for bigblue: A whale of a tale

[kingtide]

He feels a little bad.

Usually, when he asks one of his friends to go and do a favor for him, he makes a point of giving the creature a pat and taking a swim with them. Today, that pat took the form of a pound of krill tossed her way as he picked his way down the rocky beach to pick up his new 'friend'. It'd been a bitch and a half getting back to shore before she did, after all; doable but unpleasant with the currents as they were and he wasn't about to undo the work of drying off and getting dressed when he knew that the whale would be just as happy to swim with him tomorrow.

Which left him with the halfnaked man who had held up a burning building by himself.

"I know you're not dead," he says, because that's mostly the point he wants to get across. He knows the man isn't dead and he's holding a change of clothes and a towel. The rest should be self-explanatory.

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[bigblue]

Alive, sure, but he’s definitely seen better days: there’s a slight ache in Clark’s shoulders that sings in his head, pulsing out from his muscles in slow unpleasant ebbs, like he knows he’s about to regret the next fifteen minutes no matter what happens.

His eyes crack open blearily, one after the other. Sunlight filters into his vision and delicately drains away some of the pain. It still takes him a moment, though, to shift his weight onto one elbow and then roll over onto his back with a whuff.

Another second, and then he looks at the man nearby. He’s been pretending for a long time, one way or another, but he can’t help the brief befuddlement that flickers across his face, lightning-quick and then gone. It’s a who are you and what are you doing look, as inoffensive as he can make it, but his mouth is still too dry to speak.

[kingtide]

"Arthur," is his introduction. "Call me anything but that and you can walk. Here."

And the towel was tossed on his head.

"Got a name, strongman?"

[bigblue]

The static brush of towel fabric on his face makes Clark wince again, but finally he does reach up and clench a hand over it. He swallows a few more times. The taste in the back of his throat is acrid seawater.

He sits up, then, slight and staggered. He looks down at the towel. “Joe,” he says without thinking. And then the word strongman flickers back into the fore of his thoughts. He looks at the retreating back, then down at his hands again. “Clark,” he amends. Because. It’s someone who’s trying to help, even though they don’t have to, even though he doesn’t--strictly need it, ever. “It’s Clark.”

[kingtide]

"Clark," and he's glad that the over-tall drift wood had decided not to lie to him. 'Joe' had been pretty obvious. Pretty obviously not his name.

"Strong swimmer. Guessing you could do with supper." He tilts his head. "Truck's this way."