#post BVS mess

[apricitous]

Alfred had complained at the very idea of it. He hadn't complained very stringently, because even he could see the importance of such precautions, given what had occurred in Gotham Bay with the remains of General Zod's body, but he couldn't let the whole thing go on without some comment given the sight of Martha Kent walking slowly away from her son's grave on the day that most would only remember as the death of Superman.

But sensors Bruce had insisted on and sensors they'd installed, a number of various gadgets designed to ensure that if anyone (such as the illustrious Mrs. Waller, fresh off of the fiasco of her Suicide Squad) put the pieces together as Lex Luthor had, he would know about it.

Which was why he was there at the moment, watching from a car parked at the edge of the cemetery in confusion as Clark Kent's grave appeared undisturbed and unmolested from all outward appearances.

...until the hand broke through the earth.

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[knightbynight]

He was out of the car and walking toward the grave fairly quickly, though the sight of a hand clawing up through the earth from Clark's grave was going to stay with him even more clearly than the sight of Martha walking away from it.

Given the nature of his memory that would say something.

He was cautious.

He was horrified.

He was intrigued.

He should probably help.

He should probably stop staring first.

He was staring.

He wasn't even surprised.

And. Yet.

[apricitous]

Everything hurts.

Pain has not been a constant in Clark's life, at least not physical pain. Emotional, certainly; he's as sensitive as anyone else in that regard, to some degree more than most. But physical pain, his body not doing what he wants it to do, not being able to do what he wants it to do (other than be normal) is... different. New. Bad.

His muscles ache and there's a heavy rawness to his chest that he doesn't even know how else to describe. His skin feels like flames and shivers and spiders crawling all over him in the worst kind of way.

And he doesn't know why. He doesn't know how.

He has figured out where. The satin lining, the wood of the box, the shape of it as he broke through. Ugh, the weakness; he'd only barely managed it, and then the clumps of soil and earth pouring in, clawing through them, digging through it...

Once he felt air around his hand, he almost cried. No, he did cry; the grit around his eyes is damper, a little swimming in uncomfortably even as he pushes, pulls, uses that hand for some sort of leverage.

By the time Bruce gets there, his head is most of the way out. He, unceremoniously, is spitting out dirt and grit even as he tries to shake it out of his hair, tries to get his bearings. He can guess where he is, and as he tastes air, he knows: he's in Smallville.

Which is... wonderful and terrible all at the same time.