A/N: I rarely had panic attacks before. Now I have them more often. My family and friends knew I had panic attacks, but back then it wasn't so bad, and I never said anything when I had one. Now that I have them more often, I talked to my mother, and to put it simply, I broke down crying in her arms because it all just became too much. If you experience something similar, talk to your family or friends about it. It won't make the panic attacks go away, but it helps a little to know that someone is there for you.
Warnings: panic attacks, anxiety
Y/n had always been good at pretending.
She smiled at the right moments, laughed when it was expected of her, moved through her days with a practiced ease that convinced everyone—especially Five—that she was fine. Strong. Grounded. Unshakeable.
That was important to her. Five had lived through enough chaos, enough fear, enough loss for several lifetimes. She didn’t want to add herself to that list. She didn’t want to be another thing he had to fix, another problem he had to calculate his way out of.
So when the panic attacks started getting worse, she hid them.
At first, it was easy enough. A tight chest here. A dizzy spell there. She blamed it on stress, on bad sleep, on too much coffee. When her hands trembled, she shoved them into her pockets. When her breath came too fast, she locked herself in the bathroom and counted tiles until the world steadied again.
Five noticed, of course. He always noticed.
But she was careful. She made sure her breathing was even when he was around. She kept her voice steady. She kissed him like nothing was wrong. She told him she was just tired when he asked, flashing him a reassuring smile that made him back off—even though his eyes stayed sharp, suspicious.
The panic attacks didn’t care about her intentions.
They crept in during quiet moments. In grocery store aisles. In traffic. In the middle of the night, when the house was still and her thoughts grew too loud. Her heart would start racing for no reason at all, pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. Her lungs forgot how to work properly, every breath shallow and useless.
You’re fine, she told herself. You’re fine. You’re fine.
She wasn’t.
The worst part wasn’t the fear. It was the shame. The feeling that she was failing at something fundamental—being okay. Being the calm center Five needed. Being strong.
One afternoon, Five came home earlier than expected.
Y/n hadn’t heard the door. She was sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her vision tunneled, dark at the edges. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, loud and erratic.
She tried to stand when she heard footsteps—but her legs gave out.
“Y/n?”
Five’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with alarm.
He was beside her in an instant, dropping to his knees. One look at her face—pale, eyes wide and unfocused, chest heaving—and something in him snapped.
“Hey. Hey, look at me,” he said, firm but gentle, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to touch her without making it worse. “What’s happening?”
She tried to answer. Nothing came out.
Her breath hitched, shallow and fast, each inhale feeling like it wasn’t enough. Tears burned her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them.
“I—I’m sorry,” she gasped, the words tearing out of her. “I didn’t mean—I can’t—”
Five didn’t hesitate anymore. He pulled her into his arms, sitting fully on the floor with her pressed against his chest. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other firm and grounding against her back.
“Don’t apologize,” he said immediately. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Breathe with me. Okay? Just follow me.”
He exaggerated his breathing, slow and deep, counting quietly. “In. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four.”
At first, it didn’t help. Her body fought him, panic screaming louder than logic. But Five didn’t let go. He didn’t rush her. He stayed exactly where he was, solid and warm and real.
“You’re safe,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re here. I’ve got you. Nothing bad is happening right now. I promise.”
Her fingers clenched in his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring her to reality. Gradually—so slowly it barely felt like progress—her breathing began to match his. The pressure in her chest eased, inch by inch.
When the panic finally loosened its grip, Y/n sagged against him, exhausted. She sobbed then, quietly, the fight gone out of her.
Five held her tighter, jaw clenched hard. Anger flared—not at her, never at her—but at the fact that she’d been carrying this alone. At himself, for not seeing it sooner.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want to worry you. I wanted to be strong.”
Five pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, intense—but painfully soft.
“This,” he said quietly, gesturing between them, “is strength.”
She shook her head weakly. “I’m falling apart.”
“No,” he said firmly. “You’re struggling. There’s a difference. And hiding it nearly broke you.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“I want to see you exactly like this,” he replied without hesitation. “All of it. Even the parts that hurt.”
She stared at him, searching his face for disappointment. There was none. Only worry. Love. And something like fierce protectiveness.
“How long?” he asked gently.
She hesitated, then sighed. “Months. It’s been getting worse.”
His eyes flickered with pain—but he kept his voice steady. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you already carry so much,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to add to it.”
Five rested his forehead against hers. “Y/n… you don’t add to my burden. You are the reason I carry it.”
She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”
“You don’t have to know,” he said. “We’ll figure it out together.”
That night, Five didn’t let her out of his sight. He made tea she barely drank, sat with her on the couch, one arm always around her. He didn’t overwhelm her with plans or solutions—just presence.
Later, when she was calmer, he spoke carefully.
“I think it might help to talk to someone,” he said. “A professional. Someone who knows how to deal with this.”
Y/n tensed instinctively. “I don’t want to be… broken.”
Five frowned slightly. “You’re not broken. You’re human. And humans need help sometimes. Believe me—I learned that the hard way.”
She looked down at her hands. “What if they think I’m weak?”
He lifted her chin gently until she met his eyes. “Then they’d be wrong. And I’d happily explain why.”
She laughed weakly through her tears. “You’d argue with my therapist.”
“Only if necessary.”
Over the next few days, Five moved mountains quietly. He researched therapists, cross-referenced credentials, made phone calls with a precision that bordered on obsessive. But when he presented the options to Y/n, he did it gently, giving her control.
“You choose,” he said. “I’m just here to support.”
Her first appointment terrified her.
Five drove her there, parked the car, and turned to her. “I can come in with you. Or wait out here. Or walk laps around the building threatening anyone who looks at you funny.”
She smiled nervously. “Maybe… just wait?”
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
When she came back out, eyes red but clearer somehow, Five stood immediately.
“How was it?” he asked softly.
She thought for a moment. “Hard. But… good. I think.”
He smiled, relief evident. “I’m proud of you.”
She blinked. “For what?”
“For going. For telling the truth. For not pretending anymore.”
Her throat tightened. “I’m scared it won’t get better.”
Five cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away lingering tears. “It doesn’t have to get better all at once. It just has to get a little lighter. And if it doesn’t—I’m still here.”
That night, as they lay in bed, Y/n curled into him, her head resting over his heart. His arms wrapped around her instinctively, protective but gentle.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For not seeing me as weak.”
He kissed her hair. “I see you as brave. And loved. Very loved.”
Her breathing slowed, steady and calm this time. As sleep finally took her, Five stayed awake a little longer, staring into the dark.
He couldn’t control everything. He knew that now. But he could do this—be here, hold her through the storm, remind her she wasn’t alone.
You think Superman is hot. Adrian is not jealous about your little crush. He's not. But when you get a chance to meet your hero in real life, his jealousy starts to spiral out of control.
tags/warnings: YEARNING, jealous!adrian, friends/coworkers to lovers, gets angsty for a minute but I promise it’s fluffy by the end
Thank you @embeanwrites for the beta!
Masterlist
“I’m sorry, Superman is just not that attractive,” Chris says, shrugging and leaning back in his chair in the Checkmate breakroom. “I am way more jacked than he is. Just look at these guns.” He sticks his arms out to the side and poses, flexing so the veins pop out in his arms. It could only be more obnoxious if he literally kissed his own biceps.
“Yeah, we know,” Judomaster says, rolling his eyes. “You literally got on the fucking news to say that. Big, strong man. So full of yourself.”
“Superman is fucking hot,” you argue, rolling your eyes at his typical egotistical antics. “Just because he’s not flexing his ass off all the time doesn’t mean he’s not strong and masculine. I think it makes him more attractive, actually. He’s humble.”
“Are his muscles even real?” Chris asks, and now you think he’s just trying to piss you off. “Has anyone ever seen him shirtless? No. I bet you a hundred bucks the suit is just padded. He’s just a weedy little motherfucker under that thing, pretending to be jacked like me to impress the ladies.”
“Lots of women these days prefer a dad-bod, anyway,” Economos says, and Chris rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Economos,” Chris says.
“He lifted a fucking car with one hand the other day! I saw a video online! Can you do that, Chris? I don’t think so.”
“No, because I’m not some alien freak! Either way, Superman is lame. He goes to the wimpy Batman school of ‘I-don’t-kill-people,’” Chris argues. “He’s a fucking pussy!”
“Not killing people doesn’t make someone a pussy! Is that really what your moral compass is based on?” you ask incredulously. “I’ve never killed anyone! Do you think I’m a pussy, Chris?” You’re in the tech development department, so you’ve never been out in the field before.
“If the shoe fits,” he shrugs. You sigh.
“Everyone in this room needs a metric shit ton of therapy,” Harcourt says. “I think you might be the only one of us who hasn’t killed someone. Whether that makes you a pussy, I don’t know.”
“Ugh…it doesn’t even matter! We’re not talking about whether or not Superman kills people, we’re talking about how hot he is,” you say. “And I’m telling you, he’s one of the hottest people on the planet. Even if he’s not from this planet. He’s got massive biceps, a sharp jawline. He’s really tall, he’s got sexy hair. Real dark and curly, makes you want to run your fingers through it.”
“Anyone looks like they’ve got great hair when they’re standing next to puke freak Guy Gardner, with that fuckass bowl cut,” Chris mutters.
You make a face. “Don’t even talk to me about Green Lantern. He’s got, like, negative sex appeal, and that’s before he even opens his mouth. Jesus, that man gives me the fucking creeps.”
“Exactly! So maybe Superman just looks great in comparison.”
“I can’t believe you’re even arguing with me about this. Superman is like, the most traditionally handsome man that’s ever existed. He’s the blueprint for the guys on the covers of sexy romance books. Not much more a girl can ask for, is all I’m saying. Come on, back me up, here, Em.”
“He’s not really my type,” Harcourt says, and you shoot her a death glare and mouth ‘Traitor.’
“Hey,” Adebayo interjects, coming to your defense. “I get what she means. I’m a lesbian, and even I get the Superman appeal. He’s got, I don’t know, a classic Prince Charming vibe, ya know? I think it’s the cape. It makes him look all majestic.”
You smack the table. “Thank you! It’s nice to know that someone around here has eyeballs that actually work!”
“Okay, but even if the cape adds something to the look, he literally wears his underwear on the outside of his clothes. What’s the deal with that?” Fleury points out. “That’s fucking weird.”
“Okay. I’ll give you that. The trunks are kinda weird. But it makes him, I dunno, approachable? Like, he’s just a normal guy. Like even though he’s a hot, handsome alien, I could still pull that, you know? Because he’s just a weirdo.”
“You think you’d have a shot with Superman?” Economos says, disbelieving.
“You don’t?” You cross your arms, offended. “I resent that, Economos. I am a fucking catch. Superman would be lucky to have me.”
“Apparently everyone has a shot with Superman. He’s got a fucking harem, remember? Real Prince Charming, alright.”
“Oh, come on Chris. You know that Lex Luthor made that shit up—”
Adrian, who has been watching this entire chaotic conversation entirely silently with wide eyes, neck snapping back across the table like he’s viewing a tennis match, suddenly feels a sinking pit of panic in his stomach.
Because this is news to him—important news. Is Superman really your type?
That would suck, because Adrian has been hoping that he is your type.
He thinks about the features you mentioned. Massive biceps. His biceps could definitely be bigger. Should he be, like, bulking up and eating nothing but protein powder and raw eggs and lifting weights all day? Maybe Chris could help him with that. He probably would, if he asked. A sharp jawline—Adrian’s jawline is not nearly as sharp as it could be, but he’s not sure how to fix that without a cosmetic procedure. That feels like a bit much.
Superman is tall, you said, most definitely taller than Adrian. There’s not much he can do about that, either, unfortunately. He could try to style his hair a little more like his, maybe. Grow it out a little, put a little more effort into styling it. Invest in a blow dryer. Someone’s probably done a YouTube tutorial on how to do your hair like Superman. He’s good at following instructions like that, that’s how he learned to crush someone’s windpipe—
“He’s also got the most basic superhero name ever! Superman, really?” Chris is saying, and Bordeaux pointedly looks at Adrian.
“We’ve got a guy on our team who literally calls himself Vigilante.”
—Maybe he could make some adjustments to the Vigilante costume? You said you like Superman’s cape. Could he pull off a cape? It wouldn’t be super practical. He would probably trip over it, or get caught in something. It would give criminals another thing to grab at during fights. He could start wearing his underwear on the outside of his Vigilante suit, but Minecraft boxers wouldn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. It’s not really the vibe he typically goes for. Not a good idea, he decides, and frowns—
Adrian looks up after the third time you say his name and realizes everyone is staring at him.
“Um. What?” he says.
“You okay, Adrian?” you ask, concerned. It’s not like him to zone out like that. He’s usually the first one to join in an argument, always delighting in a friendly conflict, always on Peacemaker’s side, of course.
Adrian shakes his head, feeling hot, all of a sudden, and desperate to get the attention away from him. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just hungry, I think. Can we order some pizza? Let’s order some pizza, I’ll go find the menu—”
He scrambles out of his chair, wincing as it squeaks awkwardly against the wooden floor, and you blink, confused by his sudden departure, but you’re the only one who seems to notice his odd behavior is even odder than normal.
“Only if we don’t order the bullshit toppings you got last time, Adrian,” Economos calls after him. “That shit was disgusting. Never again!”
Adrian sighs with relief as he digs through the drawer with the takeout menus, relieved that he’s avoided the topic. For now.
As the rest of the day passes, the conversation is forgotten—by everyone except Adrian. He’s still thinking about it. Thinking about you, and about Superman.
And he can’t help but notice little things he never did before. You spend as much time reading the Metropolis news as you do reading articles about events in Evergreen. He tells himself it’s because you’re brilliant and smart and well-read and you just want to be knowledgeable about things that are going on in the world, and it has nothing to do with any particular superheroes who frequent any particular cities.
But then he sees that you’ve got a little red and gold keychain with Superman’s symbol attached to your bag. How come he never noticed it before? Do you have any other Superman merch? Should he make Vigilante merch? Would you wear it, if he had any? He imagines you with a tiny V necklace hanging around your neck and feels something aggressive and possessive roar up inside him. His jaw ticks.
The blue color that you paint your nails is the color of Superman’s suit, he realizes, and he frowns, fist clenching so tight that his knuckles turn white. Is that on purpose, he wonders? He wishes it was a slightly different shade. A little bit greener. More teal than blue. Not for any particular reason, of course. But he spends a beat too long staring at your pretty fingers clicking away at the keys on your keyboard before he swallows roughly and turns back to his work, trying not to think about the things you could do to him with those hands.
He doesn’t even realize he’s more irritable, more out of it than normal until Peacemaker calls him out on it.
“Vig, dude, why are you such a bummer today?” Chris says, smacking Adrian on the shoulder when he catches him scowling at his computer.
“It’s nothing,” Adrian mutters, even though he’s two seconds away from opening up an incognito browser and creating an anonymous Superman hate-tweet account. He only stops himself because cyberbullying is technically a crime. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
He tries really hard not to be grumpy after that, but he’s not sure if it’s working. He just keeps watching you, at your desk, right to the left of his. Simmering.
“Okay man, seriously, what is your deal?” Chris asks. He follows Adrian’s gaze to the left, and his eyes widen.
“Ah,” he says, and he claps Adrian on the shoulder. “Dude, you just gotta tell her you like her.”
“Shut up!” Adrian hisses. “God, could you be any louder? You’re as bad as my fucking mom!”
“She’s got headphones on, dude, she can’t hear us.”
“She likes Superman,” Adrian spits. Chris sighs.
“She likes Superman like you like Taylor Swift’s sexy butt. It’s not, like, real.”
“I don’t even like Taylor Swift’s sexy butt anymore. Her butt is so much sexier.”
“Yeah, well, you should tell her that,” Chris says.
Adrian knows the jealousy he’s feeling is irrational. You’ve never even met Superman. He has absolutely no reason to feel this way. Chris is right; it’s like being jealous of someone’s celebrity crush. He knows you think Harry Styles is hot, too, and he’s never felt murderous rage toward the guy before.
Adrian doesn’t have a right to be so possessive of your attention, anyway. It’s not like you’re…his. No matter how much he wants you to be. He doesn’t even know if you like him. Because he still hasn’t worked up the courage to actually say something to you about it. He’s been nothing but a coward, watching silently and wishing. Wanting.
So he tries to let it go. He just listens to you laugh at a meme Adebayo sends in the group chat and revels in the fact that Superman has never gotten to hear that sound before. Superman has never seen you smile, or tried your homemade chocolate chip cookies, or gone bowling with you on a Friday night with friends. And he never will.
The following Monday, Harcourt tells everyone to meet in the conference room for a mission debrief.
“Alright, everyone,” Bordeaux says. “We’re expanding our services a bit here. So this mission will require a bit of travelling. We’ve got three of you on the assignment.” She lists off the names—you, Harcourt, and Chris.
“Wait—me? I get to go on a mission? Travel? Where are we going?” you ask, excited. You’ve never been out on a mission before, always confined to the office, so it’s a new opportunity for you, and you are thrilled. Adrian smiles when he sees how excited you are, though he wishes he was going with you.
“Better be a fucking island vacation,” Chris mutters.
“Metropolis,” Harcourt says as she distributes the files, and Chris grumbles his disappointment.
Adrian’s smile fades. He sits stock-still and takes in the information with gritted teeth.
He’s happy for you. He is. He loves seeing that delighted smile on your face, and when you turn to look at him, he forces his smile back on his face, too. But why does it have to be Metropolis?
“This is an opportunity for us to work with the Justice Gang,” Adebayo explains, and Adrian’s already false smile grows even more brittle, because working with the Justice Gang means even closer proximity to goddamn fucking Superman.
“I know they suck ass,” Adebayo continues, wincing, “and they weren’t very nice to you, Chris, but working with them gives Checkmate some legitimacy. It puts us on the map, gets our name out there, which will get us more jobs in the future.”
“Yeah, well. Just don’t expect me to be nice to Guy Gardner,” Chris says. “Dickbag’s got another thing coming.”
“Just don’t punch him in the face. Or shoot him. Actually, maybe we should just…send someone else on this mission,” Bordeaux says. Adrian is opening his mouth to volunteer right as Chris sighs. Harcourt crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at him.
“No, it’s fine, I can handle it.”
Adrian bites the inside of his cheek so hard it draws blood.
“I’ll keep Chris in check, don’t worry,” you assure everyone, still vibrating with excitement, and Adrian tries, so hard, to be excited for you. “What, exactly, is the mission?”
“Mr. Terrific has heard about your work,” Harcourt says. “He wants your insight on a project he’s been working on. He’s also got suspicions that LutherCorp has been stealing some of his proprietary technologies. Chris and I are coming along to help facilitate an undercover investigation.”
“Wait—what?” you stutter. “Wha—Mr. Terrific? Knows who I am?”
“You’ve been doing great work, kid,” Fleury compliments. “I’m not surprised.”
“I just can’t believe Mr. Terrific wants to talk to me,” you say, awestruck.
“Of course he does, you’re brilliant,” Adrian blurts out, because he desperately needs you to know in that moment how smart and valuable and great you are. Everyone turns to look at him like he’s grown a second head. You just look touched.
“Thanks, Adrian,” you say, softly, and he feels heat creeping up his neck under all the attention.
“Hey, do you think you guys will meet Superman?” Fleury says, and Adrian watches your eyes light up.
Economos laughs. “You’ll get to tell him how hot you think he is.”
Adrian grips his pen in his fist so tightly that it cracks in half. Blue ink splatters all over the file folder in his lap, startling him. He looks around the room to make sure no one noticed and shuffles the papers around to hide it.
“Your flights leave early tomorrow, so you guys can head home and get packed right after this meeting,” Bordeaux is saying, and everyone starts to filter out of the room to go about their respective work days.
Chris stops next to Adrian on his way out, and says, with all seriousness, “Don’t worry, Vig. I’ll make sure Superman doesn’t steal your girl.”
Adrian shoots him a death glare, picking up his papers and shuffling angrily back to his desk. He takes a moment to calm himself down before he turns to his left and looks toward your desk, because he’d kick himself if he was too busy wallowing in his own misery to wish you luck before you left.
“You’re gonna do awesome,” he says, and you blush.
“I just hope I don’t fuck it up. It’s my first time out in the field.”
“I know. You’ll be great,” he insists. You’re looking at him with such hope in your eyes, and it helps him find a spark of courage. “And…maybe we can grab beers when you get back. To celebrate.” Your eyes widen, and he starts to panic at the last second, and adds, “As a team!”
“Thanks,” you say softly. “That sounds great.” You look like you’re hesitating for a moment, then you throw your arms around him in a tight hug, and his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. Because you’re his friend, but you’ve never touched him like this. He doesn’t normally like it, but with you…with you, it’s nice.
With you, he would do this all the time, he thinks, as his arms come around your waist and he squeezes back, breathes in the scent of your shampoo, and he wishes he didn’t have to let go.
The mission only lasts a few days. You leave on Tuesday morning and you’re back by Friday night, buzzing with adrenaline and joy, joining the 11th Street Kids for drinks and a casual debrief, because as you said to Adrian when you called him after you landed, “You promised me beer when I got back!”
And Adrian never breaks his promises, especially not to you.
You’ve had several of those promised beers, now, and you’re recounting the events of the week excitedly.
Adrian is sitting right next to you, hanging on your every word, his shoulder pressed against yours in a way that makes him feel all tingly. He can feel it every time you shift in your seat. He watches you gesture in the air with one hand, thinks about snatching it out of the air, just to hold it in his.
“It was crazy,” you’re telling him, eyes wide. “We were in this lab, right, comparing the research that I’ve done with the research that Mr. Terrific’s team has done. And then something fucking exploded in the corner.”
“Wait, what?” Adrian says, alarmed. “Something exploded?”
“Yes! So Mr. Terrific is yelling at his lab techs, trying to figure out if someone like, left something under the fume hood that they shouldn’t have, but then I hear this ticking sound. And I find a shit ton of bombs. Like, one under every single lab table.”
“What?” Adrian yelps, looking over at Chris. “Where the hell were you? You were her protection! You left her alone in a lab with a bunch of bombs?”
“Me and Emilia were undercover at the LutherCorp labs!” Chris says defensively. “Mr. Terrific’s labs were supposed to be fucking safe, dude.”
“Listen, listen, it was fine!” you say excitedly. “Because Mr. Terrific starts defusing them, right? Except they’re like, super close to going off. Two minutes left on the countdown, maybe. The lab techs start evacuating. Mr. Terrific radios in help from the Justice Gang, and fucking Superman showed up!”
“Superman?” Adrian says weakly, heart sinking. “You…you actually met him?”
“I did!” you exclaim. “And I can confirm, by the way,” you say to the table, “that his muscles are fucking real, Chris, because he picked me up right before the bombs exploded and flew me out the window and I absolutely felt up his bicep. For research purposes.”
Adrian feels like he’s going to throw up. The beer bottle in his hand threatens to crack under the pressure of his white-knuckle grip. His stomach churns, the collar of his shirt feels too tight around his neck, and it’s too hot in this bar, all of a sudden, and god, you just look so happy, telling this story, so why does he feel so goddamn sick thinking about Superman holding you in his arms?
Did your heart go all swoopy when the hero literally swept you off your feet? Did he turn his charming smile on you and say something flirty? Did you enjoy being Superman’s damsel in distress for the day?
Did Adrian even stand a chance anymore, now that you’d met him?
“He was actually a pretty nice guy,” Harcourt chimes in, and that makes it so much worse, because Emilia doesn’t like anybody. She certainly doesn’t like Adrian all that much. But of course she likes Superman. Everyone likes Superman, what’s not to like? With his perfect hair and perfect jaw and perfect teeth and pretty eyes and—-
“He’s not a poop freak like I thought he was,” Chris says, sounding almost reluctant to admit it. “We all went and got a beer after a debrief with the Justice Gang. Guy Gardner’s still a dick though.”
That’s the final stab in the back, and it really hurts. If even his best friend likes Superman more than him, why would you ever choose him?
“I need some air,” Adrian says quietly, and he slides out of his chair and heads outside.
There’s not a bench on the sidewalk, so he just sits right on the curb, the crumbling concrete cold through his jeans. He lets the feeling ground him as he closes his eyes and tries to stop his racing mind from spiraling even further out of control.
He hears the door open and close, footsteps behind him, and then someone sits next to him, close enough that he can feel their body heat.
“It’s chilly out here,” you say, and he looks over, surprised, and almost jumps back when he realizes how close your face is to his. He’d been expecting Adebayo. She’s usually the nurturing one that tries to prevent him from, well, having a meltdown.
So why did you follow him out here?
“Hi,” he says, once he recovers, staring at your eyes. They’re so pretty, he thinks, it makes it hard for him to even talk. “Sorry. I just. Needed a minute.”
“You really raced out of there,” you say softly. “Did I say something?”
“No,” he lies. Badly. He swallows it down, watches your eyes flick downward to catch on his Adam’s apple.
“Uh huh,” you say, because he clearly isn’t ready to talk about it. “Listen, I wanted to tell you. I missed you, while I was away.”
Adrian wrinkles his nose. He missed you too, but he doesn’t want to admit it, right now. He already feels uncomfortably vulnerable. So instead he says, “You were only gone for like, two days.”
“I know,” you say. “I still missed you. I was working in Mr. Terrific’s lab, and I wanted to make a dumb joke, and I looked up to my right, and you weren’t there at the desk next to me, and I was sad. You can miss people in little ways too, not just big ones.”
You’re so thoughtful, he thinks. So thoughtful, and so beautiful, and you missed him. You noticed his absence the same way he noticed yours, felt sad when he wasn’t there next to you.
“Oh,” he says, and you make him so, so, weak, because he told himself less than a minute ago wasn’t going to admit it, but you’re looking at him right now in this moment like he matters, and he caves instantly. “Well. In that case, I missed you, too. I know I still have Fleury as my other desk neighbor, but he’s not as nice to look at as you are.”
You laugh, and Adrian smiles, because it’s your laugh that’s just for him, loud and bright and a little bit obnoxious, just like he is. He wants to hear it every day forever.
Over the next few weeks, things start to go back to normal. Well, maybe not quite normal. They feel a little bit different.
Adrian feels different, at least. He lets himself look at you more. He watches you throughout the work day—sees the way the light catches your hair, listens to the sound of you laughing. Passes you sticky notes with dumb little drawings like he’s a middle schooler with a crush.
Chris told him to grow up and just tell you how he feels, but—he’s not ready, yet. So he just does this, for now, and it’s enough. Even though Chris says it’s creepy how much time he spends looking at you all day.
Plus, he can feel your gaze linger on the back of his neck when he’s trying to focus on his own work. So he feels like a little bit less of a creep for all the time he spends looking at you in return.
Sometimes, you both look up at the same time, and you share a small, private smile. Those moments, when they happen, make his entire day, and he’ll practically vibrate with joy, skipping and fidgeting his way through meetings and trainings and spreadsheets until Harcourt yells at him to chill the fuck out.
Other times, though, when he looks up, you’re not looking at him—you’re looking down at your phone, grinning and typing away. He wonders who you’re texting. You send him stupid memes, sometimes, but not that often. Usually you just roll your office chair over to his desk and show it to him right then and there so you can laugh at it together. So it must be someone who doesn’t work at Checkmate. He has no idea who.
One day, when you’re tapping furiously at your phone screen beside him, he glances over your shoulder to see what you’re doing, and he realizes you’re on social media, defending Superman from some critics online. The ugly jealousy that’s growing oh-so-familiar roars up in his chest.
“You really like that guy, huh?” he says, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter, but it does. You look up at him, brow furrowed.
“He doesn’t deserve most of the hate that he gets,” you say. “It’s not fair. He’s just trying to make the world a better place. Like us. Don’t you wish we had someone standing up for us, every once in a while?”
“Yeah,” Adrian admits reluctantly. “I guess that would be nice.”
“At least all we have to deal with is ARGUS, for the most part,” you say as you continue to type. “Not the court of public opinion. People can be fucking vicious online.”
“People say shit about Vigilante all the time,” Adrian pouts. “I just can’t say anything about it because it would compromise my secret identity.”
“Do you really care what any of those people think?” you ask. He shakes his head. He really, really doesn’t. He doesn’t even read the news, most days. Sometimes Chris will send him a link if Vigilante makes a headline, but that’s rare these days. Adrian’s gotten pretty good at flying under the radar. Or the cops just stopped giving a shit and let him do his thing, who knows.
“No,” he says, looking at you. “I don’t care what they think. But I care what you think.”
You blink with surprise, fingertips pausing on your keyboard. He’s caught you off-guard with a rare moment of vulnerability, and you spin around in your desk chair to face him fully.
He feels a little bit uncomfortable, the way you’re staring at him. Like you can see all the way inside him to the mushy parts that don’t make sense.
“I think the world of you, Adrian,” you say softly. “I hope you know that. There’s no one else I’d rather have on my team.”
“Even Superman?”
“Even Superman,” you laugh, rolling your eyes.
Adrian grins. Take that, you handsome metahuman dick.
Everything’s going really, really great. Until the team meeting the following Monday. Adrian sits in his usual spot, right next to you at the table where he can whisper stupid little jokes under his breath and try to distract you by playing tic-tac-toe or hangman in the margins of an important document while Harcourt glares at you. You’re hiding a giggle and he’s smirking, proud that he’s elicited a reaction, when Bordeaux asks for everyone’s weekly reports and Judomaster puts a weird metal contraption on the table.
“Found this in the park,” he says, and everyone falls silent.
“What the fuck is that?” asks Fleury, and Judomaster shrugs.
“I dunno. Some alien shit. I was testing the new tracking tech you guys designed,” he says, nodding at you and Economos.
“Oh shit, you finished building that?” Economos says, impressed.
“I asked Mr. Terrific for some pointers while I was in Metropolis,” you admit. “I asked Rip to test it out last week. I wasn’t sure it would really work.”
“So…what is it?” Adebayo asks, looking at the hunk of metal with suspicion.
“I have no clue,” you say. “The tracker was built to pinpoint extraterrestrial chemical signatures, not identify them.”
“Why don’t you send a picture to Clark? See if he recognizes it?” Harcourt suggests. Adrian’s brow furrows, because he’s never heard that name before.
“Who is Clark?” he asks, wondering if they’d hired somebody new and he’d just totally missed it. He looks around the table, but there’s no extra people sitting there that he doesn’t recognize. Maybe there’s a new remote guy.
“She means Superman,” Chris clarifies, and Adrian freezes, his gaze shooting back to you. You’re blushing, slouching in your chair like you want to disappear, because everyone is looking at you.
Normally, Adrian would say something purposefully idiotic and draw all of that attention to himself, just to make you feel more comfortable. But right now his mind is racing, a distracted jumble of thoughts, and he is staring at you too.
Every amazing moment from the last few weeks replays in his mind at once. The smiles he shared with you, the times he made you laugh. The conversation outside the bar.
Now he was second-guessing all of it. Did he misunderstand you? Did he read things wrong? You’d said to him There’s no one else I’d rather have on my team. He’d thought that was pretty romantic, but maybe you just meant that in a professional way? Did he assume something he shouldn’t have?
“Yeah,” Harcourt continues, the entire table oblivious to Adrian’s internal crisis. “Didn’t he give you his number, after the Metropolis mission?”
“You’ve been walking around with Superman’s phone number for the last six weeks?” Adebayo sounds impressed, snapping her fingers. “Damn girl, you really did pull that hot ass man. Good for you. Way to show John.”
Adrian is right back at the bar all over again, feeling like he’s going to be sick, or worse, cry. Is that who you’ve been texting all the time? He’d thought you were just defending him from social media trolls. He had your phone number? When you’ve been looking at your phone and smiling—is it because he messaged you? Why didn’t you tell him?
You blush violently. “Oh my god, it is literally not like that. We are just friends. Clark just gave me his number to share his mom’s apple pie recipe—”
“Wha—Clark?” Adrian finally stutters, flushing red himself, with anger or embarrassment or hysteria, he’s not sure. “You—you’re on a first name basis with Superman? He—he told you his secret identity? You’ve only known him for like three weeks!”
“He’s pretty lax with it,” Harcourt says. “He’s a very trusting person. I personally wouldn’t be, but. To each his own.”
“That is so—irresponsible of him! He’s got a bunch of evil enemies, you could be in so much danger!” Adrian cries, because now he’s not just sick to his stomach with jealousy, but also concern for you.
“I’m not in any danger,” you say softly, reaching for his hand, but Adrian pulls back, out of your reach. You look hurt, confused, but Adrian’s just freaking out inside and he thinks he might implode if you touch him right now. “It’s okay, Ade, nothing bad—”
“You don’t know that!” he insists. “Clark doesn’t know that!”
“Can we get back to the point?” Harcourt says. “Just send him a picture of that thing. See what he says, and we’ll regroup next week.”
“Great. Sounds like a plan,” Adrian says bitterly, and he pushes his chair back, gathers his things, and stalks out of the room, back to his desk.
He avoids you successfully for the rest of the day. He needs time to process whatever the fuck is happening in his brain.
He’s never felt anything this strongly before. He wants you. He wants you so much. He wants to have you, to keep you, to protect you. To love you and be loved by you. But not if you don’t also want those things.
It might break him, if you don’t. If you want those things from Clark instead. Adrian would step back and let you be, obviously. He’s not some possessive alpha male whackjob. But it would be so, so hard.
Adebayo drops by his desk after everyone else has filtered out of the office for the day.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, leaning against his desk. He sits in his chair, stares at his computer at nothing particularly important, jaw clenching.
“Talk about what?” he asks, purposefully obtuse. He’s being avoidant and annoying, he knows that. But if she goes away, then he doesn’t have to deal with it, this terrible, awful feeling that’s crawling around in his lungs, up his throat.
“I know you’re not that emotionally stunted,” Ads says pointedly. “We don’t have an HR department, and I know you don’t have a therapist. I am offering my socio-emotional services as your friend, Adrian.”
He looks up at her. He’s not going to cry. He’s not.
“I’m not good at this.”
“I know you’re not,” Ads sighs. “She knows you’re not. But she’s also not a mind reader, Adrian. You have to tell her how you feel.”
“How am I supposed to compete with Superman?” he asks, and his voice cracks. He hates how desperate he sounds. How desperate he feels. He wishes he could go back to being just Vigilante, when he worked solo. When he didn’t have any friends, he could say that he didn’t have emotions like other people do and it wouldn’t be a lie.
Adebayo smiles, gentle. “You don’t have to compete with Superman, you big dumbo. Just be you.”
Adrian goes to your apartment that night. You’re in your pajamas when you open the door, and you look surprised to see him, even though it’s not the first time he’s shown up unannounced. Sometimes he gets lonely after patrol and he doesn’t want to go home, and he finds himself at your door instead.
“Hi,” you say, and he waves, a little sheepish. Not sure if he’s allowed to be here, after his outburst earlier. He’s still feeling a little raw.
“Uh, hi,” he says.
You both stand there awkwardly for a moment, then start to talk at the same time.
“Can I come—”
“Did you want to—”
“Sorry,” Adrian says quickly, blushing. “I’m…I’m really sorry. About earlier.”
“It’s okay. Did…did you want to come in? And talk?” you ask. You sound hesitant, which makes him nervous. He never wants to be the reason you sound like that, and he feels terrible. But you open the door wider for him, which gives him hope.
“Thanks,” he says, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes at the door the way you always ask him to as you shut and lock the door behind him.
“Are we okay?” you ask him, and he hesitates, looks down at you. Your eyes are wide with concern, flitting over him. “You were—weird, today. You’ve been weird the last couple weeks. And I don’t know what I did, or how to fix it.”
“I—” Adrian starts, but he has trouble. When did it become hard to talk to you? It used to be the easiest thing in the world. He wants it back. The ease, the comfort.
“Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “I just totally bombarded you there. Not cool of me. Do you want some cocoa? Or tea? We can just—relax, for a minute?”
Adrian is never one to turn down a sweet treat. “Do you have little marshmallows?”
You smile. “Yeah, I have little marshmallows. Cocoa it is. I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
Adrian sits on the couch to wait for you, feeling fidgety with words he doesn’t know how to say. But he turns them over in his mind while he waits, tries to put them in the right order, practices saying them out loud to himself.
“I really like you,” he whispers to himself. “No. That’s stupid. I’m not, like, ten years old.” Fuck. He should have asked Ads what to say. No, she would have just told him to speak from the heart or some crap. He should have asked Chris what to say. No, that wouldn’t have worked either, Chris is too concerned about getting Adrian laid—
Your phone, sitting face down on the couch cushion next to him, starts ringing.
“Could you get that for me, Ade?” you call from the kitchen, and he turns it over.
Incoming call: Clark Kent.
Adrian’s stomach flips over. With shaking hands, he picks up your phone and answers the call.
“Hello?”
“Um, hi,” says an unfamiliar voice. Deep, male. But he’s got the picture in his mind from the news. The perfect hair, the bright blue eyes, the striking jawline. “You’re not—”
“No, she’s in the kitchen,” he says. “I’m Adrian.”
“Oh! She talks about you all the time,” Clark says brightly, and Adrian’s heart stutters, because—you talk about him? To Superman? A flicker of hope, bright and wild, sparks in his chest. “Nice to meet you. Well, kind of. Speak to you, at least.”
“Oh,” Adrian says dumbly. “Um. Yeah. Nice to…speak to you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Obviously.”
“I was just calling her back about that picture she sent me. The alien device? I went through all of the Kryptonian documentation I have, and I came up empty, so I forwarded it along to the rest of the Justice Gang to see if they would turn anything up. Can you just let her know?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Um. Thank you?”
“No problem,” Clark says. “I won’t keep you, I’m sure you guys are busy. I’m off for a date night with Lois myself. Enjoy the rest of your night!”
“You too,” Adrian says.
The call ends with a click, and Adrian swallows roughly, looking down at your phone in his trembling hand. He stares at your lock screen photo—you and the 11th Street Kids out at a bar for Chris’s birthday last month. Everyone’s laughing, looking at the camera. But Adrian is looking at you. And you’re looking at him.
“Who was it?” you ask, coming back into the room with two mugs of cocoa in hand. You sit next to him on the couch and place them on the coffee table.
“Clark,” Adrian says, uncertain, like his brain is still processing the fact that he did, in fact, just speak to Superman on the phone.
“Oh! Did he have an update on—-”
“Can I say something important?” Adrian interrupts, because he’s suddenly certain if he doesn’t say what he needs to say right now that he’s not sure he’ll ever say it at all. You fall silent and nod.
“I know you like Superman,” Adrian says quickly, talking fast, because the sooner he gets the words out, the sooner this agony will be over and done with. “I can’t fly or lift cars with one hand or shoot laser beams out of my eyes. But I can run really fast and fight criminals and I know how to use a bunch of weapons and I can do a bunch of push-ups in a row, and don’t tell Peacemaker, but I’m an even better sharpshooter than he is. And really, my healing powers are even cooler than Superman’s, because he needs the Sun, and I can just do it all by myself, I just need to take a nap—”
“Adrian?” you interrupt, cautiously. He falls silent immediately, and the look on your face makes him backpedal, instantly regretting his entire life.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says. “Forget I said anything—”
“I do like Superman,” you continue, and his shoulders slump, heart sinking in his chest.
“I know,” he says, “I—”
“But I love you.”
Whatever words he was going to say die on his tongue, and he sits there, gaping at you like a fish out of water.
“Really?” he whispers, wanting so desperately to believe you. “Me?”
“Can I touch you?” you ask, hand hovering, because he flinched away from you earlier, in the conference room, and you don’t want to push if he’s not ready. He grabs you by the wrist, puts your hand on his face, closes his eyes briefly as you trace over his features.
“I’ve been wanting you for—” he chokes on the words. But when he opens his eyes and sees you looking at him with your gentle smile, he takes a deep breath, tries again. “I’ve been wanting you for forever.”
“You can have me,” you say. “You’ve always had me. It was never a contest, honey.”
“So I don’t need to add a cape to the Vigilante suit? Or like, bulk up my biceps? Or—”
“No,” you laugh. “I want you, Adrian. The way you are.”
A Superman-sized weight lifts off of his shoulders in that moment, and he pulls you into him, tucks you into his chest like the precious thing you are, and finally, finally, kisses you, lips moving fervently against yours with an eagerness finally unleashed after weeks of being pushed down and ignored.
You’re dazed when he pulls away from you with a gasp, and you go to chase after his lips, not done with him yet, but then he starts talking at you rapidly, a stream of panicked words.
“Oh my god, I forgot to tell you! I love you too. I’m sorry I didn’t say it back, I was just—really surprised, and I really, really wanted to kiss you,” he rambles. “Don’t think for a second I don’t love you back. I probably love you even more than you love me. Not that it’s a contest! But if it was a contest, I would totally win the contest. I’ve thought about you, like, every waking moment for the last three weeks. It’s been terrible. In a good way! I love thinking about you. But I thought you didn’t love me back, so it was making my stomach hurt a lot. But now I know that you do love me, so—”
It’s like every thought Adrian has had over the last few weeks tries to come out of his mouth at once, all the things he’s been thinking but not able to say.
You take pity on him and cut him off with another kiss. Adrian lets himself be silenced, lips curling into a smile against your mouth.
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