strike me down
It isn't a particularly interesting story. The cornfields; the Kansas sun reflecting off the river; the dusty sign that proclaims Welcome to Smallville, Meteor Capitol of the World like that's something to be proud of, like it isn't the black mark on the history of this town, the skeleton in everyone's closets. There's nothing interesting about the greenish cast to the riverbed when the sun hits it right, almost like it's glowing. There's nothing interesting about the car, a beat up silver pinto that barely runs, or the bridge he crashed it off of. Even the part where he hit the other boy leaning over the railing, the part where said boy fished him out of the water, ripped the hood off the car like the lid of a tin can - well, it's Smallville. These things happen, or so he's heard.
Later, he thinks back to the taste of river water in his mouth, of James Potter's hands on his chest through his sodden clothes, of the things they said-
"I could have sworn I hit you with my car."
The boy's wet curls had been plastered to his forehead, hazel eyes alight in concern and confusion, drawing hasty breaths through parted lips. "If you did, I'd be… I'd be dead."
Later, he thinks back, and though it isn't a particularly interesting one, every villain needs an origin story.
He never visits Smallville again, but he dreams about it. For ten years he dreams of the car and the river and the boy. They never say the right things, in the dream, where it should have been I could have sworn I hit you, sixteen-year-old him opens his mouth and out comes Our friendship is going to be the stuff of legends.
Sometimes, James grins, a flash of white teeth against sepia skin, cheeks kissed by the Kansas sun, and says James Potter and Sev Snape. I like the sound of that.
He dreams until there isn't time to dream anymore, between finishing up his third masters (biochemistry, this time) and helping Lily stake out stories for her work at the Planet. He's busy and tired and overworked, but happy, and then he comes along.
"I don't see why Metropolis needs its own superhero," Sev tells her, the sneer evident in his voice, the word superhero passing mockingly through thin lips.
"Who else would rescue all those helpless kittens from trees?" she quips back, and makes a face like she's trying not to laugh. Sev scowls.
"I was under the impression the fire department handled that sort of thing."
Lily actually cracks an amused smile this time, and tosses him a newly printed copy of the morning paper from her desk. He catches it, but barely, eyes skimming over the headline, something about the new superhero in town, and then -
"James Potter?" he asks, a little dazedly, pointing to the by-line.
"New guy. He flirts with me an awful lot, but," and here she leans in, lowers her voice conspiratorially, "I think he's gay."
"For the costumed freak," Sev finishes for her flatly, glancing up to see her nod, reaffirming his assumption. "There's no accounting for taste, I suppose."
Lily just shrugs, and pushes off the desk, coffee cup in one hand and a stack of files in the other. "I've got to go give these to the chief, but give Potter's article a read, will you? Christ, don't give me that look, who pissed in your coffee? We can have a laugh later about how Potter's just trying to suck Superman's cock."
Sev rolls his eyes, but tucks the newspaper under his arm. "Sure. I'll give it a look over."
He does read it - several times, devouring every detail, every word, and when he's finished he sits back with a newfound disgust for the Alien, as he now remains firmly in Sev's head. The story is almost too ridiculous to be true, the notion that somehow, this thing is the last being from a destroyed planet. It's laughable, really. But it's not as if they haven't known about extraterrestrial life for years now, Sev has done research on that himself, and James Potter had no reason to lie about the contents of the interview, as far as he can tell…
A thought comes to him. He flips back to the front page of the paper, dark eyes immediately finding the picture attached to the headlining article. Just a shot of a brightly colored blur over the cityscape, about the same view any normal citizen has seen of this Superman. Sev takes to the computer next, combing through pages of pictures of Superman sightings, hoping for something, anything - and there it is, just a blurry flash of messy black curls and a white smile. It isn't a sure indicator, but Sev's heart drops all the same, and when he closes his eyes he can almost taste the river water on the back of his tongue.
Sev can't say why he keeps the secret, but he does, for five whole years. He doesn't come by the Daily Planet much anymore, but that's good, that's fine, because Lily is busy with work and won a Pulitzer a few months ago, and James is still writing articles about Superman and Sev can't so much as look at him without sneering and rolling his eyes. It doesn't help that Lily has gotten quite taken with Superman, and it doesn't help that not once has James spared Sev a shred of recognition.
He keeps the secret for five whole years, from penniless college student to successful researcher, and then a local billionaire plummets to his death from his penthouse apartment on the top floor of Prince Tower. It's all over the papers and television and magazines for weeks - Murder or Suicide? Find out how Hyun-ki Prince really died inside! - so really, he shouldn't be the least bit surprised when Superman decides to grace Sev with his presence, a storm of blue spandex and red cape and the thundering of his landing on the penthouse balcony.
"If I'd have known it would take my grandfather's death to bring you running, I would have done it ages ago," Sev tells him with a not inconsiderable amount of sarcasm, propped up on the railing by his forearms.
"Is that a confession?" There's none of the exaggerated self-righteousness Sev imagined, just an attentive tone and clean disapproval with an afterthought of curiosity.
"No. Though I suppose that wouldn't change your mind - going to knock me out and drag me off to the police station like a good boy scout? Or have you moved on from punching every problem that comes your way?"
The Alien snorts, shaking his head slightly, like he finds this whole thing terribly amusing. "You don't look like you can take a punch, so I'll have to get you some other way, sorry to disappoint."
Sev barely manages to bite back a sneer at that, bristling. Instead, he forces his face into a neutral expression and, with the pointed quirk of an eyebrow, asks very softly:
"Have we met before?"
James' hazel eyes widen, barely perceptively, and before Sev can blink he's gone in a flash of red and blue, leaving nothing but the fluttering curtains in his wake.
He is - regrettably - not the first person to discover Kryptonite. But when he finds the reports, the studies, Smallville and the fragments from the meteor shower and the rise in occurrence of superpowered metahumans, his blood runs cold. Not this, he thinks. Anything but this.
There's a chunk of meteor rock sitting in his lab, glowing green, beautiful crystalline facets showing through the jagged edges. He puts it in a lead box and banishes it to a dusty corner of the storage room. The meteor rocks, as far as he's concerned, have no useful properties other than as a mutagen, and one exposure is enough for a lifetime. There is never any reason to bring it out again.
They settle into a routine. Sev conducts less-than-legal experiments, James shows up to smash his lab. He does human experimentation, creates a death ray, builds a power suit he never intends to wear, and when things get desperate, he throws himself wholeheartedly into putting as many wrenches as possible in the Alien and his silly little superhero club's plans. Somewhere along the line Sev stops pretending it's for any purpose other than to gain James' attention. Without fail, he always shows up in a glorious rage, hands wrapped around Sev's throat, a promise or a threat -
"I'll always be there to stop you. Always."
"Oh, I'm counting on it."
"If you aren't a god," Sev hisses through clenched teeth, the delicate bones of his wrists creaking under James' grasp, "then what are you?"
"I don't - I just wanted - " The fingers around Sev's wrist tighten their grip, then release it. There's a perverse satisfaction there, in seeing James conflicted and lost and a little helpless, in having that momentary power over him. "I just wanted to be normal."
"And you do that by parading around in bright blue spandex, rescuing kittens from trees," Sev shoots back flatly, distinctly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He rubs at his bruised wrist and thinks as if, as if you know what it's like. And, well, if the bruise is already fading, that's neither here nor there.
"Everyone needs a hobby," James tells him, cracks a smile that puts the moon and the stars to shame. Sev remains stony-faced, turns away, skims his fingertips over the desktop, over the abandoned chess board. He had been playing against himself when James had found him, a common occurance these days, the peculiar hobby of a lonely man.
"Do you play?" he asks, abruptly, and when he turns his head James is right there, nearly pressed into his back, nearly pinning him against the edge of the desk. He swallows, closes his fingers over one of the pieces.
"A little."
"White moves first," Sev informs him, voice shaking just a little with the rattling of his heart in his chest. He presses the king into James' hand.
Maybe that's why they always end up here. James pulling him out of the river, pulling him out of a lab explosion, pulling him out of burning buildings.
Pushed up against the side of the desk again, the burns on his face healing as they speak, James' hands on his throat -
"If we aren't gods," James echoes, pointedly, hazel eyes burning like the wreckage of Sev's lab, "then what are we?"
He doesn't have an answer. He thinks of the water, the glowing green of the riverbed, of the Kansas sun and the roof of that old pinto being torn off like a tin can. I just wanted to be normal. There's a moment where he waits, not in fear, not in anticipation, but in impatience, waiting for James to do something interesting…
And then he doesn't. His hands falls from Sev's neck, slide down over the soot-covered remains of his shirt, fingers splayed over his chest.
"You should have done it," Sev tells him, and it's sharper than he means it to be, a flash of irritation, a remark as impromptu as it is venomous. "I should have died thirty years ago in that river - "
"Don't. I couldn't have let you - "
"You didn't know me," Sev protests, even as his voice catches in his throat, even as James presses forward, almost desperate.
"I used to dream about used to - say things - the stuff of legends, we have a destiny together, two sides of the same coin - "
He doesn't say he had the same dreams. He doesn't say he still does, that they've changed since then, gotten heavier and hotter and harder to admit. "You should go," he says instead, very quietly.
"Yeah," James agrees, "okay." But he doesn't lift his hands from Sev's chest, doesn't step back, doesn't do anything but keep pressing forward, and when he kisses him Sev feel inexplicably like he's drowning.