Clark’s entire awareness seems to narrow to the man in front of him. He has to close his eyes for a second when he detects the faint exhalation of air against the underside of his jaw.
Clark is so fascinated by the way Oliver breathes that it takes him longer than it should to realize Oliver is removing his eyewear, and then he stops breathing because he can see Oliver’s eyes.
Oh.
Of all the men Clark had fucked five years ago, men of similar height and weight, body type and hair colour, nose and lips, there had been only one with eyes like Oliver’s. And Clark had followed him home and let him fuck him, for the sake of those eyes, alone. But Clark understands now that his memory is a painfully inadequate and inaccurate substitute for the simple fact of Oliver’s eyes, because no one else has eyes like these, and Clark doesn’t even know the words to describe what it is about them that is so incomparable.
It’s wishful thinking, Clark knows it is, but for a moment, he sees his own desire reflected in Oliver’s eyes, and the whole world seems brighter, seems like the opposite of an eclipse, until Oliver starts speaking again and Clark forces himself to look away from all that illusory radiance.
“I know it’s you, Clark,” Oliver says, the tone in his voice expressing exasperation and disappointment. “Give me credit for a modicum of intelligence.” The disparity between fantasy and reality is almost physically painful for Clark, and he begins to think fondly of his days in the ice and snow when he felt just a little bit numb.
He tries to explain that of course Oliver knows who he is—Clark had expected that—it’s just that Oliver can’t possibly find it good to see him again after what Clark did, but he tries to shut himself up at the same time, and all that does is invite a new wave of embarrassment at how very inarticulate he sounds.
And then he blushes, and Clark wonders why he can control so many things about himself at nearly the cellular level, but he can’t stop himself from blushing.
Oliver is still staring at him, though, in a very intense way, and when he says, “Clark, it is very good to see you,” it’s almost as if Oliver is flirting with him, and Clark shouldn’t allow himself to think that, because now he’s harder than someone should ever be in tights. He watches Oliver bite his lip and wonders why he’s never attempted a superspeed jerk-off before. How fast can he gets his hands down his tights, come, and clean up the evidence before Oliver can blink?
Because he’s imagining things in Oliver’s eyes, those eyes that no one else on earth has, and it’s going to get Clark in more trouble than he has time to deal with, right now.
He’s momentarily tempted to use the kiss of oblivion on Oliver about the whole alley issue just to make some of this tension go away. Right now, it’s the damned pink elephant in the room, and maybe if they weren’t both thinking about the same thing, it would be easier for Clark to stay in control when he’s around Oliver. Besides, he is more than a little curious about just how well this strange new power works, and he knows he could do it so quickly Oliver wouldn’t even see him moving in for the kiss…but he doesn’t. Clark wants to kiss Oliver too much for too many other reasons to let himself waste a kiss on making him forget. And if Oliver is really flirting with him, there might be a chance—
But Clark is forgetting something himself. He is Superman, now, and he doesn’t have either the time or the right to take this, whatever this might be, even if he were certain it was being offered. Which he’s not.
He thinks he’s getting a headache.
Suddenly, Clark knows he can’t be here, right now. Can’t stay here and see everything he can never have. He’s lost too much in his life and had to give up too much of everything else for him to believe he will ever get to keep something he wants so badly. His fucking biological father will see to that, if nothing else comes along before then to take it all away. Jor-El likes to interfere in his life whenever things start to look a little too good in Clark’s life, and the bastard always knows just the right card to pull out to make the whole house fall down.
Clark wants to think something about how none of this is fair, except he’s not a teenager anymore, no matter what his body seems to think at this moment in time. He should be past all this teenage angst crap, but then again, his adolescence was somewhat truncated by his most glorious destiny.
Clark hates his life. What the hell happened to the objectivity and maturity he supposedly acquired from five years in frozen isolation? He can almost feel the big black cloud of doom hovering over his head, waiting for him to find a quiet place and settle in for a good brood, and he’s thankful the farm is long gone or he’d probably be moping in the loft of the barn right now.
If depression is common among Kryptonians, Clark thinks he understands the whole ‘his home planet blew up’ story a little better.
And it’s a really good thing he has adjusted to the concept of speed-thinking, because otherwise he’d have had to say something else to Oliver by this point in the conversation, and that would be very bad, because Clark’s so frustrated and horny right now he’s afraid he might accidentally say something like, “I’m looking for someone to fill the role of Oliver Queen in this evening’s performance of Clark Kent’s Most Intense Orgasm. How are you at bottoming?”
He’s that stupidly horny.
Especially since Oliver won’t stop staring at him. It is lust in his eyes, Clark is almost sure of it, and he wants to stay even as he knows he should go and—
“Superman!”
He doesn’t know whether to be grateful for the call he hears eight blocks away or irritated, but it is his job. At least it’s something he knows how to do, something that won’t be taken away from him, because someone will always need saving. If he stays here much longer, he’ll be too lightheaded to fly straight, anyway. That or he’ll break down and cry and Oliver will have to recommend a good shrink.
“I have to go,” Clark says, and he wants to reassure Oliver that he doesn’t want to leave, but that’s more than he will allow himself to admit out loud, more than he should ever confess, so all he says is, “It’s an emergency.”
Superman is gone before Green Arrow has a chance to reply, and the shallow little part of Clark that lamented his ignominious arrival notes that at least his exit is impressive.
* * *
Oliver feels the rush of displaced air on his face that means Superman is gone and wonders why it feels so much like one of his more unsatisfying dreams.
So much for getting a taste of Clark Kent.
* * *
It turns out the call is actually from Lois, and Clark is so pissed at her for thinking she can call him like he’s some kind of taxi service or like it’s okay to shout his name for journalistic purposes as opposed to a legitimate emergency, that he flies off again halfway through her explanation that she needs to ask him a few questions about Krypton.
Fucking reporters. If it weren’t such a good way for him to get the news as it happens and still have somewhat flexible hours, Clark would quit the Daily Planet just to keep what is left of his integrity intact.
He wishes he weren’t so…frustrated. In every conceivable way.
Because after seeing Oliver again, Clark is achingly hard, and five years of enforced celibacy, compounded by his insatiable hunger for Oliver Queen after seeing him in the magnificent flesh once more, mean Clark is just stupid enough with lust to risk going out that night.
He decides to hell with it: if he’s going to be seeing Oliver up close and personal from now on, he needs to be able to have a little perspective and not want to jump his bones and fuck him into the wall at every available opportunity. Besides, suspecting Oliver might not be as averse to his advances as Clark once thought is doing nothing for his self-control, and willpower has nothing on exhaustion when it comes to curbing his impulses. And Superman has to be in absolute control of himself at all times, so if Clark has to go fuck off some restless energy in order for that to remain true, well, Clark can take one for the team.
So after a cursory patrol of the city, which is thankfully quiet and in no immediate need of him, Clark heads for Gotham’s club scene for a night out as Kal in the back rooms of several notorious establishments he’s heard mentioned.
He adjusts his altitude to move out of the flight path of a plane destined for Kansas City, and a few minutes later, having used only a moderate amount of superspeed, Clark arrives in Gotham. Landing in an alley makes him groan a little under his breath at the inevitable onslaught of a memory that refuses to leave him the hell alone, and he’s just about to change into his newly purchased club-wear when the clink of something metal hitting the ground in front of his left boot catches his attention.
Clark berates himself for being so distracted he didn’t hear the projectile coming toward him and hopes fleetingly that some good, old-fashioned, anonymous sex will clear his mind. He bends down to pick up the object that’s shaped like a stylized bat, and the facts fall into place as he flies up to the roof where the Batman is standing in all his…Batness.
Well. He knows it’s supposed to be intimidating; he really does, but the fact that there are ears on the cowl makes Clark wonder exactly how far this fetish extends.
“Superman.” The voice is raspy, forced, and Clark doesn’t know whether to offer a lozenge or pretend to be afraid. “Why are you here?”
I came to get laid, Clark doesn’t say.
Because people don’t expect Superman to need sex. He thinks, sometimes, that they don’t expect him to have sex, at all, and the reverential look in the eyes of the people he saves makes him want to ask them where they think little Kryptonians came from, but it’s possible they have their own ideas about why he is the Last Son of Krypton.
“I just thought I’d take a look around,” he says. “I’ve never been to Gotham before. You must be Batman; I’ve heard a lot about you.” Clark tries to infuse his words with sincerity and honesty, even as he lies through his teeth. He came here with his parents for the weekend once, when he was twelve, and he knows next to nothing about Batman except that he leads the Justice League now instead of Green Arrow. And apparently, he likes bats. A lot.
“This is my city, Superman. If you’re looking to expand your activities beyond Metropolis, think again. Gotham wants nothing to do with you. So get the hell out!”
For a moment, Clark considers using his X-ray vision to peek underneath the cowl for the sole purpose of learning Batman’s secret identity and taunting him with it: a spiteful urge to get back at the man for being so impolite. It’s tempting, but in the end, it would mean one more lie Clark has to tell, one more secret he has to keep, and he carries enough of those as it is.
So, “I’m sorry, Batman,” he says as politely as he can. “I wasn’t trying to encroach on your territory, but if it bothers you so much that I’m here, I’ll leave.”
Receiving a grunt of acknowledgment in return, Clark rises into the air to fly back to Metropolis and his pathetic excuse for an apartment that houses more spiders than food at any given moment. As he goes, he resigns himself to yet another date with his right hand; so much for clearing his head. It seems as though his sex life will be one more aspect of himself sacrificed on the altar of ‘Superman.’
Clark sighs. He really, really wanted to get laid.
* * *
The next morning, Clark is irritable after his less than satisfying trip to Gotham and a subsequent restless night full of dreams characterized by a disturbing blend of sex and violence, and he thinks his poor temper is justified. Work is hell, especially since Lois is dealing with the snub from Superman by ramping up her daily belittling of Clark a few notches. He refrains from perforating her with his heat vision—or possibly a letter opener—but restraint like that is never easy when it’s Lois.
She makes life difficult.
Most days, Clark copes with her snide remarks and offhand insults by indulging himself in small, anonymous acts of retaliation. Occasionally when someone walks past her desk, a random draft will blow all her carefully ordered papers into the air, and Clark admits to a certain malicious pleasure in ensuring her morning coffee is always cold after the first sip, no matter how many times she reheats it or how fast she tries to drink it.
He can’t always be Superman and selflessly noble, and Lois would try anyone’s patience, and this is how he rationalizes his behaviour.
After the distinctly frustrating night he had, however, Clark needs something more than his usual petty revenges. Lois doesn’t have any reason to be hanging out by his desk other than to insult him, and the third time she calls him a useless clod with the appeal of a cornstalk and the personality of a block of cheese, he breaks. He’s just about to do or say something he knows he’ll regret half a second after he does it, when she starts to chew on the inside of her lip, and he gets a sudden flash of Chloe.
And he stops.
Because the most difficult thing about working with Lois is how much she reminds him of Chloe, at times. The way she becomes completely obsessed with a story, relentlessly tracking down every scrap of information, and the way she doesn’t care whom she tramples in her quest for truth, can be downright eerily Chloe-like, and sometimes Clark wonders if Chloe transferred more than her life force to Lois when she saved her. Even Lois’s mannerisms and speech patterns and caffeine addiction are strongly reminiscent of Chloe, and Clark finds it almost comforting to think there is something left of Chloe inside Lois.
But then Clark remembers how close the two were to each other and how much Lois probably feels like she’s fulfilling Chloe’s dreams by being a reporter, and he tries very hard to put it out of his mind.
Because Chloe never called him ‘Smallville’ and never treated him like the gum on the bottom of her shoe.
Yet for her sake, because Lois was her cousin, and Chloe cared about her, and because sometimes she reminds him of his best friend, Clark bites his tongue and sits on his hands and grits his teeth, while Lois continues to make herself feel better at his expense.
It’s going to be another long day.
* * *
Just before lunch the following day, someone hands Clark an envelope that turns out to be an invitation to a meeting of like-minded individuals with unique fashion sense, and Clark knows instantly it’s from Oliver.
The only other option is Batman, and somehow Clark doesn’t think Batman would be quite so pleasant after their run-in the other night.
Regardless of who sent the invitation, however, Clark knows he will go. He wants to meet everyone involved in Oliver’s Justice League, talk to all of them, those familiar and those unfamiliar, and find out exactly what they’re all about. It’s almost inevitable that he will join—as long as he doesn’t find out something strange like they insist on a group curfew or a daily dose of eerily green Kool-Aid—and as vain as it makes him sound, he’s fairly certain they will want Superman on their team; he pretty much won the superpower lottery. Besides, it will be fun to have other people to talk to about how shitty it is living a double life. Since Chloe, Clark hasn’t really had anyone to commiserate with about his life, with his mother off in Washington, and too much alone time while brooding makes him depressed and melodramatic.
So Clark has every intention of attending the League meeting, but on his way there, he hears a tornado touch down in Kansas City and everything else becomes a secondary priority. He manages to prevent any fatalities or major injuries, but he’s forty-five minutes late for the meeting, and he just knows that Batman is not going to be impressed.
He’s right.
Once Clark gets there and explains his necessary tardiness, Batman is the only one who doesn’t seem to consider his excuse a completely valid one. It’s not that he doesn’t accept the need for Superman to prioritize; it’s just that, apparently, Superman does not function at peak efficiency. According to Batman, Clark should have arrived twelve and a half minutes earlier.
Clark is willing to concede the veracity of that assessment, at least to himself, for the simple reason that he’d taken the extra time to prepare himself for facing Oliver again. Since Batman kicked him out of Gotham, Clark hasn’t managed to relieve any of his excess…tension. Not enough, anyway, not the way he wanted to, and he didn’t want the League’s first impression of Superman to be ‘that big guy in blue with the hard-on.’
They’re in some place that looks like a cross between a conference room and security station, and Oliver sits halfway down the table from Clark. He’s in costume, the same as everyone else, but his hood is down and his shades are off, and Clark can feel Oliver’s eyes on him from across the room.
He shifts in his chair.
Evidently, that’s enough for Batman to realize he doesn’t have Superman’s complete attention, and he glares at Clark throughout his entire explanation of the League’s mission and methods, trying to intimidate Clark or at least impress upon him the gravity of their work and the responsibility it entails. Something in the rigidity of Batman’s jaw suggests he considers Superman as unwelcome in the League as he is in Gotham, but all the same, Clark finds himself impressed by the dedication and intensity of the other man.
Clark wants Batman’s respect, but he finds himself feeling more and more like he’s back in high school, unable to answer the teacher’s question because he’d been staring at the cute blond in the next row instead of listening to the lecture.
Maybe this isn’t the best time for Superman to think about joining the Justice League. Maybe he works better as a solo hero. Maybe he should think about installing some sort of chastity belt capable of withstanding a super-erection, because in about five minutes, Clark is going to have a rather large…problem.
Especially since it’s his turn to talk, now, to explain his methods and beliefs and why he thinks working with the League will be beneficial to everyone involved. He chooses to stay seated while he speaks, and he hears a near-silent snicker from Green Arrow that he ignores to the best of his ability.
In an attempt to distract his body from Oliver’s proximity, and simultaneously give the League the attention it deserves, Clark turns his gaze to the other members, who have so far permitted Batman do the majority of the talking. Bart gives him a superspeed wink and wave to let him know he recognizes Clark but won’t spill the beans, and Clark is relieved to see that he hasn’t changed very much in the half decade since they last saw one another. Possibly another trip to Mexico is in order in the near future, and he really hopes so, because he could use a vacation. Even one that lasts forty-five minutes in total. Victor seems both the same and different; it’s as if he’s simply become more of what and who he was. He looks more thoughtful, more serious, and more attractive, too, which Clark really doesn’t need to be noticing right now, but he also seems more…detached. When their eyes meet, Clark can see the recognition in them, but it’s what he doesn’t see that makes him wonder if all the new enhancements to his inner circuitry that Clark can see underneath the skin have exacted a greater toll than Victor ever intended to pay when he made the upgrades.
A.C., on the other hand, seems determined not to look at Clark, and it isn’t until Clark notices Batman watching him particularly closely that Clark remembers A.C. can’t lie for shit and simply doesn’t want to give away the fact that he knows who Superman really is. Clark is grateful for the show of discretion, even if it is making Batman suspicious, so he turns his head as nonchalantly as he can to the final member of this new League: Wonder Woman.
Studying the woman across from him, Clark admits to himself that he is extremely curious about Diana. She is a beautiful woman with intelligent eyes, and from the number of times she bites her lip to keep from smiling at something Batman is grumbling to himself now that Superman has finished speaking, Clark can tell she has a well-developed sense of humour. He thinks they’ll get along just fine.
While Batman consults with the others briefly, presumably to vote on the acceptance or rejection of Superman as a member of the Justice League, Clark allows his eyes to move back to Green Arrow. He’s been aware of Oliver the entire time—his peripheral vision is unparalleled—but there’s nothing quite like being able to look his fill, and it’s only fair after the way Oliver has been watching him the entire time. Clark had to adjust his internal temperature seventeen times during the meeting, and he’s so caught up in seeing if he can return the favour that he almost misses Batman’s somewhat anticlimactic invitation to join the League. There are congratulatory handshakes, and then he signs enough documents and fills out enough forms that Clark begins to fear he made some Faustian bargain.
As he signs his name on the final document, something to do with collateral damage, Clark feels the weight of Diana’s eyes on him and raises his head in time to surprise an unexpected expression on her face. Clark has already decided he likes Diana, but the way she eyes him makes him think he should have listed his sexual orientation before he agreed to join the League. Batman made him sign enough forms and waivers for ten lifetimes, and it’s almost strange that he forgot to ask for a complete sexual history, as well. Not that Clark could provide one. Aside from Lana, there were too many men substituting for Oliver, and Clark didn’t bother keeping track.
Clark looks over at Oliver again at that thought, and he sees something in Oliver’s eyes that makes his heart start to race. But it’s like Lana all over again, only ten thousand times worse, because if he thought his life was complicated and dangerous before, the reasons he shouldn’t be in a relationship have increased exponentially since he was fifteen.
For the sake of his sanity, he needs to get the hell out of this room.
* * *
Superman shows up late for the meeting and Batman is pissed. Oliver watches Bruce seethe, frustrated by his inability to rebuke Superman for being legitimately delayed. For some reason, Batman seems determined to hate Superman, and Oliver doesn’t know why Bruce’s antipathy is so instantaneous. It’s mildly entertaining to witness, but nothing compared to ogling Clark shamelessly and watching him squirm in awareness of his gaze.
Oliver isn’t stupid. He’s well aware of how uncomfortable Clark was during their aborted rooftop reunion. It isn’t really that surprising when one considers the circumstances of their last meeting. And it’s not that Oliver can’t appreciate how embarrassed Clark must have been—how embarrassed he is now—but Oliver has come around so completely to the idea of seeing Clark naked, and being naked with him in all manner of interesting poses and compromising situations, that embarrassment is something for which he has little patience.
It’s been five years, after all.
So what if Clark feels self-conscious from the way Oliver stares at him? So what if Batman alternates between suspicious scrutiny of Superman and annoyed glares at Green Arrow’s obsession with the new hero in town?
Five years. Five years.
Oliver’s entitled to some uninterrupted Clark-gazing. It’s that Clark-specific voyeurism kicking in with a vengeance.
Besides, he really needs to come up with a plan to persuade Clark to move past his mortification and into a bed with him—one that’s better than just jumping Clark in the hall and asking, “Do you want to see my etchings?” as he shoves his hand down Clark’s tights.
Maybe there’s a reason Bruce’s plans seem to go more smoothly than Oliver’s ever did.
Hmm.
Oliver is admiring the way the red cape accentuates Clark’s shoulders when he hears Bruce ask Clark what took him this long to come out. Clark gets a funny look on his face for a moment, then smiles a little and says he had to undergo a rather stringent training regimen that required complete isolation from the world. Oliver raises his eyes at that and studies Clark’s face closely, but he appears to be telling the truth. It would certainly explain Clark’s absence, and it makes Oliver feel better about his complete inability to discover Clark’s whereabouts during that half decade.
Yes, Oliver might be willing to accept that explanation.
And then before he realizes it, before he’s had the chance to gaze his fill at Clark, the meeting is over. Everyone agrees Clark should join the League (as if there had ever been any doubt), and once he finishes signing all the numerous documents Batman insists every member sign, Oliver tries to get close enough to talk to Clark. But after one slightly panicked glance in his direction, Clark excuses himself hastily and speeds off into the sky, leaving nothing but a faint sonic boom and a rush of wind in his wake. Oliver doesn’t even make it out of his chair.
What the hell was that, he thinks. What the HELL was that?
And suddenly, the game is on.
Five years have taught Oliver that Clark is not easy prey, and that tracking him is a very tricky and nearly impossible thing, but he thinks he knows more about Clark Kent now than anyone else alive, with the possible exception of Clark’s mother. And working with Batman provides Oliver with access to the best toys, even if appropriating them for anything other than official League business is a crime Batman considers to be nothing short of treason.
But Oliver has always liked gadgets, and he’s one of the richest men in the world, so he doesn’t mind exploiting a few personal resources. He calls off all the tails on Clark so as not to risk exposing his secret identity, but with the help of Bruce’s equipment, Oliver is more than capable of keeping an eye on Clark himself.
It should be a simple matter to track him down, now that he’s not in the weird stasis thing that had stymied Oliver’s previous attempts to find him.
But after two weeks, Oliver feels like he’s losing the most wide-scale game of Catch-Me-If-You-Can in the history of the world. (The universe, actually, because Clark is another species, although from what Oliver has seen, that doesn’t entail any anatomical incompatibilities, thankfully.) Or maybe it’s Hide-and-Seek they’re playing. Either way, Oliver is not a gracious loser, and he is losing, because how the hell is he supposed to catch Superman when he doesn’t want to be caught? Every time Oliver tries to talk to Clark alone, Clark flies off to save someone, and suddenly the news reports are filled with accounts of Superman’s latest bizarre behaviour, which includes catching people when they trip on the sidewalk and flying little old ladies to the grocery store.
Clark Kent is nowhere and everywhere, in skintight blue and red, and Oliver is hard all the time.
He’s actually had to start wearing certain unseen-by-the-general-public items of his Green Arrow uniform underneath his civilian clothes just to remain decent in front of others. And he’s still having the fucking dreams, which means he’s seeing Clark practically twenty-four hours a day, half the time naked and half the time in primary-coloured spandex, none of which is making Oliver’s state of mind any more stable.
And as Clark continues to evade Oliver at every turn, Oliver finds his emotions shifting, though they remain just as intense. The more Clark eludes him and the hornier Oliver gets, the more frustrated he becomes, and the more frustrated he becomes, the more Oliver remembers how angry he is at Clark for leaving for five years (five fucking years!) without so much as a word of explanation, and by the time he manages to corner Clark in the copy room of the Daily Planet after an excruciating showdown with Lois, Oliver is furious. Ready to tear Clark’s clothes off and sink to his knees, but furious.
Five years, and this shit ends now. One way or another, they are going to have this out, and if Oliver has anything to say about it, it will end with both of them naked and considerably more satisfied than they are at this moment.
Continued in Part Five: Zenith
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