agoodyarn | for perilicious: Do do do do do... do do do... do do do do doooo SUPERMAN

It was the conversation that attracted his attention first. UNCLE's central office in Manhattan did not often buzz with random gossip, so when he kept hearing snippets of can't understand it and impossible, he glanced up. When he heard caught a plane with his bare hands and is that a cape?, he joined the smattering of personnel gathered around a television turned to the news.

And promptly dropped his coffee mug. He ignored the startled inquiries around him and the coffee soaking into the industrial carpet as he stared at the face smiling sheepishly at the cameras.

"You know this guy, sir?" asked one unfortunate, and nearly withered under the force of Illya's stare before Illya turned and walked back to his office, and clocked out for the day, and walked back to his small walkup apartment, up the stairs, past his door, out to the roof.

He took a deep breath, then a second, realized they were not going to calm him down, and spoke aloud through his teeth. "If you have a moment. When you are finished. With your interviews."

There was the sound of a single pop of thunder, someone breaking the speed limit, or rather, someone dropping off from it within the city limits. A moment later, the man who'd been on the news not five minutes before in Metropolis was floating down to the roof of Ilya's building. He wasn't wearing the bright red and blue uniform, but the awkward duck of his head was the same as it'd always been.

"I was going to tell you when we got together this week," Clark said to start as his feet touched the ground. His usual sneakers, under his usual jeans, below his usual plaid and t-shirt. "I really was. And I wasn't going to do anything for another couple of weeks since I wanted to settle into the new city. But then there was a plane and I had to do something about it and Ma already made the costume so--"

He tilted his head.

"...I wasn't looking for news coverage. I mean. Considering."

Illya stood with arms folded, in that same battered brown jacket that had seen work hauling hay bales on the Kent farm and now carried a burn mark from a failed attempt to slide down a zipline. Stone-faced, he listened until Clark trailed off, managed to keep his silence for a few moments longer, then let out an aggrieved sigh and shook his head.

"Now I cannot object or it sounds like I am disappointed you saved lives," he muttered as he dropped his arms and took a few agitated steps across the rooftop, then back. He couldn't quite decide if he was angry, or worried, or scared, or proud, and settled on being all of them at once, loudly.

"They saw your face," he said at last, whirling and storming back up to Clark. "What were you thinking? Everyone in Metropolis wants to know who this is. Soon it will be everyone in the world looking at this, at you. Including my organization, and everyone else's. And they saw your face."

That, he knew, he'd always known, was going to be the biggest sticking point. But he'd spoken to his mother, they'd decided this together while making the costume. That was when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small case. He didn't open it, though.

"I know that," he said quietly as he stepped closer to Ilya with a sad little smile. "But they need to see my face. They need to know I have nothing to hide."

He held up his empty hand, curled his fingers into a fist.

"You know what I can do, Ilya. You know the kind of power I hold. It's going to be hard enough convincing them that I'm here to help as it is. It'd be impossible if I was wearing a mask, if I hid my face."

He looked him in the eyes, let Ilya see.

"They need to be able to see my eyes. They need to see my eyes to know not to be afraid."

The case attracted his attention immediately—any small movement like that attracted Illya's attention now, even if it was the man he trusted more than anyone in the world—but that was not important right now, or it would be the focus. He watched Clark's empty hand, looked back at his face.

That open, earnest face, and those beautiful eyes that still, after all these years, left him stunned for a moment. A million people had seen them today. Millions more would see them in the next week, as news agencies picked up the story. Who was that masked man was easier, so much easier than this.

He reached out to trace his fingers over the fist, then wrapped both hands around it, stroking his thumb over the back of Clark's hand. "Some of them will still be afraid," he said quietly. "Is this what you are doing now?"

"They will be," he agrees quietly, "but I'll just have to work that much harder to prove it to them."

He pulls Ilya's hand up to his lips to press a kiss there.

"But yes, this is... part of what I'm doing. This is the other half."

Which was when he opened the case and pulled out a pair of glasses. They were opened and plopped on his face, cutting the blue of his eyes and making his face appear flatter, wider. Less attractive.

"It's a work in progress," he admitted with a little blush, "but I took some of those lessons you learned and tried to put them to work."

Now he smiled, just a little.

"I can't wear a mask then, so I'll wear a mask the rest of the time."

If he thought he looked less attractive in glasses, he was mistaken, but they did make his face look...different. Less like himself. Illya couldn't help but approve of that. And that Clark was taking what Illya had learned about making himself unnoticed in a crowd and using it to blend in when he was not being...himself.

But which one would be the real him? The man in a red cape, or the man in glasses?

"Still do not like this," he said quietly, but took a step back to evaluate the overall impression. The glasses helped take attention away from his striking eyes, and they changed the shape of his face, but that was not enough. "Let me see the rest of it."

He frowned a little before changing the curve of his spine a little, slouching and reducing his height a few inches. He let his shoulders drop, let his stomach pouch out a little, and adjusted his clothes to make him look bulkier and less fit than he was.

"This was the best I could do," though to his credit, his voice was significantly different. Higher, lighter, and not as smooth. Still pleasant, but definitely not the same.

"Huh." It was a thoughtful, impressed little sound. Illya walked slowly around Clark, taking in the image of a quiet, rather nervous man, a bit taller and broader than he wanted to be and who tried to be small to make up for it. The voice was good.

He finished his circle and faced Clark again, hands behind his back, head tilted to one side, looking uncannily like one of his old trainers in Russia if only he could see himself. "Not bad," he said. "Better than expected. Looks like you were listening after all."

He looked past the glasses to smirk a little at Ilya.

"I always listen, Ilya. You should know that."

Then the glasses were pulled off, put back in their case, and returned to his pocket. His slouch disappeared and his voice was normal again.

"I could change my voice more, but I don't want it to feel unnatural. The best lies are always based on truth, after all."

He grinned and shifted his voice until it was an exact duplicate of Ilya's.

"Though if you think it needs to change, I can change it more."

"Smart-ass," Illya growled in Russian, stepping closer and reaching out to skim his fingers beneath the edge of Clark's t-shirt, over his side.

Martha had made the costume. They had decided on this together, then. That Clark would help the world, and not only that, he would do it as obviously as possible.

No wonder they had decided against consulting with him. His objections would have been audible in Moscow.

"New city," he murmured. "Finally you have finished your wandering, then?"

He nodded before leaning in for a soft, sweet kiss. It's was as much of an apology as he could really give for saving people.

"I like Metropolis," he admitted quietly. "And it's close to New York but not close enough to get in your way."

He would be too close to Ilya's work if he was in New York.

"Would not have minded you being closer," Illya admitted. In fact, he had sometimes thought that once Clark had decided to come home again, he might ask if he wanted to...

He let himself have a moment resting his forehead against Clark's before straightening again. "Do you have cover established?" he asked more briskly. He wasn't happy about this, but it was also a decision that had been made, and once Clark had decided something, it took a great deal to change his mind. This, Illya could tell, was too important to him.

And he knew that if Clark was going to begin doing...doing this, it would only be more difficult for Illya as UNCLE began to investigate this mysterious flying man. They would need to keep their distance. Continue keeping their distance.

He'd been leaning in for another kiss when Ilya had straightened up and he couldn't help giving the other man a bit of a pout for it.

"I'm always only a call away," he said as his own hand reached out to run down Ilya's arm. He knew why he was being businesslike about it. He was concerned. But he didn't have to like it. Ilya had such warmth to him, such kindness and an abundance of love. He'd always somewhat hate the service for making him hide so much of it.

"It's not really a cover. It's just me," he pointed out. "I graduated with a degree in journalism and I'm going to be starting with the Daily Planet."

A crooked grin.

"I figured this way, I'd have a good excuse to be around when situations like today go down."

Yes, well, he could consider the loss of that kiss a penance. Illya was very concerned. He was hiding most of it beneath ruthless logic: helping people was what Clark had always wanted to do, and while this was not the method Illya himself would have chosen for him, it would help people.

"The Daily Planet. Congratulations." But he couldn't stand firm against that little crooked smile. It should be weaponized. Illya sighed and returned it, small and a bit sad. He brushed a hand over Clark's shoulders, which would be more rounded when he was pretending to be less than what he really was, and traced Clark's cheek with his thumb.

"You're right. Is good idea," he said, reaching out to catch at Clark's hand. "But it will not really be just you. It will be...watered-down version of you."

"And when I'm in the costume, I can be the person I really want to be out loud and without hiding," he pointed out in return, pulling their hands to his lips to press a kiss to Ilya's.

Then he tilted his head.

"So how interested in me are your UNCLE people? If you don't mind me asking."

Somehow a soft smile had appeared on Illya's face, amazing how often that seemed to happen when he was around Clark, but that question prompted an aggrieved, put-upon sigh that ended in a groan. "Very, of course. Mysterious flying man in red cape appears out of nowhere and saves plane full of civilians? They want to know everything about you. Yesterday. Waverly is being his most polite. 'If you please' and 'I don't wish to trespass upon your valuable time' and things like this. Terrible sign."

Finally he caved and slipped his arms around Clark's waist, drawing him in for a proper hug. "Knew you would be trouble for me someday," he murmured.

He slipped in and perhaps he was being a little more affectionate than even he was usually. He'd just created a great big mound of work for his boyfriend, after all. And that meant he was going to try and soften the blow with kisses and touches and his arms around him.

"If it makes you feel better, I'm going to do a feature with one of my coworkers. That'll put a bit more information out to the public, make it seem less like I'm a mystery. If I do it right, they won't even think I am anyone but Superman."

A kiss.

"Nothing to look for."

Illya was not going to complain about the abundance of affection. Once they parted here, it would be dangerous for them to see each other too often. Yes, stealth came easy to them, but Clark was establishing a cover in Metropolis. There were rules to that. He would need to present a solid impression with no opportunities for curiosity. He needed to be boring, be there to confirm that he was boring. There could be no unexplained gaps in his presence.

It would be difficult enough explaining away his absences if someone noticed him gone when Superman—

"Superman?" He couldn't help but snicker at that. Leave it to the Americans to name their new rescuer something so sensational, and so quickly.

He rolled his eyes a little.

"Blame Lois for that one. And trust me, I do."

He ran a hand through his hair before leaning in for another kiss.

"So... am I allowed to tell people that I have a hot Russian boyfriend who lives in New York as Clark Kent, not-quite-ace reporter?"

After this many years together and the grueling training Illya had undergone, there should have been no reason for the surge of longing that question prompted in him. They had never really told anyone. He exhaled quietly, arms tightening for a moment.

"Not so sure that is good idea," he admitted reluctantly, hating his logical mission-planning instincts. "That might be a little too interesting, if you are trying to look boring."

"But every boring person has one or two little interesting things. Otherwise, it looks even more suspicious."

He was fiddling with the fastenings on Ilya's jacket, doing his damndest to look sweet and adorable to melt him a little on the point.

"And, getting a call from you will be a great excuse to leave a room if I need to dip out. Not to mention that I'd get to bring you to the company Christmas party and give us an excuse to be seen together so we can actually see each other."

Illya glanced pointedly down at the idle fingers and gave Clark a Look, but it was working. The wistful wish to simply be honest about the two of them—to their limited ability, at least—was getting the better of his natural caution.

"Tsch. You make it sound as if I would like to go to company Christmas party," he said dismissively, even as he imagined being able to walk into a room with Clark.

"So, Mr. Kent, what does your boyfriend do in New York?"

"Pine away and wish I could visit more often," and that came with a little waggle of eyebrows. But he laughed quickly and continued. "You said UNCLE pretends to be a charity organization. So clearly--"

He paused and held up a finger.

"Ilya, you have to keep the title straight. 'Hot Russian' boyfriend. It's very important."

The point dealt with, he continued.

"So clearly, you work for a non-profit. Which makes perfect sense for a sweet smalltown Kansan who plans on writing about the underdogs of the world."

Illya just rolled his eyes and grunted and did not dignify that with an answer. He thought about it, and wanted to find an objection, but...

"That is actually good story," he grudgingly admitted. "Even for group of investigative reporters. Will not take much to invent the details that are missing."

He would need to learn more about the charitable front that UNCLE used as its public face. And he would need to decide how much to tell his partners, and his boss. This new identity of Clark's was not his secret to reveal, he would never do so, but they would notice.

for perilicious: Do do do do do... do do do... do do do do doooo SUPERMAN

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