He wakes up in the morning, and his hand reaches out for his glasses.
He places them on, and then he stretches. He doesn’t feel like himself until he’s aware of his limits, which can be difficult. When he places the glasses on, they actually dull his vision. Since his cells regenerate in the sun, no permanent damage is done, but as long as he’s wearing them, he’s accepted his first limits of the day.
He walks to the apartment door, opens it. He hears the city. They say when one sense is lost, or in his case dulled, the others are amplified. His hearing is always excellent, of course. He uses this time to process, to sort. He isn’t his friend in Gotham. He keeps regular hours. It’s the limit he conceded when he decided to keep the Clark Kent identity.
He loses sleep every night, but he never stirs.
The paper is always waiting for him. It’s the same paper he works for. He browses. With his glasses off he can read the whole thing without unfolding it at all. His carrier folds it three times. He usually just sees the masthead, with his glasses, until he unfolds it.
He uses it as a gentle reminder of current events. He usually spends his day somewhat distracted. He likes how it keeps him grounded. He never really enjoyed writing. It’s easy to tell stories when you’ve witnessed them. He’s been using that crutch since he was a kid. Back then he learned they’ll call you a liar if you do it in person. In type, they’re likely to give you awards. Just ask Lois. That’s how they first bonded, when they realized they had the same relationship with the written word.
Before that he would listen to Pa for hours. Pa always had the best stories. His were full of morals, though.
Journalists don’t have the luxury of such things.
When he shows up at the office, he looks for her, first. He’s done that since the first day he accepted the job. She’s always distracted, too. That’s what he understood about people, that they’re always distracted. Lois, though, usually has a good excuse. He sometimes thinks he went public as Superman because then, at least, he would always have at least a fifty percent chance of guessing what she’s thinking about.
But her thoughts are always chasing stories, and a paper filled with Superman would grow stale quickly. Actually, Superman, in print, doesn’t carry as much weight with Perry as you’d think. Eat steak too much and it’s not really steak anymore.
He sits at his desk and switches on his computer. He’s got that one story he’s been working on for years, that he always begins his day reviewing. He checks his notes, sees if he can use any of them for pitches. Perry loves that; what he loves most about Clark is that he’s always prepared with pitches. Clark never just assumes a story will present itself. Why would he? Stories are happening all the time, but they’re not always the sensational kind. A good journalist digs. A good story isn’t just about supervillains, after all. In the real world, supervillains have their fans. Superman’s greatest triumphs are the stuff of firefighters. Rescuing cats. From tall buildings. He usually leaps, for those. It looks good. People appreciate the small things.
He always packs a lunch. That’s the Smallville in him.
He brings the morning’s paper with him. By then he’s already filed new copy. Nobody bothers him. Lois leaves him alone. He doesn’t really worry about people, as Clark Kent. It’s the only time he can have a little peace. That’s really what Clark Kent is all about. He’s just a byline. Nobody really cares about the face behind those. He’s anonymous. He’s nobody. He’s like anyone else. That’s actually how he views humanity. He doesn’t see stories. He just sees people.
If Clark Kent is Superman’s critique of humanity, it’s his professional judgment that people are a lot less interesting than they think they are. He doesn’t write opinion pieces. He never saw the point.
As the day ebbs, he feels a little tired. He’s been busy. Tired, for him, is different than it for others. Tired is more or less an admission that he has to let the world exist without him for a little while.
So he can start the process all over again. As he sleeps, he’s at his weakest. He tends to take one last flight, just to recharge the batteries. Then he settles down.
When he closes his eyes, it’s the only natural way he knows to shut the world out. But he doesn’t sleep much. Mostly he just lies there, thinking.
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