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clark kent was an alien - literally. and this information always haunted the back of his mind, loneliness threatening to creep into the corners of his life at the idea - no, the fact that he was different. at first he thought it didn’t matter. his parents were lovely people, and he was always grateful that it was martha and jonathan kent that had found him when he had landed in a pod as a baby on their kansas farm. but that didn’t stop the sense of loneliness that loomed over his shoulder when he broke the fifth kitchen utensil that week, or the eleventh pencil, or the third farming equipment he’s been trusted with. his parents said it was okay, and clark understood that it was okay - but he didn’t allow himself to accept that it was okay. he studied his differences and tried to hide them, learning to be like his parents who only ever looked at him with love and fondness as he grew up. he wanted to be like them, to be their son that they always wanted.
“he finds it soothing,” four said as the footage of his biological parents played.
clark listened to their voices, repeating their every word like it was a prayer that he had memorised. every word and every syllable imprinted into a part of his kryptonian brain. the footage of his parents, although he could not speak kryptonian himself, resonated within him: it gave him purpose. he was on earth to serve its people, bringing peace and hope to the planet. his biological parents let him know that there was once a place that he belonged, and as long as he followed their words that pointed towards the path of servitude, he would be able to truly belong. the footage told clark that he, kal-el, was not just an alien, but a son, a man, and hope. he had to be.
so, he tried to save everyone. he used his kryptonian biology to his advantage, living out as clark kent and superman in what seemed to be happiness: he fell in love, and she seemed to show mutual interest in him; his articles earned a place on the front page of the papers; he had people around him that he could call his friends. things were going well - hell, he stopped a war. people liked superman, and so did clark. he almost felt as though he were human.
then, lex luthor fixed the broken part of the footage, the part that clark had always assumed to be a continuation of his purpose to protect, serve and preserve the peace of earth.
“the people of earth are weak-minded,” his parents said.
the footage told him he was an alien in the world he had learnt to love. it told him that he was nothing more than an alien; that he was just an outsider that never even deserved to get a chance to grow up and live like those around him, let alone to serve humanity. he scoffed at his own beliefs - his own, firm beliefs about being just and good, that he was sent to earth just for the purpose of helping humanity thrive. his very existence was one of ill-intention - how could he be a good person if he couldn’t even be a good alien?
“your choices, your actions - that’s what makes you who you are.”
his pa’s words echoed in his heart, every syllable burning into a part of his brain. the feeling of loneliness that haunted every action and decision of his life felt like a childish wish - or maybe even a product of his arrogance: the arrogance that made him believe this feeling of loneliness didn’t matter because he was different, and that those around him wouldn’t understand because he was an alien. he felt pathetic; stupid, even. he had always told himself that he was “just an alien”; that he was never going to belong; that he was never going to become human - and god, he felt so stupid because none of that ever mattered. he was never just an alien - not once after his parents found him inside that pod that landed on their farm one night: he was their son. not an alien baby, but their baby.
he was just as human as anybody else. his loneliness, his doubts, his wavering beliefs, his love, his happiness: they were all proof of it; his humanity.
clark kent wasn’t just an alien, and that was a fact.
rumours spread all the way to metropolis of a masked vigilante: a bat that lurked in the shadows of gotham. clark thought that he, as superman, should check out what the excitement was about, while also taking it as an opportunity to get to know a fellow hero. he was certain that it would be great if the two of them could be friends - help each other out in times of need. after all, there was no need for them to stick to their respective cities if either one was in danger; the more the merrier, right?
“gotham is none of your business,” the bat brooded.
clark thought that he had forgotten loneliness -- this feeling of alienation that he wished he could say was foreign. but he ignored it, remembering the words that his pa had told him like a bandaid over a small scratch. perhaps he and the bat had just gotten off the wrong foot. he was sure that things would get better, they always did.
things did, in fact, not get better. clark didn’t really know what to do with the situation at hand -- how could someone be so stubborn? he was nothing but nice for the past few months to batman every time they had met. when they had to work together to save the world, he followed the orders that were yapped at him as if they were the law. hell, he even sided with the bat when guy gardner went out of line and talked down on batman. so tell him, somebody - anybody - why on earth the batman seemed to hate clark’s guts as if his life depended on it?
“cheer up, big blue, he’s like that to everybody,” guy said while he silently grumbled about the creamer missing (it was, as it always is, on the table).
“okay, but he couldn’t bother to respond with anything more than ‘hn’???”
“like i said, he does that to everybody.”
clark was losing it, to say the least. he spent his waking moments spiralling at the way this guy dressed in a bat costume couldn’t even bother holding a conversation with him, let alone give him anything more than barely audible grunts as responses, effectively denying him to breathe even the same air as him; or the way he was still so cool despite it all as a human choosing to risk his life every single day for the sake of his city that everybody else had given up on. he hated it; this feeling of twisted admiration and envy that made him feel like a jerk. he knew that he and the bat were different -- that he could never be the same as a human vigilante when he identified as an alien hero. to clark, no matter how much the batman brooded and shut everyone out, he was somebody he respected. it just didn’t help that somebody he respected made him feel more isolated than ever.
it took one argument, which, in hindsight, made clark laugh. it was a stupid argument: clark had visited gotham after hearing that batman had found himself a sidekick who appeared to be very young, which was against ethics in clark’s opinion. the conversation began with the address of the topic (clark couldn’t remember all the details), a little bit of back and forth about batman’s new sidekick, robin, and how clark thought it was wrong that a child be working as a vigilante, and how batman believed the same but refused to elaborate any further.
“you and i both know that this isn’t a field of work that children belong in, b.”
“that isn’t any of your business,” batman was quick to shut him down.
and honestly, that was all it took (and maybe the months of rejection and isolation) until:
“why do you hate me?”
“…what?”
“i’ve tried to be nothing but nice to you, putting aside the way you isolate yourself out of respect that i have for you.” clark felt himself beginning to spill out everything that’s been spiralling inside his mind. “is it such a crime for an alien like me to want to be friends with the one human hero i know? what’s the reason? is it because i’m different? because i’m superman?”
it was awfully quiet that night in gotham. clark could hear himself breathe on top of wayne tower, staring at batman who slowly, for the first time, looked him in the eyes. clark knew he overstepped a line, that he was in the wrong for his sudden outburst - but god, he needed to know. so he stood there, staring straight back into batman’s eyes, waiting for a response.
“is it because you’re superman?” batman let out a scoff. “yes, yes it is.”
“so it’s because i’m an alien.” clark licked his lips. “maybe i thought too highly of you. sorry for bothering-“
clark watched as batman stalked up towards him, closing the distance between the two of them, grabbing him by a handful of his suit. he could see the stitch patterns on batman’s cowl, the wearing of his suit, and the perfectly flattering cape behind him.
“because you’re so… good,” batman whispered. “so much better than what i could ever be.”
clark was really, really confused. how could he not be? he thought batman hated him because he was an alien, because he wasn’t human, because he was intruding-
”how could anyone hate you?” batman sounded so, so tired. “yes, i avoided you because you were different, but never would i avoid you because you’re an alien. how could you even come to that conclusion?”
”well, lex hates me for being an alien. i wouldn’t put it past me that other people could think such a thing, especially after the whole ordeal with boravia.”
“god, i would never-“ for the first time (this argument seemed to bring many first times), batman sounded audibly frustrated. “listen to me, superman. i don’t hate you. i never could, even if i wanted to.”
”then why do you act like you do?”
”because you’re so much better than i could ever even imagine to be.”
“i don’t even know what that means-“
”because you’re superman.” batman yelled, and clark could hear the bat’s heartbeat. “because you’re a symbol of hope - of good, of everything that batman could never be. i thought you were like a god, once. some extraterrestrial being that came to save us from this shithole - but then i saw how human you were. you get mad, you get frustrated, you get confused, you have doubts, but most importantly, you’re kind, hopeful. and that, superman, reminded me of everything that made me an alien.”
batman poured out his words. he was mad. he was mad because superman was an alien that was more human than he was; mad because superman was good - too good; mad because he dared to ever even think that superman was like a god when all he ever was and tried to be was human; mad that superman was somebody that he wished he could be, but couldn’t; and he was mad at himself more than anything that he felt like this because he couldn’t be a better man.
“you think i don’t know that robin shouldn’t be here? i’ve tried to stop him for days — weeks, but then i couldn’t think of a better way for him to not end up like - like me.” batman winced at his own words, biting back his tongue when he mentioned himself as if he were some sort of unforgivable evil. “i’m not like you, superman. i wish i was. but i can’t. i can’t just look at everyone and think they’re beautiful. the only thing i can do is put on this mask and fight in the hopes that the future of gotham will be different: that nobody else would become what i have.”
he felt pathetic - god, he must’ve looked pathetic. batman grimaced at himself, letting go of superman’s suit. he stepped towards the edge of wayne tower, turning towards the hero one last time, grappling gun in hand.
“…i’m sorry.” a quiet confession left batman’s lips. “i’m sorry that i couldn’t be a better man.”
that was the last time clark saw the batman. he didn’t have the heart to grab him because, unlike ever before, clark saw in somebody what he had seen in himself many times: that forsaken feeling of loneliness in this world filled with people. he found himself standing there, atop of wayne tower, his hand outreached towards an empty spot on its ledge, mumbling a lonely man’s prayer for salvation.
”…i’m sorry, huh.”
the words lingered on his lips like poisoned honey.