To say that an earth-dwelling Kryptonian doesn't need to eat would be inaccurate, in that it requires a fundamentally reductive definition of 'need'. An earth-dwelling Kryptonian doesn't 'need' a great deal of things, by that logic. He doesn't need to eat, absorbing his energy and life force from the sun, and doesn't need to sleep. He doesn't need to seek shelter, for the cold doesn't quite sink its teeth into him, and the shade is antithetical to what he does need. He doesn't need the companionship of humans, or their respect, or to be helped up when he falls. He doesn't need to come home, unless he wants to, or to even have a home. Maybe he never even needs to touch down.
Clark Kent, however, has his own needs. Even for a flying man of steel, gravity is not a choice, but a fundamental of the universe by which he governs his movement. For as long as Kent farm exists, it will always pull at him. Beyond even that, certain rituals reinforce connection; his people were probably the same kind of social animal as he the human being he was raised as. Sharing a meal, passing dishes over the table, getting up to take care of refills, taking Bruce's phone from Martha to look at, and handing it back again.
These aren't thoughts he thinks in their entirety, but they lurk beneath the surface, thanks to time spent away, dead or alive. There are moments that feel a little greyer than they used to, and moments that feel more vivid. This one belongs in the latter category.
Martha asks after Alfred, sensing the undercurrent of family as something better understood than questions of employment. (Confirming, too, that an inquisitive nature in Clark does not only come from a surprise career as a news reporter.) There are spans of time where Clark doesn't say anything, having eaten his fill and relaxing back in his chair, contributing idle remarks, finishing his beer and watching them both. Martha, at home in her own home, and Bruce, who Clark suspects of enjoying himself, but he can already feel a desire to find out for real.
"Clark?"
"Yep?" Startling from idle staring, Clark snaps to attention at gentle verbal prod across the table. "Present."
"I was saying that my granny's eggnog recipe is among our best kept secrets next to you, and isn't that right."
"I mean, obviously." Rising to his feet, Clark moves to start taking up dishes to clear the table. Shelby gets up along with him, clearly keen to lick any plates that might come her way. To Bruce, aside, "Maple syrup and a little salt."
no subject
Clark Kent, however, has his own needs. Even for a flying man of steel, gravity is not a choice, but a fundamental of the universe by which he governs his movement. For as long as Kent farm exists, it will always pull at him. Beyond even that, certain rituals reinforce connection; his people were probably the same kind of social animal as he the human being he was raised as. Sharing a meal, passing dishes over the table, getting up to take care of refills, taking Bruce's phone from Martha to look at, and handing it back again.
These aren't thoughts he thinks in their entirety, but they lurk beneath the surface, thanks to time spent away, dead or alive. There are moments that feel a little greyer than they used to, and moments that feel more vivid. This one belongs in the latter category.
Martha asks after Alfred, sensing the undercurrent of family as something better understood than questions of employment. (Confirming, too, that an inquisitive nature in Clark does not only come from a surprise career as a news reporter.) There are spans of time where Clark doesn't say anything, having eaten his fill and relaxing back in his chair, contributing idle remarks, finishing his beer and watching them both. Martha, at home in her own home, and Bruce, who Clark suspects of enjoying himself, but he can already feel a desire to find out for real.
"Clark?"
"Yep?" Startling from idle staring, Clark snaps to attention at gentle verbal prod across the table. "Present."
"I was saying that my granny's eggnog recipe is among our best kept secrets next to you, and isn't that right."
"I mean, obviously." Rising to his feet, Clark moves to start taking up dishes to clear the table. Shelby gets up along with him, clearly keen to lick any plates that might come her way. To Bruce, aside, "Maple syrup and a little salt."
"Oh, you don't know a thing."