I know your insides are feeling so hollow.

And it's a hard pill for you to swallow, yeah.

But If I fall for you…

I'll never recover.

If I fall for you…

I'll never be the same.

~ Maroon 5

Curses! Kal laments breathlessly, desperately trying to refrain from going slackjawed and making a fool of himself. He'll have to mop drool up from the floor to boot.

He's blond.

He's blond and sun kissed and built like a tank. There has to be a god, because this man was most definitely crafted by angels. He's got an innocent face and the way he carries himself both suggests he harbors the lion's share of loyalty and bears the weight of the world on those shoulders. He's a soldier, through a through. He's walking perfection. He's handsome and beautiful and radiant. He's a living, breathing marvel. What Kal would give to have that man smile at him. He's gorgeous.

This is hardly fair.

Krypton's Bones, Cosmos Damned, and Blood of the Sun, this is not what he expected to see when the lights came on! Heck, lights came on in more than one way. Kal is amazed he held up as well as he did. It's never easy to appear calm when one is at war with himself. Such deres is a weighty burden... Kal feels incredibly superficial for the first time in decades and is assaulted by the guilt that brings. But then again, this is probably the first being he has ever been legitimately attracted to. The way he carries himself is irresistible.

Why is it so difficult to swallow?

Steve drops his fists, eyeing the stranger skeptically. "Not meaning to impugn your work, Mr. Kent… but I'm not interested," he quips politely. He wants to shut this down before it exhumes too much emotional baggage. He snatches his knapsack from the floor, slings it over his shoulder, and makes for his room. He told Director Fury no interviews. Right?

"Come on," the sable haired stranger says. Persistent fella... "Just a few questions."

Steve sees him stand up from the corner of his eyes. And before he knows it, at a speed that startles him, his arm is barring his way. He follows the muscular limb to the broad hand plastered against the wall. Steve blinks. He must be feeling more sluggish than he thought. Maybe these long nights of no sleep are impeding his performance after all. He shakes his head to clear it.

"I'm sorry," Steve repeats.

The blond ducks under his arm, leaving Kal standing alone in the hallway. And it's not Kal's fault that the other man has an exceptional physique, or that his eyes immediately trail south to admire it. Kal wilts a little, visibly discouraged and tempted to pout, but his spirits are no more dampened than his determination. He is on a mission. He furrows his strong brow and strides forwards. "I heard they found you in the Arctic. In the ice."

"Bravo. Your hearing is remarkable," the blond mutters.

Kal, whose expression has turned from rejection to deadpan, follows at the blond's heels. "How long were you trapped in there?" As Steve hangs a left into his bedroom, "Where do you come from?" The blond doesn't answer him, and from the looks of things, he is less than keen on doing anything but ignoring him at this point. Sure, Kal broke into his apartment, and that's technically against the law and a blatant invasion of privacy. But he'll be damned if he put all this effort in without even a name in return. He needs to know. He NEEDS to know.

"What's your name?" Kal's voice trails off as he stares into Steve's room while the man unpacks his duffel and collects an assortment of items from drawers elsewhere.

The room is bland, ordinary, and dull. The walls are a dead, creamy white, and bare as a newborn's bottom. The bed is so meticulously made, the sheets so impossibly smoothed out, that Kal has to wonder if he has ever even used it. There isn't a speck of dust on the vanity, not a smudge on the mirror, and no photos on the bureau either. There is a single piece of paper and a pen on the corner desk, but that is all.

This looks more like a prison cell than an occupied bedroom. And Kal is beset by a spate of both empathy and sympathy. Empathy for the fact that he understands the lack of connections to the outside world, and sympathy for the fact that he will never understand it to this extent. What must it be like to have nothing?

Kal remembers his room and the posters of famous baseball players, family photos, calendars, horrible crayon sketches… Kal had parents, human or not, and that kept him from utter isolation. Did this man have that luxury? Could he be an alien too? Surely, he couldn't be human. A human could never be revived from a prolonged period of frozen insides.

Was anyone there to claim him when he awoke?

Meanwhile, the blond throws a clean towel over his shoulder, tucking a change of clothes under his arm, and pivots on his heel. He means to shower. The blond crosses to the door, which Kal blocks with little effort on his part. They meet eyes, though neither of them are expecting to, or prepared for the bombardment of feelings afterwards. The blond pauses for a second too long. And Kal, tongue tied, forgets how to speak, let alone the common social graces of moving aside for a person who needs to get by.

Steve falters. His heart leaps up into his throat. Clark has eyes bluer than the calmest ocean or the clearest sky. Even behind the black rimmed glasses, they conceal nothing scornful or condescending. There is truth embedded in those eyes, and etched into the sincerity in his face, the likes of which Steve has never seen. And before he knows it, his own cheeks are flooded with heat. Fully aware a blush will light him up like a Christmas tree, Steve averts his eyes.

"I'm not interested," he declares. "Please step aside."

But Clark doesn't move… and Steve doesn't have the heart to curse him for it.

"Goodnight, Mr. Kent," Steve states tensely. He moves to shoulder his way past his brawny visitor. Clark plants his hand in the center of his chest. With renewed numbness, Steve tries to push against it… and is met by inhuman resistance. He frowns, gradually tilting his chin down to stare at the hand cemented on his chest. With the truth registering, he slowly lifts his eyes. This must be a dream. Steve is suddenly flooded with confusion. Is Clark a friend? Or an enemy? If this man is an enemy, and his strength suggests that he has come looking for a fight, then why is there no fight in his eyes?

Steve finds Clark's face, his eyes tracking warily over the features. There is something new in Clark's eyes now. It's small, a mere flicker in the glossy blue, but he knows it for what it is.

Hope.

Neither of them breathe, teetering on the precarious brink between pleasantries and explosive action. They each wait for the other to make the first move. They each wait for some indication as to whether their meeting is about to turn into an altercation. Steve watches a subtle, sincere, and slightly sad smile appear at the corner of Clark's lips, an invitation for something Steve does not yet understand.

Could this man be a member of Hydra? Or another test subject of the old doctor's?

No one has ever looked at him like this before. Really looked at him.

He's close enough for Steve to inhale the combined scents of his body wash, cologne, and laundry detergent. It's an enticing mix, the sort that makes part of Steve start to pine and pant like a lovesick puppy. And Steve is certain Clark's broad hand can feel his hammering heart. Clark is too close. He's too close and Steve is having trouble keeping his composure in more ways than one.

Wait. Wait!

This cannot be happening.

God, please. Not now. Not like this. This can't be it. This cannot be the moment he has held his breath for. He's not ready for it.

God damn it all, he's not ready to find the right partner! He's too damaged. No one would ever want him this way. What he is now, there is no work for it but broken.

Nothing would make him happier than to shatter in front of this man and let him pick up the pieces. Nothing would set him freer than to be in the cage of his arms. He can feel it. He knows it in the depths of his soul. Clark is something he cannot afford to do without.

"Who are you?" Clark whispers to him, his eyes practically begging for an answer that Steve is not sure he can give him.

Do they know each other? … Don't they know each other? Haven't they met some place far afield, in another life, on another world? Because surely, Steve knows him. Knows him intimately. His mind is already unwrapping Clark from that business suit, envisioning scenarios that would make even the most experienced adult entertainer blush.

Sinner.

The naked emotion on Clark's face terrifies him. Steve opens his mouth, his lips working as though they would like to speak. He finds his fortitude melting under the heat of Clark's skin. He loves and hate this. He suddenly pushes past Clark, exerting more strength than the man was prepared to thwart, and hastens into his bathroom. He slams the door and quickly twists the lock into place. He stands on the opposite side, his wide blue eyes staring down at the stationary doorknob. He trembles. He feels exposed, embarrassed, and above all else, ashamed. Because surely, if his mother could have seen him then, in that moment, gazing at Clark like a devoted lover, he would have broken her heart.

Kal stands rooted to the floor, stunned. His mind is reeling. For an instant, he saw the singular most desperate desire of a hero's heart appear in the blond's eyes... for him. He saw need. He saw it clear as day. But that indomitable need was quickly masked by guilt, shock, and anguish so profound that it could haunt him forevermore.

Perhaps Kal made a mistake in coming here after all, but underlying all that, he saw something brewing just below the surface, something terrifying in this man's eyes. And he knows it would be an even bigger mistake to leave. Kal turns towards the bathroom door. "I think we have something in common. Several things, perhaps. I'm sorry for intruding." He stammers for a moment. "Let me… try this again, off the record." He takes a deep breath, but doesn't let it out immediately. If he expects the truth from this golden haired god, he has to do the same.

Ante up, alien.

Kal removes his glasses and lays his hand on the doorframe. "My true name is Kal. Kal-El. A ship belonging to my people was discovered near the site you were excavated from. I thought… maybe…" He closes his eyes and shakes his head. He swallows thickly and sets his teeth. "I come from the planet Krypton. And I've never met anyone like… I thought I was… Am I alone?" He waits, but there is no response from behind the door. "Please, talk to me."

Because for some reason, Kal needs this man to talk to him. He needs to be with him, to abide in the same space, heart, and bed. The connection he feels, in both the physical and the spiritual sense when they stood in the doorway to Steve's bedroom is unparalleled as far as his life experiences go. Kal closes his hand, resting his forehead against his iron fist. His body feels too heavy to move, and it all stems from the lead weight inside his chest. He musters his courage.

"I know you want me to go, but I can't leave without telling you this. I've been here for as long as I can remember. I've been a lot of places recently, and witnessed a lot of things. But… You… You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He waits again. Nothing. "Say something, please. Anything."

Kal's shoulders droop with a heavy sigh. He turns from the door with a mind to let the man have his privacy. He should go. He really should. But for some reason, he takes another glance into his room. He steps inside, letting his eyes take inventory of the absent accessories. Once again, he sees the note on his desk. There is writing on it.

He shouldn't read it.

He shouldn't even consider reading it. God knows he has disturbed this man enough for one night.

But…

It pulls him like metal to a magnet, something about the elegant swirls and uniform sizing. He can't resist. Just a peek. Then he'll be on his way.

Kal wanders towards the desk, takes the letter between his fingers, and begins to read. And by the end, leaving will be impossible.