Close Quarters (A Young Justice/Superboy fanfiction)

A Crisis of Conscience

-If it weren't for the preestablished naming conventions, and the solemn tone, I would have called this "Crisis of infinite Conscience"-

Superboy couldn't stay asleep, he stood in a state of limbo for what seemed like hours; soothed by the food, grooming, and attention of the night, but bothered by the afternoon filed away in his short-term memory. Superman wasn't coming back after work, was he? It wasn't as if he took Superboy as far away as possible-- Superman's friend's house-- and then went off to fight crime for ten hours instead of returning to the loud planet building. So he'd left him there without meaning to return.

He didn't need to ask why, he had a strange, heavy feeling twisting in his abdomen that insisted he knew the reason. He'd lost control again. He didn't mean to. Black Canary, Kaldur, everyone was always trying to make him keep control, but it was hard, sometimes it was like he had no control, like someone else was  him.

He wanted to shower again; he didn't know why, logically he was cleaner than he'd been in weeks, but the memory of Dr. Desmond made his body feel filthy and itchy. 

Memories flashed through his mind of that afternoon, the damage and injury he'd caused, and thoughts of Bialiya and Washington and all the other times. Desperate to escape this pain, he smacked the side of his head, trying to dislodge them.

He'd done something bad, and he was bad, he didn't know if he could ever do anything good ever again. But there was only one way to tell; one paragon of goodness who he needed to see. Although his insides continued to be heavy and hot, he couldn't bare to avoid the encounter, it had to happen now.

He'd heard the old man enter and exit his holding room earlier during the night, and peaking out from the crack in the closet door, he saw his clothes folded and laid out on the bed. A wave of comfort took him and Superboy charged into the room, gripping the shirt with both hands and clutching it against his chest. He couldn't be comfortable without the 'S'. 

Quickly, he scrambled to dress himself.

Clark's contingency for bad sleep seemed to be expanding before him, the temporary comfort that had come with shirking the kid off his plate had developed a moral underlay of shame. An underlay he'd refused at first, but had been growing exponentially since Bruce had called. 

He was in the right to prioritize his comfort and safety in his own home, but there was a dig of artificially spawned guilt in his rib. Doing the correct thing and having it feel like the wrong thing, this really wasn't Clark's ground. Bruce handled the moral grey-area, even Diana could engage the philosophics of action and intent, but Clark was a small-town-raised, church-attending, parent-faithful man, and it was hard for him to conceptualize that justice might not do everyone good. 

He didn't need much sleep anyways. 

It wasn't like he wanted the kid to die, he just wished he hadn't been put in this position. The man who could see good in everyone found someone he hated, and he couldn't accept that. He didn't want to hate the kid, and the easiest way to not hate him was to not encounter him. It was better for both of them if they never saw each other, no matter what Bruce said.

But, a part of his consciousness reminded him, what if Bruce is right? If your rejection causes him to hate Clark, to resent  humanity and the Justice he perceives as failing him? This wasn't his area, he didn't know whether preventing a future villain or allowing himself mental safety was more important. He finished his tea.

There was a rapping at the door, and his sight confirmed it was Lois. He didn't blame her for the late call, he'd been doing everything in his power to avoid her since that afternoon. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to discuss that incident with her, but there was no tome like the present.