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What Immortal Hand or Eye

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Hayseed.

The best education money could buy, not to mention Dad's fixation on classical lit, and that was the word that sprang to mind as Clark watched his double at his chores.

Kent was a corn-fed, flannel wearing, dyed-in-the-wool, Moms and Pops and apple pie, hayseed. It was just sad. For him, and this universe's Tess. It explained a few things he'd uncovered though. No matter the universe Lex couldn't resist trying for (and failing to get) the repressed type.

Unlike his dearly departed brother, Clark found all that repression and naivete more of a turn off than a challenge. He smirked as he patted the dart in his pocket, careful to avoid the tip. Lucky for both of them, he knew just the thing for it.

He whistled, sharp and loud. He wanted to see the look on Kent's face. And the almost comical surprise did not disappoint.

He could have gone without being shoved against the side of a barn immediately thereafter, fists bunching in his clothes, but it was hardly like it could hurt him, and all in all a silk waistcoat (even if it was bespoke, but his tailor in another dimension) was a small price to pay for the look in Kent's eye, closer to what Clark saw in his own mirror and far, far more suitable than the puppyish stare he'd affected. "There you are," he murmured, silent laughter bubbling up in inside him. "I was starting to worry about you."

Kent's snarled Clark's surname and something about plans, while trying to shake him like a rag-doll. The only effect of which was to cause still more damage to his poor clothes. He shoved Kent away, less gently than he could have, speeding up into the loft of the barn.

"I love what you've done with the place," he told Kent, only half sarcastically, well two-thirds. "We should bring Tess up here later, just the three of us."

That got Kent's fist flying towards his face in response, and no, that would just not do at all, and it was Kent's turn to be shoved against a wall, one of Clark's forearms against his throat as his other hand reached into his pocket. "I didn't come to fight, I came to set you free.

"See, the old man was right about one thing, I don't have any equals, at least not back there," he explained, eyes locked with Kent's, which widened with shock as the green-K tipped dart sank into his shoulder, and then, exactly what he was waiting for, that telltale glint of red, there and gone so quick you'd hardly notice if you weren't looking for it. He slid a leg between Kent's, rocking against his hip, and leaning in to nip at his jaw. "But here? Here I've got you, and you've got me."

Hands pulled at his clothes, tearing the material like tissue, but Clark's favourite waistcoat really was a small price to pay for the look in Kent's eye.