Chapter Text
A hand quivers in Clark's; Nails brittle and jagged from chewing, its skin cracking at the joints. A hand belonging to a man with no known origin. A man with his cape draped over him.
The glaring white light of the bathroom reveals the eyebags hanging under the man's eyes, a testament to the things he went through over the years. Clark's eyes shift to his, the lapis-colored irises burning into his. The gaunt hand releases from his after lingering a second more.
_____
A gritty rock tune plays from a radio as Grace hums along in the shower. The feeling of water trickling down his back gives him a euphoria he never knew he missed. Taking a shower feels much better than the sponge baths he had to rely on on the Hail Mary. Another thing was the smell of the shampoo and soap bubbling up on his skin, which had hints of pinewood and rosemary. All the sensory input was mitigating, but in a way, overwhelming.
He turns the knob of the shower and the water shuts off. He pulls the curtain aside and takes the towel off the rack, drying his freshly cut hair and then wrapping himself in it. He stares at the steam-clouded mirror and uses his hand to wipe off the condensation, drawing clear streaks that reveal himself. In the reflection, he sees a version of himself that he feels kind of unaccustomed to. He's finally out of that hobo phase he had on the Hail Mary for the past few years, but something still feels missing. He's missing something. He's missing Rocky.
He rushes out of the bathroom before the guilt crashes down on him again. Coming back to Earth is what Rocky would've wanted, right? Right? Rocky will be alright—is alright—he hopes.
He turns off the radio. The hotel room he was given was nice. But nice isn't a good word to describe it. Lavish? Extravagant? Marble flooring, warm lighting, really really fancy furniture—it was nice. Too nice for someone of a humble background such as himself. It's a little intimidating.
He was given a suit to wear that afternoon. None of his original clothes from the Hail Mary were returned to him, but there were promises of getting them back. Later, he was to have an interview with someone named Clark Kent, a reporter from a newspaper called The Daily Planet. Haven't heard of it, but who knows what changed while he was gone?
Full-body suits were also not Grace's cup of tea, but without anything else to change into other than a fancy bathrobe made of cashmere and silk, he puts it on begrudgingly. He vaguely remembers wearing button ups and blazers as a teacher, however it'd be coupled with a pair of jeans that had probably been worn for the 3rd time that week.
It was a light blue suit, slim fit and complimented his eyes. Grace was surprised he still knew his way around a tie after all those years. Although his hands stumbled, they worked almost instinctively around his collar.
Another thing that Grace was pleased about was the variety of new stimulants before him. The array of dark oak shelves with hardcover books; the smell of aged paper he never knew he missed; the vibrant colors of the decor in contrast to the emptiness and dull white and occasional gray in the ship. They weren't bright, kindergarten colors or light pastels, either. Just natural; Deep reds, browns, greens, orange and yellows.
The walls were a dark ochre floral pattern with a stained oak trimming. Warm toned lamps hung on the wooden paneling on either side of the bed, with an antique Persian rug sitting underneath it. On the other side of the room were the shelves filled with leather-bound yellowing encyclopedias, in the corner was a dark red gothic armchair. The dressers were intricately carved, and so was the ottoman that was set on the end of the bed. Above the bed, hung a large printed black-and-white photograph of a desolate city. On the bottom read "Gotham City, 1881". The name was unfamiliar to him. Could be somewhere in England?
The room was decorated so elegantly vintage. Grace prefers this kind of luxury better than the plain old boring white and beige mix that other places have nowadays.
In between the shelves was a vinyl player with a radio installed, under it was a drawer of vinyls with a range of genres from Mozart to Led Zeppelin to Hamilton. He scanned his finger through all of them until he found something he was mildly interested in. He drags out a record from it's sleeve, titled 'The Goo Goo Dolls Greatest Hits Volume 1: The Singles.' He reads the back of the sleeve and reads the tracks. On the very bottom, at the end of the entire record, was the song that he so badly wanted to listen to again. After all those years on the Hail Mary with no access to music, it was the only thing he wanted to hear.
He places the disc gently on the vinyl player and carefully places the stylus near the end of the track as it spun. He sets himself down on the couch and taps on the armrest, filled with anticipation. A song comes, somewhere in the middle of it. It's not the song he wanted to hear. He tunes it out until it reaches the end.
And then the soft strumming of the guitar comes. So familiar. So real.
"And I'd give up forever to touch you,"
Grace leans back on the armchair, his head thrown and facing the ceiling. He exhales, his breath shivering. Nostalgia crashes down on him. There were no tears; he's used them all. But something about it was so melancholic.
He realizes what was tugging at him. There was nobody he could think of this to. No one that important to him. No one that he wanted to miss. He guesses he could try for Stratt or Carl, but did he really want to face them after what they did?
Yes. Yes, he wanted to. They did what they had to do—Stratt especially. But even then, what was their relationship, other than strictly professional? They crossed those bounds a bit, but Stratt always forced it back into its mold. Same as Carl, but he was more forgiving.
In the end, he had nobody, really. No friends, no family—he didn't even have a dog. What Stratt said was true. And it hurt. How old was he even turning this year? By how many years did being in space slow his body's clock? He knew he could figure it out easily with some math, but he didn't really want to. His age would just be another reminder of how lonely he was.
Lonely. What a word.
"And I don't want to world to see me, cause I don't think that they'd understand—" A knock on the door shakes Grace out of his rumination. He turns to the clock, it was 1:57PM.
He rises from the armchair and makes way to the door. He slides over the cover to the keyhole and peers inside. All he could see was yellow, a knitted texture with loose tufts of flyaway threads. He gently opens the door.
Jesus Christ.
Standing before him was a giant. Bulky shoulders that slouched, a figure as wide as the doorframe, a yellow knit vest, looking handknit rather than machine-made, over a white turtleneck, and legs nearly the size of both his own. He tilts his head upwards and is met eye-to-eye with smooth jet black coiled locks that struggled to keep in their combed structure, and black square rimmed glasses with piercing blue eyes behind it. The man was slightly peachy, implying his time would be spent outside more often than not. Grace assumes this guy would be standing at about 6'7 if it were not for his horrendous posture. He'd be so much more intimidating, too, if it wasn't for that timid expression of his.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Grace. Hope I'm not late." The man talks with a certain twang. Grace could tell upon first glance that he didn't have that average city boy demeanor. He pushes up his glasses and reaches out a hand to Grace.
"My name's Clark Kent. I'm here for our interview today. How are you?" Grace wasn't sure if it was just your average reporter etiquette or that countryside politeness speaking, but it felt more like the latter.
"Uh, pretty good. Grace is just fine." 'Pretty good' when his sulking was interrupted. "E-er, come in." He stumbles back and so do his words.
He steps aside for Clark to enter. The guy basically had to lean down to fit under the doorframe. He stands still for a second while Grace closes the door behind him to take in the atmosphere.
"Wow. Bruce never fails to greet guests with true Wayne hospitality."
"Bruce?" Grace asks.
"Oh, yes. Your entire stay here is funded by Bruce Wayne. Take it as courtesy." Clark answers. "He tries to be welcoming."
"Sounds like he's got money."
"Wouldn't you believe it." Clark grins pearly at Grace.
He isn't fond of rich men. No matter how great they seem to be portrayed in the media, in the end they exploit millions for their benefit. And a reporter should know that.
".. Yeah."
"He's written us up a schedule to follow today. I'll spare you the details, but it's mainly just a tour of the city. Personally, my first choice wouldn't be to drive around Gotham, but I'm somewhat optimistic about today."
"Gotham? Like the one in that photo?" Grace points towards the framed picture.
"Yes. We're in Gotham City."
Grace couldn't tell where he was. He hadn't opened up the curtains in the hotel room because, frankly, there wasn't much to see. He glanced outside once a few hours ago and was met with a rotting brick wall and a peeking view of the street. But alas, even the pavement was covered by a scenery of the hood of a street lamp narrowly poking out the corner of the brick wall. It was a gorgeous room, with a hideous view.
Now, he can't tell how much a city has developed over the century, but even that photograph showed signs of forlorn. He watched Clark shiver and grimace at the thought of driving around the city.
"Not really ideal to drive around here. I'm from Metropolis, it's the city over the bay to Gotham." That was another new name: Metropolis. So many new names.
But something felt off. The math wasn't mathing to him.
"Anyway, how would you like to go on a drive?"