Chapter Text
A double helix typically consists geometrically of two congruent helices with the same axis, differing by a translation along the axis, which may or may not be half-way. The double helix shape is very strong. DNA takes this shape over a straight shape naturally for two reasons: it must be 'double' so it can reproduce itself; and the helix, being intertwined, is stronger than two parallel chains because pulling it in any one direction won't break it apart.
–wikipedia.org
I.
White.
Like the stark whiteness of ice covering everything for miles in every direction, only not cold. Hot. Like the heat of a volcano, only on the inside.
"D-Don't—"
Bitter brightness, the sun and the white, sharp like the teeth he sinks into skin. Laughing at the shocked intake of breath.
"You are mine, Kal-El, son of my accursed jailer. Soon you will be ours."
The faint echo. The door. The dimension. Closer.
"We will be together again."
An elbow pressed to the back of a head. A face in the snow. This is inevitable, yet and still, the last son of the House of El struggles.
"Stop…Don't—!"
Red. Against the white, in flecks like teardrops, in a deep, expanding stain. Inside is a yellow sun, blazing, a landscape turned desolate at the invasion. He takes—everything—and the feel of it is the memory of life, of another world, of the desolate years, disembodied, lost and alone.
Without.
His release shudders through him, into the body splayed. Open and, finally, quiescent. A ready and willing vessel—
A father's crystal against skin. Burning, like a brand. The mark of the accursed House. Beneath the black cascade of hair, at the base of the neck.
Dark. The sudden shadow that blocks the sun. The sound—the rush of wind that knocks him back and off the body he has just claimed.
Then the sun again. In the bright, white rays, Kal-El moves, and quicker than the eye can follow, he has gained the upper hand, grinning down. Smile twisted, sharp as a blade.
"My heart," he whispers, breath curling up and away. "My own."
"How ironic, that this body should be so fine. I see you have made use of it." A laugh. How he has missed that laugh! Different, yes, but the same, always the same.
"Too fine perhaps? You have made me mighty, indeed. Should I show you how mighty I've become?" Hands, frantic, rough. "Let me show you—"
+
Oliver Queen woke with a desperate intake of breath that left him coughing and disoriented, and in pain, sudden and severe. Hands gripped him, pushing him back and down and into a soft bank of—
He started to struggle.
"Mr. Queen. Oliver—"
"Ollie, settle down—"
Lois.
Oliver opened his eyes and forced his breathing under control. A technique he had learned on his last trip to Vietnam. He took in the whole of his surroundings in one panicked sweep of his eyes around the room. Breathe. A hospital room.
"What—"
"Take it easy, golden boy." Lois had a hand to his chest, voice light and teasing, but he could see the deep concern in her eyes. She took his hand. He shivered.
Oliver looked down at their entwined fingers, beige flesh against the white of sheets, and tried to stifle a sense of unease.
"What—" He licked his lips, pulled his hand away. Mayla, his assistant, poured a glass of water and passed it over. He sipped, trying to find leverage to prop himself up on the bed. It seemed he had broken his arm; he had to wriggle to get himself in the right position, and the pain made him grimace. "What happened?"
"Good question," Lois said, settling in the chair by his bedside. "You were brought here last night by some anonymous Samaritan who no one seems to have seen, looking like you just went twelve rounds with Ali." She patted him on the arm, brushed fingertips over the shell of an ear to rearrange his hair. "You're definitely a lover, not a fighter, Ollie. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to duck and run?"
"I—" Oliver stopped. He looked from Lois to Mayla, realizing he didn't know what to say. There was no quip, no sharp repartee to engage in when he hadn't a clue what had happened to him or why he was in the hospital.
"I was dropped off here last night?" Had he been ambushed while patrolling as Green Arrow? Was his secret out? He glanced around the room again, looking for a set of clothes. He spotted what he must have been wearing, draped over an armchair by the door to the bathroom. Jeans and a blue polo shirt. He let the relief pass through him, but it did little to relieve his overall feeling of dread. At least his secret was apparently safe.
"You don't remember?"
Oliver shook his head, then regretted it as a sharp pain lanced through his temple. He reached up and felt the bandage.
"No. I must have been mugged or something. What's the prognosis?"
Lois rattled off his maladies like they were badges of honor. "A very bruised face, broken arm, concussion, two broken ribs, sprained ankle, and apparent memory loss." She smiled in that impudent way of hers that had always made Oliver want to kiss her—yet now it left him…cold. There was something—
The doctor entered the room, shooing his visitors out so he could be checked over.
"I'm glad you're okay," Lois said as she got up from the chair and leaned over him for a kiss before leaving. The progress of her smiling face towards his own seemed to happen in non-time, in tripped up slow motion, distorted and surreal.
At the last second, he turned his head and her lips met his cheek, down by the line of his jaw.
+
Energy slammed into him. The way it made him feel—he was strong. So strong!
"Ollie! You have to fight it!"
He ran at Kal-El. "No one here by that name, Kryptonian," he taunted as his fist connected with a perfect face, sending his enemy flying into the side of a building.
Kal-El was strong, worthy, beautiful in his power, magnificent in his fury as he rose from the debris. It would be a pleasure to break him, shred his mind, breach his body. It had been so long.
"I'm sorry, Ollie," he heard the Kryptonian say as he accelerated towards him at speed. "I wish there was another way—"
He laughed at that, loud, with a derisive edge. "Pathetic son of an accursed father. You don't have the power."
Much had apparently been gifted to his enemy under this yellow sun, but strength, speed, were nothing against the clenched power of a superior mind. He took the information he needed from Kal-El, ripped it from him as the Kryptonian fell to one knee, screaming.
He could see it—Jor-El had established a piece of Krypton on Earth, for his son to know his home. A fortress of ice. The minister had always been so proud, so insufferably arrogant.
Justice would be served in the shadow of the legacy his jailer tried so hard to preserve.
And then. And then.
He gathered Kal-El to him, shivering, trapped in his own mind but still struggling. Blurred like the wind across the vast distance. Stopped in the long, crystalline shadow cast against the ice. Despite himself, he was impressed.
So like Krypton.
"Fight me, Kal-El," he yelled, as he dropped his enemy to the ground and released his mind. "It pleases me to have you struggle…"
+
There was a light shining across half of his face as his eyes startled open, pulling him from a dream that slipped and skidded and avoided his attempts to remember it like water through fingers spread wide. He was sweating, though, and his heart was racing double time.
Oliver glanced at the clock on the table by his head. It was later in the morning than he would have expected. Carefully, he levered himself up and out of bed. He'd had enough of this invalid crap. He was checking out of the hospital today, no matter what the doctor said. He needed to get himself ready to go.
When his bag was packed and sitting on the chair, and he was cleaned up and dressed and just about to call for the nurse so he could make his intentions known, he was surprised by a visitor.
He smiled. "Senator Kent."
"It's Martha, Oliver, you know that."
She was dressed in a stylish brown suit, and her red hair was swept back in a chignon. In her hands was a bouquet of sunflowers, undoubtedly from her garden at the farm. She placed the flowers on the bed, and then walked to him, holding him by the arms and studying his face with the type of concern reserved for moms. She kissed him carefully on the cheek.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you. I would have come sooner but I was in Topeka for the budget hearings, and this was the soonest I could get back."
Oliver chuckled. "Bad things sometimes happen. I'm just glad a concerned citizen was willing to help me out, get me to the hospital." He glanced at Mrs. Kent sidelong. "I'd hate to think what would have happened to me if I would have been left bleeding on the side of the road somewhere."
Martha moved towards the window. "Are you checking yourself out? So soon? Has Lois been by?"
"Yes, yes and yes. Your beautiful chief of staff was here yesterday, and, actually, I expect her any minute." He winked. "I want to make good my escape before she arrives."
"Maybe you should—"
"Not a chance." Oliver hefted his overnight bag in his good hand, being careful of his ribs, and motioned for Mrs. Kent to join him. "Would you mind?"
"Of course not."
Mrs. Kent took his arm and, together, they made their way out of the room. In the hallway, they were accosted by a nurse who insisted he settle in a wheelchair for his trip out of the hospital if he wouldn't change his mind about checking out. Through it all, Martha Kent calmly navigated the system, providing support and a quirky sense of humor as Oliver signed on the dotted line and picked up his meds. He kept looking up at her, studying her profile over the twenty minutes it took for them to complete the process. There was something he was dying to ask her, but he didn't want to seem too—what? Eager? Suspicious? Why was he worried? What did he have to be nervous about? It was just a stupid question.
"I haven't seen Clark," Oliver said with studied casualness, releasing the statement into the sterile air for the person walking behind him to consider without the benefit of seeing the hot flush that stole over his face as he formed the words.
There was a pause, slight and perhaps unnoticeable to most people, but Oliver was very observant, and he was sure the incremental increase in tension between himself and his visitor was real, and not imagined.
"Clark's at home, working on the farm. It's been busy for him. I'm sure he'll be by to check on you as soon as he can."
"Right." Oliver nodded. He didn't bother to say it: that with Clark's super speed and super powers he could hardly be too busy for a visit. If they were friends, Clark would have made the time. If they were friends.
He wasn't even sure if Martha was aware that he was one of the few people who knew Clark's secret. He wondered if it would matter. If I told you your son trusted me would you tell me where he is? Why he isn't here?
Oliver couldn't shake the certainty that it had been Clark who had saved him, who had left him at the hospital for treatment. It was the type of thing the farm boy would do, anonymously, to protect his secret. That was what made Clark's absence so conspicuous.
It was the reason why everything felt so…wrong…from the moment he had woken up in the hospital—he was sure of it: Clark should have been there when he first opened his eyes.
"Could you tell him that I need to see him?" he said as Mrs. Kent pushed the wheelchair through the automatic doors and out into the bright sunshine. Oliver rose to his feet with a tight grip on his bag. He needed to get back to the penthouse, to his computer, and his surveillance equipment so he could piece together what had happened to him. This not knowing was unacceptable.
He smiled as Mrs. Kent passed the flowers she had brought with her to a taxi driver, kissing her on the cheek. "I need to talk to him," he said again. "It's important."
Martha Kent nodded, but there was a slight rigidity in the way she was holding herself now. Now she looked worried.
+
Martha drove the red pick-up truck to the top of the driveway and parked. It was good to be home, though the farm was so much less without her husband's presence and his passion for the work and the legacy of the Kent family. Clark did the best he could to keep things running the way his father would have wanted, but her son had so many responsibilities, and not just to the farm and to the memory of his dad. A time would surely come when Clark would have to put the farm behind him. Perhaps…perhaps he should have put his life on the farm behind him months, years, ago. Perhaps, they had all waited too long, fought against the inevitable, made a wrong decision without understanding the facts and the repercussions. Look what had happened…
Clark was special. For his own safety, he needed to better understand his powers and his heritage. Martha was never more certain that her son needed the training his biological father had insisted upon, the very thing that had cost Jonathan his life to avoid.
She hopped out of the cab and slammed the door shut, looking around. It was late afternoon. The farm was quiet, and knowing Clark, he had finished his work and was in town running errands before the stores closed for the evening. She was getting ready to unload the groceries when a gust of wind told her she was wrong in her assumptions. Blinking, she shook her head at the bed of the truck, miraculously emptied of groceries, and smiled over at her son who was grinning at her from the doorway.
"Hi, mom."
"You didn't have to do that, Clark," she admonished as she ascended the stairs. "I'm perfectly capable of bringing in the bags."
"I know." He kissed her cheek. "I just thought I'd help. I'm glad you're home."
They made small talk as she put the groceries away. Clark devoured an apple and seemed…not so different from the person he had been a week ago, two weeks ago, before everything had changed for him. Of course there were no marks, no injuries, no lingering bruises, just a tension, the clouds in eyes usually as clear as a high sky. He wasn't still injured in the way Oliver Queen was injured, broken bones or cracked ribs, but he was hurting. It was so obvious to her that Clark was still suffering.
"I went to the hospital to see Oliver." She moved from the kitchen counter towards the living room, gazing at her son who had frozen by the fireplace like a deer in headlights. "He was asking for you." Clark turned, picking up a family photograph from the mantle and studying it with his head bowed so she couldn't see his face.
"You can't avoid him forever, Clark."
+
The familiarity of his penthouse in Metropolis was more comfortable than any hospital, and not only that, having access to his files and surveillance footage, something he could use to work out the mystery of his condition, was a welcome balm to his sense of disquiet.
Retracing the course of his original research was easy. The active file on his laptop contained the details of a rash of vicious crimes that spanned three states. A murderer on a two-week killing spree, who had left a trail of victims leading to the outskirts of Metropolis. The video footage from inside the apartment showed him receiving a phone call and going out as Green Arrow. It was too bad that his cell phone was missing, along with his wallet and identification. He made a note to have his assistant pull his phone records. He wanted to know who he had been talking to.
He switched his computer screen to the satellite footage for the night in question. He had long ago tasked a special Queen Industries satellite to track his movements whenever he was in any city for an extended period of time, or for any mission he could plan in advance. The footage of his nightly operations was always invaluable for study after the fact, allowing him to improve his methods, and sometimes, like now, providing key bits of missing information that would enable him to piece together the specifics of a situation gone wrong.
The feed picked up at an industrial park by the river outside of Metropolis, with him confronting some sort of over-bulked reject from the WWF, crouched over his latest victim. There was no sound captured from this type of feed, but, obviously, he had arrived at the scene too late. The victim was dead, brutalized, sexually assaulted, with his chest blasted out and splattered on the pavement like someone had exploded a grenade in there. Oliver watched himself in his Green Arrow gear preparing to attack, arrows notched, confident that this would be the killer's last victim.
The first arrow, releasing a cloud of nerve gas, got the killer's attention.
Oliver watched as it all went south from there.
The killer had…powers. Super speed, as his bow was knocked out of his hands and he went flying into the side of a dumpster. Incredible strength, as he was snatched up, shaken and thrown again. Oliver could see the thin line of his lips pressed together on the screen. He was clearly in over his head. It looked like it was going to be his last night on Earth.
"Why don't I remember any of this?"
Then Clark Kent was there, like a guardian angel, placing himself between the Green Arrow on the screen and the super powered menace attempting to dismember him limb by limb. Oliver would have given his entire fortune to be able to hear what the two were saying to each other. They were talking, taunting, and the entire time Clark was leading the killer away from his crumpled body. Oliver watched himself struggle to get to his feet, but it was clearly beyond him at that point.
The battle, when it began, was like a clash of titans. Clark seemed to get the upper hand fairly quickly, knocking the killer into a tanker that exploded upon impact. No one could have survived that explosion, and Oliver breathed a sigh of relief as the Clark on the screen watched the fire flare and settle, devouring the truck but having nothing else around it to feed its fury.
Oliver sat back on the sofa. So that was it. The answers to his questions. He was injured during a fight with a metahuman of some sort who was way more than he had seemed on paper. Clark must have taken him to the hospital…
The picture on the screen changed as he watched Clark walk towards his body. His mouth fell open in shock as he saw himself lift his head and say something to Clark that had the farm boy reeling back in alarm. And then he got up off the ground like he had never been injured and attacked his friend. He watched himself slam into Clark like he had some sort of power to battle the guy who had abilities beyond belief. The guy who had just saved his life.
He watched himself knock his friend into a building, Impossibly. That couldn't have been me. Sat there, eyes riveted on the screen, as Clark emerged from the rubble but immediately fell to one knee, screaming silently. Frozen, he watched as he and Clark simply disappeared, from Metropolis, from the range of his surveillance, from the realm of rational explanation.
Oliver closed his laptop, his one good hand on his face. Oh, God, where had they gone? What had happened next? Why didn't he remember any of this?
+
Weeks later, Oliver was no closer to understanding what had happened after he and Clark had disappeared from Metropolis that night, and, frankly, he was tired of trying to figure it out. Three trips to Smallville, numerous phone messages, pleas made through various acquaintances—with no luck. Clark was the only person who knew what had happened that night, and he was clearly avoiding him.
Oliver supposed it wounded his pride, and this feeling, this sinking feeling that kept him on edge…
…like there was something missing, something just out of reach, hiding in the corner, hanging over his head…
…was just his pent up frustration at being injured, unable to patrol at night as the Green Arrow. At having to put most of his plans on hold while he rehabbed his arm—
"You're doing great, Mr. Queen," his physical therapist said as he moved away from Oliver, releasing his arm and throwing him a towel. "You're almost as good as new." The man started packing his things as Lois entered from the bedroom in a suit and wearing one shoe. "Same time tomorrow?"
Oliver nodded. His trainer greeted Lois and then retreated into the elevator and out of penthouse.
"Got time for breakfast, sleepyhead?"
"Can't. I'm handling Mrs. Kent's visit to an elementary school downtown. I have to beat the pavement."
Lois dashed around the apartment, looking for her other shoe, her keys.
"How is Martha?" Oliver asked as he shrugged into his t-shirt.
"Good. She has the senator thing under control." Lois stopped her mad dash and grinned. "Everybody loves her."
Oliver tried to sound just as casual. "And Clark? I haven't seen him around lately. What's he been up to?"
"Smallville? Doing the same old thing, I guess. Where there's a cow to milk or some hay to bale, Clark's right on it."
Oliver nodded. "It's just—I've been trying to reach him."
Lois stopped. Looked at him curiously. "For what?"
"I wanted to ask him something." He shrugged, looking away from her sharp gaze. "Hey, forget about it. He's probably just busy. I'm sure I'll catch up to him sooner or later."
Lois frowned. "Okay. I gotta go. Call me later?"
Oliver's mind was already on other things, not the least of which was the fact that he was glad she was leaving, and he'd really rather not call her later. If he didn't stop feeling so frustrated, so dissatisfied with everything currently in his life, he would have to let Lois go. It was unfair to keep leading her on, but he was hoping that the return to his normal routine would mark a return to his ordinary perspective; that, as his arm healed, the things that had made him happy prior to his accident would somehow once again make him happy. "Sure," he agreed slowly, but Lois was already in the elevator and gone.